#john lavellan

It’s been a long day. No more perhaps than some, but it still weighs on him. Things tend to seem worse once you get a moment’s peace, which is all he has seemed to have today. With the move to Skyhold finally complete, and with restoration underway he has finally been able to take a moments rest. Much to the joy of the others who had been telling him to take some time, and that he worked too hard. It had felt nice at first, to not wake so early, to lay in the warmth of his bed for just that little longer, but thoughts of laziness, of problems he needed to fix, drove him from the comfort. He’d tried to help out only to be glared at by Cassandra, and so he’d gone back to his room, taking a few files with him to work on in secret.

The quite makes it easier to drift, allowing his mind to conjure things he’d rather forget. Flashes of the past, of softness and the smile of another. All of it now tainted in red.

He drops his quill, watching as it flicks ink on his report. He needs to work, needs to be doing something so the thoughts will stop. So he can forget, pretend for just a moment longer that everything is as it was. A foolish thing he knows, but it’s still too fresh, too new a hurt and hidden away in his room, it’s too easy to get lost in the memories. So he heads to the Tavern. He has not spent as much time there as others, finding the loud and brash customers too much for his liking, but today he has a need of a drink and the loud custom to get lost in.

He is greeted warmly once he enters, and it eases the pain. He chooses to sit at the bar, the fire at his back, throwing warmth against him. It crackles and makes the room smell of charred wood.

He’s not sat there long before the Inquisitor sits next to him, having left the company of his other companions.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He inquires, and Cullen laughs. No, he really doesn't.

“I would rather not.” The words are bitter and he feels he should apologise for them. But the Inquisitor just nods, taking a sip of his own drink.

“Would you rather I left you to it then?”

“I would like the company, so long as you don’t mind I’m not much good for it today.”

“I’ve never minded before.” The Inquisitor teases, and Cullen smiles at him, it’s small but still a smile.

They talk about preparations, about what to do next, as Cullen steadily gets more and more inebriated. The memories he’d tried to keep hidden float to the surface, words spilling from his lips freely. He wants to stop them but it’s freeing.

“He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the order.” The Inquisitor’s eyes are on him, and he feels he should explain the sudden outburst, but the Inquisitor doesn’t ask him who he means and he wonders vaguely if he has truly been so transparent. He lets the words flow instead, feeling lighter we each one. “When I arrived in Kirkwall, Samson and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man, at first.” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts slightly. ”He was a decent man.” He takes a large gulp of his drink, emptying the glass. “I thought once maybe…” He trails off, looking away from the eyes that are on him. “It doesn't matter now. That man is no longer the man I knew.”

The Inquisitor orders them more drinks with a flick of his wrist and they sit in companionable silence for a while, the chatter of the other patrons filling the room around them.

“Why was he even expelled?” The Inquisitor asks suddenly, his voice quite, uncertainty colouring the words.

“Officially, the Knight-Commander expelled him for "erratic behaviour", in truth he was caught passing notes and letters from an apprentice to his sweetheart. Maker he was a fool.”

“You have no sympathy for him then?”

“For Samson, once I may have done, but after this, after what he has done. No, I don’t have sympathy. He had choices. He could have found another path.”

They continue to drink in silence, until Cullen has lost count of how many he has had, and his face is pressed against the cool, sticky bar. His words swirl and spill, unheeded. The Inquisitor is still at his side, and at some point they have been joined by others. He talks of his friendship with Samson, how he had thought better of the man. He tells them tales of the two of them, all of them tinged with fondness.

Once his words get too slurred, Cassandra and the Inquisitor loop their arms around him, heaving him off his feet. They carry him the short journey to his room with only a little trouble. He can hear them speak to him but his sluggish mind can no longer pick out the words, and he is sure he probably would not like what they are saying about him. They push open his door and leave him propped up against his desk, the idea of lugging his dead weight up a ladder seeming too much for them. Cassandra drapes a soft blanket over him, and he drifts off, with a slurred thank you.

When he finally wakes the next morning his head feels like he has been run of by a herd of  Druffalo. The room spins as he opens his eyes, the sunlight too bright, making his stomach roll. He bends, dry heaving, wondering what he possible could have drank for his mouth to taste as bad as it does. He sits back against the desk, trying to piece together the fragments of memory he has of the night before. He drifts off again only waking when the door opens and a cold breeze ruffles through his hair. It’s bracing and wakes him slightly, but still he burrows further into his blanket, shivering away from the cold.

“Command-”

“Maker, not so loud.” He groans, batting the air with his hand.

“Sorry, ser. It’s just, The Inquisitor wished to see you. I can inform him you are not up to it if you’d prefer.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I shall be a moment however.”

The scout leaves him alone once more. Pushing himself gingerly to his feet he groans, his body aching from the unnatural position he’d slept in. He should thank Cassandra and the Inquisitor for getting him back to his room, but his bones are feeling less than appreciative of the help. He swills water around his mouth, hoping it will get rid of some of the taste. He strokes down his hair and rearranges his clothing before staring at himself in his small mirror, and deeming himself good enough.

He walks the long way round to the war room, hoping the fresh air will clear his head. As he walks across the battlements something grabs his attention, a melancholy song pushing out through the windows of the Tavern. With heart hammering in his chest he runs, ripping open the doors as he goes, practically crashing into the banister at the top of the stairs. Below him Maryden sings, a small gathering of people around her. Her words are his, twisted to make a forgiving shape. Anger and rage boils inside him, but it’s nothing compared to the embarrassment he feels, how could he have been so foolish.

She finishes to applause, and he feels sick all over again. The words are not false, but the sympathy they invoke in these people. It’s wrong. His legs buckle beneath him, and he slides to the ground. It should not affect him so much, he knows this. It’s just a song, just something to ease the troops. Something to make a man out of the horror of the enemy. Yet he can’t help but feel betrayed slightly, that his own people would take his moment of weakness and twist it.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. How’s your head?” Cullen stares up at the Inquisitor as he leans down to him, hand held out to help him to his feet.

“Fine.” He says, gripping hold of the hand to pull himself up. “I just. The bard she was singing, about Samson.”

“You may have told the entire tavern about you two. I think she may have wrote it last night, with your help. You were very, very drunk.”

“I helped? Maker...”

“Yes, do you not remember anything? How much did you drink? She has edited it though, taken out all the...” The Inquisitor trails off looking at him with concern plain on his face. “I will have a word with her if you like, tell her not to sing it. It’s not like she doesn't have more songs.”

Cullen thinks about it, he doesn’t want it to be sung, he wants to hide from the words, to forget he ever knew Samson, but he knows he can’t. That what happened won't change just because he buries it. It could be worse he thinks, and now he’s slightly more sober he knows it’s not so bad. Not really. The song after all is not such a pleasant picture of the man and what right does he truly have to stop them from singing something that helps them get through this war. It’s more the embarrassment of the situation that he hates, and telling their troops not to sing the blasted thing is only going to make it worse.

“No, it’s fine, it was just a shock to hear. Maker why didn’t anyone stop me?”

“Oh we did, but, well as I said you were drunk.” It’s an explanation he supposes, even if it’s not one he wants to hear. He sighs, it’s going to be another long day.

Some of the lines come from conversations you have with Cullen, so if something seems a little familiar that will be why.

List of lines:

"He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the order."

"When I arrived in Kirkwall, Samson and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man, at first."