Cold rivulets traced the contours of Cullen's worn countenance, carving pathways down his battle-scarred face before cascading over the dents and scratches etched into his armor. Droplets glimmered in the sporadic flashes of lightning, turning the rain into a cascade of liquid diamonds. Thunder resounded above, the heavens echoing the fierce symphony resonating within his chest. His sword, gripped tenaciously in a gauntleted hand quivered slightly as he chanted together with the crowd. Amid the storm's turmoil, his gaze remained fixed on the Herald, drawn to her presence, which exuded a unique blend of a Mother's grace fused with the blind devotion of an Exalted Marcher.
Ascending the platform mere moments before, he carried no amount of strength or inspiration within him. The act of addressing the assembly of Templars and requesting their assistance seemed like a prescribed duty, a formality he must endure even as the relentless hammering in his head threatened to split his skull in two. Yet, as the words flowed from Miriam's lips, a transformation occurred within him. An unexpected current pulled him into its wake and he found himself caught up in the fervor of the moment, woven into the fabric of the energy that permeated the courtyard.
Faith, pure and radiant, wrapped itself around him like an embrace, a shroud of unwavering belief that eclipsed the physical discomfort. With each 'Andraste wills it!' he cried out, the pain retreated, muted by the overpowering intensity of the scene. Mage's words acted as a beacon, illuminating the corners of his mind where shadows of doubt and uncertainty had long resided. In that fleeting instant, the raw energy of her address connected with the faith he had once held. His connection to the divine, obscured by the suffering he endured and the weight of command, rekindled with a brilliance that rivaled the lightning streaks across the stormy sky.
The conviction that the delicate, slight mage who fell out of the Fade was the Herald of Andraste had never fully taken root within Cullen's heart. Despite her undeniable kindness and gentle nature, he couldn't help but perceive her as lamblike, possessing a docility that seemed at odds with the grandeur of the title. His eyes, honed by years of battle and discernment, sought a spark within her – an inner flame akin to the fervor that had defined the Maker's Bride.
He had read the passages from the Chant of Light about Andraste's unwavering resolve, her unyielding spirit that had served as a pillar, a beacon of hope in the face of trials. When he first met the mage, he scrutinized her, searching for that strength, the foundation that would lend weight to her proclamation, but he saw none of it.
However, as he got to know her, an unexpected realization began to take root. The fragility he had once perceived melted away, and in its place, he sensed a latent power, a determination that had simmered beneath the surface. She wasn't Andraste reincarnate, but he couldn't deny the potency of her faith, and how it rallied the people around her to a common cause. And as the rain persisted, mingling with the fervor of his own thoughts, he found his reservations giving way to a nascent belief, a belief that the power of Miriam's spirit would be enough to face the challenges that lay ahead.
The journey from the Therinfal Redoubt back to Haven unfolded with relative smoothness, though it stretched longer than anticipated due to the army of Templars accompanying them, some of whom were nursing injuries. This increased travel time was further compounded by their lack of provisions, needing frequent stops in villages and settlements to restock their supplies. The silver lining, however, was the palpable change in atmosphere as news of the Templars' return to their duty and their alliance with the Herald of Andraste spread. The population greeted them with renewed enthusiasm, eager to offer their assistance in various forms.
Maddox's integration into the Inquisition was seamless, at least on the surface. The Tranquil's features were as inscrutable as ever, but the newfound surroundings seemed to exert a stabilizing influence on him. Sadly, he held no knowledge of Samson's whereabouts or means of contact with him. What he could divulge, however, was the valuable tidbit that his former master also pursued the reversal of the Rite of Tranquility. It appeared Samson was on a mission to dismantle the Chantry's methods of controlling not only the Templars but the mages as well.
While both Cassandra and the Commander acknowledged the implications of this endeavor, its feasibility remained uncertain. The Right Hand assumed the responsibility of delving deeper into this matter, as the Rite of Tranquility had long been a part of the Seekers' domain.
