Chapter Text
He’d had a stash of impressive whisky in his office, and once he’d collected a bottle of it, led them to the very top of Skyhold’s mage tower. Late afternoon was turning to dusk, and she perched atop one of the parapets.
“Are you sure you’re all right up there?” he asked, eyeing her.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Mine are a nimble people.”
She reached for the bottle, and he held it away from her.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m very, very sure,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t make me come down, getting up here was a feat of ladylike grace I’m not sure I can repeat!”
He chuckled, then handed her the bottle, but stayed close.
“So,” she said before taking a swig. “I believe last time we saw each other you were being cryptic about a story for another time. Hence the promise-threat of a drink.”
He shook his head.
“Do you remember everything?” he asked incredulously as she held the bottle out to him.
“Very nearly,” she said soberly, then seemed to change her mind to take another swig before holding the bottle out to him again. “It’s a curse.”
“Indeed,” he said, taking the bottle this time, then taking a swig himself.
“You’d mentioned lyrium then,” he said. “How Templars were always taking it.”
“I mean, it just seemed odd, you know? It’s meant to replenish mana, but you don’t really have mana, as such.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it did supply us with power.”
“Right,” she said slowly. “That was why they were so strict and rationing it to us, the mages. Because they needed it for you all.”
“And because when ingested frequently, it becomes addictive. Particularly if you don’t naturally produce your own mana.”
He paused then, taking another long swig.
Her eyes went wide, and he forced himself not to look away at whatever expression of judgment or pity would follow. But when it did come, it seemed more like realization than anything else.
“Oh, Cullen,” she breathed. “I knew… I knew it was addictive, and I’d heard things about Templars in withdrawal, but – you, too?”
“Me and most Templars I’ve ever known who’d ever tried to stop taking it,” he said, taking another swig, then handing her the bottle. She took a long swig herself.
“They were getting you all addicted on purpose,” she murmured. “Gods, the Chantry really does love control, doesn’t it?”
“That it did,” he said as she handed him the bottle. “Though I do have some hope that when the next Divine is named, she’ll implement some much-needed reforms.”
She looked at him.
“Wait – are you – that is…?”
“Addicted? I suppose so,” he said, taking a swig of the whisky. “Though I haven’t used since shortly after I left the Order..”
“Since you --?” she echoed. “Wait – you’re commanding the Inquisition forces through a war with Corypheus while going through lyrium withdrawal ?”
He nodded.
She shook her head and reached for him, her seat on her perch becoming quite precarious as she put her arms around his shoulders; he shifted closer to prevent her from falling and put his own arms around her to steady her.
Yes, to steady her.
“You are a brave, good man, Cullen Rutherford,” she murmured against his shoulder.
It was a moment before he responded.
“I have much to atone for,” he finally said, quietly.
She leaned back then, one arm still around him. She threaded the fingers of her other hand through his hair, then smoothed it back down.
“You were our jailer,” she told him, looking into his eyes. “But now, you’re helping us be free. Even though you’re worried, even though you’re afraid.”
She smiled at him, and for a moment, he thought he would relive every moment of the past ten years gladly if it meant it had won him that.
She wrapped her arms around his neck in earnest, then, sliding off her parapet, and his arms tightened reflexively around her so she wouldn’t just be dangling there.
It was close and intimate and her body fit better against his than he’d ever imagined, and the scent of her enveloped him as she held him tight. Just then, he didn’t give a damn about Wardens or Orders or Carver bloody Hawke; they could all burn for just this moment.
It was dusk now, and the setting sun made the seconds she was in his arms seem even shorter before she released him. He set her down, but then she grabbed him by the arm.
“Come on,” she told him, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her grin made of mischief.
“Where?” he asked, following her lead regardless. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Of course not,” she said, as though it were obvious. “But we’re going to dance, and I am excellent at finding parties.”
As they walked along the perimeter of the castle, she looked up at him.
“So you’ve left the Order for good then?” she asked.
“I have,” he affirmed.
“You were so pious, though,” she said.
He smiled wryly.
“For a time, perhaps,” he allowed.
“Looking back, I can’t imagine how you were so kind to such a little heathen like me,” she said with a half-grin. He smiled back wryly.
“I was convinced it was only a matter of time before you saw the light,” he replied. “You were so good.”
She laughed, putting her hand to her chest.
“Me?” she said incredulously. “I was constantly insubordinate! I was always breaking curfew, requisitioning items without authorization, nicking herbs from the garden for my own experiments…”
He laughed.
“You broke curfew most often because you’d fallen asleep in the library, literally slumped over a book. You requisitioned books and fabric to make more stylish robes for your cohort. And rare colors of ink. And hard-to-find seeds for the garden, which you nicked herbs from to make more rare colors of ink.”
“And cosmetics!” she exclaimed, affronted.
He laughed again.
“Yes, a true villain you were,” he teased with a grin.
She lifted her head haughtily.
“We all resist in our own ways,” she said.
“Is that what you were doing?” he asked, still half-smiling.
“I really was, though,” she told him. “I didn’t have much interest in blood magic once I’d had the opportunity to do more research on it; I didn’t have the resources to understand it properly, and at the time, the risks far outweighed the potential benefits.”
He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Does that mean you practice blood magic now?” he asked.
“Not actively,” she said. “I’ve done more research, and experimented a bit.”
He blanched. “You’ve – you’ve done sacrifices?”
She looked up at him, appalled.
