The blighted dragon, a monstrous embodiment of chaos and destruction, loomed overhead. The air crackled with the acrid scent of burning flesh and the acidic stench of the taint. Cullen's voice thundered across the battlefield, its urgency cutting through the bedlam and anguished cries. "Archers, to the eastern flank! Aim for its wings. We must bring that beast down before it lays waste to us all!" The archers scrambled to obey, their hands trembling as they notched arrows in haste. They had trained for battles against the Wardens, against their dark magic and twisted demons, but none had anticipated the wrath of a dragon descending upon them. Arrows hissed through the air, but though they found their mark, they did no significant damage. The cursed creature shrugged them off nonchalantly as if they were mere twigs tossed about by children. "Steady, men!" Cullen bellowed, his voice strained with determination. "Hold the line!" His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as his mind raced with thoughts about Miriam, Gaspard, and Hawke... What fate befell them? He had heard the roar of the beast and the ominous rumble of stones, and then, in a matter of moments, the dragon had emerged from the Adamant Fortress and descended upon them with unbridled fury. With the Herald and the Emperor gone, the morale of the troops lay in ruins. In these circumstances, how could they hope to prevail against a creature of such immense power? Cullen felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him, threatening to extinguish the flicker of hope that remained.
Cassandra rushed toward him, her armor clattering with urgency. She panted, her breaths ragged from the sprint. "Cullen!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arm to steady herself. "The Chevaliers have broken formation. They're leading the Orlesian army to assault the fortress, convinced that Gaspard is in grave danger."
Cullen's brows furrowed, his mind grappling with the absurdity of their decision. "Now!? They have no idea what kind of situation they are charging into, let alone the threat of the dragon! This is madness!"
The Seeker nodded, her expression mirroring his disbelief. "I told them the same, but they won't listen. They insist on saving the Emperor, no matter the cost."
A muffled curse escaped his lips, but before he could fully express his frustration, a horn blared through the chaos of the battlefield. The dissonant sound reverberated through the air, drowning out the roars of the dragon. As soon as the echoes died down, a soldier shouted. "The Wardens are coming from the east!"
Cullen turned his attention to the indicated direction, from where the Warden mages and the demons were rapidly approaching. "Seeker, assume command of the Templars to confront the maleficars and the demons. Take with you those who wield the Litany of Adralla to protect you from blood magic. I will do what I can to keep the dragon at bay for as long as possible."
Cassandra gave a grim nod and hurried to carry out his order. The odds were against them—a dragon looming above, Orlesians forsaking them for an assault on Adamant, and now a legion of Wardens, and demons closing in. Yet, amidst the chaos, a peculiar sense of clarity settled within him. "Listen up!" He bellowed to address the soldiers. "We need to distract that dragon and draw it away from the front lines. We must buy time for the others to deal with the Wardens and the demons!" The archers responded with a volley of arrows, aiming to lure the creature away from the main battleground. As the beast turned to face the renewed assault, Cullen shouted orders to his warriors. "Flank it! Keep its attention divided! Move, move, move!" Suddenly, Cullen caught sight of the aged, bald woman clad in the armor of the Warden-Commander. "Maker's breath," he muttered to himself. "It's Clarel." The figurehead of the very order they were fighting had managed to slip past the Templars and was now gathering her mana, preparing to unleash an Ice Storm upon them. Ignoring the ongoing skirmish with the dragon, Cullen redirected his focus towards the Warden-Commander. This was an opportunity that rarely presented itself—a chance to confront one of the leaders orchestrating the madness that had befallen the Wardens. "Clarel!" he called out, his voice cutting through the din of battle. "The Wardens were sworn to safeguard the world from the Blight, and now you stand with the blighted dragon. Have you gone mad?!"
The woman stopped her incantation and turned to look at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What in the Void are you talking about?!"
Cullen pointed urgently at the monstrous creature, which was spitting fire. "Look there! Remember your oath to protect Thedas from such horrors!"
