Note on the Elven: I used a translator from lingojam/ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.


Lúthien could not remember much beyond a recollection of her death. It was chosen, dulcet, and lulling. Was it several days before? Months? Years? Perhaps eons? She could not tell. The world was so vastly transformed when she awoke. Tongues had been different, structures she once walked were now ruins and devoured by dust. She probed her mind for memories before her decision to "sleep," as they called it, and that she could not recall a single thing aside from sensations, scents, and touches when she entered a place she once roamed. They were her only proof that it had been ages since. The world she once lived in was no longer there. Uthenera made it disappear with a blink of an eye. So much time had passed that her blood was weak. She could not produce magic or play with the reality before her. Still she felt its pulse in the air and its whispers in the shadows.

Sometimes when she is alone and lost in thought, images flash before her. She remembers standing before a hearth in a grand temple. She remembered hearing a great tear in the sky, like a rip that shuddered in everyone's spines. Screams from outside protesting the events rumbled through the halls, and she remembered being guided someplace else. "He is coming for us," the voices said. "He banished our gods, and now we must suffer." A flash of her still and lifeless body would sweep her mind. Ages pass, vines crawl on her skin, her heart stops pulsing, but her eyes move behind those frozen lids. They move through countless dreams.

The reasons behind her awakening plagued her constantly. Lúthien thought to the last dreams she dreamt in Uthenera. The images were but a blur, fragments of stolen moments and slowed time. She recalled a woman, dying in childbirth, and her body corrupted by powerful magic. She too was an elf, but she did not look like other elves. None of the elves she saw in the present moment were like her. Other images overlapped and intertwined. The Dread Wolf stood over her dead body holding a child hostage while a shemlen man pleaded with him – entreating and imploring for the child. Their words escaped her, but she remembered the overwhelming grief she felt in this dream. Her sleep was riddled with an unbearable loss, as if she lost the child. It was her child and her husband that suffered through it as she watched, and an overpowering sensation to hold them both – to keep them away from this sorrow – swept her from the peace she enjoyed through all those years. The dead mother's skin felt cold against hers, and the shemlen – her shemlen – was still a young man, alive and well. But he had an anger simmering in those desperate moments. Betrayal, loss, and suffering. Her eyes opened when those emotions raced in her, and she found herself lost in the recesses of a sleepy ruin. Why or how that moment revived her from a sleepy death was a question she would never know the answer to.

For the present moment, she lay lithe and listless on an indented part of a grove. Her hands brushed against the surface of a pond, its waters calm and humming. She would dip a finger or two in the coolness of the water, seeing the ripples wax and wane as it travelled short distances. Lúthien had forgotten the feeling of water. Most of all, she forgot what it looked like when magic breathed life into it, when it swirled and bubbled out into the air. The new shemlem world seemed darker and less vivacious. Nothing moved. Strangely enough, the world was filled with a deafening silence. No one spoke, but the urge to speak was present, among the trees and the shadows especially. Still, there was tranquility to it that she envied. She had not felt it since waking.

When she knew she felt that same shemlen – the same but older and with more hardness in his heart – was in the forest, she had to follow, to watch, and to help. A voice called to her in moments of quiet. It begged with the same earnestness as the shemlen did to the Dread Wolf. It asked her to help him, to save him. A power rumbled through the forest, disturbed that it was to be despoiled by the presence of greedy hands. But he was not greedy, she knew. The same voice told her he was merely lost and wandering. Before the Veil existed, Lúthien constantly heard voices in the Fade. It was a part of the world. They were spirits and waking dreamers reaching out to those left in their consciousness. The ancient elf suspected that something similar was happening. A spirit or a dead person (perhaps the woman she saw?) guided her to Cullen, and somehow being close to him cemented that desire to help. Yet she had no words. Her dreams in the Fade gave her some. She understood his tongue, but she could not produce the same sounds. Her muscles were tired, weak, and her mind could not emulate the movements necessary for his language. Soon, perhaps, she would know the tricks. She could reveal to him the reasons for her guidance and care. Someone in the Fade loves him still, and it was strong enough that it reached her in the expanse of the Arbor Wilds, where many of her kin still slept the Uthenera and are undisturbed by the violence going around them.

