A/N: sorry, I meant to have this next section out sooner, but life's been shitty lately. I did vent my angst into the story, but my two-part chapter became three, so I miiiiiiiiiight have gone a bit overboard. IDK…
The following chapter contains descriptions of addiction and withdrawal, as well as consequences of mental cruelty.
Chapter Eleven: Chains (Part I)
Cullen was pacing. He was agitated and over-energized. He knew it, but it was too hard to control it, to fight against it any longer. "It's gotten out of hand, Cassandra. You need to find a new Commander. You need to replace me! Before I do something foolish!"
"What?" she asked, standing and watching him pace around the room like a caged lion. He had come to her, demanding she allow him to step down. She had stated that she didn't think it was necessary, and reminded him that he swore to adhere to her judgment, but it didn't look like she was going to be able to talk him down from whatever precipice he was teetering on. Yet she had to try, because he had to succeed; too many others needed him to succeed. "What foolish act are you afraid of committing?"
He stopped suddenly, looking up at her with a stricken face. Oh, Blessed Andraste preserve him, but he couldn't admit it, not to her, not to anyone. He could hardly admit it to himself, that his obsession had fixated on Peredura, that he felt jealousy whenever he saw her with another man. He had no right to feel this way, no cause other than his withdrawal.
Then his eyes were drawn to the opened door, and as if conjured by his obsession, there she stood framed in the doorway. Even silhouetted from behind by bright daylight, he knew it was her, her form and style of movement indelibly imprinted on his heart. She walked in slowly, cautiously, as if she realized she was intruding on a private matter. Fear was sitting in the corner, and when he saw her he gave a happy bark in greeting and bounded up to her side.
Cullen was defeated. Undone. Destroyed by a mere slip of a girl with gentle brown eyes and a gentler soul. Cassandra would continue to refuse to relieve him of command, and he would eventually give in to those wrong, lustful impulses. Then Cassandra would be forced to kill him. He had failed. Failed the Inquisition. Failed Cassandra. Failed Peredura. "Forgive me," he said softly, begging for absolution for those indefensible acts he was doomed to commit. He was unable to look Peredura in the eye as he left the building.
He was halfway back to his office before he realized Fear was no longer at his side. He had been training the hound almost constantly, teaching him to sit and stay and heel, all the basic commands, and Fear had learned very quickly. He was planning on starting Fear's combat training in a few days, but now with Peredura back, he supposed he should have her do it.
He didn't resent Fear's desertion of him in favor of his partner—it was only natural for the mabari to return to Peredura—but his side felt cold and empty without the hound there.
His thoughts continued down their lonely path after he reached his office. He didn't notice the missing soldier, hardly remembering there had been someone who wanted to give a report. All he could think about was seeing her, standing in the middle of the walkway in the bright afternoon daylight, laughing with Dorian and so close together they might have been…
Both his hands curled into fists.
One day, he thought bitterly to himself. He had been completely off of lyrium for a little more than one whole day before everything got out of hand. Blessed Andraste, but how could he expect to continue the rest of his life like this? How could he serve the Inquisition, how could he command their forces, if he couldn't command his own self?
He opened his top desk drawer and reached inside, taking out his lyrium kit. There was still some in the vial, he could take it, just a little bit, just enough to take the edge off of the shaking, the obsessing, the urges. He opened the lid and looked inside, his eyes wanting to water at the blue glow coming off of the lyrium. The color had always seemed so calming to him, so welcomed, so right—now it made him feel weak and worthless and pitiable.
All his childhood—all his life!—he had wanted nothing more than to be a templar, to serve the Chantry and protect the people and the mages from themselves.
Now he had been asked to set aside his wants, his desires, his dreams. Now he felt he had been called to a higher purpose. Now he was trying to do the Maker's will, selflessly serve the Inquisition…
He had given everything to the Chantry! He should give even more to the Inquisition, but the Chantry already had it all. There was nothing left, nothing but an empty husk of a man.
Like an empty vial of lyrium.
He couldn't… he couldn't give in… he couldn't quit now… he had sworn himself to the Inquisition… he should give them nothing less than he gave the Chantry… but the chains of lyrium addiction were too strong to break… not on his own… the withdrawal affecting him… cheapening his devotion… tempting his resolve…
If he went back on the lyrium, at least he could work with a clear head, though with divided loyalties.
There was no answer, no solution, no way out of his predicament. And it all came back to lyrium, to the tiny vial that mocked him, that defeated him. Rage boiled up inside him, stronger than ever due to his withdrawal symptoms. In a rare moment of self-indulgence, he picked up the kit and threw it across the room, venting his anger, his frustration, his impotence with a feral snarl…
…and nearly braining the Inquisitor in the process.
"Maker's breath! I… I didn't hear you enter. I…" Instantly his anger evaporated. He saw the startled look on her face, the open and vulnerable and scared expression, and knew he had been the sole cause of giving her such grief. He had no excuse, no reason that could explain his actions. He could only ask, "Forgive me."
"It's worse, isn't it?" She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, giving them some semblance of privacy. Fear padded up to him on his oversized paws to nudge his hand.
He didn't need to ask her to clarify her question; he already knew she was talking about his withdrawal. "It is," he admitted, giving Fear a few calming pats on his head.
