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Cullen’s office in Skyhold is quiet. It is a moment away from the hustle and bustle of the courtyard, cool mountain air filtering in through the arrow-slit windows. It is also a place Lux visits often, a place she could read in peace, or sit in Cullen’s quiet company when he wasn’t holed up in the War Room.
Now, it is where she works, albeit temporarily, and the familiar scents of parchment and polishing oil and dust are a comfort even in the Commander’s absence.
She doesn’t prefer it, but Cullen is away, and she is not fit for the field. It is hard to not take the fact as punishment, but without lyrium, she must relearn her role. The Inquisition is a new start, a change, and it is more change than she has bargained for. But she trusts Cullen, and she trusts what the Inquisition stands for.
So for now, she sits at Cullen’s great oak desk, checking inventory sheets and poring over reports that have piled up through the morning, ignoring the hungry headache that gnaws behind her eyes.
She isn’t sure how many reports she has read before the door swings open without warning or fanfare.
“Cullen, we—”
Lux looks up, her movement calm despite her surprise. Most soldiers knock—she has half a mind to scold the intruder on Cullen’s behalf, and is glad she stops herself when the Inquisitor steps into the room.
“Oh. My apologies, I expected the Commander,” he says, his hands full of papers. He is dressed plainly, the only uniform he wears is a great brass emblem of the Inquisition on the scarf tucked around his neck, a far cry from the man she usually sees at a distance, giving speeches or leading armies.
She stands, and salutes. The room sways.
“Knight-Captain,” she says. It is almost involuntary, and the man in the doorway recoils from the title. Cullen had done that before, too. We are not part of the Order any longer. Now less than ever.
“Ah… ‘Inquisitor’, please,” he corrects. He sounds hesitant.
“Inquisitor,” she amends.
His posture remains stiff—a reflection of her own—straight-backed, a soldier, well trained. She remembers him from the Gallows, from the after, but it would have been hard to forget the Knight-Captain who stood nearly a head above Cullen, who dragged Kirkwall kicking and screaming back into a place of relative peace despite the destruction, who saw the wreckage of the Gallows and the lyrium-still statue of their former Knight-Commander in the courtyard and still saw a place worthy of aid.
It feels like a lifetime ago, now.
“Where is the Commander?”
“On errand, Inquisitor” she replies dutifully.
“With no warning?”
“Seeker Pentaghast knows.”
“And how long will he be gone?”
“A fortnight, Inquisitor.”
He watches her with stormy eyes that seem to swallow everything in their gaze, like the sea that she would stare into for hours on her return to Ferelden from Kirkwall, unwilling to look back but afraid to look ahead.
“And you are his stand-in?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you… Ser…?”
She blinks. It would be unrealistic, Lux supposes, for someone like the Inquisitor to remember the names of everyone he met, or every soldier that has ever been under his order. She remembers, though—always one for names, her memory sharp as ever, despite everything.
“Lux.”
“Right. Ser Lux,” he echoes. There is a flicker of familiarity in his expression, but his mouth is still downturned at the corners. “You… You’re from Kirkwall, aren’t you?”
“I was transferred to Kirkwall from Ferelden. We met briefly. When you were Knight-Captain.”
He blinks back at her, expression suddenly unreadable.
“Thank you for the information, Ser Lux.”
And then, he leaves.
“Ser Lux.”
The Inquisitor returns the next day, once again unannounced. A less disciplined soldier might have nicked themselves on the blade Lux holds in one hand, a sharpening stone in the other, at the sudden noise of his arrival. But Lux is disciplined, and she continues her work.
She doesn’t need to—the steel is already honed to a deadly edge, but it keeps her steady. Keeps her occupied, when the words swim on parchment and the quill trembles in her hand.
“I… asked around about you,” the Inquisitor starts awkwardly, stepping into Cullen’s office. Lux blinks at him. “Sorry, that’s probably a bit strange,” he adds. “I asked Cassandra, mostly.”
She waits patiently for his point, watching him intently.
He asks her a few questions about her current duties, he makes awkward comments about the weather, about the soldiers, about the creaky hinge on Cullen’s door.
The point never comes, as the conversation meanders aimlessly before fading into silence at her scant replies.
She has heard much about Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan—all stern and stoicism, private and serious—but she remembers Knight-Captain Trevelyan better. Confident, nearly full to bursting with a sort of strange optimism and authenticity. The man speaking to her now is neither of them—his voice is soft, his words slightly stilted, and he and is somehow small despite his size.
Lux wonders what has changed.
When the Inquisitor appears at Cullen’s office next, his arrival is clumsy and loud. Lux hears the heavy footfalls before the door opens, uneven and unsteady, in time with the pounding she feels behind her eyes.
She doesn’t remember the last time he stopped by, but is almost thankful for his presence—everything gets worse in the quiet evening hours, when the shadows lurch in the corners of her vision. She waits for him to speak, but he stands silently in the open doorway, as if he has forgotten why he entered.
"Inquisitor—"
“Has Cassandra been through here?” he finally asks as she speaks. He sounds tired, more tired than he had before, and he sounds urgent.
