Cullen's eyelids fluttered as consciousness slowly returned. Odd sounds reached his ears: distant screams, disturbing squelching noises, and the disconcerting clack of chitin that reminded him of some of the more unsavory creatures in the depths of the caverns of Thedas. He lay on a hard surface, one with far too many pointy bits and grooves to be in any fashion comfortable, and a weight across his body limited his movement as he fidgeted.
Of more immediate concern, however, was his vision - or lack thereof. He blinked to try to clear his eyes, but that only seemed to make it worse. There was a strange sensation on his face, as if someone had poured honey on it, and whatever it was had also oozed into his eyes. When he shook his head in an attempt to get rid of it, pain lanced through him, and he gasped.
"Ah. you awaken." The voice hit his ears, but also seemed to reverberate in the depths of his mind, sonorous and deep… and chilling, so much so that an instinctive shiver arced through Cullen's spine.
"Who's there?" Cullen demanded as he tried to sit up. It was only then he realized that he was bound tightly at both ankle and wrist. With a growl he struggled against his bonds. "Release me!"
"I am your host," the voice said, just before a slow, malicious laugh echoed in Cullen's head. "You fell into my realm and to your doom. I recognized you as the gnat who bit me in another dream, interrupting my repast with your ineffectual swatting, but also as a feast most succulent from times before. Thus I sent my minions to pluck you from the ether and bring you hither. Are you not enjoying my hospitality?"
His mind raced as Cullen tried to figure out what the voice meant by calling him a gnat and, more worrying, succulent. That was not a term he ever wanted a demon to call him. "I remember falling, and Dorian using the mark to-" His blood suddenly turned to ice in his veins as the meaning of the former reference suddenly became clear. "You're the demon from his dream. The one I drove back."
"Not just any demon, little bug," the demon snarled. "I am the Nightmare. I am the one you forget upon waking. I feed off memories of fear and darkness, and grow fat upon the terror of mortals. You are here because I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself! The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!"
As the words roiled and echoed in his mind, Cullen fought against his restraints until he finally had to give up. As he lay panting, he focused more on the demon and locked onto the part which mattered most to the Commander of the Inquisition. "Bound through you?" he asked, poking and prodding the idea to see if he could gain any tactical advantage from it. "Then all we have to do is get rid of you, and the demon army will vanish as well? Consider it done, foul beast. The Inquisition will stop you!"
A caustic laugh crawled along Cullen's spine as the sense of the demon's presence overwhelmed his consciousness. "You think I should be afraid of the power of Inquisition. How very droll." Its sarcasm was biting, and Cullen realized that whatever the demon felt about the Inquisition, it was not fear. "I think not. And even if they have sent their best and brightest against me, you are still my own personal guest right now."
"You mean prisoner," Cullen shot back.
A dry chuckle was his only answer for that sally. Abruptly something thick and supple wrapped around his wrists, and he was jerked up to dangle loosely, the bindings around his ankles mysteriously gone. "The words matter not, little bug. You are mine now. The paltry curse which shadowed you before is as nothing compared to what I shall inflict upon you. Fear haunted your dreams, but now I will fill your mind with terror unending."
The words twitched and throbbed inside Cullen's head, making him groan in pain. The meaning of the words, though, eluded him. Paltry curse? What does he mean? "You speak nonsense, demon," he growled.
"So you would like to believe. You mortals cling to the fragile tendrils of your hope with delightful tenacity. But my masters understand that, and know that fear is older even than hope. After all, one must feel fear before one can hope for it to end."
Cullen swallowed, but the words echoed in his mind over and over, with one holding his attention more than any other. "Masters?" he gasped. "What masters do you serve?"
A gusty chuckle pricked Cullen's mind, and he reflexively shook his head to be rid of it despite the pain the motion caused. "Mortals have many fears, and fears have many masters. Some are more powerful than others, little bug. His hands are upon you, and have been for years. Night after night after night, you have felt me deep within your mind, feeding off of the terrors you have endured, terrors borne of him. You think that to be but chance?"