"I got back from Haven today," she said, and then wanted to kick herself. That was twice in as many minutes that she had stated the obvious. Thankfully he didn't notice. Or perhaps it was a bad sign he didn't notice. She watched him standing there, staring at her mabari, either unable or unwilling to look her in the eye. "I came by here earlier, but a soldier told me you had just stepped out. He says the eastern watch is clear, by the way. But, anyway, I wanted to tell you, in Haven we found several mostly-intact crates of lyrium buried beneath the debris. I brought back a few with me; the Chargers will bring back the rest by the start of next week."
"That's…" he almost lifted his head, but in the next moment dropped his gaze again, "The other templars will be glad to hear that. Thank you, Inquisitor."
"The others," she looked from him to the shattered kit and back. She had picked apart his sentence carefully, reading far more into his current situation than he had intended, "But not you. You've taken yourself completely off of lyrium, haven't you?"
He would not allow himself to lie to her. He nodded, starting to come around his desk, intending to clean up the broken kit. "I… aargh!" whatever he meant to say was lost beneath a groan. He suddenly felt weak, his knees buckling, his vision growing dark, his body bursting with cold sweat, his armor feeling heavy and awkward on his shoulders. His hand found something stable and solid, and he leaned against it, blinking to clear his vision, panting to clear his mind. He fought off the dizzy spell just in time to see her coming towards him, and managed to hold up a hand, keeping her at bay, refusing her assistance. "I took my last dose yesterday morning. I will not… should not… take another… but…"
Fear whimpered, looking somewhat anxious, wanting to return to Peredura's side but not wanting to leave Cullen when he knew Cullen needed help.
She studied the Commander, seeing the far too familiar signs. "Sweating," she said, "Stomach is tight, like you're going to vomit. Perhaps you already have." She saw his head twitch, like he was about to answer, but she had more she wanted to say. "Muscles aching, trembling, weak. It gets better, or rather easier to ignore as the day goes on, as you have more things to distract you. But when you're alone, when it gets too quiet…"
"Stop!" he commanded, that rage flaring into life again, finally cutting off her words. Immediately afterwards he realized he had yelled at the Inquisitor. "Peredura, I… I shouldn't have… shouted, I… I'm sorry…"
She set her hands on her hips, feeling a little frustrated with him when he turned away again. He obviously didn't comprehend what she was trying to say, so she decided to be blunt. "Cullen, I understand. I know what you're going through."
"No, you don't," he denied, shaking his head. "You have no idea. You can't! Nor should you. Nor would I want you to." Mercurially he turned back to her, "You need to relieve me of command! Cassandra won't. She should, she knows she should, but she refuses, and I can't… I can't do this… I can't continue to walk the edge… knowing I'm going to eventually fail…" He took three steps and gripped her by the shoulders. "Relieve me of command, I beg you, before I do something that ruins us all!"
"Cassandra thinks you can still do this…"
His hands fell from her, his face downcast. "I thought I could. I thought I should. I needed to. But I see now. It cannot be done. Not when so much hangs in the balance. Perhaps, if it was just me who was affected by this decision… but not with the whole of the Inquisition relying on me…"
Peredura felt for him. She knew the physical difficulties he was having were bad, and that the mental difficulties were far worse, far more dangerous, far more damaging. She could help him, but she wasn't sure she could convince him of that fact. All she could do, was make the offer and let him make up his mind. "What if it was just you?" She grabbed his arms before he could get away. "What do you want, Cullen, for yourself?" She ducked her head around until she was back within his vision. "Do you want to start taking lyrium again?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block her out of his mind, but he couldn't, her question echoing within his head, his heart, his soul. "I…" he found himself unable to speak, knowing what he should say, knowing what he wanted to say. He looked back at her; he knew he needed help, any help, even hers. Grasping at the tenuous lifeline she had thrown him, he answered honestly, "No."
She relaxed, just a little, not enough to allow him to escape, but enough to tell him he had answered correctly. "I can help you get through this."
He raised an eyebrow, slightly disbelievingly, how could she have any idea…
"But I'll leave it up to you." She let go of his arms and took a step back. "It's getting late. Meet me, after supper, in my chambers."
"Your chambers…?"
"I'm serious, Cullen. I can help, but only if you want my help. Otherwise, don't bother to show. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to visit Harritt, see if he finished the lead for Fear. Come on, boy."
"He… doesn't need it now," Cullen said as she started walking away, her mabari in tow. "I've already trained Fear to respond to basic commands. Just tell him to 'heel,' and he will remain by your side."
She paused at the door that led to the walkway. She glanced over her shoulder at him, that one brown eye peeking through her bangs, giving him that look that made his heart ache. "It's not for Fear," she answered cryptically, and then she was gone.
"I should not be doing this," Cullen said to himself. Damn, but this felt wrong, strange, highly inappropriate. It was late, a good three hours after supper, but he had had work to do. He had not been stalling, or so he told himself. But he was here, having slipped through the main hall while it was mostly empty, and climbed the dark and lonely stairs with only the moonlight to show the way. Now he stood outside the door to Peredura's chambers and lifted his hand to knock.
