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“How bracing, to have company in Skyhold again!” Josephine said, her voice full of glee as she kept walking about the Inquisitor's quarters holding up different coloured ribbons against the light.
Cullen stood near the stairs, not daring to intrude further into the space while trying to keep his gaze from wandering to the tall divider standing in the far corner of the room. He caught a glimpse of rich red velvet and an exasperated sigh before he lowered his head, his ungloved hand coming to rub at his nape.
“We must be presentable if we’re to receive any esteem of distinction.”, Josephine put down a golden ribbon next to a vase of fresh flowers on the Inquisitor's desk and spun on her heel. Cullen watched the seam of her dress sweep across the floor and past the divider.
“Now, Commander if you wouldn’t mind.” she came to a standstill right at the foot of an armor stand. Her hand brushed along the pauldron of the parade armor as if dusting it off.
“The armor should be fitted to your measures” she threw a quick judging glance at his old skirts before handing him a pile of neatly folded fabric from a nearby dresser “and these skirts are to go with it.”
“Of course, Lady Ambassador.”, Cullen gave her a quick nod as she made her way towards the divider, gold ribbon in hand.
His desk was uncharacteristically empty, Cullen noticed as he had made his way back to his office. In the time he was gone no new missives had made its way onto his desk, only the planned supply chains for Caer Bronach and revisions for the supply requisitions for the rebuilding of Haven still remained. Most missives in the past few days leading to the festivities today had been for silks and ribbons, and requisitions consisting mostly of various flowers. While he still didn’t understand why they had to go through him before reaching the final approval of Josie, they had kept him busy. And now he was woefully unoccupied.
He sat down at his desk and smoothed his hands over the remaining papers, reading over his own tight handwriting again, scrutinizing every word until they didn’t make any sense anymore.
He let his eyes fall shut and slid a hand across his face. Something troubled his mind, tugging at the farthest corner of his head. Was it the exhaustion in her voice he heard this noon? Were it the few strands of hair that he had seen behind the divider? Was it his inability to rest?
With a sigh he feels his chest deflate, his usually pulled taunt shoulders slagging. He sinks just a bit further into his chair as he slides his hands through his hair. He will have to right it anyway with the change of armor still before him, so he didn’t mind that he loosened his locks from the hold of the pommade. Cullen unclasped his fur coat and let it hang over his chair, pushing up from it he felt his knees crack. He crossed the room over to the gilded armor now sitting on his only armor stand, usually reserved for his personal armor. Before he unclasped the buckles on his plate he unlocked an empty padded trunk. Worn velvet lined its insides, the cushions had taken the form of what had been stowed away within it long ago. In a matter of minutes his studiously polished armor had been put inside the trunk, velvet snug against the cold metal.
The calluses on his fingers caught on the tweed of his rough skirts. Practiced hands untied them from his hips and pulled them from under his plain sash. There was a sort of reverence in how he smoothed over the scratchy fabric as he folded it and put it down on top of the trunk. It was a crass contrast to the soft silks and cold smooth lines of the lavishly decorated gilded chestplate. Running his finger across the intricate ornaments he watched the low sun sparkle off the edges, making it seem like pure gold. Cullen pulled his eyebrows together, lost in thought once more. There was a twinge of recognitions, the faintest spark of memory as he kept following the lines.
The glint of the armor vanished as the sun dipped further towards the horizon only three hours past noon, and with it vanished the memory.
It felt like a haze, like the shroud of night had taken a hold not only of the skies but also his mind. There was nothing more he could do than prepare for the evening to come.
Before Cullen had left his office into the cold he donned his fur coat once more, and fastened his sheath belt across his middle. Josephine would scold him for it later, he was sure of it, but having his sword by his side gave him more quiet than he could put to words.
Cullen pushed open the door to find Skyhold glowing in the absence of sun. Soft orange light flickered in the wind, the winding steps up to the main hall glittered with gilded thread, and every lamppost, every archway and every snow dusted tree was decorated with garlands.
As he stood outside for a moment Cullen felt Haring bleed out of his fingers, as he clenched his hand around the pommel of his sword. The dry skin breaking at the tension as small red rips adorned his knuckles. With another glance towards the main set of stairs he thanked the Maker for this rather private passage into Skyhold proper, as the masses of various lavishly dressed people kept pushing into the Hall out of the winds. Walking along the small bridge towards the rotunda, the weight of his mantle rested upon his shoulders protecting him from the icy winds billowing on the night of solstice.
He remembered it then.
Cullen could nearly see it before his mind’s eye, the memory so old and deep reflected within the decorated high halls of Skyhold, as if it was weaved into the canvas of the banners glittering with gold thread. The unworn edges of the parade armor were cutting uncomfortably into his skin as he stepped into the Main Hall. Yet still it brought a feeling of old familiarity with it and for a moment he had mistaken the long walk down to the Inquisitor’s Throne for the nave of the Denerim Chantry.
