Chapter Text
Paraded through Kirkwall as hero and winner!
Nuggins, Nuggins! Stubborn and vicious!
The soldiers’ chorus rattled the floors, slurred voices and sour breath filling Haven’s makeshift tavern to the eaves. Cullen stared at the candlestick set on the edge of the bar and considered gouging out his eyes with it. He doubted anyone would notice him bleeding out on the floor; they had their songs and stories of the Herald’s victory over the Breach to occupy them. Already the tale was making its rounds around Haven and he wondered if it would be recognizable, the next time he heard it.
Tripped up a viscount, now he's for dinner!
Nuggins, Nuggins! Of course he's delicious!
Cullen closed his eyes and willed the ale in his stomach to stay down. Between the soldiers caterwauling and the headache he had been nursing for the past two months, it had been foolish to think he could bear any amount of drinking. So he slid a coin across the sticky bartop, mumbled something about checking the perimeter, and slipped away unheeded into the chilly nighttime air.
The pressure building behind his eyes lessened as he walked, navigating the maze of tents that had sprung up like weeds across the nearly-forgotten village. Typically Haven bore its grimness on its face, but tonight it had shed it all for a rare bit of levity. The windows were blazing with light and the pilgrims had broken out their fiddles and bottles, dancing and drinking under the calmed green skies. Their numbers would dwindle in the coming days, he hoped. With subdued hostilities in the Hinterlands some of the refugees would return to their villages, there was no longer fear of the mountain pass being overrun by demons so most soldiers had no reason to stay...
He turned towards the southern gate and his eyes found the Breach peering over the mountainside. Ominous as it still looked, hanging in the sky like a spider watching its web, it was growing no larger and the pulse of its magic had ceased screaming in the back of his skull. It was a blessing to be deaf to it, but that was the only consequence of withdrawals he appreciated. Otherwise his mouth was dry, his reflexes slower, his thoughts muddier. Every sense was dulled and every day was another sure step taken towards madness or an early grave.
Still, he had no regrets, so far – maybe they would come for him later.
He kept on his meandering path and the village’s clamour gave way to the sound of snow crunching under his feet, which seemed to be taking him towards the lake. Usually the training grounds at its bank were a mess of clattering armour and flashing blades, and the smoke from the makeshift forge turned the white landscape grey, but tonight the soldiers were in the tavern and the blacksmith had retired early to his tent. Above Cullen the quiet, feathery skies arched like the apse of a cathedral, and the frozen lake brought to mind a clean linen cloth spread over an altar.
Then he noticed a thin plume of smoke rising a short ways ahead of him, and he saw the figure reclining on the dock.
Moonlight glowed in her long black hair, braided with false carelessness over one shoulder. She held a slender briar pipe in one hand and the other rested against her chin, thumb between full, freckled lips and an absent look in her eyes. Guiltily, he noted that her stays were unlaced and the blouse beneath had come undone over her chest. He watched as the Herald stretched, rolled onto her side, and then their eyes met despite Cullen’s best efforts to look away.
“Commander?” She smiled at him, a crescent of soft green light illuminating her cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“I...” His traitorous eyes followed the way her breasts swayed as she sat up, tanned skin disappearing under expensively dyed fabric. “I needed some air.”
“You’re more than welcome to take some with me.” The sweet smoke curling around her head diluted the ache in his skull and he realised he was already walking towards her. There was a bottle of wine at her side and a fur lined cloak arranged invitingly on the half-rotten dock, alongside a small plate of nibbled fruits and honeycomb. The dryness in Cullen’s mouth returned and his heart picked up speed. She could be a desire demon, a bitter voice whispered in his head. That would explain some things.
Shame crawled over his skin as he sat down, fists clenched against his knees so he wouldn’t do anything rash like stab himself through the chest with one of the Herald's knives. She nudged the fruit plate towards him, and Cullen felt a sudden kinship with the dog he'd see by the butcher's stall in Honnleath, a mangy thing that lived off the bones and gristle the obliging butcher set aside for it.
You'd be her dog, wouldn't you. The voice hissed from where it lay, locked away in the corner of his mind that had never left Kinloch. Mostly it stayed quiet, but lately it had latched onto the Herald, eager to accuse her of atrocities so he'd have an excuse not to come near her. And the more time Cullen spent with her, the more kindness she showed him, the more wild the accusations grew – perhaps she was a Tevinter spy, an abomination, a demon taking the form of his deepest, most shameful desires...
“Want?” The Herald held out the wine bottle to him, the liquid inside sloshing queasily. He blinked the thoughts away and accepted it, fingers making brief contact with hers. “It’s horrid stuff, I warn you. Drinking it all myself would be humiliating.”
"You could just stop drinking it."
"I finish what I start, commander." she said solemnly. Cullen snorted and took a swig from the bottle. It was a little tart but nothing unbearable. Drinking the swill they served at the tavern might well kill the Herald, if this was what she found horrid.
"You don't think it's that bad, do you?" A pout tugged at her lips and Cullen almost choked. "Oh, I can tell from your face. You think I'm exaggerating."
"I just think you have refined taste, let's say." Cullen cleared his throat and set the bottle aside, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the pier. They sat in comfortable enough silence, the Herald puffing away at her pipe while Cullen stared at the mountainside, pretending not to notice the rise and fall of her chest or the deep blush that had gathered on her cheekbones from the cold mountain air.
It was useless to say she was pretty. He had eyes, and if her looks weren't enough the way she spoke and carried herself was enough to charm anyone already open to the idea. Her voice was a playful purr and her freckles stopped her from appearing too haughty. She looked more like a village beauty than an aristocrat, with the added benefit of smooth hands and hair that didn't need to be bound up for farm work.