He intended the sound to be quiet, soft, but it echoed loudly to his ears, reverberating through the empty tower beneath him. He wondered if it was as loud within her chambers, if she had given up on him and gone to bed and the knock woke her from her dreams. He felt guilty, imagining he had kept her waiting, turned her hope into disappointment as she gave up and got ready for bed, and managed to wake her right after she fell asleep…
The door opened. Peredura stood there, still dressed in the clothing she'd worn under her armor earlier, her expression a careful neutrality. Wordlessly she stepped aside and opened the door further, inviting him inside.
Yes, he should not be doing this, but it was too late to run away now. He squared his shoulders and stepped across the threshold, feeling like he was climbing to the gallows as he climbed the last flight of stairs to her chambers. The going was tough, as his body was already weakened by the long day and the aches and then the ascent through the tower. He had to pause at the top, out of breath, his muscles trembling with fatigue, giving him an opportunity to look around.
He didn't know what he expected to find, what sort of furniture she'd have or if there would be personal items strewn about the room, but he was mildly impressed with what was there. It was a large chamber, mostly one room, with lots of open space in the middle. Along the railing at the side of the stairs towards his left was a low couch, small tables with lamps on either end. Beyond that on the side wall was the bed, a simple and solid piece of furniture covered with a thick comforter. In the far corner was a small chest of drawers with a mannequin next to it that held her armor.
On the wall opposite the stairs he saw a large glass door that opened onto a balcony. The wall to his right also held a balcony, a larger one, with two doors opening onto it. Between these two doors was a fair-sized hearth, a fire lit and cracking merrily in the chilly night air. In front of the fire was a rug, nearly covered by Fear; his tail thumped at the sight of Cullen but otherwise the mabari remained dozing where he was warm and comfortable.
In the far corner, nestled between the two balconies, was a cozy little office area, complete with bookshelves—which were nearly empty—and a large desk. She had been sitting there while waiting for him, he realized, seeing a stack of clean paper in one corner, an opened book in the middle, a charcoal stylus and several used sheets spread out around the book.
Peredura saw where he was looking and felt her cheeks start to burn. "Excuse me," she muttered, squeezing around him to race to the desk, snapping the book closed and trying to get the papers stacked and out of sight before he came too close. "I had, um, some work I had to do, and, ah, I was working…"
Cullen had come up behind her, surprisingly quiet for a man in armor, and picked up one of the sheets. It was full of carefully drawn letters, the handwriting unschooled but determined, with a lot of mistakes scratched out. "At least you don't draw your 's' backwards. Took me forever to get that down."
She couldn't answer, couldn't look at him, as she pulled the paper from his fingers.
"There's no reason to feel ashamed," he said, still trying to ease her discomfort. "There are a lot of adults who can't read or write. And I imagine you were never taught, as a slave, were you?"
She shook her head, tapping the sheets into an orderly stack before walking behind her desk to hide them in a drawer.
"Are you… trying to teach yourself, or do you have someone helping you?"
She slowly straightened up, her long brown hair falling over her shoulder and effectively hiding her embarrassment. "Myself. I, ah, Mother Giselle gave me a book of hymns, because I asked her about a particular song, and, well, she didn't know I couldn't read…" her voice trailed away, her fingertips touching the bound book.
He could imagine that lip being chewed, and had to fight the impulse to free it. Maker, what was he doing here, he chastised himself, but her words continued.
"I haven't been able to make any sense of it, but at least I've been able to practice drawing the letters." She picked up the book and placed it on the bookshelf
"Perhaps I could help," he found himself offering, then decided it could be a good idea. "After you're done helping me, that is, I could teach you how to read. Think of it as a sort of… repayment, if you prefer."
Blessed Andraste, but his obsession made him love it when she peeked at him from behind her overgrown bangs. "I would like that. But you first. Right?"
"Right," he exhaled; now it was his turn to feel discomfited. It only got worse.
"Take off your armor."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Take off your armor," she repeated, trying to banish the last of the heat from her face and look up at him. "You're not going to be needing it, and trust me, you won't want the extra weight and inconvenience. Things are going to get uncomfortable enough without all that getting in the way."
"Ah, well," he cleared his throat.
"I'm not asking you to strip or anything," she had to turn away, that stupid blush spreading across her face, from her hairline to beneath the collar of her tunic. "Just… you know…"
He cleared his throat again. "Ah, could you help me with a few of the pieces? I'm having some trouble."
She glanced back, unsure what he could mean, until she saw the shaking of his hands, his normally agile fingers turned clumsy and fumbling thanks to his symptoms. "Of course," she said, her voice perhaps a little too tight and light, but neither one of them was going to say anything.
She started with the bracers on his forearms, undoing the tiny buckles that held them in place. Once they were off, she turned to set them neatly on her desk. By the time she turned back, he had his gloves off and was handing them to her while trying to undo the belt around his waist one-handed.
"I normally can undress myself," he said, shrugging out of his mantle and passing it to her. He was trying to make small talk, and trying harder not to think of how his words sounded, "But I seem to be all thumbs tonight."
She started unfastening the buckles of his shoulder pauldrons, "That's why I'm here, remember? To help."
He couldn't answer, the feeling of impotence welling up inside him like a poison he had to vomit out…
He took a deep breath to steady himself, reminding himself he shouldn't take it out on her, holding himself still as she removed his breastplate.
Beneath the armor he wore a coat of sturdy leather, as dark as his leggings and with a padded lining to protect his body from the inside edges of his armor. He hesitated after shrugging out of the heavy garment, looking down at himself and thinking he was probably undressed enough, now that he only wore his tunic and leggings and boots.
