Hello again! This chapter is named Blood Of My Blood, clearly a little reference to Game of Thrones in that title (you might come across some other small references to series or games that I like during the whole of the story). I had incredible fun writing this. In this chapter, I play a little fast and loose with the magical confines that the game has set, but I liked how it all turned out. I think that somehow, everyone (who is not Tranquil or a dwarf) has some innate connection to the Fade, which is after all the world of things incorporeal, and therefore (in my opinion) the world of emotions. 'Connection' is the key here. In any case, I hope you like it. Ah, Cullen, that fearless, tenacious hero. I loved writing this very special journey of his. In my opinion, what makes his character so wonderful is that unfaltering will to prevail.

It is likely that my story will move to archivesofourown soon, but I might keep updating here too. If not, I shall inform and post a link of course.

X. Blood Of My Blood

Origin is the scale on which all deeds are measured. Until you go out into the world and make a name for yourself, you are where you came from. Maybe even thereafter.
Dalish saying

They returned to Skyhold in the late afternoon. Scouts had already informed the keep about the ambush and its dire consequences, and so everything was ready for them when they arrived. Shenlira was brought to her quarters and tended by several healers, to no avail. Why should anything ever be easy? She lay on the wide four poster bed in the unnatural stillness Morrigan had put on her. The witch and Solas locked themselves in his study for hours on end, looking for any kind of solution against the poison that was slowly draining Shenlira. Cullen refused to leave her side. Nobody had even expected him to. When he requested his reports and scrolls to be brought to the quarters so he could work from there, he was simply ignored. Fresh out of patience, he went into a rage about his orders being disobeyed, but the soldiers just stood there and took it with grave faces, until Leliana came and dismissed them. She told him sternly that the troops would get along without him for a while, effectively snatching command from his hands.

"I know why you act like this, Cullen. You think that even when you're insane with worry, you need to keep doing your duty. Well, you don't. Leave those things alone for now.", she said, emphasizing each sentence. "If by some chance, we can't find a way…", she continued.

"Don't even speak those words.", he cut her off savagely.

But after three days during which he was unable to infuse any form of sustenance into Shenlira, a crippling hopelessness began to dawn on him. She continued to decline, skin turning greyish and sickly, her cheeks sunken and gaunt. Cullen had the feeling that something was sapping her from the inside, a leech that fed off of her life-force, thinning her out until he thought she would simply vanish. It seemed terribly familiar somehow, but his exhausted mind could not make a connection. This cannot go on for much longer. Damn it all, he knew that, no need for his insticts to point it out so crushingly. He ignored the worried glances from Cassandra or Varric whenever they came to visit, but suspected that he looked almost as bad as Shenlira.

Much later he would look back on those days and call them the most arduous time in his life since the Circle incident in his youth. Desperate to calm his mind, Cullen perused some of the objects that she had collected over the years, which now lay untouched around her quarters, like ghostly reminders of a time long passed. Books of all sorts lined the shelves, a good few of them elven tomes with filigree runes covering their spines. On a graceful stand next to the great oak desk, someone had placed bow and quiver. There was a lute with intricate carvings running all along the slender wooden body. He hadn't known that she played the lute. Why had he never asked her? There had never been enough time. His fingers ran over a beautiful box inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. A melody started when he opened it, and a small bone figure appeared beneath the lid, turning slowly to the tune. Varric looked up from the book he'd been reading to Shenlira. The tune of the music box was soothing, a mother's lullaby. Was it? Another thing he might never find out. Time, that fickle entity, fled relentlessly, with each deafening tick of the clock on the mantlepiece, until he couldn't take it anymore and threw the damn thing out the window. Varric stared. Cullen knew he was being unreasonable, possibly mad even, and didn't care.

During the night, Cullen woke with a start. The remnants of a terrible nightmare still held him in their grip. In the utter silence all around, he had a sudden feeling that something else was in the room with him and Shenlira. Not a person, something much more alien than that. The sensation made his hackles rise.

He barely suppressed a cry when the door opened. In came Solas and Morrigan, followed by every greater mage who had joined them, even Vivienne. Cassandra, Leliana and Varric trailed right behind. Cullen straightened immediately, roused by the deep concern on their faces.

"What is it?", he asked nobody in particular. Morrigan answered him. She held out the dagger that had brought about this whole tragedy, the blade resting on a piece of velvet.

