The voices filled the air like annoying insects, filling Cullen with the overwhelming urge to swat at them. He knew that a lot of things needed to be discussed and crucial decisions had to be made, but none of it seemed to be of any importance. Before him lay the expanse of Orlais and Ferelden, crucial points of interest meticulously marked by various bits of wood and horn and bone, and yet his eyes stared at it all without actually seeing any of it.

Something was missing.

The empty spot on the opposite side of the large table loomed in his mind, driving out all other concerns or cares. Someone should be there, someone with a shy smile and a lively gleam to her eyes, someone who had not even heard of Andraste before suddenly being declared Her Herald, someone whose long, thin fingers ending with archer's callouses had had an innate ability to chase away the pain and sorrow when the cravings got to be too much. Someone who had never judged him, who had filled a place in his life, in his heart - in his very soul - with a gentleness and warmth he'd never known before.

Something was missing.

His hand worked at the empty place at his side where a sword hilt usually rested, and something flashed through his mind: a darkened tunnel, Inquisition soldiers everywhere, mad chaos reigning as each man frantically moved stone and earth and reality itself in a desperate attempt to find the Herald. A voice calling his name, the urgency of its tone pulling him down into the tunnel where most of the rock had fallen. She's here, Commander! A desperate scramble through rock and dirt and clouds of dust, ignoring the choking lack of air and the pain in his lungs at the chance that perhaps, perhaps she could be saved.

Cullen's eyelids fluttered shut, but he could not unsee it. Could not forget skidding to a halt as the crew of soldiers heaved away the last rock. Could not forget the sound of the groans of dismay echoing in the cavern. Could not turn away at the sight of her crushed, tiny body, blood everywhere, no life, no hope of life, no hope at all. Could not bear to leave without first kneeling down to place a kiss on the dried blood covering her forehead, or to hold back the tears, or forget the rage that had coursed through him as he'd realized that she was truly, utterly, completely gone.

Something was missing.

"Commander?"

His eyes opened, and he turned to the red-haired woman who had spoken his name - most likely more than once - and stared at her silently for a few moments before finally nodding. "I'm sorry. Yes?"

There was sympathy on her face. It was an expression he'd become quite familiar with in the last few days. Everyone knew of his loss, and everyone was afraid to speak of it. In a way, that made the pain even worse, as if the silence simply amplified the agony. "If you need time, Commander-" she began, voice soft.

He shook his head. "Better to work," he said. Distantly he heard the strain in his voice, the hoarseness from the hours of trying not to weep before succumbing in the wee hours of the night. Clearing his throat, ignoring the pain as he did so, he straightened and tried to force himself to look more alert. "What did you need?"

"I would like a report on our soldiers. I can't help but notice that the number appears to have dwindled." The concern didn't leave her face, but at least she let them both pretend to dwell only upon business.

Cullen shrugged. "People are leaving. Without the Her- With the In-" He stopped and took a steadying breath. "Many have lost their motivation to serve the Inquisition." And I'm not really trying to stop them, he admitted with a distant guilt. It just… didn't seem worth it, somehow. "Plus we're running out of supplies as it is."

"That is most certainly true," Josephine noted, looking up from her clipboard. "Quite a bit of the financial support for the Inquisition has been withdrawn, either on a permanent basis or because they wish to see how we will deal with our current crisis of leadership. It becomes a spiral, then: we lose the ability to retain troops, and thus lose the ability to send them out to garner supplies, and then lose even more influence." For a moment her pen stopped dancing on the paper, and Josephine sighed. "It is a difficult time."

Cullen's lips twisted. Crisis of leadership. "You mean no one wants to have anything to do with-"

"Thank you, Josephine," Leliana said, hastily interrupting Cullen before he could finish his sentence. "We knew there would be challenges after… what happened."

Before he knew that his hand was even in motion, Cullen's fist slammed down on the table, sending a spike of pain shooting up his arm as he agitated the bruises on his knuckles. "After she died. After Mailani died. Why won't you just say it?" he demanded. "No, instead you have to dance around it. Crisis of leadership." He snorted, ignoring Josephine's discomfort as she turned away. "The Inquisitor's dead, and all of you just to pretend that things can go back to some farcical state of normalcy!"

"Cullen!" That voice came from the doorway, an edge of command in it that only Cullen himself could ever hope to match. Cassandra marched into the room, eyes flinty as they took in the trio and came to rest on Cullen. "What has happened has affected us all. None of us would deny your pain, but I will ask that you recall that we all held her in the highest regard." Her gaze flicked to the empty place, the first person to look since the advisors had entered the room, and her expression softened. "No one would think less of you for needing time, Cullen," she told him softly.

"I can work through it," he insisted, looking everywhere but at that empty place. "I need to-" He stopped and cleared his throat. Her words had made an impact, as they usually did, and he took a moment to slowly breathe in and out before turning to Josephine. "I'm sorry, Ambassador. My words were… poorly chosen."

