The world is gray. That isn't a metaphor; Cullen has never been much for them anyway. The world is, quite literally, gray. The trees, the ground, the path, the mist, even the mirrors haphazardly dotting the landscape. It is the opposite of the colorful visions that come to one drowning in lyrium, or the bleeding nightmares that come without it. It is like nothing he has ever seen or expected to see. Why should he? This is the inside of an eluvian, a device built by elves for elves. He isn't welcome; the monochromatic color scheme and the disorientation make that much clear.
Too irritable to stop now, he tells whatever elven gods may be listening that he would gladly vacate if he could. He has no desire to live in this colorless, joyless world that has no use for his kind. It is all he can do to keep from marching over and flinging himself at one of the mirrors. But he has no desire to go back, either. The world they left behind is as foreign to him as this one.
At least one thing hasn't changed: it was the Inquisitor who saved them. It was she who thought of the eluvian, shouted it to them over the din of mount and blade and flame destroying Skyhold. It was she who led the way into the ruins of the courtyard, flung open the door, stood before the enormous mirror for only a second's hesitation, and then whispered the words of her people to it until glass became mist. And into it they fled, the only survivors of the siege, perhaps of the entire Inquisition. Is she still the Inquisitor if they are all that remains?
Well, if she is no longer our leader, someone forgot to tell her, Cullen thinks with a swell of perhaps inappropriate pride. She leads them still here, the only member of their band who felt better (not worse) upon reaching the Crossroads, as the witch called them. She tells them the gray path lights to her steps, the gray grasses green at her touch. She claims she must walk at a snail's pace to stay close to them; somehow her strides are longer here. Cullen would wonder if she was delirious, if he wasn't already wondering that about himself. He stepped through a mirror into what seems to be the official vestibule to the Fade. He knows he is not dead, at least; the splitting headache and dizzy spells are enough to convince him of that.
If he has any doubts, he need only look at his equally suffering companions. Josephine walks with Leliana, leaning on her arm when she isn't retching. Cullen and Blackwall walk next to each other, a mutual unspoken agreement to keep the other from stumbling if the need arises (and it has, several times). Iron Bull (The Iron Bull, he reminds himself) supports Cassandra, despite her initial insistence that she was not affected by this place as the rest of the humans were. At first, her eyes dared anyone to remember this had happened later. Now, they look as dull and listless as everything else. No one thought to look for Cole, and since no one has mentioned him, Cullen assumes they have all come to the same conclusion: spirits can take care of themselves.
The rest of Skyhold's forces (what was left of them before he was forced to order the doors of the Great Hall barred in a hopeless attempt to buy a few more minutes) are surely gone, felled by the enemy or retreating into the mountains. He is confused for a moment by his warring thoughts. He hopes they did their duty and defended the cause. He hopes they lived to fight another day. Both cannot be true. And what is their cause now? They have started a war they cannot win, allowed themselves to be crushed, and left the world in the enemy's hands. Even if they escape this place, even if they rebuild their forces, can they wrest it back? Should they?
He tries to shake these doubts. He has doubted many things in his life (mages, templars, his own strength) but never the Inquisition, never her. But even though he has her back now, Cullen cannot help but feel that nothing will ever be the same. And he knows now, as he had no inkling then, the exact moment it all went wrong.
"I want to hold an arlathvhen."
She announces it as she strides into the room, no preamble or greetings. Josephine looks up from her vellum, Leliana from the window, Cullen from the table.
"An arla-what?" He speaks before thinking, revealing more of his boundless ignorance of her kind. But she only rolls her eyes at him as Leliana answers for her.
"An arlathvhen," she repeats, though it sounds no less foreign coming from an Orlesian tongue. "It is a meeting of the Dalish clans, held roughly every ten years."
"The Keepers of each clan exchange all the knowledge they have collected about their people since the last arlathvhen, and remind themselves of what they already know, so it is never forgotten," Josephine clarifies, looking to the Inquisitor out of courtesy rather than any doubt she got it wrong.
Adriel nods. "I have knowledge to share."
"What?" Leliana asks. To the outside world, she looks and sounds eager for a juicy piece of gossip. To Cullen, who has stood in this room with her for hours on end, there is a hint of suspicion to it.
"The vir'abelasan," the Inquisitor replies, looking a little surprised anyone needs to ask. "Mythal. Her temple. The orb. And that's just for starters."
Cullen makes a conscious effort to stare ambivalently back at her, not join in the exchanging of looks happening between the ambassador and the spymaster to either side of him.
"Can any elf call an arlathvhen?" Josephine asks diplomatically (as if she does things any other way, Cullen thinks to himself.) "I thought that was decided by the Keepers."
"When they hear what I know, they'll come," Adriel assures them. Then she smirks. "And aren't I the Inquisitor? What's the point if I can't rally my own people to my side?"
"It is true we have relied only on your heritage to hold the Dalish clans' favor," Josephine concedes. "We should do more to reach out to them."
