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Cullen watched Evelyn as she slept- the lines of her face, so usually pinched in concentration were relaxed, lips soft and gentle and curled slightly upwards. Her hands were fisted in front of her, a faint green light pulsing on the left, and he let out a gentle sigh at how content she looked. It was rare to see the Inquisitor less than entirely focused on a task, and something in his chest curled warm and pleasant around his heart at the sight.
He loved her. He’d only truly realized earlier that night, when she’d stood in his doorway and he’d realized how much the thought of losing her, of her leaving him at the end of the war brought fear and bitter loneliness to him. Feelings he hadn’t had in a long time. Not since what had happened at the Tower in Ferelden.
And then she’d slipped in between him and the desk, and had been so coy- do you need to ask?- and he supposed not, he-
A smash on the ground, a bottle dropped, and in a rare act of impulse he’d swept everything off of his desk. It was only afterwards, in the afterglow of a few rounds of lovemaking, that he realized he’d have to tidy it all up come morning. It didn’t bother him as much as it perhaps should have.
The woman next to him squirmed for a moment before yawning loudly, stretching out her limbs in a move that reminded him somewhat of a cat, before she turned her eyes on him. Blue met gold and she smiled again, raising her eyebrows in question.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, turning over to face him properly. Her hair glowed red in the moonlight that filtered through the hole in his roof, and he reached a hand out to touch her face. Herald of Andraste indeed, she was the picture of all things holy in that moment.
He smiled and shrugged, “I’m not awfully tired at this point in time.”
She snorted softly and he could almost hear what she was thinking. After all that, you’re still not tired?
He watched her a moment longer before he rolled onto his back, arm going out in an invitation for her to move in closer. She did so, and her fingers began to trace patterns on his chest, unsettling the light dusting of hair in the process and forcing him to hold in a rather unmanly giggle. Maker, the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces giggling like a little girl. What would they have him doing next, dancing down the remigold in a dress?
Having thought of it, he knew it would almost certainly come up as an option. Evelyn enjoyed teasing him with menial and/or silly jobs at the war table- like the Duchess’ head on a pike. Usually so serious, looking for the most logical way to solve things, she had a habit of poking fun at almost all Orlesian culture. During a game of chess, she’d informed him it was due to her upbringing.
“Marcher nobles, we’re almost as bad as Fereldans for poking fun at Orlesians. While they see nobles there as disobedient brothers and sisters, due to them being forced back home during the Rebellion, they see us as their less cultured cousins,” she’d told him, moving her queen straight into his trap. “Due to this, we tend to live up to their expectations. My brother, Maxwell, used to get invited to the balls over there. Quite a few young noblewomen needed a husband, and he’s dashing, handsome, funny. He always turned up naked and covered in chalk. We could never tell if this made them more keen to marry him or less, all we know for certain is that he ran off with an elven serving man when he was twenty three and never came back to claim the estate. Makes me heir apparent to the Noble Trevelyan House of Ostwick, mind you. I wish he’d just go back and take over as Comte with his husband, I don’t want it.”
He didn’t want her to want it, perhaps selfishly. He wanted to marry her, to take her back to his family, build a farm on South Reach and fill it with their children. He didn’t even know if that would be a possibility, what with her relatives disapproving of him. Only her parents seemed to believe he was a suitable match- and that was only because he had the title of ‘Commander’ and was a former Templar. They didn’t care for Cullen Rutherford, the boy from Honnleath.
Luckily, Evelyn had informed him that she had one younger brother, and that he was the more politically minded of the two of them anyway. She’d been fairly confident that provided her parents managed to survive the seven years it would take for the boy to come of age (“And I don’t see why they wouldn’t, they’re in perfect health.”) then he would be able to take the seat if she renounced all claim to it.
Next to him, she propped herself up on one elbow, watching him with soft eyes.
“You have really pretty eyelashes. So long. I wish mine were longer,” she murmured, half to herself. He grunted.
“Please don’t mention that to Josephine or Leliana,” he replied. He gave his voice a higher pitch, imitating Leliana’s accent. “Hush! Just look pretty.”
Evelyn clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing into it, tears rising in her eyes, “Your Orlesian accent is awful!”
“Good. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The two exchanged a grin, and he leaned back on his free arm. His thoughts turned to the future, what they still had to prepare for. The Arbor Wilds, the battle he was certain would be the turning point against Corypheus. It made him nervous, going with everything that Witch said. Having the mirror in Skyhold made him nervous enough.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes wide open, before they slid shut.
He was in the Tower, trapped in a cage of light. The bodies of his friends littered the ground, and only one other remained with him in there. A mage. Neria.
She watched him carefully. In the earlier days of their entrapment she’d reached out to him and he’d flinched away from her. She’d not attempted contact since.
How was he supposed to explain that they taunted him with images of her, over him, under him, golden skin and black hair there for him to run his hands over? And that they always took a turn for the worse, as she ran a knife across the palm of her hand and gave him a smile that never failed to make his stomach turn?
They both looked up when the door opened to reveal a figure in the form of Uldred, who began to stroll down the steps.
“Neria,” he’d said, voice cold. “Be a good girl and come over here.”
She’d ignored him, glaring straight at him. So he’d gone in and pulled her out. Her screams and curses echoed down to him until those had ceased. He hoped she was dead, for her own sake, but the truth was much worse.
Whatever she had been was taken away, and what was left came back in the form of a desire demon.
The purple creature came downstairs, and it’s body shimmered, changed, Neria coming into view instead, the room changing into his Quarters. She smiled at him, that shy way she had, and climbed on top of him, kissing his mouth, jaw, neck, down…
This was wrong, she was his charge, but it didn’t feel wrong… but there was another reason it shouldn’t have been happening. His hands clenched.
That movement accompanied a brief moment of clarity and he pushed at her, desire dissipating.
“No… leave me, please… leave me-”
He jolted up in bed, breath coming in short gasps. Evelyn, dressed and ready to go, looked at him in concern. She comforted him, always so understanding, and let him pull her into him again, keeping her in his arms, her mere presence and the close bond they shared calming his thoughts. The memories faded, leaving an odd kind of peace behind.