"It is forgotten, Commander," Josephine replied immediately. "These are difficult times for all of us." She didn't speak of why it was more difficult for him in particular, of course, but it hovered in the air around them, a weight they couldn't ignore any more than they could ignore her death.

Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but a movement at the door caught his attention. His head snapped around, and a fierce scowl came to his face. "What is he doing here?"

Cassandra looked to where Dorian stood, obviously uncomfortable in a way no one present had ever seen before. "I asked him to come here, now that he's the-"

"Don't say it." Cullen's voice cracked through the air like a whip, halting whatever Cassandra had been about to say.

"He bears the mark, Cullen," Cassandra pointed out with a frown. "That is irrefutable fact now. The Inquisition must-"

"Maker's breath, her clan just collected her remains yesterday and already you're replacing her!" Cullen stormed past Leliana and Cassandra, and went to Dorian, shoving him into the hall leading to the war table room. "You don't belong here!"

"Commander, I-" Dorian began.

Cullen didn't relent, not even when Cassandra's voice called his name sharply from behind him. He surged after the mage, all his impotent rage and directionless fury focusing on the man who would dare to take her place. His hands wrapped around the mage's impossibly constructed shirt so that Cullen could shove him into the nearest wall. "You were the last one with her," he grated, eyes narrowed in anger. "You were the last one who could have saved her, and you didn't. You. Don't. Belong." He pushed the mage into the wall with each word for emphasis, never breaking eye contact.

Dorian's pale eyes were wide with fear - fear, and a deep sorrow that Cullen refused to acknowledge because it wasn't his. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry. I tried-"

"Well, obviously you weren't good enough," he snarled. "Pity it couldn't have been you under those rocks."

"Cullen!" Hands seized Cullen's shoulders and ripped him away from Dorian, throwing the ex-Templar into the opposite wall with a metallic clatter. The impact was strong enough that he fell limply to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. "That is enough!"

Glaring up at Cassandra, Cullen slowly got to his feet and pointed to where Dorian had slumped down the wall. His rage hadn't dimmed one whit. "Get him out of here. I won't have the man who let her die remain in Skyhold."

Cassandra's slap caught him completely by surprise, rocking him back on his heels enough that he had to windmill his arms to remain on his feet. Her action had the intended effect, especially since she hadn't pulled any of her strength, and snuffed his rage as effectively as if she'd used a bucket of water. A shocked silence reigned in the hallway as, still staring wordlessly at Cassandra, Cullen raised his hand to rub at his cheek, the pain and heat telling him that a bruise was already blossoming.

"I am going to assume that it was grief causing you to act in such a reprehensible fashion," she told him in tight, clipped tones. "As such, I will not have you locked up in a cell for assault and slander against a valued member of the Inquisition. As it is, Commander, I suggest you return to your quarters and think of several different ways to apologize to Dorian for both your words and your deeds."

His breathing grew faster as he stumbled back to lean against the wall. "Maker, Cassandra, I'm sorr-"

"Now, Cullen. And I am not the one from whom you should seek forgiveness." She turned to look at Dorian, who was being helped to his feet by Leliana and Josephine.

Cullen automatically followed her gaze, wincing when he saw how badly askew he'd left the man's clothes, though the marks of tears on the mage's cheeks were somehow worse. As he made an attempt to move to Dorian, a half-formulated apology forming in his head, Cassandra reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Quarters, now." Her voice was quiet, but firm. "Let him recover."

Nodding slightly, Cullen turned and stumbled down the corridor, pausing only to look back over his shoulder once he reached the door to Josephine's office. Cassandra stood in front of the door like a sentinel, arms crossed over her chest and expression stern, and no one else was in sight. Cullen fumbled with the door handle for a moment, then quickly shoved the door open, shutting it just as fast behind him.

Once inside, he leaned back, sliding down to the floor as his breath came in hard and fast pants and his eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Even he didn't know if he was apologizing to Cassandra, to Dorian, or to someone else entirely.

I'm sorry…

He gasped, eyes opening wide. "That voice… No." Landing his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands and leaned forward. "No, it can't be. Mailani?"

I'm so sorry…

Of course, it wasn't her. It couldn't possibly be. It was a memory, an echo of the guilt he felt, a phantom lingering in his mind coming out to haunt him when he was at his most vulnerable. Maker knew that Cullen was familiar enough with actual demons doing the same thing, so why shouldn't the memory of the dead love of his life do the same?

Somehow, he managed to get to his feet. Somehow, he found his way back to his quarters, barred the doors, shucked his armor and clothing onto the floor, and laboriously climbed up to his bed. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the sky overhead for a few moments, but that calm didn't last. Curling onto his side, he let the tears come again, the sobs heaving his shoulders as he occasionally punched the headboard, bruising the knuckles even further.

After he'd exhausted himself, the claws of sleep wrapped around him and held tight. As his eyelids dragged shut, the ghost - real or imagined, it truly did not matter - returned one last time, earning a final tear as he slipped into slumber.

I'm sorry.