Written for a tumblr ask prompt: "Cullen & Trevalyan with Cullen being the hero". I decided to break it into three parts because it's a tad on the long side (plus, suspense yeah?), so here's Part One. Parts Two and Three will be posted over the weekend! I hope you like it!

Elena groaned.

She was lying on something hard and cold. Her entire body ached, especially her head. She tried to open her eyes, but it felt like glass had been ground into her eyeballs. Reaching out her hands slowly, her fingers brushed over straw and stone. Carefully, she propped herself against the nearest wall, and forced her eyes open. Pain shot through the back of her head, down her spine.

"Fuck," she gasped, breaths coming out in heavy pants as she tried to overcome the pain lacing through her body.

Looking around, she was definitely in a dungeon. A few torches illuminated the dank walls, rusted shackles handing from them. There was a large table in the middle, leather straps dangling from the sides. Elena's eyes went wide as she tried not to think about what might be in store for her. She took a deep breath; little puffs of white hung in the air before her. She shivered. She must be Suledin Keep. How in the Maker's name had she ended up here? Rubbing the back of her head, she winced when her fingers brushed over a tender spot. Her hair was sticky and matted with blood.

Ugh.

The last thing she remembered was…well? She had been trying to get one of those blasted humming shards. Yes, she wandered away from camp, not more than twenty feet and then, nothing. She must have been ambushed. How long had she been unconscious? Hours? Days? She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Surely someone would come for her. Leliana would send agents to infiltrate the keep, or Josephine would convince Empress Celene and King Alistair to send troops, or Cullen—Maker, what would her fierce Fereldan lover do when he found out she was gone? Would he send the Inquisition's army? Besiege the keep himself?

"Finally awake, Lady Trevelyan?"

Her head jerked up, eyes straining in the gloom. A man stood before her, just outside the pool of light that she couldn't see any details of his face; She couldn't see anything, really, beyond the red glow of his eyes and the cloud of red lyrium around his head—Red Templar, then. The smell the corruption rolled off of him, cloying and sweet. It took all her self-restraint not to gag.

"You'll never get away with this," she snarled, lunging forward, fist curling around the bars of her cell. "The Inquisition has an army—my advisors will bring the wrath of the Maker down upon your head!"

He laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Let them come. Even if they manage to breech the walls, they'll never make it to you in time," he paused, stepping into the light. An image of gaunt eyes and hollow cheeks crowned by greasy black hair filled her vision. "The Elder One comes, my dear Herald. And he's coming for you."

"WHAT?! How could you have let this happen!?" Cullen thundered at motley assortment of warriors and mages in his office, fury rolling off of his frame.

Iron Bull shifted on his feet uncomfortably. "Well, the Boss just sort of wandered off…she's usually fine on her own."

"And no one thought to go after her?" He snapped.

No one in the room dared meet his gaze.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose; he could feel a migraine building at the base of his skull, but he didn't have time to deal with it. Lady Elena Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste and Leader of the Inquisition—and his lover, though now was not that time to think on that—had been kidnapped by Red Templars, and was, in all probability, being held in the bowels of Suledin Keep until she could be handed over to Samson, and, ultimately, Corypheus. Maker only knew what they would do to her—what they were currently doing to her.

"This is a blighted disaster," he muttered.

"Look on the bright side," Dorian quipped, clearly trying to mask his own anxieties over Elena's disappearance. "Now you get to storm the keep and rescue your fair damsel. She'll swoon into your arms, and you'll declare your undying lo—"

Cullen cut the Tvinter off with a baleful glare.

"That. Is. NOT. A bright side," he growled, jaw clenched. With a heavy sigh, Cullen reached for his helmet. "But you're right. I will personally oversee the Inquisitor's rescue. We leave in two hours. DISMISSED."

A sound ripped out of her mouth, something between a whimper and a scream as a steel encased foot slammed into her stomach. Elena curled in on herself, trying to protect her vital organs. Another blow landed from the other side, slamming into the small of her back. They had been going at this for what felt like hours, though she really had no concept of time anymore. All Elena knew was pain and the warm coppery taste of blood that filled her mouth. A mailed fist slammed into her jaw, sending lightening bolts of pain searing down her throat and across her face.

Another kick, this time clipping her forearm and landing square against her chest.

She wanted it to stop, but she knew if she could just hold on a little longer, Cullen would come for her. He wouldn't let her die here.

A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head up so she could look into Samson's face. His lips curled up in a sneer.

"All you have to do is tell me your plans, and I can make the pain stop."

She wanted to say yes, tell him everything—where Skyhold was, what they knew of the Wardens, what they knew of his plans. But the shame of being too weak, of failing the Inquisition—her advisors, companions, all those who relied on her—was too overwhelming.

"Eat shit," she rasped. Cullen will come for me.

Samson slammed her head down against the floor, a resounding crack echoing off the stone walls as her vision went black.

Hours later, she lay on the floor of her cell. A tray of moldy bread sat across the room, but she refused to look at it. Elena wasn't sure how long she had been down here—days, weeks, perhaps? Everything ached—the healers had been in to see to the internal bleeding, but they left the non-lethal injuries. What happened earlier that day was practically routine at this point. Samson had her beat multiple times a day, trying to extract information. Part of her thought he simply enjoyed watching her writhe on the floor in agony. She needed to get out of here—she couldn't sand one more second of his leering, smug face, or the stench of death that clung to him.

Closing her eyes, Elena concentrated on steadying her breath and letting her mind fly away from this hellish pit.

The dank walls around her melted away, replaced by the golden light of her chambers in Skyhold. A fire burned high in the hearth, the warmth enveloping her from where she lay across her bed, Cullen's soft hair under her fingertips. The scruff of his jaw brushing against the inside of her thighs. His warm lips working against her, strong hands anchoring her firmly down.

"Cullen," she sobbed into the darkness.

He would come for her, she knew he would. But Maker, she wasn't sure how much longer she could wait for him.

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