He is quiet, behind the noise. The little bottle makes him shale, but he tests the chains.
It is six steps up to the door in the Circle Tower. The hinges on the left one creak, so he pushes on the right. Slowly, slowly. He can hear something inside, dragging across the floor, and he imagines the demons that could be hiding. The mages-turned-abominations that he knows are on the other side of the door. Whatever tortures they've thought up for his brothers that have made them scream for hours. The air is thick with the smell of them, pungent and musky and bitter—like bile and shit and sweat. His sword feels heavy in his hands, cold even through the leather of his gloves. He slips around the door and into the room.
It is three steps into the room. Someone, dressed in Templar armor, is blocking the door from opening the rest of the way. He lies on the floor, limp, sword fallen from unmoving fingers and the bloody puddles under his stained tunic beginning to clot around the edges. Cullen levels his sword at the form and scans the room.
Nothing moves. Things that used to be mages lay tangled with men who used to be Templars. Blood creeps along the tiles, staining the stones dark. He takes a few more steps into the room. He knows that the demon is hiding behind the door, cradling a dead Templar against its naked breasts. He knows that the door will swing closed, sealed as if by magic. He knows that the body, displayed carefully in the center of the room, is not Elissa Cousland.
It is twenty-seven steps to the body. It is always twenty-seven steps.
Cullen snaps awake to the feeling of falling and slams into the hard-packed dirt floor of the tent. Cold air batters him, even through his layers of clothing. Something is wrong—his legs don't seem able to move. He kicks against the restraints, nearly shaking with terror.
Something humanoid and writhing and dark unfurls itself from the shadows in the corner of the tent. Cullen gasps, trying to cry out an alarm. The cry sticks in his throat, strangled away to no more than a panting breath when it leaves his lips. He hauls himself away from the creature, fingers scrabbling against the dirt. His shoulder slams into the side of the cot and it tips to the ground. It strikes with a clatter of wood and the rustle of blankets. The sound distracts him from the looming shape of the demon, he tries to orient himself to face this new attacker. Something is still clinging to his legs, slowing him down.
"No." He manages to hiss, spitting the word past the panic in his throat. "No, no."
He twists his head back toward the demon, reaching for his sword. But the hilt it too far to reach, kept from his reaching fingers by whatever is clinging to his legs. He slumps down, panting on the earth floor, and closes his eyes. His entire body shakes and the dream still claws at him—dragging him back into memories from long ago.
Hot, tight. Lines of pain against skin that's stretched thin over too much space. Claws drawing little slivers of relief when they pass. It's not enough. Something is inside him. It hangs heavy under his skin, pressing until things break.
Cullen forces his eyes open. This is not real. It is not real. There are no demons here, he's safe. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade." He gasps out, willing himself to focus on the words and nothing else.
The demon fades back into shadows and Cullen jerks his legs free from the strangling tangle of cloth. It's the rough wool blanket from the bed, twisted and wrinkled from his thrashing. He balls it in his fists in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking. It's coarse and prickling against his palms. He tries to remember what color it is.
"For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light."
His breath is coming in hard pants, very loud to his ears. Not even the Chant can steady his racing heart. But he still tries, flexing his fingers into the blanket and continuing. One more verse, he promises, one more and it will all go away. But he doesn't want the Chant. He wants something else, something far more tangible.
"And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost." He grinds the last few words from between clenched teeth, irritation replacing anger.
Cullen shakes his head and moves to push a mess of curls out of his eyes. His shoulder stings where it hit the hard stone. It's a good distraction. It keeps him from searching for the tiny ornate chest that's somewhere in the mess. He massages the spot, pressing his fingers under his collar. They're unpleasantly cold. It doesn't help. His mind stretches between intense cravings and the fading bits of dream. For a moment he hangs in balance between them, and then the dream pulls him back into its grasp.
"Take her" It snarls. It's a sound that pulls him forward, even though this is wrong. She's so small, so pale. She's a child, here, when he knows that it's been years since her face was so round and her cheeks so full. Her skin is soft under his fingers. When he pulls away—he can't, it's not right—she wears his blood like war paint.
