From the moment the ogre slammed him into the ground, the world became a formless blur for Cullen. Well, that and pain. It radiated through his body and claimed every aspect of his awareness, rendering the world into a shimmering red haze which consumed his awareness. Distantly he grew aware of people talking around him, of some pressure being relieved as parts of his armor were pulled away. Even in the midst of the worst of it, he knew when Dorian was near, and tried to reassure him that he would be fine.

Even if he wasn't so sure of that himself.

The feel of Dorian faded, however, replaced by the jostling agony of being moved. To the healers' tents, he thought fuzzily, hoping that was true. It took an eternity of torture before he was finally brought to a halt, and then the poking and prodding began anew. This time, however, liquid was poured down his throat and warm magic worked along his limbs. More pressure was eased away from his body, and the red fog of agony receded bit by slow bit until he floated in another kind of haze entirely: of elfroot and whatever else they used to make the pain go away.

How long he floated in that particular Void of drugged peace, he didn't know. At least here, he was safe from both the pain and the twisted, stilted melody that crawled around the edges of his drugged awareness. It was only when he made his first clumsy attempts to emerge from that distant realm that he realized something was wrong, something that shouldn't be.

His eyes flew open as he slapped a hand to his chest and found nothing but bare skin. Mouth opening in a hoarse gasp, he tried to croak out the instructions to those who hovered nearby. "Armor," he whispered. "I need my armor."

"You're awake!" the nearest healer exclaimed, her voice familiar and comforting. "But you're still in far too much pain, aren't you, my bantam? Shh, shh, I'm here for you. Don't worry."

Even as Cullen protested, tried to warn her, the healer eased more potion past his throat. It was powerful, as it had been before, and the urgency of the missing armor quickly faded before its onslaught as his eyes slid shut. Surely it wasn't that bad, was it? He could always put it on later.

For now, he could use a little peace and quiet.

Once later came, however, it was with a roaring vengeance which awoke him with a blaze of pain. Moving was an agony, though not as bad as it had been—obviously they'd called in someone who healed with something more substantive than thoughts and prayers. Still, his body ached in ways he knew would take time and rest to heal, or at least a surfeit of potions, and his head felt at least five sizes too large based on the pressure of the pounding in it.

Worse than that, however, was the melody: each note of the twisting, twisted melody reverberated in his head, and he groaned as he clutched his head in his hands.

When something heavy and cold came to rest on his chest, however, the sensations dimmed enough that Cullen could squeeze one eye open to look around him. "Leliana?" he whispered.

"The healers had to deal with a sudden influx of new wounded once you were stable, so I offered to watch you." Her eyes studied him closely, concern etched on her face. "Didn't Dagna warn you not to take off your special armor?"

Cullen nodded and glanced down to his chest. His eyes widened as he stared at what lay there now. "Is that… my helmet?" The sight of the crushed mass made his stomach turn. "Maker's breath, I shouldn't be alive."

"A good thing for you that Dagna is every bit as good as she thinks she is," Leliana noted. "It may not fit on your head anymore, but it still seems to have an effect."

"It does." Taking a quick mental survey of his body, Cullen rested his hands on the crushed helmet, willing it to dim the song. "The armor, though…surely some of it survived intact?. The arms, maybe. Can you—"

"That was just the first piece I could find," Leliana explained. "I should be able to locate—"

Abruptly a resounding boom echoed over the camp, and Cullen groaned, thinking at first it was in his head. When Leliana frowned and looked around her, though, he realized it wasn't all in his head. "You heard that?"

"I don't see how I couldn't. It sounds like it came from a distance, but…" She frowned, a thoughtful look on her face. "I wonder what happened."

Sudden fear gripped Cullen. "Dorian—The Inquisitor—Is he—?"

"He's fine, and in pursuit of Corypheus," Leliana assured him quickly. "And still unharmed last we heard. You are the one we're worried about." Leliana gave him a gentle smile. "Let's get what we can of this armor back on you, hmm?"

