Cullen decided that no matter how long he stayed there, he will never set eyes, foot, or ears at old groaning trees again. His only business, for business is what he's after, is to leave them be and not hack at them. Yet his "guide" – a coin-hungry and overgrown urchin eking out an existence in these ancient parts – was all too eager to make a path rather than walk one. Could there be a path? The washed up ex-templar, former Inquisition commander, was a little too tired to care. The gold paid, and gold kept lyrium, and lyrium kept him from going insane. Or at least, it kept him from realizing his own insanity. His weary eyes, the amber hue turned a sunburnt grey, scanned the lush foliage that domed over them. Harsh piercing light trudged through between every arborous nook and cranny, but no matter their perseverance, shadows won the battle and dwelled in the forest ground. The color scheme of things thus had an ominously somber emerald, as if the forest was trapped in a lucid nightmare and the sun had yet to wake its lethargic vines.
It hadn't been his first time in the Arbor Wilds. The last time seven years prior had been less doomy and gloomy than whatever mood he was catching there. Then again, life had been less doomy and gloomy than whatever existence he was living there. If it were up to him, he would remain in Redcliffe, avoiding life, family, and friends, and wasting away in his own washed up circle. Don't all heroes end up like that? Had he not given his blood, his life, his heart for a cause he found bigger than himself? Yet what good did it do him? He was left more broken than ever, and now he found himself transported to the outskirts of modern existence just to prolong this suffering. Cullen's tongue clicked at the thought, somewhat distracted as he half-heartedly pushed the folds of fan-like leaves and skulking branches before him. "How much longer?" he asked somewhat annoyed.
The "guide" (and even in his head, Cullen found himself placing air quotes around the title) merely snickered and continued to hack away with his rusted machete. "Now, now, patience good ser. The forest is cunning. It hides its secrets, and each time we have to find it all over again!" The former commander found "the guide's" voice somewhat eerie, like that of an impish ghoul. He sighed at the evasive answer and ruffled his already-tousled hair. He noticed when a longer and uncouth strand fell on his eye, that one strand or two shone like bright silver. It was greying, aging – the signs of a life reaching its expiration. His thoughts wandered to seven years before, when he had been here with an army, a full head of blond hair. The forest was less unruly then. It allowed them to march unimpeded while he – a standing general – donned the helm of the red lion, heralding the mark of the Inquisition. A buzzing bug buzzed its way to his nose and snapped him out of the nostalgia. He shooed it away with his leather clad hand and sighed once more. Those days were gone, and it was best not to bring them back. Memories were like dead friends. They're fond to think of, back when they're alive that is, but they're not very pleasant when brought back as a corpse. The prospect of encountering the undead never really occurred to him, but now that he thought of it, he found one more thing for his aching bones to groan about. What if this ancient place had undead? Frustrated, he finally changed his mind and helped "the guide" hack away at another impetuous vine. If one needs lyrium, one must get lyrium. In the days since the Breach, since the rebellion, and since the dissolution of the Templars, it hadn't been easy. Yet if Cullen really thought about it, none of it had been easy.
"Tell me, ser...?" "the guide" momentarily turned back to him after hacking off another impertinent bush. It didn't occur to Cullen that he never really gave his name. All it took was a bag of gold in Aaron's Lodge, and he found himself a disinterested guide. Now, days into the less penetrated parts of the region, instincts to fraternize and engage in camaraderie were settling in, but Cullen had no interest. He merely had business, and business was the only thing in mind.
"Branson," he blurted out. It was the first name to come to his lips. Odd that he used a younger brother, far and estranged, as his guise.
"Ser Branson," the "guide" mimicked, "What is your interest in Elvhan ruins?"
Cullen raised an eyebrow at the pronunciation. In his days with the Inquisition, he remembered only the Dalish acquaintances of Lavellan, and Solas, were the only ones to emphasize the real pronunciation of the adjective. His "guide" was definitely not "Elvhan," and it made him wonder what his true interest and affiliation with the ancient ground was.
"None," he replied curtly. Cullen was irritated that his only social contact the past three days had been with an eccentric crone hanging about in vines. He needed a drink – and lyrium – and he wasn't sure whether the coin from this expedition could even get him that much.