Leliana, as always, asks what the rest of them dare not. "Are you certain this is knowledge they wish to possess? Seeing the true face of one's ancestors, one's gods... that would be daunting for anyone."
The Inquisitor frowns prettily at her (another word that needs no saying, Cullen thinks.) "We wander Thedas as isolated nomads through the ruins of our civilization. We have always known our ancestors were flawed. And if the woman I met was truly Mythal, perhaps she was not a god after all."
Cullen cannot help himself now. "You don't think that would upset your people? To learn one of their gods isn't real?"
He receives a sly smile in response. "We have many gods, shem. What's one less? Besides, I thought everyone here believed in the Maker. Aren't all my gods false?"
More silence. Cullen knows what Josephine and Leliana are thinking because he is thinking it himself. She is the elf, not he. She is the Inquisitor, not he. Every move she's made thus far has been correct, every decision has brought them fortune, glory, influence, and ultimately victory. If she believes her people should know the truth, who are they to question her?
"I will contact the Keepers of each clan," Josephine finally says. "Starting with Lavellan, of course. Unless you'd prefer to do that yourself?"
"I'll write Keeper Deshanna," Adriel says, now fixing Cullen with a look straight from the demons themselves. "I have a few other things to tell her anyway."
The rest of the meeting is uneventful. Troop reallocation, the veracity of rumors, favors won and lost. As has become their habit, Josephine and Leliana exit together, leaving Cullen and the Inquisitor alone.
"An arlathvhen," he says, immediately regretting his overly confident attempt to pronounce it correctly. "What made you think of it?"
Adriel shrugs. "Every time I met a new clan or walked an elven ruin, I wanted to share it. Sera didn't care, Solas already knew everything there is to know about elves and ruins..."
"You miss your people," Cullen surmises.
"I want to help my people," the Inquisitor corrects him. Then she smiles. "And I miss them. An arlathvhen seemed the easiest way."
"I don't know how easy it will be. Convincing every Dalish clan to attend, providing food and shelter for them all..."
She laughs. "We eat what we kill and sleep under the stars. Did you forget?"
How could he? Visions of her cavorting in a glen somewhere were his first terribly prejudiced fantasies. "If that is your wish, we will see it done."
"Thank you, Commander." She lets the silence linger just long enough that Cullen swears he can feelthe mood shift. "Didn't you have a dream that started like this?
He shakes his head, collecting papers to burn. "I'm sorry I ever told you that."
"I'm not," Adriel declares. "It makes these meetings much more interesting."
And uncomfortable, the first time he'd tried to make it through one after having had the dream, trapped across from her in armor and furs. "You're saying they weren't before? Quite a thing for the Inquisitor to admit."
She laughs, coming towards him, golden hair glittering in the candlelight. She is so happy these days, free and easy, as if nothing can trouble her now that Corypheus is dead. Not Varric or Dorian, returned to Kirkwall and Tevinter respectively; not Vivienne, now in her second act as Divine Victoria; not Solas or Sera, both vanished into the night (though she'd never gotten along with her fellow elves anyway). If she doubted before, if she ever questioned her role or their purpose, she doesn't now. Her confidence is inspiring (and more than a little attractive).
"These days, I think you find them as boring as I do," she says, trailing her hand around the table, up the haft of his sword and round his waist. "No battles to fight, no half-mad darkspawn to outwit..."
"The Inquisition's armies do serve other purposes, you know," he chides her. "As do I."
She steps back from him then, folding her hands behind her back and giving him a smile both patient and apologetic. "That I know very well."
Her moving away from him was not Cullen's intent (the opposite, actually). It isn't the first time she has failed to understand his human gruffness, he her elven candor. Or perhaps that belongs to her alone; his admiration of it has not improved his miserable attempts to imitate it. Still, he tries, because the joy he feels in her presence is real, even if the Templars and Honnleath never taught him to show it.
"Perhaps you need a reminder," he suggests, stepping towards her this time and drawing her near with one arm. "I have time."
"As do I," she answers, in perfect imitation, a delighted light in her eyes. "And there's a table right here."
"No," Cullen says firmly, though he concedes how one might not believe him when he kisses her once, twice, three times.
"Against the door," she suggests. "Then we won't ruin the table for you."
"I need the door to enter and exit the room. How am I to look at it, let alone touch it, in the future?"
The Inquisitor sighs, stepping back. She retains hold of his hand, however, and leads him out of the room and down the hall through Josephine's office (who is thankfully not in it). She releases his hand before they enter the main hall, as if that makes it any less obvious what they intend to do when she heads straight for her quarters and he follows.
But as soon as the door shuts behind them, she turns and ambushes him, throwing her arms about his neck. When he wraps his arms around her in turn, she smiles against his lips. Cullen decides that the stairwell to her room is acceptable; he only ever uses it to achieve this purpose anyway.
Adriel makes a noise somewhere between pleasure and frustration in his ear, her fingers tugging at the leather straps of his chestplate. "Must you wear all this?"
