Cullen slowly walked through the corridor that seemed to extend into the Void itself. Twisted, grotesque human remains lay strewn along his path, a macabre display of suffering and despair that defied all that was humane. The walls that hemmed him in were a twisted, maddening fusion of Kinloch's grim stones and the polished gray rocks of Kirkwall's Gallows. Stripped of his armor and his weapon, he stood defenseless, clad in nothing but a plain, threadbare shirt and trousers. Even his feet trod bare upon the warm, oozing floor, the mixture of blood and filth yielding a muted squelch with each step he took. The air was steaming hot and foul, making every breath feel like inhaling vapor from a boiling cauldron of bile. A haunting buzzing sound blended with the song of lyrium, but even its call was twisted in this nightmarish place, its melody corrupted.
Suddenly, the corridor veered sharply to the right, and Cullen found himself standing at the dreadfully familiar threshold of the Circle Tower's Harrowing Chambers. Here, the walls were weeping blood, its rivulets flowing from the cracks between the stones onto the floor. Amidst this sea of crimson, an aged, bald man stood, bearing a maddeningly content smile. Cullen's eyes locked onto him, and recognition dawned with a jolt of fear and fury. Without hesitation, he lunged towards Uldred, a primal, desperate drive overtaking him. Yet, it took but a casual wave of the mage's hand to cast Cullen face-first into the sickening pool of gore, his legs betraying him and surrendering to the paralyzing spell.
Undeterred and consumed by a feral rage, he pressed his palms to the floor and pushed upwards, emerging from beneath the claret liquid with a guttural growl. "Die, die, DIE!" he bellowed, all the while dragging himself toward the maleficar even as his numbed limbs weighed him down.
Barely aware of Uldred's swift incantation, Cullen's senses reeled as the blood in the chamber began to coagulate, clotting into chunks that morphed into grotesque human figures. These monsters came from all directions, closing around him like a tightening noose. From behind, one of them seized his hair to wrench him upward until he was forced onto his knees. Other creatures captured his arms and yanked them painfully behind his back, leaving him bound and helpless. His gaze darted frantically from one abomination to another, a horrifying realization dawning upon him. Though composed solely of curdled blood, the features of these entities were unmistakable. They bore the twisted faces of the enchanters he had slain during the Annulment of Kirkwall's Gallows. "I was following orders, I thought I was doing the right thing!" he cried out as guilt tore at his heart.
"Who are you trying to fool, Chantry dog?" The maleficar's voice, laden with contempt, reverberated through the chamber. "You enjoyed cutting them open with your sword and watching their guts spill to the ground, didn't you?"
Before he could reply, one of the creatures had him ensnared in a merciless chokehold, rendering him utterly immobile. He had no choice but to endure the sinister grin etched upon Uldred's face as the mage stepped aside, unveiling Maddox standing behind him, clad in loose white robes. "Step forward, my dear," the maleficar commanded the man, who obediently complied, his expression disturbingly impassive.
"Leave... him... alone," Cullen managed to choke out, his words strained and rasping from his constricted windpipe.
Ignoring him, the mage embraced Maddox from behind, resting his chin on the Tranquil's shoulder. Cullen's blood ran cold as he watched Uldred's hands begin to slide over Maddox's body in a disturbing caress.
"I know you'd like all mages to be like that," the maleficar murmured, his lips brushing against Maddox's ear as he kept his gaze fixed on Cullen. "Docile, powerless."
"That's... not true," he protested hoarsely.
"Is that so?" Uldred chuckled wickedly, his hands withdrawing from the Tranquil's form before violently shoving him towards Cullen. Maddox staggered awkwardly, his feet sliding upon the blood-slicked floor, and he fell in an ungraceful heap. The once-white robes were now completely crimson, saturated with the gruesome fluid that surrounded them. Cullen groaned and made desperate attempts to free himself, but his struggles were in vain and only served to tighten the monsters' grip. The strain made his vision blur for a moment, and when his sight cleared, the figure prostrated before him was no longer that of Maddox. Instead, it was Lea, her eyes devoid of expression lingering on him. A sun was seared into her forehead, the mark raw and inflamed as if it had been etched only moments before.
