march ¹⁸⁺

>it's time to let go >i don't know how

[absolutionem]

Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice. —Andraste 7:1

App / Stats / Rules

Former Knight-Captain of the Templar Order, former Commander of the Inquisition, current Templar rehabilitation sanctuary farmhand in the middle of nowhere, Ferelden, with a mabari and a raven (post-Trespasser, good ending, unromanced). Mid 30s, painfully Fereldan, devout Andrastian, affable mien but an ex-mage bigot (well, sort of). Content warning for C-PTSD, drug dependency, religious bigotry and trauma. Maker's breath, do not ask him about Kinloch Hold or Kirkwall.

[castlecrows]

❝ you think i could find something similar to my old poison supplier in archimedes...? poison's always useful to have handy, plus my mentor liked to experiment on me with various chemicals as a teenager so i'm basically immune to most poisons now, and don't have to worry about accidentally hurting myself with them... ❞

[absolutionem]

"Your mentor experimented on you?"

[castlecrows]

❝ look out! ❞

The knife impacted the telephone pole next to the man's head with a dull thud, sinking several inches deep into the old wood. She had been juggling several of them for a few of the neighborhood kids in Fibonacci. The surprise of someone else showing up on this near-empty side street had distracted her for a second, and she had accidentally loosed one of them—but at least her aim was good enough that she didn't hit him.

The kids all immediately shouted and scrambled in different directions, like a nest of rats that had abruptly had a light shined into it, leaving Anya standing alone and holding several knives.

❝ my bad? ❞ She said, jogging up to retrieve her knife, crow-wing cape trailing behind her in the breeze, ❝ i wasn't trying to kill you, i promise. ❞

@absolutionem

[absolutionem]

The sound of metal whizzing through the air raises Cullen's hackles immediately, ever the well-trained war mabari. Or so Cullen tells himself whenever he loses control of his own body, forever a passenger not a driver.

Perhaps his original idea to stay inside, as is habit now, was a sound one earlier this morning.

A thousand battles fought and a thousand more to come. Cullen wishes he could shame himself into not reacting like this whenever an unknown threat appeared, but alas, a man cannot have everything. He should be thankful the lyrium didn't burn his mind away, left enough of him to do this in the first place—dodging with the preternatural sense of a seasoned soldier, then reciprocating the (perceived) hostility with a counter of his own.

He wishes, however, that his phone hadn't been the nearest projectile at hand's reach. Or, in this case, in his hand.

"Don't," he grits out as he tries to still his beating heart, "Do that." Where it connected on the other person, Cullen cannot say. But he heard the dull thud of metal and plastic connecting with a body, knows his aim was true, and that's good enough to his frayed nerves. "Maker."

[anotherhiim]

@absolutionem liked for a starter !

This just might be the first familiar face he's seen since his arrival. How much of a welcoming sight that is.... he isn't quite sure. The last place he'd seen the templar was Kirkwall. Shortly after the mage uprising, when he'd joined Hawke to fight majority of the order, and been advised to leave the city. He isn't sure how many bitter feeling are harbored after that whole ordeal with Meredith - yes, he'd let them leave rather than killing them all, but perhaps that was a one time olive branch.

It couldn't hurt to find out, if they're going to be stuck here together.

"I believe I recognize you. We.. aren't going to have any problems, are we?"

It's said as a genuine question, but he wouldn't have too much of an issue if it were viewed as a threat.

[absolutionem]

It was only a matter of time before the broody elf showed up.

"Fenris," Cullen replies, blunt as always. He was never in Hawke's inner circle at Kirkwall, but adjacent to it enough—Maker knows the templars in Kirkwall took bets on who would kill who first, the sour elf with the giant sword, or the insufferable feathered apostate. Some days Cullen wished they would, if only to get some peace and quiet in his corner of the Gallows.

"No, we are not going to have problems," he adds matter-of-factly, warrior to warrior. "Unless you and Anders start bickering again, then Hawke and I will have to separate you both. Forcefully."

"Yes, both Anders and Hawke are here. So, for Andraste's sake, I beg you to keep the peace. I am not as young as I used to be, and I'd like to leave Kirkwall in the Free Marches, if possible."

[accipio]

Oh, this is almost too easy. Hawke makes a show of checking his nails, unbothered. There's still a bit of soot underneath his little fingernail from that unfortunate incident with the meteors and the bridge. “Are you not? There are any number of ne'er-do-wells and lawbreakers you might have targeted instead, but you seem to have taken a special fancy to me. It’s flattering, really.”