He remembers it still, the wedding of the late King Cailan and Queen Anora. The usually gloomy Chantry with shadows higher than its ceiling was lavishly decorated. The grand window shutters had been pushed open to let the light stream in through the tall stained glass windows, cascading down in a flurry of colours he had never seen within the chantry before during the long days and nights studying the chant. The heavy curtains were pulled back and tied into extravagant bows with gilded rope, not just enough for a Sister to slip past but to reveal the full extent of the apse. Velvet kneeling stools had stood upon the chancel while the crossing and transepts had been decorated with Ferelden banners of gold and white, the Theirin heraldry stitched upon them in the brightest red thread and a sea of white flowers much like the Main Hall had looked right now.
The tall banners in blue and gold, stitched with the Inquisition’s insignia, bore enough resemblance for his glance to linger for a moment longer and for his eyes to betray him just so. The soft dark carpet underneath his heavy feet carried him past small bouquets of delicate dawn lotus from Skyholds garden. Josephine had insisted on them, he recalls her saying it would soften the harsh edges of the tall stone and bring light to the dim. Cullen could see now what she meant, and wondered for just a moment if it had been true back then for the Chantry as well.
Pushing past the flocking crowd Cullen walked along the sparse row of Inquisition soldiers. He remembered when he was only a recruit how he had stood his vigil among the other young would-be Templars. He had been far behind the rows upon rows of fresh flowers and gossamer tulle, their sweet scent had been lost to time long ago. The Inquisition soldiers were stationed much like him back then. Their armor, shining and polished. Cullen couldn’t help the small smile, how he had spent the night polishing his armor to near perfection only to be given parade arms the following morning.
As Cullen trailed further up towards the Inquisitors throne he let his mind wander.
He had watched the wedding in awe, even in the last row of Templars and City Guards he saw the royal pair walk down the aisle, Cailan's regalia in familiar Ferelden colours of yellow and gold. The way it shimmered in his memory, his surcoat must have been embroidered with amber and diamonds. Beside Cailan had walked Anora, her dress impossibly long trailing down the length of the nave had rivaled the pure white of the flowers. Much like Cullen was walking down the hall they had walked hand in hand, until they bound their hands and Cailan had lifted her veil, her blonde hair seeming redder than usual. Suddenly Cullen was all too aware of the resemblance he had struck within his mind, the back of his neck growing uncomfortably hot.
He felt his heart flutter, but not in ways it would when he thought of her. It was more like a gentle touch over an old wound, like a scar hurting with tender pain from the change in weather. He didn’t remember the vows anymore, only that they were beautiful. He wanted to write to his sisters about them. But it never came to be…
He had once clung to these words like they were a part of the chant. Had wanted to save them, to keep in his memory forever, to never forget the oath that had been spoken, to speak the very same to his betrothed one day. But his life took another path. What he once wanted to be had been ripped out of his naive grasp, never to become again.
It had hurt too much, too much to think of it back then. To allow himself the comfort of a memory that would never come to pass. To dream of a future he would never have. It was better to forget was it not, to tear it apart until he didn’t remember the smell of the flowers or the words of the vows or the sound of the high wrung bells.
It had all left a bitter taste.
The images vanished from his mind bit by bit, year after year. Much like they would of this solstice. It was going to be another memory he will be doomed to forget, another loss he didn’t dare to mourn.
Cullen took his place at the shallow steps leading up towards the Inquisitors throne. The braziers beside the stained glass windows gave them a faint glow but all seemed to blur in his vision. The grip around the hilt of his sword tightened.
He had his reasons to forget back then, and he has his reasons right now.
All at once the drone of everything within the hall fell silent. The shroud of night had caught up to him it seems, enveloping him in endless dark as even the soft orange glow seemed to dim and then be fully broken. His chest deflated in a breathless sigh, as the plate seemed to press harder into the costal arches of his too tight rib cage.
Shadows cloud his mind, it would be easier like that. Easier to keep this night locked away but then…
Cullen sees Yelena.
And breath finds its way back into his lungs.
He sees her fully, for the first time. Not behind a divider with averted eyes, not as gold ribbons and flowy handwriting and bouquets of flowers and hidden behind the face of another. He sees her in her dress, rich and red and warm, dragging along the floor as she makes her way towards the center of it all. Golden sleeves hide her delicate hands and soft furs brush against slightly flushed skin. Gold ribbons braided into her long hair shimmering in the orange light like amber and diamonds as a golden veil brushed along her lovely shoulders held up by the crown of the Inquisitor.
He watched the long nights of dark be turned by the appearance of the sun right in front of his eyes.
Sound doesn’t return to his ears as he watches her lips move. Much like the former King's vows, the words elude him. He can’t seem to hear her, not when his mind is racing with the thoughts of her lips moving against his after he proclaimed his sworn fealty and kissed her skirts and every inch of her gossamer veil and finally every knuckle of her delicate fingers.
As the noise around him began to swell again he couldn’t seem to care about whatever words were spoken for the solstice, not when he was already standing at the foot of his sun, his light.
And then her eyes finally locked with his, and he saw her before his mind's eye walking down the nave towards the altar beside him.
The softness held within her gaze willed him to dream of a better future.