At the sight, wicked satisfaction washed over him. He would have preferred to see her dead, but this was pleasing in its own way. However, his delight was short-lived as Amell, her marred garments clinging to her every curve, rose to her feet with an eerie grace. She moved closer to him, her every step rekindling his fear. Panic, like a vise tightened around his chest, his heart pounding so violently that it felt as if it might shatter. He struggled to breathe, his mouth agape, gasping for air as he helplessly watched the woman draw nearer. To his utter despair, Lea reached out, her arms outstretched, and cupped his cheeks with her blood-soaked palms. Slowly, excruciatingly so, she leaned in, her lips pressing against his in a deliberate, languid motion. His very soul recoiled from the act, but he was ensnared, unable to resist. She continued to kiss him, her arms straying from his face down to his chest, her touch roaming freely, leaving a trail of defilement in its wake. Every second of it felt foul, the abhorrence mounting with each passing moment. Then, her hands descended below his waist, and an overwhelming wave of disgust convulsed his core.
Cullen's awakening from the nightmare was abrupt and harsh, the unbearable nausea having pulled him from its depths. With his face contorted in distress, he leaned over the side of the bed and emptied the contents of his stomach. The sound was guttural, the sensation of vomiting bringing waves of pain and discomfort. With nothing left to regurgitate, he collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping for breath and shaking from the ordeal. Disoriented and drenched in a cold sweat, he began to hastily scan his surroundings, only to find himself in an unfamiliar place. The room was mostly empty except for the armor rack, a half-broken small wardrobe with rusty handles, and a small makeshift table beside his bed. The first rays of daylight filtered through a hole in the roof, casting faint patterns on the damaged floor. Panic gripped Cullen as he struggled to make sense of his situation. Where was he? How had he ended up in this place? Had he escaped one nightmare only to be thrust into another?
Desperation and confusion fueled his attempt to get out of bed, but his trembling legs betrayed him, and he crashed to the floor. In his fall, he sent the small table next to his bed tumbling down with him. As he lay there, his heart pounding, the rank stench of something sour reached his nostrils. Squeamishly, he realized that he had ended up in a puddle of his vomit. Groaning, he gradually sat up, his disheveled senses finally beginning to clear. As awareness returned, he recognized his bedroom within Skyhold. The oppressive weight of dread lifted from his shoulders, and at last, he could breathe easy, knowing that he was indeed safe. He struggled to his feet once more, and though this time he found the strength to stand, his movements were sluggish and labored. Nevertheless, he began the task of cleaning up the aftermath. With each stroke of a cloth and each discarded piece of soiled garment, he sought to rid himself of the vile remnants of the nightmare, to erase any evidence of what had happened. He released a weary sigh. Despite Miriam's best efforts and his resolve, his mind was still deteriorating. Each day, it took a second longer to remember where he was upon waking from the night terrors. Each day, simple, everyday things felt a little harder to recall. He tried not to dwell on it, though. He knew Leliana was searching Chantry's records for anything that might save him. He just had to hold on a little longer.
Cullen was about to climb down the ladder to his office when his attention was drawn to an unfamiliar object on the floor. A small wooden box, tied with a simple cord, had likely dislodged from the table when he inadvertently bumped it. Curiosity piqued, he reached down and picked it up, a faint sense of unease stirring within him. He carefully untied the cord and lifted the lid. Inside, he discovered a commonplace silver coin from Ferelden, bearing an engraving of Andraste's face amidst a backdrop of flames. There was an agonizing familiarity to the piece, yet he struggled to recall why. As he stared at it, trying to force the memory to resurface, an overwhelming ache clamped around his heart, and, to his astonishment, his eyes welled with tears. Bewildered, he swiftly closed the box and placed it back on the table. With a trembling hand, he wiped away the few stray drops that had managed to escape. Why did it hurt so much to remember? Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised. Was there anything from his past that failed to evoke pain? Memories of his time in the Order haunted his nights, a relentless torment that refused to let him be. Recollections of his family only brought forth a bitter blend of guilt and longing. What if he could simply forget it all, preserving only enough memories to fulfill his duty to the Inquisition? Wouldn't that bring some respite? He let out a sigh. It was all mere wishful thinking. He gave the wooden box a long, contemplative look before turning away. Maybe some things are better forgotten. If painful moments of his former life were slipping away, then at least there would be a silver lining to his predicament.