Even as Cullen struggled to make sense of those words, something warm and slimy dragged along Cullen's body before settling around his neck, a familiar scent flooding his nostrils as he opened his mouth to gasp for air. Lyrium. He shuddered, his struggles increasing as the scent grew stronger. "Release me!" he said through gritted teeth.
"Not until I feed," the demon whispered-in his ears, in his mind, in his very soul.
Sweet Andraste. Trying not to show his fear, Cullen again tried to blink away whatever was obscuring his vision. "I fear not the likes of you," he sneered.
The voice boomed with laughter, the sound grating to Cullen's ears. "I will make you fear."
You lash out at the demons whispering in your mind, but the effort proves futile. They cannot be driven away. Minute by minute, hour after hour, the whispering continues, parading each and every one of your thoughts before you and mocking them. You watch as the others succumb; watch as comrades in arms slice open their wrists with an edge of their own armor, or run into the wall head first until they fall to lie on the floor silent and unmoving, or even claw their own eyes out in desperation to stop the visions. You see some turn into the very monsters you are sworn to kill, an irony too painful to dwell upon for long. You resist, but your strength weakens, your throat burns, your stomach empties of all but bile and fear, and your core deep inside yearns for the soothing song borne in blue liquid.
As time passes behind the confinement of the red light, you lose the ability to discern between reality and vision, between what the demons want you to believe and what is real. You start to forget life outside that red circle, start to believe the lies the demons whisper, and start to wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, it would be better to simply surrender.
Yes, the voices whisper. Give in to the madness and despair, the rage and the fear. Give in to us, Templar, and all the pain will go away.
Yet you refuse, you continue to stand steadfast against them, brute force of will serving you where even reason and passion fail. You will not give in, you tell yourself. You will not surrender.
When the whispers reach their peak, when you think that nothing could possibly get worse, the barrier suddenly falls. You look up into the face of your saviour, your rescuer, into red eyes and a comforting smile. When the blue liquid is offered, you reach for it, desperate for the sharp bite of its harsh taste, but the vial is snatched back, and the comforting smile turns cruel.
"You think it will be that easy?" the man asks with a sneer. "I think not. You owe me, Templar, as few of your Order have ever owed a mage." As he lets the vial swing loosely between his fingers, you stare hungrily at it. "What will you do for this bounty, Templar?"
You lick your lips in longing, then look up to meet his gaze. "Anything," you whisper.
His lips curve, and he reaches out to settle his hand on the back of your neck, stroking your cheek as he dangles the lyrium in front of you all the while. "Anything?" he murmurs.
You swallow, throat dry as your gaze locks onto the vial once more. "Anything."
"Such a good little Templar," the man croons as he drags you closer. "Then let us start with the lyrium." He tilts your head back as he pops open the vial of lyrium, and you open your mouth eagerly in anticipation. "And end with you." Slowly he pours a few drops into your mouth, and, uncaring of the consequences, you surrender.
Cullen fought his way out of the vision with a yell, the struggles of his body a reaction to the hopelessness in the dream. "Out of my head, demon!" he groaned, struggling to push the nightmare away. The scent of lyrium remained strong, too strong, as something moist settled near his lips.
"Such a familiar scene, isn't it? Played out in the theatre of your slumbering mind over and over for so many years, it has provided a sumptuous feast for me." The demon's voice, after a memory like that, crawled through Cullen's mind like a snail inching across his eyeball. "Not to consume so that you would forget, no, but a repast served to me by a generous Master as a fine vintage to enjoy when I wish."
A frown came to Cullen's face. "Why would Corypheus-" he began, but stopped as a chill ran up his arms and to his head. "Gah! Enough!"
That dark laughter filled his head again. "Then perhaps it is time for my next meal."
Renewing his efforts to escape the tendrils holding his wrists and neck, Cullen roared in mindless fury even as the chill grew and encompassed the entirety of his body.
