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The stars shine like silverite dust on black velvet from between the rotting wooden boards of his roof. Cullen traces imaginary lines from one brilliant dot to another, waiting in his lonely bed for sleep that won’t come. His mind is full of a pretty girl with ribbons in her hair, soft cheeks tinted pink, eyes the color of a summer sky, and rosebud lips that beg for a man’s kiss. She’s soft, yes, but he’s seen what she is capable of; he’s seen the steel of her will, the sharpness of her wit. She is what she has been groomed by fate to be. He has seen what she is willing to sacrifice for them all.
The memory of nearly losing her when Haven fell still haunts him, the wound in his soul still raw and bleeding. He still ruminates over all the things he should have done to prevent him from having to send her to her expected death. The way she looked at him before she walked out of the chantry — Cullen could almost believe he saw his yearning reflected in her eyes. He almost ran to her then and kissed her, archdemon dragon and the Elder One be damned.
Of course, it was only the tension of the moment. After she recovered, thank the Maker, she focused on Inquisition matters, as she should, so he bottled all that away. Now, the longing only comes out on nights like this, when all is still except for the crickets and the mournful calls of the nightbirds.
Maker’s breath, but she is an incredible woman. He is blessed to have her in his life in any capacity. He shouldn’t want more, he knows. The things he feels for her he has no right to feel. It’s crazy that he is even thinking this way, that he would even dare feel anything beyond the bounds of their tentative friendship forged by everything they had been through.
But still, he wonders if she is looking at the same sky wherever in the field she is and whether she is thinking of him at all.
He sits up and punches his pillow, hoping a change in its shape would allow his mind to calm and sleep to overtake him. Sighing, he stretches out again and closes his eyes, only to open them again as he imagines her running her slender fingers soothingly through his hair.
Damn and blast it all; why do these images continue to plague him tonight? It’s never been this bad before.
He squeezes his eyes shut and forces his mind to empty. Or attempts to and fails because her angel eyes stare at him behind his closed lids. Growling impatiently, he drags himself out of bed and paces the floor, the sound of his ragged breaths joining the chorus of the crickets and the birds.
Could he not get it through his head that these shameful desires could never be satisfied? Even were she to reciprocate his feelings, he is so out of depth, so hopeless. What is it about her that weakens his knees and steals his breath? Even if he were free to express his feelings, he doesn’t have the words to tell her. He doesn’t have Dorian’s glib tongue—even if he could get the courage to try.
Cullen doesn’t think that he’s ever felt like this for any other woman. Even what he felt for Amell pales in comparison to how the Inquisitor makes him feel. It was as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings is to the lashing winds of an oncoming storm. He was but a callow youth at the time, too full on faith and perceived duty to hunger for real connection.
After he recovered some of himself after Kinloch, he spent years walled off from his emotions. He’d taken women to bed, of course, but none had ever claimed his heart. Although he treated them with respect, he kept them at a distance, allowing them only close enough to satisfy his carnal needs and no further. It had truly been a long time since he’d even entertained the notion of a relationship.
Until now.
With the Inquisitor, every feeling is magnified ten-fold, and he has no defenses against it. Every time she walks into the room, every time they have to share space, he loses all his faculties. He cannot speak, he can scarcely think, and he looks the fool for it. It’s embarrassing; she speaks to him, and he blushes like an untried lad.
Slipping down his ladder, he pads to his desk where there will surely be enough work to occupy his brain. But as he sits in his chair and fishes out a report from the stacks of them littering his desk, she still invades his consciousness. He drops the report back into its pile and props his head on his hand with a loud huff of air.
Maker, her smile. It lights up her entire face and draws him into her orbit, as sure as the planet’s gravity draws the moons to her. When she smiles at him, his world turns upside down.
And speaking of her mouth, there are her lips, so plump and pink—the way she bites her lower one when she is thinking does things to him. He wants to kiss her so badly. Hold her, whisper in her ear that he would die for her, gut himself on his sword, break himself into a thousand pieces for her if it would make her happy.
Oh, and the other things he wants to do to her. He would kiss every inch of her delectable body, bury his face in her sweet cunny and make her scream his name for all to hear. Have her on this desk, against the wall, in his bed, on the parapets, wherever and whenever he could take her.
Such filthy thoughts he has. He strains to keep his honor intact, tries to act like a gentleman toward her. He is no saint, however. He is only a man and a very weak one at that. Spying the itinerary for her current travels underneath a half-empty bottle of wine, he pulls it out and reads it. Emprise followed by the Emerald Graves. Hadn’t he heard Leliana mention something about a dragon at Emprise? Cullen scratches his stubbled jaw.
Maker’s breath, just what he needs rattling about in his head now.
He worries for her constantly when she is away. It gives him headaches to rival those he gets from his lyrium withdrawals. Oh, he’s well aware that she is perfectly capable of handling herself, but it would take so little to seriously injure her. She’s delicate in the way nobility often are. He wishes he could be with her so that he could personally protect her from dragons, Red Templars, Venatori, dark spawn, possessed Wardens—whatever lurks out there waiting to steal her from him. He is glad she has her friends with her, but he doesn’t trust them as much as he would trust himself to keep her safe.
Of course, he cannot do that, for his place is here, authorizing requisitions, building training routines, making up guard rotations, and doing all of the other million tasks a commander of armies must tackle. But it does not stop him from wanting to be at her side. Neither does it stop him from wanting more than he could ever realistically have.
Because he is her Commander. Because he is broken. Because he is not worthy. Take your pick. What right had he to any claim on her? She is a noble, born and bred to a much higher purpose than to become involved with a common farmer’s son without much to show for his years of hard work besides a lyrium addition and a shattered mind.
Giving up on work, he returns to his loft and his cold bed. He flops on his back, his eyes seeking the stars again. Bright in the moonless night, their happy twinkling mocks him for his melancholy. He drags one hand down his chest, his callused palm and fingers rasping against his skin.
Rough hands. Even his touch may harm her soft, unmarred skin. Everything about him is unrefined; he’s never attended fancy dinners. He doesn’t know which fork to use and when. He speaks only Common. He is a man shaped by martial pursuits, trained to fight from the age of 13.
And he doesn’t have the kind of resources to support her in the way she deserves. He can’t give her expensive jewels or a country estate or even a matched pair of finely bred steeds to pull her well-appointed coach. He can’t send her to Val Royeaux with a limitless line of credit to buy all the clothes and fripperies that young women in her position require.
And yet, he dreams of a future with her after this war is over. In his reveries, they live in a little house that he builds with only his hands and the sweat of his back, on a piece of land in South Reach he buys for them with his meager savings. Whenever she is home from wherever her travels take her, she putters around the house while he toils on the land for her. And every night, they climb together into their soft bed, and he makes love to her long into the wee hours of the morning.
He groans and shifts in bed, dragging a hand down his face.
He loves her. Andraste preserve him, but yes, he does. He loves her with an intensity that scares him sometimes.
His heart aches for her. Even if he can’t tell her, he’ll guard her safety and do everything he can to ease her burdens as Inquisitor. He is her Commander and protector. He will carry out his duties, and in so doing, will express his love the only way he knows how. It will be enough.