The only reason Cullen knew he was not dead was due to the pain throbbing throughout every inch of his body. His head felt trapped in a vise, his throat so dry it was likely impossible to speak, muscles burning, what felt like nails constantly scraping over every bit of exposed skin, his very bones feeling on the verge of breaking under some formless, crushing weight.

But he was not dead. More so, he knew it. He never expected to have another coherent thought again, not after what Raleigh had done to him. The edge of his mouth twitched into a grimace at the memory of searing hot lyrium coating his mouth, sliding down his throat. Worse, he remembered how good it had been. The beautiful song, the strength surging through his body, the intoxicating power — it was almost enough to forget every reason why he'd tried to stop taking lyrium in the first place.

Had his friend been right? Was it possible the red lyrium was not so bad after all? Raleigh warned it would hurt, and Maker did he hurt, but the man also claimed it would make him stronger. Cullen had felt strong at first. He had been untouchable. He'd had blood on his hands — he remembered now, he had slain four of the templars holding him before Raleigh had captured his attention, before the man managed to calm his rage.

Maker, Cullen — I've never seen the likes of you. Raleigh had been strangely happy about it. Whoever the nameless underlings Cullen had slaughtered were, he did not care about them nearly as much as his old friend.

And then Cullen had been abandoned for the Inquisition to discover, with a twisted, semi-accurate tale on hand to explain how he'd come to this power. Cullen had tried to make it back on his own, but…he didn't remember much of that. He wasn't even entirely certain he had made it out of Honnleath.

He tried to tighten his hand into a fist. It took more effort than it should, but soon he felt his nails digging into his skin. Whatever that initial strength had been was gone now. That was…a shame, really. Maybe one dose wasn't enough to become fully corrupted — he should be thankful for that.

He suddenly recognized something aside from the pain. Something warm, almost comforting was moving along his arm.

Magic, he realized with horror. Cullen tried to move away, but felt like most of his body was paralyzed. He must have managed something though, as someone gasped, "Commander!" It was the Inquisitor.

Cullen still had not managed to open his eyes as someone tipped a small spoonful of water into his mouth. His lips cracked as he accepted it; he felt like he'd gone without for days if not weeks.

Or…wait.

Wait.

Other memories were trickling back. Treachery, the blood not that of templars but of the Herald. Then his own blood, burning and scratching at his insides.

How was Maxwell even alive? Cullen struggled to open his eyes, the dim lights of the candles enough to force them shut again — but the glimpse, along with the man eagerly repeating his title again, confirmed that the Inquisitor was beside him.

Where the memories first came in as a slow trickle, everything now rushed over him like a dam had broken. He had killed Maxwell, or, more so, Dorian had used blood magic, had forced him to kill the Inquisitor…and the Inquisition had fallen. He was tortured, denied lyrium, any lyrium, for months before Dorian had come to him offering relief of an entirely different sort.

And Cullen…Maker, he had welcomed it.

He had become a Magister's plaything, no longer having control of his own mind. What better life could he expect under Tevinter rule but being a pet, a pretty trophy to display and fondle at his master's choosing.

Cullen was not sure how long it took, but he started to separate what had been real and what was an illusion. The peaceful chess game, that's where the lies had started. The last real memory was of Samson and that damn red lyrium.

Everything else was a vile fantasy forced onto him by that fucking Magister.

Cullen forced his eyes open again, tilting his head to the side and landing on the villain at once. The mage appeared unconscious, his eyes closed, lips slightly parted, his breathing shallow but even. His arms were covered in thin cuts that were still bleeding even as Solas hurried to heal them. Despite the elf's attentions on the Magister's wounds, the mage's narrowed eyes were clearly watching Cullen. He looked wary.

Maxwell continued to tip small amounts of water into Cullen's mouth, whispering what were probably meant to be encouraging words as he did so. "That's it," and "You're safe," and "Everything's going to be all right."

Everything is going to be all right, Commander.

Cullen forced himself to sit up, ignoring the agony that tore through him as he did so. Maxwell fell backward onto his arse, startled as he spilled the cup of water he'd been carefully giving to Cullen. "Commander, you shouldn't move too much," he said urgently. Cullen's heart pounded painfully against his ribs as he caught sight of the symbols painted around him — painted in blood. Worse, he recognized some of them. He did not know precisely what they meant, but he had seen the same before.

In Kinloch Hold.

He swallowed down his terror. He didn't know how long he had before Dorian would take him, and he had to focus on what he could do in that brief time.

"The Inquisitor is correct. It will take time for you to recover from your ordeal," said Solas, moving to kneel beside Cullen.

Cullen's lip curled. "My ordeal," he repeated, his throat protesting the use. Cullen glared at Dorian, who had yet to wake up. "Why is he here?" he managed.

"He's healed you,' Maxwell answered quickly. "Removed the red lyrium."

Removed the red lyrium? That couldn't be possible, surely. Cullen did not dare trying to call on his templar abilities, not with how weak he felt, but he tried to touch them anyway, just to see that they were there.