"Oh?" The "guide" skeptically cooed. He laughed, understanding that Cullen really wasn't going to open up anything, and the older man found it strange that his guest demanded their interactions be as limited as possible. Yet "the guide" had been in the Arbor Wilds long enough to guess at what these middle-aged men, tanned and stretched from their years of war and fighting, sought in these old groves. "Ser Branson" was not the first to venture forth into the abyss, hoping to make more coin for their suicidal bravery. "The guide" himself was somewhat bemused at the recent outpour of these tired out adventurers. After the Breach was sealed seven years ago, and the famed Inquisition disbanded with the death of its Inquisitor two years after, the Arbor Wilds have become somewhat of a "dying ground." Lost souls seeking either redemption or a means to living out their useless lives have come for treasures that noble coin greedily hungered for. He was merely there to reap at least some of its benefits. Is that not how coin worked? The "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" adage obviously works even in such cold and hardened times.
"Have you been here before, good ser?" the "guide" chimed almost too happily. He sheathed his machete when a more open clearing came to view. "You hear that sound?" the guide asked somewhat distracted. Cullen perked his ears to listen but heard nothing. "An old brook is coming up. It's a straight path to Andruil's Temple from there!"
Cullen heard nothing still, but he merely shrugged and followed. It suited him best to just go along with the plan. "Yes," he said too frankly, as if he merely called out the word for saying it.
The "guide" hummed a "heh?" before realizing what he was responding to. "Ah, so you must be a veteran of the Inquisition!" Cullen nearly froze at the "guide's" somewhat perceptive sleuthing. As if reading the confused ex-templar's mind, the haggard urchin continued in clarification, "Most folk I lead out here are scientists, researchers, or mercenaries ... never been here and don't know what they're doing. But you, you look around here as if you're looking for things you remember. Not really shocked at all the sights and sounds, eh, are you Ser Branson? But the last folk I remember seein' come by was all those years ago! The Inquisition! Maker, what a bloody mess!"
The former commander proceeded without a word. He'd rather not let his "guide" further into his life at the moment, especially with such a sensitive subject. Cullen merely let a few seconds pass, hoping his silence is confirmation and explanation enough, before drawing out his sword here and there to help the inquisitive man cut through an overgrown patch. Hours seemed to drift by without a word between the two. It was not long before he could tell from the shadows looming in the fore and the shift in the protruding sunlight's angle that night was about to fall. What he could see of the skies was a darker grey, and the temperature was anything but warm.
"We make camp here," the "guide's" voice rattled as he pointed his machete at the site of an old camp. Charred stones formed a circle before a hollowed tree. Indentations by its roots indicated frequent guests.
Perhaps this "guide" was truly a guide? Questions always popped up, but Cullen never cared to answer them. He shrugged his shoulders in assent and found a cozy root to stiffen his back. With the creak of his bones, he lowered himself and stretched out his aching calves while the "guide" rubbed cinders to start a small fire. Sitting down with his leather quilt and canvas breeches was definitely easier than the metal shell he once called his armor. It was liberating to blend as an anonymous hunter or mercenary here and there, and it seemed to suit the foliage he often frequented as a sell sword.
"Drink?" the "guide" produced a water cloth from his pack. Cullen gently shook his head and revealed a flask hanging from his waist belt. In the past and as a good chantry boy, Cullen never really liked drinking alcohol or strong spirits. His work was often enough, and duty served a greater pleasure. Yes, a beer here or there was necessary for the tavern gallivanting and dalliances he had from Ferelden, to Kirkwall, and then to Skyhold. Then there were those years... those sweet years with the Inquisition –no, with the Inquisitor. Hardly any drug or draught could have tempted him from those quiet days. Now, with lyrium added in and now missing in the picture, whiskey would have to do. Cullen popped the cap off and raised the flask in some half-arsed attempt to toast one successful day of intrepid trekking before taking a long and thirsty gulp of his drink. Shadows grew and light gave way to a dark blue peering through the leaves of their roof-like trees. Branches encircled the darkness, and for once Cullen felt somewhat of an entrapment. Across from him and sitting low by the fire, "the guide" hummed an old tune, unfamiliar and incoherent to the former commander. Cullen was more fatigued than he realized. Almost twelve hours of unceasing hiking against jutting roots, pesky leaves as big as a druffalo, and the unpleasant company of this backwoods hireling left him exhausted with it all. Not to mention, there was the ringing pang of his thirst for lyrium.
"What was she like?" the guide asked, breaking out of his tune.
Cullen peered up from his drink, as if woken up from slumber. "What was who like?"
