Within a few months of arriving in Skyhold, a plague overtook the barracks.
With hundreds of pilgrims coming and going each day from all over Thedas, each bringing common diseases and ailments with them (most of which those from sedentary society had built up everyday immunities to), with everyone living cramped together within the high stone walls of a secluded castle high up on a mountaintop, it was bound to happen eventually.
It started off as a strange new cough filled the peasants’ quarters, which soon spilled over into the soldiers’ barracks. Within days the courtyard, tavern, and chapel echoed with the sounds of the coughs. Within days the newly furbished sick ward (chosen over a new chapel) had become full to bursting with new patients, all of whom had strange new coughs, fevers, shivers, rashes, and raspy lungs.
The Inquisitor was too preoccupied rushing in and out of Skyhold to search for Corypheus to notice.
Just after one of her brief visits back she went to visit Commander Cullen, hoping for that report on Samson’s whereabouts. They each shared a passion for finding the traitorous former Templar who poisoned and enslaved his former comrades, and bring him to justice.
Adahlen Lavellan paused at Cullen’s office door, and took a deep breath. She scolded herself for hesitating to see him, but it was hard not to with everything that had happened.
They’d been getting along much better since Cullen’s troops saved her Clan from getting wiped out by those so-called “bandits,” yet she still felt awkward around him.
Actually, they’d always gotten along, but now the cordiality was much more sincere on her part. Cullen had always been perfectly friendly to her, something that she had initially loathed him for. Adahlen the Dalish Keeper’s First had been put off by the impertinence of the former Templar acting all friendly and familiar when he knew damn well his kind had always converted and imprisoned hers. “If I had stayed in one of your cities,” she’d thought the first time he’d spoken to her, “you would have gladly locked me away in one of your Circles and stood watch as my jailer. You did it to the Hero of Ferelden, which she detailed in her book, and the Champion of Kirkwall’s sister, whom Varric detailed in his book. Don’t act like we’re friends.”
Still, it didn’t help to antagonize one of their few much-needed allies, so she was polite to him, even though she never smiled or looked directly at him.
But, slowly, his character won her over.
She’d walked by two of Leliana’s spies, a young human man and elven woman, where the human man mentioned that Commander Cullen had scolded him for calling her a… you know… and made him apologize.
When she finally went to talk to him, she found him urgently drilling his troops to prepare for “a real fight, not a practice one.” She also found that their Commander Cullen passionately believed in the Inquisition’s cause, and worked tirelessly with the troops to ensure they were ready for any threat that might come their way. His dedication to keeping his men alive moved her, if just barely.
When Chancellor Roderick came to stir up trouble again, she found that Commander Cullen shared her distaste for the Chantry’s politics and posturing; he even said out loud the same snarky things she had been thinking. It was hard not to smirk.
“I hope this trip turns out to be worth it,” Commander Cullen had said after the mob that Chancellor Roderick had riled up had dispersed. His arms were crossed and his countenance was firm and serious; he was not going to back down to the upstart cleric who was baying at their heels like a stray mutt.
“Don’t worry,” she’d told him with a crooked grin, “I’ll find something in Val Royeaux. Hopefully not just a room full of Chancellor Rodericks.”
“The stuff of nightmares,” he’d said, without changing his serious demeanor.
She grinned at him, for the first time since they’d met.
The time his character truly shined for her had to have been during the attack on Haven. He had fought tirelessly to save as many soldiers and civilians as he could, just as she did. With him leading the soldiers to defend Haven, and her leading their companions to fight off the main horde, it almost felt like… they were working together, as equals, to defend the people of the Inquisition.
(“Like two parents fighting to protect their children,” a small voice inside her said, which she violently squashed.)
When they first arrived in Skyhold, he was devastated by the casualties they’d suffered at Haven. Templar or no—a past of oppressing and killing mages or no—it was hard not to empathize with someone who felt that troubled by such a huge loss of life. She’d offered him comforting words, for the first time since she met him.
But the true tipping point had to be when he had saved her clan from being wiped out. Her advisers had received an alarming report that unusually well-armed and well-armored group of “bandits” were launching an unusually well-organized attack against her people, and they feared that without reinforcements they would be killed or scattered.
Her heart froze and dropped into her stomach, spreading her blood to ice. She looked around frantically. Josephine had been too busy dealing with some nobles in Orlais, and Leliana was focused on a top-secret mission of a most sensitive nature somewhere in Nevarra, and her people wouldn’t be back for a week. It would be too late then. Desperate, she’d discarded her reservations about sending Templars to help elves and turned to Cullen.
“I’ll send the troops right away,” he said, all business and professional.
“Hurry!” she’d cried.
She’d been on pins and needles all week after the troops were sent (even though he was as good as his word and sent the order in the time it took to walk across the room), then she was flooded with relief when the report came back positive. Her Keeper wrote of how her people were surprised to find armed soldiers coming toward them but attack their attackers instead, then painted a beautiful picture of elves and Templars fighting side-by-side to save the clan, and how, with the help of their armed allies, they had managed to drive the attackers off.
She clutched the paper so hard it crumpled, yet her legs turned to water as she sank to her knees.
“Inquisitor?!” Josephine and Leliana had exclaimed, and all rushed forward.
