A/N: Takes place in the same AU as "The Magister", "The Game", "Denial", and "The Pale Light".

It would mean everything to Mia if you would be there for his naming, and it gives you a chance to visit home. The Chantry is most beautiful this time of year.

Slipped in with a recent letter from Mia, there was an extra note supposedly by her husband. Really, was using his sister's newborn the best idea the man could come up with? Cullen was fortunate Leliana apparently did not think anything of it — though he did have to persuade her not to tag along. Apparently the killer bard found babies the sweetest thing in Thedas aside from nugs.

It must have been urgent, considering the Chantry reference. Perhaps that's why it was much weaker than the fake missives his friend once used to help obtain lyrium and smuggle mages around while living in the streets of Kirkwall.

Cullen stared up at the Chantry on the hill. It was small, and calling it a Chantry was generous even when the town was not in such disrepair. His home village had always been small, and after the Blight there was nothing that could really be called a village anymore. A few farmers had claimed land on the outskirts, and the old mage's house was known to shelter the temporary apostate on the move, but those lucky enough to have escaped the Blight never came back to reclaim Honnleath. He did not dare look toward the house he had lived in as a child. He didn't really want to know if it remained, an empty husk full of ghosts, or if it had been destroyed, the remains of his parents buried in the rubble. Either way, the home he remembered was long gone.

As was the giant statue in the square, apparently. Who had taken the effort to move that monstrosity?

The wind threatened to tear his cloak from his back, reminding him that, again, this was apparently urgent enough to risk calling him away from Skyhold under shaky pretense. If this was not urgent, he would require a great deal of persuasion to keep from running the fucker through. The Inquisitor might be an idiot and Leliana may have been blinded by the idea of Cullen having some semblance of a family life, but at the very least Dorian would already be suspicious of his sudden absence. As far as Cullen could tell, Dorian did not have him fully figured out yet, but he loathed giving him more to work with — especially in this particular case.

As soon as he opened the door to the Chantry, Cullen reevaluated his situation.

He had expected to find Samson alone, as was their custom. He certainly did not expect to find the small building brimming with the glow from the horde of templars within, all in various stages of red lyrium corruption. He did not let his discomfort show as he kicked the door shut behind him. He was heavily armored beneath his cloak, and despite his recent abstention from lyrium he did still maintain much of his abilities. That borrowed magic would not be as useful against other templars, but it should be enough to give him a chance to flee should the need arise. Barring all that, he had his sword and shield.

"Finally, the golden boy honors us with his presence," Samson sneered before grinning broadly. "Come in, it's cold enough to freeze Andraste's pyre out there. Ruvena, some of that hot cider for the Commander!"

Cullen briefly surveyed Ruvena as the woman handed him a steaming cup. He recognized her name and was fairly certain she had been one of the templars under his command in Kirkwall, but he could find nothing remotely familiar about her face. To be fair, half of it was now a jutting crystal of the cursed red. Cullen swallowed his disgust with what Samson had done to the Order. He understood why, of course. The red lyrium was freedom from the Chantry's shackles, a perfect defense against mages, and the power to change the world. The fact so many such templars the Inquisition encountered were little more than shells or mindless beasts, however….

"You look well," Samson said suddenly.

Cullen took a cautious sip of the drink, pleased to find that it was legitimately decent apple cider, and took the brief moment to take in Samson. "So do you," he said honestly.

It was odd, but he swore Samson did look healthier than last time they had met. While most of the other templars were becoming less human, albeit far stronger than before, Samson appeared much closer to the same man he'd once shared a room with in Kirkwall.

"You're a shite liar."

"That's why you know I'm not lying," Cullen replied smoothly.

Samson chuckled as he accepted a drink from Ruvena as well. "True. A right bastard, but not a liar, right?"

Cullen grinned, barely hiding his amusement behind his cup. "Bastard is a little harsh. My parents were married, you know. Unlike some."

"Ooh!" Samson put a hand over his heart, gasping with false outrage before he laughed. "I've missed you, Cullen."

It could be far too easy to fall into the friendly jabs and jokes the two once shared back in another life, when both were firmly within the Chantry's grasp. Instead, Cullen replied, "I hate to press the issue, but why am I here?" He held up the fake page of the letter. "Urgent, remember?"

Samson's grin twitched. "Yes, well. You've really gone Commander on me, haven't you?"

"That is my title," Cullen replied with a small shrug.

"In the Inquisition," Samson amended. "The righteous Commander Cullen."

Cullen smirked. "Has a nice ring to it."

Samson set aside his cider and leaned in, lowering his voice. "See, but that's the problem, isn't it? You've settled into the role a little…too well for some."

Cullen snorted, though it was mostly forced. "I'm not one of your men. Nor do I serve your master."

"Ally," Samson corrected sharply.

"Indeed," Cullen agreed dubiously. "You've known that from the beginning."

"And I get it!" Samson replied, his voice hushed but fervent. "I do. You hate those bastard mages more than any of us, and you've got every right. You could never serve one. Yet…." Samson tapped his fingers on the nearby table and shrugged.

"I don't serve Trevelyan," Cullen hissed, his lip curling. "Though it's a damn good thing I got in before he was around. It's served you well enough."

"Well, Cullen. Not well enough."

Cullen set his mug down too. "He is a mage, and a rather naive one at that. The fact the Inquisition went to other mages for help is not surprising," Cullen lamented bitterly.

"You were to bring us under their wing."

"I was overruled," Cullen scowled. "Not just by the 'Herald,' but it seems that most people willing to throw in their lot with the underdogs are likely to continue doing such," he said with annoyance. "It won't matter in the end."