In the midst of this, an unexpected tension began to surface within Cullen. His prolonged interactions with Maddox, who stood as a living reminder of his time in Kirkwall, triggered an uneasiness he couldn't quite quell. Irrational as it seemed, he couldn't shake the suspicion of a condemnation concealed within the Tranquil's gaze, a notion that played on his mind despite his best efforts to dismiss it. The Seeker detected the undercurrents that coursed beneath his demeanor. Her perceptive inquiry led to an unexpected offer: that Maddox should stay under her watchful eye instead. He hesitated, guilt and relief mingling in his thoughts, but in the end, the decision was made.
With Maddox now shadowing Cassandra, Cullen felt a reprieve from the ghosts of the past that lingered within the Tranquil's presence. The respite was short-lived, though, as the withdrawal symptoms took an expected turn for the worse. He found himself once again sinking into the abyss of its relentless grip, plunged into a morass of physical pain and mental turmoil. And that's when the Herald's aid materialized.
Miriam's unwavering commitment to aid him marked a new chapter in their interactions. She was a fervent healer, dedicating the majority of her waking hours to preparing potions and crafting remedies to ease his suffering. The Commander's days now unfolded in a sequence of concoctions to drink, ointments to apply, and incense to light. Her presence became a constant, and the sheer volume of attention lavished upon him was both overwhelming and discomforting. Yet, he couldn't deny the efficacy of her treatments. Slowly, the fog that had clouded his senses began to lift, and the edge of pain dulled enough for him to fulfill his responsibilities.
Throughout this process, the enchanter offered her magical prowess, though his refusal was swift and steadfast. Magic remained a source of deep-seated fear, a reminder of wounds that would never heal. The very idea of willingly subjecting himself to its touch incited a visceral reaction, the memory of its searing grip on his mind and body still vivid even after all those years. Trying to overcome this fear felt like immersing one's soul in a corrosive acid bath.
Her acceptance of his decision came as a relief, a silent bridge forged between them despite his reluctance. It wasn't lost on Cullen that his decision had made her task more arduous and that his resistance had added an extra layer of complexity to her mission, but she chose to respect his boundaries and navigate his stubborn resolve with patience. He couldn't help but appreciate her for it, even if his gratitude remained unspoken, confined to the chambers of his heart.
At last, their journey led them to Haven, but their base harbored not tranquility but the weight of even greater responsibilities. Before the march towards the Breach could commence, a myriad of tasks needed completion.
The Commander's first move was to assign Knight-Captain Rylen to work closely alongside the Templar officers. The objective was twofold: maintain the integrity of the Templar Order while weaving it into the Inquisition forces. He understood that the Herald's promise of an alliance was more than a diplomatic gesture—it was a pact that demanded respect.
Amidst the strategizing and dialogues, the logistical machinery churned in preparation. Cullen rose to the challenge of accommodating the influx of Templar forces, revising the arrangements to suit the new numbers. More provisions were secured, and the stockpiles bolstered to meet the demands of an expanding army. Additional equipment flowed in to improve the weapons and armor of both Inquisition and Templar warriors, an investment in strength that was essential for the battle ahead. Days melted into nights, each moment dedicated to ensuring that the machine of the alliance was well-oiled and functional. As the Commander's mind worked tirelessly, calculating and recalculating every angle, his gaze often shifted to the sky, where the Breach loomed as both a harbinger of danger and a beacon of purpose.
Caught up in the whirlwind of responsibility that surrounded him, two pressing concerns gnawed at Cullen's mind like relentless shadows. The first was the severed connection with Hawke, a disconcerting void that had persisted since Solas departed from Redcliffe. Despite their attempts, not a single raven, messenger, or scout had managed to return from the village. The elf's report provided little solace, revealing that Hawke had uncovered unsettling truths in Redcliffe – rebel mages had sold themselves to the Tevinter Magister. The news sent a ripple of dismay through his thoughts. Did the allure of breaking free of Circles and Chantry control eclipse their sound judgment? He shook his head, refocusing his attention on the document before him. It went on to detail that Solas had abruptly departed to attend to Miriam's condition, precisely at the moment when Hawke and Fenris were crafting a strategy to liberate willing mages from their enslavement. The uncertainty of their fates, coupled with the silence surrounding Redcliffe, was a source of growing anxiety. Leliana's deployment of her most seasoned agents to penetrate the area offered a glimmer of hope that the answers would emerge, but the weight of anticipation grew heavier with each passing day.
