#lyrium withdrawal

[warpedlegacywrites]

Chapter 8: "A Thin Line"

Their first full day in Kirkwall is full of reminders, both pleasant and painful. And Cullen is brought face to face with a living piece of his past he'd rather have forgotten.

“So? What do you think?”  She smiles, wondering if he remembers she’s been here once before. It was a brief visit to close a rift, shortly after Varric had returned to his beloved home. Merely a short detour on the way to Wycome for an unrelated visit, only one rift out of dozens she’s closed. She doesn’t blame him if he’s forgotten.  “Well,” she says in answer, “I don’t think Varric is very good at descriptions.” Cullen laughs, his breath stirring her hair, warmer than the wind. “What?”  She nuzzles a little closer, feeling his stubble scratch pleasantly against her cheek. “His books. None of them quite do it justice. The sharp edges, the high walls, the people… It’s unique, even amongst Marcher cities.” “How does it compare with Ostwick?” There’s a slight hesitation in his tone – he rarely asks about her birthplace.  She gives a pensive hum, her fingers running up and down his forearm. “Ostwick is so austere. Aloof. And far too concerned with catering to Orlesian fashion trends. Kirkwall is rougher around the edges. More defensive. Scrappy. I prefer that.” “You can thank all the Fereldan immigrants for that, I think.” “Maybe. Or maybe that’s just why the populations have blended so seamlessly.” “I don’t remember it being seamless.” Something in his voice catches, and they fall into another prolonged silence.  “I was afraid it would remind me of Ostwick,” Theresa confesses, after a long internal debate. “The sea.”  Faxhold, her Circle, had been on the sea, jutting out on a narrow promontory like an angry fist clenching a raised dagger. An ancient Tevinter lighthouse, repurposed to imprison mages. Much of her early life was set to the relentless pulse of waves crashing onto the stony shores outside its walls.  She represses another shudder. “Now, it just reminds me of the waterfall below Skyhold.”  “Funny how fluid a thing memory can be.” 

DAFF Tag List: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee, @blarrghe, @agentkatie, @delicatefade

[nirikeehan]

Happy Friday! I'm here to help you fill up bad things bingo! For Cullen and Thalia-- black eye AND loss of eyesight. Maybe something in Nightmare AU?

All right, I can only pick one prompt per square, so I went with "loss of sight" for this one. I will circle back around to "black eye," don't worry 👀

I went with canonverse for this, because of course I need another one-shot that doesn't feel like a one-shot in my life. Enjoy the pain!

For @dadrunkwriting and @badthingshappenbingo

Series: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Word Count: 2269

---

Cullen’s chair was empty. Thalia’s gaze continued to drift to it throughout the entire meeting, tuning out Leliana’s lilting tones and Josephine’s gentle remarks over the scribbling of her quill. The war room felt too big without his sturdy presence.

“Are you quite all right, Inquisitor?” Leliana finally asked, when Thalia made her repeat herself for the third time. 

“I’m fine.” Thalia worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “Where’s Cullen?” 

Josephine frowned. “The Commander wasn’t feeling well this morning. He requested the day off.” 

Thalia bit back a barbed response, that Cullen would not request a day off if the world itself was ending. Apprehension crawled up her spine, little tendrils of doubt and worry. “He was fine when we spoke last night.” 

By “spoke” she meant they spent time on the battlements together, kissing softly and watching the golden hour melt away into an icy blue twilight. She felt her face warming and averted her gaze to her own clipboard, scribbled with notes she barely remembered taking. 

A silence followed, during which Thalia dared not speak. The secret she harbored for Cullen felt at times like a glowing orb she’d swallowed whole. Often it seemed precious, something sacred he’d entrusted her with, that she tended and kept safe. But right now she could feel it, burning in her chest. She pressed her palm there, over the rich blue samite and ornate eyelets of her collared tunic, as if that could calm it.

“The Commander has suffered from headaches from time to time,” Leliana offered, barely louder than a murmur. 

Thalia squinted at her. Does she know? She found Leliana’s face eminently unreadable, which she supposed was a good trait in a spymaster. Still, there were times when she found it unnerving, and aggravating besides. 

“Of course,” she said carefully, glancing from Leliana to Josephine. “I just worry about a sickness spreading through Skyhold, that’s all.” 

It was, of course, more than that. Cullen went through bouts of tumult without lyrium to steady him, and with every upswing Thalia worried about the oncoming down turn. She still remembered the strained look on his face when he’d explained it all to her: it was impossible to know if cutting lyrium from his system entirely would kill him. He’d wanted her guidance, perhaps as the leader of the Inquisition — but more so, she’d sensed, as a friend. 

Thalia had reeled from the stark nature of the confession. Through her mind ran every encounter she’d ever had with a Templar while at the Ostwick Circle. She’d known, vaguely, that they’d used lyrium, but it was to her just another alchemical substance. Mages often used it to aid spells. She’d never thought about what it might do to people without the gift for magic. She’d had no idea it chained them for life. 

She’d been able to see the benefits to suggesting — ordering? — Cullen continue to take the lyrium. A military leader should always be clear-headed and strong, at his best. And part of her was selfish: if he died, then what? He was her mentor and her friend. How could she go on knowing she’d sanctioned his self-destruction? 

But she’d seen the desperation in his eyes and been unable to say it. Despite his words, she’d known what he had wanted.

And she was a bit more than a friend to him now. 

“I’m sure Cullen will be fine, Lady Thalia,” Josephine said, touching Thalia’s hand soothingly.