Hawke freezes, all traces of his former mirth vanished. The image of Varric swinging from a rope forces itself into the forefront of his mind, accompanied by a feeling akin to being dunked in a freezing river. “If you speak true—if you’ve hurt them—” He keeps his voice at a conversational volume, but there’s a dangerous, manic tinge to the words. “I will make damn sure that you regret it. Mark my words, paladin.”

He might very well have made good on that threat, but Rutherford ploughs into him like a stampeding rothé before he gets the chance. He groans, the back of his head pounding from its sudden and ungentle introduction to the brick wall behind him. 

Why is he like this? A foolish question. He’s like this because he has to be. If he weren't like this, he’d be dead, mad, or rotting in a cell. But of course Rutherford wouldn’t understand that, being a paladin, having presumably lived most of his life under the aegis of a holy order. In that austere, regimented world, freaks of nature have no place.

He blinks the spots from his eyes, Rutherford’s blurry face slowly coalescing in front of him, mere inches away. A small, distant part of him that’s still capable of coherence reflects that this might be the only chance he gets. He acts—without thought, without conscious planning, every muscle in his body attuned to a single, instinctive goal: escape. He headbutts the bastard as hard as he can.

[absolutionem]

This flirting, Cullen cannot stand it. He never visits this shore willingly, thrown onto its sands with the subtlety of a vessel sinking. Capsized, unnerved, the taste of copper and salt all over his mouth.

Or perhaps that's the blood pouring down his face.

Reality awash in torment, the crack, crunch of cartilage pushed past its limits. His eyes water, the corners stinging, growling in frustration as breathing becomes an endeavor all on its own.

This apostate, once more, has gained the upper hand. Righteous fury mixes with the adrenaline, no input from his brain's higher functions as Cullen tightens an armored fist, aiming it hatefully at those blasphemous, kissable lips. "Shut up!" He hisses, panting. "No more of this game! Make me regret it now! Kill me or kiss me, I cannot stand this anymore!"

The paladin is oblivious to his own words, nor does he care. Whatever this manic energy that's overtaken him, simmering whenever he comes face-to-face with this man, Cullen wants it out, out. "What are you waiting for?!" He taunts, spitting blood, his nose a broken, bleeding mass. "Let us end this for once!"

[accipio]

Hawke’s grin doesn’t falter. “I should have known you’d follow me here. Just couldn’t stay away, eh?” 

Indeed, the paladin—Rutherford, that was his name—has shown a doggedness in pursuing his quarry that Hawke might find admirable if the objects of the chase weren’t him and his friends. 

He winks, a move calculated to vex and annoy. “Don’t you have better things to do than vie for my attention? Surely a devotee of Ilmater would be more interested in building an orphanage somewhere. Or scourging himself."

His posture remains loose and casual as he watches Rutherford’s pacing, but there’s a wary glint in his eye that suggests he’s fully cognizant of the threat posed by a well-trained, single-minded, Smite-happy paladin. Some men and women of the holy orders could be ruthless, even cruel—so unshakably convinced of their own righteousness that they didn’t hesitate to cut down anyone in their way—but Rutherford doesn’t strike him as that type. Ilmatari seldom are. Too preoccupied with their bleeding hearts, too burdened by conscience. Still, Rutherford is a paladin, and that means he isn’t to be taken lightly.

Hawke’s smug grin falters for a moment, his left eyelid twitching almost imperceptibly. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll need to try harder. Varric’s far too sly to lead our band into any trap you’ve set.” Surely the bastard lies, or at least exaggerates. Surely. 

Hawke harbors a healthy attachment to his own skin, which means that he doesn’t appreciate having Rutherford’s blade at his throat. All the same, he knows better than to believe that his life is in any real danger—no devotee of Ilmater would cut down an unarmed fugitive. Rutherford’s bluffing, and they both know it. 

He shrugs, stepping forward slightly. The tip of the blade comes to rest right over the dip between his collarbones, where the unbuttoned collar of his shirt parts rather immodestly to reveal a glimpse of freckled, sun-bronzed chest. He isn’t above using every means at his disposal to escape, including less than honorable ones. “Well, Ser Rutherford. It appears you’ve got the best of me. Will you be clapping me in irons, then?” He smirks knowingly. “Or perhaps you prefer ropework.”

