"The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned."
- William Butler Yeats
The city is dark with smoke; it is light with the fire of the Chantry burning across the water. An unnatural silence chokes Cullen, it is heavy with the weight of death and unsaid words and unanswered prayers. The screaming has died away, in this quiet pause before the storm breaks, this is all there is. His fingers wrap tightly around his sword and he finds that Meredith's quiet, clipped words reassure him. The people of Kirkwall are desperate for justice, for protection, for safety, in the aftermath of this attack on sacred ground. Though Cullen has never been particularly devout when it comes to prayers and ceremony, this assault cuts right to the core of him. His stomach churns and in his head loud voices scream, ripping down the fragile walls he'd carefully built to block off every memory he has of Ferelden, because separating himself from that place, mentally and physically, is the only thing that had allows him to open his eyes every morning, crawl out of bed, go through the motions of a day. Yet the demons haunt him still, even here. There is nowhere safe.
He takes a deep breath and nods, accepting Meredith's orders and the calm certainty with which she delivers them. His arms feel heavy, his legs move slowly, yet his heart somehow feels lighter, and the tense knots tangled in his gut begin to dissolve. He will be able to do something, this time, to make this better. He is no longer a frightened, hesitant boy caught unaware and unable to act. Now he is a man, who has sworn to give up everything he is to protect the innocent. He is the last stand.
He takes comfort in his shield and armor and sword, and marches forward. Before his eyes, the mages who have always hidden quietly in shadowed corners behind thick tomes transform into violent, wild-eyed monsters. His heartbeat thrums with familiar vibrations and his memory echoes with old sensations that become real again here: slick pools of sticky dark blood on the floor, swirling with evil magic. His head pounds. He barely feels the weight of his sword or the motion of his body as he swings it. It's sharp edge cuts through the heavy fabric of robes and the flesh and bone beneath them. Everywhere he turns is blood and smoke and the revolting taste of mana twisted beyond recognition, corrupted. Lyrium buzzes in his brain, giving him the strength to fight. His duty is grim but necessary, and it gets easier with each step forward, as he reminds himself that this is not a war he started. The man standing in the middle of the Hightown square, fueled by an insane rage, with inhuman eyes reflecting back the fire that he started, is the same man who had somehow manage to convince all of them, over and over again, that he was trustworthy despite all evidence to the contrary. Cullen had listened to him, sympathized with him, believed him. He'd put himself at risk to offer comfort to a criminal who managed to escape the true consequences of his reckless actions a dozen times over. And here now, among the ruins, and the bodies, and the blood, are the real consequences of that misplaced trust.
Cullen swears he will never let it happen again. And though his faith in the Maker was weak to begin with and is even more shaken now, it is enough to carry him through to do what needs to be done, without question or hesitation or fear. He fights his way through the Kirkwall jail that has never been a home, not for him or any of them.
He slaughters the demons before they can overwhelm him; their bodies lie cold at his feet.
He feels the damp cold of tears streaming down his cheeks before he realizes that he is crying. He cannot breathe, his chest squeezes too tightly, the weight of his armor is too heavy. He collapses to his knees and before he can stop himself he is reaching out to cradle the children in his arms. He rocks them against his chest, a boy and a girl, who stare at him with unblinking eyes that have no light in them. Slowly, carefully, he wipes the blood away from clammy, pale skin. He weeps among the wreckage, and he makes another promise as his stomach knots and he shivers and breaks apart: never, ever again.