TRIGGER WARNING! Graphic descriptions of killing, and materials that may trigger hemophobia and emetophobia.

The moons, one full and one gibbous, were lustrous tonight. They cast bright light as Tharin leisurely strolled the ramparts.

He was in no particular hurry as he headed toward the Seeker's room. He liked the idea that the Seeker was stewing in her resentment and anxiety as she waited his judgment tomorrow. And he was not about to mitigate them in a hurry.

The soldier who had been standing guard in front of Cassandra's room stridently saluted as he was alerted by the Inquisitor's approach. Tharin smiled benevolently to ease the soldier.

He knocked on the door three times but entered without waiting for a response. A candle was burning on the small table next to Cassandra lying on the bed. Her left arm was folded behind her head as she read one of her smutty literatures. Her insouciance contrasted with Tharin's image of the woman in his head and galled him to no end.

"Hello, Seeker. I trust your evening is going well?" spat the Inquisitor, letting his displeasure known.

Cassandra did not answer. She just turned a page.

Tharin exhaled forcefully. Through clinched teeth, he murmured, "You almost killed me."

Cassandra spoke casually, "You were in no danger of death. I merely incapacitated you."

Crossing his arms rigidly, Tharin barked, "Beg for my forgiveness. Beg for mercy. Tell me how you were wrong to…" He absolutely detested how he hesitated right then, "…boil my blood."

Long silence stretching to infinity. The scratching sound of another page turning. Cassandra's firm voice. "No."

Tharin threw his arms up and huffed. "And yet she persists." Genuinely curious now, he asked, "Are you not afraid I may judge you harshly?"

And Cassandra remained cool and collected. "Only the Maker can judge me. You may do whatever you like."

"I can give you martyrdom if that is what you desire. Would it please you to be just like Andraste?" threatened the almighty Inquisitor.

The Seeker put her book down, sat up, and finally turned to confront Tharin. Her face was hard. "Do what you must. But know this. This is not you, Tharin. And you will rue your capricious acts soon enough."

For some reason, Tharin had no good retort to this. The only thing he could come up with was a juvenile response conveyed in a shrill tone, "You'll be the one regretting everything tomorrow!" With his heart beating fast, he exited the room and slammed the door shut.

Perhaps it was a bad idea to see Cassandra before the judgment after all.

Josephine categorically refused to preside over the Inquisitor's court, Leliana stayed in her corner of the castle with some vague excuse, and all free companions of the Inner Circle isolated themselves away from the great hall. It was only Cullen who attended the judgment.

He forced himself to watch everything unfold with some strange sense of duty and determination. He would not waver or turn away. The past year of heartrending losses had turned the Inquisitor into a monster, and the Commander would watch him tear through the Inquisition.

Because Cullen played no small part in this. This was his fault.

He stood along with many nobles and Inquisition personnel as the Inquisitor on his grand throne dispensed verdicts with swiftness and surety of someone who was self-assured. But was it self-assurance? Cullen thought he saw madness lurk behind the Inquisitor's eyes.

And like madness, there was no rhyme or reason to the kinds of sentences given out, Cullen noted. The Inquisition did not have its own code of law. It only had a hodgepodge of rules and laws borrowed ad hoc from various nations of southern Thedas, and the Inquisitor had an incredible amount of leeway when it came to applying the said rules and laws.

The first was Mistress Alban Poulin of Sahrnia. She was sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor in her hometown and had to be literally dragged out of the hall.

The next up was Cassandra Pentaghast. As expected, she stood with her head held high. The gathered onlookers murmured at her appearance. Tharin held his right hand up to quiet them. He then leaned forward on the throne, resting his cocked head on his right hand.

"And so, here we are."

Cassandra scoffed. "Yes, here we are."

With a mysterious expression, Tharin asked, "Have you given any thoughts to what I said last night?"

"Your judgment is meaningless."

Another murmur passed through the throng.

The Inquisitor folded his arms as he leaned back on the throne. With an unctuous tone, he drawled, "I bet you did want martyrdom. But no, you shan't be the new Andraste, burning on a pyre."

"You do not know what others want, let alone what you want."

Tharin stood up with enough force to make the throne rattle and dashed toward Cassandra.

With their faces mere inches apart, Tharin snarled, "You dare accuse me of not knowing my own mind?"

Cassandra glared back. "Yes."

