Hello again!

Welcome to the sequel of "A Breach in His Heart". If you haven't read the first story yet, I strongly recommend to do so, otherwise you won't understand a thing.

That aside, here you go! I hope you'll enjoy the first chapter :3


Cullen Rutherford had always been a man of dignity and unwavering faith. Even at times of utter darkness when the foundation of his beliefs crumbled right under his feet, when the Circle of Ferelden had been overrun by abominations, when Meredith had raised her blade against Hawke, or when the Breach had torn the sky apart – even then he'd prayed and held his ground like a righteous servant of the Maker. He'd taught himself to be strong, to keep his mouth shut when he wanted to scream, to work like a smooth-running mechanism. And he'd managed just fine… until he befriended Maxwell.

The Commander's heart bled when he was forced to change. He hurt his friend both mentally and physically, pushed him away, rejected him and locked him in that small room so he would wait for his dreadful destiny - alone, scared, and abandoned. Following the well-trodden pattern, decisions that his faith considered right, Cullen broke himself to a state where he sometimes functioned just barely, his eyes unfocused and mind blank.

Traitor. The last word he'd heard from Maxwell. The word that had been wandering in the empty rooms of his consciousness ever since. The Commander still worked, handled reports, documents and agents – everything he'd been doing before the Elder God fell, but the outer world stayed where it was – outside. His left hand was the only thread that kept him tied to reality.

The Commander had put all of his force into that stab. Maxwell had been right, he was a traitor. They had matching holes in their palms now, and that would always remind Cullen of his true nature.

He never told anyone about their fight. Cassandra had been knocked out before they started, and everyone else was simply dead. Cullen spared bits and pieces of the Inquisitor's last battle against Corypheus when the other advisors started asking, and afterwards Maxwell's appearance prevented them from questioning further. Red veins, glowing eyes and sharp teeth; rough spots on the man's skin where lyrium would soon start to grow – the last present he'd gotten from his destroyer was too distracting.

Later, tranquility made it all disappear together with Maxwell's personality. Loyal, independent and fallen, he was now gone, and the only thing that remained was a human-looking shell with two marks: the Anchor, the light of which had died together with Maxwell's horrified pleas during the ritual, and the lyrium brand on his forehead. Leliana said they'd added a vertical line inside the slightly deformed sun, making the whole brand somewhat resemble the icon of the Inquisition. So that it would fit.

Now he was just a quiet resident of the Skyhold fortress. Stripped of his status, Maxwell rarely left his chamber and was more of a pet than an actual person. He talked when he was talked to, remembered his past to some extent and was able to think, but his motivation and emotions had completely faded. At least that was what Josephine said when Cullen asked her about it: the man couldn't find courage to visit Maxwell himself.

And so his days passed, days filled with self-loathing, despair and pain. Cullen took a habit of disturbing the wound on his hand, adding to that company, and that usually attracted Cole: the spirit had asked to soothe the Commander's mind more than once by now, and each time Cullen rejected his offer.

He didn't find it appealing enough.

Instead, he asked Cole why he hadn't come to Maxwell, long ago, and the spirit said that he hadn't known. He'd never heard the man suffer, not even when he'd been sitting in that room. Why, was the main question, and there was no one who could answer.

The Herald was gone, but puzzles remained.


The moon was crawling up the sky when Cullen woke up at his desk with his cheek nestled against a smooth surface of unread reports. He frowned and slowly raised his head in an attempt to gather his surroundings - sadly, the task turned out to be more difficult than he'd expected. The Commander groaned and brought a hand to his eyes, rubbing away the remains of his sleep.

With his current way of living it was no miracle his body came to an abrupt shutdown. If he continued like that, he'd find himself in the infirmary pretty soon…

"You need to see him," a voice stated, and he almost jumped out of his skin. Cullen's eyes darted to his left and met the recently elected Inquisitor, a betrayed and battle scarred woman who still showed an impressive amount of will. Cassandra tore away from the wall and approached, watching him intently with her left eye – her right was broken and ugly, so she kept it hidden under an eye patch that only added to her already intimidating look.