Cullen reached out and put a hand on her wrist. "How—how bad was it, when they brought me in?" The way she looked away told Cullen just how close to death he'd come, and he paled. "That bad?"

"We are lucky that spirit healer joined us at Vivienne's request," Leliana said quietly. "Ardum is in the next tent, sleeping it off, but I was told he went through four lyrium potions to keep you with us."

Shaken, Cullen closed his eyes for a moment as he wrestled with that thought. He was an ex-Templar, after all, and he knew just how risky it was for even a powerful spirit healer such as Ardum to go through that much lyrium that quickly—and how desperate the mage must have been to be willing to do so. "I would have died," he said in a flat voice.

"But you did not," Leliana told him, putting her other hand on his so she could squeeze it. "The Maker still has a purpose for you."

Knowing what he did about her own history, Cullen met Leliana's gaze and found only unwavering faith and certainty. That rock-hard belief gave him something to cling to, a brief but powerful peace amidst the storm of fear which swept over him as he confronted how close to death he had come this time. Leliana held her silence as he worked through the emotions roiling in his mind, until finally he exhaled with a loud gasp and took a shuddering breath. "For the Inquisitor's sake, I am grateful."

"Not your own?"

Cullen wrestled with the question for a while, trying to find an answer that wouldn't sound petulant, once again grateful for Leliana's patience—but then, perhaps she had gone through a similar debate when she'd awoken in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes. Unfortunately, deep thought proved difficult in the face of his lingering pain and the twisted song winding through his mind, and in the end he simply looked down at their hands, choosing only silence for his answer.

When Cullen's gaze dropped, she patted his wrist. "Don't worry. I under—" When she cut off with a gasp, Cullen looked in time to see her press a hand over her abdomen with a sharp hiss.

Cullen frowned. "Are you all right?"

"I am, it's just…" Leliana shook her head stubbornly as she took a deep breath. "It will pass." Quickly she rose and moved to sort through Cullen's armor. "Let's get you back in Dagna's handiwork."

"Leliana," Cullen told her with a hint of chiding in his tone. "You don't have to pretend around me, you know. Especially not right now."

Leliana chuckled softly. "A good point," she admitted ruefully. Gathering his armor in her arms, she eased her way into the chair beside his cot. "It's just that there's an odd sensation in my middle. It's not quite pain, but it's decidedly unpleasant. I can't think of what it could be, and I hope—" Suddenly she snapped her mouth shut and looked down.

Cullen stared at her for a moment, puzzled. "Your stomach?"

"No, my…my middle," she repeated, still not meeting his gaze.

Abruptly several hints all fell into place at once, and Cullen's eyes widened. "Leliana, are you…with Alistair?"

With a sigh, Leliana rubbed her forehead. "He told me several times that it wasn't possible," she said with a sigh. "Not for any Warden."

"Really?" Cullen asked skeptically. "Because the way you two have been behaving since he was rescued—Ow." He rubbed at his arm. "You didn't have to hit me."

She wrinkled her nose at him as she picked up one part of his armor and shook it. "Do you want my help with the armor or not?"

"Please," he said sheepishly. As she gently pulled one of the pieces onto his arm, he studied her face carefully. "Do you want the child?"

"Of course I do," Leliana murmured, then sighed and closed her eyes. "Though I'm not sure I could think of a more awkward time to be in this condition."

"The Conclave?" Cullen suggested with a wry grin, grateful to see a faint smile touch her lips. Gently he reached out to touch her hand. "Does Alistair know?"

She shook her head with a sigh. "It's never felt like the proper time to tell him."

"He won't need the proper time, trust me," Cullen told her. "You could tell him when you're both covered in blood on the battlefield and he'd still twirl you around like a princess."

That brought a hint of color to her cheeks as she looked away with a wide smile, but the levity quickly disappeared as she pressed a hand to her stomach again. "Though with the way I'm feeling now, perhaps I need not worry about telling him. I am not so very young anymore, after all, and these are not ideal conditions."

He frowned and struggled up onto his elbows. "You should seek out a healer," he told her. "Just in case. I can put on the armor myself."

