He'd just gotten up from another nightmare. He was in the tower, and once more they had sent a vision to him.
For how long had he loved Tressana? He couldn't even remember. Possibly from that day those many years ago when he'd caught her still in the library after hours. Her hair had been tucked back behind her ears, her eyes squinting at the book in front of her, and her acolyte's robe trailing across the floor.
The light from the tiny lamp she was using to try to hide had thrown her into soft, shimmering light. The tendrils of brown hair that escaped the careful tuck behind her ears curled in the firelight, the way his did if he let it get long.
He'd leaned against a bookcase and just watched her. She was lovely in a way he'd never imagined. Finally, he had roused her from her deep fascination with the book she was reading. Her beautiful eyes and looked at him with such innocence and trust.
Never did she realize that his job wasn't to protect her, but to protect the world from her. Somehow, he'd always seen her as the epitome of innocence and care. Compassion and dignity were trademarks of her.
But the cursed blood mages had taken even that from him. Even that sweet dream of the innocent sweetness of the woman for whom he had harbored a love longer and deeper and older than he could remember.
Curse the lyrium in his blood that made him so resistant to magic. It muddled his memories. Which should have been a precious gift, but now that the majority of memories were now dominated by blood mages or Darkspawn, he hated it with a deep passion.
He wanted to remember her beautiful, and soft, and warm as she had been in the library that day. He wanted to remember a mage—any mage—in a way that didn't burn his mind and make him feel dirty inside and out. He clenched his fist and slammed it against the doorway of the bathing room.
He bathed every night now, waking in the night, driven here. Always here.
To try to wash the blood mage filth away. To drive away images of him doing things… terrible things… to Tressana. Things that were so horrific he would never have thought of them himself. Things that made him both ashamed and yet aroused beyond belief.
That was his great shame. This self-loathing, that he could react to such thoughts with lust, had nearly been his undoing. He had hated them. He had rejected them. Yet his body had spoken what his mind refused to even acknowledge.
He hated the mages, he hated Tressana. Because they reminded him of the evil in his own heart. They reminded him that he could be aroused by things that should have made him limp and miserable.
But all he could see in his mind's eye was her body, naked and glorious, with brown hair tumbling around her in crazy disarray.
He sank gratefully into the hot water, letting it work its magic on his aching body. Though there was truly no hope for his battered soul. Nothing to clean his mind. Nothing to set his heart free.
He felt the ache in his heart, and it was good. It hurt, oh, it hurt so bad. But it felt good. It felt so much better than the bitterness, the pain, the misery. This was just hurt. Normal, reasonable, logical. It didn't carry the weight of shame and horror that his memories did.
He laid his head back against the bathtub, letting his body float slightly. He was starting to drift into that state of lyrium-induced peace when he felt something strange begin to happen. It was magic!
He panicked, but even as he felt the fear surge through him, it suddenly seemed so pointless and even silly. Why be afraid? What was there to be afraid of in a bit of magic.
A deep part of his mind screamed in terror, but the rest of him gave in to the lassitude, the comfort, the peace imparted by this disorienting spell.
"Cullen," whispered a voice in his ear. A familiar voice, a soothing voice. A beloved voice…
"Tressana…" he breathed. Fear and shame surged, quickly blacked out by the touch of her fingers on his head.
"Shhh, my love. Everything's going to be okay."
"What are you doing here?" it was a logical question, wasn't it? He thought it was, but couldn't remember why.
"I've come to heal you, my love." She stepped into his view, and dropped the light, filmy robe that covered her. She was naked and glorious in front of him, and he gasped.
She was far more beautiful than his dreams, his nightmares, his horrors had made her.
"They broke your soul. I've come to give it back to you." Her voice was soft. It was the voice he knew, the voice he loved. There was nothing behind it, no growl of the Darkspawn demons.
It was just her.
A tear ran down his cheek. Why was he crying? He thought he should know, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered in that moment except her. His senses were filled with her.
Steam rose from the bath to encompass her as she stepped into the tub. She was lovely beyond anything he could have ever dreamed, her skin pale and glowing.
He felt a deep fear arise, a terror that told him it was a trick—that there was magic involved and so it had to be horrible. A fear that screamed that any second, he would rise up and brutalize her until she was misshapen and broken.
But he didn't. The fear was suppressed, the magic curling around him with a sense of deep love, unconditional acceptance.
She was closer to him now. She knelt over him, and he realized that his body was, as ever, eager for her. She leaned forward, and he tasted the lips of a woman for the first real time in his life.