Cullen digs his fingers hard into the meat of his shoulder, his nails leaving crescents of marred flesh from the pressure. If he could only find some light, then the dream would be just that—a dream. It's always helped before. He spends a moment searching the shadowed corners of the tent—assuring himself that there are no demons there—before he stands. He rests his hands on the rickety table that's little more than a crate and takes a few shaky breaths. He wants to scream, and curl into a ball, and hit something, all at once.
But he had been a Templar, at least until a year ago, and he has learned to school his thoughts into harmony. He begins the Canticle of Trials again, scooping up his armor and draping is over his shoulders. There are no candles in the tent. It's been several days since the last runner came with supplies and all the necessities are running short. The only other option is leaving the tent and facing the men outside. Cullen accepts this, taking a moment to groom himself before pushing through the flap.
When he steps into the cold he looks every part the commander that he is. Immediately he forces his thoughts to more practical matters. There isn't any time to linger on bad dreams, and it seems foolish to try—especially now that he's free from the oppressive darkness inside the tent.
It's nearly evening, which means he's slept for longer than he intended. He makes a mental note to take better care of himself. It won't do the Divine any good if her commander falls ill or appears to be some delinquent. The night watch is the sole responsibility of Justinia's forces, which means he has to be especially sharp. He trusts his men—Rylen especially—but they haven't been working together for long. There could be trouble if the mercenaries try to start something. Which seems likely, with so many days of argument and so little progress.
Determined to make up for his lapse, Cullen moves purposefully across the small courtyard in front of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A cold wind races down the valley, and he briefly wishes that Cassandra had commissioned a cloak—a proper cloak, not whatever this strange lion mane thing is—with a hood. He can't afford to seem bothered, not by the cold, so he straightens and goes to inspect the rest of the forces at the forward guard station.
Over half of the Divine's soldiers—those Templars still loyal to her and some of the Nightingale's men—are at the post. It's little more than a flat, partly paved, alcove at the front of the Temple. It's mostly out of the wind and large enough for most of the men. Not that they aren't beginning to feel a little cramped. Cullen's men have begun griping about the mercenaries—how they're loud, and unruly, and always seem to be cook foul smelling stew.
There's nothing that Cullen can do about that. Most of the mercenaries are serving as a private guard for noble guests at the conclave. Some are even attending at the order of the Divine herself. He's had words with the leaders of the bands, but it's unlikely that they'll change their behavior unless he actually hits one of them. And that's the excuse that they're looking for.
The Divine's forces are grouped on one side of the balcony, huddled around a small fire and breathing the feeling back into their fingers. They great Cullen amiably and don't seem to have noticed whatever noise he made during the dream. It's a relief that none of them seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He doesn't like lying to them, and he hasn't prepared a good story to tell. That means that it would have to be the truth. Some of the Templars know about the fall of Kinloch Hold and Cullen's part in it. It's unlikely that they would be sympathetic
After the reports, there isn't much to do but wait. The mages and the Templars and the Chantry officials will break for the evening soon. Some will go back down the mountain to Haven, but most will eat in the massive hall and return to their arguing. Cullen leans against a bit of wall, turning his shoulder into the wind, and stifles a yawn. It's always cold in the mountains. The foul weather brings a hint of nostalgia with it, not enough to make the bitter wind and sleet bearable. He looks around for something that needs managing, hoping to distract himself from the still grasping fingers of the dream.
The Chantry-loyal forces are talking quietly, facing toward the other side of the balcony where most of the mercenaries have set up their own little camps. Just as they have been doing all day. And the day before that. And for the past week. Cullen tried to interest himself in their conversations, but there's only so much complaining about the food that a man can stand. Rather than force himself through another chat about Lady so-and-so's ass, or if there was actually nug in the stew, he turns his attention toward the mercenaries' side of the camp.