The meeting adjourned shortly thereafter, as they’d covered all they could without Cullen’s input. Thalia left the war room as the first few snowflakes drifted by the window. By the time she’d made it through the Main Hall to the courtyard, the sky was a leaden grey and the snow fell in earnest. 

Thalia shivered. Skyhold often ran warmer than the surrounding mountains; surveyors speculated there might be hot springs running throughout the ground beneath the keep. Solas scoffed at the idea and suggested there was likely powerful warding magic at work. Whatever the reason, the grass grew and the trees kept their leaves even in winter, but today the forces that guarded the keep could not withstand the oncoming storm. 

She crunched her way across the courtyard. She really ought to return to her quarters for a cloak, but the thought of turning around dismayed her. If Cullen is unwell, he should not be in that tower by himself. Not in this weather. He hadn’t exactly invited her back to his room quite yet — not for that reason — but she’d been in it a few times. Once was to grab a report he’d left up there during their long nights in his office, spent tracking the movements of General Samson. Another was to find a poultice for the pain when he’d been too shaky to the take the ladder. Thalia had looked around the space in wonder each time. The glimpses one took into the life of someone cherished: it felt so overwhelmingly Cullen, down to the rickety roof he still hadn’t gotten around to repairing. She didn’t even think he had a brazier. He’d freeze to death up there. 

Thalia wasn’t sure where she could coax him — her own quarters came to mind, with its large hearth and fire that the servants kept crackling all day long. She smirked; wouldn’t everyone talk then? No, the infirmary was probably better. He’d hate that, because then he’d have to explain what was wrong to the healers, but at least she’d feel at ease. Fear crept into her often when the worst of the symptoms gripped him, making him delicate and volatile. But no one must know, he insisted again and again. No one must find out.

Thalia cracked the door to his office and peered inside. The candles were unlit, the space dim and quiet. Snow already piled against the panes of the narrow windows, casting a sickly, muted light into the room. Thalia slipped in and leaned against the shut door. She listened to the silence. Her shallow breathing puffed white clouds in the cold air. 

She kicked the snow from her boots against the doorframe and strode to the ladder that ran up to his room. It was dark up there too. Thalia swallowed. She didn’t just want to climb up unannounced.

She balled a fist and knocked against the side of the ladder. “Cullen?” she called, feeling slightly absurd. Why couldn’t he sleep in a room with a door? Why must he always be so close to his work? “Hello? Are you here?”

She heard movement above her. 

“Cullen?” 

“Thalia?” His voice sounded farther away than one floor. 

“It’s me,” Thalia called. “Are you all right? Josephine said you were unwell.” 

“Oh. I’m… fine.” He did not sound fine. He sounded the way soldiers sounded at times after battle, faint and surprised to be alive. 

“Can I come up?” Nerves gripped her — did that sound too forward? If he insisted he was all right, who was she to question him? 

She heard some shuffling, rummaging, and a sudden crash. Glass shattered. Thalia shot several rungs up the ladder. Cullen was cursing — “Dammit, dammit, I’m all right, you don’t have to—” but she kept climbing, her heart a bird fluttering against the confines of its cage. 

She poked her head over the top of the ladder, but it was too dark to see much. As expected, snow drifted in through the hole in the roof, falling unnoticed on the floorboards. Cullen’s bed was empty and unmade. A hulking shadow hunched in a chair. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you…” Thalia straightened, squinting through the gloom. He was the figure in the chair, hair unkempt. Despite the chill, he was in only a thin undertunic, none of his usual armor, hugging himself and shivering. 

“Maker, Cullen—” Thalia darted across the room and immediately tripped over something. Shards shattered under her boots. Her stomach lurched, her mind jumping to the worst possibility. Was that a lyrium philter? Has he drunk it? 

Bending over, however, revealed it to be the remnants of a water glass, its contents soaking the floorboards. The liquid seeped into the pages of a few toppled books, knocked from a nearby table, she estimated. Thalia snatched them up and ran them over her trouser leg to seep up the moisture. She replaced them hastily and crossed gingerly over to Cullen. He did not turn as she approached, staring instead at the unadorned stone wall. 

“Why are you sitting here all alone in the dark?” Thalia pressed a hand to his clammy forehead. 

He flinched away from her touch, sending a ripple of hurt through her. Does he not trust me, after all this time? Or does he just not want me to know he has a fever? The little she’d felt confirmed her suspicions. 

Cullen did not answer. Thalia pressed her lips together, debating her options. “Let me get you a blanket, at least.” She couldn’t just stand by while he was feverish and shaking. 

She moved to the desk, fumbling for the matchbox and tinder, and lit a tallow candle in its holder. Better. Despite being mid-afternoon, the storm had hastened the onset of darkness. No wonder he’d knocked things over. But his silence unnerved her. Usually he was quick with an explanation, or stubborn insistence. When the episode was very bad, he only asked for little things that might help. Saying nothing at all — what did that mean? Was it delirium? She didn’t think his fever was that high. 

She pulled the extra furs from his bed, considering her next move. She draped one across his lap and the other around his shoulders. He clutched them closer, and she was pleased to note his teeth stopped chattering. 

“I told you, you didn’t have to do all this.” Cullen’s voice sounded soft and far away, even though she was standing right beside him. He still hadn’t looked in her direction. 

“Cullen.” She tried to pick her words carefully. She didn’t want to spook him. “You’re unwell. You’re running a fever. You may have caught something completely unrelated to the — the effects of lyrium deprivation.” She took a breath. “I think it’s better that we take you to the infirmary, instead of—”

Cullen was shaking his head vehemently. “No. No. Please.” 

