Chapter Text
Hasty footsteps echoed in the stone stairwell, hushing the murmurs of spells in the adjoining rooms. Curious faces gathered in the doorways, observing the cloaked stranger make her way to the top floor. Harding lowered her hood as she reached her destination and entered through a heavy, wooden door.
The First Enchanter looked up from her desk, grey eyes widening at the sight of the unexpected guest. "Lace..."
"I found him," the scout announced, "Val Chevin."
"Orlais?" The mage got up, quickly closing the distance between them. "Why would he —"
"He's... on the streets," Harding explained, "Begging for lyrium. He did not remember me, barely remembers himself. I'm sorry, Mira... the Cullen we knew is gone."
She watched her words land. Though Amira Trevelyan remained composed, Lace could see her heart breaking just that little bit more behind her misty irises. "I can go back," she offered. "Give him a swift end. It's the kinder thing to do."
Mira turned away. Silence reigned as the mage prepared herself for what lay ahead. When she looked back, chin lifted defiantly, any trace of sadness had gone.
"No," she said decidedly. "It doesn't end this way."
Much like the populace's masks of pigment and gold, the splendour of an Orlesian city is only surface deep. Away from the main streets framed with glittering facades, the cracks in the veneer quickly cause it to crumble.
Val Chevin rose from the dark, its spires dimly illuminated by the purple sky of an approaching dawn. The city's position upon the shores of the Waking Sea made it a valuable asset, opening up trade routes to Nevarra and the Free Marches. Mira was not surprised to see this side of the city, with its colourful three-story warehouses and ornate bridges, to be well-maintained. For anyone entering Orlais from the water, like she was, this was their first impression of the great empire. Though she'd been impressed by it once upon a time, excited to gaze upon the beauty of the nation's fabled architecture, tonight it left her heart unmoved.
Flying a Kirkwall banner, the trading vessel smoothly carved its way to the marble-plated port. Mira disembarked, setting foot upon the polished stone, and paid her transport an extra sovereign. The dock stretched before her, smoothly transitioning into the main road where the floral-decorated streetlights lured her towards the central plaza. She pulled Harding's note from her belongings. It wasn't the first time she'd read the message since the scout had written it down in her office, but she checked it thoroughly once more nonetheless.
The scout's instructions took her off the main road, defying the lanterns' warming glow, and down the side alleys where the working class lived. Soon, after the nobility had gone to rest but still well before sunrise, they would leave their beds and head for their shops, preparing for another day. Though they would mostly trade amongst themselves, the best of their wares would be transported to boutiques in the more affluent districts. Here, their work would be sold for quadruple their price, simply for being presented to society's upper crust by a more palatable vendor. Mira pulled up her cloak against the wind whistling through the winding street. It came from the northwest, carrying the malodour of exposed sewers and festering wounds. She turned a corner and descended a flight of stairs, leaving any prosperity behind as she entered Val Chevin's alienage.
Her appearance here was as unprecedented as it was unwelcome. Hollow eyes observed her from the shadows, waiting for something identifying her as anything but a passing abnormality. Mira watched them through the Veil, sensing their shifting presence as she kept her eyes on the road ahead. Though the slums' population would have primarily been Elven some months ago, she faintly noticed that was no longer the case. Like in most other places, they had disappeared after Solas last showed himself.
The atmosphere stirred, sending a sense of foreboding trickling down her spine. Metal glinted in a lonely corner, a dagger being readied in the dark. She sighed to herself. Normally she'd spend some time here, trying to help. Besides rebuilding her Circle, she'd spent most of her time doing just that in Kirkwall, aiding Varric's efforts of lifting the city's weakest from poverty. Tonight, however, she could only help one.
She lowered her hood in anticipation, releasing silver hair from the folds of her cloak to cascade down her slender shoulders. The ghostly locks shone in the pale glow of the moon, shimmering as she released some of her mana into a soothing aura. Though she could defend herself if forced, she still preferred not to raise her powers unless necessary. Fortunately, in most cases, the hint of magic was enough to deter an outright assault.