"See, there's where you're wrong. It does matter. Now."

Cullen realized it was feeling a lot warmer now. There were no fires in the room — but he had been in the Temple of Sacred Ashes after its destruction and recognized that red lyrium gave off its own heat.

"There are those — not me, understand," Samson continued, "who think that you've turned. Gone…soft."

Despite the warmth of the templars closing in, it felt like someone had slipped ice down the back of his armor. "How dare you?" Cullen sneered.

"Not me," Samson repeated. "But considering your relationship with the Tevinter —."

"Don't tell me you believe such ridiculous gossip," Cullen scoffed, failing to keep from briefly averting his gaze. That gossip might be very slightly true.

"Not me, I get it, keep your enemies close and all that," Samson said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But some…proof that you are still one of us would be welcome."

"I've given you more than enough proof," Cullen scowled. "And from the reports, you've certainly been making good use of the information." Undermining the Inquisition's pro-mage efforts was a risky business. Samson bloody knew that, and he had never demanded more than Cullen could offer. What is he after?

"The ranks are restless," Samson said quietly. "You've commanded plenty before, you understand how sometimes such shows are necessary."

Cullen got to his feet, ignoring the fact that he had nowhere to go with how he was surrounded. "Shows are not necessary for allies, Samson," he said far more certainly than he felt. "Only enemies."

"You understand my predicament," Samson said calmly. "I know you would never side with any of those demons. Yet somehow the Grand Enchanter got the word to offer help before we did."

"That whole mess was that bastard Alexius," Cullen cursed. "He used time magic, I've told you."

Samson grimaced. "You can hear yourself, right? Time magic? It's more than a little farfetched."

Thing was, Cullen recognized that Samson believed it. Samson was not a good man, and he'd never claim such himself, but Cullen knew him well enough to understand him and even trust him to an extent. This wasn't about Cullen at all. Samson was putting on a show for his own men. That was far more dangerous than if he was making a move against Cullen himself.

"You would have been under a mage's thumb had things gone to plan," Cullen sneered, trying to swallow the fear rising in his throat. "Though that apparently didn't stop you from going to another," he added pointedly.

"Means to an end. So we should grateful to be excluded from your organization while you shape the future of Thedas?" Samson said with a shake of his head. "That's a poor defense, my old friend."

Ruvena shoved her way through to the front of the closing circle of red templars, holding…holding….

No.

This fresh mug was filled with liquid lyrium, ominously glowing red and humming with what sounded far too much like something from Cullen's lingering nightmares of the demons and abominations of Kinloch Hold. But underneath that…the music was beautiful, intoxicating.

No, anything but that. Fuck, he'd take the tortures of Kinloch again over losing himself not just to lyrium but to the worst form of it — he knew he would be too weak to maintain his own mind, much less anything else. His struggle to stop taking regular lyrium was such that he had slipped more frequently than he would care to admit, tried to abandon the Inquisition entirely, and once even humiliatingly tried to provoke Dorian into killing him in a desperate attempt to make the suffering end.

Maker he wished that attempt had been successful now.

Cullen knew the horror had shown on his face when he met Samson's eyes again. Samson didn't know though, he didn't understand how Cullen had been struggling — and Cullen could not dare risk admitting it. That would be declaring that he wasn't one of them any longer and had no intentions to be.

"It isn't so bad," Samson said as he got to his feet, too. "Look at me." He flexed, showing off how his own corruption seemed to have truly become a part of him, strengthening muscles and supporting bone. His body sang with the power, an enchanting and deadly tune that promised limitless potential. "I've known you for years, Cullen. You'll take to it better than I, I expect. The pain is manageable."

"I think the Inquisitor would notice if I started sprouting red crystals," Cullen said with a forced chuckle. "I'm afraid the answer is no."

Samson closed his eyes, regret flashing over his face. "And I'm afraid it wasn't a question."

Cullen tried to call on what remained of his abilities but found that he could not. His eyes flashed to the mug of cider. He'd hardly had two sips, but with his abilities already weakened maybe whatever they'd dosed him with was enough. He tried to go for his sword the same moment, but too many templars were too close. Hands seemed to be everywhere, clutching so tightly at his arms he felt they would snap. Someone slipped a hand around his throat, another grasping firmly at his chin with hands so hot they burned.

He tried to scream, fully prepared to beg or plead because nothing was worth this, nothing.

He felt the tears rolling down his cheeks, but couldn't hear what Samson was saying as he poured the liquid into his mouth. Cullen couldn't fight the hands forcing his mouth open, couldn't try to spit it out; he had to swallow or he would drown. The red burned his tongue, the taste sharper yet sweeter than regular lyrium, and a low moan escaped him, so desperate that lingering part of him was to feed the addiction. Power, it promised, you will be unstoppable.

But it was a lie. It was just another leash, one that would choke and suffocate him if he didn't go completely mad first. Even Dorian despised how the Southern Chantry leashed their templars, and the two of them didn't agree on anything; fuck, Dorian helped Cullen fight his addiction.

He clung to that final thought, as incoherent as it was, that Dorian would be furious about this because that was the only comfort Cullen could find in what awaited him. Dorian was an arrogant, vengeful son of a bitch and even if Cullen was taken out of the game, that only left more board for Dorian to use. If the tiniest hint of the affection the Magister cast at the Commander was real, Samson would pay for this.

Samson would pay for this, even if Cullen wasn't around to see it.

Cullen swallowed and the world faded into red.