Note: Cullen and Anwen are finally reunited - and it's a bit weird.
This chapter was getting a bit unwieldy so I split it into two. I think it works a lot better this way but it means that this chapter is a little short.
Anwen hears a sharp intake of breath, and at first she fears she's offended Cullen with her flippancy.
But then there's a sigh – and his arms are somehow managing to pull her even tighter – and then he starts to laugh, quiet, warm chuckles that puff against the messy halo of hair across her crown.
"You're terrible," he murmurs, bending down slightly to brush his lips against her temple, "remind me why I came to your rescue?"
"Because I'm delightfully charming, and witty, and well-dressed," she suggests with a cheeky lilt of one brow, then adding, "and because you're madly in love with me."
He chuckles again. "Hmmm… Is that so?"
She nods decidedly, and though he pretends to pout and roll his eyes, she can see the force of his affection in the way that he looks at her. He leans back a little, just enough so that he can hold her eyes with his own when he says, "you're right; I do – I love you."
Her heart does this happy little pitter-patter thing, strong and riotous, and though she's heard those three precious words countless times since the first time he'd said them the night before Adamant, her reaction is still just as intense. She's not sure she will ever get used to hearing him say it.
"I love you too," she says, delighting in the way his whole body seems to soften when she does, a pleased little smile spreading across his lips.
"Although… for the sake of accuracy," she continues, her lips quirking into a teasing smirk, "I would hardly consider this much of a rescue; you missed the hard bit. I had to rescue myself!"
She'd meant it as a joke, and he tries his best to smile at her in response, but Anwen doesn't miss the shadow that flashes behind his eyes, the tension that makes his expression suddenly stiff. He looks – well, Anwen's not sure what that look is – embarrassment perhaps? Shame that his men had not been able to help in the fighting? Maybe he's angry with her for attacking the Venatori stronghold without waiting for Inquisition back-up.
"Well – quite," he says, and Anwen cringes at how terse he sounds, how clipped.
She opens her mouth to apologise – though she's not entirely sure for what she should be apologising – but Cullen's already stepping back, his arms dropping from their stranglehold around her so that he can turn to address his soldiers.
Well shit.
There's an uncomfortable niggling feeling as he steps away from her – coldness, of course, now that his body is no longer pressed so close against hers, radiating warmth, but also irritation that he'd turned so suddenly awkward. She's always teased him, fond but relentless, and normally he is happy to snark right back at her. She doesn't understand why he's reacting so strangely now to what was quite obviously a joke.
She's saved from her irritation by a crushing hug from Bull, her tiny frame squashed against his solid chest, then a smaller (though no less fierce) hug from Dorian. Both men start talking at the same time, their words tripping over each other as they bombard her with questions about her capture and subsequent escape. Anwen doesn't even know where to begin, overwhelmed to finally be with her friends, her family, and all she can manage is expressions of relief at seeing them, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
When Cassandra approaches, she finally does start crying, practically throwing herself into Cassandra's arms. Cassandra goes stiff at first, then slowly lifts her arms to wrap around Anwen's shoulders, a small chuckle escaping into the narrow space between them.
"I'm glad to see you are well, my friend," Cassandra says, and though she doesn't grin like Bull and Dorian, there's still a smile upon her lips. That smile falters as she steps back and fully takes in Anwen's appearance; the dark circles around Anwen's eyes, the sallowness of her skin, the angry burn stretched along Anwen's right arm. "Well… relatively speaking."
"Fuck me!" Bull suddenly shouts, "what happened to your leg?!"
Anwen looks down and cringes – fuck; it really does look a mess. There's a long rip in her trousers, gaping to reveal a deep, jagged cut along her calf, and blood has seeped into the fabric, staining it from her ankle to over her knee.