And Cullen shouldn't be so cognizant of all that. It wasn't good, this...fixation. The best thing to do would be to avoid her, and he tried, but when he inevitably failed to do that he'd often find himself in Haven's chantry, the dusty floor cold against his knees and reminders of other ill-advised infatuations crowding out the canticles he tried to recite. And guilt prickled on his bent neck whenever his mind wandered back to her, to the unworthy thoughts he'd tried so hard to stamp out.
Fixated or not, he knew precious little about her, aside from what had passed in conversation and what Leliana had gathered up in her eerily efficient fashion. Within a week of finding the Herald in the rubble a comprehensive file had been made on her and left on Cullen's desk, though much of what he read in it was of no use either to assuage his worries or confirm them.
Reina Trevelyan, seventh child of the Ostwick Trevelyans, heir to nothing of importance. Her presence at the Conclave had been legitimate and her identity had been thoroughly vetted. She was trained as a bard but held no record with any cartels or assassin leagues, had no known political ambitions or affiliations, no notable lovers, no worthwhile enemies...
Either her secrets were buried so deep their spymaster had failed to discover them, or she simply had nothing to hide. The latter was more likely and more worrying. Someone with a past could be predicted; their successes could be built on and their failures accounted for. Cullen didn’t want to clean up after a noblewoman’s first encounter with failure, when it did inevitably happen.
Nor did he want her to fail, but he had to believe she could. If he didn’t cling to his doubts he’d drop to his knees as a sycophant and all of it - leaving the Order, cutting himself off from lyrium - would have been for nothing.
And that's why you're a fool to get close to her. The caged part of his mind preened to be acknowledged, because it did know him well, and it knew his weaknesses even better. Attaching himself to her would just be swapping one vice for another, though to liken the Herald to a vice brought the tide of shame rushing in again.
"Do you want something to eat?" Her voice broke through his tangled thoughts and Cullen glanced towards her. She was digging through her leather pack, pipe held debonairly between her teeth. The idea of eating made Cullen nauseous, but he found himself nodding. His self control wasn't what it usually was, around her.
"Only if you can spare it."
“I wouldn't have said anything if I couldn't. I just can't bring all of this back to Ostwick. People keep giving me offerings. I suppose I should say no.” She produced a bundle of sweet buns from her pack and held one out to him, slightly squished but intact. Cullen stared at it and as she bit into hers, he wondered if food would ever be appealing to him again. “But refusing a gift is awfully rude, and besides, I don’t want to develop a reputation for saintliness. Saints are always refusing gifts.”
“And the Maker is always accepting offerings.” She smiled and Cullen’s eyes dropped to the sugar clinging to her lower lip like dew to a rosebud. "You're returning to Ostwick?”
“I'm hoping to...Cassandra will let me go now that the Breach is sealed, won’t she?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Cullen admitted. On his way to the lake he had noticed the impressive stack of travel trunks outside of the Herald’s cabin, a declaration of intention if ever he had seen one. Her potential departure set his teeth on edge, but it didn’t surprise him. She was a noble. Their presence in most causes was brief and momentous: they gave their orders, made their alliances, stacked the chips to favour their faction, and then they left, hopefully after selecting good people to carry on the banner for them.
Marked by the Maker or not, the Herald seemed intent on doing the same.
“Pity. I’m loathe to ask her." she shuddered. "But if I leave without saying anything she’ll drag me back herself. Might chain me up in that frightful little cell again.”
"I'm sure it won't come to that."
"That's good for you, but I'm not willing to risk it. It is Cassandra we're talking about." Smoke trickled from her lips as she spoke and Cullen's tongue itched to know how it tasted. “Though I suppose there’s no use worrying over it now. What about you? You’re staying on, obviously.”
“I am. Until the Inquisition has no use for an army.” he confirmed. Pain knifed through his skull and he closed his eyes, tried not to crush the sweet bun in his hand. “Which may not be for some time yet. There’s still a lot of work to do.”
“So you’re always saying.” The dock creaked beside him and a sweet, smoky smell spilled into his space. The Herald had pushed herself up onto her knees beside him, narrowed eyes level with Cullen's and lips set in a stern line. That look wasn't one she had aimed at him before, and under it his throat seized and his spine straightened to attention, like a fresh recruit eager to please or fearful of punishment. “Don’t you ever enjoy yourself, commander?”
“I enjoy my work.” The answer did little to satisfy the Herald, and her face wrinkled into an expression he could only describe as petulance. He hadn't supposed Andraste would place her blessings on someone petulant, but he had been surprised before.
“Yes, but what do you enjoy outside of your work? Interests, hobbies, peculiar vices?" Cullen's ears heated up and he hoped it was too dark to be obvious. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
You. The locked-up voice said gleefully. You don't know what you do to me. You don't know the things I'd to do to you, if I had the chance, if you let me-
"Ah-" Cullen lurched upright, so quickly his head spun and his knees almost buckled. “I...you’ll have to be satisfied to know that my work is fulfilling enough for me. And I have little time for anything else."
"Oh." Something (disappointment?) flashed across the Herald's face. She sat back on her heels and blinked up at Cullen, a sight that made him inexplicably woozy. "If you say so, commander."
She turned back towards the lake, and if she had been as affected by their interaction as Cullen had, she didn't show it. That was another thing that troubled him with nobles; that carefully cultivated detachment, the carved marble where a response should be. He didn't want to try and chip away at her facade, if it even was one. She clearly had no interest in him; and why should she? He was nobody from nowhere, with ties to multiple disasters and a shameful part to play in all of them.
Perhaps things were better this way, Cullen decided as he walked back towards Haven. Connections with him had never ended well for anyone.