It was nothing like he had imagined—and thus nothing like what the blood mages had filled his mind with.
She was soft, so soft. Delicate, and sweet. Her lips explored his, with wanton delight and total ease. She licked and nibbled, and he longed to pull her down onto him and be inside her. He wanted to dominate her, take her, and make her his.
He cringed away from this bestial side of himself. It was so primal that he knew it would hurt her, knew it would crush and destroy her.
So he let her take the lead. He kissed her back, and as the lassitude left his body, he wrapped his arms around her. Curling his fingers into her hair, he kept her mouth against his.
He explored her. Tasting and licking and nibbling. He followed her lead at first, but then found that he wanted more. He wanted to explore her completely, and he delved his tongue into her mouth.
She tasted like cream and spices. She smelled as sweet as she tasted.
She felt like the Fade must have before it was corrupted. Perfect, magnificent, delightful.
He ran his hand down her body, cupping her butt under the water. He pulled her against him, and felt her rubbing against his penis. He bucked against her, barely resisting the need to take her instantly.
She pulled away from his kiss, and he reluctantly let her go. She sat up, straddling him, but not riding him as he so desperately wished.
Then, he felt her hand wrap around his penis, and he bucked wildly again. "Tressana!" her name escaped him, as it always did when he was this close to…
No. He couldn't. Not yet. He fought to control the desire, the pure unadulterated lust that raged through him like a rampaging Mabari.
"Breathe, Cullen," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss his neck and his ear as her hand pumped up and down on his erection.
He gulped for air, not even realizing he had been holding it.
She chuckled, "Not like that. Slowly. Deeply."
He took some deep breaths, wondering vaguely when his sweet Tressana had become so very bossy.
She took one of his hands in hers, and pressed it to her breast. He gulped for air yet again and then took a deep breath. Her breasts were beautiful, spilling out of his hand, yet filling it in the sweetest way. His other hand took her other breast, and as she worked her magic on his penis, he touched and explored her breasts.
He could stand it no longer, and took one breast into his mouth. He'd always wanted to do that. It was as sweet as he had thought it would be. It was her turn to gasp and arch, and he was thrilled at the reaction.
Making her squirm in such a way, and cling to his head as if she might fall over, gave him a satisfaction he'd never found in those magic-induced visions of the hell that the Fade had become under the control of the Darkspawn.
She pulled away from him then. He groaned in torment—such sweet torment—and followed her. Pulled her back so that he could suckle again at those sweet mounds, with their pink nipples and soft, supple curves.
Deciding it must all be some lyrium-induced dream, he pulled her close. "I'm not done with you yet," he told her with a slight growl. It was his dream, damn it, and he was going to enjoy it in his own way.
He lifted her, and turned around to lay her on the seat he had just vacated.
He was going to do something that surely the Maker would strike him down for. Something he'd heard soldiers say that women loved. That would make them scream or moan in ecstasy for hours…
It was his dream, and he wanted to hear her enjoy his touch. He wanted to hear her moan his name. Over and over again.
He pulled her hips up, letting her bob slightly on the water, until he had pushed her back far enough that he could look at her.
Again, it wasn't what he expected. Beautiful pink flesh lay nestled inside brown curls. He reached out, feeling almost reverent. He'd seen pictures—technical drawings. But they did this no justice at all.
"Cullen, I—" she started, obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to do.
"Hush," he told her. It didn't matter if it was wrong. All of it was wrong—all of it felt so incredibly right.
He pulled the warm folds there aside, esposing the beautiful pink of soft, silken, wet flesh. Leaning forward, he tasted her there, and heard her gasp. He couldn't help but grin. Yes, he was going to make her cry his name a thousand times this night.
He licked, exploring, tasting, experiencing. There was very little taste to it at all, yet somehow it was sweet and inviting and delightful. He wanted to know every part of her. He listened to her, and when he found a certain spot, she arched and bucked as he had, moaning and panting.
He did it again. She arched again. A familiar sense of power came over him. The feeling he'd had during those horrible visions. But this was sweeter. This was keen and deep and strong… and it was colored by something else. Something missing before.
He was bringing her pleasure with his own. And there was a power in that which was so much more intense than those visions had ever brought him.
He licked and teased again, and she closed her legs over his head, her hands gripping the stone of the tub until the knuckles were white.
"Say my name," he told her. She gasped and squirmed as he flicked that delicate, sensitive spot with his finger. "Say it, Tressana!"