“Thank you…” she’d breathed, too flooded with relief and gratitude to draw enough breath to speak. She didn’t know whether she was thanking the Creators or Cullen. “Thank you… thank you…”
She looked up to find them looking down at her in concern. Cullen’s earnest brown eyes pierced her soul.
She looked down and shook her head. “I… I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I would have done if…”
The others sighed with relief, when they realized she had not taken ill. Josephine also smiled knowingly at Cullen, when she realized what this was really about.
“Look, don’t mention it,” he reassured her, sending a pointed glare at Josephine. “We could always spare resources to help the family of the Inquisitor.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said. Suddenly it was the most important thing in the world that he understand. “Templars kill us. They hunt us. We’ve been attacked so many times. They come out of bushes. Ambushes. Use us for training… for target practice. We see ‘em coming, we run. Always run. Templars mean trouble, or death. I never thought… a Templar saved us…”
He looked uncomfortable. Maybe she sounded too racist, or ungrateful.
“Armed Templars came toward us, and saved us,” she said, and she smiled. She felt those words alone should hold all the weight they needed to get her point across.
Not a bit of it.
“Well, that is what the Templar Order was founded for, was it not?” Josephine said with a smile, going over her list of inventory for the day. She gave her feather quill one of its characteristic flares. “A Templar is meant to protect and serve the innocent, no matter what their walks of life.”
“Not us,” said the heathen elf.
“Regardless of what the Order was founded for,” Cullen said, not wishing to get into the order’s history, reputation, or past actions, “We are all part of the Inquisition now.”
“But they’re my family,” she’d said. Surely he must understand?
“Yes,” he’d said, with utmost gallantry, “And it was worth it to spare whatever manpower necessary to protect the Inquisitor’s family.”
“No, you don’t understand,” she said. She needed him to understand. Why didn’t he understand?
Cullen did not understand. He couldn’t. He was no Dalish. He knew not how precious a Clan was to an Dalish. Humans were raised to adore only their immediate blood relatives—father, mother, brother, sister, son, daughter, occasionally aunt, uncle, or cousins. The Dalish (or all elves, she’d come to find, since she learned more of alienage culture) were raised to look upon their entire clan as family. The hahren who told stories was no less precious to her than her older brother, who sprang from the same mother’s womb. And they had all been her entire life, her whole world, before she left to spy on the Conclave and became the figurehead of the Inquisition.
Yet, Cullen could not understand or comprehend these things. How could he? He saw nothing special about saving lives who deserved to be saved. To him, his actions were the perfectly normal, casual, rational thing to do for him. He saw nothing especially heroic or noteworthy in sending armed soldiers with the necessary directions and battle strategies to save her family. To save a band of heathen savages. To him, this was the sort of thing you did as naturally as breathing. When someone is in danger, of course you send whatever aid you could to help them. How could you not? That would be like seeing a kitten drowning in a barrel of rain water right next to you, and simply lifting your hand to lift it out of the water. How could you do otherwise?
His inability to see the significance of his heroic actions because they were a matter of course for him was exactly what was so significant to Adahlen, who for some absurd reason felt she desperately needed him to see how significant his inability to see the significance of his heroic actions were to her.
That was a few weeks ago, and this was today. Cullen had saved her people, now she would track down the Templar who had poisoned and corrupted his former Order. (However little love she still had for the Templars.)
The thought of seeing him again made her breath hitch. She steeled herself, and walked in, pretending to be interested in a report she was holding. (It was actually a list given to her by Josephine.)
“Hey, do you have that report on Samson yet?” she asked as she came in, eyes on her clipboard.
“Hm…? Oh, yes. I have them… somewhere.”
She looked up. Cullen was never less than prompt on these things. “Are you all right?” she asked gently.
“Hm? Oh, I’m fine.” He handed her the report. “Some of our soldiers have taken ill today.”
“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly.
“It’s all right. You didn’t do it.”
She grinned. “I don’t know. We Dalish can be tricky buggers.”
He gave her a look of exasperation.
“It’s true. Just ask any small village. If an illness breaks out suddenly, they all know to blame the Dalish that just settled nearby.”
He didn’t seem to think it was as sardonically funny as she did. In fact, he didn’t seem to hear this last part at all. He was looking out the window, lost in his concern.
“Are you all right?” she asked again, more urgently this time.
“I’m hoping it’s…” he rubbed his hand against the back of his head. “It’s nothing.”
“All right,” said she who was bad at picking up subtext when she was in flustered. “Well, let me know if it’s something.”
“I will,” he said, with a voice that she imagined was more tender than usual.
She paused, then left.
She coughed lightly as she walked out of his office.
She remembered what Varric had said about “Curly.” How he seemed to love every soldier under his command like family; fussing and fretting over them like a mother hen. “I’ll bet he keeps a portrait of every one of them in his pocket.”
She encountered Sera on the battlements just outside the tavern. Sera was perched at the edge of the stone rail, with her hands clutching the stone on either side of her thighs.
“Tavern’s all shut up now. Cough’s goin’ round the pilgrims’ apartments. Big one,” she said, wiggling her butt where she sat.
“You don’t say,” said the Dalish who didn’t understand the severity of endemics yet.
“What, you haven’t heard of it yet? Figures. Leave it to be big, important Inquisitor not to care about a few sniffles of us litt’l people.”
“I just got back from several weeks hunting Venatori,” Adahlen said, a little too defensively. “I can’t know everything that’s going on that quickly.”
