Red
By R2s Muse
Disclaimer: Dragon Age, its characters and the Chant of Light belong to Bioware. Just borrowing!
A/N: Special thanks, as always, to my dear beta, meanieweenie!
"O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places."
Even the Chant of Light couldn't distract Cullen from the ache in his knees from kneeling on the cold stone floor, or from the deeper disquiet in the pit of his stomach he had hoped to allay with his prayers. The last rays of the fading sun lit up the stained glass from his one tiny window. A depiction of Andraste's sacrifice to the flame, the colored panes cast the room into somber shades of scarlet that served to reinforce the gloom instead of alleviate it.
He took a deep breath and continued.
"O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me—"
A sharp rap at the door broke his concentration, and cold panic flashed through him. Before he could push stiffly to his feet, the door swung open on its own. He had to squint at the flood of light from the hallway that silhouetted the cloaked figure standing in the doorway.
"No need to get up on my account," came a throaty female voice, tinged with humor. "We can do this just as well on your knees." Without invitation, she stepped inside. The click of her heeled shoes and stiff rustle of her full skirts were foreign sounds in the ascetic hush of the templar barracks.
He scrambled to his feet, glad the dimness hid the flush of his heated cheeks. "Y-you're earlier than I expected," he stammered.
"I'm not. You're just not ready for me," she said, surveying his room dispassionately. Although her accent undeniably marked her as a native of Val Royeaux, it was earthier than he expected after his years placating Kirkwall's shrill Orlesian expats. With brisk efficiency, she moved to the long table underneath the window and lit the rough stub of a candle.
The light revealed the sparseness of his new quarters, which were virtually empty but for the table, one chair, a narrow bed, and a low wooden chest that held the few belongings he had brought upon his reassignment to Val Royeaux. The shadows that remained around the corners of the room told him it was indeed later than he had realized. Later than he had hoped.
He could now see her features for the first time, her curled blond hair and painted red lips. She had a stately yet faded beauty that she held up proudly. Although he had expected her, he hadn't known what to expect.
She also studied him, her lips curled in a hint of a smile that was not quite kind. "How long has it been?" she asked.
He thought. And thought, equal parts embarrassed and flummoxed by the question. He honestly wasn't sure. When he didn't answer, she chuckled knowingly and said, "Too long then."
A pang of longing shot through him, and he shuddered. "Yes," he whispered.
She nodded. "Good." She took off her cloak, laying it on the back of his chair, and motioned with a sweep of her hand toward the bed. "Why don't you sit down and get comfortable."
His mouth went dry and he felt rooted to the spot. He cleared his throat. "I-I prefer to stand."
She pursed her lips slightly, perhaps in amusement or maybe annoyance, and the tiny lines at the corners of her mouth creased into view. "As you wish. But don't overestimate yourself. Many do the first time."
She closed the distance between them and he caught the faint scent of sage along with something more metallic that both soothed his ragged nerves and excited them. His heart sped up, pounding in his ears, and he swallowed against the dry longing in his throat.
Her bright eyes ranged around his face, and she followed with her hand, making him flinch. She ignored his skittishness and swept her hand lightly across his forehead and then his cheek. Her touch was soft and cool against his flushed skin. Her fingertips lingered on the dark circles under his eyes which had only worsened over the years.
"Are you ready?" she asked softly.
No!
He licked his lower lip and managed to nod wordlessly.
She reached into a stiff leather pouch at her waist and produced a small glass vial filled with a bright red liquid. The vial pulsed faintly and tinted her fingertips pink with its light. He wasn't sure if she also said something, because his mind was instantly filled with a haunting song that lanced down his nerves with crystalline familiarity.
He knew this feeling, dreaded it even while he yearned for it. Refined lyrium. The gnawing hunger in the pit of Cullen's stomach surged as if responding to its call and knowing satisfaction was imminent. Only this time it was also different.
Never before had he gone so long without it. When the Templar Order broke ties with the Chantry, it also had lost access to its traditional supply of lyrium. Rationing had worked until the smaller doses triggered a crippling outbreak of withdrawal-induced dementia, particularly among the older templars who needed more regular lyrium intake. Cullen had hoped to use the shortage as an opportunity to wean himself off the addictive substance, stretching out his rations as far as he dared. But when the rations finally ran dry, the hunger remained.
In desperation, the Order turned at last to a new source of lyrium for its thinning ranks: red lyrium.
Cullen could already feel the subtle differences in the red lyrium's song, which throbbed with darkness and a piercing loneliness. Like it needed him as much as he needed it. A shiver ran through him at the thought.
