Cullen is not complacent in the contours of his nightmares. He will never be. They are always too vivid, too real. Sharper and clearer now without the dull thud of lyrium to keep them fuzzy at the edges. They weave their way through him nearly every night. Nearly every night for a decade and he cannot grow used to them. Even when it is the same repeated vision, it seems new, it seems alive.

It starts with Neria. With her sweet blue eyes and soft blush. Neria who he failed. Neria who is dead. But often it starts with Neria being saved, whisked away from the Circle Tower by some hero who is not him. Perhaps she saves herself. Neria as a pale-eyed hero, with a quiet inner strength that no one could have anticipated. But that vision is a lie because he watched her die. A sword through her slim stomach as she failed her Harrowing. Even when awake, he cannot recall the demon which possessed her. As his withdrawal progresses, he remembers particulars of the event with more clarity. He doesn't want to. He's afraid one day he'll remember that he was the one to slay her.

The middle of his nightmares are filled with demons. They bang at the walls of his mind, whispering to him to give in, to yield. There are two. One looks like his sister. One looks like Neria. They both offer their hands to him, tempting him with comfort, with home. When he refuses, their faces twist and burn. Skin falling away in thick patches like melting snow. They stop assaulting his mind and turn their attentions to his body. One keeps the barest trace of Neria's face, cackling in his ear that he is useless, weak, unworthy. The demon's lips against the shell of his ear. The demon with her eyes scratches against his chest until blood wells up beneath its fingertips. Its blood tinged hands wreck him. But he does not die. He'd rather die. But he doesn't. Not-Neria spits that he is worthless. Not even the demons want him anymore. They have all the others, the good Templars who fought and obeyed. The good Templars who just fucked the pretty mages instead of adoring them. That was his mistake.

His nightmares end with Meredith. She is twisted, horrific. Laced through with jagged protrusions of the red lyrium that fueled her paranoia. Blood mages in every corner. Every apostate already a blood mage in the tattered remnants of her mind. The scowl on her face when Bethany passes her Harrowing with ease.

Cullen can only attribute Meredith's violence to madness. But she knew well enough what directives were not for his eyes, so the insanity defense does not travel far. No one was closer to the Knight-Commander than he. Perhaps her personal Tranquil, stripped of her mind for over a decade. So no, it was his responsibility.

He'd been good. He'd fought. He'd obeyed. Didn't question her orders. He'd been a good Templar and drank down his sweet lyrium. Good Templar.

Meredith impales the Champion on her blade. It cuts through her torso, clear through her convulsing body. Her mouth is open, but if she screams, it is lost in the cacophony of Kirkwall burning. But the sound of the bow dropping from her hands against the stone is quite clear. So she must not be screaming at all. Blood flows from her open mouth, down the front of her armor, to the ground to paint her bow red.

The demon, his demon, speaks to him again. It stands behind him, little hands on his shoulders nails cutting through his armor.

"It's a beautiful sight, isn't it?" It coaxes. "Think of the power you could have." Neria's voice is multiplied in his mind, layered on top of itself. It's only a nightmare, but he still averts his eyes.

"You haven't won before, demon. You will not win now."

"I have one last show for you. Try it, see if you like it. It is new."

The demon, his demon, paints the scene for him, its thin arms wrapped around his torso and its head pressed against his back, holding him in a mockery of intimacy. It shows him Sabina, because it knows. It knows he loves her, and that he cannot tell her.

She looks younger, with fewer freckles across her nose and while her skin is still dark, it is noticeably untouched by the sun. Her hair is piled on top of her head, with a few curls falling loose. She's been running, barefoot but in her dress, and her cheeks are flushed. Chasing after her little sister. The demon is showing him the day the Templars came.

The little sister holds Sabina's hand. She is fairer, her hair straighter. Perhaps six years old or so. It's clear enough that Sabina adores her. The way she looks at the little girl is unlike anything he has seen on her face. Love.

Even though the girl is much too big to be carried, Sabina picks her up anyway, twirls her around in her arms until they are both laughing. The sister kisses her nose.

An elven servant enters, tells the Mistresses Trevelyan that the Templars have arrived.

Sabina kisses the sister's nose back and tells her to hold still. There is a knife in her hand, one of the tiny ones that she wears now publically at her waist, secretly in her boot as well, and he suspects sometimes in her breast band. Sabina gives the girl the knife. She does not need to explain she is to keep it, to hide it.

And then Sabina sees him. The little sister fades away and it is just the two of them and an empty bedroom. Not-Neria's arms are still around him, but it is a demon and this is the nightmare of its design.

She smoothes down the wrinkles in her dress and keeps her eyes averted from his. It's only a game that she's playing coy. This was her plan all along, to keep her sister away from the Templars. She fails.

He's in his Templar armor, the same set he was issued when he turned eighteen and properly joined the Order. It feels heavy on his bones. But he is incredibly light when Sabina smiles. Her hands are pressed against her chest, white gloves contrasting with the dark fabric of her dress.

"Oh, Ser Cullen, I….you will have to show me what to do." Her hands move from her chest to his, pressing against his breastplate.

Only one lamp is lit in the room. The light catches her eyes and they look wet, red. She's an illusion but he wants to comfort her nonetheless. He wants to kiss at the corners of her eyes and tell her that her sister will be safe. He will keep her safe. But he is the very thing Sabina is trying to protect her sister from. And he doesn't know. He doesn't know in the waking world what became of the sister. He has never asked. Sabina has never told.

