CULLEN:
He writhed against the floor, his hands and feet bound by some invisible tether, unable to escape that filthy touch no matter how he twisted and turned. Unable to tune out the words spoken against his skin despite his prayers. Every caress sent a jolt of pleasure through him; oily, filthy, soul tainting pleasure which had no place in this world.
"... when you finally give in, and you will give in, you will be the most loyal of my servants..." the vile creature slithered over him, inside of him, invading and violating...
He withdrew into himself, shutting his eyes against the sight of her.. of its...flesh, intoning quietly he recited, "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."
The demon cackled and sent another jolt of pleasurable pain through his body. It crawled inside him, under his skin, and jerked him back to the present. He fought on, "Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow, In their blood the Maker's will is written."
"Where is your Maker now, Templar? Hmm?" it whispered, "where is his bride?" His skin crawled with its vulgar taint. Burning, throbbing, itching and stinging... but over that, pleasure. Foul and wicked and false.
"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me." But in truth he had not been so faithful. Not really. He believed in the Maker, in Andraste but he had always questioned...
The creature laughed again, and he realized his mistake too late. It had sensed his doubt. "That's right, Templar. You have questioned, haven't you?" It slipped over him, straddling him, fingers in his hair, whispering words against his ears, telling him truths he knew, but twisting them for its own foul purpose.
He tried to shut her... it...out of his thoughts, but once so firmly entrenched it did not give up its hold easily. He knew this, he'd fought this a hundred times, a thousand, over days or weeks he could not tell, and as time continued to stretch and compress it became more difficult to push it away. His resistance was merely a delay at this point, but he would resist for as long as he was able.
"You have questioned the imprisonment of mages, of their repression," it purred.
No! He wanted to shout, but it would be a lie. He had thought the circle to harsh, too cruel and cold in its absolutes. To imprison someone so completely for accident of birth, to treat them as less than human...
"That's right, Templar," it continued to purr against him, trailing it's fingers against his skin and his mind and his soul. "Why should they not be allowed freedom? Why should they be locked away from the world, forced to endure the Templar's unrelenting gaze. To know nothing of pleasure..."
The creatures face twisted, it's horns and silvery flesh giving away to a fall of blonde hair and downy skin... it was the apprentice, the elven one. The sweet girl who sent him blushing smiles whenever they crossed paths. The one he looked at in longing though he knew it could never be. He was a Templar and she a mage, and he would allow for nothing more than that, as was right. But now...
...she leaned towards him, cascade of hair brushing against his face. So beautiful and welcoming. She smiled at him, but ...
No.
Something was ... wrong.
It wasn't she.
He snapped his eyes shut against the deception and was rewarded with another lash of pain and pleasure and an intensified connection to that thing. "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me," he heard himself speaking, his voice stronger than before, "I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder!"
The creature continued to writhe against him, breathe against him, burrowing and clawing inside him like a parasite. It continued to draw on his memories and twist them into half-truths. Cullen continued to resist.
And then it stopped playing nice.
Pain.
Pain so intense it transcended the physical, pain so intense it invaded every corner of his being until there was nothing left but contort in agony. So overwhelming and all-encompassing he longed to beg for mercy. To throw himself at the creatures feet and swear fealty, if only to end this timeless suffering.
But all he could do was scream.
When he jolted awake he lay frozen in place, the creatures touch still with him despite the years that had passed. He drew a deep, ragged breath and began counting backwards, willing his heart to cease its wild pounding. He closed his eyes and the vision of it straddling him rose up above him...
"...you will never be free of me, Templar..."
He sat up quickly and just managed to make it to the chamber pot before he emptied his stomach. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he sat on the edge of the mattress and put his hands on either side of his head. Taking several more deep breaths he leaned forward onto his knees, trying to get his body once more under his control.
The dream, or more accurately he supposed, memories, did not come to him every night. But they never left, always lingering in the back of his mind. They didn't fade, become less potent, and he doubted they ever would. It was like the demon had left some part of itself inside him, and it lurked there, watching, waiting and making him remember. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he bent over the chamber pot again, dry heaving fruitlessly.
After minutes the vertigo dissipated and he sat up. A look out the window told him the sun wasn't yet up, but would be soon. There was little point in attempting to sleep once again; there never was whenever he woke in such a manner. Instead he rose and splashed his face with cold water. His reflection stared back from the small mirror he used for shaving; skin pale and eyes sunk.
