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There was something about Niah Trevelyan that made Cullen feel like a bumbling idiot. He could stay up long, late nights coming up with strategies and possible scenarios for battles that may never happen. But he could not plan for her.
He had stumbled — over his words and been hopelessly awkward in the precious few private conversations they’d shared. He went over and over possible things to say to her, trying to anticipate her answers, practice his responses. It never mattered. An offhanded smile, and those entrancing eyes of hers would send a flush rising on his cheeks. The words that had been on the tip of his tongue suddenly felt jumbled and clumsy. Inadequate. He’d often wondered if she had similar interactions with her other advisors. Was he misreading signals or attributing meaning to simple, friendly behavior? Maker, having a mind that analyzed every little movement, every word and intonation from a sentence was no blessing.
He had slipped —he had taxed himself too heavily, he had pushed himself too far after Adamant. The pain that was always there, always reminding- the pain that he could not remember living without- had seemed so much heavier that day. That day, more than any other, it seemed so impossible for him to keep fighting, to keep dragging it around. It made no sense for him to keep doing something that did not seem to be working. He might as well be banging his head against a solid stone wall. No. Not if it was hurting the Inquisition. Surely someone else could take his place.
He had faltered — only a little. His will had slipped only enough for him to start doubting himself. His vision had narrowed, and all he could see or hear was the pain, whispering up the back of his neck and screaming in his ears, dark purple and pulling him back to that place. Lyrium would quiet it, push it back down, give him control. That was all he wanted- control. All he asked was for it to lessen for a little while. Just a few hours of relief, then he would find the strength to forge ahead. He could not remember what life had been like without the ache, lingering in the deepest parts of his bones themselves- waiting. It was always waiting.
The Inquisitor had seen him snarling and frustrated and ready to give in. Gripping the edge of his desk in fury as his knuckles flared hot under his dark leather gloves. Looking back, tiny shadows of shame curled through the pit of his stomach as he wondered what he had looked like to her. Teetering on the brink of losing control, when really that was all he had ever wanted.
He had not missed her flinch as he launched the tiny box that had been taunting him across the room. The noise as it splintered apart and something fragile shattered brought an cathartic (if ephemeral) flash of relief - it almost sounded like wind chimes. A twinge of sadness in his throat as he realized she moved too quickly - her eyes too wide- was that fear that flickered across her face?- for it to have been the first time she’d dodged a domestic projectile. Apologies had fallen out of his mouth faster than ever before as roaring worry had pounded in his ears. Forgive me, I had not realized…
Worry had stained her face and her voice was soft when she asked if he was going to be alright. She patiently weathered the storm, waiting out the tirade as his whole unpleasant history poured out of him. The words pulled at something in the very center of his being. Heat rose in his chest, as he felt himself get lost in his own words. The Inquisitor, his office, Skyhold itself seemed to fade, giving way to flashes of memory- as sharp and as clear as ever. He had given to the Chantry, he had served faithfully. What had it gotten him? Demons. Abominations. Torture. Blood Magic, Qunari and a Mage Rebellion. Now, here where he was trying to do some good and change things- he did not have the strength. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. He felt his arms shake as the fury washed over him, carrying his fist into the nearest bookcase.
What do you want? Niah’s calm voice had cut through the haze of memories he had conjured, pulling him back to Skyhold and back to his office. As if the whole thing could be that simple.
What if it is too much? What if I cannot endure it?
A light hand on his chest, willowy fingers strong enough to pull him back to solid ground as they pressed gently against his plate. Niah’s eyes had held his for a long moment. She was closer than he ever remembered her ever being before. He could make out the faintest of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The grey of Niah’s eyes sparkled green at the edges, and long, impossibly dark lashes framed them as they fixed him in place.They were not bright or wide with hope, but even and sure. She spoke as if she was stating fact, she was certain.
You can.
When she left - when she took her hand from his chest, she took an immeasurably small part of the pain with her. Not enough to make a physical difference but- It was such a tiny thing, to know someone (other than Cassandra) believed that much in him. But it was enough.