In response, Clarel's expression twisted into disbelief. "You've lost your mind!" she spat. "That is no dragon, it's a noble griffon, ridden by a mage Warden!" With a quick incantation, she threw a shard of ice that narrowly missed Cullen's head as he covered himself with a shield. In the next instant, a bolt of lightning struck him, his sinews twisting and spasming, the stunning impact rendering him immobile and unable to breathe.
At that dire moment, Fenris emerged from the swirling smoke behind the Warden-Commander and plunged his sword into the Warden's back. Clarel's spell was instantly broken and Cullen sank to the ground, his breath coming in gasps, his muscles throbbing with intense ache.
Warden-Commander clasped her hands around the blade protruding from her abdomen, her gaze frantic as she locked eyes with Cullen. "You doomed us all," she moaned, her voice strained. "The Blight, we must sto..." Suddenly, her expression froze, transforming from anguished to shocked. "The Calling... it's gone," she murmured, her words trailing off into a raspy cough. Blood splattered from her lips as she released the sword, collapsing to the ground, and life extinguished from her body.
The elf hastened toward Cullen, extending his hand to lift him from the ground. Their eyes scanned the battlefield, where the Wardens and the demons persisted in their struggle against the diminishing forces of the Templar Order. Fenris's brow furrowed in confusion, and he asked with a hint of frustration, "Did she not claim that the Calling was gone? Then why are they still fighting?"
Cullen, his gaze fixed on the disarray, spoke with urgency, "You must find Erimond and kill him. The Wardens are deceived, they cannot see the true nature of the monster. The Magister distorts their perception, but once he is dealt with, they will realize the truth and turn on the dragon and the demons." The elf gave a brisk nod and plunged into the maelstrom of swirling ash and fire, hot on the trail of the Tevinter Magister. With determination etched on his features, Cullen swiftly ran towards the beleaguered Inquisition soldiers, who, despite enduring heavy losses, valiantly confronted the beast. "Keep moving! Watch for the patterns!" he shouted, his voice strained.
The soldiers nodded, their expressions grim as they launched themselves at the beast with renewed determination. But the dragon was relentless, its fiery onslaughts driving them back time and time again. Cullen felt the heat bearing down on him, the flames licking at his armor like the tongues of the Void itself. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his shield raised high to deflect the worst of the inferno. The metal grew unbearably hot against his skin, searing into his flesh with each movement. A wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision swimming as memories from his past flooded his mind. He saw himself once again in the Circle Tower, surrounded by demons and blood mages. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur, the cries of his fellow Knights reverberating in his ears as they fell one by one. "No!" he screamed, shaking his head violently to dispel the illusion. "I'm not there!" With a sudden jolt, Cullen snapped out of the trance-like grip of the vision. The present moment rushed back with a visceral intensity just as he found himself face-to-face with the monstrous dragon, its colossal form casting a looming shadow over him. Its eyes blazed with a ferocious fury, and with a deafening roar, it unleashed another torrent of flames. Yet, just as death seemed inevitable, he felt a powerful force slam into his body, propelling him out of harm's way. It was one of the soldiers, a nameless hero who had selflessly sacrificed himself to save his Commander. As Cullen tumbled to the ground, he could only watch in stunned horror as the brave soul disintegrated into nothingness before his very eyes, consumed by the dragon's inferno.