Only one of them is outside. The rest are waiting, scattered around the Temple, for a chance to hit something. If the long days of discussion have been wearing on Cullen's forces, it's been even worse for them. Only a handful has real obligations, mostly watching each other while watching the doors into the meeting room. They've all donned the expression of people doing something rather unpleasant. Tension hangs over them like a thunder-cloud, waiting for the storm. Cullen doesn't want to be around when it breaks. There will, no doubt, be bodies. Hopefully not any of his men.
The lone figure, a ratty green cloak pulled tight over armored shoulders, is sharpening her sword. Even from this distance, Cullen can see the wicked edge. It catches the light in a way that only very sharp things can manage, not so much reflecting as cutting the glow of the fire. The woman glances up when she feels his look, tilting her head ever so slightly.
She's one of the Red Wolves—Justinia's personal troupe—a lieutenant, if Cullen's observations have been right. It's hard to determine the structure of the mercenaries' bands. They don't follow the simple, rank-and-file order of a traditional force. Women are more common as officers. Men bring their wives along—wives that are just as scarred and fearsome as any male warrior. It's been a pleasant distracting to puzzle out where everyone belongs.
There wouldn't be anything especially unusual about the woman if she'd had normal eyes. Among a band filled with rangy, thin, well-muscled soldiers she's just another face. Constantly standing with a slight slouch, hands near weapons, waiting for any excuse to make trouble. They're all the same, in that way. Swords for hire, nothing more. That doesn't mean that they aren't efficient or intelligent or well led.
The Red Wolves rule their side of the balcony with an iron fist. It's probably the only reason fighting hasn't already broken out. There's perhaps a dozen of them, patched and ragged. The woman had caught Cullen's curiosity in a small scuffle, just after everyone had settled in to camp. One of the other mercenaries had leaned close, moving to touch her inappropriately. She's waited until his hand was settled and then broken his arm in a show of easy force that cast everyone into silence.
Cullen didn't blame the man. In the world of sell-swords, base desires seem more easily acted upon. And the woman isn't horrible to look at. Brown haired with tanned skin, with the quietly healthy look of someone who spends a great deal of time outside. Her lips are full, her nose straight and a little strong for his taste. A scar—still fresh enough to be a little pink—slashes through her left eyebrow and ends below her cheekbone. Besides that, her form is covered with heavy cloth and armor. But the mystery only lends to her appeal.
Cullen sighs, under his breath. He's been reduced to ogling women who could easily pass for men. Perhaps he should try to speak with her, then, and absolve some of the tension between the groups. He's about to walk over, since she doesn't seem to be doing anything more important than putting an edge on her already sharp blade, when the leader of the Red Wolves steps out of the doorway of the Temple.
The man, at least for Cullen's observations, always seems to be in a huff about something. The day before, it was because on of his men spilled wine on his giant-skin coat. Before that it was…something else. He can't help the spiteful curl that tugs at his lips, this man is no leader.
"Slate wants off the doors." The mercenary grunts, glaring, when he spots the woman. "Go take his spot." He practically spits the words, face contorting in the same disgusted expression he always wears when speaking to the woman. It's obvious that there's bad blood between them, and surprising that neither has acted on it.
The woman looks up, meeting her captain's eyes for a long moment. She doesn't immediately move, and when she doest it's with the carefully languorous grace of a predator. She wanders off casually, leaving her sword on the crate that she'd been using as a chair.
Cullen appreciates the way the captain bristles at the silent insult. The woman is clever, on top of being mysterious. If they spend more time on this blasted balcony, he imagines idly, he might make an attempt to find out how clever. It's always good to be looking for new recruits, and she doesn't seem particularly attached to her band.
Cullen moves away before the irate captain can notice his loitering, putting his back to the wind. He stifles another yawn, rather badly since no one is around to observe him, and trudges over to the fire. The flames aren't quiet enough to warm his fingers through the leather gloves, which are damp from the previous day's sleet, and he considers removing them. It would be nice to feel warm, even just for a moment.
