***SPOILER ALERT***
Set in the Western Approach prior to Here Lies The Abyss, and contains mild potential spoilers for that and the Western Approach
Past and present continue to weave together in the lives of our heroes as events in Kirkwall resonate through the war against Corypheus
As preparations proceed for the march on Adamant, Cullen arrives at Griffon Keep with some of the remaining loyal Templars; raising the morale of the Inquisition but causing Hawke to keep doubting the Lord Inquisitors long-term intentions.
The temptations of power weigh heavily on Marcus as he welcomes the Commander to the Inquisition's desert headquarters while Cullen's inner battles continue.
****Trigger Warnings****
This is Dragon Age, so: Sex, strong language, homo-eroticism, implied past rape/sexual abuse, drug abuse, drug withdrawal… you know – the usual!
****Disclaimer****
Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.
Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far
9:36 Dragon: Kirkwall, City of Chains
"You might enjoy it more if you took the armour off; I know I would…"
Lissa eased herself into a sitting position and poured a glass of wine. Her customer stood over at the washstand, breeches halfway down his thighs, towelling himself dry. Six Kirkwall Ducats sat in a neat stack on the cabinet beside the bed.
"I apologise if it hurts you; I'll remove it next time…" he spoke without turning around, placing the towel carefully to one side and pulling his breeches up "But I am not here to enjoy myself."
She took a sip of wine, moving a strand of hair away from her face
"What are you here for?" Lissa asked with genuine curiosity; most would do all they could to make the most of her time with her and yet this handsome, vigorous, young man allowed himself so little. "You pay for the full hour, grunt and thrust for five minutes, spend on my belly then leave. You could get the same for less anywhere in Lowtown…"
Knight-Captain Cullen adjusted his belt
"Self-pollution is a sin; but Chantry law permits those Templars, not vowed to celibacy, to seek occasional relief. If my custom is that displeasing to you…"
"So, I'm occasional relief? I've never been called that before!" she laughed "Your custom doesn't displease me, Ser Cullen; I just wonder if I might make it more pleasing for you."
The Knight-Captain was certainly more appealing than some of her clients; tall and blond with a strong, well-proportioned body. Lissa was sure that, if he permitted himself, they could both have an extremely satisfying hour; she would like to see him smile, certain he would be even more handsome if he did.
Cullen turned to face her. The courtesan was dark-skinned with long, curling black hair; Rivaini or Antivan ancestry, and fair of face and limb. There were times he had been tempted to allow Lissa to work her arts upon him; some of the activities depicted in the wall-paintings looked interesting, but even the thought of self-indulgence was a step upon a dangerous path that he could never allow. He had considered swearing himself to celibacy and continence but sometimes the fire in his belly burned too hot, memories of what the demons did and offered. He had sought Knight-Commander Meredith's counsel, fearful of the censure that would follow; instead, she had advised him that release, provided it wasn't taken to excess, carried less spiritual peril than oath-breaking. She would rather he exercised his needs 'sensibly' than be distracted by fighting them.
"I do not require more than this, but thank you for the offer. To answer your question, I pay for the full hour because I do not wish you to be cheated by my shortcomings…" the small growl he made might have been a laugh "and I would not wish to sully myself in Lowtown. The women there are not… reputable."
"Occasional and reputable?" Lissa offered a glass of wine with a raised eyebrow, knowing he would refuse "You're as smooth-tongued as a Chevalier, Serrah!"
Cullen shook his head; fastening his cloak about his neck.
"I will see you next month, Mistress Lissa…"
Even here, in Hightown, people avoided the Knight-Captain's eye as he strode along the broad avenue leading to the Viscount's Keep. Knight-Commander Meredith's seizure of power in the wake of Viscount Dumar's murder and the Qunari assault had seemed essential at the time; the Viscount had no living heirs and the city's nobility were too scattered and demoralised to agree on a successor, but now? Even Meredith's Mabari felt a tiny creature of doubt gnawing at him. The role of the Templars was to control Magi and protect the common folk from their inevitable malice, not wield political power. If the Knight-Commander's sworn aim was to purge Kirkwall of it's corruption there was yet little evidence of that succeeding; meanwhile the nobility raged and plotted, furious at the curtailing of their traditional powers, and respect for the Templars among the common folk had turned to fear and hatred. The hopes of the people had, instead, been transferred to the Champion; that apostate-loving fellow-Fereldan who'd led the defeat of the Qunari and killed their Arishok. Surely it might be better for her to step down now and allow the Synod of Nobles to elect a new Viscount, as they demanded, before the Templar Order in Kirkwall was completely despised?