The Inquisitor abruptly turned around and walked over to the throne to sit back down. With his hands gathered and his legs crossed, he spoke as though he were an apex predator deciding a nug's fate, "I find you guilty of heresy and visiting physical harm upon me, the Herald of Andraste. You will enjoy all the fine amenities of Skyhold dungeons for the next month. In the meantime, you are stripped of your title and role as the official advisor to the Inquisitor. But you will continue to serve the needs of the Inquisition." A smirk flitted across Tharin's twisted visage. "Following your imprisonment, you will be conscripted as a new recruit, the lowliest of the ranks."

The verdict was surely Tharin's way of bestowing dishonor and humiliation upon Cassandra. Cullen stepped forward from the crowd and marched over to Cassandra's side. He began, "Inquisitor, I do not believe this sentence is just. You must–"

"I am justice, Commander!" thundered the Inquisitor.

Spontaneous applause broke out in the great hall. Cullen felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He looked around at the crazed people, hypnotized by the power of the Inquisitor.

Before Cullen could begin his defense of Cassandra anew, the woman enfolded her shackled hands on Cullen's right hand and susurrated, "It's all right."

Without giving Cullen a chance to respond, Cassandra looked up and uttered just one word, "Fine."

Feeling wholly helpless and useless, Cullen retreated to the throng and watched as the soldiers escorted Cassandra away. Her steps were solid and her gait proud, enough to make the back of his nose sting.

Finally, it was the Ostwick duo's turn.

When the emissary and the assassin were finally brought out in front of the crowd, gasps emanated, particularly from ladies of noble birth. The prisoners looked barely able to stand. Their feet were bare and shackled, and the clothes torn to shreds. The emissary's face had a gigantic bruise, swelling his left eye shut. The back of assassin's head was encrusted with hardened blood. No doubt there were bruises and scars littered across their bodies concealed underneath the rags, mapping the cruelty of the Inquisition. Cullen knew that however Leliana carried out her interrogations, physical torture was not one of the methods. It must have been the guards, who were furious about their Herald being attacked.

Anger spread like a wildfire within the Commander. He explicitly countermanded any form of torture or unwarranted violence. And now, the Inquisition soldiers had gone and directly opposed him. Fuming, he made a note to severely reprimand those who stood guard in the dungeons and dock their allowances.

Given their state, it took the prisoners a while to get to the front of the throne. The Inquisitor looked almost disinterested in the proceedings now. He yawned extravagantly, gestured lazily, and droned, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The emissary began. Like a rogue's arrow slicing through the air, he spluttered rapidly, "Lord Inquisitor, I had absolutely no clue what this… vile creature was planning to do! It is most unfortunate about the Commander's scar, but I had no part in this! Please! Please be lenient!"

Tharin turned to the assassin. "What say you?"

The assassin did not even lift his face. No words came forth.

The Inquisitor shrugged and delivered his verdict, "The emissary of House Trevelyan of Ostwick and his guard, I find you both guilty of the attempted assassination of the Inquisitor and the Commander of the Inquisition. I sentence you to death."

"No!" screamed the emissary, his voice ripped to tatters from the torture and the emotions.

Still unmoved, Tharin added, "I shall personally see to your executions tomorrow. Consider this an honorable end to your tawdry, stained lives." He then waved his arm at the guards and commanded, "Take them away."

And the guards obeyed their Herald.

As he was being led away, the assassin looked back and slurred, "Messere, I-I really need lyrium. H-have you got any lyrium for me? Please?"

Tharin flinched. "No." Cullen saw the man shift uncomfortably on his throne as the procession of the prisoners advanced.

The great hall seemed to reverberate from the emissary's wails.

A wooden scaffold by Cullen's tower appeared overnight. Despite the misgivings about Tharin's ruling, Josephine had made sure the construction crew completed the work in time.

Cullen was not sure whether he ought to be resentful or awestruck about the Ambassador cum Administrator's work ethic. Resentful because this scaffold would be used to display to the world Tharin at his absolute worst. Awestruck because he knew she did not agree with the decision at all. She would be the one to get the brunt of the fallouts from this, yet she decided to respect the Inquisitor's ruling regardless. Her commitment to the smooth operation of the Inquisition was incredible.

Perhaps both are valid emotions, Cullen thought.