Leliana gave him a smile. "You can't, and you know it. I will put it into the hands of the Maker. Besides, there is not much more I can do at the moment, not when there are so many wounded."

Cullen's frown intensified as he instinctively tried to sit up. "How many—" A sudden pain shot through his side, however, and he collapsed back onto his bed with an agonized groan.

"Rest, Cullen," she said in a soothing tone. "You can worry about them when you're no longer one of the worst wounded here."

He heaved a sigh as he rubbed his forehead, wincing from even that light touch. "Maker. No wonder my helmet looks the way it does. That poor lion has roared its last."

"It did its job," she said acerbically. "You're fortunate your head wasn't crushed. Now, let's do what we can with what's left."

For a few minutes, silence reigned in the tent as Leliana tugged what armor she could into place on him, tying it loosely as necessary to give the healers access to the bandages beneath. As each piece was set into place, the malicious melody dimmed more and more, until it became nothing but a whisper. With a sigh of relief, he fell limp on the cot beneath him.

"Better?" Leliana asked, setting aside the helm for now.

"Much," he breathed. "And I think the conversation helped beforehand, helped me focus on something besides the…the song. I never realized that before. But at least it's not boring into my skull." He gave her a weary smile. "Thank you."

She smiled. "Of course, Cullen."

"But how are you feeling?" he asked, gesturing vaguely towards her torso. "In—in your middle?"

A smile came to her face as she settled her hand on her abdomen. "Better. Whatever it was, it seems to have diminished, and without any lingering effects."

Cullen smiled. "Good. I'm glad to hear it. I hope everything works out for you and Alistair. For all three of you."

Leliana ducked her head, a smile touching her lips. "Thank you," she murmured.

Before Cullen could tease her for the hint of color that rose in her cheeks, however, the tent flap opened. Instead of a healer, Cullen frowned at the unfamiliar face framed by dark hair and a small goatee which poked through. The man's gaze swept the tent until it found them, at which point he entered fully.

Cullen's eyes narrowed when he saw the Grey Warden armor the man wore, since he'd met all the Orlesian Wardens who had sworn themselves to the Inquisition and this man had not been among them. Though his tension eased a bit, he remained wary as the man gave Cullen a salute. "Commander Cullen. You look better than when last I saw you."

"And when was that?"

"When I left you in the tender care of the healers." His hand swept the tent with a spare motion. "Allow me to introduce myself. Warden-Constable Nathaniel Howe, ser. Leader of the cavalry that saved your bacon from that ogre," he added with a faint smile.

Cullen laughed a bit sheepishly, remembering belatedly that Loghain had gone to meet the Fereldan Grey Wardens himself. "Thank the Maker for that, then," he admitted. "It's a bit mortifying to learn that I hadn't planned for everything, but then, it didn't really seem like a situation darkspawn would be involved in. I definitely wasn't prepared for that."

"No one's ever really prepared for ogres," Nathaniel said with rueful, if muted, humor. "Though the Wardens have at least learned a few techniques. They rarely come up on the surface unless there's a Blight. But then, that's supposed to be true of all darkspawn."

"Then where did the ones who attacked us come from?" Cullen asked with a frown. "That was more than just a few strays."

"Amell," Nathaniel said with a grimace. "In times past, he allied himself with a unique darkspawn known as the Architect, and the Architect can summon darkspawn at will. Loghain said the Inquisitor told him that Amell has allied with the Architect once more, so it's no great surprise—to me at least—to see darkspawn here."

"The Architect? You know of him?" Cullen asked, surprised.

Nathaniel gave a spare shrug. "Amell first encountered him while he was Warden-Commander of Amaranthine, so yes. I know of him. I've even met him, if you call him monologuing about himself to be meeting him. I just hadn't realized that he and Amell had formed an alliance again. Last I'd heard, they had a disagreement, and that was years ago."

"It's more than a mere alliance now," Cullen said grimly. "And the Architect is more than just a unique darkspawn."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Loghain didn't mention that."