"The inquisitor!" the old urchin exclaimed. A sly smile crept on his lips, and the "guide" revealed a gap or two in between the yellow specks that glimmered in his mouth. Cullen cringed a bit at his smile, looking away from both questioner and question. The "guide" relaxed a bit from his position by the fire and sprawled on the pillowy grass. "Savior of Thedas! bringer of order! And a Dalish elf, no less! You were with the Inquisition! You must have seen her!"
The aged Ferelden immediately regretted not denying his associations with the once powerful faction. He did not mind answering as much as he minded being reminded. The guide's dreamy descriptions conjured painful memories and long buried images. Cullen's mind raced from scenes of snowy peaks, far across old stone and battlements, the image of a woman, her eyes shaped like almond, skin a soft bronze... C'mon, you need a break! He felt dizzy at the resurgence of a million shards of memories piecing themselves together. They brought back senses and sensations, and Cullen did not realize that he lost himself in pensive remembrance of how sweet her hair smelled.
"Well?" the crone pulled Cullen back from his depths. Though he was annoyed at first, the ex-templar was a little grateful. He could have easily lost himself again to the intoxicating allure of old times past – gone but hardly forgotten.
Cullen faced away into the shadows of the forest around them. He frowned, curling the old and unhealed scar on his upper lip. "I was nothing but a foot soldier. I never saw her." "The guide" said nothing in response. He understood in his own way when someone really insisted on keeping things secret. So he turned and resumed his dissonant tune by the fire.
Cullen let the heady drink and the white noise of his guide's singing lull him into a stupor, and before long the clutches of dark and quiet sleep enveloped him.
Black night came, and his consciousness melted. The arbor wilds disappeared, and the former commander was left with nothing but a slight whisper. No, whispers. Whispers emerged as if from a door. He sat in a dark room, lost in thought, and sweating from anxiety. The dreaded feeling swept him again: the feeling of waiting for good news that will never come. Suddenly, a brightly lit hearth cast long shadows around him. The flames dove into their own little sparks, dancing in circles and painting an illusion of a ritual consuming his gaze. In the distance, a door blasted open. A woman's screams echoed through the chamber. Yet it sounded muffled, as if trapped in a jar but somehow ringing in his ears. "It's going to be alright my lady!" another muffled call, an old woman assuaging the fears of someone in pain. Cullen rose from his seat, turning every which way, looking for the door that led to the room, that led to her. He started to run, running, running... Where was she? He looked around, but it was all so dark.
He followed the sounds of her screaming. He could feel her writhing in agony. "Someone please!" she called out, crying and shrieking. His heart wrenched. Cullen wanted nothing more than to find her, hold her, and save her from it all.
"Hold her still!" commanded a voice. A man, an elf... A bright green light flashed all around Cullen, and he could hear the quiet explosion of magic pervade the room. More hushed whispers emanated from all over him, but he could not find where they were. Cullen kept running until finally, he reached the end of a corridor. The darkness gave way to wooden walls dimly lit by the dying embers of the hearth. At the end of it was a door, guarded by a familiar figure, tall, slender, bald...
"Solas!" he called out. But the elf merely turned away without a word, and as he opened the door before him, more screaming came from the room.
"I don't want to die!" a woman cried out. It was a familiar plea for help. Cullen immediately bolted for the door. She was waiting for him, calling him. He ran and ran, but like before he never seemed to get closer. Each second played out like eternity, lost in a void. Solas was forever there, turning his back and walking into the room, but her muffled screaming pierced his ears. She wanted him there. Cullen gave up, panting, and unsure of what to do. The walls receded, dissolving into the black shadow once more.
"Cullen?" a soft whimper came from behind him. The ex-templar turned around. Lavellan lay there, trapped in sheets of white on a creaking wooden bed. She lay naked with her lower half drenched in a pool of red seeping into the straw. She had been so weak in that moment. Cullen thought of the hand he placed on her neck trying to feel for her pulse – so faint, almost like a whisper. Her lips were parted open, as if to speak and plead with him to save her life, but even then she had no energy. Solas stood on the other side of the bed, watching them with pity.
"I am sorry, Da'len," he whispered, looking longingly at his bloodied and pained friend.