The executions were to be carried out at noon so there would be a large group of attendees. And the Inquisitor himself would be the one to do the deeds, such as they were. He stood at the far edge of the scaffold leaning on an axe, smirking. Cullen grimaced as he breathed in the crisp air and look up at the azure sky. This day was too beautiful to be marred by something so heinous.

The emissary and the assassin looked the worse for wear. The deterioration evident in their looks had the effect of lighting the fire within Cullen once again. Even after his lecture on humane treatment of all prisoners and a penalty in the form of docked pay, these guards still had the gall to disobey him. He made an error in letting them return to their duties.

It was clear to Cullen that these soldiers were useless. If they disobeyed him in peace, they would surely go against his orders in a battle when the fate of the entire Inquisition's army could hang on their shoulders. They would be liabilities. He must let them go.

Yet unaware of their Commander's fiery rage, the soldiers roughly dragged the two men until they were in the midpoint of the scaffold. The soldier in charge of the emissary pushed the man down until he was kneeling, his neck laid on the chopping block. A brand new one freshly produced for this occasion. Cullen's innards churned.

With a hoarse voice, the emissary began to chant, "In the long hours of the night… When hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know… Your Light remains." He was reciting the verses from the Canticle of Trials. Prayers for the despairing, indeed.

"Maker preserve me…" The last word gave way to uninhibited bawling, which was uncomfortable to watch to say the least.

If this were a battlefield, things would be different. Cullen would be at the forefront wielding a sword and a shield, slashing and striking down enemies. But this was Skyhold, the Inquisition's home. He could not watch the blood of someone who did not deserve to die mar the place he called home.

Tharin sneered at the emissary, "I am the Maker's prophet, and I do not see the Maker in your future."

Even from distance, Cullen could tell the emissary was trembling. Like a weak sapling battered by the howling wind. The emissary shouted, "Please! I didn't know anything! I swear to the Maker!"

It occurred to Cullen only then that the Inquisitor had relinquished the sharpened greatsword he always relied on in the battlefield. The blade could cut through enemies as a hot knife would butter. The axe he opted for instead looked rusted and dull. A wood-cutting implement that one could find abandoned in any yard in Thedas. A common tool that did not fit the uncommon task at hand. A tool designed to inflict as much pain and suffering as possible.

Tharin now took position with a grim face, his lopsided smile completely gone.

A flash of the axe swinging down was followed almost simultaneously by a sickening sound of flesh and bone ripping. But instead of a clean cut, the axe was stuck one-third of the way through. The emissary began to writhe and make a grating sound. Blood began to drip down the chopping block onto the scaffold.

The gathered crowd cheered when the Inquisitor put his right foot against the emissary's cheek as a leverage and pulled at the axe. It popped out with a faint crunch. Feeling disgusted by the brutality of this whole affair, Cullen faced down, concentrating on the moss growing on the grout.

He heard the crowd's cheer die down and the axe swinging for the second time. This time, there was a sound of a weighty object dropping with a thud. People cheered. When Cullen looked up, there was the emissary's head rolling on the scaffold, the horror on his face completely obscured by his own blood. Tharin's blue eyes were glassy, and his mouth curved down.

Cullen knew something was wrong. He observed with trepidation that Tharin looked frozen in place. A soldier kicked the limp body off to the side of the chopping block, freeing it for the next execution. And it was the assassin's turn. The soldier holding the assassin pushed him forward and made him lay his neck on the bloody chopping block.

Next second, the man twisted his neck to look up at Tharin. The assassin asked in an innocent tone befitting a child, "Excuse me… Where am I?" The crowd roared in laughter. Tharin wrinkled his brow but did not say anything.

With the axe on his side, Tharin crouched down and pushed the assassin's face away until the man's spine was aligned perpendicularly to the chopping block and he was staring straight down.

In that moment, Cullen saw the lifeless eyes of the assassin focus. His gaze was directed to someone in the crowd. He called out faintly, "Mummy…?"

The crowd jeered.

The assassin's weak voice still managed to cut through as he called forth once more.

"Mum?"

When Tharin lifted his axe, Cullen looked away.

"Mu–"

Another sickening sound of cartilage and bone crunching. Another cheer rising from the attendees. Cullen dared not look up. Images flashed in his mind as though he were jumping into a different plane of existence every time he blinked. The green moss that coated the entire grout. The ashlar ramparts of Skyhold. The Inquisition. The throne. Tharin. His home…

Cullen knew another blow had to come. The steel was too dull to make a clean cut. After another nauseating sound of the axe digging into the flesh, Cullen heard a dense object rattling around on the wooden scaffold, and he knew the deed was done.

