Bodies, clad in armour, the burning sword of Andraste on their breasts covered in corruption.
Some moving, armour discarded, flesh putrid and sick, diabolical monsters, no longer men, no longer women.
He can't move, not unless allowed.
He can't breathe, not unless allowed.
He can't speak, not unless allowed.
His mind is not his own, claws of ice gouge into it, drawing out memories and knowledge. It teases with images, images of her, the mage he shouldn't have fallen for, the life he could have led, the happiness just out of reach.
But it is within his reach, all he has to do is agree, to say yes.
He won't, he can't, he mustn't.
He shivers, cries, prays.
For deliverance, for quiet, for death.
None comes.
For an eternity, pain, envy, anger, fear, horror, desire.
All assaulting his senses, his mind, his soul.
He's being ripped apart!
"Hush, hush...it's just a dream." Cool hands, stroking across his chest, soft lips against his neck, a small body against his back.
He slumps, relieved, but tired, always tired.
Tired of the orders, of the madness, of the escalation.
Bile, rising in his throat.
Blood, always blood.
On the streets, on the walls, on his blade.
Blood of civilians, templars, mages, nobles, warriors.
All the same in the end.
Blood magic.
Demons.
Templars
Apostates, everywhere, hiding, striking.
Templars, everywhere, charging, striking blindly.
People, everywhere, screaming, dying.
It all comes down to that, people, dying.
Pointless, all pointless.
Hawke, Meredith, giants striking at one another.
Each step they take crushing people under them, smashing the city, turning it into a blood-splattered ruin.
Red light, a blast challenging the very heavens.
So much death.
Needless, pointless, endless.
Helpless.
He's helpless against it.
Struggling, fighting, shouting.
He can move. But nothing he does makes a difference.
He can breathe. But no one cares.
He can speak. But no one heeds his words.
He wants to help, to stop it, but can't.
Another prison, another torture.
More death, more pain, more suffering.
Helpless, weak, a failure.
He doesn't save anyone.
He doesn't defend anyone.
He doesn't stop anything.
He's helpless and alone.
"Hey..."
Cold, pointless...
"Hey."
Failing again and again, should have died.
Hands tugging at him."Wake up."
Should have died...
His eyes flicker open when he's rolled around, when soft hands caress his cheeks and warm lips brush his as they whisper. "Come back to me, stop that, it's okay, it's just a dream..." Large green eyes look into his, loving, caring. The green vallaslin under her tousled dark hair is barely visible in the night, but her pale skin shines like silver in the moonlight. His hand moves, finding her hip, pulling her closer, needing her as he shivers with the lingering effects of the usual old nightmares.
She pulls him closer, holding him tight, a hand in his hair as the other strokes his back.
Resting his chin on her shoulder, Cullen breathes a sigh of relief and smiles.
It's time to wake up.
8
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8
Thanks to Abydos Jackson, for her patience.
For CynderJenn, happy birthday!