Cullen cried out in anger, "Save her!" But the screaming reached neither of them. Lavellan, the once formidable Inquisitor, lay there with her body cold as stone. Her legs were parted, letting the blood pour from between her thighs. Every second or two, her stomach would jerk upwards, hinting at the last signs of a struggle for her life. From her throat came a terrible cry, piercing and shrieking. Cullen grabbed hold of her one hand, feeling deathly cold to the touch. Where her complexion, formerly sun burnt, had a deathly pallor, he could see her varicose veins turn into a corrupting black, lining her skin. Her other arm wasn't even there. It was empty, missing, but from the stump of her left arm came the most blighted part of her body. More varicose veins protruded there, and even her face turned blue from the corruption her body suffered. The commander looked at her, his wife, his lover, the mother of his child, pleading with her to stay, to endure the pain and not let go of him. But her eyes were beginning to lose their gleam, seeming hollow and empty. Hands from cloaked figures around them poured more water and sheets on her abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding flooding her thighs.
Solas waved a hand, like a god orchestrating the macabre scene of events. With the gesture, Lavellan let out another cry, louder and more harrowing than the previous ones. She arched her back, rising from the depths of the sheets. Another pouring of blood seeped out from between her legs, and Cullen – arrested by the tragic image – held onto her back and tried to embrace her. "No!" he shouted as if trying to wrest command from the elven mage standing before them. Lavellan's cry rang in his ears, embracing him, sheathing him like a slow and torturous song. Muffled in between the cacophony, the sound of a child, crying for its mother interlaced the melody.
Cullen woke to the splash of water, feeling frigid in an otherwise balmy evening. He scrambled for composure, rising from his hollow spot by the tree, soaked from both water and sweat. The "guide" stood before him, holding a small pail of water. "Keep it quiet!" he growled low and harshly.
The ex-templar balked at him bewildered. "Maker, what-!"
"Shush!" The "guide" eyed him menacingly. He raised his hood over and crouched low next to his patron. "Something's here with us, I can feel it... And your loud sleep talking doesn't help one bit!"
Sleep talking? Cullen's head rang with pain. His nightmares once more plunged him in that troubled state, where the waking world was constantly plagued by his irrepressible calls for help. A shudder went down his spine. He hadn't dreamt of that for months now. Then again, he had been keeping the warm company of prostitutes and tavern wenches for months as well. Those temptations were ones he never had a preference before, but in his old and lonely age, when they came flocking to him anyway, it was the best he could do, like a palliative for a lingering migraine. Tonight, it seemed, without a warm body or the comfort of lyrium, his dreams wandered to memories he fought so hard to forget. After reorienting himself, Cullen looked around and scanned the vicinity. He saw nothing. Then again, it was too dark to see anything. Yet the "guide" still looked around suspiciously, as if tracking a skulking shadow or two as it closed in on them.
Moments passed, and Cullen could indeed feel some cold presence lingering around them. His right hand reached for the pommel of his sword, waiting for the ambush with his readied steel. Yet when nothing happened, the two wary humans relaxed a little. Perhaps it was an animal, harmless and curious? Cullen leaned back against the root he was sleeping on, ready to resume a sleepless night. The "guide" raised himself from his crouch as he felt the threat waned.
Then, like a flash of lighting, a shadow with a piercing cry jumped from a distance. Its presence whistled past Cullen and pounced on the "guide." It carried him yards away from their campfire, the "guide's" screaming filling the air. "MAKER!"
Cullen could hear guts wringing out, and he could only imagine the blood that now quenched the ancient ground's thirst. The seasoned soldier ducked low and took cover underneath the jutting roots, taking refuge in the foliage itself. The "guide" stopped screaming, or perhaps the shadow had succeeded in killing him and thus concluding the crone's death rattle. From underneath the bush, Cullen panted harshly. He tried hard to steady his breath, blood rushing up and down his temples. Cold sweat like beads slithering down his cheeks. He hadn't felt this afraid in ages. For a while, nothing but the hum of crickets pervaded the darkness around him. Was he going to die right then and there? How could he fight a predator he could barely even see? And a man supposedly experienced in navigating the depths of these woods was effortlessly devoured. What was he to do? His heart pounded against his rib cage, fighting for survival. But Cullen already felt himself losing hope. The shadow moved quicker than anything he had seen – and he has seen a lot of things. Compounded with his weariness, his aging body, the cracks in his spine... He found himself muttering the chant of light, as if saying his last holy rite.
His prayer must have been loud, indeed loud enough, because he felt an icy grip encircle his ankle, and a commanding tug pulled him from underneath the root. Cullen instinctively grasped his sword and unsheathed it. He swung wildly in the dark, hoping to break free. A piercing banshee's cry echoed in the forest. The ex-templar was blind. No matter how swiftly and how wide he swung his sword, it was as if he was merely slashing against the air. Whatever it was that gripped him blended with the night. Is this death? Cold and disquieting darkness? In the slow seconds between the present and the impending moment, he felt quiet reassurance. He thought once more of his Inquisitor, and death suddenly seemed a bittersweet end. Cullen bit his lip, ready to meet his fate. He roared at the top of his lungs and lunged from his overturned position.
