He bobbed his head. A part of him, the one still madly in love with her, wanted to rush into her room and pick up that borrowed grey warden tunic if only to smell her once more, to feel the final vestiges of her heat. But his steps steered him far away from her room and he couldn't bring himself to ask anyone else to do it for him.
Leliana reached into her pocket once more, but it wasn't the faded grey shirt passed through the years between them she handed over but a book. Little larger than his palm, it was bound in cheap red leather that looked as if it'd been later patched along the split seams by dragon scales. "What is this?" he sputtered, twisting the book around to try and find an explanation.
"I believe it is a journal...addressed to you."
"A journal?" She'd never said a word about it to him or anyone else as far as he knew. "And you've already read it," he said his heart sinking from Maker knew what was in there. Lana kept secrets that would turn any stomach, things that she could only whisper to him about. If any of them got out people would tarnish her, perhaps even hate her without understanding the full of it.
Leliana slipped out of her seat, rising to stretch her legs. "No, I would never invade her privacy like that. Whatever she had to say, wanted to put down, she meant it for you. I should return to the reception. You could join us later. Those of us from Ferelden are planning our own wake."
"No," Cullen shook his head, his hands still weighing the book. "No, I cannot. Not...no."
Gently bobbing her head, the stoic Spymaster unlatched his door. "I understand. And Cullen, you do not need to go it alone."
He started from her familiar words, but Leliana already slipped back into the night leaving him alone with only the flicker of the candle and his own traitorous thoughts. Grief he understood, grief was what people expected, but that wasn't what chained up his heart or knotted his stomach. After he heard the full of what happened in the fade, a blinding anger took hold of him. Tears were stemmed not from a happy thought or memory, but the wrath screaming through his soul. How could she throw herself away like that? How could she think so little of what was left of her life to-to...? How could he not be worth trying for? How could he not convince her to come back? How could he fail her?
Screaming, Cullen slammed the small book down onto his desk. The vials rattled again, all three of them twinkling like bells in the snow. Or rain against a window pane. The latter thought caused him to shudder, his memory slipping back to the tower, to blood dripping through the stones into... Blessed Andraste, make it stop. Take it all away. He couldn't handle the anger inside anymore. Not...Maker, not against her. Why was he mad at her? She hadn't done anything but be what she could with him. His entire body sagged in the chair, his forehead skimming across the surface. Slivers of tears dripped from his eyes, but he knew he wasn't mourning her but his own inability to let her be enough. She'd asked, begged that he understand what little she had to offer, that he accept he would never be enough. But would he? Could he?
Cullen would never let Cole anywhere near his mind, but he had other means to purge the anger from himself. A well practiced hand plucked up a solitary lyrium vial, the bottle pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Part of him chastised himself, he swore he'd never leash himself again, that he'd struggle to his last breath to keep what mind he had left. But that promise was made to a dead woman. What did it matter now?
Cullen stood transfixed staring at the glowing lyrium, his mind waging a war with itself. He could have been trapped there for hours, or only a few minutes; time ceased to be as he both tried to open the vial and kept it sealed tight. She wouldn't want him to, but she wasn't here. Would never be here again. Would never step into his life, would never slip her fingers into his and caress the back of his hand. A stinging rose in his eyes, and he wiped away the prickling of tears along with the candle smoke. His eyes slipped past the lyrium bottle to fall upon the book Leliana gave him. She'd said it was addressed to him, but...
Still standing, Cullen inched the book closer to himself. With one hand clinging to the lyrium he slipped open the cover. The vellum was nearly yellow from age and overuse, a few scratch marks evident from when it was last scraped clean. But he could read the words in the fading ink. Sure enough, it was meant for Cullen, but not the Commander of the Inquisition.
"To Knight-Captain Cullen,
I wished to extend to you fair greetings from across the waking sea. Amaranthine grows curious as to the current trade agreements once made in good standing with Kirkwall. Due to the lack of a Viscount and (a few scratch marks followed) Maker, I'm sorry. I am terrible at code, even worse at sounding pompous when it's supposed to be a threat. Whatever happened to 'if you do this I will bring an army and smash your walls down?' That's simple, right? People get the message and I've gone completely off topic.