The despair in his voice scared her. She had kept this secret for him for months now, but she had never seen him in a position quite so dire. Maybe it had been the wrong one from the start — she was no healer, but she’d studied under enough at the Circle to know that hiding illness for the sake of pride was usually the worst thing one could do. Maybe she should have never indulged him in this particularly foolhardy endeavor. Or at the least, employed a well-paid and tightlipped healer to monitor his condition in secret. It was grossly irresponsible of her, she could see now, to have taken his word for it. 

But she had so desperately wanted to believe him. 

“Well, that do you want me to do?” Thalia replied, more archly than intended. “Leave you shivering up here in the middle of a snowstorm?” 

Cullen startled, blinking rapidly in her direction. “It’s snowing?”

“Yes, it’s snowing. How could you not notice? It’s coming through the hole in your roof.” 

Thalia gestured behind her, to the irregular-shaped ring of snow accumulating on the floorboards, but he didn’t follow her cue. He didn’t do much of anything, aside from sit there, mouth agape in surprise. His eyes were glittery and unfocused, standing out against the pale, waxen quality of his skin. He swallowed hard, and Thalia sensed, quite suddenly, that he was terrified.

“Cullen,” she said softly, “look at me.” 

He canted his head in her direction, eyes searching. She silently took a step adjacent to where she had spoken, but his gaze did not follow. A dreadful understanding crept over her. 

Thalia stepped closer, crouching down before him. “I’m right here,” she said, reaching for his hand. He reacted to her touch, squeezing her fingers tightly. “How long has it been like this?” 

“Since this morning. I woke up, and I couldn’t… couldn’t…” He let out a shaky breath. 

“It’s all right.” She tried to stay calm. Think. Think. “Have you heard of lyrium withdrawal causing this?”

“I can’t remember. There’s so few stories of anyone stopping at all, I…”

“Shh. Don’t worry about it. Have you had any other symptoms besides the fever?” Maybe it’s a separate infection? Maybe it’s treatable? Maybe—

“Just a headache, last night. I thought it was — fairly routine, for… what happens, at times.” Cullen shifted under the furs. His hand was icy cold. Another sign of the withdrawal, she knew. Was this simply the natural progression of something they never should have meddled with in the first place?

“Cullen. Please, listen to me.” Her voice sounded thick and quavering. “I know you don’t want to, but I have to ask: if you took lyrium right now, do you think that would help?” 

He stiffened. She watched his shoulders straighten, his whole body tensing against the suggestion. “I don’t know. I… please, Thalia, I’ve come so far. Please don’t make me—” 

“I’m not. I’m not. I’m just trying to rule out some things. I want you to be well, Cullen, that’s all.” She took his cold hand between both of hers, pressing her lips against one knuckle, then another. She blinked again and again, against the hot tears gathering behind her eyes. “We’re going to figure this out, okay? I promise you that.” 

[inquisimer]

some days I am angry

sneaking today's @febuwhump in under the wire! For "too weak to move" - lyrium withdrawal gives Cullen a Bad Time™️and Acacia is not around to help ;-;

read it on ao3 here

Cullen Rutherford & Male Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan | Rated T | 1113 words | CW: drug addiction/withdrawal, lyrium addiction/withdrawal, nausea, vomiting

-

The hastily scrawled script of a field report swam before Cullen’s eyes. He struggled to pull the words into focus, straining against the steady beating inside his skull. His fingers clenched around the parchment as he reread the same sentence for a third time, to no avail.

Defeated, he dropped his head to the desk. Sweat seeped from his skin into the parchment but he had no care left to shift it aside. His limbs were heavy and hollow, like stones dragging him to the bottom of the sea. Except the sea was a little too bright and it hummed with electricity and sang to him the siren call of lyrium.

He glanced at the bookshelf, ashamed at how he effortlessly found the false tome that hid his kit. Perhaps just half a dose…enough to focus on these troop movements…

Claws of guilt raked through his chest. It would be so easy, painfully easy, to dull it. Why was he making things harder for himself again? Wasn’t the world troubled enough without any help?

Disgusted by his own weakness, Cullen hauled himself upright with a grunt. He circled the desk, one hand against it to keep his balance. Warily, he eyed the distance to the door. He could shout—it wouldn’t be the first time—but the last thing he needed in this state was word getting back to the Seeker.

Or perhaps that was exactly what he did need, he thought guiltily. Surely it was time for a replacement, if he felt the need to hide the state of things from her?

With shaky steps, he crossed the floor. His fist and forehead pressed against the door frame and he heaved, swallowing back bile so he could catch his breath. He unlocked the door and cleared his throat, startling the freckle-faced runner stationed there. The boy snapped to attention and Cullen winced as sunlight bounced off the too-big helmet and seared itself into his sensitive eyes.

“Commander, ser! At your service, ser!”

“At ease,” he said, halfheartedly dismissing the salute. “Ah, if you would, fetch Lady Acacia for me.”

“At once, ser!”

He sagged back into the blessed darkness of his office. Cupping his hands, he scooped tepid water in his palms and splashed it haphazardly onto his face. He leaned against the nearest bookshelf and sank down to his knees.

Just a little while longer. He could sit with this suffering until she came and chased the cravings, the shame, away with her gentle, knowing touch.

