redemption ;

HE'D TAKEN A SHORT WALK AFTER HOURS OF paperwork and returns to his office to find the Inquisitor at the small table in the corner of his office. On that table is his chessboard, one of his few prized possessions—it has followed him through Blight and and back again. He swallows his surprise, gathers himself, and smiles.

"Thank you." There's a moment where he doesn't know what to say, and tilts awkwardly on his heels before nodding at the board. "I could teach you, if you wanted?"

He steps to the board and picks up a black pawn, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. There's a nick on this piece, one he'd done his best to smooth out. He hadn't had the heart to replace the piece with a new one.

"My parents got me this set when I left Honnleath for training in Denerim." His smile turns wistful. "A going-away present. I was thirteen and I couldn't believe I'd have a whole set just for myself. My brother was incredibly jealous."

Cullen shakes the reverie away and places the pawn back on the board.

basically cullen gets a few months to Stew in all that happened to him, because the monastery is dealing with an influx of displaced people and does not have the resources to provide any quality mental health care for anybody, let alone some templars. cullen actually probably gets roped into helping, rather than just sitting in quiet prayer and contemplation. also helping means he's outside more and he hates hates hates being in the small cell they gave him for sleeping and alone time. it's too small, he feels trapped, he'd rather be outside and being outside means helping move supplies, direct people, rebuilt broken structures, etc.

@chanticle : willa || the green knight ( accepting )

HE SO RARELY GETS A QUIET MOMENT THESE DAYS. He'd thought he'd been tired in Kirkwall, but he's exhausted in Haven. Running ragged with training, working with the quartermaster on making sure their soldiers are supplied, endless meetings with Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra... and then Hawke. Always Hawke, glaring at him from across the war table, or ignoring him when they see each other in camp, or making pointed comments just within his hearing.

It's not that he doesn't understand. He does. He wouldn't want to work with him either, if he were her. Their time together in Kirkwall had ended with a literal war. It hadn't been an environment conducive to building bonds of empathy and understanding.

And he'd been—well, an ass. To put it mildly.

But to corner him as he emerges from the altar in the alcove? To accost him as he finally takes a moment for himself? Irritation, so close to the surface these days, flares and he frowns at Willa Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Herald of Andraste, and wishes it had been anyone but her to get that blasted mark on their hand.

"Not here," he hisses, and stalks towards the Chantry doors, stepping out into the bracing wind of Haven and taking a deep breath. The hall of the Chantry is wide and vast enough that he doesn't feel trapped but he is always aware of the ceiling and cannot spend much time in there without feeling as though it'll come crashing down on him at the slightest cough or sneeze. The open sky is a comfort, as much as it is a reminder that he should not be seen trading insults with the Herald by their recruits. That's as good a way as any to sow dissension in the ranks, and that's something he wants to avoid at all costs.

He finds a quiet spot beside the Chantry, just off the path far enough that they won't be easily overheard and waits for her to join him. He knows she wants to have it out, but he won't give her the satisfaction. He won't. He can't. He's replaceable, he knows, and she is not, and so if they really cannot reconcile then he will bow out and leave, recommending someone to the position in his stead, but—Maker's breath, she won't even give him a chance.

"You'll do this one thing, you return home a changed man? An honorable man? Just like that?" she snaps and he feels anger shoot through his limbs, convulsing. He wrestles it down. Not now, not now, he prays, just let me keep my head. The lower dosage of lyrium has him on a short fuse.

What home? he wants to snap back. What home could she possibly mean? Kirkwall? He'll never set foot in that city again if he can help it. Honnleath? Lost to Blight. He has nowhere but here. He has nothing but this.

"Of course not," he says instead. There is nothing he can say or do to make up for his mistakes in Kirkwall. Nothing he can offer her besides his regret. She doesn't want it. He doesn't want it. He has always been a man of action, and groveling has never been a skill he's cared to develop.

"You think that this will all be solved when that thing—" he waves to the Breach "—is sealed? There is still a world about to fracture. There is still a war. There are still lives at stake. There is no one thing. Perhaps your part will be done, but mine will not. And I made a promise that I would see this through."

