In the solemn atmosphere of the War Room, Cullen stood amidst the Inquisition's council, Miriam notably absent, grappling with the weight of recent events. It had been a rough couple of days since the patrol reported to him that the body of the Templar was discovered under Skyhold's walls, sprawled upon the stones. He vividly recalled how the soldier marked the map, pinpointing with a finger the exact location where the lifeless form had been found. In that instant, the notion that it might be Lysette did not even cross his mind. Despite his earnest endeavors, his thoughts wandered incessantly, pondering whether, months prior, when Miriam beseeched for a guard, choosing a different Knight for her might have steered fate onto a different path.
"Cullen!?" The sharpness of Cassandra's voice sliced through the haze of his thoughts, yanking him back to the present moment.
"Ah, forgive my distraction," he murmured, turning his attention to the Seeker who stood sentinel-like, arms folded across her chest, at the far end of the war table.
With a weary sigh, the Right Hand spoke, "I had inquired as to the expected length of the Inquisitor's absence from her duties. While I sympathize with her plight, it is possible to grieve while still fulfilling one's responsibilities. I believe that earnest labor serves as the road to healing."
Cullen's brow knitted in concern as he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. The shock of Lysette's tragic demise had struck Miriam with devastating force. It had taken nearly an entire day of tireless persuasion to convince her that she had not been ensnared within the clutches of the Fade. And yet, even after achieving this fragile victory, Miriam seemed to falter, as if buffeted by unseen winds, her only plea to him being a desperate request to be taken far from her chambers. At that moment, Cullen had felt a profound sense of helplessness, left with no choice but to usher her to his quarters, where she had since secluded herself, allowing only his presence. "She remains steadfast in her refusal to depart from my chambers. She neither eats nor sleeps, but instead spends her time in fervent prayer," he admitted with a heavy heart.
The Spymaster's tone held a glint of disdain, tinged with a subtle hint of irritation. "Allowing her sanctuary within your quarters was unwise from the outset. Such coddling only served to entrench her grief. When the Maker deals a blow, one must confront it head-on, not seek shelter from its wrath."
Cullen's gaze hardened into flint, his jaw tightening with tension. "The Maker played no part in this," he countered sharply, his voice edged with accusation. "I warned you repeatedly about meddling in their relationship. If only you had listened."
Leliana's eyes flashed for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. "Why, I wonder, am I to bear the blame for the Templar's reckless decision to end her own life? Let us not overlook," she continued, her voice measured yet steely, "that had Gaspard's agent not infiltrated Skyhold under the guise of Ser Michel de Chevin, pilfering sensitive documents and orchestrating their 'accidental' exposure to the Inquisitor, she would have remained unaware of Lysette's ties to me. We all share responsibility for this breach."
Josephine sighed deeply, her fingers nervously toying with the quill. "In all honesty, we lack concrete proof implicating His Majesty in this matter. What we do know is that a day after the incident with Lysette took place, I received a letter from Baron Desjardins, soliciting assistance on behalf of Ser Michel, who claimed to be fighting a powerful demon in Emprise du Lion. This was utterly perplexing, as the man had been residing with us as an ally for several weeks by that point. Upon dispatching a messenger to summon Ser Michel to my office, I received disquieting news, his chamber stood vacant, bereft of his belongings, and the man himself was nowhere to be found. It is still difficult to fathom how thoroughly the impostor deceived me. His documents on arrival were impeccable, and he certainly looked and sounded the part, though with Orlesians and their masks, one can never be certain of who is truly beneath the facade."
Cullen's muscles tensed involuntarily. The man's cunning escape had been facilitated by his oversight: Skyhold's vigilant guards had remained predictable in their rotation schedule, unchanged during the impostor's residence within the fortress. As Commander, the onus rested squarely upon his shoulders; he had become complacent, allowing the schedule to stagnate for extended periods. Such negligence could not be repeated. Bitterly, he had to agree with Leliana's earlier assertion: they all bore a share of the blame for this failure.
"When you lack clues to discern the culprit, Josie, look to those who both have the capability and hold a motive to commit the crime," Leliana replied grimly, her voice carrying a weight of certainty. "Gaspard possesses the means to fabricate convincing documents for the impostor masquerading as Ser Michel de Chevin, and he stands to reap considerable benefits from the discord sown between Lysette and the Inquisitor. It would be foolish to think he hasn't realized the significance of the Knight in uncovering her private affairs." She sighed, her tone bordering on lamentation. "The Templar may not have been the sharpest, I admit, but Maker, was she useful."