Cullen had been on the other side of the room, issuing orders to his men, but Bull's bellowing immediately draws his attention. He barks a few last orders before turning and stalking back toward Anwen, his men offering quick salutes before scurrying from the room. He doesn't get too close – lingering awkwardly over Cassandra's shoulder as if afraid to impose – but he cranes his head sharply to get a better look at Anwen's leg, flinching markedly when he sees the bloody gouge in her skin.
"It's nothing," Anwen insists, shrugging in a way which would have looked casual had it not been so rigid and ungainly. "It was just a light stabbing; nothing more."
"Does it hurt?" Dorian asks, prodding the wound lightly with the end of his staff.
Anwen hisses, narrowing her eyes at him in warning, before catching herself and forcing her voice to sound casual and airy when she replies, "not much – my healing magic took the edge off."
Her friends look unconvinced, glaring at her with a mix of incredulity and suspicion.
Cullen's eyes start to drift higher, moving from her injured calf to take in every wound, every wearied tremble of her limbs, his face growing steadily bleaker as he takes in the sight of her.
Cassandra turns when she realises he's standing there, eyeing him expectantly. "Commander?" she asks.
He suddenly jerks to attention, managing to pull his face away from Anwen and look at Cassandra. "I've sent some soldiers to survey the building in case there are still some Venatori hiding somewhere. The rest have been instructed to secure the prisoners."
Anwen nods as Cullen gives his report then casts her eyes quickly around the room when she notices the absence of her newfound allies. "What happened to the Jennies?"
"They went upstairs," Sera answers, "to check on the servants."
Right, the servants – she'd promised to go to them once the fighting was done. And she supposes she should probably oversee Cullen's soldiers as they capture and bind the surviving Venatori. In fact, now that Anwen thinks about it, there's still just – so much to do.
"I should check on the staff," she mumbles, "or – or help the soldiers check the house for more Venatori; they might need some support from a magic-user." She attempts to step forward but her legs buckle beneath her, her right leg crumbling as soon as she tries to put weight on it; it really does fucking hurt.
Dorian manages to catch her in time, steadying her and holding her upright. "Anni, stop, just…" Dorian's words trail off as he shakes his head disapprovingly, "you don't need to do anything."
"Except maybe get some sleep," Bull interjects, "or get ass-over-ears drunk. Or – shit Boss – maybe let someone take a look at that leg. You're getting blood everywhere."
She laughs weakly then nods her agreement. "Sorry for not bleeding in a more orderly manner – but, yes, sleep; sleep sounds good."
Sleep sounds more than just good – it sounds fucking glorious. Food too – it doesn't even matter what kind; just as long as she can eat something that doesn't scorch the back of her throat when she swallows. Anwen finds herself overcome with a powerful yearning – for rest, for healing, for sustenance – but most importantly, she just wants to get out of here. Away from the stench of blood and damp wood and the stiff itch of lingering magic.
As they half drag, half carry Anwen out of the room, she spots the tall man hefted afoot by two of Cullen's soldiers, his hands bound snugly behind his back. It hardly seems enough, she thinks with a bright flare of panic, two painfully young-looking men flanking such a powerful mage. Evil of that magnitude surely can't be held by mere rope – he needs chains, and runes and—
"Did you bring soldiers with Templar training?" Anwen suddenly asks Cullen.
He gives her a sharp look, as if mildly offended by the question. "Of course."
"That one needs to be watched at all times," she says, pointing at the tall man. "He's the one behind all this."
Cullen's nostrils flare at that, and something hardens behind his eyes. "Him?" Cullen asks, jerking his head toward the tall man.
Anwen nods and Cullen bristles, expression darkening as his eyes narrow on the bound Venatori. Then he marches toward the tall man, grabs a handful of blood-stained robes, and punches him, square in the jaw. The tall man's head jerks back, the whole room filled with the echoing smack from Cullen's gauntleted hand hitting against the bony jaw.
The tall man smiles – and, oh, has Anwen come to despise that smile – spitting out a few bloody teeth before sneering, "does that make you feel better?"