You thrust your sword strong and true, piercing the heart of the Champion without hesitation. His wide eyes stare at you as the life slowly drains from them, and you feel his weight fall off your arm as his body slumps to the ground.
Staring down at his still form, you pant heavily and wonder how it came to this: the death of the Champion of Kirkwall at your hand. But you were given the order, and you learned in Kinloch Hold that obedience is paramount over all else.
But his sister… your mind whispers, and your brow furrows as you strive to recall the fate of the Champion's sister, and why it matters now.
"Well done, Knight-Captain," a crisp voice says from behind you, and you turn to face her as the fate of any Hawke fades from your concerns.
"Knight-Commander." You give her a quick salute, striking your gauntleted hand to your breastplate for emphasis. "Kirkwall is safe once more. Hawke is dead, and all those who dared defy us are laid low. The city is ours."
You watch as Meredith's eyes scan the courtyard of the Gallows, and turn to do so yourself. Tilting your head, you admire the beauty of the sun reflecting off of the bloodstained stones before you. Such a marvelous color, red. It remains a wonder to you that you did not appreciate its luster more before Meredith set your feet once more upon the righteous path. It strikes you as a shame that some of those below could not be saved, and your eyes linger on a still form with red hair held back by a braided headband. Still, Hawke's defiance of the Templars could not be borne, and so you acted.
When a familiar, tantalizing scent fills your nostrils, you pivot towards your leader, licking your lips in anticipation. "You have earned your reward, Knight-Captain," Meredith says as she holds out a small vial. "You have my gratitude, and the gratitude of the one we serve."
Dismissing all thoughts of the dead in the courtyard from your mind, you snatch your prize from her hand. Opening the vial, you gulp down the searing red liquid, shivering when its power surges through your body. The lingering grittiness of the crystal grates against your teeth, but soon you have sucked every last bit of the crimson lyrium down.
As the warmth floods through your body, you meet Meredith's gaze with a smile on your face and a red gleam in your eyes. "Thank you, Knight-Commander." You are glad you chose to obey.
You are grateful you surrendered.
This time when Cullen emerged from the grip of the nightmare, he heard the harsh scream before he realized that it was his own, and snapped his jaw shut. "No!" he gasped. "No! That never happened!" His head twisted from side to side as he tried to avoid the slippery length that smelled of lyrium, desperate not to need it, and even more desperate not to surrender to that need.
"Your fears provide an exotic field of dread, little bug," Nightmare said with a dark chuckle. "Who is not to say that you were but one choice away from such a fate? Perhaps that is what truly happened, and everything you believe to be real is but the hopeless, helpless nightmare of one buried in a body lost to corruption?"
A whimper echoed in the back of Cullen's throat as he thrashed against his bonds. The demon's words hit too close to home, echoing a fear which had lingered ever since he'd escaped the clutches of the demons during the Blight. What if it had all been a dream? What if it were all an elaborate hoax, like all the other perfect worlds they'd offered and then snatched away from him during his days of torment? What if Mailani were but a sop for his loneliness, Cassandra a reaction to his desperate need for a friend, and even the Inquisition itself an echo of his craving for purpose?
And what would that make Dorian?
Oddly, it was that last thought which drew him back from the spiral of despair. Certainly there was no way that a Tevinter mage with such innumerable buckles, excessive vanity, and enticing scent was an answer to anything Cullen had ever yearned for in the past. He was simply… Dorian, an unexpected gift in a world gone mad, a chaos inserted into Cullen's order that, impossibly, fit perfectly into a niche Cullen hadn't known existed. No demon could have possibly conjured up something so unlikely and so wonderful. And that, more than anything else, convinced him that his memories of Dorian were real and true and precious, and that meant that it was all real and no demon's trick.
Swallowing harshly, he took a deep breath. "You shall not conquer me, demon," he snarled.
"Then I shall devour you, little bug." This time, it was not cold, but heat which gripped him, and Cullen struggled not to yell as it suddenly felt like he'd caught fire. "Slowly and with exquisite care."