Cullen felt an almost physical urge to comment on her last remark but refrained, knowing it would only escalate the tension between them further.
"I suppose it was the Emperor's way of getting back at us for thwarting his plans to wed the Herald," Cassandra murmured to no one in particular.
"What of the myriad nobles, traders, pilgrims, and recruits who traverse the threshold of Skyhold each day? Can we vouch for their authenticity with absolute certainty?" Cullen questioned, his focus shifting from the motivations of the cursed man to the pressing need to avert further catastrophe.
Josephine's response came with a somber shake of her head. "It proves to be a challenging task. For our esteemed guests of noble lineage, I've sought the expertise of an individual well-versed in heraldry and the scrutiny of legal documents. However, for those of more modest origins with no papers to speak of, I fear we are left with uncertainty," she confessed, her voice tinged with apprehension.
Cassandra leaned heavily on the table, her expression grave. "Yet we cannot turn them away. Our success thus far has been predicated on inclusivity. The Inquisition was founded on the principle of welcoming all who seek to stand with us," she asserted firmly.
"I am well aware of it," Leliana interjected with a weighted tone. "That's why instead of closing our doors I have reinforced the security protocols surrounding my archives, and my agents are conducting random identity checks on common residents. However, it's inevitable that we will eventually need to exercise greater discretion in determining who is welcomed into our organization and who is not."
"Oh, before I forget," the Ambassador chimed in to change the subject, "After consulting with the representatives of the Order, we have reached an agreement regarding the official account of Lysette's fall from the Inquisitor's balcony. It will be attributed to a fit of epilepsy, described as occurring while she was peacefully leaning against the balustrade, admiring the beauty of the Maker's creation. This narrative offers a more dignified and favorable portrayal for all parties concerned. Commander, I would appreciate it if you informed the Inquisitor about this."
Feeling a slight pang of guilt, Cullen nodded in agreement. He had never been one to prefer a beautiful lie to the ugly truth, but if the latter were to become public knowledge, what good would it do? Miriam would find it even more challenging to overcome her guilt, Lysette's family wouldn't receive compensation from the Templar Order, and Sebastian would be burdened with a sense of responsibility. Despite what his principles dictated, this time he found himself in favor of the deception. The corner of his lip twitched; evidently, the mindset of lying for the greater good was beginning to rub off on him.
"Also, inform the Herald that sooner rather than later, she will have to return to her duties," the Spymaster added. "I am on the verge of deciphering the papers we found in the red lyrium mine regarding Samson's whereabouts."
Cullen felt his pulse quicken at the mere mention of the corrupted Templar's name. Finally, the last tie to his past would be severed. "We will be ready to move out as soon as you know his location," he declared firmly, his voice resonating with determination. As the words left his lips, he couldn't help but hope that this new challenge might offer Miriam a much-needed distraction from her sorrow.
"We?" Leliana arched an eyebrow, her expression betraying mild surprise at Cullen's inclusion of himself in the upcoming mission. "Considering your current condition," she said, gesturing towards his left arm. "Don't you think your expertise would be more valuable here, strategizing and coordinating our forces, rather than in active combat."
Before he could retort, Cassandra turned to face the Spymaster, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "Do not underestimate the value of Cullen's presence in any military endeavor. Even without his prowess on the battlefield, his strategic mind and leadership skills are indispensable. We will need him there, Leliana."
His expression softened slightly at the Seeker's defense, acknowledging her support with a nod of gratitude.
Josephine interjected, her voice gentle yet persuasive. "Moreover, given the fragile state of the Inquisitor's mind, it would be prudent for her betrothed to accompany her, offering much-needed support."
After a moment's thought, the Spymaster nodded in agreement. "Your points are well taken," she admitted. "Now, unless there are pressing matters at hand, I would prefer to resume my duties. Gaspard's agent, posing as Ser Michel, not only made off with my correspondence with Lysette but also managed to steal far more sensitive documents from my archives." Her tone shifted, gravitating towards a more somber timbre as she concluded her remark.
Cullen's apprehension deepened as he turned to Leliana. "Would you care to elaborate?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.
Leliana met his gaze with a composed demeanor, her expression becoming unreadable. "No."