"We believe we know what happened. First of all, this weapon is old. And with that I mean it was dug up from some ancient elven ruin. The magical traces it carries go back over centuries. Its nature is such that…", she did not go on. Solas continued for her.

"It might have been a sacrificial dagger, used for blood magic. An artefact like this would not go unnoticed by Dalish keepers, it should be in their possession, kept far away from anyone who would use its dangerous power. But somehow, a weapon imbued with the blood of many sacrifices made its way into the hands of an assassin.", Solas' voice was laced with outrage.

"Blood magic, Maker's Breath… What-", Cassandra spoke, but Morrigan interrupted her.

"That's not all. We took the thing apart to get to its secrets. The poison coating it was incredibly complex and magically strengthened. And yet it was masking what was beneath with a cleverness that is almost admirable, were it not so troubling.", the witch held the dagger closer to Cullen and turned it carefully to the firelight. Fine lines of crystalline blue weaved across the blade, like threads of gossamer. He recoiled as if shown a snake that would strike at any second. Impossible.

"Yes. It's Lyrium. The Inquisitor was stabbed with a blood magic infused dagger, coated with a crippling poison, and to top it all, Lyrium on the blade.", Morrigan said, meeting the stunned expressions all around her.

"To what purpose?", Varric finally asked.

"Certainly not to kill her, or at least not right away.", Solas elaborated, "When she was stabbed, the blood that was spilled reacted with the blade and called the barrier into life that prevents us from magically healing her. These things don't hold forever, though. We could probably break it by now, but…", he did not go on and Cullen had half a mind to throttle him. Instead, Solas exchanged meaningful looks with the other mages. Dorian spoke next.

"But we fear that the poison – designed to weaken her body and with it her resilience – has already done what it was supposed to do. It's not what causes this… this state."

"Which leaves the Lyrium.", Morrigan continued seamlessly, and Cullen felt dread coil in his insides like some cold-blooded beast. The witch turned her golden eyes to Shenlira's unmoving body in the bed. "Lyrium is a physical bridge between the real world and the Fade. Direct contact will strengthen one's connection to the Fade, opening the mind to it. As many of you know, apprentices consciously enter it when they are given a Lyrium potion during their last test before they are accepted as Circle mages. We think that this was the true purpose of the attack. To open her mind to the Fade. Right now she… she is going through a Harrowing." Absolute silence followed those words, but only for the fraction of a moment.

"What?!", every non-mage in their midst cried as if with one voice, a voice of disbelief.

"She can't go through a Harrowing, she has no magical abilities! She's not a mage, has no connection to the Fade except-", Cullen's tone was one of pure denial. Denial, denial, denial! Say it often enough, and it might become true-

"Except for the Anchor on her hand.", Morrigan cut him short. "A thing that can close Fade rifts and I'm sure open them too, if she chose to. We know very little about the Anchor, but it gives her a unique connection to the Fade, possibly even a stronger one than mages have. Everything that happened to her mimics a sort of rogue Harrowing. If we are right…"

"If it is a Harrowing, that means she is trapped inside her mind with a demon.", Cullen said in a dead voice. He remembered the unsettling presence he'd felt shortly before. Nobody said anything for a lingering moment.

"But she fought a demon before. The Envy demon in Therinfal. Maybe she can fight this one too!", this from Varric, but the hope was wiped from his face when Solas shook his head.

"That was different. When she fought the Envy demon, she was physically hale, alert and her mind had strong wards. None of that is the case now. And still, she had needed Cole's help to defeat Envy." As though the speaking of his name had conjured him up, Cole manifested at the bed-end and gave them all a terrible shock. His back turned to them, he spoke toward Shenlira.

"Yes. It is different this time. He came and tore down all the walls, then built one of his own, to keep her in the nightmare.", the boy's tone was quiet, his words cryptic as always.

All around Cullen, a frantic argument broke out. Their voices mingled into a vortex of emotions, anger against reason, doubt against desperation. Something needed to be done, and soon, but what, what? They discussed and quarrelled, an endless litany of words without meaning, for nobody had a solution. In his heart, he knew that the mages had it right. And he also knew, with a sinking feeling of terror, what was the only way to stop a Harrowing from going wrong. Killing the host. That thought made him so queasy, he had to grip a bedpost for support or the blackness at the edges of his vision would have overcome him.

"I would like to speak to the Commander, alone.", Solas voice rose over the arguing of the others and somehow reached him in his own personal hell.