“Woo! Look at you, acting all the high and mighty Inquisitor already!” sneered Sera. “Too big and important for us little people.”
Adahlen started to retort, but realized it wouldn’t do to upset Sera further.
“I’m sorry,” she said instead, trying to sound as humble and contrite as possible. “It’s just been so hectic with everything going on around here, and now Cullen’s troops all sick on top of it all… I just… feel like there so little I can do to help…”
That seemed to cheer Sera up some. “So, the flame’s spreading down to the barracks too? Figures. And you just got back from Cully-Wully’s office.”
“Yes,” Adahlen frowned.
“Ha! You’re in!” Sera exclaimed happily, waving her legs. “Glad to see the big Inquisitor looking out for us little people.”
Adahlen just smiled and walked away.
Her cough grew stronger as she walked back up to the throne room, which seemed strangely emptier than before. She also felt like… her breathes were shallower. She couldn’t explain it. She was taking as deep breathes as she could, yet she felt like she was barely getting half of the air into her lungs. It was most bizarre.
“Inquisitor! There you are!” Josephine exclaimed, and bolted toward her. “Did you order the list of things I asked for?”
“Right here, all checked off and accounted for,” said the Dalish who didn’t recognize common city remedies when she saw them.
“Excellent,” Josephine said, looking it over. “And you’re sure Lady Madeline will be able to bring this shipment in by tomorrow?”
“She said she would, and I haven’t seen her skip out so far,” said Adahlen with a crooked grin.
Her default mode of behavior was a sassy hand on her hip, and a crooked grin that displayed a mix of wry confidence and adolescent charm.
“Good,” Josephine sighed with relief, then went over her list again. “Mistress Lavellan, I know this is much to ask, but I must request you to remain in your apartment for the evening. There are… situations that must be accommodated.”
“Lord Bertilak cleared a room with his hunting spear again?” she grinned.
Best not to get into that.
“… Something like that,” Josephine said absentmindedly, too busy fretting over her papers to pay the Inquisitor much mind.
Since Josephine was a workaholic and a worry wart who always fussed and fretted over her lists and schedules, Adahlen didn’t see anything odd with her behavior.
The air seemed to get thinner as she walked up to her room, and her coughs nearly wracked her whole body as she walked up. Her breathing became raspier, and her lungs felt like they were filled with dust and cobwebs. She thought it was because of the large quantities of dust and cobwebs that still clung to the stairway, and that fell down when bats or moths took flight.
“Why haven’t we cleared this up yet?” she thought as she wheezed her way up the stairway.
They’d polished and shined every inch of Skyhold, till the cobblestones were all spick and span and the metal decorations sparkled and shined. How did the hallway to her own room remain trapped in the Black Age?
She didn’t realize something was wrong until she felt burning hot and biting cold all over; sweating and shivering. She could barely catch her breath, and her insides felt like sawdust; it dawned on her that she couldn’t remember the last time she drank water. Her coughing was now so violent it wracked her whole body with each whoop. She rose suddenly, and the room started spinning.
“Cole…” she rasped as she rose, then her body burned up and blacked out.
-
She wasn’t discovered until following morning, when the servants came in to light her fireplace and heat up her morning porridge, bath, and tea. They gasped when they found her sprawled on the cold stone floor. While she’d always had white hair and pale skin, this morning they were pallid and clammy as a dead fish. Despite the extreme cold of a winter morning high up in the mountains, her skin shined with sweat, such that her hair and clothes were drenched and clumped and clung to her skin.
“Inquisitor!” they cried, running toward her. “Are you all right?”
They tried to shake her awake, but she only moaned piteously in her sleep.
They gasped and pulled back like they’d touched a burning stove. “Call Lady Cassandra!”
Her advisers were all informed immediately.
“How could this have happened?!” Cassandra exclaimed, slamming her fists down on the war table.
“The plague spread rapidly. It was bound to make its way up the higher quarters eventually,” Josephine said over her clipboard.
“And now the Herald of Andraste herself has been infected…” Leliana said.
“How could this have happened?!” Cullen exclaimed so suddenly the others started, “She doesn’t even go down to the lower quarters!”
The Herald was so rarely at Skyhold it was not uncommon for her to be away for weeks or months at a time, and her visits back tended to be no more than a few days at most. Traveling across the continent on four-legged mounts took weeks, sometimes months on end; and there was no shortage of Venatori agents or Red Templars to track down. There was so much to keep her busy, most of their pilgrims and residents in the barracks and lower apartments didn’t even know what she looked like.
“These illnesses spread in mysterious ways, Commander,” Josephine said delicately.
The running theory was miasma, or “bad air” floating around that made people sick when they breathed it in.
“That’s no excuse! We cannot allow this endemic to continue!” Cullen yelled.
“The Herald of Andraste, defeated by a common illness,” Leliana said, “What would people think? Especially since most people think of plagues as punishment from the Maker.”
Cassandra shook her head. “We cannot allow this. Bring the best healers you can find. We will end this before it gets out of hand.”
Every mage ally with healing abilities jumped at the call, along with every Chantry mother and sister they could find. The sick beds in the hospital were soon full to bursting, with every healing mage and Chantry sister on hand to help the sick.