His second concern bore the weight of a personal battle. The Herald's remedies, while offering relief from the physical pain, proved insufficient to stem the tide of erosion in his mind. He began to feel his memory falter, a disconcerting sensation that escalated as stress and responsibility multiplied. For now, it was minor lapses – like when he found himself on the training grounds with no recollection of how he arrived there or staring at a report without recalling what he had been writing. With a somber resignation, he couldn't help but think that these instances would become increasingly insidious with time. To compound his distress, the apparition of Thomas often haunted him, lurking at the periphery of his vision—an elusive presence that dissipated into nothingness whenever he attempted to confront it. Cullen knew that he should confide in Miriam and entertain any remedy, even magical, in hopes of finding relief. Nevertheless, he remained ensnared by his own inaction, the dread of magic gaining the upper hand.
Night had fully descended, shrouding the War Room in a thick blanket of darkness. The solemn tolling of the bells, marking the passing hours, had rung out and faded into silence, leaving Cullen alone amidst the vastness of the War Room. Each painstaking stroke of his quill on parchment felt like dragging a heavy anchor, yet he persevered, knowing he could not rest until his task was completed. As he dipped his quill into the inkwell once more, he noticed a peculiar sensation in his fingers—a numbing chill that crept through his digits and sent a strange, tingling shiver coursing through his body.
He reluctantly set down his quill and pressed his hands firmly against his temples, closing his eyes briefly to summon the strength to press on. His palms slid down to rub his weary eyes, temporarily providing solace from the strain.
In the midst of his weariness, the wavering flames of a lone candle on his desk caught his attention. They danced with an erratic, almost frenzied vigor. Puzzled, he glanced around, noting the absence of any discernible draft. An unease began to stir within him, a nagging sensation that something was amiss. Shaking his head vigorously he tried to dismiss it, but the feeling persisted, refusing to be cast aside. "It's just fatigue," he murmured to himself, attempting to convince his mind that there was no cause for concern.
When the task was finally finished, he rose from the table and made his way to his tent. Despite the late hour, Haven remained bustling with activity; the Inquisition's base never truly slept. Stepping over the tent's threshold, he felt a measure of relief as the nagging anxiety ebbed, reinforcing his belief that a good night's sleep was all he needed.
Hazily, the Commander registered that Miriam was supposed to come and check on him, but her absence was most likely because of her demanding schedule, teaching first aid to the troops. Too drained to dwell on this further, he hurriedly shed his armor, stowed his sword on a nearby weapon rack, and collapsed onto the bunk. As he drifted into slumber, distant sounds began to intrude upon his rest. Cullen, perturbed by the untimely antics of his soldiers, found himself already planning how he would sternly reprimand them come morning. Turning onto his side, he made another attempt to drift back into slumber when, suddenly, a blood-curdling screech tore through the air, sending shivers down his spine. With an escalating sense of dread, he sensed a surge of dark magical energy sweeping over him.
"Poisoned! We've been poisoned!" desperate cries echoed from beyond, piercing his ears, and heightening the alarm that had taken hold of him.
Springing from his bed and seizing his weapon, he hastened toward the entrance. However, as he approached the cloth flap that covered the threshold, he collided with an invisible barrier. The impact unleashed a blinding flash of light before his eyes, momentarily disorienting him. However, he quickly regained his composure, only to look at his surroundings in disbelief. He found himself back in the War Room, seated behind the table, a quill in his hand. The sensation of blood magic vanished, along with the harrowing screams, leaving the room tranquil and silent, just as he had left it a few hours ago. He pondered whether he had merely dozed off behind the desk, but his head throbbed incessantly from the earlier collision, and an intensifying headache was beginning to assert its grip. Setting the quill aside, he pushed himself up from the chair, yet the instant he was on his feet, the pain spread beyond the confines of his skull, spreading like fire through his entire being. His legs faltered, and in a bid for balance, he reached for the War Table, fingers gripping its edge. A dreadfully familiar, putrid tang of sulfur filled the air, assaulting his senses with its noxious presence. His stomach twisted in revulsion and nausea surged, swift and unruly, defying his desperate attempts to contain it. A series of spasms wracked his body, one after the other until he began to retch uncontrollably.
