A Candle in the Darkness (A Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfiction)

A Near Thing

10 Firstfall, 9:41

Thin tendrils of shadow were snaking out from the walls, beginning to coat the floor. Cullen thrashed against the invisible chains, but they held him down securely, and around him the demons laughed, their voices harsh in their flaming throats. He didn't know which was worse, the flames or the dark fingers of the shades, which burned in a different way as they flowed over his skin.

But the worst was yet to come, when she sauntered out of the swirling darkness, tassels twirling, her voice anything but harsh. It caressed inside his ears, inside his head, making him feel things, making him want things, until he was ready to beg her to take the chains off so he could touch her.

Then her voice changed, becoming crisp and light and familiar and dear, and he wanted so badly to reach for her, to accept the offer she made. Slowly her face lowered toward his, and he could see the bright brown eyes—

Cullen sat up in bed, his heart pounding with horror. The dream wasn't new, but Antonia's face on the desire demon? That was new. And awful. Stomach-turningly awful. He was covered in sweat, and he tossed the covers off the bed entirely, letting the cold air coming in through the damaged roof cool him off. He might tell people he was just waiting for the rest of the keep to be repaired before he got around to the roof above his office, but truly it was because he needed the chill of the night air to cool the fevers of his dreams and the night sweats that came from the lack of lyrium.

He could almost see it glinting in the bottle downstairs, and before he knew what he was doing he was out of bed, his bare feet finding the rungs of the ladder. Halfway down, he thought of Antonia's habit of simply throwing herself over the side and sliding down the outer rungs of any ladder she came to, in order to save time. He laughed, and with the laugh he came back to himself.

Cullen reversed course and climbing the ladder again, huddling at the top, shaking with the chill of the room and the stark reality of how easy it would have been to lose every inch of control he had gained in one moment of desperation.

That had been a near thing—he hadn't come that close to taking the lyrium in a long time. He still wanted it, badly, his muscles cramping as he sat there at the top of the ladder, shaking with the pain. Not for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he was doing the Inquisition a disservice by offering himself to them in this impaired condition. If he was taking the lyrium, he would have access to that power, and he wouldn't be struggling so badly to do something as simple as sleep. Surely a better-rested commander would be better at his job.

If you'd been taking the lyrium at Haven ... He shut his ears to that hateful voice. No Templar talent, no amount of rest, could have changed what happened at Haven.

In the meantime, if he didn't at least try to get some more sleep he'd regret it tomorrow.

Hours later, he gave up. Sleep had been elusive, and there had been more than one abrupt awakening from a disturbing nightmare. When he finally gave up and went for a rigorous training session and a hot bath, he was still so tired he almost fell asleep in the tub.

When Antonia sat next to him at breakfast, he was sitting with a plate of rapidly cooling toast and a cup of tea, staring off into the distance. "You look terrible," she said.

"Thank you," he snapped. "So do you. I mean ... oh, Maker's breath, I'm sorry. I'm—"

"Clearly exhausted."

"Now you're finishing my sentences for me? Perhaps you'd like to cut my meat as well." So much for apologizing. He should just get up and leave if he was going to snap at her with every sentence.

"If you had some, I might," Antonia said coolly. "And you ought to have some—it'll keep your strength up."

Cullen bit his tongue against another acidic reply. She hadn't done anything wrong, except that the demons in his dreams had used her voice and her face over and over again. He didn't even want to look at her, too afraid he would see them instead.

"Hey," she said softly. "Talk to me."

"Why? You can't fix it. No one can."

"I know that, but you don't have to go through it alone. Not anymore."

Now he did look up, meeting her eyes. They were different than in his nightmares—they were soft, and concerned, and tender. The demons had never looked at him like that. No one had ever looked at him quite like that.

"And don't you dare tell me that it's sweet of me to offer and pat me on the head," she added, and her eyes warmed with humor. Another attribute demons simply didn't have. The nightmares had awakened in him a fear that someday he would look at her and see a demon, or he would hurt her by lashing out in a moment when nightmare and reality came together, the type of moments brought on by the lack of lyrium. But perhaps the details of her, the bits the nightmares left out, would keep that from happening, he told himself.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Even though it is sweet of you to offer." He smiled back at her, reaching for her hand and squeezing. "I'll be all right now."

"Will you?"

"Yes," he said, hoping to convince both of them. Leaving both tea and toast untouched, he got up from the table and went back to work.

Midway through the morning, a soldier appeared with a tray of hot, appetizing food and even hotter and more appetizing tea. The soldier put it down on the corner of his desk, clearing his throat nervously. "The ... ah, the Inquisitor says, ser, that if I don't show her a clean tray in an hour she's going to come up here and feed you herself." He shrank away, clearly not sure how Cullen was going to take it.

But Cullen was famished, and she was absolutely delightfully relentless, and for another day he had won against the nightmares and the darkness and the temptation, thanks to her. He reached for the tray and finished everything, and even managed to squeeze in a small nap.