You fight your way through the crackling flames, careless of your own injuries. Around you only chaos reigns as the dragon above makes yet another pass, loosing more searing flame to render Skyhold to ash and ruin. Around you lie the motionless and charred bodies of your soldiers, killed by the combined might of Venatori and those who serve the new God of Thedas. Once the order was given to destroy the heretics of the Inquisition, you knew your days were numbered, yet the brutality of the assault still caught you all by surprise.
Stumbling over the broken stones of the great hall, you duck below the broken doors, desperately hoping against hope that you are not too late, that he might yet be saved. You emerge at the top of stairs now reduced to rubble, leaving you a difficult climb down to reach the courtyard, but climb you do, clambering and tumbling over the broken stone as you desperately try to reach the gates of Skyhold and the fierce struggle of the Inquisition's last stand.
As you fight your way towards them, you realize that only four still live to fight, clustered under the arched entrance to Skyhold as the forces of the new God close around them. The dwarf is the first to fall, followed by the Qunari. This leaves only two mages, fighting back to back, one cursing in Tevene while the other yells in elvish. When a lance pierces Solas through the torso and lifts him high, he raises his hands and cries out to the heavens, which flicker in response. Yet whatever magic he might have hoped to weave is halted when a thrown axe removes his head, leaving the lone Tevinter mage to face the might of his enemies.
You cry out as the horde overwhelms Dorian, but it is too late-for him and for you. As the gathered enemy descends upon the Inquisitor, a similar wave washes over you, overwhelming your senses as the light fails around you. Both of you are dragged, kicking and screaming, to be thrown before the feet of their adored leader and are there subject to his crimson gaze.
"And so the mighty fall before me," the new God says, his voice crawling over your spine and crackling through your brain, leaving a blaze of agony in its wake. "You who conquered the Grey Wardens and dictated the future of Orlais, you who brought down Corypheus and withstood the perfidy of the Imperium, are now defeated yourself." As he speaks, the God reaches down and grabs Dorian's left hand, pulling him high. "A pity you have proven to be outside my control, Inquisitor. You would have made a lovely pet. At least your death will end your petty resistance."
You scream as Dorian's body bursts into flame, struggling helplessly against those who hold you as the man whose life you hold more dear than your own dissolves into a pile of ash at the feet of the God. Dimly you are aware of the green light left scintillating in the God's hand, but that matters little. Dorian is gone, and your life no longer has meaning.
"And you, my good little Templar," the God who was once Amell croons as he turns to you. "You will now take your rightful place."
What else is there left for you but to surrender?
When Cullen emerged from that nightmare, he thrashed violently against his bonds, for the moment uncaring whether or not the lyrium trickled into his mouth. The fear and rage inspired by the nightmare burned with equal fervor as he fought against both what he had seen and what it implied about what was to come. His heart raced as the image of Dorian engulfed in fire played over and over in his mind, so much so that he didn't notice as the tendrils around his wrists tightened.
When one of his wrists broke with a sharp crack, he screamed and spasmed, dangling limply as his mind struggled to push the demon away. It proved distraction enough for something slippery and drenched with lyrium to slip into his mouth, though he twisted his head in a vain attempt to escape it. Cullen shuddered as the slow tingle of its seductive song spread through him, dismayed by how wonderful he felt in that moment, and fought not to reach for the source when it pulled itself away. "No," he mumbled as he felt the familiar ache of despair grip his heart. "Never again. I… I promised." He'd made that oath to Cassandra, to Mailani, and yet now… now he simply wanted more, regardless of the strength of his oaths, and the realization hurt him bone-deep.
"Do you find your fear to be more than you expected, more than you can endure?" the demon taunted him. "I have found your fear, and I will break you with it. I will make you beg for mercy, and then I will make you beg for more."