As the violent vomiting finally subsided, Cullen's trembling limbs strained to support his weakened form. He staggered to a nearby shelf where Miriam had thoughtfully placed several healing potions for him this morning. His throat parched and raw, he reached for the bottle, opened it, and raised it to his lips, the cool liquid offering a brief respite from the torment that had gripped him.
The herbal concoction soothed his aching throat, and with each sip, a sense of clarity began to return. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to steady himself, still shaken by the ordeal that had just unfolded.
"Knight-Captain!" a voice called from behind, jolting him from his thoughts. "As you asked, the body was delivered."
Body? What body? Perplexed, he opened his eyes, only to find himself surrounded by the all-too-familiar square of the Kirkwall's Gallows. A Templar pointed toward where a woman's lifeless form lay. With hesitation, he cautiously approached the body and as he examined her, a wave of anger and intense hatred washed over him. Sprawled upon the dirty, cobbled floor lay Lea Amell. Cullen's gaze bore into the wretched maleficar's corpse, regretting only one thing- that he had not been the one to take her life.
He started to kick her lifeless body in a futile attempt to vent his ire, but just as he poised for another strike, Lea's eyes snapped open, and her cold hand clamped onto his foot with a vice-like grip.
"Pathetic Chantry dog, I know that you still want me!" Lea hissed, her voice dripping with mockery, her face contorted into a twisted grimace.
"Die, you two-faced whore!" he roared in response, his pent-up loathing exploding like a torrent. He lunged at the maleficar, his hands closing around her throat, his fingers tightening in a desperate attempt to crush her windpipe. He relished the desperate wheezes that escaped her struggling form, his heart pounding with a wild elation that revenge was finally within his grasp. He could feel the pulsing rhythm of life beneath her skin, and his grip only grew tighter as he fought to end her once and for all. Yet, as he locked into her fading eyes, a peculiar sensation enveloped him, and the fog that had clouded his mind momentarily lifted. The eyes of the maleficar, into which he had peered with such intense hatred just moments before, now appeared different. They were no longer dark and expressive but rather deep-set and pale. These eyes belonged to someone else, someone for whom he did not feel any animosity. On the contrary, they stirred entirely different emotions within him—emotions he couldn't quite identify. Following the eyes, the rest of the woman's face began to change, gradually shifting into a pallid, slender countenance adorned with short brown hair. "Miriam!" Cullen gasped in horror, his hands instinctively releasing their grip on her throat. "Maker, no!" But in the blink of an eye, Amell lay before him once more, her malevolent presence returning with unsettling speed, leaving him utterly bewildered and shaken.
Overwhelmed, he crumpled to the ground, his vision blurring as the melody of a painfully familiar song whispered softly in the recesses of his mind.
A-ah, little apple,
Red, ripe, and sweet,
He recognized this song as a melody from his childhood, one that his mother had lovingly sung to Rosalie. He also suddenly recalled that he had shared this song with someone special long ago, although the memory of that person had faded, leaving only a bittersweet trace of nostalgia.
A-ah, little apple,
A tasty little treat.
As the lyrics continued, all-consuming darkness enveloped him, stripping away all sensations of pain, fear, and despair, leaving him with nothing but the soothing embrace of a gentle voice.
Cullen came to his senses lying out on a bunk inside his tent. The morning sun, filtered through the slits in the fabric of the shelter, casting a bright light that pierced through the dimness within. An acrid taste lingered in his mouth and a pulsating ache reverberated through his skull. This pain, however, carried a different quality than before; it seemed to anchor itself around his temple, akin to the sensation of being struck there. He gingerly probed the sore spot with his fingertips, confirming his suspicion as he encountered a tender bump.
