Sisters of Tevinter

Being

    Jor descended the stairs in a hasty quickstep, sweeping past her throne and the guards along the walls. She danced around the hustle and bustle of the main hall and ducked through a door, emerging in the sun flooded room of murals. 

     Solas was sitting at the desk in the center of the chamber, dipping a quill into his inkwell. Seeing Jor, he smiled and let it rest there. "Sleep well?" 

   The scholar, flushed and out of breath, could only grin. "That was incredible." 

  Solas gave an approving nod and folded his legs beneath him. "Yes. Though I am surprised. I've never seen someone dream with such.... clarity."

   Jor hesitated. "I can't believe it."

  "Hm." The elf only smiled and lifted his quill once more, turning back to his work. 

  "...Thank you." 

  "For what?" Solas kept his gaze trained on the papers before him. 

   Jor paused. "Well, for... for being there I guess. Even if you didn't mean to. And not just in the Fade. For being... here. Now." Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She felt a little stupid saying it out loud, as if it wasn't eloquent enough. 

    Solas didn't look up, but he did smile. Just a little bit. "You're welcome." 

    Commander Cullen was bent over a basin, retching. 

    In the higher level of his tower, he'd barely been able to handle climbing the ladder so he didn't vomit on his desk, he gripped the tin sides of the tub, his whole body wracked with weakness. His knuckles were white with strain, his shoulders shook violently. Another bout of nausea sent his head spinning as the claws lacerated his organs with merciless glee. 

   Revenge. It was all lyrium's petty revenge. The templar had no wish to share his body with the substance anymore. It stole from him, his mind, his independence. 

    The withdrawals were hell. He'd known they would be, but this... this was madness. A seething need. He would have done anything to stop the pain. Anything but what was required. 

    I refuse. He gritted his teeth defiantly, even as another tide of bile surged from his mouth with a sickening jolt. He coughed, his breath ragged, a pervasive ache robbing stability from his bones. It would pass. It always passed eventually. 

    Another mass of empty pain and bile. The smell was awful, worsening the commander's nausea. I'm better off, he thought stubbornly, even as a line of blood dripped from his nose, his brain pounding drums of war on the walls of his skull. He wasn't a monster. Not yet. Not like those things that flooded into Haven. Ravenous, cannibalistic, lacking humanity. 

     That was what red lyrium did to people. Men and women. Gone. Their consciousness siphoned from their bodies until they were nothing but a crystalline shell, driven mad by hunger. 

     Cullen slumped, pressing his forehead to the frigid lip of the basin, panting as he breathed the foul air. Trembling, he could only sit. It would pass. It always did. I don't need it. 

    But oh, how he wanted it. Just a taste. The tiniest sliver, it wouldn't kill him. Something to take the edge off. To satisfy the ache, the sweetest little bit of relief. 

    There was a scratching noise from below. A scrabbling of claws. I'm imagining things. It happened occasionally. Hallucinations, tame or frightening, cajoled or threatened him. Voices from his past, his commanding officer, his sister...