As the demon's ghastly chuckle echoed in his head, Cullen stirred. "No," he said, then clenched his eyes shut beneath the viscous liquid that blinded him and reached deep down to find the one, quiet truth that no amount of demonic manipulation could unseat: Dorian would never abandon him. "Never!" Cullen roared, trying to channel his fear and pain into wrath. "I will never surrender to the likes of you!"
"You are disciplined," the demon noted. As it spoke, Cullen's bonds shifted once more, releasing his wrists to instead wrap firmly around his torso where they slowly began to squeeze. "But it is not enough. Against me, it is never enough. Even now, your mind is seething with fear. It is beautiful."
Cullen shook his head, ignoring the pain as he fought against the pressure of the demon's grip. "It is not... fear, but hate!" he grated, struggling to draw each breath.
"And what can you do against me, little bug?" the demon asked with a dark chuckle.
Without his sword and shield, Cullen found himself wondering the same thing. Still, he could not do nothing, either. With a desperate cry, he kicked out at whatever was holding him in its clutches, connecting solidly with something large and heavy, but which still yielded slightly.
Laughter boomed around him as the Nightmare said in a mocking voice, "Puny mortal. You are a fool if you think that there is anything you can do against me. This is my realm, and all within it must inevitably bow to me, and be prey."
"Not… today. Not... ever!" Cullen managed through gritted teeth, and struggled to take a deep breath as he concentrated. It had been a long time since he'd attempted this particular maneuver outside of a dream, especially without a sword or a shield to help buttress and focus the attack. Yet in forcing Cullen to consume the lyrium in an attempt to toy with his fears, the demon had inadvertently given the ex-Templar a chance to fight back even when in such dire straits.
When the smite finally burst forth, it boiled up from within and swept over his surroundings with all the fury he could manage. A shriek pierced his ears as the hold around him loosened, an opportunity he quickly seized by flailing wildly against what gripped him. His attempts paid off as he slipped from the demon's grasp, dropping to the ground like a lead weight. Dumb luck plagued him, however, as he landed on one foot at an awkward angle and felt his knee twist beneath him. Still, he had more pressing concerns. Quickly he raised his hand and scrubbed at his face, then stared at what he found on his hand, repulsed by the ichor and wondering what had placed it there.
A movement in front of him seized his attention and his gaze rose, eyes widening as he took in the full size of the demon in front of him. His dim memory from Dorian's dream about his father was nothing before the sheer size and monstrosity of the thing when it loomed over him. Blocking out the pain of his leg and wrist as best as he could, he scrambled to his feet and lurched away from the beast, knowing there was no hope of defeating it.
Suddenly another demon blocked his path, smaller than the Nightmare but no less fearful in its aspect. It had no eyes, but simply a bony plate that covered the upper half of its face, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. When it spoke, it was with the voice which had plagued him before. "Oh, no, little bug. You shall not escape me so easily."
When the spikes of its many arms shot forward to wrap around him, Cullen screamed and tried to push them aside. "You shall not have me!"
"Wrong, little bug. You are the bait I dangle in my trap. Your friends will not leave without you, and I will make sure they never take you." The mouth spread in a wide, fang-filled grin as it forced him to turn around to face the larger demon once more.
Cullen's heart leapt. "Then they're here? They're safe?" he blurted aloud before he could stop himself.
The bulk of the gargantuan demon lowered as it approached Cullen. The voice sounded in his ears, in his mind, everywhere, and he couldn't turn away from the hypnotizing stare of the huge eyes now inches from his face. "They are in my realm. I would not use the word safe to describe them," the voice told him with a snarl. "And you are in my clutches. I would most certainly not use the word to describe you. You are mine, little bug, and I will feed well upon you."
Cullen swallowed harshly, then lifted his chin in defiance. "Do your worst, demon,"
That gusty, dark chuckle echoed around him and within him as something slowly began to leak into his eyes once more. "I have not yet begun to show you my worst."
After that, Cullen knew only darkness and pain… and, deep inside, a flickering pulse of hope.
Dorian would come for him. His friend would never break that promise.