Cullen struggled to his feet, his body rebelling against him as pain emanated from every torn muscle and scorched patch of skin. With a primal scream, fueled by a mix of anger and defiance, he charged headlong toward the beast. The dragon's eyes, gleaming with predatory intelligence, narrowed into slits as it tracked his movements. With a sudden, ferocious motion, the creature swatted its foreleg. Cullen raised his shield in a reflexive attempt to defend himself, but the dragon's power was overwhelming. The shield and armor that encased him offered little resistance as the claws tore effortlessly through, shredding tissue and shattering bones in his left limb. The beast's talons, which had pierced his shield, lodged in it, and the monster, like a cat trying to rid itself of a nuisance on its paw, began to thrash wildly with its front leg. Agony seared through Cullen's body, a white-hot blaze of pain that threatened to consume him as he was violently jerked in every direction—up and down, left and right—his maimed arm bearing the brunt of the torment. Groaning, he struggled to free his bloodied limb from the shield straps, but to no avail. Yet amid the chaos, a surge of adrenaline and sheer willpower overcame him. Gripping his sword tightly, Cullen seized the fleeting moment as the monster's head approached and, with a swift, desperate thrust, drove the blade into the dragon's jaw. Sharp steel sliced through the monster's tough hide, penetrating layers of flesh and sinew until it lodged in the bone. A grotesque spray of black ichor erupted from the wound, showering him with the foul substance that mixed with the crimson essence of his own injuries. A thunderous roar echoed across the battlefield, and with a particularly violent jerk of its foreleg, the dragon's claws finally broke free, sending Cullen hurtling through the air like a rag doll until his body slammed into a rock, plunging him into darkness as his senses faded.
His consciousness drifted like a leaf on a turbulent stream, occasionally surfacing to the light before being swallowed once more by the darkness that beckoned him into its embrace. First, he caught glimpses of another Inquisition soldier, seemingly dragging him somewhere with urgency. Strangely, there was no pain, only a pervasive numbness that enveloped his entire being.
Another fleeting moment revealed Cassandra's figure standing over him, engaged in conversation with some woman, their words muffled and distant. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of blood, elfroot, and disinfectant. Yet, the details slipped away as quickly as they came, lost in the fog of his mind.
When he surfaced again, his eyes struggled to focus on the rough-hewn stone ceiling above. The feeble light of dancing candles flickered, casting distorted shadows across the room. As he tried to make sense of his surroundings, he became acutely aware of the heaviness that clung to his limbs, a sensation like molten lead coursing through his veins. Attempting to move felt like navigating through quicksand, and his body seemed reluctant to respond. Blinking against the haze, Cullen's gaze fell to his right hand, the only place of warmth amid the overall numbness. There, he found Miriam, seated in a chair beside him, her head hanging in a wearied slumber. Her fingers, delicate and gentle, cradled his hand with tenderness.
"Miriam," he croaked. Trying to form words felt like climbing a steep hill.
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing a vibrant crimson hue that appeared even more striking as it mirrored the flickering candlelight. "Cullen," she breathed, her voice carrying a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "Thank the Maker, you've regained your senses."
He tried to make sense of his surroundings, his mind a foggy landscape of confusion. "Where... what happened?"
Miriam's gaze softened as she met his eyes, her hold on his hand reassuring. "We are at Adamant Fortress. You were injured. Badly. I've been tending to you for days."
He struggled to piece together the fragments of memory. "The battle," he mumbled, feeling his heart quicken. "The dragon, the Magister... Are we safe?"
Miriam's lips formed a weary, sorrowful smile. "The battle is won, and the Inquisition stands triumphant. The cost we paid for victory was steep... but I will tell you all about it later. For now, you need to concentrate on your recovery."
As he tried to absorb her words, the room began to sway like a ship sailing through a storm, and he once again succumbed to unconsciousness. Yet, the warmth of Miriam's touch lingered, a comforting light in the midst of darkness.