A slight ripple in the pond alarmed the sleepy elf, but she saw it was only a small bird taking a dip. Lúthien retreated to her grove-like sanctuary after Cullen quite wrongfully threatened to strangle her. She could still feel his grip encircling her neck. Though she had been stronger and quicker, it disquieted her to know he was so willing to resort to violence, to forget what she had done for him, and to satiate the darker needs of his kind. Lyrium. That was what he called it. She recognized the luminescent blue whirring like fast and hushed breaths. She could not place anywhere in her memory where she encountered it, but it was familiar to her. In fact, she could have sworn she heard it singing the night she "met" Cullen. How could it not? Its voice was loud, louder than the spirit who gave her the macabre dream of stillborns and widowhood, louder than the call that woke her from death.

The amber in his eyes seared with violent lust for Lyrium. It reminded Lúthien of the Evanuris she served. They wielded power with a voracity hitherto unmatched. Did the shemlen merely repeat their mistakes? Are they merely using power, like Lyrium, to mimic their all-consuming hunger? It was bad enough when they were all immortal (mortality being a condition Lúthien felt when she woke), but generations of mortals cycling through the same destruction unnerved her. With bitterness, she concluded that her place in Uthenera was indeed better.

Footsteps crushing brittle grass piqued Lúthien's ears. She perked up from her reclined position, holding herself up with both hands. Muffled voices travelled from afar, but they were getting louder, closer. Lúthien hurriedly ran up to a large willow tree and swiftly climbed up its trunks. Though barefooted, she was able to fit her toes along its nooks and ridges before pulling herself up to its highest branch, shielded by a bulwark of leaves drooping to the ground. From atop, she peeked over the twigs blocking her view, eyeing who the intruders may be.

"... He last went on some... mission. You know, mercenary work. Old templars stoop to anything these days."

Lúthien's ears were on alert. She squinted to see from whom the voice belonged. It was an accented voice, unlike Cullen's speech. It rolled the "r's" and breathed heavily on consonants. She could have sworn she heard that speech in a dream...

"I see, and do you have any idea where we might be going?"

The second man's voice shared more of Cullen's accent. It sounded more dignified, spoken as if by a dignitary. Lúthien pushed more of the foliage away and saw the silhouettes of two men. The first man who spoke wore metal armor wrapped in silken robes. He donned a mask, gilded in gold and shining bright. Feathers lined this mask and completely covered the upper half of his head. A sword was strapped to his waist. The second man's head was completely exposed. Lúthien saw dark and carefully coiffed hair. His skin was darker, like hers – a tawny brown. When they turned by the pond where she had just reclined, she could see the second man's face more clearly. A mustache curled above his lip, and he had fine sharp features that gave him prince-like regality. He donned asymmetrical robes that reminded her of the Evanuris somehow although she knew he was no elf. Magic pulsed from him, and her blood could feel his strength. A wooden staff embedded with a large orb on its top confirmed her suspicions. Mages still existed even with the Veil.

The first man laughed heartily to the other's question. "Messere Dorian, I am the best tracker one can find in the deep parts of the Emerald Graves. Even more so in the Arbor Wilds! My contacts informed me that your friend was last seen hiring an old local - ... insane by their accounts. He could not have gotten far!"

Lúthien thought the man with the heavy accent spoke too fast and emphasized the wrong syllables. She understood most of their tongue, but it was hard to catch every detail. She knew they were pursuing someone – someone who was misguided or lost. Could they be...?

"Let's hope for your sake he isn't far. If Lavellan were alive she would kill me! You'd think women minded their husbands more, the way they worry. But no, they shirk their responsibilities with tragic death and everything! Leaves the rest of us in the dust, if you ask me." He laughed at his own words, but in a way that echoed with a bit of sadness, as if humor was the only way he could cope with something harsh and hanging.

"Messere, I have heard tales of your rhetoric and your sense of... humour. We Orlesians call it, uh, how do you say – plaisir? Divertissement? Words sharpened by wit, and your words are definitely sharp!"

The two indulged in banter, words whose plurality of meanings escaped the concealed elf, as they investigated the area. They searched with the rigor of dogs. Given that the sun had begun to descend from its heights, their haste was understandable.

"Someone was here," the "Messere Dorian" observed loudly. His hands grazed the soft and warm plot of pressed soil where Lúthien passed the time. The other man spun to Messer Dorian's side. His hands too felt for the imprint left on the ground, and Lúthien could see that the tracker's eyes caught sight of more signs of her presence.

"Not the commander..."

"You know he's not a commander anymore-..."