This is my fifth, or perhaps sixth attempt at writing to you since you assisted me with that warden matter. Based upon the piles of mutilated vellum across my desk it grows more unlikely I will ever send this to you. Yet, I feel I should explain my ill conceived choices in the deep roads. What I wanted to convey and hoped to convince you of was that I'd never meant to (a thick swipe of ink obliterated whatever she wrote after) Sweet Andraste, this is never going to work."
She didn't bother to sign it, only dabbed a few of her ink covered fingerprints across the bottom of the paper. Curious, Cullen turned the page to find another letter, this one dated 9:37, right after Kirkwall's circle fell.
"For Knight-Captain Cullen,
Word has reached the shores of Amaranthine of the chaos in Kirkwall, and I officially extend any assistance you or the Viscount-less city might require. Refuges are struggling for shelter having fled with little upon their backs. We will not offer to (scratch marks). Given the temerity of the attack, all citizens fleeing the chaos are welcome, regardless of (Lana attacked the page with her quill as if trying to stab away what she feared to speak)
Maker, what happened? All we're hearing is snippets of wild tales; dragons, the chantry exploding, a statue of Andraste coming to life and smashing all of Kirkwall with a stone sword. I am uncertain what, if any of it, is true. If it weren't for Nathaniel I wouldn't even know that you survived. I should have written before. At least sent you something to open up communications. There doesn't seem much point now. With all of thedas braying for mage blood, my abilities to function in any official capacity are shackled. I can't imagine what you're suffering from, what all of Kirkwall is struggling against.
I wish I could be there to help.
Who am I kidding? I'm never sending this one either.
Your useless Arlessa,
Lana Amell"
Curiosity piqued, Cullen took the book up in both of his hands and he fell into his chair. Over time, the pile of letters that she never got around to sending transformed into a true journal but every entry began addressed to him. She spoke of her life, her travails trying to revive the wardens from their stupor with a candidness rarely afforded to the written word. He could almost hear her whispering her words just behind his ear.
"Please tell me you've never fought a dragon before, Cullen. Messy, foul smelling, and healing burns is about as much fun as mopping up broodmother blood..." "You'll never guess what I just found. Well, of course you won't, you're parchment. But if you could, it'd amaze you..." "Sweet Maker, I think I've almost got the old biscuit recipe down. And I did, until the oven exploded. Apparently lyrium sand can look an awful lot like sugar." He skipped around, his fingers shuffling past pages of her life he missed out on, years wasted while they were both to terrified to risk opening up to each other. Throughout the journal his brain clung to every mention of his name which never seemed too far from her thoughts. There was a lightness in her words, a joy in the simple things as she delighted in the mundane of life until the pages came to a dead stop. Flipping past two more blank entries, the words began again but the hand was cold and curt, the letters jagged as if the holder of the quill stabbed them into being.
"I forgot about this journal. Things have changed, every plan I thought I had has been corrupted. Sundered. Somehow, I've found myself enmeshed with the Champion of Kirkwall, an irritatingly cheery woman who also to my absolute delight brought Anders back into my life. He is concerned that I may at any moment snap and end his life. While I doubt I am willing, it seems better if he harbors on under the delusion. What brought me back to this journal you're asking sheets of parchment? Red lyrium. I almost turned my back upon my new 'cousin' until she told me of it, asked me to find the source. Told me of its existence within Kirkwall's templars. Maker's breath, Cullen. You damn well better not be involved with this stuff."
Her admonishment startled him. She'd never mentioned that it was her hunt for red lyrium that...that was what pulled her from the Calling. Or that she was concerned for him taking it, becoming-- Andraste's tears, she feared him falling into the same corruption as the other templars.