"Why? If you have a solution, then we should all hear it.", said Cassandra, contained anger and strain in her voice. Cullen turned to face the elf, who threw a meaningful look his way.

"I have… a proposition for a possible solution.", Solas said, making everyone regard him with confusion. "Please, this is a very personal decision he has to make. I would like quiet and privacy when I explain it.", he elaborated. Reluctantly, the others left. Only one person remained in the room with them, crossing her arms, eerie golden eyes surveying them critically.

"Oh, I know what he will propose, and there is no chance you are doing this without me. You need someone to watch over you.", this was directed at Solas, who gave a grudging nod.

"What is this about, Solas?", Cullen wanted to know. The elven mage did not answer immediately, instead he walked around the bed to Shenlira's side. "We will need you too, Cole.", at Solas' calling, the boy reappeared, looking determined. Morrigan turned her back on all of them and walked to the balcony doors, staring out into the night. Finally, the elf heaved a sigh and looked Cullen straight in the eyes.

"Shenlira is dying.", he stated bluntly. "While the poison has dangerously weakened her body, the nightmare that holds her is sapping her spirit of what little strength she has left. For now, she is still fighting it. But if we do not do something soon, the demon will succeed and overpower her." The words were sober, no beating around the bush. Dying. Fading into non-existence. Gone. He could think of no coherent reply to that, so Cullen kept his silence, waiting.

"There is only one way I can think of that might save her, and I cannot begin to explain how dangerous it is. You need to enter her nightmare, through the Fade, and find whatever torments her. Then, destroy it.", Solas explained, his face expressionless. Cullen went pale at the suggestion. It was Morrigan who spoke scathingly from the balcony.

"How do you expect him to brace the nightmare? How will you get him inside her mind in the first case?", the witch demanded, but Solas stayed calm.

"There is nobody alive who knows the Fade as I do. I will guide him, of course.", the elf answered.

"Can I really enter the Fade the way I am? A former templar, and without Lyrium…", Cullen wondered.

"It is not the Fade as you know it, but Shenlira's spirit which resides there. Her inner world, if you will. You would not enter through templar abilities or Lyrium, but through the connection you share between each other. Again, I have to stress this point – it is dangerous. We could get lost in her nightmare, in the many layers of memories upon memories that make her who she is. We walk her domain, and the demon's. We could fall prey to some unknown threat or the demon might destroy our minds. We could die in the nightmare and wake up insane." Ridiculously simple choice, not even a choice at all. For him, at least. He would try anything, even with possibly dire consequences. But he looked at Solas, who seemed willing to be his guide and put himself in the same danger.

"You would do this thing with me, knowing how risky it is?", Cullen asked, to which the mage nodded solemnly. He glanced at Shenlira.

"Da'Assan is... like a sister to me. Many discussions had to pass until I realized how unlikely a mind she has for a Dalish elf. She has to go on in this life. And I believe that you can save her.", Solas met his eyes when he said this, and after seeing Cullen's doubtful expression, he added in an almost gentle tone, "As I said before, this is a very personal matter, a decision to be weighed carefully. What we intend to do is an incredible breach of privacy. We will trespass on her inner landscape, a place she guards very carefully from most people. But Da'Assan – Shenlira – trusts you more than anyone. Only you will be able to reach the deepest layer, where the demon is sure to reside." Cullen wished he had as much trust in his abilities as Solas seemed to have. He had no idea what awaited him inside Shenlira's nightmare, but when he took a moment to look at her face, the thought of going through the rest of his life without her was simply unbearable. For a moment, his eyes closed. Da'Assan… Little Arrow. That was a Las'Amelin. When he looked at Solas again, his face was set with determination. If Shenlira had trusted this man far enough to give him a name, he would too.

"I'll do it.", Cullen said severely. Morrigan made an exasperated sound.

"I don't know which one of you is more insane. The Lyrium-less templar who intends to leave reality, where he is strongest, or the mysterious backwoods mage who thinks he can walk the Fade like a god.", but even though she made this sarcastic remark, she seemed to be eager to help them, squaring her shoulders and shaking her head as she paced the length of the bed.

"Being a templar will help him in the nightmare. Even without Lyrium, their ability to call on the real world is… peculiar, singular.", Solas noted, then bid him to find a comfortable position in which to 'fall asleep'. What he meant was no actual slumber, but a subtle trance by hovering at the edge of sleep, while retaining some awareness. At this point, lucid dreaming became possible. He also instructed Cullen to keep physical contact with Shenlira, as this would strengthen their connection and better allow him to cross over into her nightmare. Gathering her unmoving form in his arms, he let her head rest on his chest and leaned back against the headboard. Solas faced him, sitting cross-legged and not at all perturbed by the strange scene.