After several productive hours of work, he received a summons to the War Room. Both Leliana and Cassandra had matters to discuss with other members of the council. Cullen left the tower and made his way to the Great Hall. After spending time within the confines of his office, the vast blue sky and the fresh air felt invigorating. Prolonged periods in closed spaces remained challenging for him, so he was grateful to this impromptu meeting for offering an excuse to venture from his chamber. As he reached the half-crumbling staircase that led to the entrance of the Hall, he noticed a lithe figure of the Herald making its way towards him. Miriam's hair danced wildly in the wind, and when their eyes met, she offered a bright smile. He couldn't help but feel relieved. Her rather abrupt departure the previous day had left him somewhat uneasy, so her friendly demeanor now was a welcome sight.
"Good day, Commander, "she greeted him as they both began ascending the stairs. "I presume you are also headed to the War Room?"
He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Indeed, Herald. It appears some matters require our attention." Falling in step beside her, he continued, "How fares the infirmary?"
"The sick room is managing as well as it can," she replied. "Our healers are working tirelessly to care for the wounded and the ill, but they are facing considerable challenges due to our limited supplies."
Cullen nodded thoughtfully. "After our meeting, I will have a word with the Quartermaster. We cannot afford to be short of necessities," he remarked. "Our troops should receive the care they need."
"I will hold your words close," she responded, adjusting a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear.
Once they reached the top of the stairs, he exerted his strength to swing the heavy doors open, allowing Miriam to step into the well-lit chamber as she continued, "And how are matters on your side, Commander?"
"The perimeter has been secured," he started with a note of assurance. "Guard rotations have been established, and we are steadily training the recruits arriving daily. I am confident that, this time, if we face an attack, there will be no room for retreat. We will stand prepared for an honest battle."
The mage offered him a gentle smile. "I have every confidence that you will ensure our safety," she said. Glancing around to ascertain that no one was within earshot, she added, "I would appreciate an update on your well-being as well. We shouldn't postpone the healing magic sessions any longer. The spells will only yield their full benefit if administered regularly."
Pushing back his reluctance, he muttered, "You're right, of course."
"Very well, tonight then?" she suggested as they approached entrance of the Josephine's office.
"Agreed," he affirmed with a nod before proceeding to knock on the door.
The last to arrive in the War Room was Hawke, who made her presence known by loudly complaining that life at Skyhold had become unbearably boring. To Cullen's surprise, Cassandra didn't seem particularly bothered by the Champion's behavior. Instead, she decided to get straight to the point and share what she had discovered with the rest of the council. Thanks to her lengthy conversations with Maddox, she had learned that while the Tranquil didn't know Samson's whereabouts, he could offer some clues as to the location of the red lyrium mine the Elder One was using for his nefarious purposes. The Seeker believed the site to be somewhere in the Southron Hills.
Cullen's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the area. South Reach, a settlement where his family lived, was there. But the Southron Hills spanned a vast expanse, he reassured himself, the likelihood of his siblings being in danger was minimal. Besides, there was no guarantee that they were still in the area, as the last he had heard about them was well over a decade ago when he had departed from Kinloch.
"Given our lack of knowledge about its exact whereabouts," he suggested, "instead of dispersing our forces throughout the mountains and potentially drawing the enemy's attention, it would be prudent to send Hawke and her companions to discreetly scout the location."
"Ye can rest assured, me hearties! We'll be uncoverin' that blighted trove in no time, mark me words!" the Champion exclaimed, seemingly genuinely excited by his proposal.
No one seemed to object, so the discussion swiftly moved on to the next topic, the one Leliana was most eager to discuss. "Herald, I have some very intriguing news for you," she began, leaning slightly over the table with a grin. "Mother Lucia has proven to be every bit as unsavory as I had suspected."
Miriam's frame tensed immediately. "Did you find proof of her mistreating the retired Templars?"
The Spymaster chuckled. "Even better, I discovered that our esteemed Mother has been profiting from the sale of lyrium meant for the elderly Knights, trading it to the Carta for decades now."
Josephine gasped in astonishment. "How could she have concealed her crimes for so long?"
Leliana's lips pursed slightly for a moment before she chose to impart her insight, "Though I have no concrete evidence at present, I am thoroughly convinced that other members of the Ostwick clergy were involved."
"Apostasy." Miriam spat, her voice trembling with indignation. "Traitors who have forsaken every single one of Andraste's teachings!" With her fingers clutching the edges of the War Table, she leveled a steely gaze at the Spymaster. "In our Lady's righteous name, they should face retribution."