"If he is a soldier as he is famed to be and tall as you said he is, then he would have left a bigger, uh, how do you say... track? An animal or perhaps a smaller person was here, but not the commander."

They both ambled to little spots on the ground where Lúthien's feet fell. She always walked in light and careful footsteps, so she was shocked to see that the men easily spotted her footprints. It was not much, barely a trace even. But little indentations or loose soil indicated her rush. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She did not want to be found.

The elf adjusted herself and moved further back on the branch closer to the main trunk. She had thought of climbing higher, but the tallest branches were too small for her to dangle. Her eyes darted to other trees, hoping to jump to another.

All the while, the tracker scanned the ground for more of her footprints, and indeed he found more. He traced them back to the weeping willow. He cocked an eyebrow (hidden by his mask) and uttered an audible, "Ah..."

"What?" asked Messer Dorian.

"It seems our tracks disappear at this point." He turned to scan the surroundings.

Lúthien let out a soft and relieved sigh. They have not connected that she could have climbed. Yet the suspense was not over. Instead of going over to the tracker's side, Messer Dorian caught something in his eye. He walked to the other side of the pond, closer to where Lúthien originally had lain. Another smaller tree had roots jutting out over the water... The hidden elf's hands immediately felt around her back. Her eyes bulged... the bow!

In a hollow next to the reeds, the mage discovered a bow, gilded in a translucent metal. It shone in the darkness next to a quiver of arrows. Lúthien suppressed a gasp by covering her mouth with both her hands. She had always been careful, never going anywhere without her weapon. How could she suffer such a lapse of judgment?

"It seems we are not alone in this forest," Messere Dorian announced. The tracker left his spot of confusion by the weeping willow and jogged up to his partner. The mage did not touch the bow, but the tracker immediately reached for it.

Holding it in his hands (heavier than he initially believed), he marveled at the craftsmanship. His fingers fiddled with the twine and its extreme tension, barely able to pluck it. The body of the bow itself was surprisingly intricate. From afar, it shone a smooth surface, but from up close one could see intricate etches. Ancient Elven ornamentation lined it, serpent-like calligraphy running along its edges.

"I have never seen anything like this," the tracker said in awe. His hand motioned to remove his mask, as if to get a better look, but he hesitated and then changed his mind.

"Me neither," chimed the mage. "And I've seen masterwork bows. The Inquisitor herself was quite the archer."

Lúthien's olive skin turned to a ruby red. She was nervous, anxious, and panicking. They held her weapon – a gift from Andruil herself – like some artifact to be stowed away. Her master had always taught her to never let another grab hold of her weapon. It was a sign of defeat, like a limb torn from one's body. Her spine felt shivers and prickles the more they fiddled with its twine. Her right hand felt for thigh where a small belt wrapped around holding another dagger. Whoever these men were, they were crossing a boundary she held sacred. She had no intent to kill, neither did she have intent to relinquish the one part of her she kept from before the Veil.

Slowly the elf crawled on the branch she was perched on. She tried to reach its other end without making it creak or sway with her movements. Lúthien neared a point close to the two shemlen. It was close enough that she can descend upon them from the shadows – pouncing like a red lion.

"Something's not right..." the mage murmured. He could feel something tingling on the back of his neck, the feeling of being watched... the presence in the shadows. He fought alongside such fighters before. Or against, there were those moments too. Those fighters dwelled in the darkness, like the Inquisitor... Sera... Cole...

The moment Lúthien stood crouched on her feet perched up on the branch, Dorian spun in a second and fired his staff at her direction. A burst of light, like a flash of lightning, shot out of, and it struck the branch. Chips of wood flew in the air, and Lúthien felt herself blasted off from her position. She flailed for a split second before falling off. Her hands tried to grab the line of willow leaves surrounding her, but the force of the blow forced her a ways away. Soaring from its height, she landed with a splash into the pond. Though the water broke her fall, it was not as deep as it could be. Her arms shielded her from the muddy base of the pond, and she tried to stay submerged before facing her new foes.

Reaching up and out for the surface, Lúthien emerged with a voracious and breathy gasp. Her wavy hair fell like heavy drapes upon her body, reaching down to her waist. Her leather accouterments and breeches clung tight around her, suffocating her skin. She crawled on fours to the edge of the pond, trying to reach for the ground before the two men could get a hold of her. But as soon as she felt sand, a cold and sharp edge pressed against her jugular. It pointed her chin up, making her look eye to eye with both assailants.