Mother Giselle and Solas were first brought in to help the Herald. The former did not stay long due to being needed elsewhere, the latter more for his knowledge of the mark than any healing magic of his own. By now she was delirious with fever, swaying and sweating, coughing so hard they were afraid she would hack up a lung. She didn’t seem to see or hear anything, even with her eyes open or people talking in her ear; nor did she seem to have enough energy or presence of mind to speak.
“Inquisitor,” Cullen said gently, kneeling beside her bed.
Though her eyes were open, they were glazed over; she didn’t seem to hear what he said. He stroked her white hair with the flat of his hand, though it was soaked and clumped together with sweat. She didn’t seem to feel his touch.
“Get away from her! You could become infected,” Cassandra said, a little too harshly.
“We might all get infected!” he snapped, “There’s miasma all over this room, yet I don’t see you leaving.”
Before Cassandra could retort, Mother Giselle smoothed things over.
“While I am flattered by your faith in my abilities, Seeker,” Solas said, once everyone had calmed down. “I’m afraid I am no healer.”
“I was thinking more of your close acquaintance with the Herald…” Cassandra said. Cullen’s ears perked at this, and he cast accusing eyes at the elven apostate. “As well as your knowledge of the mark, and whether it might have any bearing on her recovery.”
“Ah,” Solas said, understanding where his expertise could best be put to use at last. “It seems the plague we now suffer is of a physical nature, having little to do with the spirit or its connection to the Fade. Still, it does not hurt to be cautious.”
Healing magic was quickly discovered insufficient. It eased the symptoms of normal patients, but did little to slow down the actual illness. The Herald was less lucky. At the first touch of healing magic, she flinched and her mark started to glow. Everyone tensed and stepped back. When the healer withdrew, Adahlen flung herself away and vomited violently on the side of the bed. The mark continued to glow hot and bright until her body was spent and she collapsed from exhaustion. Even then, as she lay twitching and shivering, it continued to spark and sputter. There would be no magic healing for her.
The non-magic surgeon they had first brought to Skyhold, who had treated so many wounded from Haven, was exalting in this.
“You can’t always rely on magic where a few simple remedies will do,” she said, unpacking her healer’s kit.
Cassandra and Cullen nodded approvingly, while Solas frowned.
“I mean, it’s nice,” she clarified, “But you can’t rely on it for everything, especially not with the way mages have been kept apart all these years. You rely on magic exclusively, and progress is stagnated. Science is the way of the future. You don’t need magic to keep a healthy body: it’s diet, exercise, and a balance of the four humors.”
“Humors” being fluids they thought at the time made up the body: sanguine, or blood, which was the most common; choler, or yellow bile (which produced heat or passionate emotions); melancholy, or black bile (which produced depressed or anxious emotions); and phlegm, clear fluids like tears, sweat, saliva, etc.
“And what humors do you believe she has out of balance, surgeon?” Solas asked.
“Why, phlegm, of course,” the surgeon said as she finished unloading her medical bag. “See the way she sweats and drools? And the wet, heavy nature of her cough? There’s a buildup of fluid in her lungs. It’s an excess of phlegm being produced here, or I’ll eat my hat.”
“I hope you brought garnish,” Solas said.
“But her fever,” Cullen growled, “What about her fever?”
“An excess of choler. Look,” she pointed. “See her pale skin, her white complexion? She’s always had a slight excess of phlegm over the other humors; that’s why she’s always been so pale, airy, and flighty. And why she tends to favor cold spells over other magics.”
“Master Pavus always favored fire magic, yet that does not make him especially choleric in nature,” Solas said.
“Why, of course it does,” said the surgeon.
“But what can we do about it?” Cullen interrupted.
“It’s simple,” the surgeon said, pulling up a blanket. “Her body had gotten used to a fairly even balance of the humors, with a slight excess of phlegm over the others. Now, however, the illness has caused her body to produce more choler and sanguine, which, as you know, creates heat—hence the fever; but it’s more than she can handle, since her body is used to having more phlegm than choler or sanguine. It has been producing phlegm in extreme excesses to ensure it is still the most abundant fluid. Hence the excessive sweat, saliva, and buildup of fluid in her lungs.
Solas gave a look that screamed, “QUACK!”, but Cassandra and the other advisers took her very seriously.
“But what can be done about it?” Cassandra said urgently.
“Simple!” the surgeon said, draping a blanket over her patient. “We’ll have to sweat it out. As long as her body produces excessive bile and fluids, her fever and sweat will persist. The best way is to purge itself like a wrung cloth. Once her body as purged itself of all the phlegm and bile that it can, her humors will come back into balance, and she’ll be able to recover.”
Solas was not convinced, but Cassandra, the other advisers, and Mother Giselle herself were in favor of the treatment, and so he was overruled.
The sick wards remained full to bursting with the pandemic. Soon they had to start setting up cots and bedrolls in the chapel. Mother Giselle, the other Chantry sisters, and the mages all worked tirelessly side-by-side to tend to the sickly. While not an expert on healing magic himself, Solas worked tirelessly beside them too, bringing water and broth to many a sick bed, and dabbing many a sweating brow with cool washcloths. He also used his knowledge of the Fade to order in various herbs that could be of use. Cole was kept busy as well, disappearing and reappearing every which way fetch people seemingly random things they didn’t realize they needed until it was right in front of them.