When the runner returned, a second set of footsteps had joined him. Cullen scrubbed at his eyes, as if he had any chance of looking presentable. He latched his fingers around one of the shelves and hauled himself to his feet.

But when the door swung open, it was not Acacia there.

“Oh—Inquisitor, I,” Cullen cleared his throat. He glared daggers past Trevelyan’s silhouette at the runner. Blasted recruits were greener than Sundermount in spring. How simple must he make his orders for them to be followed? “I apologize, I was expecting someone else.”

“My sister,” Drew said grimly. “I know. She’s…indisposed, so you get me instead.”

“Indisposed? Is she alright?”

“Probably.” The Inquisitor’s eyes shifted away from Cullen and—was that a blush rising in his cheeks? “She’s, ah, enjoying some time off.”

Oh. A matching redness colored Cullen’s face, stark against his waxy complexion. Along with it came the bitter heat in his gut. Acacia made it quite clear that their time together amounted to no more than a dalliance—he had no right to the green-eyed beast that growled in his throat. And yet, he could not tame it away.

Unbidden, he felt the softness of her against his skin, saw that easy smile she liked to press to the corner of his mouth. She set him aside with careless nonchalance and it burned, how she turned her attention to Ser Barris as if their time together was nothing more than a pleasant distraction from the end of the world.

Which it had been, for her.

He saw red. He had no right—

A wave of nausea rolled up from within and Cullen staggered away from the bookshelf. He would have fallen, if not for the Inquisitor ducking beneath him, supporting his bulk surprisingly well for such a lanky frame. Drew dragged one of Cullen’s arms across his shoulders and gracelessly deposited the commander in his chair, as one might drop a too-heavy sack of potatoes.

“You look like shit, Rutherford,” he said.

Cullen, heaving, could not answer. But he hadn’t eaten today, so the efforts of his stomach to empty itself were mostly for naught. The taste of bile and a few pathetic globs of saliva filled his mouth; he swallowed them back down, wincing, and dragged the back of his hand across his lips.

“Here, drink this.” Trevelyan offered him a cup of fresh water, but when Cullen went to take it, a spark jumped between their hands. Like floodgates opened, he could feel it, then: the lyrium, flowing through the Inquisitor’s veins with every beat of his heart. The film of it still coated his teeth and Cullen’s ravenous cravings reached their claws out to take it as Drew swore under his breath.

“Shit, I didn’t think—“

He backed away and though every fiber of Cullen’s being strained after him, the reality of his weakened constitution kept him firmly seated. The cup lay shattered between them, water seeping across the floorboards.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Drew said. He downed a few mouthfuls of water, as if that would ever be enough to erase the lingering effects of a lyrium potion. Not one so recently taken, not when Solas had ensured their alchemical recipes were as potent as possible.

“Should I—“

“—go, Inquisitor,” Cullen groaned. “Leave. I will be fine.”

Only one thing had ever helped him in this state—well, two things, but he was no longer sure the lyrium could measure up to her touch, the absolution he felt when she cared for him. Ironically, it somewhat dimmed the siren call of his addiction.

But only a little. He suspected death would find him before it ever vanished entirely.

“Go,” he repeated, for Trevelyan was hovering, uncertain, in the door frame. “Or send for the Seeker, if you believe me unfit. You cannot help me; I must endure.”

He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the disdainful pity in the Inquisitor’s face. This suffering was his alone; that was what he had chosen, and the added pain now was the price of thinking anyone could help.

They could not.

He must endure.

[acciokaidanalenko]

Before Dawn

Each morning, just before dawn, a light fog would settle across the frozen landscape surrounding Haven. The wildlife in the nearby woods ceased their chirping and scurrying due to the fresh snowfall and low temperatures, bringing an unfamiliar silence to the camp. The only sound was that of the wind blowing through the trees, accompanied by the soft snores of the soldiers still slumbering in their tents. Only the soft light from the moon and the dim green of the Breach lit the sky at this time of night, casting long shadows across the camp.

...

The gentle silence of the slumbering camp was broken by the soft tread of footsteps approaching. He turned his head and quickly found the source of the sound, slightly startled to see the Herald herself crossing the empty space between the woods to his right and the camp.

Her bow was slung against her back, resting with her quiver of arrows as she trudged forward through the snow. In one hand she gripped a rope from which dangled several small rabbits, and the other cradled against a bag hanging from her shoulder, filled to the brim with freshly plucked Elfroot.

She stood out against the bright white snow, even in the dimness of pre-dawn. Her bright red hair resembled fire, which matched her personality. The cascade of delicate curls fell wildly down her back, though she kept the front pulled back from her face.

Full one shot on AO3.

[snurtle]

I've been thinking about the templars lately. they were promised honor, virtue, told that they would be charged with protection of the innocent... And then those same people are systemically exploited and abused, abuse others because they're taught to regard everyone else as either sheep who need to be lead or potential threats. Never equals, except in their brothers/sisters-in-arms. They act as the guard-dogs and military arm of an entirely different organization that they're only a functionary member of but have no governing say in. Even the chantry aren't their equals- they function as the templar order's supervisors! And all this isolation and closing of ranks ends in disability, addiction, death, and abandonment by the system they spent their bodies in service of.

To top that off, retaliations against them just confirm the paranoia they were taught to embrace. It's probably a long hard road to get out of that hole.

Like, listen. the dichotomy of mage vs templars is a satisfying and easy one, but the system is tearing them apart too. have you ever heard of a retired templar?

at the end of it, mages and templars need to unite against the real threat. the chantry.