Belatedly Cullen realized that Dorian probably didn't want everyone to know about the Architect's true nature, but it was too late now. Cullen well knew that he didn't have the mental wherewithal to take back what he'd already told Nathanial. With a sigh, Cullen rubbed his forehead as if he could massage his dull headache away. "Dor—The Inquisitor stole a memory crystal from Amell. It showed him in the Deep Roads during his Calling, where he met something that called itself the Architect."

Face intent, Nathaniel leaned forward. "Tell me everything you remember."

The harder he tried to remember the scene, the harder it was to recall it, but Cullen remained stubborn and focused as the memory from the crystal swam and wove in his mind. The words came out haltingly, tripping over his tongue with difficulty, but he managed to get them out past the pain and the muted whisper of the twisted song. "And that's what I know."

Nathaniel released a long breath as he slowly lowered himself into a chair at the foot of Cullen's cot, forehead creased in thought. His eyes studied Cullen and Leliana carefully, and Cullen sensed that the man was debating with himself. Finally he nodded and met Cullen's gaze. "The reason why Grey Wardens are the ones who can end Blights is because only a Warden can kill an Archdemon," he told Cullen. "It's a closely held secret among the Wardens, one that not many are privy to outside of it."

Cullen's forehead wrinkled. "Why tell us, then?"

"I'm getting to that. When a non-Warden kills the Archdemon, it finds the nearest darkspawn body and claims it, changing it back into the Archdemon. As long as it is around any darkspawn, it is impossible to kill. But when a Warden kills it…" His voice trailed away, eyes growing distant. "Before Amell, at least, when a Warden killed the Archdemon, it would try to claim that Warden's body, and both would die in the process. The taint in us is different than the taint in a darkspawn, and that difference meant the Archdemon's doom."

"But Amell didn't die," Leliana said in a flat tone.

"Yes, more's the pity. But what you described between Amell and the Architect," Nathaniel said, looking at Cullen with a keen gaze, "that sounds like what an Archdemon would do, at least according to the Grey Warden histories."

"Which…honestly, since he's one of the original darkspawn Magisters, doesn't surprise me," Cullen said slowly. Then his eyes widened. "Then that means Corypheus—"

"Probably has the same ability."

"Which is why there are so many of his bespelled Grey Wardens in the Wilds," Cullen said, then cursed under his breath. "So that we can't defeat him even if we kill his body."

Nathaniel slammed his fist into his thigh. "Damn. I would wager you're right. For that matter, since Amell and the Architect are one, they can probably do it now, too."

"This keeps getting worse and worse," Cullen groaned. "Darkspawn minions, unkillable darkspawn Magisters…"

"There is always hope," Leliana said forcefully, pressing a trembling hand to her stomach. "The Maker will provide."

Cullen looked at her sharply, something in her tone warning him. "Are you all right, Leliana?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm perfectly fine. I just…need to think about all this."

He reached out towards her, biting back a hiss of pain as she abruptly grabbed his hand and squeezed it like a lifeline. Then it hit him: of course she's reacting like this! We're talking about the man who killed her! Squeezing her hand back, he murmured, "Don't worry, you're safe here. This is the Inquisition camp, after all."

Leliana swallowed and took a deep breath, regaining some of her normal calm. That, in turn, made Cullen feel better. Seeing Leliana out of sorts was surprisingly unnerving. "The Maker will provide," she repeated, her voice sounding a bit more steady this time.

"I hope so, my Lady," Nathaniel murmured. "At any rate, I came to make my report that I took the Wardens on a sweep around the perimeter, and drove off a smaller horde of darkspawn. I imagine Amell is trying to create a bit of chaos with them."

"Any more ogres?" Cullen asked a bit apprehensively.

"No. They're fairly rare, thankfully." Nathaniel grimaced. "I hate the bloody things, truth be told. It takes dozens of arrows to take one down without warriors to help. You and your friends did well against it, considering you're not Wardens and have never faced one before aside from Warden Alistair."

"Small blessings, but…" Cullen shook his head. "I suspect if there's one ogre, there will be more. Amell likes to sow chaos with a rather wide sweep, when he puts a mind to it."