It was utterly baffling to realize he felt nothing. Where once there had been that ever-present music, that sharp taste at the back of his tongue, that glow of light and power — he felt and heard nothing.

Dorian had taken the blue, too.

This…this wasn't possible. This was not what he wanted. He'd been trying to break free from it, but that freedom wasn't worth this. He would never have chosen to trade that power, no matter how self-destructive, for life at the mercy of a maleficar.

Cullen's eyes caught on Solas', who was continuing to study him closely. The Inquisitor was a fool, but clearly Solas understood the potential danger such blood magic posed. But to have let the Magister do this to him, to fuck with his mind and body…he wasn't friendly with either mage, but he couldn't help but feel utterly betrayed.

Dorian took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He immediately locked on Cullen, his attention sending a shudder of horror down Cullen's spine. Those grey eyes, soft and beautiful but hiding such evil. Cullen never should have let his guard down, not by an inch. How could he have been so blinded? How long had Dorian been slipping his fingers beneath Cullen's skin, only held back by the weakening shield lyrium provided?

When had Cullen stopped playing the game and let Dorian in for real?

Cullen shook himself mentally. There wasn't time for him to agonize over his own mistakes; he could not afford to waste another moment. He had to act now, before Dorian recovered enough to assert himself again. Even with his anger guiding him, it took every ounce of strength to roll toward Dorian and wrap his hands around the Magister's throat.

Dorian grabbed his wrist, nails tearing Cullen's skin. Even in Cullen's state he was the stronger, and this time he would not let Dorian fight back. Dorian's eyes rolled and he struggled for air, his hand slipping off Cullen's arm. Apparently Dorian remained weakened by whatever vile ritual this was, but Cullen could not count on such weakness for long. He leaned on him harder, squeezed his fingers as tightly as he could. The other mages were shouting at him, but Cullen ignored them until the two forcefully pulled him off of Dorian, keeping a firm hold of both arms as they dragged him to his feet.

Dorian sat up, grasping at his throat. His breaths were desperate and strained, and tears flowed down his cheeks as he stared up at Cullen. Dorian did not appear angered by the attack at all. He looked almost regretful, wide eyes desperate and imploring, and — no, it was all an act, had been an act the entire time. The Magister had shown his true colors and he was a monster. For months Cullen had lived in that alternate reality, one where he was betrayed and beaten and humiliated — no amount of sorrow in those alluring eyes would change any of that. No apology could erase the fact that Dorian had orchestrated every circumstance, every torture.

"Commander, he helped you," Maxwell said desperately. "Do you remember what happened? The ambush, the red lyrium?" he added quickly.

Cullen snarled. "I remember everything." Dorian closed his eyes in some pathetic attempt at appearing ashamed, as if the man didn't know full well what he had been doing.

"I asked him to do this. Please don't blame him." Cullen turned his glare on the Inquisitor; Maxwell immediately released him and took a few quick steps backward. "It was the only way. The red lyrium," he repeated.

"You let him into my mind. You let him…mold me," Cullen said with a shudder. "He cannot be permitted to live."

Maxwell's jaw dropped. "What? Commander, you're not thinking straight!"

"My mind is perfectly clear— though I have no idea how long that will last." Fear had started to twist in his stomach again, quickly displacing his anger. How much longer did he have before he lost his very self? Could he be sure that this anger even was his? Dorian could be making him act more drastically than Cullen himself would, using that instability as further excuse to care for him. "He tortured me, Inquisitor. He did everything he could to tame me and if he's allowed to live, to recover, I will not be…me." Cullen clenched his hands, refusing to look at Dorian again. "It's me or him, Maxwell," he said firmly.

"Commander, you're being —."

"He's right."

Maxwell paled, Solas' eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair if he'd had any, and Cullen dared turn back to look at the Magister with astonished suspicion.

Dorian was still on the ground, arms covered in dried blood and face shining with tears he did not bother to wipe away. "You won't trust me or him, not really. You'll doubt." Dorian swallowed, wincing from the pain as he touched his throat again. "You can't afford doubt." Dorian slowly got to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him. "Give me time, maybe a week, to recover, and then I'm gone."

This was clearly a trick. Dorian had done too much, revealed too much in his illusions — he wouldn't just leave, not the Inquisition, and certainly not Cullen, not now that he had actual power over him.

"With one other stipulation," the mage added with a mirthless smile. "I have two questions for the Commander, and I want the truth."

"Fuck off, mage," Cullen sneered.

Dorian faltered so slightly Cullen was certain no one else would notice. He knew the Magister too well. "Two questions and you won't have to see me again," Dorian assured him quietly. "I'll heal somewhere privately and then I will leave Skyhold."

Cullen's eyes narrowed at the mage with skepticism. Surely whatever Dorian wanted to ask would be somehow painful, embarrassing, or…Cullen didn't even know. Dorian must have some sort of plan, perhaps some way of strengthening his hold on Cullen in an outwardly innocent manner.