"Do those come off?" she asked. He looked up to see she was pointing at his lower extremities.
"Do what come off?"
"Those strange bits of metal and leather…"
"Ah, no," he said quickly, "No, they don't come off. They're a part of my boots." He looked back up at her, to find her looking at him, expectantly. He shook his head.
She nodded.
"Seriously? You want me to take off my boots?"
"You won't need them," she countered. "It's not like you'll be going anywhere. And besides, they'll be right here, next to all your other armor, safe and sound."
"Why do I feel like this is getting out of control?" he muttered to himself, but he did lean his backside against the edge of her desk to balance himself while he took off his boots.
She walked over to her bed next, messing with something near the head while he was distracted with his boots. He looked up when he was finished, but her back was to him. "Well?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling naked without his armor, his sweat-soaked tunic clingy and sticky against his skin, "What's next?"
"Come here," she answered without turning, without even peeking over her shoulder, "And put this on."
"Put what on?" he padded on bare feet towards her, but she stepped away from the bed, still without looking at him. He watched her retreating form, but she didn't turn around, didn't look to see if he would do as she asked, only kept walking until she was beside the door leading to the smaller balcony. Confused, curious, and a little miffed, he looked back to the bed to find a corner of the comforter turned down to reveal… "Maker's breath!"
She held herself, wrapping her arms around her chest in a tight hug, knowing what he must be thinking, struggling to find a way to explain why she wanted this. But the words wouldn't come. She could only stand and stare out the glass and hope.
Cullen didn't notice her distraught state, too caught up in his shock, staring at what was on the bed. He picked it up like he would a venomous snake, carefully and reluctantly. It was a chain, the links smaller than what one would find, say, in a dungeon, but still strong and reliable. One end was looped around the corner of her bed, secured not only to one leg but also to the frame that supported the mattress; it would not come loose without breaking the bed. There was ten feet or more of length free, on the end of which was a shackle, not something that looked like it had originally been meant to be a part of the chain, but still firmly and permanently attached. He knew it had to be the lead Harritt had made for Fear, remembering her comment from earlier in the day. It had never been used, however, thanks to how quickly and easily he had trained the mabari, and now had a shackle instead of the collar. He swallowed.
"This is not going to be pleasant, is it."
It wasn't a question, but she felt she had to answer, she had to justify her motives. "Cullen, I don't know what to expect, but you're twice my size, and I don't want to guess how much stronger. You said, lyrium withdrawal can give you delusions, make you lose touch with reality. If you get caught in a vision or a dream, if you lose control and think you're somewhere else, if you don't recognize me…" She finally peeked at him over her shoulder, but he was in profile to her, staring at the shackle like it was a knife he had been told to thrust through his heart. "Well, at least I know I'll be able to get out of range."
It took him two tries before he could find his voice. "That's very prudent of you. Yes, I can understand why you would want this precaution." Before he could lose his nerve, he locked the shackle into place around his left wrist. Immediately it made him feel cold, cold and panicky and tightened his stomach into a knot that threatened to embarrass him. He should never have agreed to this, never have come here, never have told her so much about his withdrawal. He had chosen to become a templar. He had chosen to leave the Order. He should not have shared his suffering with anyone, given the impression that he was complaining about it, having difficulty with it…
"There's a flower that grows in Tevinter," she said softly, walking over to her desk. "I remember, from that time when my parents were still alive, sometimes we'd travel past fields and fields of this little, simple, unassuming, pale red flower." She pulled something from a bottom drawer, and Cullen saw it was a bottle, a blue bottle, the color usually reserved for lyrium potions. Maker but how it made his hands shake to look at it. "I never knew then, never thought to ask, why anyone would grow so many of these boring-looking flowers." She left the bottle on her desk, right next to his armor, and walked back toward the foot of the bed, all without looking at him. "Later I learned, you can take the seeds from the flower, I don't know the whole process," she sat down on the floor and leaned her back against the leg of the bed, "But if you squeeze the seeds, I guess, there's an oil you can get out of them. Anyway, this oil is used to make a drug, called opeigh.
"When my master…" he saw her bite her lip, closing her eyes a moment as she corrected herself, "When Vivianus Vicici first took me to his home, took me as his slave, I didn't understand what was happening. I thought he was helping me, protecting me while I healed. He brought me to his estate in Minrathous, gave me a room to myself with nice clothes and a window that looked out over the city, saw to it that I had plenty of healing potions and food and even sweets whenever I wanted them. But then one night, after I had recovered, he sent two guards to my room, had them bring me to this large, dark chamber in the lower levels of his estate."
She had yet to look at him. Even now as she paused, almost panting, fighting to get the words out, her eyes were focused on something only she could see. Cullen sat down on the edge of the bed, above her, near her, the chain forgotten as her tale unfolded.
"There were two people there, two men, one… one human, one elven… in chains… stripped naked… they… they were begging… I didn't realize it at the time… there was so much I didn't understand… but I came to… understand, that is…"
It was hard for her to speak. So hard she felt it physically, like she had to push against an immovable force, just to take in a breath, just to exhale, just to make her vocal chords hum, just to shape her lips around the vowels and consonants. "They were his slaves. They had done something, and had to be punished, and he used me, Vicici used me to punish them. He tore the front of my dress and started cutting into me, not too deep, but he had to draw blood. And I screamed. I screamed and I kicked and I fought the guards that were holding me, but I couldn't stop him. He bled me. He took my blood and he used that to draw a demon from the Fade, something horrible and black, and he set it on those two slaves while others watched.