"How long have you been here?" Cullen asked tiredly, not even trying to straighten his back. If it had been someone else, he would've put more effort in regaining proper appearance, but the Seeker was way too sharp and suspected way too much to be fooled.

"Long enough," Cassandra answered. She laid a hand on the Commander's shoulder and squeezed it, flattening the thick fur. "And don't pretend you haven't heard what I just said. You're getting worse. You need him."

"He needed me too," the man muttered, staring at his knees.

"Maybe he still does."

"No, he doesn't. He doesn't need anything anymore."

The Seeker sighed and dropped her hand, and somehow the loss of contact was frightening.

Despite the injury, the first question Cassandra had come up with upon regaining consciousness was centered on Maxwell's well-being. They'd erased his personality days before she woke up, and when she found out, she became devastated. Days passed, weeks, and even though it was believed that time healed, Cullen knew she couldn't get over it. He knew, because he felt the same.

He also knew she would've tried to protect Maxwell from his fate, and that knowledge made him feel utterly pathetic even though he'd been on the battlefield and seen the Herald's downfall with his very own eyes.

"I see," Cassandra sighed in defeat, and the Commander was thankful she didn't use her position and order him to visit Maxwell against his will. The woman raised her hand and rubbed the back of her neck, glancing down at his table. "Go sleep upstairs at least. I'll handle the reports."

Cullen blinked and sat silent for a moment, processing her words. "No, I have to deal with these myself," he then objected. "You're busy enough as you are. Can't do my work for me..."

"But I am the Inquisitor, Commander," Cassandra shook her head, crushing his resistance with a single fact. "There is nothing I can't do."

He couldn't object to that.


Another week passed, and the Commander was returning from the practice ground when he saw Varric leaving the former Inquisitor's wing. The dwarf closed the door behind him quietly, raised his head, and suddenly Cullen's heart sank. He fidgeted, deciding if he should turn back or proceed forward as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but Varric was quicker and caught him staring. He began walking towards the Commander, efficiently robbing him of his choice.

"Curly," he started in a strained voice as soon as he reached him, "this is the worst backstab I have ever seen."

No greeting. Cullen swallowed a lump in his throat and brought his hands behind his back as nervousness kicked in. It was the first time he saw Varric since the last battle.

"There was no other choice…" he mumbled, crossing his fingers together. "He lost his mind. He killed his people- our people. I couldn't save him…"

"Yeah, well, keep telling yourself that," Varric grunted and adjusted Bianca on his broad shoulder. Then he looked up and scowled at the Commander, and Cullen could swear he'd never seen the dwarf so angry. "I ain't finishing this book. Take care."

Varric didn't wait for an answer and simply took off, and Cullen felt his breath hitch as he watched the dwarf go with his shoulders stiff and his hand glued to his bag. It wasn't hard to guess he was keeping his doomed to stay unfinished masterpiece in it.

"Varric…" the Commander whispered, dropping his chin, and even though the dwarf was already too far away to actually hear the call, he turned around.

"One more thing," he said, and Cullen flinched, expecting the worst. "I hope you have a good memory, Curly. He won't be able to sing properly anymore."

"To… sing?" The Commander tilted his head; he hadn't expected… well, this. He'd never heard Maxwell sing before. But now that he was thinking about it, he hadn't really spent that much time with the man. They'd usually been busy training or discussing missions or other important matters…

"Yeah," Varric nodded. "What, he was too shy to do that in front of you?"

"I… I don't know," Cullen answered. He looked back at the past, trying to fish out fitting memories, but none of those he had focused on Maxwell's hobbies.

"Forget about it, then," the dwarf shrugged once. "I guess he'll be singing to Hawke next. 'On the other side'… And Hawke- he deserves it. I mean, he even gave his life. Because they were, you know, friends."

The Commander gritted his teeth.