"Who are you?!" barked messere Dorian, readying his staff for a second blow. The other man continued to hold his sword upon on her neck, almost piercing her skin.

Lúthien merely blinked as she breathed heavily. Her eyes jumped from one man to the other, unsure of what to say. What could she say?

Seconds passed, and she did not say anything. In his impatience, the tracker used one hand and grabbed her by the shoulder as he moved his sword away. He lifted her up and slammed her against the dry ground before repositioning his sword on her neck. The sunlight shone through the foliage, and the two could see they held a young woman before them. She was an elf, alone and haplessly clad in leather and fur.

"Maker!" Messer Dorian's eyes softened from their threatening glare to a look of concern. He did not withdraw his staff, but he ceased pointing it at her. "Sheathe your sword Pierre! You can see she's just a girl!"

"What?! This rabbit?!" the tracker shouted. "Sneaky heathens is what they are!"

Lúthien was confused. She could barely cling to the words they threw at each other. She squirmed under their scrutiny. Her head turned slightly, eyeing the bow they dropped to the ground in the time she fell. The tracker saw where she turned her gaze and immediately stepped on it with his heavy boot.

"'Just a girl' says the mage. She wants this weapon!" the tracker, seemingly angrier than his earlier and more jocular tone, kicked the bow off to the side. Lúthien gulped, fearing for her life. The irony was not lost on her frantic head. Just moments earlier, she longed for the Waking Dream – for the death that gave her so much peace. Now these humans offered her a different kind of death. Different, but they both share the same ends. Why was she so afraid? Why did she cower under their mortal thumbs like an ant waiting to be crushed?

Messer Dorian came between them. The tracker drew back his sword out of fear of harming his comrade. "I believe we stumbled upon her camp. We took her bow, and I shot her out of the sky. Her reaction is not that unreasonable," said the mage. He raised his hands as if to coo the tracker like a wild stallion.

Yet Pierre – that was his name? – did not back away. He snarled as if in provocation. "Last I heard, Magister Pavus had no interest in little girls!"

The slighted man did not take the bait. A chuckle rolled out of his throat before somewhat smirking, "And I thought Orlesians were better at the Game. Work on your insults mon ami!"

The other man's shoulders relaxed. His battle stance slowly transitioned into a more alert pose. "As you wish messere," he said scoffing. He sheathed his sword and subsequently marched up to the Elven nymph in their hands. Lúthien saw this as an opportunity to scurry away, but the moment her muscles made the move, the tracker callously stomped on her wrist.

"Ag!" she let out a grunt through her clenched teeth. The man named Messere Dorian made a move to stop him, but the tracker immediately relaxed his hold and grabbed his prisoner's bruised hands.

"But we can't just let the rabbit go," he said with a sly grin. His gloved hand cupped her chin and raised her head so their eyes could meet. Lúthien's deep brown eyes, sad and warm to a templar in need, was now steely to her assailant. Behind his mask, she could see sharp blue eyes without hatred or anger. There was something else. A look the lion gives to the fawn he is about to toy with.

Messere Dorian shifted uncomfortably. He could read a lot in another's body language. His companion's gave him unsettled feeling. He knew Pierre to be a bit of a loose canon. They did not know each other well, but one can tell from how quickly he downed the mead or how aggressively he taunted the tavern wench what kind of man this tracker was. Dorian thought better than to hire any sell sword. After all, the one he was after was also as self-destructive...

"I agree," Dorian finally managed, "But let's not tarry." He pushed himself in front of the tracker, tactfully separating him from the elf. Crouching low, he grabbed the elf by one arm and hoisted her up. She sat up eye level with him. This other man had warmth to him that was absent in the tracker. The wrinkle on his forehead and the curled frown on his lip conveyed a deep sense of regret. I'm sorry he seemed to say, and Lúthien could sense it.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Name?" she mimed. Lúthien recognized those words. The question was almost like a greeting. "Lúthien," she said tersely, unwilling to antagonize her captors.

"Lúthien! A pleasure to meet you." Dorian stood back up and held a hand out to her. The elf was confused for a moment, but when he reached lower, she realized he was extending it to her. With her uninjured hand, she timidly placed her palm on his. In an instant, he pulled her up so she was standing. "My name is Dorian," he continued.