“Seeker Pentaghast...” She moves to stand, to answer, but moves too quickly—the office spins, the room closes in, and she is falling. The Inquisitor fumbles as well, moving to catch her, and trips.
They both reach for the desk, the solid oak, a steady force, and there is a quiet moment of shaking hands splayed on its surface, a finger’s breadth apart. Hands on the desk. An office, spinning, blurred at the edges.
“I,” Lux squeaks. She feels small. Panic. The scent of polishing oil spilled across reports. Hands on the desk. Endure.
She hears her own voice, first.
Breathe.
Breathe. She needs to breathe, but her voice is lost, she is lost, she stands at Alrik’s desk, and she hears Samson— Cullen— A different voice, but the same repeated reminder.
“Breathe.”
She does. The scent of elfroot. Elderflower. Mint. The room spins back into focus for a fraction of a second as she blinks. The man in front of her is tall—too tall, taller than she is, and she is taller than most of the templars in Kirkwall.
“… Ser Lux?”
A hand brushes hers. Stormy eyes. Mountain air.
Skyhold. She is in Skyhold.
“I am. Sorry.” She straightens quickly—it takes every ounce of strength she has to stay upright. The shadows waver.
“Mmm,” the Inquisitor replies, lips pressed into a tight line. He leans heavily on the desk still, and Lux sees something painfully familiar in the expression of the man who mirrors her slow breaths, in the expression of a man who does not falter but has stumbled anyways, his stare a thousand miles away.
She had seen it in Cullen, and she feels it on her face now, hair sticking to her forehead in a cold sweat, too warm for the chill of the room, a leaden ache in her bones. It is why she was left to the paperwork instead of going out into the field. It is also, she realizes now, why the Inquisitor is here as well.
“You—”
“It is nothing,” he snaps, cutting her words short. His hands curl into fists, still pressed into the wood. “It’s… I’m fine.” He stands, and sways. Their eyes meet, both of them pale. “It’s nothing.”
“Have you eaten?” The words come easily, well practiced, like she’d asked it a thousand time. She had asked it a thousand times. They fall from her mouth before she can stop them, her concern a second nature before her head can recall chain-of-command, her own plight momentarily forgotten.
“Have you?” he counters. It is not the answer she expects, but the meaning is the same.
He knows. She knows. The silence in the air is heavy with sullen understanding. What they’ve both left behind—the choice they’ve both made.
They are a strange sight in the kitchen—the two of them tower over the staff that scurries out of the way—tall and taller. Lux stands awkwardly as the Inquisitor rummages through the baskets and shelves, handing her items as he goes. A chunk of bread. Dried meat. Cheese. Preserved fruit.
She feels the cook’s eyes on the back of her neck, watching them in disapproval as the pile in her arms grows. They won’t eat all of this, she knows. They’ll be lucky to keep down a few bites of anything. But still, the Inquisitor picks up packages and jars, carefully peeking into their contents before putting them back or passing them off.
They are both silent as he does this, and they stay silent as they make their tired trek back to Cullen’s office. Silent as they sit on the floor, backs against the oak desk, neither of them sure nor steady enough to pick a chair. Silent as they tear off pieces of the bread they pass back and forth, both of them watching the other take careful bites.
The room grows dim in their silence, drenched in pinks and oranges of sunset through the arrow-slit windows.
“Inquisitor.” Lux says quietly.
“Please, don’t,” he answers. His eyes are closed, and he tips his head back until it rests against the wood with a soft thud.
She nods. Titles are heavy—she nearly watched Cullen drown under one, and she cannot imagine the weight the Inquisitor must bear.
“How long?” she asks instead. She does not specify, but she does not need to.
“Just a few weeks. I’m… told it will get worse.”
“It will,” she confirms.
He tips his head to side, just enough to crack one eye open, to meet her steady stare. “And you, Ser Lux? How long has it been?”
“Long,” she replies. “I do not remember exactly.” The time has blurred the days together since she quit, but she knows it has been too long.
“Why?”
The question hangs between them, laden with uncertainty. It is as much a question as a search for reassurance, validation, a companion on this treacherous path—Lux isn’t sure if she can provide. She isn’t sure if she can be what Cullen has been, but she must try.
Why?
Because she saw what had become of Kinloch hold. Because she saw the horrors of Annulment in Kirkwall. Because she watched Samson crest the mountain at Haven, because the Order had driven the people she cared about to the brink. Because she will never see Karl again, because Maddox made paper birds. Because they deserved to be free of the leash of duty to an Order that no longer fulfilled its duty to protect those in need. Because, because, because.
“Because it is right,” she says.
The Inquisitor chuckles at that—dry, exhausted, ragged.
“Because it is right,” he nods. Because they have seen too much. Because they have given too much.
The sun slips behind the horizon, and the office is left in the dark, and they are sitting on the cold stone floor, too tired to move, to battered to bother with a torch.
Because the Order has taken too much.
“Inquis—Ser,” Lux whispers.
“Just Connor,” he says.
“Just Lux,” she offers in return. It is only right, in this vulnerable moment, both of their struggles laid bare.
“Lux,” Connor repeats back. He shifts, and their shoulders touch—the barest contact, but it feels like so much more.