The men move to give him the space of his shoulders at the fire—an honor that isn't extended to anyone—and Cullen feels vaguely guilty as one of the smaller soldiers is pushed back. His men are accepting of his presence, now that they've been together for nearly half a year, but their conversation lulls whenever he passes by.
That was the hardest part of command. He didn't have friends anymore, not among the men. Even those he'd been close with in Kirkwall had moved to distance themselves. Cullen is always surrounded by people, but he is also always alone. So rather than let the silence linger until it become uncomfortable, he begins making small talk. 'I see you've gotten a new shield, Rylen.' And things of that nature. They called him Ser now, and there was a ring of true admiration in their voices, but he would have given anything for a few moments of the easy camaraderie that he's lost.
Kestral—one of the few female Templars, and the woman who'd been pushes away from the fire—stopped in the middle of a sentence comparing the benefits of a round shield with the extra protection of a tower shield. Her eyes narrow into chips of flint, her hands drifts toward her sword. Rylen steps closer, very nearly hovering over her smaller form.
"Something isn't…" She doesn't finish. She doesn't need to.
Somewhere nearby magic blooms to life, curling open like a fist that's just struck a blow. The first pulse is slow and lazy, just enough to make the hairs on the back of Cullen's neck stand up. The other Templars glance around, scanning for mages through the gently drifting snow. Then comes a pulling sensation, like a hook has been placed in the middle of Cullen's chest. He stumbles a step forward, grabbing one of the other Templars to keep them both upright.
"Get down." He snaps, feeling his blood turn to ice in his veins. There's a pause, one that makes his heart race, where the energy tingles just at the edges of his senses. It's the trough of the wave. Another will come soon, stronger than the first. Something is very wrong. None of the mages in attendance are capable of creating something this volatile. Cullen prepares a purge, working quickly against mounting panic.
The others don't move with enough speed. Cullen takes a few running steps, kicking the brazier off the edge of the balcony and taking its place. Hot coals flick out in a dozen directions, bouncing off armored bodies. His eyes follow them in the moment before the next wave, a second that seems lazy. Lyrium rises up in his blood, pushing away the tingle of fear and replacing it with calm.
The pulse of energy flows over him, sickeningly familiar. Cullen releases the purge as it does, standing like a rock in the middle of a surging ocean. He can feel the magic part around him, splitting and rushing harmlessly to the sides of the other Templars. It flows past in translucent green sheets, tinged with very real fire. He's never seen magic take on a form that's so real. It's usually just a sense, like brushing a hand through cobwebs.
Cullen has made the purge in a wedge in front of him, hoping that it will keep him safe as well, but the positioning isn't perfect. The little triangle of will holds, and then begins to slide backward as Cullen's focus slips. The magic rushes in on him, a fading shadow of the first assault. It's still enough to send him flying to the side, knocking against the wall. His head cracks against stone, and his vision blurs.
"Andraste's tits." Rylen is hissing, somewhere in front of Cullen. "Ser. What is the Maker's holy name was that."
He stumbles back to his knees, hands going up to press against his temples. The leftover energy is combining with the effort it took to hold the purge, even for so short a time. He can't think over the pounding in his ears. He tries to say something to reassure Rylen, but only manages a vaguely affirmative grunt.
"Ser?" A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Cullen forces his eyes open.
Everything is too bright, and at the same time bathed in strange shadows. Fires flicker inside the Temple. But that's wrong. He shouldn't be able to see inside the Temple. There should be a wall—thick stone and heavy, ancient timbers—blocking his view.
A large piece of masonry stands where he'd been a few seconds before, blackened by the force of the explosion. Cullen blinks at it, dully. Somewhere in the back of his mind he understands that he's hit his head. He should lie down, drink a potion, take a moment to breathe. He staggers to his feet, catching Rylen for only a moment to support himself.
The older man's face is wrinkled into an expression that's stranded somewhere between sheer terror and excitement—the look of a Templar that's recently indulged in lyrium. At least one of them has.