In the days that followed, Cullen fought against the tides of drowsiness, gradually reclaiming more and more moments of alertness. Each time his eyes opened, he found the mage by his side. The sensation in his body slowly transitioned from the weighty grip of numbness to a heightened awareness of pain. Every breath sliced through his chest with a sharp sting, an unrelenting reminder of the broken ribs, while patches of scorched skin alternated between itching and throbbing. But all this paled in comparison to the sorry state of his bandaged limb, which lay limp at his side, its fingers barely responding to his commands. Miriam, with a pained expression on her face, conveyed that the Maker's grace spared him from the dragon's taint, yet the exposure of his wounds to the monster's corrupted essence was hindering the effectiveness of spells and potions. That was why his ribs remained broken, his skin damaged, and, most importantly, why the crushed bones and severed muscles in his arm rendered it beyond his control. While his other injuries would slowly heal over time, his hand, even when fully recovered, would never regain its former functionality. Using it in battle, such as holding his shield, would remain an impossible task.
The news had reached Cullen like a cold wind, sweeping through his consciousness and leaving behind a bitter chill. His first instinct, a reflex forged in the crucible of duty, was to step away from his post. The demands of his position required strength, yet now he stood as a commander with not only a weakened mind but also a compromised body. He had become more of a liability than an asset. But as the familiar feeling of failure loomed, he remembered with poignant clarity that for him, the mission to defeat the Elder One was not just about duty; it was about redemption, about proving to himself and others that even with his limitations, he could still make a difference, could still contribute to the cause he believed in so deeply. His new state didn't change that. While he might no longer be fit for direct combat, his ability to lead and command troops effectively remained intact. Determined, he decided that until the other members of the Inquisition council judged him incapable of fulfilling his duties, he would continue to be the Commander. He would persevere until the bitter end, whether it be his demise or the fulfillment of the Inquisition's noble purpose.
Eventually, he reached a point where Miriam felt his recovery was sufficient to warrant a detailed report on everything that had happened since she had entered the Adamant Fortress. As he sat in his bed, the mage took the chair by his side and recounted how she and others had been physically in the Fade, how the spirit that looked like the Divine had revealed to them that the Calling had been forged by a demon in the service of the Elder One, and how this Elder One was one of the Seven. He absorbed the barrage of events, trying to decide which was more shocking until Miriam broke the grim news of Hawke's and the other soldiers' sacrifice.
Cullen wasn't a close friend with the Champion, yet they knew each other for a very long time and had been through some tough situations both in Kirkwall and since their shared involvement in the Inquisition, so he was far from indifferent towards her fate. Yet, even after hearing what had happened, he remained calm. Time after time, Hawke had managed to somehow survive through more perils than anyone he ever knew. No one did see her fall, and there was no body to speak of, which allowed hope to persist. If anyone in the history of Thedas had the chance to survive for an extended period in the Fade and then find a way out, all the while laughing about it, it was her. He wasn't the only one thinking that way, as Miriam told him that Brother Sebastian and Fenris also rejected the belief in Hawke's demise. The mage, her gaze drifting into the distance, added that she sympathized with their inclination to grasp at straws. Cullen observed the lingering silence, noting the gravity in Miriam's expression. Sensing the need to redirect the conversation, he shifted towards the events following his battle with the dragon. "Do you know what happened after I was knocked out by the blighted monster?" he began. "My memories are few and fragmented."
Miriam's crimson gaze once lost in the distance, returned to meet Cullen's eyes. "When we reached the fortress, the battle had concluded long ago," she began. "Cassandra told me that after Fenris struck down the Magister, the Wardens realized who they were fighting alongside and turned on the creature and the demons."
Cullen chuckled with disdain. "It looks like we managed just fine without the Orlesians."
Miriam shook her head. "It wasn't so. Discovering that his Majesty was not within the fortress, the Emperor's army returned to the battlefield. With united forces, we managed to defeat the demons and wound the dragon enough for it to retreat."
Cullen leaned back, absorbing the information. "Still, they left us stranded amidst the onslaught. I shall have to speak to Gaspard about this matter."
Miriam sighed wearily. "Cassandra has already conveyed our grievances, and His Majesty responded that regrettable as it may be, he cannot reprimand his men for prioritizing his safety. After all, his well-being must always be the primary concern of his people."