A surge of annoyance welled within him, threatening to spill forth in a demand for respect and further information. Yet before he could voice his discontent, the Spymaster nodded briskly and swiftly departed from the War Room, her footsteps echoing faintly in the tense silence.
Left standing there, Cullen couldn't help but let out a sigh of exasperation. "She truly tests my patience," he muttered under his breath. He glanced around the room, seeking some semblance of understanding or support in the faces of his fellow council members.
The Seeker, observing his demeanor, approached with a sympathetic smile. "Leliana has always been one to keep her cards close to her chest," she remarked, offering his shoulder a reassuring pat as she made her way towards the exit. "You'll learn to navigate it in time."
Would he, though? Cullen harbored doubts. Transparency and trust among comrades were virtues he held dear. Yet, expecting such qualities from the Spymaster was akin to expecting a dwarf to cast spells. He shook his head, a sense of resignation coloring his thoughts, and silently followed Cassandra and Josephine out of the War Room.
Leaving the Ambassador to her office, he and Cassandra exited the Great Hall, their conversation shifting to training techniques for the recruits as they descended the stairs. After a few moments of conversing in the courtyard, they bid their farewells, and the Right Hand made her way towards the training grounds, her determined stride carrying her away.
Cullen was about to return to his office when his attention was drawn to the commotion emerging from the Herald's Rest. Through the open door, he caught sight of Branson and Rosalie exiting the tavern. Rosalie practically carried their brother out of the establishment, his movements unsteady and his gaze unfocused from the effects of the drink.
A flicker of frustration danced across Cullen's features as he observed the unfolding scene before him. Hastening his steps, he closed the distance between them. At Mia's insistence, he commanded Branson's release from the cells. Though his brother was now free from confinement, the prohibition against selling him alcohol remained firmly in place—yet here he was, evidently inebriated beyond measure.
As Cullen approached the siblings, he extended a helping hand to his pregnant sister, his expression a mixture of concern and disappointment. "Let me help you carry him. You shouldn't be exerting yourself in your current state."
She recoiled, swatting his hand away as though he were a persistent mosquito. "Piss off. My state is none of your concern," she retorted sharply, her tone laced with bitterness as she continued to drag their brother through the courtyard.
Undeterred by her hostility, Cullen followed closely behind, though he refrained from further attempts to intervene. "Do you know how he managed to get drunk?"
Rosalie stopped abruptly, shooting him a glare. "I'm the one who bought his drinks! Thanks to your dumb rules, now I gotta tag along every time he wants to get smashed."
Cullen regarded her in bewilderment. "Why would you do that?"
"Be-hic-se, y'know, she frick lov… me, ya prick!" Branson's words slurred as he struggled to focus his gaze. "Go to -hic - Void."
"That I do, Maker knows why, though," Rosalie mumbled, a touch of fondness in her voice as she resumed her slow progress.
Cullen shook his head in frustration, his gaze fixed on his sister. "I don't understand you, truly, I don't," he admitted. "What you and Mia are doing is enabling. Your love will get him killed."
Rosalie paused in her steps. "It ain't our love that's gonna get Bran in trouble," she shot back, sounding tired. "It's you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." She took a deep breath before going on. "Mia tried to cut him off booze a few years ago. He got so desperate, he broke into the infirmary and swiped the physician's alcohol, thinking he could get wasted on that stuff. Nearly kicked the bucket 'cause of it."
Cullen's expression turned somber as he listened to Rosalie's words. He hadn't considered the lengths to which his brother would go to satisfy his cravings. "It's this bad…"
"Yeah, it's this bad, so just bugger off," she replied, but there was no anger in her voice anymore, just exhaustion.
Cullen stood still, watching Rosalie strain under Branson's weight as she started to struggle up the stairs. For a moment, he hesitated, and then signaled discreetly to a passing soldier, quietly instructing him to lend a hand to his sister without drawing attention. As he observed his command being executed, he contemplated that perhaps he should indeed just 'bugger off'.
After all, he reminded himself, they neither needed nor wanted him in their lives. With a heavy sigh, he turned away, and headed to his office.
As he crossed the threshold, strains of the Canticle of Penance wafted down from the second floor, carried by Miriam's fervent voice. "In the flicker of flames, I lay my soul bare, each sin, each burden I can no longer bear. Oh Maker, let the fire consume, let it purify, and cleanse me of sin as it dances high."
Cullen's breath caught in his throat as he listened, his apprehension growing with each word. "Miriam?!" he called out to her.
