Dragon Age 2/Inquisition
Cullen being Cullen
Cullen attempts the uphill struggle of straightening his hair.
This was meant to be cute and silly but then it became about angst cos ¯\_(ツ)_/
CW: trauma, self image following trauma, recovering from addiction
(On AO3 here)
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The water was still hot enough to sting the scalp. Cullen didn’t flinch; he’d lived through enough magefire to withstand a mild scalding from a comb. Besides, without that sort of heat, this task would be impossible.
The ex-Knight Captain guided the implement through the more rebellious of his sheep’s wool curls. They would not do - not any longer. He remembered as a child, puzzling over Mia cutting her hair by such an extreme amount after she and the young lady from two farms over stopped spending so much time together. He smiled tiredly to himself at the memory. He understood now; sometimes, when paths severed, one needed a new reflection.
In his youth, Cullen’s hair had been a fleece of tightly wound golden spirals and swirls: as he’d grown, it had relaxed, for the most part, into a sea of waves and loose knots. However, on hotter days, it could still spring stubbornly back into its old ways. No longer.
He would achieve mastery over himself: over his addiction, over his thoughts. His mind would be his own, not the product of poison and paranoia. He had spent too long steered by others and using that fact as an excuse to dirty his hands. He would reclaim himself, bring himself to order -
If he could even manage this simple task.
The comb slid, heating and wetting the resistant hair, pulling the curl apart by coaxing and force, guiding and flattening it into submission. The soldier believed that discipline began in the small things: one made one’s bed, maintained one’s uniform, and the pattern for the day was set. It was a lesson drilled into him in the monastery where he had trained…in theory, at any rate. He was notoriously bad at applying it: his bed lay always unmade, and the worn-away emblem on his bracers betrayed the growing contempt with which he had neglected his armour. Answering letters, getting enough sleep: self-maintenance fell by the way-side in favour of external responsibilities.
Yet. He would achieve this, at least.
He eyed himself in the stained looking glass, studying himself in the patches of clarity within its mottled surface. He’d watched that same face weather and wear all his life: the unseasoned lad from Honnleath had crushed these blighted curls below a helmet; in Kinlock, they had grown lackluster and matted by blood and sweat; in Kirkwall, he had been blind as they grew limp under extra indulgences of lyrium. They were a map of his disintegration.
And then there were the memories. Phantom hands and vile compliments, the demon doting on them and every other aspect of his appearance until each detail was sullied and hostile to his eye. The more earnest - if inebriated - attention from the bunkmate he had felt betrayed by, and went on to betray.
…It was time to let the past lie. The armour had gone, as had the lyrium, yet still, something of Kinloch’s and Kirkwall’s soot remained. Cullen may never do enough to atone (though he would never rest in the effort), but he could at least face himself when he caught a look at his image. He could have control.
Again, Cullen dipped the comb, and again, he worked it through each stubborn furl. It would merely take time. Time, coercion, repetition. Dip. Comb. Press down.
As soon as the comb left it, the curl sprung back into place.