"Not particularly," Cullen snaps back, "perhaps I should try another."
Anwen's not sure whether Cullen really intends on hitting the man again but she raises a hand to still him. "I want them all handed over to the Orlesian authorities."
"The Orlesians?" Cullen asks disdainfully, still holding the tall man in a tight grip, the man's toes just barely touching the floor. "You don't want the Inquisition to deal with this?"
She shakes her head. "They've killed an Orlesian noble family and seized their property. That's an offence for the Orlesian courts. And besides…" Anwen gives the tall man her haughtiest of looks, a well-practiced expression from years of looking down on people, "I'm done with them now; they're not worthy of my attention."
Anwen pushes slightly against Dorian until he loosens his grip on her. Lifting her chin, she strides out of the gloomy, ruined basement, marshalling all her strength so she doesn't cringe with each step or crumble every time she places her weight on her tattered right leg.
This is the last time the tall man will ever see her and she wants him to remember her like this – not cowering in her cell, or writhing in pain on an examination table – but striding powerfully and confidently away, flanked by her allies, completely in control.
She wants him to remember her not as his prisoner, but as the Inquisitor.
The journey back to Skyhold is… strained.
Anwen sleeps more than she expected, deep and dreamless – unconsciousness claiming her the moment her head hits her bedroll. She thought the days she spent in that laboratory would linger in her dreams, just like the hellish vision of the future lingered with her after Redcliffe, or the Nightmare demon after Adamant. But her exhaustion seems, for now, more powerful than her nightmares, and she sleeps with a heaviness that surprises her – as if her body is trying to make up for the drug-induced non-sleep of her captivity.
As her strength comes back to her she's able to heal herself, knitting together the torn flesh of her calf and soothing over the burns left behind by the tall man's fireball. After only a few days' travel, there's only the faintest silver contour running down her leg – and she hopes that too will eventually fade (hopes keenly that there will be no physical trace left on her body to remind her of those miserable days writhing on that examination table).
But what makes the journey so uncomfortable is the questions. Dorian is the most invasive, wanting to know what precisely the Venatori were doing to excite her Anchor, what magic they were using, what concoction of Lyrium and magebane they were forcing her to drink (and how in the Void is she supposed to know the answer to that?!). And it's not just Dorian – Bull, Sera, even Cassandra (whom Anwen has never considered to be particularly nosey) asks her repeatedly about her capture and eventual escape.
She gives them vague answers, admits to having been tortured, but gives them no specifics. Partly it's because she doesn't want to think of her time in captivity – at least, not yet – not until the memories have had the chance to fade, to become distant and harmless instead of burning and bright. But more than that, she just doesn't want to see her friends' faces when she tells them – she doesn't want them to look at her with pity or sadness or disappointment.
Not Dorian, or Cassandra, or any of them – and certainly not Cullen.
Oh Maker, Cullen.
Cullen is being… odd. Well, in all honesty, everyone is being odd. Dorian chatters away mindlessly and Cassandra looks at her with a peculiar softness. Even Sera is a little gentler with her, swearing less, lingering close but never actually touching her.
But Cullen is worst of all.
Sure he is pleasant enough. He never leaves her side, riding alongside her when they travel, sitting close around the campfire when they share their evening meal, but despite his nearness – he seems so far away. He talks to her with ease, easy chatter about books or music or whatever training drills he wants to try out next with his soldiers – but there's none of his usual humour, the gentle teasing she would expect. He touches her frequently, perhaps to reassure himself that she really is there – but it's shy and tentative, as if afraid that he might break her.
And he looks at her like the very sight of her wounds him.
She understands that the last few days must have been hard for him – they were certainly hard for her, being away from him, worrying about him – but his distance now is not exactly helping matters.
It's a relief when they get back to Skyhold – because Skyhold is familiar and it's home and if there's a place in Thedas where things will start feeling back to normal, surely it's here.