"I see you have finally awoken, good," Leliana's voice, as cold as ice, echoed from the other side of the tent.
The Commander squinted against the insistent throb in his temple as his vision adjusted to the light. He turned his head to discern the Left Hand of the Divine seated in a chair, her legs entwined with elegance, and her arms deftly maneuvering a dagger, which twirled between her fingers with a practiced ease.
"Why are you here?" he inquired, his voice hoarse and laden with the remnants of exhaustion, as he coaxed himself into a sitting position to face her properly.
"To ask you the same thing, Commander. Why are you here?" Leliana arched an inquisitive eyebrow, her incisive gaze penetrating him like a finely sharpened blade.
Cullen rubbed his temples with weary fingers, his patience waning as he saw no need for cryptic exchanges. "Because this is my tent?" he retorted with a touch of exasperation. "Spare me the riddles, Leliana."
With a swift and precise motion, the spymaster caused the dagger to vanish into the concealed folds of her attire. "Very well, straight to the heart of the matter, then," she declared, resettling into her chair with impeccable posture. "Last night, in your delirium, you nearly killed our only means of closing the Breach," she revealed in a tone that left no room for ambiguity. "Had it not been for Lysette's swift intervention, Thedas would have lost all hope for the future."
Cullen's heart plummeted, a paralyzing sense of horror and mortification gripping him. He looked upon his trembling hands, his lips quivering. Could it be... did he truly commit such an act? He recalled the sensation of clutching the maleficar's neck, tightening his grip with fervor, and the horrifying moment when her visage momentarily turned into Miriam's. "Andraste, preserve me," he whispered, turning his gaze back to the Left Hand, his expression one of desperation. "Please, tell me the full extent of what I've done."
"I fear that only Miriam can do that, and, honestly, I'd prefer to focus on what you haven't done," she began, raising her palm and curling her fingers as she enumerated his faults. "You rejected the relief magic could offer you, allowed withdrawal symptoms to spiral out of control, and kept your worsening state a secret from your healer." Her accusatory gaze bore into him as she leaned forward slightly. "That's precisely why I asked you 'why are you here?' If this is all the Inquisition can expect from you, I'd rather see you relieved of your position."
He clenched his hands, his jaw tightening as he absorbed Leliana's words. "If I were still taking lyrium," he muttered, "none of this would have happened."
"The issue here isn't your choice to cease lyrium consumption," the Spymaster retorted coolly. "The problem lies in how your decisions have begun to affect the success of our mission. You see, Cassandra is lenient with you because she carries the weight of guilt from everything that transpired in Kirkwall. The Seekers turned a blind eye to the plight of mages for far too long, and it led to disaster. Through your success, she seeks redemption." She paused for a moment, her expression holding a hint of mockery. "And when it comes to Miriam," she continued, a condescending smirk dancing upon her lips, "well, her concern for Templars, even the former ones, knows no bounds."
Cullen met her gaze with a poignant look but chose to remain silent.
"As you can see," she concluded with a pointed tone "I am currently the only one within the Inquisition's Council who maintains a rational perspective on your situation."
The Commander heaved a heavy sigh and ran his hands through his tousled hair, his expression one of dejection. "What would you have me do?" he asked, his voice laden with weariness.
"Simply put," she replied, rising gracefully from her seat, "as the Spymaster, do better. As your friend," she huffed with a look of pity, "take care of yourself." With that, she made her way toward the tent's exit. "Oh, and one more thing," she added before disappearing, "until we've sealed the Breach, keep your distance from the Herald for her own safety."
With the sound of the tent flap falling shut behind Leliana, Cullen found himself alone, surrounded by the echoes of their conversation and the weight of his failures. The Spymaster was right, the mission of the Inquisition demanded his best, and it was time to rise to the occasion. With a resolute breath, he steeled himself for the challenge ahead, it was time to meet his demons head-on.