Something hit his leg and he spun, hand on sword, to see a group of ragged urchins scampering away; giggling and chanting that obscene rhyme that seemed to follow him everywhere through the city
"Mabari! Mabari! He fucks her up the arse…"
Looking down at what had struck him, he grimaced in disgust at the clumps of shit clinging to his cloak and tried to scrape the worst of it off with his dagger. Most of the beggars in the city seemed to be swarming up to the plaza before the Grand Chantry; mingling with a larger-than-usual crowd…
He remembered now; Baron Redbank, one of those who saw himself as the 'natural' successor to the late Viscount, was marrying his heir to the daughter of some powerful family from the neighbouring state of Ostwick. Knight-Commander Meredith had been furious about it; apparently these Trevelyans had connections with half the noble and royal houses of the Free Marches and abroad, even including a Cousland or two, and according to her it was plain that Redbank intended to use this alliance of grand old names to bolster his claim to Kirkwall's vacant throne.
Cullen had little interest in such things. In his mind, the nobility was little more than a band of frivolous parasites interested only in their own power; Ferelden had burned while the Banns and Arls squabbled over who should take Cailin's crown. He still slowed his stride, though, spectacle of any sort was rare in Kirkwall these days and not even the Knight-Captain immune to its draw.
The bride was pretty, he had to admit as he watched the wedding party descend the steps of the Grand Chantry towards the carriages that would take them the few score yards to the Redbank mansion, emeralds sparkling in her red hair. The ones in the brilliant, flamboyant, brocades must be the guests from Ostwick; Kirkwall's nobles affected more sombre styles at present. Some of the women sported high, powdered, hair and elaborate half-masks in the Orlesian fashion; the men swaggering like peacocks alongside them. Behind these grandees, as they mounted the carriages, liveried retainers scattered handfuls of coin to the waiting beggars; largesse to bolster Baron Redbank's reputation as a man of piety and generosity.
Cullen grunted in distaste as he turned once again in the direction of the Keep. The hypocrisy was sickening; the bride's jewels alone could feed those people for a month. As he strode away, he didn't notice the tall, dark-haired man crouched in a corner, counting the coins in his hand; nor did Samson, intent on his gains, notice him.
Six Kirkwall Shillings in total, including what he'd earned hauling sacks at the docks all night. Bigger and stronger than many of the other beggars, he'd managed to grab a good handful before getting shouldered out the way. That should be enough to get him something, although it would just be that cut shit the Dwarf down at Three Sisters sold. With Meredith poking her nose into everything, pure Lyrium was impossible to get for any amount of coin; even the diluted, mage-grade, stuff had all but dried up. At least that Carta crap would take the edge off.
He looked up as a shadow fell across him. Some fancy prick standing there, all curled moustaches and pointed goatee; looked like he might be one of the hanger's on from the wedding.
"Excuse me…" the man sounded foreign "might I interest you in a proposition?"
Samson pushed himself to his feet, grinning. He was used to propositions; some of these noble sorts, especially the foreign ones, liked their trade a bit 'rough'. It all felt the same if you closed your eyes and if the pay was good enough, having a sore arse for a couple days was worth it.
"Got some work for an ex-Templar, milord?" he asked, 'adjusting' his crotch. The 'ex-Templar' bit often got a couple of extra sov's off the older ones; must spice up the game for them.
"An ex-Templar?" The man arched his eyebrows, voice soft and insinuating "That must make life difficult in a city like this…"
"I get by, with a little help" Samson shrugged "and if you were willing to help, sir, I'd be very grateful."
A smile twitched the corners of Lord Erimond's moustache
"I see, and how grateful would you be for this?"