[absolutionem]

Cullen's jaw tightens at that accusation. What choice did he have? He swore upon Ilmater he'd bring this brigand to justice, come hell or high water. "You make it sound as if it were a choice." When it comes to religious vows, seldom is it choice.

(And why does that rankle? No, he will not allow this apostate to sway him from his path.)

"Vie for you attention?" That too rankles, far more than Cullen cares to admit. Pulls at atrophied desires that shame him, pushed aside and stuffed down for so many years nothing remains of the man, only a weapon of Ilmater. "Are you so conceited you think I'm besotted with you?"

What a sad life that is, says that voice inside him that will not shut the fuck up, growing louder, bolder, as the months have crept up on this haunt. Hates it, hates him, this stupid apostate who makes him question himself as if a bumbling hopeful unsure of his commitment to the faith.

"Half of them are rotting in a cell. The others hang from a rope. I cared not to ask who was who." Finally, an opening, a distraction not to think on how unsettled this man always leaves him, how this has gone for too long because Cullen's too weak to do what needs to be done, Ilmater's laws be damned. He twists his claymore to display its sharp edge, gleaming. One slash to that pretty throat and this torture will end.

It's Cullen's throat that tightens instead. "W-what are you doing?!" No, not this again. He isn't so inexperienced in the bedroom that he doesn't know what Hawke's doing, but like a dutiful soldier, as always, he marches to his own death without skipping a beat. Fucking Sorcerers, always weaving spells. "S-stop that!" Stop staring at that expanse of sun-kissed kiss, dark thatch of chest hair, and all those freckles, begging to be mapped—

"Ropework?!" The mental image of that strikes his mind's eye with the fury of a flaming arrow. The heat on his pale cheeks builds, blatant. "Argh!" Frustration spills out of his mouth as he lowers his weapon, dashing forward as he slams Hawke against a wall, pinning him in place. "What's wrong with you?" Confusion and fascination in equal measure, Cullen's head tilting as if some sort of bird, the fur cape adding to the illusion. Their noses almost touch as he inches closer, pressing his entire weight against Hawke. "W-why are you like this?"

[accipio]

@absolutionem -> ALTERNATIVE ALLEGORY

Nothing wrong with a fresh start. As he slinks down a rain-dark street, past lurid window displays trying to tempt him to part with money that he doesn’t have, Garrett Hawke repeats this platitude to himself in the vain hope that he’ll soon start believing it.

Truth be told, there are some upsides to being lost in an unfamiliar city. No guards who recognize him, no pinch-faced harridans gawking at him in the market square. There goes Malcolm Hawke’s lad. What a shame. Poor Leandra, to think she married into a tainted bloodline…

Yes, he thinks, anonymity does confer certain advantages. Things were getting a bit hot back home, after all. That little mishap with the Calishite horse-trader had drawn undue attention, and the Ilmatari, infernal busybodies that they are, had dispatched one of their paladins to bring Hawke and his fellow brigands to heel.

(You accidentally body-swap one horse-trader with his prize stallion, and suddenly everybody is out to get you. Figures.)

Well, Hawke is certainly not afraid of some hair-shirted zealot with delusions of righteousness, but the fact of the matter is that open conflict is bad for business. His gang’s growing notoriety (due in large part to his own actions) means that their days of picking off lightly-guarded merchant caravans are just about over. In this plane—wherever the hells it happens to be—he’s got no such reputation, but he also has no money, no men, and no clue what he ought to be doing.

He’s distracted, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice someone following him until the bastard is nearly breathing down his neck. He can clearly discern the sound of footsteps behind him—some would-be mugger trying to earn their dinner, like as not. Good. Perhaps a bit of action will take his mind off things.

He whirls around on his heel, his rain-sodden hair falling into his eyes. The grin he wears is eager, almost manic. 

“Evening, mate. Something I can do for you?”

[absolutionem]

This is why magic ought to be restricted.

Body swapping people with horses, turning them inside out, collapsing an entire bridge via meteor-sized hailstones once, banditry and impertinence—Ser Rutherford tired of his quarry ages ago.

The sorcerer, one Garrett Hawke, brought by reason or force into Ilmater's light by his mail-gloved hand.

"You ask me that question every time," Cullen grinds his jaw, the words practically spat out, "And every time the answer is the same." To submit himself to Ilmater's judgment, to make amends to all the people whose suffering he's caused, either by vowing to get his wild magic under control under the tutelage of a proper instruction, or spending the rest of his life rotting in gaol. "There's nothing for you to return to," he paces around Hawke with the demeanor of a predator, cornering him, "Your merry band of misfits is through, I made sure of it."