"They died," she continued, still fighting to speak, to force the words out where he could hear, all the time staring into space. Fear had come up and plopped himself down beside her, his big head heavy on her thigh. She petted him without thinking about it, too caught up in her long-buried memories. "The slaves died, torn apart. There was so much blood. And I thought…" she lost her words behind a smothered hiccough and had to push the next few words out in a rush, "I know now it was wrong, but at the time I thought I was to blame, for their deaths. It was my blood. If my blood wasn't so powerful, if Vicici didn't have me, then he couldn't have hurt those two men. Afterwards he sent me back to my room, and as soon as I was able, I escaped through the window and ran.
"I was caught, almost right away. I was elven and didn't know the city and was too weak to run for long enough to get away. When I was brought back to Vicici, he had me beaten, not too much, he didn't want to waste my blood or risk killing me, but he did want me to feel pain. But I kept trying. No matter what he did to discourage me, I kept trying to escape every chance I got. Even after he moved me from that nice room to a cell in his dungeon, I would try to get away from the guards that came for me. Or if the blood magic was to be performed at someone else's estate, I'd try to run off on the way there, or race down the wrong hallway or something, anything, I had to stop him and the only way I could was if I wasn't his slave any longer…!"
Her words stopped, broken by a choked sob, wet and messy and hardly stifled behind one of her hands. Fear whined, a piercing sound, his head unmoving beneath her other hand but his sad brown eyes lifted up to her face.
Cullen could well imagine what she had seen, the horrors she had witnessed, the torture she had endured. His own hatred for blood mages rose like a tidal wave within his heart, making his chest feel tight. "You know you're not to blame, you can't be held culpable for…"
"Save your judgment," she whispered vehemently, "Let me finish!" She brought her hand away from her mouth, her knuckles white she was making such a tight fist, her whole arm trembling with the force she exerted. The words came easier now, more harsh, more bitter, full of an impotent rage that resonated within Cullen's chest. "No matter what Vicici tried, I kept trying to escape. Finally, as a last resort, he started to use opeigh. He didn't want to, as he told me, the drug would taint my blood, lessen the power of his magic. He had to put in extra effort, timing it just right, letting me come down from the drug so that my blood would be clear enough to use, but not so long that I would start getting sick. That's the downside of opeigh; withdrawal from it can be deadly.
"Oh, he explained this all to me, the first time he forced it down my throat. Opeigh would leave me in a stupor, a mindless state with no will of my own, pliable and apathetic and dumb. And he wasn't wrong. I FORGOT! While taking opeigh, I forgot about my parents, the fact that they were dead, that I'd never see them again, never travel Tevinter with them, never be free! My existence was all a blank emptiness, a painless numbness, a blacker black."
She finally looked up at him, and he wished she hadn't. Her eyes were pink but without tears, her cheeks were blotchy and not just from her scars, her bottom lip was bleeding while her top lip curled into a hateful sneer—one that was directed at herself. "But I didn't hurt any more. I didn't care. I didn't remember. And I… I… as time went on… I came to prefer it… to want it… I learned to hate the moments I came off the drug, the sweating and shaking and aches were bad, but the REMEMBERING was worse! I wanted to forget, to go back to that numbness, so I wouldn't have to know the hell I was going through. I would grow impatient, almost eager, if he took too long to start the rituals. It even got to the point where I would strip myself, hold myself still beneath his blade, even do the cutting by my own hand! All I wanted was the opeigh, and I knew I could only have that after the ritual, after I bled."
Her words stopped again, though her mouth continued to move. She went on for a few moments before she realized she had forgotten to use air to make the sounds. She took a staggering breath, seeming to throw her whole body into the effort, and the tears finally started to fall in silent currents down her face. "So you see, Cullen, it wasn't just the mark that was making me sick, that first week after the Breach appeared. I know what you've gone through, what you're going through, what tomorrow will feel like for you. And I know you can do this. I know you can endure. Because I have." She offered him a plucky little smile, out of place on her face full of scars and tears. "You're stronger and braver than I am, remember?"
Cullen felt like the world had dropped out from beneath his feet. He let himself slide off the edge of the bed to the floor, closer to her eye level, though he couldn't look at her, not just then. His free hand landed on Fear's back leg, and he absently stroked the fur. "Have you… ever… told this to anyone else? Cassandra? Or Solas? Or…"
Her hair shimmered as she shook her head. "No. No one. How could I? Who else would understand?" She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of the hand that wasn't petting Fear. "I'm not even sure you understand, not all of it, but I think you needed to hear it, part of it, at least."
He took a deep breath, unsure what to say. Then he made himself look at Peredura, look at her and see her as she was, for perhaps the first time. Not as the Inquisitor. Not as the Herald. Not as a sometimes naive, overly-trusting young woman. Not as an uneducated former slave. Purely as Peredura, as the sum of her experiences, and the result of her character.
Still there were no words.