"Remember one thing above all in the nightmare: It is not reality, but symbolic representation. Allegories, metaphors, memories. But everything we will see is part of her in some way, belongs with her spirit.", he explained, before he turned to Morrigan.

"Morrigan will watch over us while we go on this journey. Should something go wrong, please try to wake us first. If that fails, contain us. If that fails…", he did not finish that sentence, but the witch nodded once, a tiny jerk making her earrings jingle.

"After we enter the nightmare, you can let the others back in and tell them what we are up to. But for spirit's sake, don't let them interfere. This task will be taxing enough on the Commander's mind without additional voices from the real world.", Solas emphasized, then faced Cullen again with a serious look in his eyes.

"Now we begin. Let your mind drift to the edge of sleep. Thoughts should be neutral, relaxed, void of concern and sorrow. Imagine a place that holds pleasant memories. Slow your breathing as you would do during a deep prayer. Let go of this physical world and search for your connection to her." His voice was monotone and slow, almost soothing, like listening to a pendulum clock. Cullen's eyes fell shut and he did as bidden. It was hard to empty his mind of the apprehension and even fear he felt, but the bone-deep exhaustion of the last few days helped somewhat. He let the thoughts go as one let messenger birds fly, one by one, and his mind drifted off, conjuring a memory of falling asleep with her by his side. She had hummed some tiny tune, probably without even noticing it, her hand stroking through the hair at his nape. That was a pleasant memory, as pleasant as he would ever remember, a precious thing like a well of strength and peace. Evoking it before his mind's eye, his breathing slowed, his heart calmed. The edge of sleep was before him and he sailed along it as a ship along a current, feeling the waves that tried to pull him to one side or the other. Wake up, or go to sleep – don't hover. No, no, Cullen chided himself. We stay here, searching for connection… Her body in our arms, still warm and breathing. Her trust in us, a carefully grown and groomed tree, by now unyielding. Each secret exchanged a branch, each day a new leaf. We would come to break the nightmare. She would fight it until then.

Yes!, Solas' voice, suddenly in his mind, triumphant. Da'Assan, resourceful as ever! This is where we cross. Let go. The next moment, something pulled him over the edge and he fell through darkness, through clouds and shadows and a whirl of colour. He hit solid ground with a force that made him wonder if this could truly be a dream, because the impact knocked the breath right from his lungs. Cullen gasped and came to his feet. Solas was there beside him, although he looked different. Instead of his plain linen attire, he wore a black wolf's pelt around his shoulders, even complete with the head, which served as a sort of hood. It distinctly reminded him of something he'd seen before, but he could not recall what.

"You look strange.", Cullen commented, to which Solas bared wolfish teeth, sharp and pointed.

"You should see yourself.", the elf answered in a humourless tone. "Remember what I said, symbols and metaphors? In this world, I may look closer to my spirit self, or just the way Da'Assan sees me." He realized that Solas had not spoken the last thing out loud.

Not necessary, but you seem troubled if I share my thoughts into your mind. Pardon the intrusion. At some point, we might have no other choice.

Cullen looked around then. They were standing on an endless plain that stretched into all directions, disappearing behind fog and smoke in the distance. Ruins littered the whole field, some of them still smouldering from fires of devastation long past, and yet… He could smell it, the scent of war, stinging and ugly. A grey and overcast sky loomed above, and when Cullen looked up, snowflakes touched his face, clung to his hair.

Not snowflakes, ashes. Solas sounded worried. They walked through the ruins together and it soon became clear that these were the remnants of a battlefield. Bodies everywhere, broken and bloody. Inquisition soldiers, their dead eyes staring to the skies they could not see. Cullen felt laden with grief, as though he was pulling some heavy cart along with every step. He remembered what Shenlira had told him about her nightmare: I see what happens if I fail. This wasteland, the aftermath of a war she had sent them into. A decision gone wrong, and having to look into the eyes of the dead and face the guilt.

Yes. This is the first layer of her nightmare. Pressure is all around, like a thing alive. Breathing guilt, shame, despair… Solas wore a grim expression beneath his wolf hood. Cullen shuddered when something passed through him, a cold presence that seemed to linger, cling to his bones. Whispers of familiar voices reached his ears, accusing or pained, their words not distinguishable. He did not need Solas' explanation to recognize the spirits of close companions, haunting the wasteland and unable to find rest, doomed to walk here for an eternity and torment Shenlira.