Those unfortunate Knights, Cullen thought, feeling anger simmering within him as well. Men and women who dedicated their lives to service were condemned to spend their last days in filth, suffering the agony of withdrawal. This situation had only been allowed to persist because these Templars were commoners. Even if their families suspected wrongdoing, they lacked the influence to challenge the clergy or the means to care for their loved ones themselves. The Mothers had intentionally singled out the most vulnerable for their machinations. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he realized that this could easily have been his fate.
"As I mentioned earlier," Leliana began, her gaze unwavering as it locked with that of the mage, "I only have sufficient evidence to implicate Lucia." She paused briefly, her fingers tapping out a rhythmic pattern on the table's wooden edge as she carried on, "It will take more time to gather the necessary proof against others who are involved."
"I have grown tired of waiting!" Miriam burst out, her frustration evident in her voice. "How many more Templars will perish under her 'care' while we continue this search for evidence?"
"Herald, if we were to act against Mother Lucia right now," Josephine counseled, her voice measured, "she might face punishment, but it could also provide the remaining culprits with an opportunity to eliminate any traces of their complicity."
"In fact, that is exactly what will happen," Cassandra interjected with a furrowed brow, her arms crossed. "Lucia's judgment, should it come to pass, will be a rather drawn-out procedure. The explosion at the Conclave left numerous vacancies in seats of power, and this caused internal strife within the Grand Cathedral. At the moment, their own conflicts would take precedence over tackling corruption in Ostwick."
Miriam's countenance grew somber, and the emerald glow of her mark intensified. "Are you suggesting that I should once again wait and do nothing?"
The Seeker raised an eyebrow, her tone firm. "I simply wish that we thoroughly consider every repercussion of our actions."
"We could be takin' the easy path, me mateys." Hawke chimed in, her demeanor lighthearted. "I've sent Mother Petrice back to the Maker in me days in Kirkwall, so I'm not averse to cuttin' through the trouble, if ye catch me drift." She winked at Cullen.
He let out a weary sigh. "You cannot handle this situation as you've done in the past," he asserted. "We will not send you or our people to kill the Mother."
"You do realize that to eliminate her, we do not have to send our agents to do this," Leliana remarked with a satisfied glint in her eye, "we do not even have to get involved… directly that is."
All eyes were now fixed on the Spymaster, who surveyed each of them before elaborating, "The solution is quite straightforward. We merely need to ensure that the Carta members catch wind of our plans to interrogate Lucia regarding her involvement in the illicit lyrium trade. These dwarves are ruthless, and the mere prospect of such an investigation would be reason enough for them to get rid of the Mother and anyone else she may have conspired with. They wouldn't take any chances with these women divulging information about their operations in the region."
Josephine's brows furrowed, a palpable unease washing over her countenance. "We would be treading a treacherous path, entangling ourselves with the Carta," she pointed out.
Leliana, with a sly curl of her lip, retorted with an air of self-confidence, "You underestimate me, my friend. I am sufficiently skilled to ensure that the dwarves remain oblivious to our involvement."
"Yes, let one evil be vanquished by another." Miriam declared, her voice laced with disdain, her words unapologetic. "None of these sinners deserve a fair trial."
For a moment, Cullen could have sworn he detected a glint of emerald light in her eyes. Yet, with a blink, it disappeared. It must have been the mark's glow, reflecting briefly in her gaze.
"Herald, I am sure we could find other ways to deal with the clergy," Cassandra remarked, her concerned gaze fixed upon the mage.
"I've dedicated years of my life to seeking justice through lawful means, and it has proven futile!" Miriam replied, visibly striving to maintain her composure. "Please, you can't deny me this. I've poured my blood, sweat, and tears into the Inquisition's cause, never asking for anything in return."
"Very well," the Seeker reluctantly conceded. "Let us put it to a vote and see who supports Leliana's proposal."
Not surprisingly, the only ones opposed to the plan were Josephine and Cassandra. As a result, the decision was made to proceed with the Spymaster's strategy. In truth, Cullen would have voted differently if the crimes against the retired Templars hadn't felt so personal. He may no longer be a member of the Order, but he was far from indifferent to the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. The Knights deserved retribution. Miriam deserved closure. And if the Inquisition has to employ questionable methods to achieve it, so be it.
