Part III: The Lion

Know Me Broken By My Master

Know me broken by my master
Teach thee on child of love hereafter
Into the flood again
Same old trip it was back then
So I made a big mistake
Try to see it once my way

(Alice in Chains, Would?)


The elf remembered him. Evident by the gleam in his amber eyes as they sidled up and down his firelit form. The memory latched on to his shame like a vice, feeding it, making it flare in his chest. He turned away, keeping his embarrassment to the shadows.

"What were you thinking?" The Herald said, still in his customary full-plate as he seethed across the war room. "Taking a dangerous mage to look for an even more dangerous mage?" His glare settled on Leliana. "Answer me!"

"Dorian volunteered," the Spymaster shrugged. "He wanted to help Neria..."

"That woman needs no more help," the Herald stopped in his tracks. "I suppose you sent Hawke after her too..."

"She was with us," the elf crossed and uncrossed his legs, covering a yawn with a lazy hand. "She was not part of our team however."

The weight on Cullen's shoulders heaved to his gut and it was all he could do to stand upright. The incessant, grinding want that had been hammering against his skull became the deep, vibrating hum of guilt. He should tell them...tell them that he'd sent Hawke after Neria...

"Are you alright, Commander?" Cassandra caught his elbow as he swayed slightly, her full-mouth pursed in what could only be concern, all unnoticed by the Herald as he dived full fray into the argument. "You've gone pale."

"I'm fine..." he forced out through gritted teeth, tried to turn his attention back to the others but the Seeker held him firm.

"Do not lie to me," she hissed, scowl deepening. "Go and rest, I shall give them your excuses."

"If only I could," he tried to grin but there was little mirth left in him. "I thank you for your concern but I..."

"What are you two whispering about?" the Herald span and every set of eyes turned to stare at Cullen. He shifted his boots awkwardly, head bowed in contrition, sweat soaking down his spine as his shaking hands gripped the hilt of his sword. He couldn't speak...words dried and died in his throat.

"The Commander is feeling unwell," Cassandra said, eventually . "I was telling him to go and rest, which he refuses to do."

"Go," the Herald's hand indicated the door with a sweeping gesture. "I need you well for the morning."

He didn't need telling twice. The coldness of the day had done nothing to still the sweats and shakes. His stomach contracted around the plain fare he'd forced down hours before. As he walked from the room he felt their gazes as pinpricks on the back of his neck.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could do this.

The walk back to his study was a blur. The torches burnt his eyes, his legs trembled like a new-born calf's, his head reeled and rolled.

He needed to be strong.

As soon as he made it to his rooms the bile rose. His knees buckled. He slammed against the floor. He braced himself with one arm as everything he'd manage to eat that day spluttered out of him.

He gasped, the sour stench of himself burning his nostrils. He heaved again.

When he became aware, he was lying on the cold, hard slate, every muscle in his body contracting, aching. He couldn't say how long he'd been there in the darkness. Dragging himself up, he crawled, wretched and sobbing, to the chair at his desk.

The tears were hot. They stung as they fell. He cried for worry and weakness. He cried because he could do nothing else. He cried until there was only the ringing hollowness. And then, on exhausted legs, he took excruciating steps to the bookcase.

He'd never thought it would be easy but he'd never imagined this. He'd overcome a thousand adversaries. Survived rebellions and revolutions. Survived when better man had fallen. But he could no longer survive this.

He stared at it and for the longest time his world shrank to the cool vial clenched around his hand. Such a little thing...but so much promise. So easy, he thought, to drink and let it all be done.

He wracked himself for some resistance; prayers, chants, mantras, they'd worked before but sounded empty now in his dried, cracked voice. They were just words in the wake of this crippling void and that troubled him. Faith has sustained him through a thousand troubles, the Chant had propped him up in his darkest moments...but now...

The hollow void filled with white hot anger. This illness, this addiction, would it leave nothing left of him? Strip everything he'd fought to become? He squeezed the vial, suddenly hating it, hating the Chantry for doing this to him, hating himself for not being strong enough.

His arm coiled itself without thinking. His fingers flung forwards and the lyrium smashed against the open door.

The Herald of Andraste stepped around the shattered glass.

"Maker's breath," Cullen heard himself pant, his chest constricting. "I didn't hear you enter...I..." he paused, took a deep steadying breath. "Forgive me."

The Herald, silhouetted by moonlight, the strain on his face deepening in the light of the guttering torch he held, side stepped the broken vial and vomit, and left the flickering fire in a bracket on the wall. "You told me in Haven that you had everything under control," he crossed his arms. "What's going on?"

Cullen straightened, ignoring the way the floor seemed to fly up to him. "It's fine," he muttered. "I'll.." he flung his hand out to steady himself, cursing under his breath. "You were right," he sighed, leaning over his desk, unsure if he was going to wretch again. "This was a mistake."

"Does that mean you'll listen to me now?" The gruff voice demanded.

Cullen felt that anger again, the old pain clawing its way out of him. He turned from the Herald, unable to look at such accusation. "Did you know Ferelden's Circle was overtaken by abominations?" He wasn't sure why he was confessing such a thing to such a man, but once the pain found an escape it flowed from him like a boiling river. "I was there, Templars, my friends, were slaughtered," he leaned his head against the window, watching his breath steam the glass. "I was tortured. They tried to break my mind," Neria's face swam across his vision, he opened his eyes, not wanting to remember her like that. "How can you be the same person after that? Still. I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall," he spat the word, hating the very sound of it. "I trusted my Knight-Commander. And for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirwall's Circle fell. Innocent people died on the streets. Can't you see why I want nothing more to do with that life?"

He turned to the Herald then, realising how hard his words hit home. Am I doomed to repeat myself...again and again...it can only end in madness!

Maxwell Trevelyan's lip had curled up into a snarl. "Be that as it may, you put your health and your service to the Inquisition at risk."

It hurt to hear it put like that, stung the tatters of his pride. He'd never thought of this as selfish, as irresponsible...but the Herald was right...he'd failed those who depended on him. He was no better than Meredith. "I know," he muttered, feeling the truth of it. "I thought it would be better. That I would regain some control over my life. But these thoughts won't leave me..."

He righted himself. The certainty of his conviction making him realise what a fool he'd been. His hand balled itself into a fist. "How many lives depend on our success ? I swore myself to the cause...I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry," he barely noticed the strain in his voice, the agitation clenching around his body. "I should be taking it," he said, a hoarse whisper at first. "I should be taking it!" he shouted, the anger overwhelming him, his fist flew backwards for the second time that day and before he even realised what he was doing it had buried itself into his bookshelf, scattering several tomes and denting the metal of his gauntlets. He pulled his fist free, shame at the ease with which he'd given into his anger creeping up his neck. "I should be taking it."

He clasped his aching knuckles, back to the Herald, unable to look the man in the eye. Only Neria had seen him like this...and even she hadn't witnessed this recent rage. The thought of her; her starlight scent, the compassion in those wide elvish eyes, only made the indignity deepen. She would hate me if she knew...

"Good," the Herald's clipped voice snapped him from his self-absorption. "It will take everything we've got to win this war. Every soldier here has made sacrifices. Those soldiers need, no, they deserve you at your best. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," he murmured. "There will be no more distractions."


AN: So...here's waiting for your hate mail! I'm only...sort of joking! I have taken liberties with the source material, though Cullen and Inquisiturd's discussion is straight from game, many of the surrounding factors have been altered. I hope you'll forgive me and I doubly hope you're still enjoying this!