From the fog beyond, a giant shadow stepped and moved towards them. Solas halted, signalling him to stay still. The silhouette looked like a massive, antlered stag, its body seamless black, a night sky forsaken by stars. Yet as the figure came closer, they realized it was a Halla, its disfigured horns bound with chains and sprouting spikes of bleached bone. Reminiscent of the feathers of a raven, its obsidian coat bristled in a silent wind.

A sentry…? Is it hers or the demon's? Something about it seems… Suffering. But Solas fell silent when the stag suddenly turned its head and pierced them with a fathomless stare. Such malice and… wrongness in those eyes, it sent cold chills down Cullen's spine. And yet he pitied the thing but could not say why.

"Intruders. Fade-walker… Demon-killer. You shall never pass. This is my realm!", the sentry spoke with Shenlira's voice and yet not hers at all – a perversion of her true voice, distorted by the demon's madness. Its great antlered head lowered, a clear challenge, ready to charge at them. Cullen flinched from the sight of the bone spikes and studded chains, but Solas gripped his arm and held him back.

"No! This sentry blocks us from going deeper. It is as much the demon's as it is Shenlira's, look!", speaking aloud, he pointed at the stag. As Cullen watched, a ripple of pure white dashed along the creature's back, for a moment clearing it of all evil before it disappeared again. Fleeting… He glimpsed her, just barely, in that tiny ripple and understood a bit better what Solas had meant by metaphors and symbols in this world.

"I think… I think you have to let it charge at you. Keep in mind, the lion cannot be defeated by the stag. Will that thought to be, and even if its antlers pierce you, you will not die, but… go on." Cullen wished the damned mage would for once speak plain words, because willing something to be was not exactly a specific instruction. Going on was vague too.

"Go on where?! And what about you?", he demanded. The sentry was coming at them. At first in a measured stride, yet soon the stag accelerated to a break-neck speed, hooves beating the ground like thunder. It would run them down.

"Further into the nightmare of course! I knew we would be separated at some point, either by the demon's walls or Shenlira's. I am not welcome into the deeper parts of her mind, but you are. Even when tormented by the demon, she managed to keep a back door open for us. Do not worry, I will be able to speak to you to some degree. And Cole will be with you." Solas let him go then and jumped back as the stag bore down on Cullen.

He tried to do what the mage had suggested, but by the Maker was it hard when a giant beast charged at him, unholy eyes glowing like embers from another world. Every instinct told him to fight. He ignored them all. No, this was not the real world and he wasn't fighting a demon with a sword. I am Sajnalin. I shall never bend to the will of the stag or be gored by its antlers. The beast reached him just as he closed his eyes. Spikes of bone pierced his chest. Gashing, splitting, impaling. A moment of wrecking agony, before he was thrown to the ground, but met no resistance. Instead, he fell again.

An endless, star-strewn sky stretched beneath him and his fall felt almost weightless. Then, patches of colour started to rush by, bright things like ribbons in a woman's hair. Banners in the wind. As soon as he focused on one of them, it seemed to widen, until Cullen looked through it as a man would look through a window into a crowded tavern. He saw a red-headed little girl run across a meadow, a tall grown woman in elven clothes calling out to her. A room, small and cluttered with dried flowers, bright threads, a loom taking up almost a whole side of it. Three elves in their teens, sneaking through a village in a thrilling search for adventure, stealing small items and laughing as they went. Scenes shifted constantly and Cullen watched with fascination, caught in the swirling memories, for he knew this was what they were. Most of them had a sad tint, an undercurrent of things long past, lost in a careless age. Instead, more recent ones rose to take their place. He watched people stretching out their hands as Shenlira rode by, begging her to help with this and that. The memory turned awry and suddenly the hands were grabbing and tearing at her, pulling her under to be trampled beneath the crowd. Cullen tried to push through them to help her, but the scene changed and now he was looking at his own face across the war table. He couldn't remember ever having worn such an expression of demand and scorn. Leliana and Josephine were there too, the same sneer distorting their features. Something is not right about this, this has never happened. It had to be the demon's taint, his twisting of the true memories, but Cullen still felt Shenlira's hurt at the disdain from those she trusted most, a feeling of abandonment that rang out like a forlorn lament. Endlessly, the scenes rushed past him and these were all saturated by despair, made to strip her of all hope. Soldiers who had trusted her, now eyeing her with hatred, accusation. Lives cut short and ended because she had sent them into an ambush. Dead companions, her own clan declaring war on her and the Inquisition.