[theluckywizard]

I call this Undercooked Cullen. Operating on three hours of sleep, hasn’t put himself together for the day yet.

Painted in procreate!

[elaena]

like i get the idea behind "at the end of the series all magic will die in westeros" but I'm not going to lie that's lame as hell. why even set up an entire character who brings back ancient beasts on her own doing and a bunch of kids who can live inside their wolves and one kid who can see all states of time at once and a woman who can see the future but is terrible at it and a zombie resurrected through a kiss and an evil army of ethereal beings whose purpose is to destroy the known earth etc etc if it's all not going to matter in the end. i would get if like, with each book we got less and less magic but it seems to be going on the opposite direction

[royalbstrd]

Cullen grabbing his sword hilt not just as a nervous tic but to keep his hands from shaking on bad days to keep it as unnoticeable as possible.

[sapphim]

my personal preference for headcanoning the contradictory alistair-templar-lyrium issue is to say that templar recruits do, relatively very late in their training—considering that most of their training is just swordplay and brainwashing—begin taking lyrium in small controlled quantities specifically to enable the practice of their magical abilities. alistair either did so as well, or he got fast-tracked for training with other fade-sensitive recruits who were able to begin this training without the aid of lyrium. either way, he obviously quit before completing his training and taking his vows, never experienced the effects of addiction and withdrawal, and then came away with the impression—being able to continue to use his abilities without lyrium consumption—that templar lyrium use is entirely a scam sold to templars by the chantry (I mean... he's right), and is thoroughly unaware of his own fade sensitivity or that it does make him somewhat unique in this regard.

[warpedlegacywrites]

happy dadwc friday Duchess! How about a prompt for Cullen coping with addiction/recovery 🥺😭💖

❝ All the things that I ran from I now bring as close to me as I can. ❞

happy writing :3

Happy @dadrunkwriting! Thanks for this prompt. Here is some slightly circular narration about Cullen's withdrawal, with a focus on his early nightmares post-lyrium.

CW for torture, sleep deprivation, claustrophobia, psychological torture

Sleep isn’t a problem at first. In fact, for the first week or so, he barely notices a difference. His dreams remain blurred, unfocused. Filtered by the last filter he’d taken in Kirkwall. His last one ever, so he keeps reminding himself, though practiced hands still reach for the vial at his bedside when he wakes blearily with the dawn. Muscle memory. Habit. Conditioning.  Sleep isn’t a problem, even after the symptoms start setting in. When his reaching hands shake so hard they can barely grip the glass of water. The water he gulps greedily down, while wishing it were gleaming blue instead of clear. The water he can’t seem to keep down, retching it back up moments later. No, even when his insides are on fire and his whole body is racked with the searing pain, sleep isn’t a problem.  It’s not until the worst of the pains and the cravings subside, when the Song is little more than a half-remembered tune in the back of his skull, and his body can actually, truly rest. That is when sleep becomes a daunting, dreadful torture. 

Every night, when he lays his head down, he knows what’s coming. He’ll try to stay awake as long as possible, reflexively wincing away from the pain. But inevitably, his eyes will close, and he will open them again in the blood-stained halls of Kinloch Hold. Torchlight flickers over bodies, too many to count. 

The light is tinted by the magically manifested curtain of his cell. A slender column holding him captive. Too narrow to do anything but kneel or stand – he can’t even properly sit, let alone lie down. No matter how many hours, days, nights pass, no matter how his feet and legs and back ache. He remains standing until he can bear it no longer, and then he kneels in prayer. His knees are bruised and bleeding. He’s exhausted. More tired than he’s ever been. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he understands he’s still asleep, but the fatigue is just as he remembers it. He doesn’t recall how he ever managed to sleep, if he ever did. 

His cell is round, affording him a panorama view of the carnage. Every so often, a new body will race through in an attempt to reach the stairs to Cullen’s right. They’re always cut down before they clear the first handful of steps. Every time, Cullen tries to warn them. Every time, his voice doesn’t penetrate the perimeter of his cell. He hears its echo bounce back and forth over his head, driving him mad with his own voice. Every time, the demon emerges from the shadows it hides in. Razor claws rake across torsos, drawing forth gushing red. The room is infused with the smell of blood. Fresh and stale, the stone is saturated with it. Eventually, Cullen stops smelling it. But as tortured with guilt as he is over his failure to save even a single soul, watching them die is still the lesser evil. 

Because when the demon is bored waiting for new victims, it amuses itself with Cullen. It knew his desires almost the instant it captured him. All his training was for naught – Desire is a powerful demon, and it read him like an open book. It cackled, mocking his boyish infatuation. It delighted in taking her form and parading around in front of him in her skin. Calling to him in her voice, whispering in his ear, while standing well out of reach. Sometimes wanting, willing. Others, screaming in pain. Spitting vitriolic hatred at him. But always beyond his reach. 

He can beat his hands against the curtain of magic until they bleed, scream until his voice is raw and his throat is like cracked glass. But he will never break through it. 

Until he wakes, covered in sweat and hands aching from gripping the sheets so tightly, his throat sore. Surely, he must be screaming on this side of the Veil as well, but if anyone has ever heard it, they keep it to themselves. He will wash his face with cold, clean water, drink from the canteen he keeps full at his bedside, and dress for his day. 

And the next night, it will start all over again. He will try to stay awake, and then he will fail. He will try to warn his would-be rescuers, and fail. Try to escape, and fail. No matter how he tries to outrun his failures, they follow him, relentless and tireless. 