My name. Your name. She knew now how to communicate those words to Cullen. What a silly thought... how unnecessary, he already knew her-...

Lúthien's body jumped, her shoulders close together, and her spritely legs somewhat stretched upward. Her actions earlier today, fleeing his addicted rage, and her decision to incapacitate him... Her face flushed, and she realized that she had left him all alone in the ruins for longer than she intended.

The tracker noted this change in her demeanor and approached. "Is something the matter?" His tone was somewhat gentlemanly, layered with some hint of cunning.

Lúthien backpedaled away from him with a quivering lip. She nursed her injured hand with slight caresses, turning to Dorian for pity. She hoped he would buy the act, take her for a harmless damsel, and let her go. Someone needed her, and she carelessly forgot him. It was the burden of being pulled out of Uthenera and having her mind in a jumble. Words are lost. One's tongue forgets, but everything else stays the same. Cunning is necessary. One had to resort to a language that played with others.

Dorian was somewhat aloof to the act. He was too focused on figuring out how to take her hostage without... well, taking her hostage.

"Lúthien," Dorian called sternly. He faced her once more, entering an interrogative state. "Could you tell us why you were up in that tree? Why you were watching us?"

Nothing but a blank stare came from the elf. She understood, somewhat nodding her head and fluttering her eyes. Yet how could she explain? Her innocence must be proven somehow, despite the fact that it was they who intruded on her sanctuary, her place of leisure, her otium. Lúthien merely bit her lower lip in response.

The magister sighed, somewhat disbelieving that their captive refused cooperation. Something in his gut told him that it was fine. She was just a harmless elf who wandered too far from her clan. Given the Orlesians' treatment of elves however, he knew that Pierre would rather kill her on the spot and remove all doubt. What was he to do?

"The rabbit's not talking," Pierre concluded with a hint of sarcasm.

Lúthien glowered. She did not like this word... rabbit.

"Hush!" Dorian interceded with exasperation. Another approach was necessary. "We are looking for a man lost in these woods." When the mage noticed Lúthien maintaining an impassive expression, he let out another sigh and tried slower. "We," he turned and gestured to himself and his comrade, "are looking..." he pointed to his eyes, "for... a man."

Lúthien wrinkled her forehead, perplexed that he reiterated his words at a slower and stupefying pace. It did not help much, but she gathered the importance of a man who was lost (and lost was a word she knew well) to them. Could they be after Cullen?

"He's tall... a little big... somewhat blond hair... here Pierre show her your hair!"

The masked Pierre chortled. "Not on my life."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "We need to show her what he looks like. Maybe she's seen him!"

"I doubt it," replied Pierre. He crossed his arms defiantly.

"Fasta vass!" Dorian cursed under his breath. Lúthien was deadpan and losing patience. The mage tried a different attempt. "He has a scar right here!" he pointed to his upper lip and exaggeratedly made a ridge on his skin to copy the scar. The elf chuckled a little.

"Show her the insignia, maybe she's seen the sword Master Pavus," interrupted Pierre. He tossed a patch of an embroidered sigil in the air. Dorian caught it effortlessly, squeezing it in his hand before showing her the image.

"His sword would have this emblem." He placed it on Lúthien's palm. She placed it in both her hands and felt the coarseness of the leather. Embroidered on it is an eye – sharp and all seeing. A sword ran through the middle of this eye. It was a peculiar image. One she had indeed seen before.

"Cullen!" she blurted out. The image rests on his sword. She knew. She carried that as well.

Dorian almost jumped. "Where is he?!" Days into an expedition that was proving futile until that very moment now seemed to come together.

Pierre said nothing, but he walked closer to Lúthien, eyeing her with deep and unhidden suspicion.

Though the mage tried hard to mask a beaming smile, finally finding hope in this forsaken venture, Lúthien's lips curled into a frown. She was somewhat unsure. They indeed were looking for Cullen, but is she supposed to just lead them to him? Just moments before they attacked her, and the other's aggressiveness made her doubt their intentions. Blood rushed through her temple in a panic. The echoes of her dream, the entreaties of a beaten man, the cry of a child in the last seconds of its life, the call of a voice to save him...

The other men sensed she was afraid somehow, but neither were willing to encourage or stifle that fear. Instead they waited for her to collect herself, to answer. Yet still no answer. Lúthien again glanced at the bow yards away from their spot. It was a distracted moment, a gesture, that did not sit well with the distrusting companion.