"Cullen," she said, a breathless, aching cry.
He growled and dove back in. This time, his finger explored while his lips did. She panted and moaned, and he commanded her again. She cried his name, a hushed but desperate cry, a plea, an appeal.
But not a plea to be free of him. A plea to have more of him.
He heard her cries grow faster, and he realized she must like what he was doing. He continued, his own excitement growing as her panting grew heavier and her fingers now dug into his head, pulling him into her as if he might become part of her. He almost felt as if he would.
Then she convulsed, arching and crying his name. Once, twice, again, in rapid succession. He felt a thrill of power rush through him. This was exciting, thrilling, amazing. He'd never felt anything like this in his life.
The Maker would surely strike him dead, for such bliss was certain to be against his will.
When her cries had subsided, he pulled her up into his arms, and she wrapped around his body like a garment. Her hair floated on the water behind her, her arms and legs enclosed him.
"Cullen, I came to give you pleasure, not to—"
"Don't speak," he told her. "Don't speak unless it's to cry my name." And he kissed her, deeply and without any reservations.
He pulled her against him, and reached down to find that secret, forbidden entrance. He wanted to bury himself inside her. He could wait no longer.
"Cullen—" she objected, and he silenced her with a kiss again.
Then he found what he was seeking. Nature, or the Maker, had given men an inherent ability to find that perfect place, he supposed.
"I want to touch you, too," she whispered to him. "Before we—"
He thrust inside her, and she fell silent, her eyes wide with shock. He stopped, staring at her in surprise. This was nearly the look from… this was all wrong! It was all going wrong!
There was pain and shock on her face, not joy and lust.
"I'm sorry," he said, bitterness at himself flowing through him.
"Don't be sorry, Cullen. I'm a virgin. I expected it to hurt." Then she looked wry and self-deprecating. "Just not quite so much!"
"What do I do?" he asked, lost and confused now. This was nothing like either his nightmares or his imagination.
"Just move now. I'm ready," she said.
So he slowly began to rock in and out of her. Her lids dropped, and she moaned as he thrust in and out of her. Her breathing became ragged and she wrapped her legs more tightly around him.
He grinned then. This was how it was supposed to be.
He felt his own eyes closing. Being enclosed by her, wrapped in her, buried inside her body felt more perfect than he had ever imagined possible. She was hot, and so much better than his hand. So much better than a bath.
He leaned her back again against the side of the tub and thrust into her. Again. Then again. Every time that he buried himself in her, he felt a part of that pain shattering, fluttering away like a frightened moth.
He was born to be here. She was his. She belonged to him now as she had always meant to.
He sped up, thrusting in and out of her as if to lose himself, to unite with her, to make her his as he had always wanted to. She wrapped around him, her foot digging into his butt as water sloshed and splashed around him.
Once more, her body convulsed, and he felt the powerful contractions around his penis. His release was coming now. She gripped him and cried his name, softly, over and over again.
He thrust into her one more time, groaning and panting as he released inside her, filling her with his seed. It was the most primal, yet most beautiful experience of his life. Never had his orgasm been so intense. Never had he felt it this way. His penis pulsed, pushing the hope of new life into her welcoming body, and he reveled in it.
He collapsed then, leaning on his arms to keep from hurting her.
"Say my name," he whispered to her.
"Cullen," she whispered back.
"Again," he said, a demand—a plea.
She said his name again, and pulled his lips up to her. She said it again and again, until he felt the tears roll out of him again.
"I have to go, Cullen. I can't be found here. You can't be found with me… like this."
He shook his head in denial. But he moved and he let her go. She stepped from the bath, water sluicing off of her in sheets.
Beyond beautiful.
"What did you do to me?" he asked, suddenly feeling oddly resentful. "What magic did you use on me, and how did you maintain it?" It was absurdly unfair to be enchanted through a moment like this. To be enthralled, ensorcelled.
"It's all been you, since you could move, Cullen. I only soothed your mind for the first few minutes. No mage can maintain a spell of that power for that long."
Cryptically, as she turned to leave, her last words whispered back to him, "Not even me."
He stood up to wrap a towel around himself, and realized that he felt different. Nothing had changed. The bathing room was silent and still and dark again. He was just as tall. He looked the same in the reflective sheet of metal on the wall.
But everything had changed.
Could it be true? Had she healed his soul?
He knew in his heart that it was true. Not because she had loved him, because he knew she always had.
She had healed him by letting him love her.