The rest of the day passed without any significant events, just more reports, more work, and a persistent headache—the three enduring elements of his daily routine. By the evening, when Miriam arrived at his office, he was utterly exhausted and in serious doubt as to whether he would be able to endure the session, but he recognized the need to attempt. The Herald appeared to be in remarkably high spirits, humming a tune while she retrieved the potion from her satchel. He had a hunch that the thought of being so close to her goal of avenging the Templars was the reason for her cheerful demeanor.
Much like the previous occasion, the mage passed him the vial, and he took it in one swift motion, the bitter liquid searing his throat as it descended into his stomach. Anxiety began to unfurl within him, its tendrils creeping and wrapping around his frame like a bindweed. Knowing what was about to happen should have made it less frightening, but somehow the certainty of what lay ahead only added to the dread. As Miriam raised her hands above him, he clutched the arms of his chair, preparing himself for the ordeal. To his surprise, however, she paused. "Why don't you recite a poem, Commander?" she suggested unexpectedly.
He looked at her perplexed, his brow furrowing in confusion. "A poem? Now?"
The mage nodded with a reassuring smile. "It will help to distract your mind, shifting its focus away from fear. It's a common tactic to assist the patient in getting through the unpleasant procedure."
"I do not have any verses committed to memory. The path of a Templar did not offer many moments for poetic pursuits," he responded, still uncertain about the efficacy of this approach.
"And what of songs?" the woman persisted.
"There was hardly any time to learn them either," he admitted. In truth, there may have been opportunities, but he had never been interested in such frivolities.
"What about 'The Little Apple Tree'? Do you know it by heart?" She seemed quite determined to have him do her bidding. He hailed from Honnleath, and, of course, he knew that song.
"It's a children's tune, though," he noted.
"The song's nature doesn't matter, it's the distraction that counts. Go ahead, please," she urged him gently.
This felt rather embarrassing, he hadn't sung since... he couldn't even recall the last time he had. But Miriam was so adamant that it would help that he decided to give it a try. He cleared his throat and started to sing. His voice was rusty at first, the words emerging slowly and hesitantly, "Little apple tree.. oh, my apple tree… In the orchard, in the field, you're the one for me."
As he sang, the mage's hands began to move gracefully, creating intricate patterns that glowed with a soft, silvery light. The room seemed to come alive with magic as the spell began to take form. The enchantment brushed against his skin, and the horrific memories of bloodshed, strife and fear reemerged with relentless intensity. He sealed his eyes shut, fervently grasping onto the words, "A-ah, little apple, red, ripe, and sweet. A-ah, little apple, a tasty little treat. Under the blue sky, the sun shines down so bright. And on my little apple tree, the fruit is just right."
With each line, his voice gained strength, and the weight of the haunting recollections slowly began to lift. The dread that had once dominated his thoughts was being overshadowed by the comforting memories inspired by the song. Cullen felt a sense of empowerment, a renewed connection to the innocence of his youth. "When the cheeky birds come, to peck at the juicy fruit, I'll wave them away, and grab a snack to boot."
His tone was now steady and clear, each word painting a vibrant picture of a peaceful world. For some reason, a distant memory from when he was a mere eight years old came to his mind.
He stands in the middle of the sun-drenched courtyard of Redcliffe Chantry with a young girl at his side. She is of a delicate, slender frame, her pale eyes showing traces of recent tears. Despite her fragile appearance, her sweaty palm clings to his hand with an unexpected tenacity, as if she seeks refuge, as if she craves protection. With a gentle motion, he releases her hand and reaches into his pocket, retrieving an amulet adorned with the eternal flames of Andraste. Bathed in the bright sunlight, the trinket shimmers as he extends it toward the girl. Her gaze remains fixed on it, brimming with awe and wonder. Kneeling, he secures the amulet around the girl's neck. As the jewelry settles against her chest, she enfolds him in a heartfelt embrace. Returning the hug, he feels every inch the honorable, strong Templar he knows he is destined to be.
As the final strains of the song faded into the air, the vivid memory began to fade. Cullen opened his eyes to find Miriam lowering her hands, her spell completed. The mage's expression exuded a blend of relief and quiet pride as she offered him a smile suffused with warmth. "Well done, Commander."
Still somewhat dazed from the experience, his gaze meandered across the woman's countenance, traversing the intricacies of her eyes and the contours of her face, until it alighted upon the weathered, rusty amulet adorning her chest… Could it be? The odds were against it, but he had to find out.
"Lady Miriam," he began, feeling his pulse quicken, "you once mentioned having a friend from Honnleath. Could you tell me more about him?"