"Listen rabbit!" Pierre forcefully grabs her by the hand. Lúthien cries out in protest, her eyes turning to the more sympathetic man for help. In a matter of seconds, he had climbing rope around her wrists, and the Orlesian tracker tied it tightly. The elf could feel her fingers pale from the lack of blood flowing into her hands. She whimpered, feeling her sprained wrist suffer the tension. Dorian stood, unsure of the course of action. What if she knew and did not want them to find him?

After Pierre finished restraining their elven captive, he held on to the other end of the rope like a master leashing his new dog. Dorian found it distasteful. He grimaced, showing disapproval.

"Show us where he is," commanded Pierre. He pulled on the rope, yanking Lúthien closer to him. Her whole body shook in trepidation, looking every which way for an escape.

"Talk!" he raised his hand and motioned to land a backhanded blow against her pouting lips. The elf immediately cowered away.

Dorian stepped in between them once more and yanked the rope from his partner. "Enough! You Orlesians are honestly the most rabid savages I can think of."

Lúthien, who was still drenched from her fall in the pond and bruised by Pierre's abuse, shivered. Fear was one thing, but humiliation rendered her immobile and mute. All her life, she had known a dignity beyond what the humans could ever live. Now, trapped in their hands, they degraded her like some captive beast.

The mage could feel her resentment. He removed his overcoat and wrapped it around her. In Dorian's experiences with war, he knew threats and violence only pushed people to their limit. He was in the Arbor Wilds to find Cullen, nothing more. "Lúthien," he gently intoned.

The elf looked timidly his way, waiting for a response.

"I am sorry my partner has been acting... unworthy. Please lead us to Cullen. We need to find him."


Cullen had it in his mind that he would kill her. The elusive elf – his savior and executioner – condemned him to rot in a forsaken ruin, but the once proud warrior would not give up so easily. After he had recovered from her unexpected blow, he took the knife she left by the fire and heated it in the flames. Like coal, the dagger glowed in crimson. The metal was wavy, almost melting. Its edges were lined white with its smoldering heat. Before it could actually reach melting point, Cullen undressed his bandages and pressed the glowering blade against his open wound – a gaping hole on his shoulder now that he saw it. He would have screamed if not for the cloth he use to gag his mouth. His teeth clenched hard at the pain as he could hear his flesh sizzle with the flames. When he was left with a stinging sensation, he could see through his wincing eyes that the wound was burned closed – blood dried black on his shoulder. He hurriedly threw the blade away and curled to a ball as he endured more of the burn's after-effects.

His teeth almost tore the cloth from the hard grinding and clenching of his jaw. He pressed his left hand on the injured shoulder, hoping the pressure would help, but it only added to the pain of his burnt skin. Cullen let out a muffled cry through the rag, and tears almost welled in his eyes. Closing his eyes, he gave himself a moment. The reeling sensation the burning gave him eventually dissipated, and when it evanesced into nothing more than some numb weight on his limbs, Cullen rose with the help of his wobbly legs and packed what he could in the sackcloth Lúthien left.

When he regained more strength, he faced the mountainous horizon from the entryway and stared down the ruin's faded stairs. It was a long descent – like a mountain hike but with ruined ridges for support. Though pain lingered in his shoulder, his resolve served as an adequate palliative. Cullen reached down the steps, one foot at a time. He was not as graceful or as agile as Lúthien, but he could do with his slower pace. All he needed was escape – back to civilization – and he could let this horrific nightmare disappear in his past. His hands clung to the ridge he had just been on while one of his feet would peer down into the unknown. As he slowly and painstakingly progressed, he noticed the woods crowed over him. The cerulean sky with its glaring sun became shades above the dome of leaves and entwined branches circling over the mountain pass.

"No dream." He thought the words over, chewing over them and swallowing in confusion. Cullen pondered as to what she might mean seeing as how knowing where he was might have been his best way out. What was the place of no dreams? There was also the question of the supposed language barrier between them. It was clear that Lúthien could understand the Common Tongue, or at least some key words and syntax registered for her. Yet she herself could not speak it back. Her intentions or meanings would always be lost if not partially so. Cullen wondered what good it would have done to wait for her or stay. It would have been debasing for one of them to occupy the position of pantomime, and he never let his past accomplishments get so far into his head that he was comfortable with the idea of an ingratiating subaltern – mimicking and learning only his language. The reverse situation would have been as equally unappealing.