Somehow, it worked. He felt his blade pierce something coarse and thick, like the trunk of a moving tree. A shrill cry came from beside him, and it let go of his ankle as soon as he pulled back his sword. With a thud, he landed on his back. Cullen cried out in pain, groaning and absolutely regretting whatever he just did. Though he was gripped with fear, the seasoned warrior had met death so many times before. He braced himself and rose from the ground. If he was going to die, he was going to make the shadow fight for it.
Luminous green eyes lit up before him. He could see no figure, but he understood now what he faced, a demon of some kind. It growled prowling in the shadows, ready to pounce at him as it recovered from his strike. Cullen glared at it like a wounded lion. He felt the heat of countless battles give his arms the power to wield his blade and the courage to die fighting. Yet before he could anticipate its next move, the green eyes seemed to dissolve in the space, and he felt a whistling sound shoot across his ears. Recognizing the sound from its earlier attack on his guide, Cullen sidestepped, hoping to escape its grasp, but it was too late. He let out a sharp cry, feeling something impale his right shoulder, dragging his body a distance from where he stood. The demon was too fast for him.
Cullen swung his sword once more, and he could hear the blade tearing off a limb. The slash seemed to release his shoulder from the piercing arm of the demon, for he fell back down on his knees on the soft and dewy grass. "Is that all you got?" he roared, taunting the formless monster. The shadow let out another war cry, shrill and dissonant in the cold night air. Cullen winced at the sound of hearing it. His left shoulder hurt even more as he felt it go cold with the loss of blood. "Come at me!" he yelled, clenching and baring his teeth at his foe. The warrior felt another whistling blow past his ear, and in an instant he knew that his luck might yet run out. He positioned his sword in front of him, ready to impale the monster back should it catch him with its fangs this time. But as soon as he felt the darkness encroach, gripping him with its frigid grasp, he saw an arrow fly from the corner of his eye. It gleamed blue, as if breaking a sound barrier as it shot from the distance. The demon let out another shrill cry, but this time, he could see the arrow glowing against its head as it wriggled in agony. Another gleam flew from the corner of his eye, and a second arrow pierced the shadow, this time in its snout. The trees shook with its screams, and the demon seemed to recede with the darkness. The arrowheads glowed blue, as if warding off the spirit from the veil. Starlight was returning to the grove, and Cullen could feel warmth around him again.
When the monster let out its final cry and dissolved into the shadows, Cullen dropped his sword in fatigue. His right shoulder no longer pained him. In fact, he no longer had any feeling in it. He looked down on his arm, ruby streams flowing from the wound. His head felt faint, and he was losing more and more control of his vision. Weakened, his knees fell as his left hand tried to put pressure and cover the wound on his shoulder. The warrior grinded his teeth and was somewhat disappointed. If he were to die, he would have preferred a brutal death fighting a demon rather than bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.
"Atish'all vallem," a woman called out from the darkness. Cullen looked across from him, his eyes searching for the new presence. He tried to look for his sword, but it was too dark, his vision was too hazy, and his arms were too weak. Could it be another foe?
Moonlight shone on the forest floor, as if to announce the new entity as his daring savior. A small, lithe woman approached. In the darkness, Cullen could not make out the lines or the features. A groan rumbled from his throat as he felt a hot, piercing sensation run down his right arm. "Stay where you are," he commanded with a low growl. When the wounded man fell on his side in agony over the pain his shoulder was giving him, she gave a startled gasp. He oculd make out her shadow darting over to him. He was confused to say the least. He hadn't expected anyone there.
Cullen merely breathed, panting, waiting for the revelation before he could bleed out and finally join his late wife. A smirk lifted the scar from his upper lip. "I would thank you," he said grasping for the last straws of his life, "But I'm afraid you're too late." The woman lifted him up from his neck, placing his head on her lap. He felt something soft and cool press against his wound. The former commander peered up above him, trying to scan her face, but somehow it was too dark. He tried to make out her eyes, to outline where her nose or lips were. For a second, he could've sworn – but it was a bit blurry in the darkness, one had to admit – she looked a little bit like her. With those thoughts, darkness enveloped him once more, and his body limped to the ground. He could feel warm hands press against his wound, the lifting of a burden, like floating in a river.