Samson caught his breath at the sight of what lay in Erimond's open hand; the vial glowed with the light blue of purest grade Lyrium, so vivid he could almost taste it on his tongue. You couldn't buy that for gold in Kirkwall right now. Whatever this creep wanted, he could have, just so long as he handed that over.
"Mate…" he gasped "You could fuck me on the Chantry Altar for that…"
"Interesting, but I'm not asking you to demean yourself; not any more…" laughed Erimond "My proposition is a chance for you to reclaim your honour, and get revenge on the sanctimonious prigs who reduced you to this shameful state."
"What's your game?" Samson glowered at him suspiciously. People didn't hand out stuff like that for nothing… but he wanted it, no matter what the game was… "What have I got to do?"
It would still take some persuasion, Erimond knew, such things had to be approached with subtlety; but this was exactly the man the Master needed. Already seething with resentment and hatred, with a little grooming he would be their willing agent. All it required then would be to insinuate him back into the Templar Order and, with the whole city vibrating with distrust for Knight-Commander Meredith, that should not prove challenging.
"Come to my apartments…" Erimond took his arm "You can take this, have a bath and a proper meal, then we can talk about your future. Oh, and what a future it will be…"
###
9:41 Dragon: Griffon Keep, the Western Approach
Three short blasts of the horn in quick succession; Inquisition forces approaching.Marcus grinned, laid aside his pen and took his tunic from the back of the chair, fastening it as he hurried down towards the courtyard. It wouldn't do to appear too excited but the Lord Inquisitor was entitled to some enthusiasm at the arrival of fresh troops from Skyhold.
"Hope you're wearing loose breeches!" Sera chuckled as he passed her on the stairs. The heat was like an oven as Marcus left the cool shade of the keep and he wrapped a scarf around his head, native style, with the fringed end protecting his neck from the fierce sun. The nomadic tribes, who somehow thrived in this wilderness, had proven valuable and ferocious allies. Griffon Keep had been their gathering place and market before the arrival of the Venatori and they were happy that the Inquisition had restored and respected their traditional rights. In return, their advice had saved a lot of lives and made living in this place almost bearable.
The clatter of horseshoes already filled the lower courtyard along with the shrill greetings of the market woman. More Qisiti meant more silver to sew upon their headscarves and hang around their necks; to the nomads all friendly foreigners were now Qisiti 'Inquistion'. Like the matriarchs of Rivain, these women wore their wealth for the world to see; proof of their skill and worth as merchants, and their word carried great weight amongst the tribesfolk. The Kalifa of the market-women, a raven-eyed great grandmother who reminded Marcus of his Great-Aunt Lucille in the way she ruled over her brood, nodded her greeting as he passed by; a greeting he returned with a graceful bow and mischievous wink that sent a flurry of giggles running through the younger women clustered around her.
The men were already dismounting when Marcus reached the foot of the steps leading to the fore-court; now looking very inch the composed Lord Inquisitor here to welcome the new arrivals, apart from the glint in his eyes. He was glad to see the messages had got through. In this climate, even half-plate would have a man prostrate from heat-exhaustion within the hour; light mail and quilted cotton, although offering less protection, at least meant you could fight and ride without passing out. It was strange seeing Cullen without the heavy Fereldan pauldrons about his shoulders, or his thickly furred cloak; it made him look leaner and younger while the deepening tan of his face only highlighted the warm amber of his eyes. There was a pallor under the tan, though, and only the most observant noticed the way Marcus raised his eyebrow slightly or the almost imperceptible shake of Cullen's head.
"He's been ill…" Varric murmured to Sera as they watched from the lower Keep and she nodded in agreement. She wasn't that fond of Cullen really; way too uptight, serious and shouty, but Quiz loved him so he must have his good points…
"Commander Cullen, welcome to Griffon Keep!" Marcus said, with a smile, returning Cullen's salute "I trust you'll find everything in order; Knight-Captain Rylen has done a fine job."
"If My Lord Inquisitor is satisfied, I'm sure I shall be too…"
"I bet he will… later…" Sera whispered into Varric's ear, forcing the dwarf to suppress a snort of laughter
…My Lord, may I present Ser Delrin Barris" Cullen continued. A dark-skinned young knight, whose surcoat bore the sword and flames of the Templar Order, stepped forward and dropped to one knee
"My Lord Inquisitor; The Templar Order…" he looked up apologetically "…such as remains of it, stands ready to serve."