Cullen had a multitude of thoughts on the matter, each one a sharp retort to the two-faced bastard, but he knew deep down that there was no point in voicing them. After all, they had no other allies to turn to. "What of the remaining Wardens?" he inquired, changing the topic of the conversation.
"The Emperor decreed their fate, condemning them to the flames, and so it was carried out," the mage stated matter-of-factly.
His eyes widened in disbelief. "But you mentioned they ultimately aided us in defeating the demons and the dragon?"
"That's precisely why they were granted the noble death by my cleansing flames," Miriam explained in a flat, detached tone. "Had they not acknowledged the error of their ways and repented, they would have faced the gallows like heretics."
"You... you burned them yourself?" he asked, a shiver coursing down his spine.
The mage nodded solemnly, her gaze dropping to the mark on her hand. "Yes," she admitted quietly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "His Majesty said it would be fitting for me to be the one to carry out the sentence...and I agreed. As the Sword of the Faithful, I must be prepared to dispense justice personally." There was a slight tremor in her voice as she continued, the mask of indifference slipping away. "The Wardens did deserve death for their transgressions. I did the right thing, and yet... and yet it lingers heavily on my soul. Perhaps because I didn't realize that it is one thing to end a life in the heat of battle, amidst the chaos and urgency of combat, and quite another to unleash flames on people with their hands tied behind their backs. His Majesty believes that I must steel my heart, and perhaps he is right."
Cullen's expression hardened. That cursed man and his bloody machinations! "Why didn't you consult me on this decision?" he demanded, his voice filled with frustration.
Miriam looked at him, perplexed. "Cullen, you were in and out of consciousness, in no condition to discuss anything. Cassandra expressed her disagreement, but I..."
He cut her off in exasperation: "You should have heeded her counsel! It's not your duty to carry out executions. And stop calling yourself the Sword of the Faithful, because you are..." His words hung in the charged air as Miriam stood up so abruptly that the chair she was sitting on fell to the floor.
"What? A mere mistake? A pretender? Is that what you are trying to imply!?" She cried out, her face contorted in anger.
Cullen, taken aback by her sudden outburst, raised his brows in bewilderment. "No! Why would such thoughts even cross my mind? I just meant that being the executioner, branding yourself as the Sword of the Faithful, it's..." He was about to say 'Not who you are, but who the Emperor wants you to be', but thinking better of it, he went on, "A heavy burden, so I'm worried about the toll it's taking on you." Her expression swiftly changed from anger to profound sadness, and as she seemed to deflate, tears started streaming down her face. "Miriam, what's wrong?" he inquired, his frustration giving way to genuine concern.
The mage approached and slowly seated herself at his side. "It's nothing, forgive me. The stress of it all had the better of me," she said in a hushed tone. "Can you give me a hug?" He felt a pang of guilt for his earlier temper, regretting his lack of diplomacy in handling the situation. Sometimes, he wished he possessed even a fraction of Josephine's talents for tact and grace. Without uttering a word, Cullen extended his right hand and gently drew her closer, his body protesting in pain. Despite the discomfort, he held her firmly, offering what solace he could in their shared embrace. "Your hugs always make me feel better," she murmured. Her words triggered a fleeting memory in his mind, a fragment from Kinloch, where he had uttered the same sentiment to someone. Yet, the details eluded him, leaving only blurred images of bloodied Templar armor and red hair. An unsettling sense of importance clung to the memory, but he couldn't pinpoint the person to whom he had spoken those words. Blinking a few times to dispel the haze of the past, he refocused on the present, where the mage's form still trembled against him. Lacking the words to console her, Cullen decided on a different approach. He began to hum the familiar tune of the Little Apple Tree, a melody that had cheered her up in the past. Remarkably, the humming seemed to work its magic. Miriam's sobs subsided, and in a heartfelt turn, she joined him, her tears replaced by a soft harmony as she began to sing along.