When she's handed her horse to Dennet and passed her equipment to a waiting squire, the first thing she wants to do – needs to do – is see her doppelgänger.
All through her captivity, the thought of this woman running around her home, wearing her face, had troubled her immensely. It had pained her to think of the damage she could render, the relationships ruined, the careful work Anwen had invested into the Inquisition, torn apart by one woman's casual cruelty. Her disquiet had only intensified when she'd reunited with the Inquisition and learned about what the Shapeshifter had done in her place – her cruelty toward Harding, inconsolable rudeness toward Josephine, the bitter fight that had seen Sera expelled from the Inquisition.
Cullen stays notably quiet during these conversations, apparently unwilling to talk about any of his dealings with the fake Inquisitor, and Anwen can't help but be curious as to what he is hiding – what peculiar pain her counterpart has caused him
Cassandra originally offers to take Anwen to the holding cells but Cullen is oddly insistent that he should be the one to take her – insisting, somewhat tenuously, that it's important to keep the prisoner's exposure to the rest of the Inquisition as minimal as possible.
They're only a few feet away from the heavy door leading to Skyhold's holding cells, just outside of earshot from the guards that Cullen had positioned there, when Cullen grabs her hand and brings her to a stop.
"I should warn you," he whispers, "this will be… unsettling. I certainly find her so and she's, well, it's not my face she's wearing."
Anwen threads her fingers between his own, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as she tries to take strength from his touch. "Yes, I… anticipate as such."
"And she will say things – cruel things. I don't… I want – remember that you are stronger than any mere words." Cullen's voice quivers slightly as he speaks and Anwen gives his hand another small squeeze, although this time she thinks it's more for his comfort than her own.
After a brief moment to steal herself, she steps forward, letting go of Cullen's hand as she pushes open the door, striding into the room with Cullen trailing just behind her.
The woman in the cell sits cross-legged on the floor, serene and unmoving, seemingly unconcerned by the creaking door and the sound of approaching footsteps. But when she glances briefly to the side and sees that it's the Inquisitor approaching, her whole posture changes, her back becoming stiff and her mouth gaping with surprise.
"Anni, my dear," Not-Anwen says with a cloying familiarity, her surprise slipping away to leave something sickeningly sweet in its place. "I did not expect to see you here."
Anwen stops a few feet from the bars of Not-Anwen's cell. "No I expect you didn't."
"And if you're here, then I supposed it means my illustrious compatriots have failed."
Anwen nods. "I'm afraid so."
"All dead I presume – struck down with the righteous fury of Andraste's own chosen one." Not-Anwen rolls her eyes as she speaks, making it abundantly clear just what she thinks of Anwen's holy title. Not that Anwen cares; it was not Andraste who saved her from her torturers but her own unbridled rage.
Anwen keeps her face calm, refusing to show anything except for an easy professionalism. "Not all of them are dead – you'll find I'm very merciful."
"Ah – and is that what you'll show me? Mercy."
"You will stand before me in judgement and I will determine a suitable punishment for your crimes. You will be given an opportunity to defend yourself and, should you decide to cooperate – should you furnish us with useful information about Venatori activity – you will be granted mercy."
Not-Anwen smiles, sweet and beguiling – it looks weird on Anwen's own face. "Aren't I lucky that the mighty Inquisitor is such a forgiving leader." She turns that smile toward Cullen then, and it no longer looks sweet, twisting into something hungry and cruel instead. "And I suppose you're lucky too, Commander. You're going to need forgiveness after what you did."
Anwen's head jerks sharply to look at Cullen, a pinch of confusion furrowing her face at Not-Anwen's words. He looks to the floor, averting her gaze, and a furious blush starts to colour his cheeks – his reaction is far more worrying than anything the prisoner could have said, and Anwen feels something uncomfortable knotting in the pit of her stomach.
