A Stubborn Sort Of Grace (Ch.1)
Dorian didn't know what to expect when he came to the South. He even made it a point to prepare himself for the unknown. Being in the Frostback Mountains with no shelter and very little in the way of supplies was certainly at the top of his unexpected list. It was so unexpected that he had not been prepared at all. His magic was the only thing keeping him from freezing his unmentionables off, but that was still something he had to use sparingly. Even the fires they built during their brief respites did little to warm his frozen fingers.
At least until they set up a more permanent camp between the mountains. They stopped most of the icy wind and gave them a chance to properly set up tents and a large fire so they could all rest and heal. Not forever, of course, but long enough for the advisors to figure out what they were going to do next. Though that didn't get very far. All they did was argue before walking away to cool their heads.
It was then that Dorian noticed Cullen falter in his step on his way to his tent. It was subtle enough that if one weren't watching, that it would go unnoticed, but Dorian had been watching. He had watched Cullen care for the survivors and make sure they were comfortable enough. Whether it was a scrap of bread to quell their hunger pangs or an elfroot potion to soothe their injury…but he never took anything for himself. Dorian was even sure that the man had not slept since their escape from Haven.
When no one else seemed to notice their Commander’s plight, Dorian sighed and pulled himself away from what little warmth the fire offered to follow the man. It would be no good if he collapsed because he insisted on being a martyr. Perhaps he could coax Cullen to at least eat some stale bread.
Dorian snorted at the thought. It was wishful thinking. He would try nonetheless though.
When he pushed himself through the flap of the tent, he froze at the sight he was met with. Cullen was standing over a makeshift desk as he expected, but the man was pallid and obviously shivering. Far worse than what Dorian had expected.
“Fasta vass!” Without a care to how Cullen would react, Dorian rushed forward to place the back of his hand on the other man's forehead. “Commander, you're burning up!”
“I am fine,” Cullen wheezes out before a wet cough escapes him.
“You are a fool! You need rest!” Dorian pulls him away from his desk and over to his cot. Cullen’s lack of struggle spoke volumes to how he was feeling and he couldn't help the string of Tevene curses that left him. “I understand that you want the others to be taken care of first, but your health is important too! Thedas will not fall if you indulge in some water!”
Dorian gave Cullen a look when the man opened his mouth in, no doubt, a sad attempt to defend his actions, and Cullen barely had the energy to glare back in response. He was very easy to direct onto his cot before Dorian walked back to the entrance of the tent to flag down a nearby runner.
“A blanket, food, and a potion for our Commander if you would. Or anything that can be spared at the very least,” Dorian requests before ducking back into the tent. When he turned to regard Cullen, he frowned at the glassy expression in his eyes. It was becoming more and more obvious how much he had been pushing himself and Dorian had to wonder how long the man had been sick.
While he waited for the runner to return, he conjured a mage light to warm the tent before walking over to tug at Cullen's armor. A silent request for him to remove it was temporarily refuted, but eventually Cullen gave in when he broke into another coughing fit. Dorian could tell his fever was affecting him because he struggled a bit with the process of removing his armor. Even more so when he started to take off his vambraces and winced as he tried to remove the one on his left.
“I…” Cullen mumbles as Dorian gently helps remove the rest. It was immediately met with a hiss from both men. Cullen’s arm was a lovely shade of purple and Dorian took it as gently as he could to inspect the damage.
“Broken?” He asks softly. He mumbles an apology when a gentle prod causes the other to hiss again.
“I don't think so,” Cullen answers. “Perhaps too many hits to my shield.”
Before Dorian could ask more, the runner poked his head in and left an offering of a blanket and some bread and water. “I'm sorry, Ser. This is all we can scrounge up.”
“It's alright. Thank you,” Dorian dismisses him and takes the blanket and food back to Cullen. “Here. Eat this.”
“There are others that need it more,” Cullen argues.
“I’d be inclined to agree with you if you weren't the exact shade of all this blasted snow we are in the middle of,” Dorian snaps. “Do not argue with me Commander. If you collapse, what kind of example does that set for the others?”
Cullen wisely kept quiet and took the food from Dorian and slowly nibbled at it and the mage let him. He knew how sickness could kill one's appetite, but he also knew it was important for Cullen to eat something. His body could only run on fumes for so long and wouldn't be able to fight the illness as he was. While he ate, Dorian turned his attention to the blanket and put some runes on it to help warm Cullen. The blanket itself was too thin to do much for his fever, but with the runes, he'd be able to sleep warmly.
Cullen had just finished his meager meal when Dorian turned back to him and forced him to lay down. Moments after he laid the blanket over him, Cullen visibly sighed with relief and sagged into his cot. His shivering subsided as well. “Nobody will think less of you for resting,” Dorian says softly, finally conjuring some healing magic for the bruise.
“They need me–” Cullen starts.