"You." Cullen snaps, putting a hand against part of the still standing wall. The Templar in question whirls around, saluting crisply, and stares at Cullen with wide eyes. He trails off, unsure of what he'd been about to say. It was impossible to focus past the pounding in his head. Everything sways unpleasantly, and he begins to think he'd hit his head quite hard. But there's nothing for it now.
He focuses on the Temple, which has been mostly destroyed in the blast. Nothing moves inside expect curling smoke. Not that there was much of an inside anymore, not with the walls laying in pieces on the mountainside. The mercenaries' side of the balcony has been completely obliterated by flying rubble. Several of the less lucky men are lying in pools of blood at the bottom of the slop below.
"Did anyone enter the Temple today who wasn't cleared by the Seeker?" He rattles off the question, fighting against the dizziness. Someone did this. They might still be in the area, if they survived.
It doesn't look like anyone could have survived. Not the Divine. Not the representatives from the Templars and mages. Not the serving staff, who all had families waiting for them back in Haven. Cullen wallows, mired in these thoughts until one of his men responds in a shaky voice.
"No one but the members of the Conclave, ser. Not even anyone new for the kitchen staff." The man speaking has a cut across the bridge of his nose, and a rapidly blackening eye.
"Was there anything strange left there last night during the inspection?" He knows that the building was scrupulously clean, not even a scrap of paper unaccounted for, but he needs to be absolutely positive. It's possible that he missed something.
"Nothing."
There's nothing left to do but enter the ruins themselves. They can't wait any longer, not with the nearest reinforcements almost two miles away. It seemed a good idea to leave the majority of the force at the lower bridge, where they could stop an angry militia or that sort of thing. Obviously, they should have been worried about insurgency instead.
Cullen picks a few of the men, pointing nearly at random. "Come with me."
They moved into the ruins, packing into a tight wedge with Cullen in the front. Rylen, who wasn't one of the men that Cullen indicated, comes along anyway. He hangs close to the Commander's shield arm, sword drawn. It's dark, smoke drifting up from beams that weren't so much burning as sullenly smoldering. It stinks of smashed stone and charred skin and the strange lightning-struck smells of magic. They round a corner, march down a short flight of stairs. Nothing moves except the sluggish smoke and crackling flames.
They're lucky that the ceiling is gone, there's no need to worry about it falling on them. Even so, some of the taller walls creak and shift menacingly. The men give them nervous looks, huddling closer to the center of the broken hall.
"Look for survivors." Cullen orders quietly, rolling his wrist and preparing for fighting. Nothing had entered. Nothing had left. Odds were, whoever had caused the explosion was still in the area. Or dead. Either way, it was necessary to find them. Or some bodies. Perhaps something that would prove that the Divine was dead. Any evidence of what actually happened.
The men disperse, moving no more than ten feet away from each other. Some stones clatter down, and Cullen spins toward the noise with his heart in his throat. One of the men gave a choked laugh of relief, which strangled to silence. The echoes sound almost like sobs, eerie and haunting. They move together into the next room, where they find the bodies.
The lucky ones had been crushed, mangled beyond recognition of anything human by falling debris. The others had burned, were still burning. The corpses contorted into pained stances; hands held to shield eyes and faces. It had not been quick for them. One of the men was sick, heaving quietly onto the sooty stones. The others looked little better, staring with horrified expressions.
"What is that?" Cullen spins toward the voice, moving to where he can't see between the still-standing columns. It wasn't said in a tone that could be easily ignored, all flat and frightened. The man points, carefully, toward a slow spiral of green light in the center of what used to be the main room.
"Andraste's fucking tits." Rylen mutters, voice breaking, "We're all going to die." The last part is for Cullen's ears only, hardly a breath giving the words life. The commander nearly agrees. He's never seen anything like this, but it feels wrong. Magic rolls off it, easy and steady and controlled. But it's not friendly magic. It's feral, a predator waiting to make its next move. Another horror waiting to happen.
Cullen starts down the stairs, eyes never leaving the strange sight. It almost feels like a failed harrowing, with the Fade close enough for him to reach out and touch. It tugs at the lyrium in his blood, familiar and sweet. It's calling him home. He pushes against the feeling, but Rylen and the other Templars have less luck. They stand around, slack jawed and staring up at the swirling thing in the sky.
