Thedas is teetering on the brink of devastation. Cullen and Dorian meet one last time before the Inquisition's final confrontation, both running from lingering doubts and fears. Old habits die hard, and Cullen seeks to find through actions what his voice can't. Will he succeed?
second part of "Of Pride and Redemption". read on AO3,
a million thanks to stripeydani for beta-ing like a boss!
There's a dispirited ache in his lungs that won't ebb away. It's burdened him for weeks, crowding the broad of his upper body with the kind of tension he's only known during battle. He is fighting, he supposes—an inner spar where swords and shields won't protect him—and if the silt of lyrium in his blood has proved difficult to conquer, it's dawned on him since that one's true enemy always dwells on the other side of the glass. The mind is a complex fortress, and he's often recoiled from crossing its boundaries; he watches his will waver every morning in the mirror and hewants to give in, but he doesn't know how.
It's the one aspect of his life he's never championed. His resolve is unbreakable on the battlefield, a commanding force for his men and for whatever cause he chooses to honor, but the matters of his heart seem foreign, a distraction he never allowed to roam free. He ran from them—quite literally at times—but he doesn't wish to flee any longer, not when the fate of Thedas teeters on the brink of devastation.
Dorian might never return. None of them are guaranteed certain victory, gathered one last time for a round of Wicked Grace, but death isn't the only threat. There's a rumor in Skyhold, echoing loud against the rampart's stone. It speaks of home and of Tevinter, Dorian's imminent departure. Cullen's desire for him to stay is entirely selfish and he knows—he can barely understand how he came to be overcome by such greed, by such need, and it does very little to ease the strain off his chest. He doesn't know how to tell him—or what—and it's a droning in the back of his skull how much he despises his ineptitude.
Cole has been staring at him for the past couple of hours. Cullen's withdrawn from their table, leaning hunched against the counter; he couldn't risk having the contents of his mind revealed. A tankard of ale rests untouched atop the wooden surface, and he knows as his head droops lower between his shoulders that he's running still. Raucous laughter cuts through the heavy atmosphere of the tavern, but it's not enough to dissipate his troubles. He should drink, really, but he fears it'll only make it worse.
"Afraid to lose again, Commander?"
Dorian's voice jolts him back to awareness—he nearly sends the tankard flying up the bartender's face in his hurry to straighten, a brusque jerk of his body.
"Breath, is it?" Dorian smiles sly and warm as he leans beside him, and he's so close the heat of him dries off his tongue—it's what it feels like, anyway. "What an odd thing to say. I never understood. What is it about His breath that—say, his arse—doesn't have, I wonder? Its use would make the expletive all the more fascinating, if a trifle provocative."
"I..." he absently rubs at the back of his neck, coughing in a vain attempt to regain his composure. "I'm afraid Andraste has already acquired that... honor," he manages to say, the last word a mere whisper as color flushes his cheeks.
"Ah, yes. Flaming, if memory serves. Is it the angry kind, or the smoldering kind? I must confess, Commander, the latter would also suit your face."
Suit his... what? Cullen nearly chokes on his tongue—it may be dry, but it's most definitely still there, heavy and awkward in his mouth, a sheer nuisance. Has he just... complimented him on his appearance, or is he making light of his flustered tendencies?
The bashful consternation blurring his head must have spread to his face; Dorian laughs quietly, a soothing sound that reaches deep in his gut and slowly blooms up his chest.
"I apologize," his laugh subsides to a smile, and he fully turns towards him, a brief touch of his thumb along the alluring ringlet of his mustache . "I couldn't pass up on such a perfect opportunity. Will you join us, Commander? Or will you say here with your..." He tips his chin towards the tankard, a mild disapproving glint in his eyes. "...very full flagon as sole company?"
"There's still work to do," Cullen shakes his head, and he's well-aware that it's just an excuse. "I can't afford to cloud my senses now, not before..."
