The infirmery was tucked into a corner of the circle tower. In the light of day it was an agreeable place. A curved window set into the outer wall threw mullioned shadows onto the curtained beds, and points of light against the walls. Cullen had rested there at times, as a young boy, and he remembered the soft spoken mages who cared for childhood compalints.
Now the kindly day was gone. This was the bitterest hole of night, and the dead lay on the tower floor. Mages were scattered, betraying and betrayed; and Cullen could hear, far away, the shrieking of children. Worst of all, was the smell rising from the walls, polluted with bulbous meatlike shapes.
Irving was an old man, he had been old for as long as Cullen had known him. But he had been vigorous and capable. Tonight his face is bruised and drawn, but he has pushed his sorrow and outrage down, leaving only duty visible. Irving was old, but his arm was strong and and sinewy. He eased the templar down onto one of the beds; narrow quiet and clean.
"Rest boy, try not to think too much. Gregoir will be in later, I am sure, to check on you. I will see you both tomorrow in my quarters." The old man's hand stroked Cullen's brow, and, shutting the door quietly, left him alone.
Before he had time for worry or dread, Cullen found himself asleep. The Fade drew him down, and he submitted to dreams.
Tonight, the Fade, like the tower, like the world, was an alien place. The usual violet light was stained with crimson, and sulpherous smoke, and a taste of steel ached and burned in Cullen's mouth. The landscape was indistinct, devoid of feature . He was alone. He liked that sometimes, it was rare enough, and to be savored.. Not tonight though, not like this.. Tonight his feet carried him in widening circles, and he felt his heart pounding with vigilant dread.
After some time, he felt the ground begin to slope up beneath him, his steps became more sure. The yellow fog was thickening, but now he knew the way.. He gained the rise, and saw, below him, the gleam of reflected water. A lake shone dimly under the fouled Fade sky.
A brass-bound trunk sagged at the water's edge. It was half buried in the sand. As happens in dreams, Cullen realized that he had known it would be there.
He sank to his knees and lifted the top. Bare newborn creatures seethed within. Something like kittens, something like rats, they writhed and squeaked with repulsive helplessness. Even as he watched they were multiplying. Soon they would fill the trunk and overspill the sides. He had to crush them. He had to kill them all. Shuddering with horror, he reached into the mass of them. His mouth was locked in a grimace of disgust, and now he became aware of a greater shame. He was naked, there at the water's edge. Surely he had been clothed before. And as he braced against the trunk, he became aware of his cock rising, aching, heavy and hot.
Gagging helplessly, Cullen turned away from the monsters. He could not kill them. He buried his face in his arm, and cast himself face first in the sand. Hot shame rose inside him.
He was not aware that he had cried aloud, but he must have done so. He rose from the Fade with his own shout, to an awareness of the dark room and the narrow bed. He was still ridged and swollen, he was still shaking with the remains of the dream, but was no longer alone in the room.
Cullen turned to face the wall. The sound of someone weeping across the room was nothing new to him. Many nights in the Chantry and Tower were broken so, his own tears were likewise nothing new.
He must have dozed a little then. He didn't see her approach. Cullen only knew that in the deep of that worst night, and terribly too late, the girl he dreamed of was climbing into his bed. Her arms slid around him, and he felt the wetness of her face.
"Please Cullen, I'm so cold." She tucked her head under his chin. His astonishment was complete. Her small hands curled against his chest. Mages and templars do not touch, but she was touching him. She was fragmenting the carapace of ice.
This was the Warden who had saved him, the woman he had wanted, the mage he blamed.
"No," he said, even as his arms encircled her. "Please Maker, don't. You can't. Please don't forgive me."
Her hands touched his face, his lips. She burrowed against him, warmer than he could have dreamed. She didn't ask him to explain. She kissed his hair, his eyes, his nose. Now her hand was lower, his belly his—oh.
Her touch was relentless, drawing him forward and forward. Her eyes were open, and watching when he crested, when he arched and pulsed.
"Cullen," she said "There is nothing to forgive.