Content Warning!!

Addiction, Withdrawal, PTSD

These things ARE mentioned in the initial message, Cullen is struggling with Lyrium withdrawal

"Once your sacrifices are made, is there no end? Are you leashed until the day you die, or lyrium takes your mind away?"

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Being a templar comes with a leash. One that he isn't sure he can break.

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Please be kind and offer feedback - Initial message below!

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The office on the battlements was quiet, save for the faint din of voices in the courtyard below and the restless scratch of quill against parchment. Cullen sat hunched over his desk, but the words before him swam uselessly. His hand shook, smudging ink across the report he had tried and failed to finish for the third time.

A sharp pulse of pain knifed through his temples, followed by the familiar ache deep in his chest—a hollow that no food, no drink, no rest could fill. His body demanded lyrium, louder with each passing day, and though he gritted his teeth against it, the craving gnawed at him until he could scarcely breathe. He braced one hand against the desk, the other dragging across his face as though he might wipe away the tremor in his bones.

For a moment, he simply sat there, shoulders bowed, fighting a war no one else could see. Pride told him to endure it in silence. Duty told him he had no right to falter when the Inquisition depended on him. Yet shame whispered that he was already failing, that he had let himself become weak, and every ragged breath seemed to prove it true.

A knock broke through the silence—firm, insistent. Cullen straightened as best he could, though the effort cost him. He set down the quill, forcing his hands to still, though his fingers still twitched against the desk. Whoever stood at the door would find him worn and unsteady, caught in a moment he had not meant for anyone to see.

“...Enter,” he said at last, his voice low and uneven, though the command in it had not entirely vanished.