"I can sense something wrong about it, more than wrong. All I hear is talk of it turning people into statues, or it being made from a statue. I don't know, Hawke gives me a splitting headache. Please. Don't have taken it. I can't understand it, certainly can't solve it, but I pray to the Maker you're not a part of it."
He didn't realize his fingers began to shake until he moved to turn the page. Formulas, theories, even a few quick notes in code filled the margins of the page as if Lana needed to write them down quickly before she forgot. On occasion, a few more anecdotes about her trials with Hawke and Anders appeared mixed in, but every entry ended with, "You better not be a part of this." She spoke of the temple of sacred ashes attack with a solemn detachment, unable to process the massive loss of life. Something in her trying to understand grief on that scale struck deep against him and he couldn't read the passage. One day perhaps, but not now.
Flipping deeper into the book, days passed until he paused upon, "I saw you today. Never in an age did I think it would happen. Hearing about the templars, then hearing about their corruption from Therinfall, I tried to put you from my thoughts. To cling to hope that you'd been one of the smart templars to avoid Corypheus' grasp. And then there you were. Alive. Safe. It caught me so off guard, I proceeded to almost smash my face into the floor. Very heroic, I know.
"I'm sitting here in the tunic I borrowed off your gallantry. I hope you don't mind it too much, it's surprisingly soft. When we spoke, I understood why we need to keep things between us civil, fully agreed with your thoughts. I simply never expected it to sting."
Cullen yanked his head away to stare at his own door. The one he'd led her through to try and find a change of clothing. He hadn't wanted to keep her at an arm's length, but it seemed to be what she did. What she needed. He hadn't even been certain if she could feel for him what he did for her. Maker, he was such a fool. In giving her an out, he hurt her and himself in the process. There were still questions that raged in his mind about her, about them, and now...now he had the possibility of answers in his fingers. But did he want to know them? She was frank, admitted that she didn't love him, at least not yet. There could be more to the story, more to where her own loyalties lay. His hand drew down the spine of the fragile book, bending it away as Cullen weighed whether he could live with himself, live with what was contained beyond this first blush of romance.
He rifled through the book's back half with his errant finger, struggling to find answers in his own soul. So many blank pages remained, untouched by her, never to be filled with her life, her words. Because of her decision. That anger flared up anew, and he flipped backwards through the blank pages until coming upon her last entry -- the final piece he could have of her beyond a faded spell and a whispered order.
"Adamant. Tomorrow we set out. I want this to be over, to be finished, to find a finality to my life. Even slaying the archdemon came with a to be continued attached. The darkspawn didn't scatter into their holes as they should have. They kept attacking, kept preying, kept needing me to be the warden. And now.
You're asleep on my bed. Maker thank Hawke for setting out early with the first of the party. She said it was for intel, but I'm certain she tried to give us time together. I wanted to dream in your arms, but my mind refuses to give up. It can't cease churning over every fear, measure every failure, wonder what will happen when this is over. I don't know, I have no answers save one: there's you. Whether the wardens fall or are redeemed, I cannot be a part of them. Not anymore. And if, after Adamant, the Inquisitor has no use of me I do not fear the endless expanse because I know I will find you waiting at the end. How our lives keep finding themselves knotted up like this, I cannot comprehend, but I am grateful to stumble upon you.
Do we keep getting the timing wrong, is this some ploy of the Maker, or are we waiting for our own minds to catch up together? I wish I could give you all of me. That sounded less dirty in my head. That I'd return your sentiments without question, but I fear opening myself up again. And until I can combat that fear, I need time. Time that we can find together, after Adamant.
For the love of the Maker, I pray and beg Andraste to keep you. To guide you back from the battle so in time I can learn to love you. Stay Safe. Please."