"Oh – didn't your noble Commander tell you?" Not-Anwen crows, untangling her crossed legs so she can stand and stalk closer to the bars of her cell. She wraps her fingers around the bars, pumps her hands up and down the metal in an oddly vulgar gesture, leering at Cullen even as her words are directed toward Anwen. "Your Cullen was most welcoming to me upon my arrival. He's such a giving man – and, Maker, did he give it to me good."
It's a stupid innuendo and Anwen is trying hard to just dismiss it as some lie intended to hurt her. But then Cullen's downturned face and slowly growing blush is giving unwanted credence to the prisoner's words, pulling the knots in Anwen's stomach tighter and tighter. She can feel the colour draining from her face, feel the awful empty feeling at the thought of Cullen being with someone else.
"I don't need to listen to these lies," Anwen says, crisp and authoritative despite the roiling in her stomach, "I hope you find your accommodations comfortable enough. I'll see you at the trial."
Anwen turns and marches briskly toward the door that will lead her away from this monstrous woman, Cullen shuffling after her like a kicked puppy.
"Don't you want to know, Inquisitor, how his hands roamed across my skin?!" Not-Anwen shouts across the prison, "how his lips tangled with mine until I was left panting and breathless?!" The words roll like thunder as they echo around the empty room and Anwen hates it when her feet stumble to an abrupt halt, her breaths coming quick and short.
Cullen raises a hand toward Anwen with a plaintive, "Anni…"
She bats him away, ignoring his pleading expression and turning to face Not-Anwen more fully. "I don't want to know anything from you, Shapeshifter, unless it concerns the Venatori."
Not-Anwen smiles, smug and triumphant, watching with a growing glee as Anwen fights to keep her emotions in check, fights to keep her expression composed even as she feels the doppelgänger's words burrow under her skin, itching and pinching.
"How about the way he gagged with pleasure when I rode him?" she continues, "the way his hips bucked and reared as I ground into him? The look of pure ecstasy on his face when he came inside—"
"S-she's lying – we never!" Cullen interrupts before Not-Anwen can finish her sentence, stepping between the two woman as if he can physically block her words from reaching Anwen.
"Quiet, both of you!" Anwen snaps, and Cullen withers at her tone.
There are images swirling in Anwen's mind – flashes of skin, of roaming hands, of Cullen and another woman who looks like Anwen but isn't her. They're painful images, and were Anwen any less capable of controlling her emotions she would be trembling under the weight of them.
But Anwen knows control. Anwen knows how to marshal her features, how to effortlessly slip a mask into place, and as she steps around Cullen to approach Not-Anwen in her holding cell, Anwen can feel a new persona slipping into place – someone colder, someone crueller. It's not a mask Anwen often wears; Anwen usually favours accommodation over confrontation. But she has had enough of this woman's taunts – of snarling lips dripping with lies.
This woman is an interloper – how dare she take Anwen's rightful place.
Anwen steps forward, close enough to rest her forehead against the bars should she choose, and when she speaks, her voice is low and thick and dangerous. "I don't care whether you've fucked every member of the Inquisition. You are nothing – a shadow wearing a better person's face – and I am the fucking Inquisitor." Anwen raises her hands and curls her fingers around the bars, Not-Anwen instinctually steps away, hands flying from the metal as if burnt. "Now I would take this time to think very carefully about what you want to happen next. Because you can either cooperate with us, and give us all the information you have on Corypheus and the Venatori, or Commander Cullen here can take your head off with my Longsword of the Dragon. Have you seen my longsword before? It's a nice blade – very ornate – largely ceremonial, though, and damnably dull. It might take a few blows to get through all that bone and sinew. It is not a… dignified way to go."
Anwen steps back and smiles – crooked and cruel, a bare flash of white between blood-red lips. She pauses, staring at Not-Anwen with an unwavering intensity until the Shapeshifter squirms, dipping her head to escape her glare.
And then she turns and walks away, sauntering calmly out of the prison with easy, languid steps.
Behind her, Not-Anwen gives out a sob.