Those of Skyhold’s visiting nobility that did not leave immediately remained firmly locked in their spacious guest rooms, far removed from the sick and filthy riff-raff below. Vivienne was among them. In the meantime, Josephine was busy using her diplomacy to smooth things over with the nobles who remained, and those who had heard about the plague from away.
Leliana kept her secrets, but it was soon revealed that she used her network of spies to track down and bring in various herbs, roots, and medicines they desperately needed, from out-of-the-way locations that would be hindered by road traffic or bandits.
Throughout the whole plague, Cullen alone felt torn in several different directions, yet useless in all of them. His men were sick, and the Inquisitor as well, yet he could not do anything for any of them. His training as a Templar made him useless in the art of healing or comforting the sick. At least Varric could read people excerpts of his stories to take their mind off their troubles (for those who were coherent enough to listen), or Sera could throw a pie at a rather haughty Chantry sister to make them laugh. Cullen wasn’t cut out for that.
He also felt torn between concern for his men and the Inquisitor. His men were far more numerous, yet the Inquisitor was far more ill. The Inquisitor may have been more ill, yet she had the best surgeons and caretakers tending to her round the clock, while healers were stretched thin down in the barracks. Yet, despite the Inquisitor’s excellent care, she alone was getting worse instead of better. And here he was, unable to do anything.
It frustrated him so much he was often found pacing in his office, or punching walls out of frustration for his own impotence.
And, of course, during this whole disaster Corypheus was still out there, no doubt ready to take advantage of their vulnerability. They had to stay extra vigilant with as many people they could still use in this crisis.
Only in between dealing with the reports and the visits to the sick ward did Cullen find time to see the Inquisitor.
The treatment the surgeon prescribed wasn’t helping. They kept her windows closed, her fireplace blazing, her bed moved close to the fireplace, and the Inquisitor herself wrapped up in several blankets. She just continued to drip sweat and cough wetly and moan pitiably—her mind lost to the land of fever dreams. She often moaned and muttered and thrashed around in her sleep, between coughing so wetly they feared she would cough up blood, until she did. The surgeon recommended mustard seeds, since they were hot and dry and so could “dry up” her wet, bloody lungs. This did little good, since she had barely any appetite, and the few times she did she more often than not leaned over to vomit.
“That’s good,” the surgeon said, “That means she’s purging herself of the yellow bile that’s producing the fever. She should get well in no time.”
The Inquisitor herself didn’t seem to think so. Cullen came up to visit her one time, bringing a rhubarb leaf from the kitchen so as not to feel like it wasn’t a completely unwarranted visit. He found her out of bed, crawling on the rug.
“Inquisitor!” he said with concern, and tried to help her up.
She was ghastly pale, and now skeleton thin, with sagging bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. She had just enough energy to lift her head as he lifted her into his arms (she was so light!), and cough violently.
“You should be in bed,” he said gently.
“I feel so cold,” she shivered.
“Well, no wonder,” he laughed, “with you out of bed.”
“No… no…” she murmured as he tried to place the blankets over her. She shook her head and weakly tried to push them back.
“I know it’s hard,” he said in his softest voice, “But you need to follow the doctor’s orders if you want to get better.”
“I need…” she murmured, then coughed violently from the irritation of using her voice.
“What do you need?” he asked gently.
“I need…” she was succumbing to the fever again, trying to stay focused as her mind started to drift. “I need… I need…”
Seeing her still weakly try to push away the blankets with her feet and grab at his mantle with her hands (though she was so weary her fingers merely stroked the fur), Cullen impulsively removed his lion mane mantle and draped it over her.
He hoped it wasn’t just his imagination (or wishful thinking) that she stopped struggling, then simply curled up under the lion mane and drifted peacefully off to sleep.
He stood over her for a moment, heartened by her seeming improvement. She was still ill and breathing raggedly, but at least she wasn’t thrashing or coughing violently in her sleep. After ensuring that her head was propped up by a pillow, his mantle was securely draped over her torso, and the surgeon’s blankets were covering her legs, he left her to get her much-needed rest.
“Sleep well,” he murmured as he left her room.
It didn’t occur to him till later that night that he’d have to wash his mantle after she recovered.
By the end of the second week, no one was getting worse. While the sick wards and chapel were still full to bursting with patients, there were no more deaths, and the symptoms of the live ones were steady to improving. Varric’s stories were in huge demand by the bored, bedridden patients who wanted to hear the next chapter in his saga; as were Sera’s pranks (usually among children) and Blackwall’s carved wooden toys for the little ones. Maryden’s songs would have brought good cheer had she not been ill herself—though she did find a small handful of her favorite flowers on her pillow, given to her by a young man whose face she could not recall.
The Inquisitor alone did not seem to improve. While she underwent a lot of the same common household treatments the other patients did, she remained as weak, feverish, and delirious as ever. Her brief rest after Cullen’s visit notwithstanding (which the surgeon scolded him over), she was still unable to sleep without coughing violently or thrashing about in her sleep.
“Must be because her liver is enflamed,” the surgeon said, heating up a small blade. “I was hoping that sweating out the phlegm would help her liver produce the right balance of humors to make her well again, but I was wrong. It seems she’s still producing an excess of choler.”
“Or, perhaps your decision to impose yet more heat on an already boiling patient has only made her fever worse instead of better,” Solas said.
Cassandra glared at him.