Cullen's grip tightens on his claymore, its design simple but deadly, its end pointed at Hawke's throat. "I'm tired of running all over the Sword Coast. It's been months of this nonsense. Give up."

[mageunderground]

"I can't imagine a Seeker of Truth voluntarily accepting a spirit of faith," Anders drawls, curling the word ‘faith’ in his mouth like a curse. He’s trying not to sound too sarcastic, but his bitter edge is hard to soften. “I was under the impression it was against the Chantry's doctrine.” It's a little odd for Anders to be on the receiving end of a pep talk from Cullen, but he supposes it must not be entirely new to him now. Commanding soldiers to get along likely involved a bit of encouragement dashed with realism. It certainly sounds like Cullen’s familiar with it- despite Anders’s reservations, something about it seems sincere enough. Maybe it’s that air of religious confession in how Cullen is expressing what he has experienced in the last several years.

"It's refreshing to hear, at any rate- that you are willing to consider the possibility that spirits aren't pure evil.”

Though the last few years has made it hard to see his own spirit friend in the best of light. 

He has his own doubts.

[absolutionem]

"You're half-right. The Lord Seeker kept the specifics of the trial from them. First they would be turned Tranquil, to purge them of all emotions and sense of self. According to the dossier I read, the absolute peace of mind was required to summon the spirit of faith, who would then touch their minds, break the Tranquility and grant them their powers." Cullen's gloved fist tightens around his tankard. "Yet more knowledge that was kept from those meant to serve." From us.

"I..." Yes, it must seem strange to the apostate from Kirkwall that its Knight-Captain isn't condemning all of this, is willing to talk to an apostate without half a guard of other templars and miles of heavy chains. "I have seen too much. Seen the Templar Order—the Chantry—at its lowest. I lack the lyrium to numb myself into complacency any longer, and I'm ashamed I did that in the first place. It's...been a hard lesson to learn. One I suspect I'll pay for the rest of my life"

Shame eats at the lining of his stomach.

[lavendarr00]

[lavendarr00]

[mageunderground]

Anders averts his gaze from Cullen quickly after the compliment sinks in, lest the (former) templar read his observation as anything like- Maker forbid- friendliness.

"I doubt it's anything that you haven't seen or heard of during your training- I'm exactly the sort of mages your former order warned you about. It's just that I allied myself with a spirit instead of a demon."

Anders's mouth feels dry. He wets his tongue with his ale, grimacing at its taste. He curls a hand under Pounce 2's chin, feeling the soft rumble of her purrs.

"A spirit who served the Wardens, mind you. I wasn't digging around the seedy corners of Kirkwall just welcoming unfamiliar spirits into my body."

It feels like we just ruined each other.

"But my friend is gone now. I corrupted him with my anger. I almost think his old vessel was preferable to what we did."

[absolutionem]

So, like the Seekers of Truth. Yet another hypocrisy from the Chantry. Cassandra made it sound so serene (starve yourself until a spirit of faith fills you, until neither hunger nor thirst fills you, only your devotion towards the Maker, His words your only sustenance as he had done in that golden cage beset by demons so why had a spirit of faith not filled him, it was not fair it was not right it was not justice...)

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding. He closes his eyes for a long, long second, then sighs. Shoves the roiling anger elsewhere—it has nothing to do with Anders, though it might be taken that way. "I met a spirit of compassion in the body of a young man. He was...kind. I also learned the Seekers of Truth willingly allow a spirit of faith to possess them, which grants them their powers."

A beat. "I cannot help you with that. I am sorry. But I can say this—demons and spirits are a lot less black and white than I used to think . And, somewhere in there, there's still hope."

[accipio]

If this were a scene from Tales of the Champion, Hawke would answer Cullen’s revelation with a perfectly-timed, perfectly-rehearsed confession of his own, and then the loving couple would embrace: passionately, but not with such wild abandon as to offend the more prudish members of Varric's readership.

Unfortunately, the real Hawke is considerably less tactful and socially adroit than Varric’s invented version. He stares wide-eyed at Cullen, his face a concerning motley of pink and white, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. More like giggles, really.