Marcus took Ser Delrin's hand and raised him to his feet. Maker! The Knight seemed no older than him.
"I accept your pledge, Ser Delrin; and all true Templars will find the Inquisition's doors open to them…" Marcus looked around at the knights accompanying Delrin. Cullen had sent agents far and wide to try and locate surviving Templars yet untainted by Samson and his Red Lyrium. They were few, and far between, but slowly their numbers were swelling "Your Order will rise again, cleansed of corruption and restored to honour."
A cheer went up from the Inquisition soldiers. The Templar Order had long been seen as the guardians of Southern Thedas, alongside the Grey Wardens. The fall of the Order and the corruption of the Wardens, coming so soon after the death of the Divine, had seriously damaged morale. The promise of their restoration cheered the hearts of almost all who heard it. Varric chanced to catch Hawke's gaze at that moment, read what it was saying…
Didn't I warn you…?
"I have some private messages for you, My Lord" Cullen said, with the faintest hint of a smile, as Knight Captain Rylen set about seeing to the quartering of Sir Delrin and the new arrivals "But first, a bath. I stink like a month-dead goat."
"We don't have the water to spare for baths" Marcus looked and sounded deadly serious "…but there's plenty of sand to scrub yourself down with; after a while you get used to the chafing"
It was impossible for Marcus to keep a straight face at Cullen's expression of pained horror and he clapped the Commander on the shoulder, laughing
"You should see the look on your face! There's a steam bath in the under-croft, what the locals call a hammam, far better than a tub" he dropped his voice "I'll await your messages in my chambers"
"You'll have to show me where they are first…" muttered Cullen, not entirely happy with the joke "or do you intend me to wander around like a raw novice blundering into everywhere?"
"Like that 'nameless' recruit in your story? I'll show you round first, then you can go get cleaned up" Marcus turned to one of the squires "Take Ser Cullen's saddlebags to his quarters and see that the hammam is ready; I suspect all our new guests will welcome a bath..."
###
There was much work to be done. Scouts had confirmed that Erimond had fled to the ancient Warden fortress of Adamant; where the Wardens were gathering for the summoning and binding of their demon army, the army that the blood-mage and his master intended to unleash upon Orlais. Empress Celine and Grand-Duc Gaspard were still caught up in their internecine struggles, but Leliana had contacts of her own within the Orlesian army. If they failed at Adamant, at least some of the Empire's generals would be prepared for the onslaught.
Fresh troops arrived at the muster points every day; together with sappers, engineers and all the inevitable camp-followers accompanying a force of that size. The Inquisition now wielded a standing army that could only be matched by Orlais and Tevinter. No wonder Arl Teagan and his puppet, Queen Anora, were worried; with the forces at their command, and the high reputation the Inquisition had gathered amongst the commoners and noble of Redcliffe and the Hinterlands, Varric had joked that Marcus could conquer Ferelden simply by looking east and frowning. As they prepared to assault a fortress that had resisted the Darkspawn hordes throughout the Second Blight, that joke didn't seem quite so funny anymore. This was the Inquisition's biggest battle to date; everything else a mere skirmish in comparison. If they won, then even the feuding Orlesian royals would have to sit up and take notice. Very soon, the Inquisition might be in a position to decide who ruled in Orlais and Ferleden, who wore the mitre of the Divine and sat upon the Sunburst Throne. He could feel the temptations as a constant, physical, pressure; hear the snide, insinuating, whispers in the dark corners of his mind
Why stop at Lord Inquisitor? why not more…? Emperor?
He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thoughts, and poured some more wine; focussing on the reports in front of him. The knock at the door, and the squire showing Cullen in, were very welcome distractions…
Cullens lips were on his almost before the door closed, tongue probing with an insistent, desperate need; drawing him close, strong hands already tugging at his clothes. Nuzzling against Marcus's neck, inhaling his scent, feeling his heart pound within his chest; possessed by the fierce urgency of his desire.