It was a painfully peaceful scene, the two of them sitting on the floor, their backs to her bed, his left wrist chained to the head, a mabari stretched out between and touching both of them. Cullen lifted his right hand from Fear's flank and, reaching across the hound, grasped her hand. She didn't look up—she couldn't—but she gave his fingers a squeeze in return.
She didn't know how long they sat there, but she was fairly sure she must've dozed off. One moment they were holding hands, Fear's fur soft and warm beneath their entwined fingers…
The next moment, Fear was gone, curled up on his rug in front of the hearth. Cullen was saying something, his grip on her hand growing tighter by the moment. She made some sort of noise, wincing as her neck hurt thanks to the awkward position her body was in, and blinked her eyes clear. "What?" she asked, turning to look at him. She was awake now; he didn't need to squeeze so hard.
"I said, where is the key?" Cullen repeated. He lifted his left hand in emphasis, rattling the chain that dangled from his wrist. His eyes were bloodshot and slightly unfocused, his hair matted with cooled sweat, his chest moving just a little too strongly with his breath.
"It's, ah, nearby, but you don't need it…"
"I do!" he interrupted loudly. The next moment he seemed to realize that he had shouted. He took a breath and glanced off to the side, "I, ah, need to, um, step out, for a moment, answer a call of nature. I'll come right back."
Something wasn't right, but she was too groggy to put her finger on what it was, only that she was sure things were not as they appeared. She tried to keep calm and explain how she had already thought of every need. "Oh, no, you don't have to, there's a chamberpot beneath the bed right there. I'll just leave the room for a few moments, give you some privacy." She made to stand up, but he didn't let go of her fingers.
"It would be easier if you unlock me."
"Ow, Cullen, you're hurting me…" She had to sit back down, or the position would have broken her fingers. Slowly he stood, shifting his grip, applying pressure to her wrist as well as her hand. "Cullen…?"
"Where is the key!"
Fear lifted his head, giving a low growl in warning. Peredura was kneeling in front of Cullen now, bent and buckled in an attempt to keep him from breaking her wrist. "No, Fear. Stay," she panted. There was definitely something very wrong going on, but she knew Fear would only make matters worse.
"You have it on you, don't you," he insisted. He went from pushing her down to pulling her to her feet, all through the pressure he exerted on her hand. She cried out, softly, but he didn't seem to hear her. "Is it in your coat? On a chain around your neck? Tell me!"
"Cullen!" she gasped, sure she was feeling bruises form that would perfectly match the imprint of his hand wrapped around her own, "It's me. Peredura. You're hurting me."
"Let me out of here!" he snarled at her, unwilling or unable to recognize her or their surroundings. He started pawing at her coat, feeling around for any pockets or pouches. His fingers were harsh, brutal, invasive. "Give me the damn key!"
"I don't have it on me," she pleaded with him, "Let me go and I'll get it for you."
He laughed, a sound that chilled her, a sound that was not Cullen. He threw her face down onto the bed, his body immediately following, a knee in her back keeping her prisoner. Fear let out a startled bark followed by a confused whine, but remained on his rug. Cullen paid the hound no heed. He roughly tugged her coat off her person, not caring if he caught her hair or bent her arms backwards painfully. "I don't believe you. I won't! You have the key. You must have it. It must be here. It must, because I need it to be! I have to get out of here!"
The pressure of his knee lessened in the small of her back, while he continued to paw through her coat, holding it between his hands and ripping the seams. She was uncertain, hesitating, wondering if she should try to get away while he was distracted with her coat, or if she should call Fear to try to pull him off of her, or if she should….
"Where is the key? Hurry! Give it to me!"
She had hesitated for too long. He grabbed her by her scalp and lifted her to her feet. One arm wrapped around her neck, the muscles thick and solid, squeezing her windpipe. The other hand let go of her hair and started searching her clothing.
"Cullen… I… I can't… breathe…" her fingers dug ineffectively at his arm, managing to pull his tunic, but not his flesh.
"Now you know how I feel, demon," he spat at her, his breath hot and angry in her ear. He flexed his arm, jerking her body in emphasis. "This is what you put me through. Holding me captive. Torturing my mind. The air hot and stale and close. But not this time. This time you WILL release me!"
Peredura's face felt flushed and swollen, her heartbeat pounded in her ears, her throat wheezed painfully with each thin breath, her vision began to turn fuzzy and gray. She was barely conscious, almost out of time, and had only one option left to her. "Fear!" she gasped, praying that the hound would recognize her intent even without the proper training, "Attack!"
The second word came out as a garbled noise, unintelligible to her own ears, but her mabari understood. She saw a darker shadow leap across her darkening vision. She heard a startled cry of pain, but couldn't tell if it was Cullen's or her own. There was the sound of fabric ripping…
Then she was falling, falling away to land on the floor. Hard. It might've knocked the wind out of her, if she had any wind in her lungs. Instead it jarred her elbow and sent stars bursting through her vision. She didn't wait, didn't attempt to make sense of what was happening, but rolled. She rolled and rolled across the floor until she felt something solid stop her.
"Heel!" she coughed, "Heel!" Whatever was happening, whatever delusion Cullen was lost in, he didn't deserve to be mauled by her hound. She managed a deep, full breath past her bruised throat, and meant to call again, but Fear was already returned to her, his cold nose and slobbering tongue at her cheek.
