The torches flickered, casting red shadows that twisted like the abomination in his mind, eating him alive. Dark crystals, like thorns, pierced the tissue of his brain and bones. His trembling hand reached for the box, the cursed lyrium, wanting to stab it into his veins to make the pain go away. He didn’t need to see red again—there had been enough blood, enough suffering. But this agony, this addiction, gnawed at him in ways he couldn’t control. Cullen had decided to quit the red lyrium. He had to. But tonight… it clawed at him.

It was late. Too late. He was alone. The green light of the breach hung in the sky, a constant reminder of the terror looming over them. Green and red—he hated those two colors with a passion. The empty wooden box sat on the table in front of him, a hollow reminder of his torment. His hair was disheveled, cold sweat trickled down his forehead, and his nightclothes clung to him as he trembled in the chair.

He didn’t even notice the dark silhouette moving past the door until you stepped inside, quietly, your glowing green mark buzzing with its own painful burden. You didn’t need to speak. You knew this weight. You shared it. Slowly, you reached out and closed the lid of the wooden box, its soft click the only sound in the room.

Cullen’s eyes shot up, wide, startled—as if he had just seen Andraste herself. He looked away almost immediately, shame pulling his gaze downward, but his hand reached out to the edge of your nightclothes. Gently, he tugged you closer, his forehead pressing against your stomach as his arms wrapped around your waist.

He was tense, struggling against the anger, the desperation building inside him.

"Just stay," he whispered, voice raw. "Please... don’t leave me alone in this."