"Are you ready?" she repeated, her voice cutting through the alien chorus. "You'll find your body will respond differently than it does to regular lyrium. Be warned, sometimes the differences are unpredictable." When he frowned she explained, "Everyone's reaction is unique. I'm afraid the only way to find out how you will react is to try it. I'll be here to monitor you." She held out the red vial.
It felt warm in his hand, in contrast to the blue lyrium which always seemed cold to him. He glanced uneasily at the healer, whose expression had softened, briefly revealing the pity in her eyes.
Around the White Spire it was whispered that red lyrium was even more addictive than the traditional kind and that the cravings were sharper. But those who had already switched spoke enthusiastically about it, saying it made them stronger and faster.
Knight-Commander Meredith had been stronger and faster. Before it had driven her mad.
The hunger spiked, shooting through his stomach down to his groin where it pooled like molten desire. Maker. The burning need for lyrium constantly simmered through his body these days, clouding his thoughts and dulling his judgment. He'd been able to stave off withdrawal thus far, but if he didn't take some soon, it was just a matter of time before he lost his mind. The certainty of madness without lyrium versus the unknown risks associated with the red? As always, he had to choose the lesser evil.
He popped the lid off the vial with his thumb and poured it down his throat in one smooth motion. Like with normal lyrium, the cravings and pain were immediately soothed as the mineral coursed through his system. He released his clenched fist and watched the tremors in his hand still. A subtle tension in his posture finally relaxed and he breathed an audible sigh of relief.
He could almost feel it trickle through his veins, calming, warming. The warmth was new, loosening his muscles and tingling across his skin. A shiver of pleasure swept through him, and he felt a twitch in his nether regions as his body began to respond in unexpected ways.
He looked down at her with hot eyes, curiously unembarrassed by his now rather obvious reaction. She only observed him with a clinical detachment.
Couldn't she see that he was fine? More than fine. He was exceptional.
He flexed his bicep, feeling the gratifying stretch of his tunic seam as power rippled through his arm. He smiled. Stronger. Faster. Yes. His skin practically thrummed with heat. He wiped the damp sweat from his upper lip and started at the electric thrill that shot down his finger. He ran an experimental fingertip over the palm of one hand. The trail he made appeared to spark and glisten red, and he gasped at the sensation, like every nerve ending was on fire.
He met the woman's eyes, wanting to share the experience with her and somehow heighten it, but saw a flicker of something that surprised him. Fear.
He opened his mouth to reassure her, but his tongue tripped on the words and no sound came out. Only then did he notice that the red lyrium's song had grown to a crescendo inside him, resonating through his bones and drowning out rational thought. It sang of power and desire, carnality and dark indulgence, and above all, raw need. A need for more.
He went cold, suddenly frightened by the drug's hold on him, but it was too late. It threaded through his entire body now, controlled every muscle and impulse. He could no longer trust that any thought was his own. His hands flew up to hold the sides of his head as darkness flitted around his peripheral vision. He couldn't catch his breath as the darkness closed in, choking off the light and blinding him. He felt hands on his shoulders, concerned words tumbling over him, but all he could think was how he enjoyed her touch and wanted more. He threw himself backwards, away from her, and fell stumbling to the floor. Something crashed loudly next to him.
"Cullen, just breathe," he heard, the sound echoing as if from a far distance. "Don't struggle."
But he had to struggle. He couldn't give up. He hit his head against something hard, and the blossom of pain cleared his mind and his sight for a second before the darkness returned. He knew he was on his knees, could feel the cold stone through his trousers, so he pounded both fists against the floor and felt the impact reverberate painfully down his arms. His eyesight cleared and he briefly could see his shaking hands, his skin red from the abuse. The pain was welcome but fleeting, so he did it again, and again, trying to maintain his lucidity for a little longer.
"Cullen!" The healer woman was shouting right in his face. She had grabbed his arm and was trying to hold it back from striking the floor again. He peered at her, pleased he could see her and the splatter of blood across her clothing. "Stop! Or you'll kill yourself!" she said. "This isn't the way. You have to let it run its course!"
Her words slowly percolated through the haze of panic. Reluctantly, he obeyed, forcing himself to breathe through it while his vision contracted to a small circle of light. The last thing he saw was the floor, slick with his blood, before the light winked out altogether.
He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated on maintaining control while his claustrophobic gasps for air sped up, becoming loud in his ears. "That's right, Cullen. Just breathe," he heard. The voice had changed, sounding oddly resonant and familiar. He listened intently, holding on to the voice but also fearing it.