"I don't want you to leave," Maxwell admitted under his breath.

"I'm afraid it can't be helped, Max," Dorian said with a sad smile, his eyes remaining entirely fixed on Cullen. "Next time the Commander sees me, he'll kill me."

"He's right about that," Cullen growled.

Dorian hesitated, something almost vulnerable flitting through his gaze before he set his jaw. "So as you can see, it's better for all that I leave before that's the case. Two questions, Commander," Dorian repeated softly.

"I suppose you could make me answer." Dorian arched an eyebrow challengingly, and Cullen decided not to push his luck. "Fine then. Quickly."

"Did you take red lyrium willingly?"

Cullen gaped at him. "No, of course not." He was somewhat confused when Dorian closed his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Had Dorian been worried that was the case? A small, but agonizing hint of guilt tightened his chest. He had not taken it willingly, he never would — although he had been helping Raleigh and the others. He supposed he paid for that mistake already. And Dorian had always been against him taking lyrium, even helping him through the withdrawals.

Dorian probably had ulterior motives for supporting his efforts. Of course he did, Cullen was such an idiot. A weaker Cullen was just what Dorian wanted all along; his visions proved that. A docile pet to punish at his pleasure. Or to…Cullen ground his teeth, torn between tender feelings at the memory of Dorian's gentle touch and the overwhelming need to destroy him for the violation.

"Good," Dorian breathed. "Good," he repeated, taking a deep breath as he stepped closer. Maxwell had a cautious hand on Cullen's arm before Cullen could even flinch at the approach.

"Remember, the truth," Dorian said quietly, not bothering to keep out of Cullen's reach. Cullen wanted to try strangling him again, but the two mages at his side had already proven they could prevent that in his current state. Whatever embarrassing secret Dorian would want revealed, however much it hurt to tear off the scab and reveal the tender flesh underneath, it would be worth it to ensure that Cullen never had to lay eyes on this maddening mage again.

"Who did this to you?"

Cullen blinked, startled by the question — or more, the lack of some intimate prodding or suspicious inquiry. "What?" he said despite himself.

Dorian's eyes were so intense Cullen swore they were looking straight to Cullen's very soul. "Tell me the name of the man who did this. Who poured the lyrium down your throat?"

Cullen knew he should lie. Connecting himself to Raleigh in any way would be risky. He had been fortunate thus far that no one had thought to ask many questions concerning this leader of the Red Templars, considering the rather common knowledge that the two had served together in Kirkwall. But why would Dorian care, why did he want to know?

Oh. Cullen suddenly recalled the moment when he realized what awaited him, when there was nothing to stop the red lyrium from taking him over. He had even taken comfort in it, the thought that Dorian would so abhor what had happened that he would destroy Samson himself. That Dorian would avenge Cullen.

That seemed such a stupid thought now. There was no affection here, no concern aside from taming him, keeping him docile and controlled. It was clear now what Dorian wanted. He didn't care for the south or for Cullen at all. He wanted to prove he was superior, to dominate them. And Corypheus…he was just an obstacle to that. That was probably the only reason he bloody joined the Inquisition. It was by chance Dorian had found an amusing diversion on the side to toy with and conquer. The Maker must truly hate Cullen to put him in the Magister's path.

"Who did this to you, Cullen?' Dorian asked again, barely audible over the sound of Cullen's blood thundering in his ears.

Cullen breathed in slowly through his nose as he searched Dorian's eyes for some sign of the reason for this question. Was it so he could go find some proof that Cullen was double dealing all along? To ruin him completely?

Or was that an infinitesimal spark of honest fury in his expression?

Either way, Cullen was sure Dorian would spot a lie. "Raleigh Samson," Cullen admitted hoarsely.

Dorian closed his eyes, hands clenched into fists that sparked with lightning before he could control it. When Cullen instinctively reached for his own absent powers, he felt so dizzy he nearly collapsed. Solas kindly grabbed him and held him upright.

The magic faded quickly, and when Dorian opened his eyes the well known mask was in place of any feelings, good or ill. "Thank you, Commander," he said with a tilt of his head. "I'm afraid I won't be able to make our chess game for the foreseeable future,' he added with the smallest flicker of the personality Cullen thought he'd gotten to know so well. The mage turned on his heel and left, a bit slow and stumbling on the stairs, but he did not look back.

Maxwell guided Cullen to sit at the foot of the bed, and Solas resumed his healing. Cullen was too exhausted and distracted to think of rejecting the touch of magic. If Dorian kept his word, he would be gone after he recovered and Cullen would never have to deal with him again. He would no longer be pestered into taking a break, never need to shield himself from suggestive flirtations, never be taken off guard in a dark corner.

Never again best him at chess despite his cheating, never feel those soft lips sliding beautifully against his mouth, never taste the dark richness of his blood, and never tease him with the possibility of more.

Cullen supposed he should feel comforted. The greater the distance, the less control Dorian would be able to take of him.

But then why did he feel so empty?