As the people began to whoop and holler at their Inquisitor once more, Cullen felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the Spymaster, and she began to whisper in Cullen's ears, "You were right. I should have come to you sooner." Leliana sighed wearily. He had never heard her sound that tired. "The Inquisitor is spiraling out of control, and the Inquisition is in peril. If the situation does not improve soon, we may have to… change the leadership."

Cullen felt the pit of his stomach drop. "What are you saying, Sister?"

"I am only informing you now because you command the loyalty of the troops. If the matter comes to a head, we will need their support." Cullen, despite not being one of the more astute people, could tell that Leliana was struggling to piece back her usual dispassionate exterior. She was not faring well. "I trust you will be discreet, despite your… close friendship with the Inquisitor. The future of Thedas depends upon us."

He bit his lower lip before asking tentatively, "What does Lady Montilyet say?" He knew she was not there. In fact, she had announced to each member of the war council through tersely worded formal letters that she would not be there. An act of passive resistance, he figured. But maybe it was so she could hatch a secret plot against the Inquisitor while the man completely unraveled.

Leliana whispered, "She agrees with my evaluation. In fact, she is more adamant about making the change than even I."

At last, Cullen turned toward the scaffold and saw a pathetic man stuck in his impossible life. Tharin looked quite lost. Blood had sprayed all over his clothes, on his cheeks, like carelessly applied paint on a canvas. His posture was somehow askew with the gory axe weighing down his right side. Despite the cheers and ululations from his loyal followers, Tharin looked pitiful, as though he were the one facing death. Cullen felt his heart being torn apart brutally. He could have cried out from the pain right there and then.

The Commander wet his dry lips and implored, "Let me talk to him first. This is all lyrium, not Tharin." He stressed, "After what you and I have done to him, you owe him this much, Leliana. Promise me you won't act hastily."

Leliana quickly looked to the Inquisitor only to turn back to Cullen the next moment. Yet again, she sighed. "All right. If you must, go ahead. Just… keep mum about the plan." She turned and slipped away, her footsteps ever hushed.

Cullen clenched his hands into tight fists. He felt an inconvenient mass rising from his throat as his heart continued to throb painfully. He did his utmost to stay calm and grounded.

But his effort was futile.

Tharin did not change out of the gory clothes. Neither did he wash away the grisly aftermath of the executions on his face.

Left alone in his quarters away from the public eyes, Tharin overindulged in drink all afternoon. Admittedly, it was habitual at this point, to drown his troubles this way.

He drank anything in his store that was remotely alcoholic. Bottles of wine, whisky, brandy, and distilled spirits… They turned empty and were strewn about haphazardly. One of the bottles he dropped to the cold floor and broke into pieces. And he cut himself trying to pick up the shards. Fresh blood welled and flowed until it covered the crusted old blood on his Anchor hand.

The sight of more blood, crimson and viscous, turned his stomach until he could no longer keep things down. On all fours, Tharin gagged and vomited next to the glass fragments, though what he disgorged was not much more than acid and liquor.

Now emptied, his stomach growled angrily. He placated it by crawling to his desk and ingesting a premade vial of lyrium potion. It was nothing short of a miracle that he kept it down, though he supposed his body needed lyrium.

A seemingly endless cavalcade of strong drinks and cyan poison culminated in the young man numbed and sprawled out on his bed. He wiped his mouth with his bleeding hand only to then wipe the hand on the sheets. Now the bed matched the color of the mountain peaks that had been painted blood orange as the sun descended. He let forth a crazed laugh that soon transformed itself into an arhythmic sob.

Eventually, the dipsomaniacal haze turned into slumber. It was when Tharin was at the edge of consciousness when he heard an insistent knock on the loft door.

What time was it? How long had he been asleep? Tharin had neither the physical stamina nor the mental clarity to answer the call. And so, he continued to lay on the disheveled bed illuminated by the moonlight alone.

There was a muffled sound of door opening and closing, followed by soft footsteps on the stairs leading up to the Inquisitor's inner sanctum.

And then Tharin heard the voice.

END NOTE

Welcome to Rock Bottom, population 1.

Next up, the aftermath, coming on November 28.

If you like this, please give Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) a try - now all chapters posted!