Until one night, when he looks down at the blood-soaked bodies at his feet… and there is no cell to separate them. He reaches a hand out, tentatively, and meets no resistance. He steps forward, and is not repelled back. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, though he clamps his hand over his mouth to prevent more sounds from betraying him. Yet no demon appears. It’s only him, and the corpses of his colleagues. 

He turns to the exit, and he’s halfway across the room before his steps slow. Stop. He turns. His eyes travel up the staircase, stopping at the door at their peak. There’s no way out of that room, he knows. He’s conducted Harrowings and Rites of Tranquility from inside that room. There is no escape but the way you’ve come. 

There is no escape. 

Step by step, his feet carry him to the base of the stairs. He watches himself climb them, as if observing from the outside. He screams at himself, pounding against the rounded wall of his cell, tries to tell him no. Turn around, run away. Escape. But it’s no use. 

He watches the demon emerge from the shadows, claws impossibly long and razor sharp. No matter how he screams and pounds and begs. There is nothing he can do to stop what’s about to come. Cullen watches his hand come to rest on the doorknob. Watches it turn. Watches the demon’s arm raise, and strike. He feels the burn of its claws in his flesh. 

And then he wakes up. 

He flexes his fingers, releases their death grip on the sheets. Rises with a struggle from the low cot given to him when he’d arrived at the base of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Drinks long and greedy from the canteen. Splashes his face with cold water. And pushes aside the flaps of his tent to start another day. 

Tonight, he’ll do it all again.

[thechildofbhaalhasawoken]

DA:I Cullen Headcanons part 1: Dining

Some people enjoy cooking and dining so much that they say they live to eat. Cullen is not one of those people. He eats to live, and often forgets to eat if he is too engrossed in his work, which happens very often. 

He often feels nauseous in the mornings and thus has no appetite for breakfast. The lyrium withdrawal symptoms and recurring PTSD fits make him forget about his appetite too.

That’s why Cullen often eats a lot when he finally does eat. When he finally gets a dish of food in front of him, he suddenly realises he’s ravenous enough to eat a horse. He eats whatever is on offer in Skyhold dining room, and never complains. He finds he likes most kinds of food - honest Fereldan grub is of course the best - but is not a fan of things that are difficult to eat, like most seafood or whatever fancy unrecognisable flowery things the Orlesians have come up with this time.

He sometimes misses the ordered days at the Circle tower. He had set meal times several times a day, and routine gave him structure and comfort. Sure, his troops and subordinates in the Inquisition have routine and structure, too,  but more often than not the Commander finds himself doing one more task before going to the dining hall. And maybe just one more…

Because of his life as a Templar and then leading the Inquisition’s forces, Cullen never really learned to cook. He’s really good at chopping firewood - which he actually enjoys a lot - and making a fire, but he has relied on other people’s cooking all of his life. 

Despite that he has begun to dream of a different life. A life outside of institutions, armies, castles and towers. A simple life living in a cottage by a lake, perhaps. When he was a boy he used to go fishing, but he hasn’t fished in decades. He’d like to sit on a pier or in a rowing boat early in the morning with his fishing rod, enjoying the calm and quiet. He’d like to have a vegetable garden, he’d like to chop his own firewood for his own fireplace, he’d like to have a walking distance to the nearest village to trade. He’d like to learn how to make a good breakfast so he can cook for his wife in the mornings, in their little cottage by the lake. It’s a new dream, one that he has never had before, and he has never told it to anyone. It seems all too far fetched in the middle of long hectic days in Skyhold. 

[lyriumlullaby-ao3]

hello i’m back from the dead (sleeping) and it’s time to talk about

why Cullen won’t let anyone fix the hole in his ceiling 💖

someone has probably said this before but it wasn’t me, so here we go!

so remember that Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath grew up with three siblings, who he describes as being “very loud.” i see him as always being a very disciplined child, kind and warm and willing to let Mia take charge (because fighting her for it would have been useless), but a steadfast follower with a keen sense of justice and fairness, willing to voice his objections when he had any, and very fastidious about not breaking rules when Mia or Branson tried to stir up trouble. you know, that whole second child archetype. he was prone to a bit of escapism, running off to that pier on some lake which is definitely not in Crestwood, which tells us he likes having somewhere to escape to, somewhere to run if he gets overwhelmed.

skipping forward a bit, when he lived in Kirkwall, he had quite a bit of freedom to come and go physically, but to me at least it seems like he felt trapped by his duties under Meredith. he explicitly describes her keeping things from him, things she thought he’d disagree with as her second in command. he felt lied to, deceived, manipulated by her (bc he was), i think, even before the events at the end of DA2 that expose her for what she is. can you imagine that feeling? like he actually wants to do good, to treat the mages fairly and help keep them and everyone else safe (that’s why he signed up, after all), but he’s got this nasty, evil commanding officer who’s whispering in his ear, twisting all that good intention to do her malicious bidding. it must have felt like beating his head against a brick wall, like no matter what he did, his sincere desire to believe that other people are fundamentally good disappointed him. i always say that Meredith gave Cullen just enough rope to hang himself with.

jumping forward again, let’s talk about the Winter Palace. Cullen is very obviously uncomfortable there, and it makes sense why: he can’t leave, not without being extraordinarily rude, can’t get away from the people bothering and sexually harassing him, can’t get out of that jacket that is too damn tight. if you bring Cole with you, at one point in his ‘Investigate’ tree he comments that, “Cullen is afraid. They’re hurting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.”