The book scattered from his hands falling shut upon the desk. Inside of his heart, the anger melted leaving only an endless wave of tears washing him clean. He curled up and cried every drop he'd kept locked away behind his wall of rage. The vials of lyrium lay forgotten as Cullen's breathless voice repeated her final words. "Stay safe. Maker, stay safe."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Cullen whistled for the dog to return to his side. She perked up, her dark nose coated in yellow pollen from burying herself snout deep into a bush, but she didn't run to him. Instead, her stub of a tail wagged, nearly taking the entire back half with her, as a tongue lolled out. Sighing, he dug through his hair, "Right, we still have to work out a few of those commands. Come on, Honor," he tried again, jerking his head towards his office and patting his leg. They'd been on a walking tour of Skyhold getting her acclimated to her new home. She'd been particularly enthralled with the stables pre-mucking, Cullen less so.
Barreling past him on muscled legs, Honor bounded through the open door and skidded to a halt. She had all the grace of a rampaging ogre, but it drew a smile to his lips to watch the vigor with which his new adoption enjoyed life.
"Welcome back, Ser," Addley smiled widely at him as she placed a few reports down on his covered desk. Maker only knew how much work awaited him after the return.
"Captain," Cullen nodded his head to her politely, but she shook off the formality. "I can about guess the mountain and a half of paperwork awaiting me."
"Large enough to build us another fortress in the Frostbacks I'm afraid," Addley sighed. She was perched upon his desk, one leg knocking into the back with a friendly ease that washed over his troops after Corypheus fell.
Cullen approached the terror waiting for him courtesy of every noble in thedas poking their noses into his business, but he paused to scratch along Honor's head. Her leg slapped into the stone when he found the spot just behind her ears. "As if we thought turning the entire operation over to Divine Victoria would be easy..." He hunted through the top missives, trying to find the most pressing matters. The Inquisitor was not back to himself after both a loss and a near one, but -- in her last days serving them -- Josephine volunteered to assist in the transfer of power. "Addley, we need a count of the troops. An accurate one, no one-two, skip a few. Numbers for weaponry, typical smithing fees, the amount of feed consumed for cavalry..."
His musing paused as he turned up to her lit eyes. "It's good to have you back," she said.
"I suppose," Cullen dodged from the potential flattery. It seemed Addley didn't notice his cold turn as she reached across the desk to grip his hand. Cullen stared at his work instead of her.
"Stopping a qunari invasion deserves celebrating, I'd say," she smiled at him.
"Stopping an invasion, nearly plummeting all of southern the
das into a lawless chaos. It's all in how you look at the situation," Cullen said, but he didn't yank his hand away. He was uncertain what to do. Mercifully, Addley hopped to her feet, her orders in place. His fingers curled up as her hand left, holding themselves.
Adjusting her braid back, she bobbed her head, "I'll speak with the quartermaster first."
"Good," Cullen nodded, already slipping back to work.
Addley paused at the door and in a sing-song voice, as if just thinking of it, mentioned, "Oh, and now that you've returned, perhaps we could continue that game of chess we abandoned."
Cullen blinked, his shoulders tightening from a senseless guilt, "I'm afraid I have a lot of work. But..." he turned from his work and slapped on a small smile, "later, maybe."
"I'll hold you to it," she smirked and tipped her head. Throwing open the door, Addley vanished to do her job.
Watching her wake, Cullen tried to will back a guilty thrumming knocking against his heart. Tossing the paperwork aside, he strode to his bookshelf. At the center of the middle shelf sat the blue bottle. He felt foolish for keeping it knowing there was no part of her inside, but it also lightened his heart to see it. It took a long while to reach that point. A year, perhaps even longer before he could speak of Lana without needing to excuse himself, when memories of her made him smile instead of wall up alone in his loft. He'd gotten better, day by day.
Then they returned to the Winter Palace and it was as if someone ripped away every scabbed over inch of his wound. Even with the qunari, and the magic mirrors, and a return of an elven god for the Maker's sake he couldn't stop thinking of Lana. When the nobility started in on him, questioning his empty hand or wondering if he had anyone to share his bed he dreamed of her shoving the throngs aside, grabbing his slack fingers and taking him to the dance floor.
My Love Page 45