“Nonsense. We’ll have to bleed it out,” the surgeon put her knife down to cool. “The highest concentration of choler in the blood comes at the upper end of the liver, where it is produced. If we can bleed out most of the choler-rich blood, she’ll start to cool down.”
“I thought ‘sweating it out’ was your plan of action,” Solas said, with not some irritation.
Cassandra cleared her throat.
“It was, but this calls for more drastic actions,” she turned to Cassandra. “Normally I would recommend leaches, but given this altitude, it would take too long to import them from the lowlands, and they’ll not survive the cold for very long anyway. I’ve tried. We’ll have to resort to slightly more… barbarous methods.”
“Yes, because placing blood-sucking parasites on a sick patient is far less invasive than cutting her open with a small blade,” Solas said.
“Please excuse us, surgeon,” Cassandra said calmly, and asked Solas to accompany her outside, where she could admonish him without being overheard.
Cullen was raised on such standard household cures, along with Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine, and so he did not see as much wrong with it as the elven apostate. After all, a little bleeding never hurt anyone. Most patients reported feeling lighter and fresher afterwards.
Besides, it wasn’t as though the surgeon only recommended sweating or bleeding, as Solas so rudely implied. She also recommended putting a few good herbs in the water and broth the Inquisitor drank, which were well-known for their healing properties. Growing up, neither Cullen nor his three siblings ever went a day in the sick bed without a rhubarb leaf.*
When the bleeding failed to make the Inquisitor better, though, even Cullen was starting to have doubts. It just wasn’t working, and the Inquisitor was steadily getting worse while most of the other patients were steadily getting better.
“Well, she is an elf,” the surgeon said. “Elves are known for having weaker constitutions than humans.”
“She is not weak!” Cullen snapped at the surgeon, so loudly and suddenly that everyone flinched. “She is one of the strongest women I have ever known.”
“Of course,” the surgeon said numbly, “I only meant…”
“She may be light and thin like other elves, but that doesn’t make her any less resilient than you or I. I’ve seen her. She always carried herself with strength and confidence. She’s survived the mark nearly killing her twice; she survived a confrontation with the Elder One; she survived a mountain falling down on her! If she could survive getting lost in a blizzard, she can survive this!”
“Cullen! What’s gotten into you…?” Leliana exclaimed, but he’d had enough. He burst through the heavy wooden doors and stormed out.
The women gaped at each other. “What’s the matter with him?!”
Cullen paced in his office for a long time, wracking his brain for any way to help her. There must be something they hadn’t thought of yet! He had to think, think—what hadn’t they tried with her that they’d tried with others? Why were the other patients getting better where she was getting worse? (And he refused to believe it was because she was an elf—the elven servants who’d succumbed were getting better, so it must be something else.)
Well, for starters, the patients in the wards were getting a mixture of healing magic and everyday cures. They couldn’t use magic on her thanks to the mark. What about the herbs she was given? Well, they hardly seemed to work since she just threw them up as often as not.
He thought of how peacefully she’d curled up under his mantle, and how evenly she’d breathed after being released from her prison of blankets.
Maybe… but no, he told himself, it would never work!
He slammed his fist on the table, too frustrated for words.
He thought back to when he was a child, whenever he or his siblings got sick. He found himself thinking of his mother’s leek and parsnip stew. It was an old family recipe—one they broke out whenever someone got sick. No matter how ill they felt, no matter how far along in their symptoms, it always made them feel better.
He remembered one time when his little brother got bitten by an adder when they playing by the creek. Before long, he was severely ill; fever, hives, sweating, shivering, vomiting, and difficulty breathing—rasping and wheezing. They tried every common antidote recommended by the local apothecary, but they did little good. By nightfall he was delirious, and by the following morning they feared he wouldn’t survive. But then their mother made her famous leek stew, and by the next morning his fever broke, his airway was open, and he was on the road to recovery.
It seemed so foolish—and, from the outside, he was sure it sounded naïve—but it might work… He’d made it with his sister a couple of times when he was older, just before leaving for the Templars, so maybe he could remember…
He thought about writing to his sister to ask for the recipe, but decided against it. He hadn’t visited or written home in ages, so now it would add insult to injury by writing home out of the blue, not to see how everyone was, but to confirm an old recipe now that someone his siblings had never met was gravely ill.
No, he would write to them again when he got the chance. For now, he needed to take care of this…
A movement caught his eye. He looked over at his desk, and found a crumbled paper that wasn’t there a moment before. “What the…?”
He picked it up. A crumpled old piece of paper with a faded recipe on it. Huh. This looked exactly like the copy of the recipe his mother had written down. He looked it over. No, he was sure, this looked exactly like the copy of the recipe his mother had written down.
He looked over the ingredients and instructions, and was heartened. Yes! This was it!
Cullen thought about asking the cooks to make the soup, but for a few reasons. First, he wasn’t confident they knew how to make it right. It was an old family recipe, after all, and he wasn’t sure they knew how to give it the care and attention it deserved. Second, he was also too embarrassed to ask. As it was, most people looked for reasons to make fun of him here in the Inquisition, and all it took was one request for the cooks to make an old family recipe of his to help the Inquisitor (who just happened to be female…) for them to tease him forever about it. Finally, all it took was one visit to the kitchen to find one of the cook hands to chuck a skinned rat into a stew on account of being too low on pheasant meat, and to find one of the other cooks hacking up something wet and globby onto his hands before continuing to chopping vegetables like nothing had happened. Cullen decided he would make it himself.