all of this is just to illustrate: man’s got a Thing about feeling trapped, stuck, unable to fight back or defend himself or just flat out leave. and why does he have such a hard time with this?

because of that one time that Uldred blew up the Circle at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden. for reasons we don’t fully grasp, rather than being claimed by the demons or simply killed in the fighting, Cullen held out. he resisted demonic possession completely, somehow, and was instead trapped within that magical prison with no possibility of escape, probably for weeks. no escape from his hunger, thirst, or lyrium withdrawal, and no escape from the (probably Desire) demon(s) that tortured him with freedom if he’d only give in to those things he won’t quite allow himself to want.

so the fact that there’s a hole in his ceiling, even months into the repairs at Skyhold, when almost everything else has been fixed but a few, hard-to-access bits of masonry, is not lost on me. and sure, you could always blame it on lighting for the romance scene that takes place up there. but i like to think that it’s there because Cullen refuses to let them fix it. here’s why:

Cullen doesn’t like to stray far from his post. he likes that there’s a loft with a bed where he can pretend to sleep that’s not far from his desk, where he commands the lives of thousands of people. (i think at one point in Absolution, it’s revealed that at its height, the Inquisition was composed of ~10,000 troops, plus all the necessary support personnel.) the fate of the world is quite literally depending on his ability to do his job, and when the lyrium withdrawals make him feel like he must be losing his mind, he likes that he’s got an easy choice between resting (like he knows he probably should) or working (like he knows he really needs to), separated only by a little wooden ladder and a few planks that make up the floor.

he needs that little hole in the ceiling. if ever something happened at Skyhold, and it wasn’t safe or possible to leave through the three fucking doors on the lower level, he needs a back up plan, a way to get out from the top of that tower, or he’s every bit as trapped as he was at the Winter Palace, or by Meredith, or by Uldred and his demons, and he can’t be, not here, not with so many lives in his hands. not after Haven.

he needs it when he wakes up shouting, drenched in sweat, from another nightmare where he’s back there, trapped with demons who’ve murdered or enslaved your brothers and sisters and are trying to break you next, or pinned under Meredith’s thumb, doing things that he knows are wrong, he knows, but she’s his commanding officer and he trusts her, so how wrong can they really be? he needs it, first thing when he opens his eyes, to know he’s got an escape route, a backup plan. he’s safe.

and when he finally gives in to temptation, that thing he wants more than anything that he really shouldn’t let himself want, when the Inquisitor confesses that she wants to be with him when this is all over and he very dramatically sweeps aside everything on his desk, his whole life, shattering it all over the floor, he needs that little patch of sky to remind him it’s real. he’s free to leave whenever he needs to.

and that’s what allows him to stay.

[high-dragon-bait]

Fake banter for DA request: romanced Solas interacting with romanced Fenris

Hello anon who submitted this months ago. Guess what I finished.

I know you specified “Romance” but these are pretty romance neutral, I tried to sneak it in where I could though, especially in the one at the end!!

Note: All of this is meant to be post DA2, but during Inquisition’s timeline. In my head, these conversations would occur if Fenris came with a romanced Hawke.

____

Solas: Do your markings trouble you, Fenris? 

Fenris: Do the things carved into my flesh against my will, making every touch sting while turning me into a walking weapon, trouble me? 

Solas: I’m sorry. I only ask because... I may know a way to remove them.

Fenris: ...remove them?

Solas: I know a spell to remove markings etched into the skin. Permanently and painlessly. I have used it before, many times.

Fenris: And you would like to use it on me?

Solas: There are risks to be considered. I have never used it on markings with such properties as yours. But yes, if you would let me.

Fenris: I... will consider it.

____

Fenris: What would be the risks? If the markings were removed. 

Solas: It is hard to say for certain. 

Fenris: Try.

Solas: Assuming I am able to remove the lyrium, it is likely you would go through a withdrawal, as the templars do.

Fenris: Hm.

Solas: The lyrium has been in your blood for years. It would be hard, but you are strong. Our people do not suffer the effects of lyrium to the extent humans do. I have great faith you would survive.

Fenris: And after?

Solas: You would lose your abilities. While you resent them, as you live now you’ve known no different. You would have to learn how to live again, in more ways than you predict.

Fenris: I’ve learned harder lessons.

Solas: I believe you, and I believe you would gain far, far more than you would lose.

Fenris: You say that like you have something particular in mind?

Solas: I can make no assurances, but I believe there is a chance your memory... may be restored. Your life before, the people you knew, the places you traveled, they would be yours once again. 

Fenris: (Hard silence)

Solas: Fenris?

Fenris: I do not wish to discuss this further.

____

Solas: I apologize if I offended, Fenris.

Fenris: Thank you.

Solas: Though I confess, I’m uncertain what I said to cause such offense.

Fenris: You enjoy your stories, yes? Allow me to attempt a story.

Fenris: There was a boy named Leto. He had a mother and a sister. He sold himself so they would be freed from the heel of magic. That mother would die without him and he would not know to grieve her. One day he would escape, and that sister would sell him back so she could become the heel.

Fenris: Tell me, is that a story you would want to remember?

Solas: No.

Fenris: Then you understand-

Solas: No, that is not the story. Those are fragmented pieces you have put together and convinced yourself is the whole because you would rather not search for the rest.

Solas (Cont.): I do understand now, Fenris. Greatly. Thank you.

____

Solas: What makes your story so preferable to the truth?

Fenris: It is the truth.

Solas: It is not. It is a shield so you may live without guilt. Just what is it that makes this story worth that kind of ignorance?