“Dear gods, this is half the problem in Thedas, I swear. You humans hear blood magic and immediately you’re having dark fantasies about Tevene altars and human sacrifices. I’ve given myself little cuts in emergencies to heal Wardens under my command in battle. I told you I’m bloody awful at healing, and I’m responsible for my people.”
He shook his head.
“The risks… if a spirit or demon found you –"
“—I am quite well-versed in thwarting their intentions, whether temptations, traps, or assault,” she finished for him. “Besides, they’re much more attracted to mages who are sacrificing others. Self-sacrifice might attract the odd spirit of compassion or honor, but those aren’t really the type to try to snatch bodies.”
He shook his head. “How do you know such things?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“I’ve spent my share of time in the Fade,” she told him. “Anyway, researching blood magic was much more about curiosity than anything else. The robes and the ink let us show who we were as individuals a bit more clearly, and that, in turn, I think, made you all see us more as people. And as an additional benefit, it made that pile of rocks significantly less dreary.”
He smiled, looking down as they walked.
“It certainly did,” he confirmed. “And the garden?”
She smiled up at him. “One of my favorite people once told me that engaging with the pleasures of life and beauty and joy is one of the most important ways to defy being denied personhood.”
He nodded, his smile fading slightly.
“Did we deny you personhood?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged.
“In retrospect, it could have been much worse. It wasn’t the Gallows. But whenever someone is denied the freedom to make their own choices, to love and learn and live as they think best, a hierarchy is established that inevitably diminishes people closer to the bottom.”
He nodded slowly.
“Well,” he said, “I rather hate to tell you now that Greagoir and Irving did know about your rebellion of expression, pleasure, and beauty.”
She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
“I knew it!” she stamped her foot on their next step. “I knew Irving had a bit of a soft spot for me, but Greagoir was usually rather churlish. I always assumed I annoyed him.”
“You probably did,” he said with a grin. “But I did ask him once about the robes and the ink, and the curfew, and he said something along the lines of, ‘She looks out for the young ones, tries to make the world as nice as she believes it is, and steals the occasional extra sweet roll. She can have her colors and flowers.”
She looked at him agape.
“You’re lying!” she said, hitting his arm. “Greagoir never said that much about me, and if he did, it wouldn’t be that complimentary!”
He shook his head and held up a hand. “He did, I can assure you.”
She sucked her teeth.
“Well, he was wrong,” she said. “I didn’t believe the world was nice. I just really wanted it to be.”
“As I said,” he replied. “You were good. Kind. Warm. At that time, it truly didn’t occur to me that those qualities could exist in someone who wouldn’t eventually accept the light of Andraste.”
“Well, now I feel bad that I’m not good or kind anymore. Still warm though.”
“Oh, become jaded and world-weary, have we?” he asked, looking at the bright spring green of her tunic.
She looked forward, away from him.
“I’ve spent a lot of time fighting or at war since I left the Circle,” she said. “It’s hard to stay good under those circumstances.”
“This from the girl who’s saved Thedas at least once and come to Kirkwall’s rescue at her own peril at least three times that I know of.”
She scrunched up her face and shook her head.
“You’re the good one, Cullen,” she told him.
His laugh was brief and grim.
“My time in the Order, particularly in Kirkwall, says different.”
She looked at him.
“It makes a difference that you went through what you did at Kinloch,” she told him. “It makes a difference that you fought Meredith in the end.”
A beat.
“Why did you leave?”
“Because I came to believe I couldn’t be a Templar and also hope to be good,” he replied.
She slid her hand into his and squeezed.
“Someone once told me that bad people don’t worry much about being good,” she said.
It was a bit strange, how natural it felt to touch him.
She had literally never touched him at Kinloch. He had touched her, she supposed, to carry her back to the Apprentice Quarters after her Harrowing, but it wasn’t the same. He had touched her arm back in Kirkwall, and she’d kissed his cheek – and it had been strange then too, but not bad. Very opposite of bad.
She’d held his hand twice tonight, though, and touched his hair, and these simple gestures of affection felt so right . In general, she was quite affectionate with those close to her. But despite all their history and all this… whatever this was between them, they had never been close. Not that way.
Were they close now?
She took the bottle of whisky from him.
“We’re being neglectful,” she noted, taking a swig.
He laughed.
“You know, as much as you might have been resisting at the Circle, I never imagined you drinking spirits straight from the bottle like a pirate.”
She grinned at him.
“I’ll have you know, Ser Rutherford, that I was an alienage urchin all my life before the Circle civilized me. You should see me climb things.”
He laughed.
“Well, I did see you climb trees in the garden from time to time,” he told her. “It was impressive.”
Her jaw dropped.
“What?” she said. “I always checked to see if anyone was around!”
He pressed his lips together against his grin.
“I didn’t want to spoil your fun, but I also didn’t want you to break your neck,” he said.
“You told Greagoir, didn’t you,” she demanded, pausing their walk to point up at him. And take another swig from the bottle.
“Only the first time,” he said. “There was no rule against mages climbing the trees, it was just so strange I thought I should mention it to him.”
“And what did he say?” she asked with a bit of a frown.
“What you might expect. ‘Never mind her, that’s just Surana. If she starts trying to jump off and fly, then we’ll worry about it,’” he told her.
“Eugh,” she uttered, rolling her eyes. “That man wouldn’t understand fun if he literally tripped over an acrobat troupe covered in sparkles.”
Cullen burst out laughing at that, taking the bottle from her.
“I somehow doubt that would match Greagoir’s idea of fun,” he said before taking a swig himself.
“Exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “Who hurt him?”