After weeks of slow recovery, Cullen found himself strong enough to embark on the journey back to Skyhold. By the time he was fit for travel, the Emperor and his army had already departed for Val Royeaux, leaving the united forces of the Inquisition and the Templar Order to make their way back to their mountain stronghold.
The return trip, though uneventful in terms of external threats, proved to be a silent challenge for Cullen. He found the long hours in the saddle increasingly difficult to endure; his muscles, weakened by his recent ordeal, protested against the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath him. The landscape often became a blur as he grappled with the discomfort. Still, there was a glimmer of progress. His hand, once paralyzed and unresponsive, had regained some semblance of normalcy. He couldn't lift it over his shoulder or clench his fingers, but the subtle return of mobility was a glimmer of hope. It allowed him to maintain a façade of strength for the troops, a deliberate effort not to diminish their morale.
As the towers of Skyhold came into view on the horizon, the collective sigh of relief from the troops mirrored the feeling of returning home after a long and grueling campaign. Finally, the fortress's imposing gates, festooned with banners bearing the symbols of the Inquisition and the Templar Order, swung open to welcome the returning forces. Cullen dismounted with a grace that belied the lingering pain, and after a brief moment overseeing the troops settling back into the familiar stronghold, he turned toward his quarters.
As he climbed the stone steps leading up to his office, he began to eagerly anticipate some much-needed rest. However, fate had other plans. Just as he opened the door, he found Leliana standing beside his table; she was clearly expecting him. "Cullen," she greeted, her sharp eyes meeting his with discerning intensity. His response was a nod of acknowledgment as he entered the office. "Congratulations on the victory."
He inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you. It was a hard-fought battle, but we managed to prevail." He paused for a moment. "It does concern me, however, that with no Wardens in Orlais, the Emperor has no significant military force able to oppose him, other than the Inquisition, of course. A strategic move on his part, no doubt, but one that lacks foresight as it leaves the Empire ill-prepared for any future Blights."
Leliana smirked. "He will likely rebuild the Wardens from scratch, placing his own loyalists in charge. I anticipated this move, and I'm relieved that he lived up to expectations."
Cullen gave her a weary look. "Why do you seem to enjoy this?"
The woman's eyes gleamed. "You are a warrior, surely you understand the satisfaction of facing a formidable opponent."
Cullen sighed, "Not really. There's no thrill in it for me. Is there anything else? Forgive me, but I'm a bit tired from the journey."
Leliana tilted her head. "Yes, there is something more. I've managed to uncover the Emperor's spy."
Cullen's weariness seemed to fade as he leaned in with renewed interest. "Who was it?" he inquired, his alertness returning.
"Marta, an elderly Ferelden woman who has been cleaning the latrines since our time in Haven." The Spymaster stated it with a slight wince. It was likely difficult for her to accept that Gaspard's spy had infiltrated the Inquisition from the start.
Cullen furrowed his brow, racking his memory to recall any encounter with this woman, but came up empty-handed. After all, he seldom paid heed to those outside the Inquisition council or armed forces. "Shrewd of him to enlist a Ferelden for this task. How did you discover that it was her?" he inquired.
Leliana's lips curled into a faint smile. "A subtle trail of breadcrumbs leading to the heart of deceit," she stated cryptically. "What's important is that I turned her into a double agent. Gaspard will continue to believe she remains loyal to him, but in truth, she now serves as our eyes within his network. Naturally, she'll provide him with some information to preserve her cover, but it will be carefully curated to align with our agenda. Once Corypheus is vanquished, we'll leverage her to expose the Emperor's deceit."
"How can you be certain she won't betray us?" He asked, his tone skeptical.
"I've secured her loyalty," she replied. "Marta has recently experienced the loss of her entire family through a series of unfortunate events, except for her grandchild, who is currently being held in a place known only to me. The old woman won't take any risks that could jeopardize the safety of her last remaining kin."
Cullen's eyes widened in shock. "That's... please tell me you weren't involved in those 'unfortunate events'," he uttered, concern evident in his voice.