She was relieved when tonight proved to be such an occasion. Under the gentle threat of her preventative shield, her would-be assailants quickly slunk back into the shade of the overhanging buildings. Mira kept up the barrier, listening closely for any further sign of them as she quickened her pace. Another glance at Harding's note directed her down a set of steps and underneath a series of bridges until she happened upon a dirty stream. She turned north, away from the sea to where the channel carried the city's dreck, and followed it until she reached her destination.
A slender tower pierced the night sky like a javelin, rising far above the surrounding buildings. While its official entrance was several levels above her head, the structure began here, in the bowels of Orlesian society. Mira continued along the stream and bent low beneath a stone arch as it led her into the undercroft of Val Chevin's Circle.
A few campfires had been lit, weakly illuminating the hunched figures gathered around them and throwing stark shadows against the vaulted ceiling. Mira wove her way between the groups, her chest constricting at the sight of once proud warriors diminished to shades of their former selves. They spent their nights here, waiting for the slight chance that an insider might take pity on them. Come daylight, they'd shuffle towards the streets, motivated only by a faltering sense of survival, and spread out along the boulevard to beg for coin.
Mira's gaze drifted over the men and women, their eyes dull and unseeing as they faintly registered her presence. One of them got to his feet, wobbling upon weakened limbs. He was tall and, at some point, had to have been quite imposing. Now he stood crooked, a strange bulge protruding from between his shoulders, and held himself at slightly below eye level with Mira as he stopped her.
"Lyrium?"
A single word, both deliverance and demise. Mira shook her head, watching the sliver of hope in the man's watery eyes flicker like a candle in the wind. He nodded vaguely but didn't move. Instead, the man stayed in place, softly swaying back and forth. Without any impulse pushing him forward, he simply had no other place to be.
Mira walked around him instead, wrestling down the phantom mass forming in her lungs. She went from group to group, quickly assessing the sunken faces of thin skin stretched across brittle bones. One after another, they looked to her, wanting, emptier still when she did not deliver. The more of them she saw, the less sure she became that she'd even know who he was when she found him. The whole way here, she'd prepared herself for the possibility that he may not recognise her... she had not considered that the opposite might be the case.
Just as she began to wonder whether he'd gone since Harding tracked him, her eye fell on a lone shape on the room's outer edge. Obscured by the dark, folded in on itself, and wrapped in a threadbare cloak, the person had not responded to her presence at all. Mira whispered in hushed breath, conjuring a small ball of light that morphed into a butterfly. It fluttered its wings, tracing a gleaming path towards the figure for her to follow.
The man squinted at the light approaching him, instinctively inching further against the wall. He was barefoot, wearing only the soiled remnants of a pair of brown trousers and a white linen shirt. Bloodshot eyes stared at her with amber irises, skeletal features framing the fear within them. Dirty, matted hair reached to his shoulders and faded into a knotted beard. It was longer than she'd ever seen and far from any colour she recognised. Unmistakable, however, was the faint, white scar claiming the familiar place on his upper lip.
Mira knelt down, resisting the urge to embrace him. He observed her, jagged breath high in his lungs. When she did not move, he relaxed a little. He parted his cracked lips, tongue moving behind them to moisten his dry mouth. "Please," he pleaded weakly, "I need lyrium."
She forced herself to exhale. The thought that the once proud warrior spent his days repeating that line, not only to mages or templars that might exit the Circle through here but to Orlesian nobility parading the streets above... Whatever his intention in leaving behind his friends and family, it couldn't have been from a wish to end up in such a position.
Mira appreciated Lace's candour in relaying his condition. Now that she was here, she fully understood the scout's desire to offer the ex-Commander a swift escape. Much as she wondered whether it was selfish to withhold it, she couldn't go through with it... at least not yet.
"Cullen?"