"Before our departure," Dorian offers, and he's still smiling, but there's grief in his eyes and fright in his voice and Cullen's pulse jumps drastically.
He nods, finding sudden interest in the contemplation of his feet. Tell him now, his mind goads. How he feels, with and without him, but he can't find the words, his thoughts a jumble of incoherence.
"I'll certainly miss our weekly rendez-vous for chess," Dorian sighs after a moment, and there's a note of finality in his confession that Cullen doesn't like at all.
"Are you..." He clears his throat, a rise of his shoulders as he inhales deeply, releasing his breath in slow disquiet. His arm falls limp and heavy at his side, and he feels Dorian's warmth—their hands brush ever so slightly, and if he stiffens, he makes no move to distance himself.
He closes his eyes momentarily, willing the beat of his heart to slow down.
"Are you leaving, then?" he finally asks, and it's such a loaded question he can sense Dorian's unease. "After..."
"Perhaps," he concedes, and gone is the usual mirth in his voice. "Who knows what'll become of us, once this is all over? I assume you've heard the rumor."
"Indeed. Skyhold may be strong, and its walls sturdy, it doesn't matter how high they reach. Gossip will always find a way in."
"Or out," Dorian gives a light chuckle, and it doesn't sound right, low and gruff and broken, and Cullen's jaw tightens on all the things he wants to say—he can't find his voice.
Silence settles. It's not uncomfortable, but it's heavy, filled with a plethora of words left unsaid. Dorian's turned to face their companions, some already half-naked on their seat. His back rests poised against the counter—they stand side by side, and the sliver of space between them considerably narrows.
He feels Dorian's fingers against his then, not just a passing touch but a gentle caress. He stills, hesitant as blood pounds in his ears, and Dorian must have sensed his agitation. He retreats, and Cullen wants to scream—no, please don't go. His hand finds what his voice can't and he searches for his warmth and he holds onto it, fingers intertwined in a tangle of despair.
He's shaking. Or perhaps the shivers running up his arm come from Dorian's own trembling hand. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care. He squeezes and he grasps like it's the last thing he'll ever hold again—perhaps it is, and it hurts, everywhere, but it's real and he doesn't want to let go. He risks a sidelong glance as his head batters, just long enough to note the odd shimmer at the corner of Dorian's eye. His chest swells at the sight, sinking low. He's hurting—he isn't sure why—but the uncertainty looming over them shrouds his mind and he feels out of place. Insufficient.
His thumb twitches, running along the inside of his wrist; he can feel his pulse as he traces slow circles on his skin, back and forth, and it matches his own, quick and unsteady. They've moved closer to each other, two capable and grown men weakened by doubts and fears, broken pillars in silent need. He lets go. Because it's too much and because it's not enough, farewells crushed in his throat. There's no more room to breathe anymore, and Dorian swallows hard beside him, gaze averted.
"Try not to die, hm?" his voice cracks, and he's taken a step away from him, his back turned. "I would notice if you were gone."
Cullen lets out a light chuckle—he thinks it's what he does, but it feels like he's choking.
"May the Maker watch over you, Dorian."
"His breath and his arse—preferably the latter. May he watch over you as well... Cullen."
His head snaps up at the moment of his head, but Dorian's already walking away. Perhaps it is better this way. The very fate of the world is at stake, and once morning comes, there will be no turning back. It's much bigger than him, it's much bigger than all of them. But it's not what makes him clench his jaw. It should be, and he knows this, but this odd sense of desolation, the knots in his gut and the hollowed dent in his chest, it's a broken piece of him, worn by the man whose hand he still feels in his own.
He doesn't know whether he made the right choice—he doesn't know whether there was a choice at all—but he remembers the tankard behind him, still full, and its weight replaces Dorian's in his grasp.
He returns to his quarters, flagon in hand. It never reaches his lips. It crashes loud against the wall of his bedchamber, shattered pieces lying jumbled on the floor, and his cry breaks hoarse and discordant through the winter night, defeated.
