"And when were you planning on telling me?"
There was a pause.By Cullen’s count, there had been four such pauses since the Inquisitor’ssudden arrival, which had allowed him two opportunities to breathe (a goodreminder: Cullen inhaled, quietly); one hasty exit by a servant swifter and moreintelligent than he; and one fateful attempt to conjured words whichwould, which could, possibly hope toexplain the past year in a way which might come close to being satisfactory.
If that wereeven possible.
“I ― ”
The long musclesalong either side of his spine were aching with a rigidity he had thought longbehind him, and yet attention was theonly posture that seemed remotely appropriate. Lavellan’s voice echoed in thesilence he’d become used to hearing inside his skull. …Dear Mia… it began, accusingly, before he drowned it out.
They had beenhere before. He hadn’t learnt. But words had always escaped Cullen when it cameto explaining himself. What could he say?
I didn’t expect Scout Harding would killme?
You had problems enough?
I should have anticipated someone would kill me…
It seemed a good idea at the time…?
“Dorian,”he began again; it had been some time since he’d used the common tongue, and hesounded far too much like himself for any semblance of comfort; Cullen paled, agreyish pallor under the thin layer of sunburn, “is an… accomplished necromancer. Granted, I wasgone for less than a day, but there was no guarantee that I would return. Or whetherwhat did would bear any resemblance ― ”
(In allfairness, he hadn’t borne much resemblance to himself in the months before he’d ceased to exist.)
Somewhereoutside stretched miles of glittering black sand, a sun high in the sky, andthe scent of incense and sea spray. It couldn’t be more divorced from the darknews they’d convened in Qarinus to discuss, though admittedly there was littlereason to suppose “they” would include himself.
Cullen’sgrip on the armet he still held eased into a more self-conscious position, awarethat mere minutes stood between this conversation and another day of silence tantamountto deception. Was he relieved? Should he feel worse now than he had before? Hewasn’t so sure. Things had certainly been simpler, and less taxing, for a time.But he was not so addled that he did not grasp how selfish that thought ― and thereality left behind it ― was.
He saw the lasttwo years in the small, taut changes in Lavallan since they’d spoken last, andknew he’d seen the same in Dorian, in Cassandra, in Leliana ― even if they hadnot suspected him of being alive to notice.
Cullen had neversought to suggest that he would become, intentionally or otherwise, a betterman than Kirkwall would have it ― he knew who he was. Only that he was resolvedto take what actions were necessary to rectify the mistakes he had made, and hehad tried to do so. His death was his business. …but his living?
The truth, then.
“When Ihad to, Inquisitor.” He would not say if ― at least, not now. Cullen’s gaze slid away, towards the emptyrooms beyond where he was want to stand vigil, and he had force it back with somedifficulty. “Remaining dead seemed …advantageous, given how easily wewere infiltrated; without cause for suspicion, a helmet is simple enough tohide behind.“
What hadSera called him, back at Haven? A jackboot? Much like any other, in many ways.Now one which wore House Pavus colours, and with little but his penchant forshadowing his so-called liege to differentiate him from any other. Certainly, agood enough disguise when those who’d known him expected furs, curls, and darkrings beneath a harried expression. In plain burnished plate, Cullen lost presenceand gained discipline; remembered what it was to bear no distinguishing flourish.There was much to recommend it, but it also left him powerless in the Imperiumwithout orders or sanction.
The feeling of normalcy, of an impossible task and little means to achieve it, was returning faster than he would have wished.