“Maker, I was a fool,” he finally wheezes once he’s able to control himself enough to form coherent words. “I had hoped—I hardly dared to hope, but I did nonetheless—yet I never seriously considered that you… That you could…” He trails off, half-afraid that saying the word aloud will break some spell.  

It’s difficult to explain himself in a way that doesn’t make him sound utterly pathetic, but he gives it a go anyway. “I never thought that anyone would ever actually love me. Like me, sure. Lust after me, obviously. But never love. This thing between us, this affection, I thought it would never be anything more than that.” There’s a moment, a mere fraction of a second, when Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, comes dangerously close to weeping. Fortunately, he's able to master himself in the nick of time, and any appearance of wetness on his face is surely a mere trick of the light. “I was wrong. I love you.”

He kisses Cullen. Any and every bit of him that he can reach. It’s hasty, awkward, and bound to look comical to anyone who might be watching, but he doesn’t give a damn. “You actually remember that?” He grins into Cullen’s hair. “I’m glad somebody found it amusing. If memory serves, the tone of that conversation was rather dire.”

He’d always wondered what the breaking point was for Cullen, which of Meredith’s abuses proved too much for even her Knight-Captain to countenance. He never for a second imagined that the final straw could have been that clunker of a joke. “When you put it like that, it sounds so brave.” And definitely not like what it was: the thoughtless remark of a man in so deep over his head he might as well have been at the bottom of the Amaranthine. But Cullen has a knack for seeing nobility in him where there is none, and he inwardly swears to himself that he'll do his damnedest to be the man the templar thinks he is.

"Is it okay?" He repeats the words disbelievingly. It takes all of his self control not to flick Cullen on his stupid, thick, handsome skull. “Of bloody course it’s okay. It’s better than okay. I’m the luckiest bastard to ever walk the face of Thedas. Did I mention I love you?”

[absolutionem]

Hawke giggling makes Cullen's heart soar. He'd never heard such sounds from the Champion. Oddly intimate, more so when he remembers it's for his eyes and ears only. These moments, small as they might be, are balm for his soul.

"Then I am sorry I did not tell you sooner. It's cruel to think yourself unworthy of love." And what does that make Cullen, who's also thought the same thing for over a decade now? Too broken, his crimes too innumerable, the road to redemption endless. Who would walk such a miserable path with him? Grim suffering wasn't everyone's cup of tea, impressive and virile as it may look.

At those words uttered back at him, reciprocated, the line of Cullen's bow lips draw down into a grimace. "You..." His voice stretches, chokes in his throat, eyes a veil of tears about to spill, again. "You do love me then?"

"Oh..." Unlike Hawke, Cullen cannot master himself, always been a crybaby as his siblings liked to tease. Pale skinned and light haired, his whole face goes pink, from red-rimmed eyes to tear-logged lashes, one drop clinging to the tip of his nose.

But it doesn't matter here. No one's going to tease him, demand he toughen up, remind him men do not cry and neither should little boys on their way to manhood. Hawke's mouths land atop his high cheekbones, fluttery and light as feathers, kissing away the sadness.

"I...I remember a lot of things, Hawke. I remember how you were the only person in Kirkwall who was making it better. The more Meredith tried to convince me you were a monster, the more I realized she couldn't see things for what they were. It just didn't make sense with all the evidence at hand." How could the Champion of Kirkwall be evil when he defeated maleficarum, saved kittens from trees, and stopped a Qunari invasion on the side? "Then the red lyrium came out. Even...addicted as I was, I could hear how wrong the red sang. How it wasn't only coming from the sword, but Meredith herself. I wanted...I wanted nothing to do with it." And then Hawke cracked his joke, broke her influence over him.

Cullen blinks a couple of times, unsure if he's hearing this correctly. "You are?" Lucky? Someone's lucky to be loved by him? "I..." His arms wrap around Hawke's waist, lifting the Champion in the air as he returns the kisses with the same fervor, weightless. "Maker's breath, I'm not going to argue with that. I know better. I'm the happiest man in Thedas right now."

[accipio]

He takes a short break from his agonies to glare at Cullen, though there's no real heat in it.

"I was only trying to taste-test them. You know, for the children's sake." He rests a hand on his forehead, looking every inch the suffering martyr laid low by the machinations of Big Chocolate.

"Are those granola bars still in the cupboard? Maybe we could hand out those instead."

[absolutionem]

His hands are on his hips, nodding accusingly. "Uh-huh. At least tell me if the chocolate here is as good as in Val Chevin."

