(slightly nsfw. angstastic with a little fluff on top.)
Three weeks.
Three weeks with no information, only the word of a scout that the party had withdrawn after fierce fighting near the Fallow Mires with hoards of undead.
Three weeks of wonder, of worry. Of headaches, of pains, of craving that which he detested if it would help even a fraction. The pain was made almost crippling by the lack of sleep and near constant anxiety. Was she safe? And those thoughts fed into his ever-present nightmares. No longer was he only tortured by his past; the future had come too, to twist the blade. A future without her.
He had sworn never to give less to the Inquisition than the Chantry, but he had never expected to find himself giving more. For her, he gave everything, and he was losing his damn mind over it.
He kept face in front of all but Cassandra - he had never been able to fool that woman. She had cornered him several times, and despite knowing the good intentions her questions were asked with, it still irked him. So he lied, and continued to. Fine. Just tired. A lot of work. She did not believe him, the skeptical raise of the eyebrow, and cool, tight lips said so. But to her credit, she let him be, and left him as best she could to cloak himself with his demons.
He seemed to spend hours in the chapel when his minder wandered, work pointless he was so muddled, and instead could be found muttering prayers on one knee, oblivious to his surroundings. And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost… Lost. Is that what she is? While I sit idly by, waiting? Have I failed her?
The twenty-seventh night (the board on the wall told him so), he had spent pacing into the wee hours, as had become the norm for him. The floorboards beneath him groaned in protest as he walked, the weight of his mind no doubt adding to their burden. He was contemplating another re-order of his bookshelf (anything to avoid sleep) when the sound of armour caught his ear. Peering from the battalements high above, he watched them arrive through the gates, and found the burst of relief at the sight of her insatiable. Near running from his tower and through the darkness of Skyhold, he slipped through the corridors and into her private quarters. He would stay out of sight, silent in the corner of her room. She knew he would be waiting.
They knew this ritual; it was well practiced. He would find her, hold her, remind her that she was alive and home and his. There was no shame in the heaving sobs either of them shared, the mirrored fear and relief mingling as one. He would carry her when tired legs finally gave way in his embrace, seating her in the chair before him. He would peel blood-soaked cloth from her, and clean and dress each wound, however small, often times muttering a curse or a line of prayer as he did. His face wore focus, masking pain, he hurt to see her like this. He would tell her that she could not leave his side again, that he would not allow her to place herself in such danger once more, but they both knew it was fantasy; as if she would somehow be allowed that luxury, and he that peace of mind.
His liturgy would end with her naked before him, and with ease he would bring her to the bed, his gentle hands would cover her body, lips following, to smother her in love. She would take her time, undressing him with lithe hands and sweet words as they wound together beneath the satin sheets. He would lose himself in her, and she in him, the sound, smell, touch, taste of him blissfully surrounding her, and her name was scripture to him in the dark of the night.
Sleep would eventually find them, glowing, breathless, entwined together once more: her tucked against his broad chest, him curled around her, even in sleep clinging to her small form. It was one of few nights he slept soundly, the whispers of his nightmares never coming, the panicked pleading silenced.
It was a habit they had both fallen so easily into, perhaps in the same way they had fallen so easily in love. She missed the warmth of him next to her in the cold field tents, the safety that his arms brought her, and she knew without her, his nights were a thing of terror, and he was alone once again, pleading with his Maker for peace enough for them both. The guilt of leaving never became easier, but the sweet joy in awakening next to him was her price.
And so it was that morning. The early light filtered through the curtains, dancing along the floor, bathing the bed in warmth. He slept on next to her; at peace, with hair mussed, stray across his face, morning stubble darker across his jaw, and a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She ran smooth fingers across his face, trailing into the wild tangle of his blonde curls, and he murmured something appreciative. Sleep-filled eyes half lifted, and the smile that greeted her lit flickers of love in her breast. He reached for her, his lips meeting hers for a soft, loving kiss, before he sank back into the pillows, breath evening out as he once again drifted back to the Fade. So different to the wild, relentless chaos of the night before; the calm, quiet dawn of a new day.
There was a quiet knock at the door to her quarters; the guard knew better than to interrupt, it must be important. She slipped from the bed to whisper a quiet ‘just a moment’ through the door, dressing silently in her leathers and pulling her hair into a plait as she opened the door.
“We have a report in from a unit in Val Royeaux, with information. They need more men. I have tried to find Cullen but he-…ah.” A finger was pressed to her lips, being shushes near instantly, and Cassandra’s wide eyes fell over her shoulder to the slumbering form of her missing Commander, snoring softly underneath the white satin.
“I am sure,” her silencer mouthed, a smile curling at the edge of her lips, “I can look over it if not only for now.”
“Yes. I am sure you can.” Cassandra’s eyes looked to her, before a final glance back at the sleeping man, managing a light chuckle as she turned. “Come, let us allow him some peace. Maker knows, he is deserving of it.”