"Good boy, stay," she grunted, her hand not so much petting his head as keeping him from licking the skin off her face. She closed her eyes and laid her forehead down on her other arm. Fear settled down next to her, panting, watching over her protectively, as she seriously considered passing out for a moment or two.
She couldn't, however, she knew that; but she did take a couple of minutes to rest, to work on loosening her throat and easing her breath. After a few moments, she found she could manage to breathe without wheezing, and even discovered she could still swallow. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees before opening her eyes.
Fear was there, as she knew he'd be, watching her and acting like everything was all right. She gave him a smile and shifted to sitting down so she could scratch the back of his neck. Then she looked across the room at Cullen.
Her heart broke at the sight.
Cullen had been injured by her hound. His sleeve was torn and there were a few scratches across his biceps that oozed blood, but she didn't think the scratches were deep enough to do serious harm. She was more concerned there might have been puncture wounds from Fear's teeth, yet it appeared the mabari knew he didn't need to bite Cullen, only encourage him to let her go. A bit of healing potion should take care of the scratches by morning.
His mental state, however, needed more than a healing potion. Cullen was lying on his side, curled up into the fetal position, his eyes closed tight and his lips moving in a continuous stream of sound. His hands were clasped in front of his chest, trembling with tension, his knuckles white. Whatever he was saying, she couldn't quite understand the words, slurred and stumbling over each other, but she could understand the fervency and emotion behind them. He was praying.
"Cullen?" she called softly across the room, her voice hoarse and not sounding like herself.
He didn't answer.
"Cullen? Can you hear me? Open your eyes; do you know who I am?"
"Cease, demon…" he moaned a little louder before returning to his incessant prayer, keeping his eyes closed all the while.
He was lost. He was lost in some deep delusion and she could not reach him. She shook her head. Opeigh had never given her visions; quite the opposite, it had taken everything away from her, including the desire to oppose it. She didn't know what she could do to help Cullen. Yes, she knew how to combat the physical side-effects of withdrawal, but the mental ones he was facing were beyond her experience.
She started to get up when she noticed something about herself; her tunic had been torn. Not just torn, but ripped from her body; only the collar remained in place, and a sleeve bunched around her wrist and dangling one long strip of fabric. Instantly her hands flew, clutching at the remaining cloth and trying desperately to cover her torso. The next moment she almost laughed at herself, thinking she wasn't so concerned about revealing her figure as she was about revealing her scars.
She looked back at Cullen, but he was still curled up and refusing to believe she was real.
She looked at Fear next, but he merely sat and panted, waiting patiently for her command.
She looked around herself and saw she was backed against the balcony door near her dresser. Slowly she stood up, no longer wanting to attract attention to herself, not until she could get into her dresser and find another tunic. The drawer rattled as it opened, making her wince and duck behind the piece of furniture, but Cullen remained stubbornly unaware of her predicament. She grabbed the tunic that was on top of the stack and pulled it on over the remnants of the last tunic.
Feeling more secure with her scarred torso covered, she returned her attention to Cullen. Cautiously she approached him, fiddling with removing her ruined clothing while she walked. He didn't look up at her approach, didn't even appear to be aware of her. She didn't want to get too close, but she didn't want to leave him lying on the cold hard floor. She looked over her shoulder at Fear, but he remained calmly sitting near the balcony door where she had told him to stay. The last time, when something was wrong with Cullen, Fear had sensed it somehow and tried to warn her. She decided to trust him again.
"What do you think, Fear? Is he all right now?"
"Leave me," Cullen moaned.
"I guess that answers my question," she muttered to herself.
"Fear," he continued as if he hadn't heard her, "Desire. I denounce you both!" His bloodshot eyes flashed open, and startled she took half a step back. Weakly he pushed himself to his knees as he continued in a voice rife with abiding agony, "That's right. I know who you are—what you truly are. Demons! I have met your like before, and I have endured your torment. Try me if you must, but you have been warned." He glared at her from beneath his honey brows, hazel eyes flinty and dead, his lip curling with hate as he caught his breath.
"Cullen, I… I'm not a… demon… please, listen to me… it's the withdrawal…"
"You haven't quite got the voice right," he taunted her, trying to rise, "Though I'll allow, the shape is true." He moaned when he failed to reach his feet, and instead ended up sitting once more with his back to the bed. Panting, sweating, disbelieving, he stared at her. "Well, go ahead, begin my torment. I will endure it." He let go with a weak sort of chuckle. "I have before."
Quietly she had to admit to herself, her voice didn't sound like her voice, thanks to his arm nearly crushing her windpipe. She tried to clear her throat, but that didn't so much help matters as cause her pain. Giving up on her voice, she focused on him, edging back the half step she had just retreated. "Cullen, do you know where we are?"
"Does it matter?" he countered, his head lolling against the mattress. When she didn't answer, he gave an unconcerned shrug. "Very well, I will play your little game. I know we're in the tower at Kinloch. Oh, I admit, this room is unfamiliar to me, definitely not from the tower. Some vision created by you, no doubt. But where else could we be? My torment began in Kinloch. This is where it will end."
She didn't like the sound of those words, as if he thought he would die here, or at the very least fail to break free of lyrium's indestructible hold. She wanted to cry for him, but it was more important she stay strong for him—and deadly important that she somehow reach him. "Cullen, look at me. Do you know who I am?"