His eyes moved between hers, straining as if trying to identify a person in the far distance. If his name was familiar to him, however, he did not show it. A moment later, he raised his hands towards his head and pressed his knuckles into his temples, harder and harder as he squeezed his eyes shut. "No... no, no, no —"
"Hey now," she shushed him. She took his hands and pulled them away, alarmed by how little effort it cost her to do so. He didn't flinch as she continued to hold them, feeling his bony fingers laying limply in her own. "Cullen, do you know who I am?"
He raised his head slightly, eyeing her weakly from beneath his protruding brow. "Lyrium... please."
Mira sighed and let go of his hands. She pulled her bag into her lap and opened it, searching through its contents until her fingers touched upon a smooth, cylindrical shape. The mage hesitated. It wasn't a solution, that much she knew, but it was the best she'd managed. First, she had to get him out of there and somewhere safe. For the moment, nothing else mattered. Whatever came after simply had to wait.
The vial shone bright blue as she pulled it from her bag. The glow reflected in Cullen's sunken eyes, pupils dilating with anticipation. His hand reached for it like a child's attracted to something shiny, but she closed her fingers around it before he could take it. He stared at her hand, then at her.
"I'll do anything."
She forced herself not to imagine the people taking advantage of such a statement and those who might have already done so. "You don't have to do anything," she said softly, failing to keep the emotion from her voice.
He waited eagerly, quivering like a hound expecting a meal. Cullen scrambled to take the vial when offered, fingers with nails chewed bloody struggling to remove the cork. He downed the mixture at once. It wasn't pure lyrium, nowhere near it. It was a mixture of her own creation, consisting of processed crystal, deep mushroom extract and other herbs, not wholly unlike a mana potion. With the state he was in, it would taste the same.
He swallowed hard, then licked the edge of the vial clean. It fell from his grasp as he leaned back, letting his head drop against the wall. He clutched his shirt with both hands, chest rising underneath, and moaned as the potion spread through his system. Mira allowed it a moment to settle, averting her gaze until his breathing slowly subsided. When she looked back, she found him resting, eyes closed and a faint smile on his lips.
"How do you feel?"
His smile widened, stained teeth showing from behind his dishevelled facial hair. "Wonderful." He giggled, then laughed, raspy and ragged with a pitch that wasn't his. The sound gave her chills sharp as daggers that sank deep into her stomach. Mira watched him, concern mounting that she really was too late. She swallowed against the lump in her throat, biting her bottom lip until she tasted blood. At the same time, Cullen's laughter turned to a maniacal cackle.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
His face, twisted with distorted joy, froze in place. His eyes were open and far away, staring into the depths of his own fate. A final, lone chuckle escaped from his strangled throat as the first tear rolled down his hollow cheek. One followed another, and another... until they flowed unstoppably, and he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the weight of his emotions fighting to the fore, far too powerful for his weakened state to keep them suppressed as he'd done for so long.
"Terrible," he whimpered, "I failed, I failed. I can't —"
Mira inched closer, reaching for him. "You didn't, love," she whispered, stroking the sullied strands of hair from his face. "You did not. I'm the one who failed you."
"Is there nothing else?"
"There is, love... At least better than here."
He looked up at her through his tears. Though his entire being quivered beneath her touch, he no longer recoiled. "I don't want to be here."
"Alright," Mira sighed, quietly thanking the Maker. "Then let me take you away from here... Let me take you home."
Though he still had no idea who he was following and where she would take him, the word seemed to spark some familiarity. He nodded and, his immediate need satisfied, allowed himself to be guided into a standing position. His hand lay in hers as she led him out and away, tensing a little whenever she moved too fast. He was mostly quiet, save for occasional muttering. Names, mostly his siblings' and people from the Inquisition. There was little recognition in them, only the lingering thought that they should not be allowed to see him. She wondered if he even knew why.