He felt like a fool every step of the way. Ordering the ingredients, hoping no one would ask or guess the reason why. Getting the ordered ingredients to the kitchen of the now-deserted tavern, hoping no one would ask or guess the reason why. Making the stew, hoping every second that someone wouldn’t burst through the door asking or guessing the reason why. (He half expected Sera to burst in several times, but the thought of the sick and delirious Inquisitor kept him going.)
Hearing that the Inquisitor was finally well enough to sit up for a few minutes and keep some broth down was both encouraging and disheartening. Encouraging because maybe she wouldn’t throw this up. Disheartening because what if she was already getting well enough that she didn’t need this, and it was all for nothing?
A terror froze his heart when it occurred to him: What if she didn’t want this? What if she turned it away? What if she took one sip then spat it out like it was poisonous?
She won’t spit it out, said a soft voice in the back of his head. She’s so ill she’ll welcome any help.
Leeks and lions, mantle and mane, soft and soothing with a small smile with barely a simper. She would appreciate the gesture.
Heartened by this new thought, though unsure how or why, Cullen decided to go through with it. His newfound confidence deflated as soon as he got to the front door, though.
By far, the hardest part was carrying the stew up to the Inquisitor’s room, hoping every step of the way that no one would ask or guess why.
Somehow he made it up there unmolested, and knocked on the door—then felt stupid for doing so, because she was too ill to get up and answer anyway.
He slowly entered the room, and found her reclining in bed. She was paler than ever; ashen and pallid where once she had been smooth and luminous as the moon. Her eyes and lips were red and raw from excessive coughing and minimum sleeping. She was now bone-thin where once she had been merely elf-thin, and the skin around her eyes and face was loose and haggard from exhaustion. She was covered in blankets, but not tightly wrapped with them. She also had several extra pillows than before, propped up so she could recline. Perfect.
He approached, and she slowly opened her eyes. Comprehension came later than seeing, but when it did she smiled. “Anarra,”** she whispered.
That took him aback. “Um… yes,” he said.
There was an awkward silence. She had trouble keeping a steady gaze.
He cleared his throat, “I, um, I brought something for you,” he said, lifting the tray of stew for emphasis.
She smiled, took a deep breath, tried to hoist herself into a sitting position, then quickly fell forward and clutched her head and coughed violently.
“D-don’t!” he said, worried for her safety, but too full-handed to do anything.
He set the food down on the foot of the bed and helped her lean back on the pillows. “You don’t have to get up. You can stay where you are.”
Through the fog of fever, she forced herself to focus her eyes, then focused in on him. He then realized how close they were—his hands were on her shoulders, and her face was inches below his. He noticed her lips were red and full. The contrast to her otherwise unusually pale skin… it made him feel uncomfortably warm.
Still, he could not pull away. She continued to stare up at him. Slowly, comprehension filled her eyes like smoke in a crystal ball. “Cullen?” she rasped.
He felt completely deflated. She only recognized him now, not before? Who did she think he was before?
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, trying to smile back his disappointment.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in her low, hoarse voice.
“Nothing, um…” he picked up the tray again and placed it in front of her. It was one of those thick wooden trays with legs on the side, like a little table, so one could eat in bed. There was one in every noble guest’s bedroom.
“Um… I made this for you,” he said, lamely, and backed away. “I thought it might… make you feel better.”
She nodded, leaned over the stew, then plunged her fingers into the bowl and started scooping handful after handful into her mouth.
Cullen flinched. Her fingers soon turned red and raw from the heat of the broth, but she barely seemed to notice. She scooped, slurped, gulped; scooped, slurped gulped; again and again. (Before, he’d been worried that he’d simmered it over-long so all the ingredients became mush, but now he was glad or else she might have choked.) Thick, creamy broth dribble down her chin, and he felt sure that if she had longer hair it would dip into the bowl too.
After several gulps she stopped abruptly, then wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “What’s in this?”
“Um…” he said, feeling like a massive fool for even trying this. “L-leeks…”
“Good,” she murmured.
He smiled hopefully.
“What else?”
“Um… parsnips…”
“Onions?
“Yes.”
“Garlic?”
“Of course.”
She scooped two more handfuls into her mouth, more slowly and thoughtfully this time, heedless of how it dribbled down her chin.
She continued to grill him, and with every new guess he felt even more frustrated and defeated. He got it already! She didn’t like it. Why didn’t she just stop eating already? Save them both some frustration.
“Bay leaves?” she asked.
“Yes!” he cried, so mortified that he wished to leave all ready.
“Bay leaf,” she sighed.
She then wiped her chin with the back of her hand (though both were so filthy all it did was smear it) and reclined back on her pillows.
“I needed…” she murmured, her eyes heavy. “Herb… forest… only Dalish know…” she described it. “If you could just… tell Cole…”
Her heavy eyelids finally slid closed, and she drifted off to sleep.
Cullen stood there for a long time, clenching and unclenching his fists, then took his messy offering back to the kitchen. He walked there as calm as you please, but when he got back he was so angry with himself he could have kicked something. He did.
“Stupid, stupid!” he yelled at himself. “When will you learn to leave things alone?!”