He stared at her, a look on his face that she had never seen before, not from him, not from any man. It was filled with need, and longing, and a hunger that could never be sated. It scared her and thrilled her at the same time. "You're a demon, a desire demon, taking on HER form." He laughed again, both the sound and expression fading into pain and regret. "Appropriate, that. But you've missed your target. I know the only reason my thoughts dwell on her is due to lyrium withdrawal. I do not truly love her. I do not truly feel jealousy when another man pays attention to her or, or, or holds her, kisses her. So go ahead. Show me whatever vision of impotent lust and unrequited desire you have planned. It will not touch me. It will not break me!"
Peredura stood there, frozen and speechless with shock. A feeling of déjà vu crept down her spine, as she was suddenly reminded of another time he had spoken of his feelings for her, feelings he had never shared, feelings he had never acknowledged—even to himself. But his words continued, piling on more and more confusion and frustration.
"Why are you just standing there?!" he demanded, spittle forming at the edges of his mouth. "Don't you remember why you imprisoned me here? Can't you delve into my thoughts and pluck from them a fitting scenario? Or is your friend," he nodded to the mabari, "The fear demon, unwilling to play its part?" He leaned forwards, but she didn't move back, enthralled by the intensity of his glower. "Perhaps there are too many to chose from, is that it, too many torments to make me suffer and watch? Allow me to help. Try using Dorian Pavus for starters; the two of them have so much in common, both being from Tevinter, both having experience with magic. And he does make her laugh so easily, something I could never do. No? Then perhaps Solas; he's a fellow elf, someone she must feel kinship with. He's watched over her like a father, caring for her, protecting and defending her when the rest of us might have condemned her to death. Or try Varric; she does love listening to his stories, and he got her that puppy, endearing her to him even further. That would be a laugh! The powerful and steadfast Cullen Rutherford, thrown over for a man half his size." He pulled his legs beneath him, bracing his feet, but she didn't notice the movement, still too shocked by what she thought he was saying. "No, wait, you should start with something similar to the last time you tortured me. Sera. That would be perfect, wouldn't it? Peredura and Sera. Yes, that's what you should show me first. That's the scene you should act out. That's what will cause me the greatest torment."
A low growl came from Fear, giving her warning and jarring her from her shock. She shivered with indecision, wanting to look towards Fear but not wanting to take her eyes off of Cullen, her head twitching on her shoulders. In the next heartbeat, Cullen lunged to his feet, throwing himself at her, his hands extended like talons. She stifled her scream and scampered back just in time, not stopping until she was beside Fear, even though the chain rattled and jerked Cullen off his feet. He landed heavily, making a loud thump against the wooden floor hard enough to shake the whole room.
Immediately he was back on his feet, pulling as far as the chain would allow, though despite its length he was still a couple of yards shy of her. "I will destroy you, demon! Both of you! Whatever you think you can do to me, I will put you through ten times worse! I may no longer be a templar, I may no longer have the power that lyrium once gave me, but I still have my faith. I will be strong. I will endure. I will remain unbroken!"
His voice was in such pain at the end, Peredura felt tears sting her eyes.
"I… will remain… unbroken…"
He fell to his knees once more, clasping his hands and praying, but Peredura didn't hear the words. Her mind was too full of other words—his earlier words—rattling around and bumping into each other and making a right mess of her thoughts. Cullen might possibly have just confessed to feeling love for her, or at least feeling jealousy whenever she was with another man. Yes, he had said he thought it was due to withdrawal, but he was feeling something towards her. He had even listed people that he thought the desire demon—he thought she was a demon?—could use to create visions that would hurt him. Her and Dorian. Her and Solas. Her and Varric. Her and… Sera?
She thought back to that evening in Haven months ago, after he rescued her from the lake, when she had asked him about kissing girls and how it should feel. He had acted strangely, not that she paid attention at the time, but now she remembered, the whiteness of his knuckles around the goblet, how his lips parted while he panted for air. He was gasping now, interrupting his own prayer, the words becoming smothered and half-formed.
In his little rant just now, he had mentioned that demons had tortured him before, in Kinloch, where he thought he was tonight. He had never told her what happened there, other than the Circle fell, and he had had to take the life of a fellow templar—end their suffering. She remembered what he told her of lyrium withdrawal, how it made one's past, the worst memories and nightmares in one's head seem real, undistinguishable from what was around them. That must be what he was experiencing right now, or re-experiencing—the worst moment of his life, reliving what happened when the Kinloch Circle fell: the suffering, the torture, the loss of his friend.
She took a deep breath, slow and easy, and in stark contrast to his half-choked breaths. Regardless of whatever he was facing mentally, it was making him suffer physically. She had to find a way to help him, find a way to lead him out of his vision and back to reality.
Desire and fear. Cullen—possibly, quite probably—desired her, which is why when he looked at her, he saw a demon, and had named those things with which she could tempt him. But he had also convinced himself he was seeing a fear demon, so there had to be something here that was triggering his fear. She looked at Fear, but Cullen had never shown any apprehension around her hound; quite the opposite, in fact. She supposed it could be because he recognized her mabari and thought the demon was taking on Fear's form, or because he had heard her call him Fear, or because there was as yet some undiscovered reasoning behind his thoughts, or perhaps there wasn't any reasoning at all! She chewed her lip and drew blood, she was so distraught, watching him grow more and more distressed.
"Kill me…"