She found an inn near the docks that would take them in, though she paid several times the amount the owner likely would have charged had it been her alone. At least the man agreed to send for some new clothes and had them delivered to their room. Mira prepared a hot bath, warming the water with a gesture. Though she'd wondered whether magic would upset him, he didn't even notice. In his slightly more stable state, Cullen was oddly docile, sitting on the edge of the bed until she approached him. He allowed her to take off the rags and settle him in the tub, where he sighed deeply at the warmth flooding over him.
Mira sat beside him, gently washing the dirt off his ashen skin and uncovering the marks underneath. His lower arms were scratched up, she imagined self-inflicted, and a few new scars had appeared in other places. Though they had healed, it was clear they had not been treated as well as his older wounds had been. She forced herself to continue to breathe and focus on the task at hand, keeping images away of how he'd spent these past months.
Once he was clean, she moved to cut his hair. He let his head hang back, closing his eyes as her nails untangled the dirty nest. Due to the knots, she was forced to cut it shorter than he'd gotten used to, and closer to how it had been when he first joined their Circle. Perhaps, once it grew back, it would regain some of its bounce. Mira smiled as she carefully cut his beard, trimming it first, then shaving it off altogether. She unearthed a sharp jawline and chin, more defined than they'd ever been. As a knock on the door sounded to signal the arrival of their meal, she prayed that he would eat it without objection.
Her worry was unfounded. The moment Cullen had food in front of him, he dug in. The thirst for lyrium overpowered any other drive, making the templars numb to their more fundamental needs. With it temporarliy taken away, he had to be starving. Mira didn't want to give him more of the crystal, not a single drop, but she wasn't sure how to avoid it until she could get him healthy. She didn't eat much herself. Instead, she watched what was left of the man she'd loved clean his plate and hers after that.
Cullen sat back once the food was gone and sighed deeply. He looked at his hands, assessed his new clothes and, finally, felt his face. He then looked at her, his eyes still bloodshot but more lucid than they'd been so far.
"How do you feel?" she asked again.
He shifted a little in his seat. "Better. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"You... do you know me?"
Mira nodded. "Yes, Cullen. I like to think I know you rather well."
"Oh..." He sat in silence as he processed that information. "I'm sorry," he said eventually, "I seem to have trouble remembering."
She took a deep breath and forced herself to smile. "That's alright, love. Don't worry about it."
Love.
Cullen looked down, elbows on his knees and fingers pressed together as if pondering his next move in chess. He mouthed the word in silence as if practising it for the first time. He glanced back up, frowning deeply as he searched the recesses of his muddled mind. He seemed ready to speak a few times, only to think the better of it.
"I left," he managed eventually. "That's what I remember. I had to leave."
Mira reached out her hand. He looked at it with mild confusion, then took it. Perhaps it was habit. Maybe it was because he simply enjoyed another person's touch. Whatever the reason, he held her hand with what strength he still possessed and, for a moment, it was like he'd never left.
"I'm sorry that seemed like the only option," she said quietly. "I should have done more to prevent that."
"We..." His other hand travelled the familiar path to the back of his neck. "Were we... friends?"
She breathed a quiet laugh through her nose. "Yes, we were friends. Then we were more... and less... and friends again. In the end, I'm not sure either of us knew exactly what we were."
"I see..."
His eyes flit back and forth, burning into hers as they searched for the past eluding him. Mira felt her heart quicken, a familiar feeling blossoming in her chest. No matter how much life drove them apart or their own actions kept them there, something, eventually, had always drawn them back. She hadn't always known what it was. And yet, sitting in the perfumed room of an Orlesian inn with a man who hardly recognised her, she knew it exactly.
"I can tell you about us," she said quietly. "If you want... I could help you remember."
Cullen's forehead tensed. Somewhere, deep down, perhaps his instincts warned him not to remember, to continue running from the things he'd failed to confront before. This evening, however, looking into the vaguely familiar eyes of the silver-haired woman before him, the voices in his mind lost the battle. He shifted a little towards her. For the first time that night, he smiled a half-smile that tugged on his scar.
"Yes... I'd like that."