"No, I ate those. Guess I'll go buy some more chocolate. And I'm going to hide it, because you can't be trusted around candy."

[corvisque]

"Your Mabari or your Fereldan?"

[absolutionem]

"They're both Fereldan. And it's Hawke. She knows better than to get into shiny wrappers. Still working on that with him."

[accipio]

"Of course it isn't. I'm not a mabari, you know. You don't need to rush me to the vet because I ate one measly--"

He grimaces, clutching his stomach.

"Ugh. I think I need to lie down."

[absolutionem]

"Not so 'fun-sized' now, is it?" He asks amidst a snort giggle, watching Hawke lying down on their couch.

[absolutionem]

"Is chocolate dangerous? I can't believe he ate the entire bag..."

[accipio]

He feels Cullen stiffen and curses himself viciously. You great blundering Maker-damned idiot, what were you thinking? Trapped as he is in the grips of nightmarish memories, Cullen is bound to associate any physical touch with the abuse he suffered. 

Hawke moves to pull away, his face ashen with guilt. Much to his surprise, Cullen seems to have other plans. Strong arms envelop him in a bear hug, and he feels instantly better for it. He cards a shaking hand through blond hair, thankful that Cullen can’t see his expression. He’s thankful that he can’t see his expression. He must look a right fool, giddy and sad all at once. 

Cullen’s quiet admission is somehow more shattering than all the tears. Hawke sucks in a shaky breath, trying to beat his thoughts into shape. In moments like this, his shortcomings make themselves obvious—he is all flash and no substance. He can fire off witticisms with little effort, perform for any crowd, but when it comes to things that really matter, he’s as useless as a blundering child. Everything he wants to say sounds like an empty platitude, an anemic substitute for what he really feels. 

But still, he has to try. Cullen deserves that much from him. Deserves much more, as a matter of fact. “Of course I would. I don’t want you to serve me like you served the Order and the Inquisition, you great stubborn lug!” Andraste's tits, even Sandal could have worded that better. “Sorry, I—What I meant was that this isn’t another of your duties. You don’t have to give anything, Cullen. Just—” Tolerate me? “—just be here. With me. And allow me to be there for you in turn. That’s all I could ever ask of you.”

[absolutionem]

Cullen sighs, practically purrs, at Hawke's fingers carding through his hair, nails scrapping at his scalp. It anchors him to this present, out of the nightmares at the edges of his reality.

That insult wrings merriment out of him, a giggly half-snort he's unable to suppress quickly enough. "No, I..." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. The Gallows again, but this time not an unpleasant memory, but rather a happy one, in hindsight.

Knight-Commander Meredith, showing off her red lyrium sword to the Champion. Oh, how obvious that she wanted to unnerve Hawke, cow him into submission. But the Champion stood strong, unflappable as he fired off a cheeky retort that, despite its lack of physical violence, eviscerated Meredith in front of the entire Kirkwall Templar Order:

"It seems a lot more sword-like than I remember."

And then, as now, sudden, piercing levity caused Cullen not to disapprove but to laugh, wring out of him that self-same half-snort giggle. Meredith hadn't heard it, caught up shaking in quiet rage at this apostate's continued defiance, her, "I WANT HIM DEAD!" louder than everything. Hawke hadn't either, more preoccupied with what was sure to be a horror show—the same red lyrium that had driven Varric's brother insane, now in sword form, pointed at his throat.

"I love you," bursts forth from Cullen as if a quiet prayer, devotional, and a statement of fact all in one. "I..." And Meredith's face, distorted by her madness, no longer has power over him, the fear replaced by the ridiculousness of the situation that bore it. "I think I've loved you for a long time, actually. Since the Gallows, probably. When Meredith tried to intimidate you with her red lyrium sword, and you just..." Another snort, crow's feet crinkling in amusement, "Maker, I shouldn't have laughed. But I did. I did. And that's...that's what I want. Someone who can look at death's door and smile, laugh, and make me smile and laugh too."

"I...you don't have to..." He pauses, suddenly unsure by the weight of the epiphany hitting him like the Holy Smite he took to the face, the source of his lip scar, during the battle at the Gallows. "Likewise, you don't have to give me anything either. I just want to be around you, bask in your presence, and remember it's okay to laugh once in a while."

"I love you. I...I hope that's okay." I hope it's not too fast, too much. That I am not drowning you. But what is Cullen if not a man meant for soul-crushing devotion?