Cullen's foot felt that the steps had more densely covered moss than before. He was entering a part of the mountain steeped with humid air. His fingers tangled themselves in a mesh of vine crawling on the old slab of stone that narrowed as he descended. As the air cooled and the wind stilled, he felt the ringing in the back of his head fade to a muted presence. His thirst for Lyrium was gnawing but not debilitating, like an itch one can't scratch. It infuriated him to see her dangle the phial before him. She had looked through his things – an emergency stash in case he went for days, if not weeks, without any Lyrium to stave off the hunger. She even had the gall to withhold it from him, gloating in her power to keep him alive. Somehow, in the shadows of the dense forest and the spiral of stone he climbed down from, he also felt remorse. Cullen remembered in his youth how in control he used to be of his emotions. There were moments when he felt the quiet storm of addiction rage inside him, but he had always quelled it in front of others. He tried to show compassion when he could. Yet when Lúthien revealed to him his one vulnerability, that one phial keeping him alive, he lost himself in a fit of heavily repressed anger. Whatever her intentions were, she had saved him. She showed him kindness in a place where he thought none could be found. Now, in his years of relapse, it was as if he tenuously held on by a thread. How could he threaten her so?

The soreness in his right shoulder went away, he noticed. It was not gone, but he was beyond feeling it. With the help of both arms, he continued the never ending climb downwards, but fresh in his memory was the feeling of the elf's skin on his left hand. He thought of the faint pulse of a vein, throbbing underneath her milk-like skin. It beat with the rhythm of fear, and somehow, a monster in him found it enticing. Though his cheeks reddened with shame at the thought, Cullen did find excitement in threatening her so. The grazing of her fingers against his cheeks when she volunteered to shave him... A nymph-like woman quivering in his one hand... Maker, he had become a monster.

His thoughts ran to his late wife and the void she left. Had he ceased respecting women? Widowhood was like a spiral downward. Drink came, then the whores, then the lonely and vulnerable women... He had not thought to find happiness in anyone else, neither did he think of their happiness. The following month would mark Lavellan's death anniversary, and Cullen knew he had to get back to Ferelden, lay flowers in her grave, and say the Dalish rites for the dead. He thought of the pilgrims who flocked to Skyhold still, honoring her memorial as if her remains were really laid to rest there. Only the so-called inner circle had the knowledge of her true whereabouts, and it seemed none of them had the courage to visit all at once. Cullen wondered what Lavellan, former Inquisitor and beloved wife, would think of him now. Would she look at him with sadness? Anger? Or, worse... disappointment? Would she understand and feel for him? Would she reject the man he had become knowing how far he let himself fall? Or would she, like Lúthien, show kindness? Would she rescue him in her own way? Yet he knew with a sort of bitterness that Lavellan had always rescued him – whether it was from an overarching evil named Corypheus or from the suffering of lyrium addiction, she had been there to save him. Whatever he suffered through, Lavellan always bestowed upon him the forgiving and accepting gaze of those almond-shaped eyes. Small and soft, emitting a certain kindness that always whispered a muted "I love you." It was impossible, Cullen knew, but he thought he sensed the same light – the same hushed whisper – from Lúthien's saddened stare. Sad indeed, like she watched through his suffering without saying a word. She had the air of a helpless wallflower, bearing the suffering of years heaped on years.

As the shadows loomed and the bright sky sharply contrasted with his dark surroundings, Cullen felt a slight tinge in the air. The forest pulsed with a louder beat – a slower yet more palpable rhythm. The trace amount of Lyrium in his system made him susceptible to the feeling. There was magic – old and powerful magic – breathing through the vines and leaves. When he had been a templar, he knew that power and felt the urge to sequester it. His right hand reached for the pommel of his sword. The shoulder wound was swollen, oozing puss due to his unusual activity and burnt skin. Still, he could ignore it if need be. He could draw his sword and make whoever lurked fight for the bloody prize of his death.

