#daythree

Well, fine. They could keep their secrets. They could keep hiding things from her. They could keep treating her like she was made of glass. She would find her answers, and she would find them on her own, and she would prove to them - prove to herself, too - that she wouldn’t be ignored or looked down upon. She would find those answers even if it killed her.

Without the lyrium, they’re worse. Lyrium - the crutch his mind was craving, he couldn’t have - but Aredhel had spent some time this morning at the Templar tower, asking the Knights what it was about the substance that was hard to part with. It had been a delicate conversation to navigate, not wishing to further encourage their love of the stuff, nor unkindly drive home the burden of dependence they had been lured into by the Chantry, but she had reasoned that if anyone had an answer, it would be them. Inquisitor Lavellan slipped inside the Commander’s office, shutting out the buffeting sounds of the southern winds with the clatter and thunk of oak and iron. Inside, the room wasn’t much warmer. Her eyes flicked to the unlit fire, then to the man behind the cluttered desk. “Oh - Inquisitor.” Cullen’s voice softened instantly on seeing it was her. It bemused her, how he used her title during the working day even when they were alone. But then, you would have to pay her in sovereigns to stop her from calling him ‘Commander’ when it took her fancy. “Do you have some time?” Her voice was gentle, making it clear that this wasn’t a work-related visit, and not wanting to presume that he could spare her such moments. She didn’t want to act as though she could make such demands either as the Inquisitor or the woman he was seeing: whilst she was both, it was important to make sure that neither accidently impeded the other side of their lives together. “For you?” He smiled, the relief at seeing her shining even through his weariness. Perhaps because of it. “Always.” The mage crossed the chill room, resisting the urge to ignite a fire as she passed the hearth. Cullen had never made her feel ‘Less Than’ for being a mage - he had never treated her with any reproach, never shown her any of his past fears. He had even stood beside her in battle and watched her wield magic without his opinion of her changing, or at least never for the worse. But, in return, she did her best to support and allow that, by keeping magic in their daily, personal lives to a minimum. One didn’t support a healing man by demanding he act at full health before he was ready. Still, he would need a regular fire in here. He may insist upon a hole in his roof, but all the more reason to have warmth. She set the steaming mug down at Cullen’s side. He eyed it, not quite registering what it was. Assuming it was for her, he simply looked away from it again and to Aredhel, rising from his seat. “If you’ve come to distract me, I’m afraid I’m poor company at present.” Usually, her ‘distractions’ were extremely welcome, be they some stolen moments of gossip about their team, a bite of food together or their gently amorous strolls around the Keep. Today, however, he was flagging more than food and conversation could lighten. “That’s alright. I just thought you might want this.” She perched lightly on the edge of the desk, sliding the mug towards him. Cullen eyed it with mild interest, smiling politely, touched at being thought of but unsure why he particularly needed a hot beverage today. “Oh really? What is it?” “Um, some Chamomile, some Amrita Vein - a few different herbs.” Amrita Vein was something of a cure-all, and meant to be of particular use in easing the mind. Its history (as far as the humans’ awareness of it, that is) was a tale she enjoyed - one of templars showing clemency and understanding, for a change. “They say, in quitting a habit, that part of what we miss is the action. The motion of it. That,” she glanced, involuntarily, at the multiple wine and whiskey flasks dotting the desk and surrounding room, somewhat proving her point, “Replacing the action can help…” “Oh?” Cullen’s voice had become guarded. It was still, technically, gentle, technically polite, but she could feel the shift viscerally. His patience, usually unending with her, was suddenly short, close to frustration or taking offense. “Yes. So, um…” She hesitated, then gestured, slightly lamely this time, to the mug again, raising her other hand and tucking some hair uncertainly behind her ear. “This…They’re soothing. The herbs. We used to make it back home. I had to do some rooting, but between the quartermaster and how the herb garden is coming along -” She knew that lyrium was complex - that any addiction was complex. The blood and mind remanded it, adjusted to relying on it to survive. Yet some small part of its calming properties, at least, could be replaced by something mild, something safe…He bore so much stress. He still looked hesitant. She sighed, folding. “Sorry. I - I thought it might help. It makes thoughts a little more peaceful, that’s all. Quietens some of the lines of thinking we aren’t using right now.” She saw the horror pass his face and added quickly. “Not in any strong way! It’s just a tea. It’s soothing, that’s all.” Cullen’s expression softened again, crumpling into a tired look of love - love and, she noticed, apology. He picked up the tea, regarded it a moment, brows furrowed, then, guardedly, set it aside. Standing by the desk, his gloved hand took hers - she sighed, telling herself not to be frustrated. The advice was heeded with partial success. “Thank you. For thinking of it. That’s - incredibly kind. But I -” His voice wavered. She sighed, smiled sadly and cupped his face, then let go again, wanting to reassure him with a touch but not press him by lingering. “...You don’t want to drink something that affects how you feel.” “Exactly.” Weight fell from him in relief that she understood, brows still furrowed into deep lines. His hand squeezed hers. “It’s only tea…” she offered again, sadly, but then she caught herself. Shaking her head, she rested her hand on his. “No - forget it. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to have it.” Of course he didn’t. She began scolding herself for her foolishness - she had been so thrilled about the idea. “But - “ The elf put on a smirk, not feeling it in her heart, but feeling the intent behind it. “I might take it with me, in that case.” Cullen chuckled, thrilled and touched that she was taking this so well. “Feel free. - It’s foolish of me, I know, but - “ “No.” She shook her head again and smiled. “It’s fine. - I’ll let you get back to work.” Letting go of his hands, she picked up the mug once more. The Commander returned to his chair, reaching out for one of his flasks as he did so. Frustration shot over her face for a moment, making her falter in her steps, but she breathed it out. Walk away. She took herself to one of the exits, glancing back at the empty hearth on her way past and, once again, reminding herself not to light it. “I’ll ask a scout to get this lit,” she offered kindly, biting back on any sharper way she could have spoken. Cullen looked mildly surprised. “Oh, is it not already? - Wonderful, thank you.” With another drink of wine, as if that were less harmful than her tea, he returned to his papers, and she, sighing, stepped out onto the ramparts. The hot beverage flew over the walls and rained scattered drops of heat into the snow far below. Aredhel watched it, gripping the mug and reminding herself not to send it over as well. That would be a waste. She had already wasted good flowers. In her free palm, a fireball lit. She held it and let it burn for a moment, venting the unspent need. She would not hold it against him, she reminded herself. He had come so far, and was working so hard on moving forwards. But still…Despite what everyone around here insisted, she was no deity or saint. Sometimes, regardless of her better wishes, she couldn’t take this. “...Sod it,” she muttered finally, hopping up onto the edge of the ramparts wall and following its path to the Herald’s Rest. It was her tavern, by name - she could drink at midday too if she wanted. But just one. There was work to do.

The guys who damned it.