Champion of the Just (Cullen/Inquisitor, angst, lyrium use)
(If you made him take lyrium and romanced him there is a special place in hell for you I think…. This fic is based on the prayer he says if he has been taking lyrium, found here in this post http://potatocrisp.tumblr.com/post/113104826979/cullen-recites-the-chant-of-light-told-to-take from potatocrisp . He does sound so… empty, in that. And I’m going to go off and cry now.)
There used to be — once, there was something there. A core, bright and fiery, the heart of him. It once beat a pattern strong and true, even after the Circle fell, even after Kirkwall burned. It reminded Cullen of being young, when dreams were only dreams and never nightmares; it reminded him of when he hoped, when he yearned.
But that part of him lay open and quivering only after torment and suffering. He could only see it when he let the veil fall, when he shoved the lyrium aside and took the headaches and the shivers and that draining, gnawing hunger. There was freedom, yes, but there was pain, and he could not bear either.
So when she stood before him and told him to stop his experiment, stop his leash-cutting, stop his madness, he listened with a heavy heart and a guilt that ate into his bones. And though his hand shook as he clasped the familiar vial, he did not hesitate to swallow.
Things are — dimmed, now. They are laid out before him, existing at a far distance. He can see those old wounds and they are anesthetized, safe, bearable. They angered him at first but the anger dims with them. He is safe, too, now; hands warm in his gloves, no tremors to his fingers, no pain in his head or his gut. There is only the routine; work for the Inquisition, dose, work, dose, sleep, wake, dose, work. Steady. Reliable. Safe. He does not falter, he does not waver.
Cullen is productive. He is efficient. The energy thrums in his veins, heightens his senses, makes him more aware of her magic. He keeps her at arm’s length, though he smiles, though he kisses her, though she tells him that she loves him. He is uncertain of what that means, though it seemed once that he knew. That core seems so far away sometimes, swathed in comfortable and numbing blue. He says the words and they seem to satisfy her but there is a curious hollow ring to them that only he can hear.
He does not mind, though. He wonders, vaguely, if he should. He is fond, and is that not enough? He sleeps soundly beside her, old nightmares tumbling in his head like faint echoes; they hold no power over him, but neither does anything else.
They learn more; Corypheus’ plans, their final approach. He knows he must send her to fight. He feels concerned; dismayed. For a moment, he wonders if this is wrong. Should not a lover feel more in this situation? Should his worry be terror, his fondness love? But when he grasps for those feelings they elude him, slipping between his steady fingertips. They are not for him, not anymore, and he cannot feel enough to truly miss them.
He finds himself praying, the old litanies falling from his lips like breathing. These words the Chantry gave him to wear like flame-touched armor, Andraste’s guidance around him like steel and silverite. The words did not help in Ferelden, with the smell of blood in the air and hot tears on his face, but that time seems so far away now, another life, another world, a time far distant. It cannot hurt him now, and the words slip from his mouth without hesitation. There’s that hollowness to his voice again but if it’s only he who hears it, does it hurt anything?
"In this the truth is found,
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”
Cullen knows he will stand before the corrupt and the wicked. He will sacrifice all he has to give. If that leaves nothing for the woman at his side, he can bear that; he will not give the Inquisition any less. And when she looks into his face and sees his resolution, if she turns her gaze away, will he let that stop him? He cannot.
Their cause is just and he will champion it until the last breath draws itself from his chest. He can do nothing less.