“To be well,” Dorian interrupts as some of his magic heals the bruise. It was still purple but it looked less angry and Cullen didn't flinch as much when he touched it. It would be a process since Dorian didn't want to exhaust his magic so quickly. “Rest, Commander.”
Dorian knew Cullen would have struggled or argued more on a good day, so it was a sign of how terribly he was actually feeling. He even closed his eyes when the mage pressed a cold hand against his head, and it didn't take him long to fall asleep. Dorian sat there for the better part of the night until Cullen's fever went down enough for him to move away. He didn't leave though. Dorian made sure Cullen's sleep was uninterrupted, and even Cassandra had retreated when she came by to talk to Cullen.
Her surprise was apparent, but whether it was because Cullen was actually sleeping, or because of Dorian's presence was a mystery. Dorian was willing to bet it was both. Only then did he let himself submit to his drooping eyes that he had been fighting all night. Dorian had to make sure the commander got a decent amount of sleep, so now that the initial goal was reached, Dorian himself could hopefully catch a few hours himself. Even if it was on the most uncomfortable crate against a questionably sturdy and thin pole. It was against his better judgement too. If he so much as sneezed, he may very well take down the entire tent.
Better judgement was becoming less common by the minute, so Dorian hoped they still had some semblance of luck, and he nodded off to the sound of boots crunching outside in the snow, and the bonfire popping.
What woke him at the break of dawn wasn't the runner he had expected, or even Cullen trying to get back to his duties. It was the tiny sliver of light from the rising sun that peeked through the gap of the tent flaps. With a soft sigh, the mage rolled his neck to relieve it of the tension and then tried to do the same for the rest of his body. A few joints popped and brought little relief, leaving Dorian to bundle up in a cloak and ignore the discomfort to search for some semblance of breakfast. Or at least something hot for Cullen to drink. It would help with his cough.
“Dorian,” Leliana approaches him. “How is he?” She asks softly.
“Sleeping. I've managed to bring down his fever, but he is in desperate need of a real bed and shelter,” Dorian admits. “I'm hoping to find some tea.”
The Nightingale nods immediately and motions toward one of the tents where runners were going to and fro. “We will be moving out soon. Solas knows of a place we can seek shelter.”
Dorian's brows climb up in surprise. “If it's a cave, the least of his concerns will be his dreadful sense of fashion.”
Leliana answered him with an amused snort before he excused himself for the tent across the way. As soon as he rounded the corner of it, he saw that some of the survivors were making what they could from the meager supplies they had. It was mostly gruel and a sad excuse for stew, and while Cullen deserved to eat the stew, his stomach could probably only handle the gruel. He requisitioned two bowls and a mug of tea when he told one of the girls that it was for the commander, and he made his way back to Cullen’s tent.
Just as he stepped back in, the man himself had started to wake up and rubbed his eyes. “Dorian?” He mumbles.
“Ah, I was wondering if you were too delirious last night to remember what happened,” Dorian walks over and hands over one of the bowls and the mug of tea when the commander sits up. “Here. Eat it all or I'll be cross. The tea is weak but it is hot and will help with that nasty cough.”
“What about you?” Cullen asks, noting Dorian's lack of tea.
“The gruel is plenty for now. Surprisingly the tea is scarcer. It has some elfroot in it, but they had to stretch it to its limits,” Dorian says softly. “It's mainly for the injured and sick,” he adds pointedly when Cullen frowns. “And you are sick.”
The commander regards his cup with fierce scrutiny and Dorian was already coming up with ways to make the man drink it. Cullen was obviously still playing the martyr and thought there were others that would need it more than him, but to Dorian's surprise, he seemed to lose his own battle and took a tentative sip. Cullen's shoulders sagged in relief almost immediately and Dorian felt his own lower in response. He really wasn't in the mood to argue with Cullen, and maybe the man felt too sick to do so. Dorian wouldn't complain.
“...you stayed,” Cullen whispers after a few comfortable minutes of silence as they eat.
Dorian's spoon stops halfway to his mouth and he gently returns it to his bowl. “I had to be sure you didn't try to wiggle yourself back into that heavy armor and march yourself to death. As it is, I will be making sure you travel as safely as possible when we leave.”
Cullen's face scrunches up in distaste at the idea. “I will not be coddled and carried like a child.”
Dorian huffs, though he would never admit it was from fondness. “I was actually thinking of offering my shoulder. Or is that still too much for you? Perhaps I can find one of the druffalo and have it drag you to our destination on a litter?”
Cullen barks out a laugh which turns into a coughing fit, and Dorian winces at the obvious mucus remaining in the man's body. He reaches over to gently pat Cullen's back in an attempt to alleviate his coughing, and when he finally settles, Cullen looks over at him with a humorous–if not also a somewhat defeated–twinkle in his eyes. “Your shoulder would be appreciated.”
“A shame. I would have enjoyed watching you being dragged,” Dorian says with his usual flamboyance, and winces again when Cullen falls into another coughing fit from laughing.