"Maker… I have missed you" he growled, hearing fabric tear and not caring as he hauled Marcus's shirt from his shoulders; the younger man cursing softly, fumbling with the lacing of his breeches as they stumbled towards the bed, crying out as Cullen's warm mouth closed around him even as he still pulled at his boots. No words necessary, no commands or requests; each man knew what the other wanted, craved and hungered for. Marcus pulled Cullen's mouth back up towards his, rolling him onto his back and hooking one long, powerful leg over his shoulder; He looked down at his lover with a mute question in his eyes.
This was always the crucial moment, both men knew what it meant to be violated, taken by force; even in the furnace-heat of their passion, the consent of the other was vital. Cullen nodded, his breath heaving and hoarse, then gasped, fingers clutching hard at the bedclothes as Marcus pushed forward; slowly at first, with gentle movements of his hips, carefully judging Cullen's responses and alert for any sign of pain or distress.
Cullen narrowed his eyes and grabbed the back of Marcus's neck, pulling him close for another kiss
"Harder, dammit…!" he snarled…
###
At some time in the past, the roughly plastered ceiling of the chamber had been painted with an intricate, geometric, design in reds, blues and yellows; perhaps by some local artist for whatever chief had used this as his stronghold. Cullen lay back beside Marcus, letting his gaze meander along the interwoven lines. It felt relaxing, almost hypnotic, perfect for a bedchamber. He sighed heavily, feeling Marcus shift, raise himself onto one elbow and look at him questioningly
"I've had… bad… days…" Cullen admitted at last "Sometimes it's been difficult…"
There was so much to be done, so much resting on the tactical decisions he made. He was the Inquisition's General, but he'd never commanded a force this size before; never planned an assault on this scale. Cassandra, and now Marcus, were putting so much faith in him. He couldn't fail them again; not after Haven…
"You didn't fail us at Haven…" Marcus assured him yet again, sitting up cross-legged on the bed "No-one could have predicted an assault on that scale…"
"I should have, it's what I'm supposed to be doing!" Cullen retorted, sharper than he had intended, "I thought palisades and a couple of trebuchets would be sufficient..."
"Would have been, if it wasn't for the Archdemon; nothing could have defended against that…" a chill ran down Marcus's spine at the memory; Haven in flames, tripping and stumbling over the bodies of people he'd been drinking and laughing with an hour or so before; hanging from Corypheus's grasp, feeling the muscles of his shoulder ripping under the strain, gagging and retching at the nauseating stench of the Darkspawn's breath. He rested his hand on Cullen's stomach, rubbing it gently in a slow, clockwise direction; a technique a healer had taught him years ago "…You did everything you could"
Cullen wanted to believe that but there must have been more, something else, some other strategy that might have saved them. If only…
"It's the dreams… the memories… At least with the Lyrium they're not as intense; as distracting. I can think… clearly… see what needs to be done without constantly having to fight against… against this doubt" He turned his face away, unable to look at his lover; fearful of the disappointment or contempt he might see in his eyes. This weakness… it was shameful. It had been turned against him before, he couldn't allow that to happen again; not when so much depended on him, when all their lives… Marcus's life… were at stake. His voice had dropped to a barely audible, broken, whisper "Maker, forgive me… I should be taking it…"
"Cullen…" Marcus spoke softly, his voice low and slowly paced "Forget about the Inquisition, the war; forget about me… what is it you want; truly want?"
His hand continued moving in slow circles on Cullen's stomach, gently working the muscles with his fingertips. Healer Sœren said this dissipated the toxic humours that gathered in the liver, causing depression; whether that was true, or whether Sœren had just been an old lecher who enjoyed fondling young Templars, it seemed to be lessening Cullen's anxiety. Perhaps it was the physical contact, or the proximity of someone who cared for him…
Cullen turned his head to look at Marcus, his expression faintly surprised, unable to remember the last time he'd been asked what he wanted…
Since the day he left home with the Templars, just weeks after his 13th birthday, his life had been directed and shaped from the outside; the orders and routines that defined a Templar's existence. Obedience was the watchword, engraved on every Templar's heart. He'd obeyed every order given to him without question or hesitation, expected every order he gave to be obeyed the same way; until the time he looked into his Knight Commander's eyes and realised the woman he'd trusted and obeyed, the superior who'd been his moral compass since the day he set foot in that accursed city, was completely, irrevocably, mad and that her insanity would destroy every living thing its path.