In response, the next lines of the Canticle resounded through the chamber, "With every inch of skin turned to ash, my guilt is released. In the fire's hot wrath, my spirit finds peace!"
Adrenaline pumping, he dashed to the ladder and began climbing to his private quarters. In his haste, however, he failed to consider his injured hand, which no longer had the strength to grasp properly. With a sudden pang of pain, he lost his grip and tumbled to the ground with a resounding thump. The chanting momentarily halted, the mage undoubtedly catching the sound of his fall. "Miriam, speak to me!" he implored, his voice filled with urgency. Yet, as soon as she registered his words, she resumed her incantations with even greater fervor, as if spurred on by his plea. Cursing under his breath, Cullen pushed himself upright, his body throbbing with protest. Ignoring the pain, he rose to his feet and repeated the process, this time with more caution and deliberation. Each rung of the ladder felt like an eternity as he ascended, his heart pounding in his chest with every step.
Reaching the top of the ladder and pulling himself onto the platform, he was met with a sight that confirmed his worst fears. Miriam kneeled in the center of the room, her crimson eyes wide open, her face contorted with agony, every muscle strained as she struggled to maintain the Canticle. Her hands, clad in the rolled-up sleeves of her robes, were stretched towards the heavens, fingers splayed wide as if reaching for something beyond mortal grasp. From the quivering tips of her fingers to the weathered skin of her elbows, the flames licked hungrily at her skin, leaving behind angry red blisters that bubbled and burst with each passing moment.
For a few fleeting seconds, he stood transfixed, his senses assaulted by the harrowing sight before him. But as the initial shock waned, a surge of urgency gripped his soul once more. He rushed towards the mage, closing the distance between them in a blink of an eye. "Stop!" he shouted, wishing, for the first time in a long while, that he had his Templar abilities to stop this madness. Despite the searing heat emanating from Miriam, he frantically attempted to extinguish the flames engulfing her hands. His mailed palms beat against the fiery onslaught in a desperate rhythm, but it was utterly futile against the magic of the mark.
She recoiled from his touch, her eyes glazed with fervent resolve, and with a guttural cry, "No, I must atone!" She pushed him away with an unexpected force that sent him stumbling backward.
Undeterred, he persisted, his movements becoming more forceful, and as she struggled against him, he lost his footing in the folds of her robes, and they both tumbled to the floor. His heart hammered within his chest, the pulsation matching the rhythm of their tumult. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, holding her close despite the searing heat of the flames igniting the fabric of his tabard and singeing the fur on his cloak. "You are not the only one whose soul suffers in the sight of the Maker," he declared, his words tumbling forth with haste and intensity. "This madness is not the answer. If it were, then He would not grant me the strength to overcome my struggles. He would not have sent you, whose resilience inspires me each day. You mustn't allow yourself to be consumed when so many forces stand against us. But if you truly believe this is the path to repentance, then I shall burn with you!"
His impassioned words seemed to break through her veil of conviction, and as the flames dissipated, she ceased her struggle, her body going limp beneath him. In the ensuing silence, he could discern the rough rhythm of her breath against his neck, and the sickening scent of burnt flesh assailed his nostrils.
With the utmost care, Cullen extricated himself from the mage, mindful of exacerbating her injuries. Kneeling beside her, he surveyed the aftermath of her self-imposed penance. The skin on her arms, charred and blistered, revealed raw, angry flesh beneath, with wisps of smoke still curling from the wounds. In stark contrast, however, the mark and the emerald veins remained unscathed, their integrity and brilliance undiminished.
"Maker's breath, can you heal yourself? Should I fetch a healing potion?" he inquired urgently, adrenaline coursing through his veins once more.
Miriam's voice, though strained, held a note of desperation as she whispered, "I can, but if this is not the way to atone for what happened to Lysette, then what is?" Tears welled up in her eyes. "The guilt, it's consuming me. I've prayed and begged the Maker, asking how to set things right, but He remains silent. What if He has turned His gaze away from me?"
Cullen's heart clenched at the unfiltered anguish in the mage's voice. He extended his hand toward her, briefly brushing her cheek to wipe away the tears. "You still bear the powers of Andraste's mark," he began softly. "Do you not believe that if He were to forsake you, He would also strip you of them? Now, I implore you, heal yourself."
"But…" she began, her voice faltering.