Be careful. I sense your distress. You feel for her, share her emotions as though they were your own. If you let it too close, it will pull you down with it. Float on its surface instead and find where she is truly calling you. Solas' voice came from far away, speaking from the end of a long tunnel. Then another appeared out of nowhere, so close that Cullen startled.

"Yes. She calls us. To a place of shame, hurt. Look beyond the evil, twisted things. They are illusions. Something that truly was is beneath.", Cole said right next to him. Cullen tried, although he had no idea how to do such a thing. He did the one thing he could think of, he closed his eyes to the vortex of memories and let his mind reach for Shenlira.

What do you want to show me, Lira? What torments you so? Whatever it is, I will destroy it.

A faint voice – her voice – answered, not more than a whisper. Over here. Cullen opened his eyes to a wide window of dark green. A forest at night, lush leaf-crowns swaying in a cool, late summer breeze. On a small clearing, the distinct silhouette of an aravel stood, bathed in moonlight. As soon as he focused on the picture, he felt a great jerk pull him right into it. Again, he landed uncomfortably hard, this time on mossy undergrowth. He straightened and took a deep breath of the night air. It felt so real, he almost forgot that it was not, until Cole spoke beside him.

"This memory is old. Buried, forgotten, pushed deeply down. The last secret she holds.", the spirit said.

The aravel sails were shaped into a tent at its side, supported by unseen wooden columns. Cullen walked to the entrance and heard muffled voices. He wondered if he had some sort of physical form in this memory, but Cole simply stepped through the tent wall and so he followed. He'd seem short glimpses of the inside before. A great loom stood against the far side, dried flowers, grasses and other herbs hung in every free space. His heart made a strange leap when he saw Shenlira seated at a small table, cluttered with herbalist items. She could not be more than eleven or twelve winters old. Still, the shape of her face was already growing from the childish features, which were now set in a distinct pout. Small fingers traced the mortar and pestle while she eyed the intricate sheath of a knife next to it.

"It's just for a few hours, little love. The night lily only blooms during the full moon, you know that. You like the white dye I make from it, no?", a tall woman who resembled Shenlira so much it was haunting spoke in a gentle voice. The same heart-shaped face, the same rich, red hair. Only her eyes, a striking shade of green, and the white tattoos on her brow marked her as someone else. Her mother. Cullen had heard her mention her mother only twice – once, Shenlira had told him that she'd died at a young age. The other time, the night he had first seen the burn marks on her back, she'd said that her mother had perished in that same fire. Nothing more. Why hadn't that ever struck him as odd…? Now, he watched the young Shenlira sigh in a defeated sort of way, as though she could not argue her mother's point. The woman helped her through a small door into the aravel's inner chamber, to a tiny bunk with piled blankets, just wide enough for a child. He noted how they were all embroidered in the same style, Halla and wolves and other animals leaping lifelike across the fabric. Shenlira's mother sang her to sleep with an elven lullaby, and the scene was so sweet that Cullen dreaded what he would see next. He had a sense of awful foreboding, unable to say where it came from. But the woman only stood after the girl was sound asleep and tucked in, then picked up a basket and left the aravel to stroll down a moonlit path into the forest. He could not fathom why she left her daughter completely alone, also where was her father? Why were they all alone, did the clans not travel and camp together? But all those questions went unanswered as the scene suddenly shifted, although the only change he could make out was that the moon had moved a good deal farther along the night sky. And yet his senses tingled with awareness. Hoofbeats, from at least a dozen horses, thudding through the underbrush. Tap-tap-tap. They were trying to stay silent, no easy feat with such a number. Torches flickered between the tree-trunks, and then suddenly, three men on impressive battle-mounts rode into the clearing. Cullen choked when he saw their chests emblazoned with a winged skyward sword.

Templars?! What in the Maker's – Abruptly, the man in the lead turned in the saddle and he realized he'd seen him before… Where? Redcliffe, Calenhad, Kirkwall? Kirkwall… But no, that could not be… It made no sense. With horror, Cullen watched as the leader called for a mage, a short man with a thin face, who he commanded to set the aravel on fire.