Without that one act of rebellion he would never have left the Order; never stopped taking the drug that bound him to the order's will. That sin of disobedience might have saved him from becoming one of those… creatures
"Maker, help me… Marcus, I can't become that man again; whatever the cost. He… he wouldn't love you the way I do…" He raised his hand and stroked Marcus's cheek; a shadowed, haunted look in his eyes "Even if you could still love me in that state… I would abandon you and never even notice, or care. The thought of that… I can't bear it…"
"I'll always love you, no matter what you choose…" Marcus bent his head and kissed Cullen on the forehead "But I know you're strong, stronger than you seem to think sometimes… You can do this, my Lion; I believe in you…"
Cullen looked up at him, trying to form words that wouldn't come; gripping Marcus's arms fiercely, burying his face against his lover's chest, shaking from head to foot with the intensity of the emotions released within him. Marcus held him close; making gentle, soothing noises until the shaking stopped and Cullen sat up, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand
"I… I would appreciate a little time to myself… if that is possible" he swung his legs of the bed, picking up his breeches from the floor. Marcus nodded, understandingly, running his fingers through Cullen's hair. Even between the two of them, extreme displays of emotion troubled Cullen; made him feel exposed and vulnerable, needing solitude and silence. It was safer for him to seek physical solitude, rather than retreat behind the barriers that were all to ready fall back into place.
"I'll make sure you're not disturbed" he promised, handing Cullen his shirt "I'll come to see you in the morning; will that be alright?"
"I should be fine by then…" he pulled on his other boot and kissed Marcus with deep gratitude "Thank you… my Lord"
Once safely in his quarters, Cullen closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief; leaning back against it, feeling the rough wood against his shoulders. Marcus had given him a chamber high up in one of the towers; isolated and quiet, like his quarters at Skyhold except for…
…Cullen felt a breeze on his face, opening his eyes and looking upwards he smiled; the tension in his muscles loosening and dissolving. One whole corner of the roof had been removed, giving an uninterrupted view of the clear desert sky; freshly done, judging by the clean sawmarks and plaster dust on the floor
Maker… bless him!
###
"Planning your next book?" Hawke asked, as he joined Varric on the ramparts. The Dwarf stared down at the bustling in the courtyards below; apparently deep in thought
"Why not? 'Swords and Shields' seems to be popular suddenly, Maker only knows why! Maybe I should have another go at romance" He chuckled "This one practically writes itself; mysterious desert location fraught with danger, the fate of empires in the balance, a secret, forbidden love…"
"Except it's no secret that the Lord Inquisitor is polishing his Commander's longsword on a nightly basis…" Hawke interjected "I'll be leaving tomorrow, heading up to Adamant with the advance scouts. Too many Templars round here for my liking…"
Varric grunted; he loved Hawke like a brother but there were times…
"Don't be too quick to assume what Red's plans are; maybe he's the one who can finally get the Mages and the Templars talking to one another…" He took a mouthful of wine and swilled it around for a bit before continuing "…besides, with all the weird magic shit that's happening at the moment, even you have to admit that a few juiced-up Templars on our side is going to come in handy."
Hawke let out his breath in a long, weary sigh
"I hope you're right Varric, about the Templars and Trevelyan; I like him and he's got a hard road ahead of him but…" he lowered his head; recalling Bethany's terror, Anders's rage "I can't let anyone drag us back to the way things were... you know that."
"That's not Red's style, trust me. That kid's gonna end up surprising all of us, if the demon army doesn't gut us first." He patted Hawke on the shoulder "Now, lets go find some more wine… should the hero be 'tall and sinewy' or 'lean and sinewy'?"
"Hmmmm" Hawke bit his lip in thought "Tall and sinewy, definitely, makes him sound like a great fuck…"
Varric shook his head in amused dismay
"I gotta stop asking you for literary advice…"
"No, listen; I know this guy in Markham…" Hawke put his arm around Varric as the two wandered off in search of more drink "He can do illustrations that would curl your chest-hair…"