"That's right. Give in. There's no reason to fight," the echoing, sing-song voice said.
Cullen's sightless eyes snapped open to be met by a set of strange violet ones that he would never forget his whole life long, even if they didn't hound him in his nightmares every night. "It's easier if you don't fight," the demon purred, and her infernal horns bobbed into view as she swayed enticingly before him. "You've always known this to be true, my templar. Now you are mine."
His mouth gaped open but no sound came out. The demon's lips curled into a smile that was not quite kind. In a burst of strength, he leaned back and screamed until his voice failed and everything went black.
ooXXoo
When Cullen awoke, the stained glass window was bright with rose-colored sunshine. He blinked and felt a cool hand on his forehead. The hand retracted and he turned his head to see the healer woman sitting beside his narrow bed.
She gave him a tight smile. "How do you feel?" she asked. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, serene and professional as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The red stains, however, remained spattered up and down the front of her white kirtle.
"Cullen?" she prompted again when he didn't answer.
He sat up slowly and winced at the headache that began as soon as he moved. He reached up to his temple, feeling a lump, and then ruefully noticed the white bandages wrapped around each of his hands. "How long was I out?"
"Most of the night. Your temperature and pulse have finally returned to normal, so it seems to have broken its hold." She looked into each of his eyes, alternately covering and uncovering them to watch for the change with the light, and then nodded. "How do you feel?" she asked again, pressing her fingertips to the pulse point in his wrist.
He looked beyond his physical wounds to the heart of her question. He flexed his muscles, which responded normally, not with the surprising strength from the night before. He looked around the room, seeing the blood on the floor and the overturned table, and found comfort in the fact that at least his eyesight had fully returned. Lastly, he looked inward. The daily cravings and tremors that had been his constant companions for the past months were gone. But, in their place, seated down deeper in his psyche was a different kind of need, already festering and growing.
He could tell now that the rumors were true about this red lyrium. All of them, the good and the bad. His spirits sank and he buried his face in his hands. In his mind's eye, he couldn't shake the disturbing image of his body threaded with a web of red tendrils, their primeval magic driving him and controlling him. He could never escape. Not now.
"It won't always be this bad," she said. "It seems to want to . . . test you the first time."
He looked up from his hands. "You make it almost sound sentient."
She frowned at his comment and opened her mouth to respond, but seemed to reconsider and closed it again. Clearing her throat, she asked instead, "What did you see during the hallucinations?"
He pictured again the demon's smirk. Her taunts and manipulations were almost identical to those from his torture in Ferelden all those years ago, when the demons and blood mages almost broke him.
"My shame," he said without meeting her gaze.
She nodded and didn't ask any more. "Your experience with the red lyrium should become more routine now, usually without the hallucinations. In fact, many templars seem to find it not all that different from regular lyrium. You'll still need to take it at least once a week, but . . . listen to your body's needs and don't wait too long." She finished with a stern frown.
"Yes, ma'am," he said automatically.
She gave him a long look and he felt the sudden urge to fidget. "Don't wait, because that's when it can get bad," she said at last.
"I understand."
"I think you don't, but it'll have to do." She stood up and put on her cloak. "I'll inform the Knight-Commander that you're to be allowed to rest today. By tomorrow you'll be fine."
"Th-thank you, but I'm fi—" he demurred and started to get to his feet, but in an instant he was flat on his back again after she gave him a swift, one-handed shove against his chest. "But—"
"You'll take the day off, templar. That's an order." Her lips were pursed again, and this time he decided it was a sign of both annoyance and amusement.
"Yes, Your Reverence," he muttered.
She strode to the door. "Your rations will be delivered to you once a week. If you find you need them more often, say so." She grabbed the door handle and hesitated before glancing at him over her shoulder. "Send word if you need me to come again," she added softly.
He flushed at the memory of his earlier reaction to her and decided that it was perhaps better to endure his shame alone in the future. He passed a hand over his eyes and was about to tell her so when the rough bandage reminded him that, without her, it easily could have been much worse. He sighed and resigned himself to the ignominy of his situation, nodding his head in dejection. Belatedly realizing that she couldn't see him, he said aloud, "Y-yes, Your Reverence. I will. Thank you."
"Good," she said curtly. "Maker watch over you, Cullen."
When she was gone, he lay back on his pillow and watched the interplay of light and dark across his ceiling until it was lost to shadow. Too soon he felt the darkness within uncoil and hunger stir. Alone with his weakness, he shut his eyes tightly, ignoring the feeling of wetness at the corner of one.
"O Maker, hear my cry . . ."
Fin