Brontide
A commission fic for @out-of-the-embers, who requested something with Cullen and this prompt - Brontide; the rumble of distant thunder.
Brontide
The low rumble of distant thunder wakes him from uneasy sleep, one hand groping at his side for the warmth of a body that is not there. Whiskey-bright amber eyes open, blinking away confused vision to focus on a shadow at the window - your shadow, your form, silhouetted against the dark sky and the looming threat of a storm, crackling on the horizon.
Lightning flashes across distant peaks, illuminating the face he loves so well, echoed in the painful crackle of Fade green light that bursts from your palm. As he watches, you bite down on a moan of pain, gathering that hand into yourself, squeezing tight as though just that pressure might calm the Anchor tonight. Cullen frowns, his own hand clenching in sympathy. He knows the Anchor still hurts you, even now, even after Corypheus’ death and the closing of the rift. He knows, in a way no one else ever will, how it torments you in your quietest moments; how you force yourself to hide that struggle from everyone around you. But you cannot hide it from him.
He rises from the bed, foregoing modesty for once to reach your side just as another crackle from your palm threatens to bend you double, reaching out to wrap his arms about you from behind. You gasp, surprised at his wakefulness, barely holding back a whimper as his fingers link themselves through yours, squeezing with you against the lancing agony of the Anchor’s intrusive light. His arms wrap tight about your chest, his lips press warm against your sweat-cooled temple, and for the first time since waking in pain and fear, you feel safe.
Here, in Cullen’s embrace, you are not alone with your dark thoughts and fears, gathered close against a body whose heart beats in time with your own, whose owner knows the torment of hidden pains never shared with those around him. He doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to, simply holding you close as his kisses press to your temple and cheek, waiting patiently for the tension to recede, for the pain to fade as it always does in time. His mere presence is enough to pull you out of the thoughts that seem to enhance that pain, reminding you in a way only he can manage that there is so much more to you than simply one magical palm.
He doesn’t see you as just the Inquisitor, not any more. He never saw you as the Herald of Andraste. What he sees, what he has always seen, is who you are, right at the core, and you will forever be grateful that whatever he sees drew him close enough to drag down your walls and his in mutual need and love. You need him, just as he needs you. The love between you is too strong to be torn down by politics and tragedy. You will be in his heart until the end, and that, somehow, is the greatest comfort you can imagine.
The Anchor flares once more, echoing the distant flash of lightning, but this time, you don’t buckle under that onslaught. Instead, you turn to the man who loves you, who has spent years protecting you, guiding you, sheltering you in ways not even he can put a name to. Your lips seek his, a silent acknowledgement of his strength in your weakness, and he is there to catch you with that kiss, his grasp loosening just enough to allow you to turn fully into his embrace. His lips are sure and warm, softly demanding that you let go of the troubles that have kept you from his side. He will keep the Anchor calm, those kisses promise, and you believe him without question.
Gentle hands guide you away from the window, from the tempest brewing far away. It is not here; it is not your concern. He draws you down onto the bed, gathering you close in his arms once again, content to trade kisses back and forth until you giggle, the pain and darkness forgotten under the onslaught of affection that turns teasing at the sound of your mirth. Mirth turns to passion, proving love in the still of the night, until, at last, nothing is left.
Just you, and Cullen, and the distant rumble of thunder.