Cullen runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

"You don't like me? Fine. It doesn't mean that we can't work towards a common goal." They have to. There is no other option. "I know Kirkwall was—I know that I was—I don't expect forgiveness for any of that. But I hope you'd at least let me try to make some things right."

@kirkwll || the green knight ( accepting )

HE HADN'T MEANT TO TOUCH HER. They'd caught each other in passing through Lowtown, him on his way to investigate some reports of templars working outside their remit by the docks and her to do whatever it was the Champion did when she wasn't causing trouble, and he'd wanted to talk. He wasn't foolish enough to think that the conversation would pass pleasantly. They had little love for each other, but he had hoped that, at the very least, they could share a little respect between them.

She'd brushed him off before he'd even finished and without thinking he'd reached out to grab her arm. At once the air had crackled with energy, both magical and decidedly angry, from her and her friends and he'd released her. Like he'd reached into the fire to wrap his fist around a flame, he'd let her go.

"I'm sorry," he says, not knowing what else he could say. His head is aching, pain pulsing behind his eyes with each step, and his throat is dry, and he's so fucking tired—no excuse, it's no excuse.

He can be better. He must be better.

@hoboblaidd || the green knight ( accepting )

HE DOES NOT KNOW WHAT TO MAKE OF SOLAS; the elven apostate ( if one can even be called an apostate if they have not ever adhered to the teachings of the Chantry—another thing he must examine in the quiet of his prayers ) is so often away from the bustle of Haven, the running to and fro of messengers and scouts and soldiers. He has not had much time to speak with the mage, and he is mostly certain that his company would not be welcome even if he had.

Still, there is an air of relaxed joviality now that the Breach has been sealed, and even the most unsociable members of their common cause have emerged from the woodwork.

People laugh and dance and joke around the several bonfires that had been built, a feast has been prepared and set along a long table just before the Chantry, and wine and beer abound. Cullen sips at his water and watches, amused and, for the first time in a long time, relatively happy.

"How we can go from yesterday with the world about to rip itself apart to a celebration today is remarkable," he says. Mostly to himself, but also to the mage by his side. They'd somehow ended up in proximity to each other, both watching the party from the edge.

"The world is fit for all manner of mysteries," Solas replies. Cullen can't tell if the man is being obtuse on purpose or if he just talks like that all the time, but he huffs a laugh.

@keepslore

"I—" HE STARTS, THEN STOPS. IT IS DIFFICULT, he's found, to speak to her. She shines so brightly despite the darkness around them: the war, the Breach, then Corypheus.

How she is able to get out of bed each day and greet each terrible thing with kindness and gentle certainty in her people is something he cannot understand. He admires her for it, though. Each morning he feels like he could simply lay in bed forever, and rot away, and maybe he would never see a brighter dawn but at least he wouldn't need to face another day of weary heartbreak, but—no, he thinks, none of that. There is work to be done.

"What I think doesn't matter, Inquisitor." He turns to lean against the battlements and gazes out across the Frostbacks. When he'd been a child, he'd wondered what it would feel like to stand atop these mountains, never dreaming that he would one day do so. That he would one day be responsible for the military forces of a heretical movement bent on saving the world from itself. The child he'd been wouldn't have imagined much of what had happened to him later, nor what he'd done because of it.

The stone is cold even through his gloves, and he rubs at a nick with thoughtful distraction.

@witchhaunts

HE SUPPOSES THAT HE SHOULD HAVE known better than to extend an invitation. Despite the fact that the mages had been with the Inquisition for some time now, there are still tensions between them and the small handful of templars (and ex-templars) amongst the ranks. He'd done his best to ensure that the tensions never reached anything approaching a boiling point, but of course individual cases are not his remit, nor his forté.

He scratches his chin, ducks his head, and nods.

"It was kindly meant, I assure you," he says, waving vaguely to the small collection of tables, some occupied, some not. He'd scrounged up a few game boards from those in the Inquisition who'd brought them along, his own chessboard included, and had thought—

Well, it doesn't matter what he'd thought.

"If it might change your mind, I will not be staying." He knows that his presence would be off-putting. He'd only helped organize it and overseen the set up. Now that it was done he would be off. Though it is a pity. He hadn't played in weeks.