"I am certain that the Maker would not demand such suffering from His child, His Bride's Herald," Cullen insisted, his voice firm. "Please."
Miriam hesitated, her brow furrowed as she pondered his words for a moment. Then, to his immense relief, she began to channel healing magic, her hands trembling as they radiated with soft light, shimmering like sunlight on water. He watched as tendrils of golden energy delicately caressed the burns, repairing the damage wrought by the flames. The sweat of effort covered Miriam's brow, yet her pain seemed to gradually ease, as evidenced by the softening of her features. Finally, the glow faded, leaving behind renewed flesh, albeit marred by deep, uneven ridges. He noted with a pang that her right palm, already scarred by fire before, suffered more visibly than the rest. The new skin there was mottled with discoloration, patches of pale pink interspersed with areas where it had darkened and toughened, and a few of her fingernails were missing. The sight pierced his soul with sorrow, but he did his best to conceal it.
"I can still feel some pain lingering, but it will pass in time," she whispered, her voice tinged with exhaustion. "I am fine, do not trouble yourself."
While inwardly acknowledging that everything that happened bespoke anything but fine, Cullen chose his words carefully. "That's a relief. Now, let's get somewhere more comfortable." Miriam nodded weakly in agreement, her weariness palpable as she leaned into his supportive touch. With care, he slid his hand beneath her back, assisting her as she slowly sat up, her movements labored. Then, rising to his feet, he took the mage by the upper arm, offering her his strength as he guided her towards his bed. It was a familiar place for Miriam, having occupied it during her stay with him over the past few days. Meanwhile, Cullen himself had slept on a bunk tucked away in the far corner of the room, a small sacrifice made willingly for the sake of her comfort and well-being.
With measured steps, they made their way to the bed and settled onto its soft surface. For a while, they sat side by side in hushed silence, enveloped in a cocoon of shared tumultuous experience. It was the mage who broke it, her voice a hesitant whisper. "What... what exactly should I do to atone, then?"
Cullen paused, his brow furrowing in thought as he considered her question carefully. "I will be honest with you," he began slowly. "When you first recounted the events of that day, I did question the wisdom of revealing Lisette's secret to Sebastian. However, I never once held you responsible for her decision. We each have our roles to fulfill in life, but we cannot bear the burden of every consequence alone."
Miriam's gaze dropped, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. "Even if it wasn't intentional, I triggered that tragedy." Her shoulders sagged, "If I hadn't sought revenge, none of it would have happened."
Cullen reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But dwelling on what could have been won't change anything." His struggles with self-blame lingered in the back of his mind, making it feel somewhat hypocritical to offer such advice. Yet, despite his own imperfections, he wanted Miriam to avoid the same pitfalls he had faced. "I believe your atonement lies not in punishing yourself for what happened, but in learning from it and finding ways to honor Lisette's memory."
Miriam looked up, her eyes searching his for guidance. "But how?"
Cullen considered her question thoughtfully, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "There are many ways to honor someone's memory," he replied softly. "You can strive to be the best version of yourself, to make choices that reflect the values your friend held dear. You can seek out opportunities to help others, to bring light into the world in Lysette's name." As he spoke, Cullen could see a glimmer of hope returning to Miriam's eyes. "Ultimately, it's about finding meaning in the wake of tragedy and using it to guide your actions moving forward. Lisette may be gone, but her spirit lives on in the memories you hold dear. And by honoring those memories, you keep her legacy alive."
"I will endeavor to do just that," Miriam uttered. "I shall hold her memory as that of a gentle and noble woman, one who bestowed upon me the gift of friendship, a bond cherished deeply by both. The conflicts that marred our relationship... they have been purged by the flames of Andraste," she concluded, her voice resonating with newfound conviction. "Thank you," she added, her voice filled with emotion. "For showing me the way."
In response, Cullen gently squeezed her shoulder. "Just promise me, that you won't harm yourself like this ever again."
Miriam opened her mouth as if to respond, but her gaze suddenly fell upon the charred fabric of Cullen's tabard and the singed fur of his cloak. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her eyes widening in alarm as she took in the damage inflicted upon his attire. Turning her whole frame to face him, she reached out to touch the scorched fibers.
"I... I'm so sorry," she stammered, her voice thick with remorse. "I can't believe I am only noticing this now. I never wanted to cause you harm!"
Worried that the fragile sense of relief he had managed to instill in her might shatter once again, Cullen hurriedly interjected, "It's nothing. Just a few burned patches. There's no need for you to worry about it."