"Form up. Something will notice that from the other side soon enough." Cullen puts enough ice in his voice to break through the strange song of the hole, dragging the men back into their reality.
They'd only just reached the ground were the light originated when something fell out of it. Cullen jerks his shield up, and feels Rylen do the same. One of the soldiers behind him gives an incredibly un-ladylike curse, followed by the rattling of a clumsily drawn sword. The shape flops onto the ground with a dull thump and a puff of ash. The hole above it—more of a tear, with ragged edges and pulsing light—shivers and seems to grow larger.
Something stands in the rift, just back from the edge. A feminine figure, glowing with golden flames. It seems to watch them, then waves a hand in a slow salute and vanishes.
"Andraste." One of the men whispers, repeating the word to himself carefully. "It was Andraste."
Cullen keeps his sword drawn, and keeps his distance from the prone form on the ground. Demons could take many shapes. He'd learned that from experience. "Keep your distance." He snapped, when one of the men moved forward. Something wasn't right. The Fade didn't just rip open and deposit people on the ground. People didn't ever go into the Fade, at least not for hundreds of years. And Andraste certainly didn't just appear, give a wave, and vanish again.
Rift began to pulse with alarming regularity. It almost seemed to be reaching toward the form on the ground. And then everything went still. They waited on the edge of the room—backs facing the wall and flanked on one side by a fallen piece of ceiling—with their hearts in their throats. Cullen counted slowly in his head, waiting for any sign of movement. A bow creaked as an arrow was drawn. His heart hammered, so fast that each beat seemed to run into the next.
"Cover me." He wanted to order someone else to inspect the fallen form, but he had the most experience with this sort of thing. A trio of men split off the group, leaving the archers behind, and they approached in a slow circle.
Cullen swallowed hard when he passed under the rift, sparing a glance upward. It reached into the sky where is collected in a slowly orbiting ring. Bits of the Temple were held aloft in the green light, already being pressing into something that looked more like boulders than bits of building. It was almost beautiful, slowly orbiting in the cloudy sky. It was also sickening. Magic wasn't so much as pouring out as it was collecting around the thing, pooling stagnantly.
There wasn't time to be offended by something that he couldn't very well do anything about, so Cullen looks away from the breach in the sky and back to the fallen form. There were answers to his questions there, in one way or another.
The form was female, armored, and familiar. It was the lieutenant from the mercenary group, the one who'd left to replace the bored guard. Something was wrong with her hand. Cullen tapped her with the flat of his sword. It sparked with the same green light at the breach, pulsing in time with the larger entity. The light seemed to be coming from inside her hand, like something was lodged under the skin.
"We need to get her to Haven." He looked back at the men when none of them moved. "Find something to carry her on." It was possible that she was some sort of apostate extremist who'd just blown up their only chance at peace. But it was also possible that she'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, she was the only survivor. He'd do his best to keep her alive until she could tell them what happened. Then…well, it didn't matter what happened then.
A pair of the men searched through the rubble and cobbled together a stretcher that was at least somewhat functional. They kept stopping to look at the pillar of drifting light, which had begun to spark and shoot off little comets of energy. They didn't have much time. If this was a door to the Fade, demons would have started to notice by now. They would be on their way. Cullen didn't want to be anywhere nearby when they did make an appearance. Call it cowardice, but it was practical. His force was far to small to take part in a real battle. Especially if it was against demons.
Luckily, the woman was not particularly large. Four of the men took the stretcher, and Cullen ordered the rest to fan out and keep their eyes open. Not that he needed to tell them to be wary. All of them were practically jumping out of their skin at the smallest noise. The Temple had begun to smell even more strongly like charred flesh from the corpses, and the smoke was pooling more thickly on the floor. It was acrid and black and thick, and didn't move like normal smoke should. Cullen urges the men to move faster.
A/N Thanks for reading! Let me know if there's anything I can do to make this story better. (MMYZ)