He thought of Surana and her accusing eyes. How they’d watered from pain when she felt down those stairs, how they’d scrunched up in agony as she tried and failed to lift herself up. How they’d turned hard as stones when she saw him run over from across the room, after he’d heard her scream. How they’d glared like daggers when she’d slapped his hand away. A cold, hard rejection. She’d stayed there until Jowan came, and she wouldn’t get up until he’d brought Wynne, the healer. She didn’t look at him again.
It was the same now—a sick, weak, injured elven mage who didn’t even know his name—who didn’t even want his help. Why did he even bother doing this, when they didn’t want anything to do with him?!
“Well, well,” Leliana said from the doorway, “What peed in your porridge and then died in it this time?”
Cullen flinched. “Forgive me, I did not see you there.”
“Maybe not, but I saw you,” Leliana said as she strolled in, “I have eyes all over Thedas, remember?”
The cold dread in his gut was only matched by the hot shame in his face. “Of course you do…”
“I don’t see why you’re so upset about it,” Leliana said, “It’s cute.”
He couldn’t explain himself to her. “Maybe so, but it didn’t do any good.”
“Aw, don’t say that, Cullen,” she said. “My reports have been most favorable. She is sleeping well, perhaps for the first time in weeks.”
“Your reports,” he sneered, “why don’t you just call it like it is? A servant spied for you!”
“You were acting very peculiar. I had to ensure there was nothing amiss.”
“Well, you don’t need to bother doing that again, because I’m not doing this again.” He went to throw the whole stew pot into pail of pig slop (which was where most kitchen scraps went).
“But, why?” Leliana said, “Everything went well. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”
“She didn’t like it, Leliana,” he snapped. He found himself venting at her. “I poured my heart and soul into that stew—it’s an old family recipe, did your ‘reports’ tell you that?—and she barely tasted it. First she dug in like she hadn’t eaten in days, and then she started grilling me about what was in it, like I’d poisoned her or something. Then, she revealed she didn’t even want it—she just wanted an herb that only Cole could find, and wanted me to tell Cole. I’m so USELESS! She didn’t want my help, none of them do. I should have just left well enough alone or I…”
“Wait,” Leliana said, “You said she ate it before she knew what was in it?”
“Haven’t you been listening?!” he snapped.
She got that insufferable cat-ate-the-canary grin on her face. “Oh, you needn’t worry about her not liking it, Cullen,” she said as she strolled away. “The Dalish almost never eat something unless they know exactly what’s inside, even if it’s offered by a close friend. Too many poisonous toads and mushrooms out in the wilds, you see… and too many poison attempts by Andrastian traders.”
It slowly dawned on him. “You mean…?”
“That’s right,” she grinned. “The fact that she ate it at all means she trusts you. Implicitly.”
It hit him like a slap in the face.
“And the fact that she asked you to tell Cole how to bring the key to her survival. Well… that speaks for itself.”
She paused and looked back through the doorway, “And, as I said before, she is sleeping more peacefully than she has in weeks. Perhaps that ‘family recipe’ of yours did more good than you give it credit for.”
She left him alone with his thoughts.
The next time he went to visit the Inquisitor, he was less uptight and more humbled. He no longer worried about anyone seeing or mocking him, and he no longer depended on her reaction to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing.
She was still exhausted but more at ease. The smallest trace of color had returned to her face (he tried not to notice the red of her lips), and she lay propped up on her large pillows. Her breathing was still ragged, but now it was mostly cough-less. She still looked tired, gaunt, haggard and worn, but there was a soft, wistfulness in her tiredness, that was almost beautiful.
She opened her eyes as he approached.
“Cullen,” she smiled as he walked in.
His heart hammered in his chest, which must have split a blood vessel since his face grew iron-hot.
“Inquisitor,” he said, wielding his usual formality like a shield.
She grinned. “That’s my title, don’t wear it out,” she rasped, her voice still raw from weeks of coughing.
He half-laughed, then corrected himself. At least she had her old sense of humor back.
“So you’re feeling better?” he asked.
She gestured to her reclining position weakly. “As you can see.”
“Good,” he breathed a sigh of relief.
She smiled at him.
A small silence fell over them.
“You… have something for me?” she asked, spying what he held in his hands.
“O-oh,” he said, and brought over the wooden tray. “I, uh, made this for you.”
“Wonderful!” she croaked, sitting up a little in bed.
“Please, allow me,” he fussed, and set it down in front of her.
She grinned, then leaned forward to deeply inhale the steam. “Mmm! I had a dream about this!”
“Y-you did?”
“Yeah! I…” she paused, swallowed a mouthful of saliva to moisten her raw throat, then continued, “I dreamed you brought me this.”
“Oh…” he paused awkwardly. “That… um… th-that actually happened.”
She paused. “Really?”
He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Was it suddenly unbearably hot in here, or was it just him?
Her smile had never been so soft or gentle. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Despite how much his face burned, he smiled.
-
And that’s a wrap. Given how shy and unsure he acts in the romance in the game, Cullen strikes me as the kind that constantly worries and second-guesses himself.
* Rhubarb leaves are poisonous, so don’t try to use them as a household remedy.
** She’s trying to say, “Andaran Atish’an,” but she’s too tired and sick to speak or think clearly.
Retour en haut
It's not even a popular headcanon ship, but then BW fandom hates slashing, with the notable but bizarre exception of Cullrian 
