#ex-templars

It’s hard, even now. He didn’t think himself worthy then, when she asked, when she insisted. How was he supposed to trust himself when he no longer knew who he was? It’s a question he came to mull over frequently, and he wavers still at times, whenever sleep eludes him and oh, it does.

Too often.

You give yourself too little credit, Cassandra tells him, and her voice usually deafens the worst of his doubts, if only for a moment. He isn’t entirely sure who he is yet, but he knows who he wants to be, the kind of man he always should have been. He tries. With her spirit and her convictions like a thousand swords by his side, he’s come a long way, and the Inquisition gives him the kind of purpose that’s inspired him since he was a boy. The greater good. But victory demands sacrifices, and they aren’t always dealt in death.

There’s another, like him. Not like him, exactly—she’s good, through and through, with her heart quite a few shades lighter than his own. Vanya—her name—with losses and hopes and pain, and she suffers the same torments. Lyrium. It’s little more than a leash, and to be free of shackles requires the sort of strength he wasn’t sure he had, when he decided to quit. It’s a burden he’s withstood alone, nightmares that linger in the periphery of his vision whenever he’s awake, and it’s all he seems to be lately, awake, and she’s noticed. Vanya. With a faint question in her eyes, and the words that followed, when he took a second too long to parry.

You’re not alone.

Even now, he isn’t entirely sure she’s actually spoken them, but he hears them all the same, deep in his gut, and it gives him a sliver of courage that might otherwise slip away. Strength. Honor. Kindness. Like Cassandra, Vanya’s a force of nature all by herself, but more than that… she understands. Him. A silent conversation in the rarely quiet of his mind, and it’s all it took, really, acknowledgement, and he can’t look at her the way he looks at all the others.

It’s how it started. Simple awareness, and it bloomed into something more, something that keeps him awake when the night grows cold, and yet it’s not loneliness he feels. Despite the vastness of the sky flickering above him, he belongs here, and the demons he constantly rebuffs loom lower, as though warded off by another entity.

By her.

It’s not what he wants for her. She’s escaped a few tragedies, and she could face a lot more, were they to fail their mission. The entire world is at stake, but when he looks at her, when his breath catches in the back of his throat and when his armor feels lighter… she’s all he can see, and before his thoughts dissipate, in another life, he knows she could have been just that.

His entire world.

But this kind of pain is meant for men without armor, and Cullen’s affections aren’t his own. It’s a distraction he can’t afford, not in the midst of war, not as her own superior officer. His life feels like a slew of ill-timed battles, and his walls crack every time he finds himself in her vicinity.

Every time she emerges in his.

He can hear her, down the battlements, swinging her sword with all her might. He doesn’t know how long she’s been there, lost in the contemplation of the stars above him, and when he turns towards the noises she makes, his chest tightens, a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

Lyrium. Right there on a bench, with all the tools she’d need for another taste.

He doesn’t remember climbing down the stairs—for all he knows, he might as well have jumped off the battlements. Leliana would certainly chide him for his lack of subtlety, but this isn’t a stealth mission; it pounds too heavy in his skull, and everywhere else his pulse pulses.

“Vanya!”

He doesn’t think. He addresses her like he would a friend, and in the dark of night, in this brief moment of reprieve, he forgets all about formalities. But this isn’t respite, and neither of them ever really rest—she veers towards him, her face framed in damp, blonde strands, and her eyes flicker with more menace than the tip of her sword, pointed at his throat.

She breathes, hard, and he breathes with her, arms at his sides. She stares and he stares right back, gold against blue, and her jaw clenches, her gaze turned ashen as she cries and swings. The blow was never meant for him, nor was the threat.

The vial of lyrium shatters against the blade, and she does as well, wavering as her knees buckle under the strain of her agony. He knows. His heart sinks with her, and he’s beside her within moments, crouching where she gasps, staccato puffs in the cool air around them.

“A-Apologies, Commander, i-it won’t happen again,” she croaks in-between breaths, and he shakes his head, no, no, there’s nothing to forgive.

Instead he reaches out and places his hand over hers, fingers stiff against dirt, and when she looks up, hesitant, her breath uneven still, he holds her gaze, despite his best judgement, despite everything he should consider and doesn’t. Because there’s no room for a Commander here. It’s not what he wants to be, what he needs to be, for her, just a man, with struggles similar to her own.

You’re not alone.

“Cullen,” she mouths, and his lips turn upward, the same heat in his cheeks that spreads across her own.

Her hand moves under his, reminding him of her skin against his own, and he breathes, in, gently shifting his stance to give her more space. She looks down, their fingers nearly intertwined, and he feels the beat of her heart there, hard, but steady, as though he’s just managed to give her the same sense of peace she’s offered so many times.

But Cullen is just a man, and without his walls, he sways. He removes his hand slowly, a broken chuckle on his tongue, and she coughs, her hand in her hair as his own finds the nape of his neck.

“Would you care for… um…”

“A game of chess?”

He can’t help but smile at the suggestion, and perhaps it’s all there needs to be. A sense of normalcy amidst chaos, outside, within, and with her smiling the same smile, it’s easier to endure, to see past all the pain, a brighter horizon.