The air inside him chamber seemed stagnant suddenly, stifling. A walk, he decided, would go far to clear his mind. He thought of rousing his squire but had no desire to speak with anyone, at least not yet. Besides, there was no reason they should both go without sleep. He dressed in the simple leather armor he preferred to train in and left, heading for the chantry.
HAWKE:
Hawke dragged her leg along behind her as she slowly made her way up the stairs leading to Hightown proper. The sun had just risen above the horizon and soon the city was just beginning to stir. She would need to send for Anders once she got home. Her injuries had been severe, and while she managed to heal herself enough to stop the bleeding she was not, in any way shape or form, a healer. Her efforts had left her mana drained before she could address her knee or ribs.
Her next step proved unfortunate and pain radiated from said knee, "Nug humping son of a ..."
"Hawke?" a voice from above her said, halting her muttering.
Her head shot up and she found the source of her name immediately. Cullen was at the top of the stairs wearing a set of leather armor which made him look nothing like his normal Templary self. As he approached she smiled in a self-depreciating manner, which caused a barely healed split in her lip to reopen. She touched the edge of it with her tongue and it came away coppery with blood.
Once he took in her appearance fully he moved to her side, placing a hand at her elbow to assist her. "What in the void happened?" he asked with concern when he neared. That note of concern in his voice warmed her, but she shook it off.
"Oh, this? This nothing. The other guy can't say as much." she quipped. She gratefully allowed him to bare some of her weight and they started moving towards the top of the rise.
His mouth tightened at the corners in irritation. "Who?" he asked with a frown.
"Just some thugs who thought I would make an easy target. No one of consequence," she replied nonchalantly. In truth it had been simply some thugs, nothing which would normally prove any difficulty, except there had been eight of them and only one of her.
His frown deepened. "I believe I've warned you that skinny women wandering around after dark invite trouble," he said, his voice ever so slightly condescending.
She snorted, "Really, Cullen, now is not the time for 'I told you so'," she insisted stubbornly, though it was probably the perfect time for it, she simply wasn't in the mood to hear it. She stepped poorly and a jolt of pain shot up her leg, she let out a gasp.
He slipped his arm around her waist to take more of her weight, which under any other circumstances she would have delighted her to no end. Unfortunately in the current circumstance it only made her discomfort worse.
"Watch the ribs," she hissed between clenched teeth.
"Maker's breath," he said, clearly exasperated. "You are going to get yourself killed one of these days."
"Yes, yes," she said with a bored sigh and a wave of her free hand, "I know. Reckless behavior and all that."
He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. After a moment he said, with a great deal more patience than she expected, "At least allow me to assist you home."
Well, certainly better than dragging her own lame arse the rest of the way. "Gladly," she accepted, placing a hand on his shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs. She turned her head to look at him, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. "What are you doing out this time of day? And what are you wearing?" she asked, noticing how the leather hugged his form in the most tempting manner. "I approve..." she couldn't help but add purr which could only be described as 'Isabela-y' despite the fact that she'd sworn of flirting with the man.
The corners of his mouth turned up for half a second, most probably wouldn't have noticed it as fleeting as it was. But she'd been studying his expressions when she could for several years now and considered herself an expert on such things. Despite everything one would assume about the man he did in fact have a sense of humor. It was just rather difficult to spot most of the time.
"I was on my way to the Chantry," he responded without actually answering.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, judging by the shadows under his eyes and the general weariness he seemed to carry.
He glanced down at her, brows furrowed before looking away. "No. I could not," he admitted before changing to the subject. "And as to what I am wearing, I saw no reason to rouse my squire so early to help me with my armor."
"That was kind of you," she said offhandedly, concentrating on maintaining her balance on only one good leg.
"Just because I'm a Templar doesn't mean I cannot be kind," he snapped. He halted suddenly, and she stopped with him. He bowed his head, his brow furrowed, "I apologize. That was undeserved."
She waved him off, "It's alright. You're tired. I become unbearable when I haven't had enough sleep."
He smiled briefly, if tightly, "I appreciate your understanding," he said as they resumed their slow pace. He turned towards her once again as they walked, "Unbearable?" he asked with a trace of dry humor.
She and grinned up at him, "Hard to believe, I know."
When he smiled this time he did not bother to hide it.