The expression on Leliana's face becomes inscrutable. "Cullen, if you're to fight a lion, you cannot act as a sheep. We must use every tool at our disposal to achieve victory."
Cullen's temper flared with indignation. "Killing and kidnapping innocents, is this the path you've chosen to secure victory? That's not what we stand for, Leliana!"
The Spymaster met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "If the loss of a few innocent lives today means that countless more will be saved from the clutches of tyranny tomorrow, then it is my duty to make that sacrifice. I was willing to do what others cannot, for the Inquisition, for Thedas. It's a harsh reality, but that's the only one the Maker has given us." Her expression softened as she continued, "I don't revel in these choices, Cullen. Trust that I bear the burden of these decisions with a heavy heart, but I do it for the greater good."
He swept his hand wearily across his face and shook his head. "Why is it that the gravest deeds always unfold under the banner of the greater good?"
Leliana's countenance remained stoic. "Instead of dwelling on my methods, I believe we should discuss the Emperor's preparations for a wedding with the Inquisitor."
His heart skipped a beat. "Did Miriam agree to the proposal?"
"No, she did not. But Gaspard is convinced she will."
Cullen's mind raced, a mix of relief and concern coursing through him. "Why is he suddenly so confident?"
Leliana fixed him with a cold, accusatory gaze, her tone almost incriminating. "While you struggled with the idea of marrying the Herald in order to win the Game, Gaspard made his advances in earnest. Miriam has neither relished nor rebuffed them, an attitude which I suspect was sufficient for him to assume that her consent to their union was imminent."
"How exactly could you know of this?" He felt the sting of jealousy, though he was determined not to let it show.
"She confided in Lysette, and the information found its way to me," Leliana responded calmly. "The Templar has been one of my agents for some time now."
His right hand clenched into a fist. "Do you realize the gravity of this? If Miriam were to find out that Lysette is betraying her trust, it would devastate her."
Leliana arched an eyebrow. "She won't discover the truth, and besides, do you really expect me not to use the Herald's friendship with the Knight to the Inquisition's advantage?"
Cullen suddenly felt an overwhelming fatigue, a weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. He couldn't shake the feeling that the very pillars of the Inquisition were crumbling beneath the burden of murder, deceit, and manipulation. "I... I need to call it a day," he murmured, his voice strained as he addressed Leliana.
She nodded in understanding. "Of course." As the Spymaster turned to leave, she paused and cast a calculated glance back at him. "Before I go, Cullen, remember this, you have one week to decide. Either you begin actively pursuing the Inquisitor, or I will ensure the news of her infertility spreads far and wide. How the marriage to the Emperor unravels will be of your choosing." With those words hanging heavy in the air, Leliana departed, leaving Cullen to grapple with her ultimatum and the tangled web of choices before him.
As he sank into his chair, the burden of it all pressed down upon him like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him beneath its weight. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see a way to maintain his pure intentions amidst the convoluted schemes. After all, one couldn't be surrounded by filth and not get stained. A heavy sigh escaped him as he leaned back in his chair. If the only compassionate way to protect Miriam was by playing the Game, by becoming a piece on the political chessboard, then so be it. He would save her from the Emperor, even if it meant compromising his own ideals. At least he could take solace in the fact that his love for her was genuine, untainted by political motives and that he would never impose himself upon her as that bastard Gaspard seemed to be doing.
He knew that Miriam did not love him the way he yearned for, yet there was a chance that with patience, respect, and time, her feelings could change… But what if, even after all the efforts, she couldn't reciprocate his sentiments? Wouldn't it be unfair for both of them to spend the rest of their lives in such a marriage? After a moment of contemplation, a bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he realized that he was fretting over a future that, in all likelihood, neither he nor Miriam had. As Leliana said, it was a harsh reality, but it was the only one the Maker had given them. In this, he was able to agree with her.