"Anyway, time to go. See you later. Maybe." Varric bowed - the movement looked awfully forced - and turned back to the entrance again. As he went, Cullen struggled to worm his way out of the hidden blame the dwarf had just thrown him in.

Besides Maxwell, he was the only one who'd survived through the final massacre. Stopped the Herald before he'd have opened a rift to butcher those who hadn't yet arrived. If people thought he'd been having a great time while Maxwell screamed in fear in front of the inevitable, if they thought he was glad things ended this way, they were wrong.

He'd done nothing to deserve this.

Nothing.

Furious, the Commander darted off from his spot and let his legs carry him to the former Inquisitor's chamber. Maybe he hadn't heard the man sing and maybe he hadn't given his life for him, but Maker knew Cullen had done all he could to help. Maxwell was the one who'd stopped being honest. Who'd shut the Commander outside. Even then, Cullen had tried to call out to him only to be rejected again.

He could have voted for an execution.

The door smashed open, revealing a place he hadn't visited for a long time. It was a lot cleaner now, and brighter. The bed was made and the curtains stayed open.

Maxwell was sitting at his table, his hands folded on top of an open book and eyes watching the courtyard through the closest window. As soon as he heard someone enter, he turned his head, and Cullen got an eyeful of his lyrium 'sun'. The Commander felt sick.

Apart from the brand, his expressionless face and not glowing hand, the Herald looked the same as before. He studied the intruder's features for a few seconds, and then greeted him with a hollow voice:

"Good morning, Commander. I see you are doing well today."

He was gone. Maxwell was gone.

Cullen inhaled a shaky breath and stepped closer, his feet leaden. "Good morning," he said. "I…"

It was difficult to look at the man now that he fully realized his state. When the Herald had voiced his greeting, there was no emotion to it, only a vast, endless void - a punishment Cullen had allowed to happen. Maybe Varric was right, and Hawke was the one who deserved to hear the real Maxwell once they met after life.

Yet…

"…sing to me," the Commander asked quietly. Maxwell shifted on his chair and took a moment to get the request.

"I am afraid a tranquil is not suited to meet your expectations this time, Commander," he said evenly. "Perhaps you should ask someone else to do that."

"No, someone else… won't do," Cullen objected weakly. "I want it… need it. To be you."

The Herald hummed and looked to his side, probably reconsidering the man's words, and it pained the Commander to observe him. He had no right to ask anything from Maxwell, not after what he had done. Still, when the tranquil looked back and nodded, he felt a surge of warmth in his chest. It grew and flourished and pushed all of his grim thoughts aside.

"What would you like to hear?" Maxwell asked.

"Anything," the Commander choked out. "Anything you like."

The Herald nodded again. "As you wish."

He took a small breath, opened his mouth and sang:

Shadows fall, and hope has fled
Steel your heart, the dawn will come…

Content before that, Cullen's eyes suddenly widened as he recognized the words.

The night is long, and the path is dark
Look to the sky, for one day soon

The dawn will come…

He'd heard this song at the time of cold and need. It had helped the Inquisition – and him - to overcome the tragedy of great loss. Maxwell was singing it now, and it sounded empty and dead; the Commander felt all the warmth flee from his heart as it gained quicker pace, his worries returning. He wondered if it was some kind of a cruel joke-

The shepherd's lost, and his home is far
Keep to the stars, the dawn will come
The night is long, and the path is dark
Look to the sky, for one day soon
The dawn will co-

"Stop!" The Commander shouted, desperate, and Maxwell followed the order on instant. He looked at Cullen with understanding, one of a false sort.

"As I have said, I am unable to put much emotion into my singing," he said. "However, I am most certain you will be satisfied if someone else sings to you."

It wasn't that at all. Cullen shivered, took a few unsteady steps back and then rushed out of the chamber as fast as it was humanly possible. He'd made a mistake coming back. He'd known he would suffer, and yet he still got caught.

His heart was bleeding all over again.