"No!", Cullen yelled, knowing Shenlira was in there. Of course, he could do nothing. Flames engulfed the tent and the aravel, blazing high into the night sky. Shenlira must have woken and started screaming for her mother, as one of the templars, a man about fifty with greying temples, slid from his horse immediately.

"There is a child in there!", he called to the leader, whose horse bristled at the accusation in the other man's yell.

"Impossible! The wretched woman would never have the heart for a child!", said the leader, his voice filled with a deep-rooted ire, and now Cullen truly recognized him: Knight-Captain Marcus Vilerian. He'd been quite a legend in the order, mainly for his obsession to hunt down the notorious blood-made Mar'Alenna, a maleficar who had disappeared about the time when…. But he could not finish that thought. Shenlira struggled through the burning drapes of the tent. Something caught her feet and she stumbled. Grabbing the drapes, she ripped them down with her and dropped the music box she'd been clutching in her hands. The support column, unstable from the flames that ate at it, toppled over and fell. It hit the girl across the back and bore her to the ground. This was how it had happened. Searing embers burned through the thin fabric of her nightgown and branded her skin. That wound would never fully disappear, its mark would remain forever. Young, so young to be hurt like this – The cry of pain undid him, but the old templar was with her before he was. It took him a minute to somehow lift the burning column from Shenlira, when a howl like a banshee's ripped the air apart. Her mother stood at the edge of the clearing, face a mask of horror and rage. The basket full of night lilies dropped to the ground as she ran, screaming, to her daughter. The old templar was flung aside like a doll – Magic, rabid and unrestrained. Cullen sensed the powerful abilities of a mage with no reservations, but it seemed almost clumsy, as though she had not used them in a long time. Like the strike of a hammer, the realization hit him. The woman reached for Shenlira, not daring to touch the burns on her back but instead putting her hands on her daughter's face, tears spilling over from her green eyes.

"Blood of my blood, my little star - No! What have you done?! Bastards!", she wailed in desolation. Then, within an instant, she changed. Forsake everything. Embrace the end. Almost all of his life he'd been trained to detect the signs of demons trying to possess mages. Cullen knew what would come next, and a part of him wanted to avert his eyes, for it would be horrible… But he owed it to Shenlira. Exactly as he suspected Shenlira's mother, did not struggle, even invited ruin, welcomed it. She thought her daughter dead, killed by templars, and nothing would keep her from revenge. A presence of great power swooped down into her spirit, and she ripped a dagger from its sheath on her belt, plunging it deeply into her arm. Blood gushed from the wound, but before splattering everything around, it flowed and surrounded her. Magic, powerful from years of pent-up, unused energy, engulfed Mar'Alenna like a scarlet chrysalis. And what remained when that bloody shell shattered was something Cullen knew only too well, having had first-hand experience of a Circle destroyed by it. An abomination rose from the crushed mind of the maleficar who, somehow, impossibly, had been Shenlira's mother. A demon of rage and grief, created by the killing of the one thing she held dearest: her daughter. In the moments when Cullen watched the abomination dismantle three templars on the spot, while the others fought desperately to contain it, he understood it all. Mar'Alenna, who'd sought peace and redemption in a quiet life, in her little love, her only daughter. Just to be hunted down by templars after fifteen years of hiding. What a terrible mess… Why, brothers, did you do such a thing? There was no justice in it. No honour. Only contempt bred by contempt bred by... In an endless circle that wreaked havoc on everything in its path. All things wrong with this divided world were right there, in this memory. With many casualties, they managed to destroy the monster. Afterwards, they set fire to the bloody heap and sang a prayer for her soul. But Marcus did not sing. He watched with grim satisfaction as the body burned. Neither did the old templar. The man wrapped Shenlira inside his cloak, gingerly lifting her into his arms, before he turned to Marcus and pierced him with a cold, hard stare.

"You will never hide what you have done today from the Maker's judgement. Ten years, and for what? We killed a woman who had renounced her ways. You felt it too. It was the first time in over a decade that she did magic. This was no righteous act. This was murder.", he spoke in a deep voice, saturated by disgust.

"She became an abomination in front of our very eyes! Cassian, you saw how many she struck down with a single blow!", Marcus snapped, his eyes glinting mercilessly.

"Because she thought we killed her daughter.", Cassian looked at him, incredulous.

"As we should have done! She could become just like her mother, a monster. It's in her blood.", the Knight-Captain spoke with a conviction that made Cassian flinch.