Her hands reach up to his shoulders. She presses down with unanticipated strength until Cullen is on his knees before her. His hands skim the hem of her dress and his knuckles rub against the floorboards.

This is the temptation his demon has fashioned. Sabina, not as she is now, but as she could have been in their youth. As they could have been before the sky was torn open. But that is a lie in itself. That the Templars came to the Trevelyan estate at all is proof that there was no time of innocence. Not for them, not for anyone.

He rests his hands on her hips as he rises from the floor. Even now, he does not want to let the illusion go.

"I'll run away with you, Ser Cullen," her voice echos. "We'll run away from here and I'll be your wife. I'll give you beautiful children." But it is not her voice alone. It is Sabina's and Neria's and Bethany's. All echoing together. And it's his scream at the Circle Tower and Hawke's scream at the Gallows.

Sabina's hand glows green, a sharp, toxic kind of color. She's started tipping her daggers in poison. Her hand wraps around his throat and she's pulling the Fade out through his mouth….

He wakes with a start. He has sweat through the sheets and they'll have to be changed. It's already light outside. He has overslept. Predictably, Sabina is gone. But he remembers her falling asleep in his bed, her back pressed against his chest. But she could have left at any point in the night. The pillow next to his smells like her perfume still. And it's warm.

Sitting up, he wipes the sweat from his brow and tries to still his hands from shaking. He has work to do. Drills would have begun hours ago. A first round of daily reports are probably already on his desk.

In his drawer downstairs, he can feel the lyrium singing to him.

No, it's humming from outside.

He slides out of bed and keeps the sheet wrapped around him, even though he is alone. Outside, Sabina walks along the edge of the battlements. Her hair is tied up in as tight of a bun as she can manage. She hums to herself as she walks the narrow lip of the wall. Her hands raised above her head, she extends one foot forward and then cartwheels along the beam. She does so twice more before turning back around.

She sees him watching her and looks cross. To make amends he leaves the place at the window and dresses for the day.

When he climbs downstairs Sabina is already waiting for him. She's sitting on the corner of his desk and reading his reports. The same ones would be sitting on her desk, but no one in the Inquisition expects her to read them. If the information is important enough, someone will take the time to summarize for her.

"The Champion of Kirkwall is here. Varric sent for her," she flips through pages of reports and does not look at him.

The melody in his desk drawer calls out for him. It would make everything less painful. It would ease his sweating, that heat.

"Oh? Cassandra will be...upset."

"I'll deal with that later." She places the reports back neatly in the center of his desk. Tilting her head to one side, she gestures that he should sit down. "She asked after you."

"Yes, well, we knew each other, a bit. It was difficult in Kirkwall not to know her."

Sabina doesn't look upset. Only exhausted, where only a moment ago she was humming, twirling.

"Seems that way, since apparently she's even met Corypheus before. Killed him, even. Some good that did." Her feet are shaking, expending nervous energy she's building up while sitting still. "You should go talk to her. We're heading to Crestwood tomorrow to meet this Warden friend of hers. She said she'd be in the tavern."

"At this hour? I have work to do." Cullen holds the report between his fingers, miming reading.

Sabina shrugs and hops down from his desk. Her feet make no sound against the stones. "I'm not your keeper. Do what you like."

"Wait."

She is nearly out the door before he stops her.

"What was your sister's name? The one who went to the Circle?"

Sabina does not turn. Instead she stares out the door, the light catching in her curls. "Cassia." The somber note to her voice gives him pause. He is unsure if he wants the answer to his next question.

"Where is she now?"

"When the Ostwick Circle disbanded, she went home. I assume she is still with our parents."

With no more questions, Sabina takes her leave.

In the end, Cullen does go to the tavern, though not until the early afternoon. He considers it a break for lunch. Though he is used to eating in his office, the change will be nice, even if Hawke would be there.

"Son of a mabari. I didn't think you'd show." Marian's feet are on the table and she has the bard's lute in her hands. What she's done with the bard is anyone's guess. Putting the lute aside, she gestures to one of the barkeeps to come over. Without asking, she orders for Cullen. He doesn't much pay attention to what she says.

"You know," there is ale on her breath, "I should kill you right now for what you did."

"Me?" This is already going about as well as he expected. "What about you, Hawke? How can you still protect him? After what he has done?" He tries to keep his voice low. Rumors circulate regarding the Champion and the company she keeps, but they are just that, rumors. He knows little more than that, but it is enough to cause trouble. Leliana undoubtedly knows more but is more adept at staying out of arguments.

"And I'd help him do it again, gladly."

She smiles warmly at the barmaid as she sets down Cullen's mug and meal. He leaves it untouched.

"You're selfish, Hawke. A selfish brat." He means every word.

"And you're disgusting." She slides a folded bit of paper across the table towards him. "From my sister."

He does not open it, he merely lets it sit loosely on the table. "Why?"

"You know why."

"No, why would you actually give this to me?"

Hawke picks up the lute again and plucks the strings to no tune at all. Her fingers are coarse from bowstrings. "Because I'm a sucker for her. That's why. And she's a sucker for you."

He remembers her limp on Meredith's red lyrium sword. Like a ragdoll.

He takes the note from the table and puts it, unopened, in his pocket. "Do you know what it says?"

"Of course. Now eat your meal."

Cullen eats and listens to Hawke's butchered melodies. She sings a nonsense song about country boys and small town girls in the big city. How Kirkwall had chewed them up and spit them out.