"Oh, but your poor cloak," she fretted, her voice laden with self-reproach.
Cullen tenderly enveloped her hands within his own, his touch delicate as he guided them away from the fabric of his clothing before letting go. "It's alright." Seeking to divert her thoughts, he shifted the conversation with an inquiry, "Would you care for something to eat? You haven't taken a bite in days."
With a soft exhale, Miriam shook her head, weariness etched into the lines of her face. "No, not particularly. I'm just so tired," she confessed.
"Then why don't you rest?"
"I wish I could," she whispered. "But I dare not surrender to sleep since Lysette's passing. I fear the nightmares awaiting me in the Fade."
"Would it ease your mind if I stayed with you?" He offered tentatively. "Perhaps holding your hand as you drift into slumber?"
The mage's countenance lit up. "Oh, would you? Truly?"
"Of course, I'll stay right here," he assured her. With gentle hands, he carefully eased Miriam into a comfortable recline on the bed, ensuring she was settled just so. "Just give me a moment while you settle beneath the covers." With deliberate motions, he rose from his seat and crossed the room with purpose, making his way towards the armor rack. There he shed the trappings of his station—cloak, tabard, breastplate, and gloves. As each piece found its place upon the stand, a chorus of responsibilities echoed in his mind, a relentless reminder of the duty left unattended. Yet, amidst the clamor, a singular truth emerged: for now, the needs of his beloved eclipsed all else.
After completing his tasks, he returned to the bed, removed his boots, and slipped beneath the blanket to lie beside Miriam. As he settled in, the comforting warmth emanating from the woman at his side enveloped him. Cullen's right arm slid under the mage's lithe frame, wrapping around her and drawing her close against his chest. His free hand reached out to clasp hers, fingers intertwining to assure her of his presence. He knew that some words from the Chant of Light would soothe her restless heart. "Remember," he whispered, "the one who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world…" He paused, a silent invitation for Miriam to complete the verse.
"She shall know true peace," she murmured, her breath a soft caress against his skin. "Thank you, I find comfort in the familiar cadence of sacred text."
"Sleep tight." Observing her countenance soften and her eyes close, he found himself compelled to tenderly bestow a kiss upon her brow. In the quiet intimacy of their embrace, Cullen couldn't help but ponder the circumstances that had brought them to this moment. It marked their first instance of sharing a bed, and truth be told, he harbored a wish for this milestone to transpire in the aftermath of their wedding celebration, not emerging from the shadows of a distressing ordeal. But after all they had endured, the simple reality of being together, wrapped in safety and tranquility, felt like an immeasurable blessing. Although the Maker had woven a different tapestry than he had hoped for, he accepted the divine design with gratitude.
When Miriam's breathing slowed, her muscles relaxed, and she drifted into sleep, his mind shifted to thoughts of his own nightmares. Their severity had always been subject to fate's capricious whims. Some nights, they were a chilling wind, freezing him to the core, his bones threatening to snap from the strain of breathing. Other times, they were a scorching inferno, searing his soul with agony, making a branding iron seem like a gentler touch in comparison. Those terrors, however torturous, were not what tested his resilience, for they were brief and would soon escape his mind after awakening. What truly made him fear the impending slumber were the nightmares, which peeled back the deepest folds of his mind and placed him back where he had no desire to live. Where even his most mighty of struggles were doomed to create only worse outcomes for himself or worse, those he had already or had yet to fail. In those moments, he could neither act nor give in to helplessness, for both would only serve to break him further.
That's why, before every star-strewn canvas of the night, he embarked on a quest. He would search for a feeling akin to a cool breeze on a hot day or a warm drink when returning from a patrol under the strict supervision of a snowstorm. Not a tangible treasure to grasp or covet, but rather an intangible essence. Her essence. When he found himself enveloped in such a sensation, he surrendered to it, trusting that even if whatever the visions delivered to him that night would shatter him into pieces finer than dust, Miriam would be his dawn's salvation. She would help piece him back together again like the gentlest of hands reassembling a fragile mosaic. That thought, above all else, gave him hope and offered solace.
Cullen squeezed the mage's hand a little tighter, wondering if he was her saving presence as well. Either way, he vowed that when the nightmares inevitably stole her peace and tore at her heart with echoes of past sorrows, he would be there to mend the frayed edges, threading hope through the darkness one stitch at a time.