Fenris: I am free. I fight for what I choose. I have friends. I am in love. That isn’t enough? 

Solas: You would trade your life to fight and lay with the Champion?

Fenris: This is my life.

Solas: You do not know what you’ve lost!

Fenris: Perhaps. I know what I have.

____

Solas: I saw a woman in the Fade.

Fenris: I’ll inform the Inquisitor. 

Solas: She sits in the basement of a shop, surrounded by the silks. The vibrant colors and softness of which have shielded her more than any stone.

Solas (Cont.): She holds a letter between numb, needle-pricked fingertips. She does not know the name in the signature, but she can hear his voice so clearly in the words.

Solas (Cont.): Over her bitter hope, she tells herself, It’s not him. Where would he have learned to write?

Fenris: You enjoy the sound of your voice, mage. Will you like the taste when I rip it out?

Solas: Fenris, you can’t frighten me. All I feel for you is pity.

____

(Post Solavellan break-up)

Fenris: This is the man you’d see me become?

Solas: And what man is that?

Fenris: A man turning my back on now for a fantasy.

Solas: There is nothing? Truly nothing worth it?

Fenris: Correct.

Solas: If you had to choose between the freedom of every slave in Tevinter, and a life with the Champion, you would not choose the slaves? 

Fenris: Why am I choosing?

Solas: What?

Fenris: Why is Hawke not at my side? Why would they ever make me choose?

Solas: How can you be sure your bond would last through every trial that awaits down that path? Or would you risk the path itself stealing them from you?

Fenris: You are a coward.

[broodwolf221]

thinking abt. things.

things like solas not joining the inky for a given mission and discovering smth in his books that might help track the red templars so he brings the info to cullen only to find him shaky and sweaty and obv cullen tries to brush it off but look me in the eye and tell me solas wouldn't recognize withdrawal for what it is

mini fic bc I can:

He hasn't actually been to the Commander's room before, but he found something useful. He would normally bring it to the Inquisitor's attention, but they were out on the field and it seemed redundant to hand it off to someone else, especially since there were few he trusted to properly convey the intricacies of the information. Besides, there was no reason for him to fear Cullen. There had been countless opportunities for him to push back against Solas or the other mages, but he seemed truly dedicated to setting aside his past as a Templar. The role, if not the abilities.

Because of this, Solas entered the office lightly. What he found was... surprising.

Cullen looked haggard, worn, with deep circles under his eyes. He also looked absolutely shocked by Solas' presence, straightening up and trying to compose himself. Trying... and failing. A better posture couldn't hide the sweat shining on his face - inappropriate, considering they were high in the mountains, surrounded by snow and ice - nor the trembling of his hands, even though he tried to still then by laying them flat on his desk. "Solas," came his delayed, stiff greeting. He inclined his head slightly to the Commander in response, then moved nearer and set the book down on the desk. Cullen looked at it with obvious curiosity, but Solas no longer intended to discuss it. Not at the moment, anyway.

"Look at me," he said instead, voice far firmer than he ever would have thought to use with Cullen. The human seemed quite as surprised, gaze snapping up. "Focus on me. Breathe."

"What are you-"

"I said breathe," he insisted. Cullen continued to stare for a moment before doing as he said, although it was more a huff or sigh than a true breath. Solas arched a brow. "Breathe deeply."

Cullen frowned but obeyed, taking a deep, genuine breath and exhaling slowly. "Good," Solas said gently. "Feel the desk under your hands. The air against your skin." He watched a furrow grow between Cullen's brows. "Do not concern yourself with these things, just feel them." The Commander let his eyes slip shut as he focused, face relaxing slightly. "Keep breathing. Do you feel the cold air? Concentrate on how it feels in your nose, your throat, your lungs."

Slowly his trembling eased, although Solas knew it wouldn't disappear. He'd seen people go through this: in the flesh and in the Fade both. He knew deep breathing wouldn't counteract the physical effects of withdrawal - he had to assume from lyrium, distantly impressed by Cullen's willingness to undergo such a risk, to break the chains the Chantry and the Templar Order bound him in - but it would help with the feelings of panic. With the sense of being unable to possibly withstand such horrible feelings and urges.

"Good," he said again. Cullen had continued taking deep breaths, eyes still closed as he concentrated on his immediate surroundings instead of his panic. "This is normal. It hurts, I know, and your body is fighting you. But you still have control. You are stronger than this."

"Am I?" Cullen's eyes opened at last, meeting his with a strange desperation. Solas nodded.

"You are. To have gotten this far is evidence enough." Cullen snorted, then shook his head.

"So, who told you?" Cullen asked, Solas arching a brow.

"No one." Now the human frowned again.

"Then how..."

"I recognized your condition." Cullen stared for a time, searching Solas' face before eventually shaking his head and standing upright.

"You are... thoroughly unexpected, Solas." A pause, as if he was debating whether to say more. "Thank you." He inclined his head slightly.

"My pleasure, Commander."

[libanezink]

A Rough Day

(I’m kinda having fun with this little series of Mori x Cullen doodles, and while most of them are pretty fluffy—this one definitely feels a little angsty. This guy and his lyrium withdrawal symptoms makes me sad and soft 💧)

[daisymeade]

Cullen and his dog kicking in Samson's cell door: "GET UP, WE HAVE TO KILL MEREDITH."

Samson: "Did the lyrium withdrawal fuck your head worse? She's dead."

Cullen: "No, somehow Meredith is back. Now get your sorry ass up."