"I wish you would," Cullen replies, unmanned only for the briefest of seconds by the thought of something (anything) happening to her. Another second passes and the same thought drives his hands back to her tunic and his mouth to her neck.
She gives a breathless laugh as the fabric parts easily. "No, you don't."
He turns his attention to her trousers now. "No, I don't."
The world is still gray. No, grayer still, after the richness of that memory. The sudden contrast makes Cullen's eyes water, which makes him cough, which forces him (and thus the rest of the party) to stop.
"How far have we traveled?" Leliana asks. "Everything looks the same to me."
"That's because it is the same," Blackwall grumbles.
The Inquisitor does not correct him. She stares out at the never ending gray, wisps of hair blowing in the breeze.
"We must escape this place," Cassandra pants against the Qunari's chest, eyes closed. "We need food, medicine-"
"Only way out so far's the way we came," Blackwall replies. "Either the battle's still raging and they haven't found the blasted thing yet, or they've followed us in and are gaining with every step."
"You always did know how to cheer up a room, Blackwall," the Inquisitor finally says. But she does not turn around.
The Iron Bull hocks up something foul and turns to spit away from Cassandra. "Ah, let 'em come. This place could use a few splatters of blood."
The former Seeker's face contorts, battling a wave of nausea. "You didn't see enough of it at Skyhold?"
"The Chargers are still there," the Qunari says dismissively. "They're probably sitting on the Inquisitor's throne, drinking out of a couple of elven skulls right now."
All eyes turn to the Inquisitor's back, though Bull still looks as though he's said nothing wrong. Probably thinks he hasn't, Cullen imagines.
But again, the elf before them doesn't move. "I'm sure you're right, Bull."
Such earnest statements are her defining characteristic. But this one rings so false that it sends a wave of despair rippling over them. Cullen cannot help but feel he catches the crest. He straightens up and moves to her side. Once there, he stands stupidly silent for what feels like an eternity. What does one say, in this situation? What does one say to her, in this situation? "Inquisitor, I-"
She suddenly lifts her hand to silence him. For a moment, he fears he's lost her again, but then she draws her bow. Bull practically dumps Cassandra onto a nearby rock in his hurry to join her. Cullen isn't entirely sure of his reflexes (or if anyone's weapons will be effective in this strange half-place), but he too draws his sword. They stay several paces behind the Inquisitor as she begins to stalk her prey. She closes in on a cluster of large bushes surrounding a great tree. She crouches low next to what Cullen assumes are green branches, takes a slow, careful breath. Then she whirls on whatever is behind the bush, arrow pointed, string taut-
A gale-force wind blasts forth from the bushes and knocks her and the rest of them off their feet. When Cullen opens his eyes again, he sees an elf standing over them. She is not gray, but as real and vibrant as he and his companions seem to be. Like most of her kind she is small and slight. The tattoos on her face mark her as Dalish too, though they are so different from Adriel's that even Cullen knows she must be of a different clan. Her hair is dark, her skin is pale, and her eyes are the largest and widest he has ever seen. The staff lashed to her back marks her as a mage. She seems familiar, somehow, but after so many years and so many phylacteries, Cullen is losing his eye for apostates.
"I'm sorry, but you really shouldn't sneak up on a person like that," the elf says, cross as any tutor. "Especially in a place like this, where you don't expect it."
The Inquisitor-Adriel-rises from the ground, her gaze still fixed on the elf. "Where do your allegiances lie?"
The elf's brow crinkles. "Allegiances? To myself, I suppose. Oh, and salt chews. Definitely those."
The rest of their party has crept forward to join them, Josephine struggling to look the diplomat despite her pallor.
"You're an interesting bunch, aren't you?" the elf comments, eyes roaming over the group. "Ooh, a Qunari! We didn't have one of those. No dwarves, I see, though."
"Who is we?" Cassandra is irritable.
"Hawke," the elf replies, as if they should have known. "Aveline, Fenris, Anders, Varric-he was our dwarf-Isabela-"
"Merrill," Leliana supplies. And now that he has a face to put with a name, Cullen does remember her. But after the Arishok was defeated, the Viscount of Kirkwall gave orders that Hawke's companions were to be considered exempt. Irony then that perhaps the least dangerous of her mages-her unassuming sister-should be the only one to have been forced to the Circle before that decision was made.
Merrill's face brightens. "You've heard of me? That's very flattering, unless it's not. Who are you?"
Blackwall gestures to the Inquisitor with his axe. "You don't recognize her?"
The elf shakes her head. "I don't, I'm sorry. But I don't know many elves. The ones I did weren't very nice to me."
Josephine stirs, getting to her feet. With her chin held high and her hands clasped politely in front of her, one almost doesn't notice the fog in her eyes. "This is the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. The woman who defeated Corypheus and saved the world from certain destruction."
"You're not going to mention all the dragons?" Bull objects. "Tell her about the dragons!"
"Oh, no need, that sounds very impressive as it is," the elf says, giving a small, nervous laugh. "Just one question: what is the Inquisition?"