"I can't believe your words, brother. Is this what you would lead us to do, what you think the templar's duty is? Kill innocent children because of their parents' sins? This came from your misguided thirst for revenge. Betrayal has left you with nothing else, only a sense of superiority and righteousness in your ire. I won't follow such a man. And I will take this girl to safety. To her father. Consider this my resignation from the order. If people like you are to be our leaders… There is nothing here for me.", the old templar looked at Marcus as though seeing him for the first time. Maybe he was. The Knight-Captain opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head and made a dismissive gesture, turning back to the funeral pyre with a stony face.

"Begone, old man. And take that creature far away.", he said. Cullen watched Cassian carry Shenlira, who had long fallen unconscious from the pain of her burns, away from the scene of destruction. But before he disappeared with her into the shadow of the night, he picked up the music box she had so desperately tried to rescue, and settled it into her limp hands.

I feel your sorrow like a bleeding wound. What happened? What did you see, Sajnalin?, Solas' voice sounded troubled. Cullen bristled at the casual use of that intimate name, but he doubted that the elf knew he was trespassing a private boundary by calling it.

Pardon… I did not know. That was personal., this with a peculiar astonishment, Las'amelin, the ritual of naming to declare a bond. This… guidance lets me see certain parts of you. I am not being intrusive on purpose.

It's… disconcerting, but thank you. I know you are going through great risks to help me., Cullen answered.

What did you see? Just now, I felt… Such a strong rush of sorrow. But you were so focused on something that I saw only blurred shapes. I could not make sense of it. A fire? Terrible pain, rage…, Solas' voice flickered as though something interfered with their connection.

Shenlira's mother… she was a blood mage. And not just any one, but Mar'Alenna, a mage prodigy of her time. She turned apostate and escaped her Circle, then made herself a name as one of the most ruthless maleficar in the north. But, some time after that, she simply… disappeared. There was a templar who swore to hunt her to the ends of the earth. His name was Marcus Vilerian. It all went so wrong… He let the images of what he had seen fill his mind. By now he understood how to communicate in this strange way.

Mar'Alenna. It means Weave of Fate. Such a lyrical name… She renounced her ways, even sealed herself against magic, I think. She wanted to live in peace, but fate caught up with her. So she invited rage to tear her apart, because she could not bear the light of her life extinguished. Cullen felt him sigh somewhere far away, up on the wasteland where the sentry patrolled. The connection thinned for a moment as Solas concealed his true thoughts, but the general message still carried over, a whiff on the wind. The man who guided him did neither wallow nor grieve. He merely witnessed with a profound knowledge that the lines between good and evil were never clearly drawn. They blurred, sloppy, messy. Still, the intelligent mind joined to his resented both Mar'Alenna and Marcus for their careless abandonment of reason. Cullen agreed, dropping his gaze.

Blood of my blood…, he said softly and a glint between the dark tufts of grass caught his eye. The dagger. When he picked it up – for some reason able to touch it –, he saw the ancient elven runes, the darkened blade imbued with many sacrifices.

It's the same, Solas' thought mingled with his own, but he could make no sense of it. How did the dagger come into Mar'Alenna's possession in the first place, and who took it after she had died? But even if he did not understand that part of the story, he suddenly felt a presence draw near. It was faint, almost unnoticeable, but so familiar, a part of him. He could sense a vast bitterness, a rain of shameful tears, and he ached inside for not being able to reach out and comfort her. She hovered in front of him, a translucent, pale image.

"Blood of her blood, cursed to repeat her fate.", Shenlira whispered. A ghostly hand reached forth, hovered over the dagger with a finger pointed at his heart. "Below, through blood and shame. The last layer." Then, out of nowhere, an invisible blade cut through her ethereal form and it dissolved with a faint cry, countless butterflies scattered to the wind. Cullen knew what the demon used to torment her now. The shame of being the daughter, descendant of a blood mage, a woman with no conscience who had let rage rip her to shreds in the end, who had betrayed her father who never knew her for what she truly was, and left behind a child branded, a child wearing her face. Holding that thought, that feeling of shame and magnifying it, letting it overtake him, Cullen turned the dagger so the blade pointed right at his chest. Maker, I hope this works.

Spirits guide you, and I pray you are not wrong., he heard Solas' voice while Cole nodded beside him. With a forceful jolt, he stabbed the dagger right into his own heart. Blood gushed onto the grass, gleaming black in the moonlight. He sank to his knees. Darkness took him and he fell one last time, right into the deepest layer of the nightmare.