Finally Cullen reached what he thought to be solid ground, or at least a platform of some kind. He was in another grove surrounded by smaller yet denser trees, not unlike those they found in the Frostback Basin with their thick branches functioning as walking bridges. A luminous green light seemed to emanate from their trunks, and the grass seemed musty and wet from years of enduring cold and sunless light. Before he could definitively conclude he was back on forest ground, the path he walked led to another stony ruin, like the skeletal remains of a chamber. It lacked a ceiling. The walls of the entryway were barely there. Where walls and mortar were missing, vegetation and growth encroached. The steps he descended must have led to another part of an otherwise large temple that spanned the mountainside. Beyond the entryway, he saw nothing but more growth and shadow. Seeing as how his path was linear, Cullen decided to proceed. The only other way was to turn back and climb the mountain once more – hour by hour and step by step.

Cullen tried to scan for the horizon, but the thickness of the woods prevented him from locating the sun. He climbed up to the entryway, its foundations cracked and jutting out of the ground. Upon entering the debris-filled chamber, he noticed a pillar standing directly in front of the entryway. What he presumed to be some writing, written in what seemed to be elven but too faded and damaged to tell, lined the ancient stone. The remaining walls of the chamber had barely visible murals. It depicted what Cullen thought were Elves, all standing in line with the same face tattoos – vallaslin – marking their expressionless faces. It was a curved and floral-like design on their left eye. Their hands were thrown up in the air as if imploring a higher being, a god, for maker-knows-what. The images signaled to him that the temple he was in was not the one he initially set out in search for. Cullen knew he was after the Temple of Andruil, a god that incidentally was important to Lavellan. Her vallaslin commemorated that deified huntress, with an emblem that was distinctly different – an arrow pointing down to its mark – from the ones depicted on the mural. He had been in the wrong place this entire time.

The room itself had grid-like pedestals for a floor, and the corners of the wall had braziers perhaps for holding veilfire. Lavellan told Cullen all those years ago of the ritual she completed in the Temple of Mythal. The former commander guessed that whatever temple he was in, he must have entered a room that held a similar function or a test of sorts. But Cullen did not have Elven experts to guide him, and so he stood motionless and in deference to the magic still pulsing in the chamber's crumbling veins.

A faint song, like a lullaby lost in memory, hummed in Cullen's ear. He turned every which way, looking for its source, but it seemed to emanate from the room itself. Whatever magic was left in the temples, it was active, and it was goading him into the ritual. He stepped forward, nearing the center of the room. Each time his foot limped onto another grid on the floor, the ground lit with a pale glow. Symbols hummed a tone, activating the magic he felt. But what was he to do?

Cullen proceeded anyway. He wanted a way out, not further into the temple. The floor lit and hummed as if singing in a symphony as he went deeper into the chamber, all the way across to the other end. An opening in the room led out to another path down the mountain. He spun around, taking a good look as he made the decision to leave. Whatever secrets this temple held, it was not for him.

The subsequent pathway was not as maze-like and arduous as the first one. He saw a couple of well-preserved staircases that opened out to a courtyard. The courtyard itself was in shambles. Tall grass shot out of the foundations, the omnipresent vines jutting out to devour the remains of a distant past... The most striking feature was, towards the end of the courtyard, the source of all the humming and glowing. An activated Eluvian stood with its glasslike surface forming ripples and waves with each breeze thrown down the mountainside.

An unsettled feeling in his stomach rolled. Where was he? Cullen pondered earlier how Lúthien could have hauled him to such a distance – to a place that barely felt like they were even in Orlais. Now some part of the reality is stabilizing, and it disturbed him. Would the Eluvian lead back to the Arbor Wilds? Or would it transport him farther away and further into his death? Cullen contemplated waiting for Lúthien to return. A part of him knew that the elf would come back, feeling somewhat sorry for the state she left him in all the while curious as to whether he had checked his rage. Yet another part of him knew he had to leave, that waiting would not present more answers. Besides, he had spent a good three hours descending the steps at a snail's pace. If she wanted to return, she would have done so by now. That fact was worrying, and he wondered if he at all scared her or perhaps angered her away. His shoulder still stung, reminiscent of the flame that touched his skin. Leaving was necessary.

Cullen timidly approached the mirror. Though he knew Lavellan navigated one seamlessly in their time of the Exalted Council, he felt apprehension with ancient magic. It was so different from the power of human mages – easily bendable to the power of Lyrium. This somehow felt beyond his control, and he was about to dive headfirst. He swallowed his reservations, letting a big gulp roll down his throat. With his left hand, he reached into the mirror. It was an interesting sensation – like wading into cool and shallow waters. The light seemed blinding as his face closed in, going underneath the surface. He reached out into the darkest depths, calling for the other side.