"I wish I could say I disagreed," Nathaniel admitted. "But you're probably right."

"Where's Loghain?" Cullen asked suddenly. "He was with the troops last I heard."

"The Inquisitor put him in charge with Lady Cassandra," Nathaniel told him. "You likely won't see him for a while. They're both out directing the troops around the Wilds, taking down what they can of what's left of Corypheus' forces."

Feeling both relieved and guilty, Cullen nodded. "Good. Then I recommend that you and your group of Wardens remain on the perimeter of the camp to ward off any further darkspawn incursions. A bunch of tents with the healing and wounded makes a pretty tempting target."

Nathaniel nodded. "Agreed, Commander." He stood, issuing a crisp salute to Cullen before giving Leliana a courtly bow. "Until later, then."

After he left the tent, Cullen sighed and burrowed back in his cot. "I should be out there," he groused. "Not in here barely able to sit up properly."

Leliana smiled faintly. "How are you feeling? Shall I summon the healer?"

He sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Yes," he reluctantly said after a while, then winced. "Though it's a pity it can't be Ardum. I feel selfish even thinking that considering what he's already done for me. It's just…"

"I know. If he weren't already exhausted, he could get you out and in front of the troops again." She gave him a sympathetic smile as she patted his hand, then rose to her feet. "I'll get your normal healer, though. I'm sure she's got a potion that can give you a dreamless sleep, at least."

"I hope so," Cullen muttered, even as he closed his eyes and fell back to lie limp on the cot.

Within a few minutes, the familiar figure of his healer bustled into the tent, followed by her assistant who carried a basket full of medical supplies. "A little bird told me the pain is coming back," she said in a sympathetic tone as she sat next to his cot.

Offering her a wan smile, Cullen relaxed into the warmth of her smile. "I'm afraid so. You've done so much for me already, I didn't want to be a bother."

"Didn't want to be a bother," she repeated with an affectionate roll of her eyes, then patted his hand. "You could never be a bother, my bantam. We are here to serve the Inquisition, same as you, so I won't hear such nonsense." She put her hand on his forehead, then his cheeks. "Any chills? Double vision? Or just the pain under the bandages?"

"Mostly the pain," Cullen said, closing his eyes.

"Mostly?" He felt her fingers press to his pulse on his wrist. "Your heart is beating a bit fast. What else?"

Not wanting to go into detail about the dull ache associated with the red lyrium, he said, "Just worried about how the battle is going, that's all." He shifted as she tugged down the blanket and prodded lightly at the bandages around his torso.

Her hands moved along his body, checking his dressings as they went. "That's to be expected, I suppose," she said in a gentle voice. "Especially given your condition. Some of your bones were broken, you know, and that's what healed first. Thankfully we had Ardum with us this time, or you'd have to be shipped back to Skyhold to heal for a few months."

Shipped back brought the spectre of a carriage to mind, and Cullen shuddered. "Thank the Maker for that," he murmured, feeling the pull of sleep.

He felt her pat one of his arms, plucking at the armor Leliana had helped him restore to place. "Someone helped you get some of your armor on, I see," she noted.

He nodded, blinking rapidly as he tried to clear his vision. "Leliana. Dagna said to—" His words trailed off into a yawn, and the healer chuckled.

"There, there. Before you drift off, let's see to your dressings, hmm?" She gestured to her assistant, who moved to set his basket on the small table by the cot with a muffled clink, then pulled some small pieces of folded linen from it to hand to the healer.

From there, Cullen let himself drift in and out of consciousness as the healer replaced each of his bandages with a gentle care that made him smile. As she continued her ministrations, she hummed with a sort of natural beauty that somehow seemed to counter the vestiges of the haunting song wrapped deep within his mind. As he edged towards sleep, lulled by both song and the soothing salve she put on his wounds, he reveled in the tiny oasis of peace he'd found in the midst of violence and war.

Finally he felt her pat his cheek. "Almost done, my bantam," she said with a soft chuckle. "Let's get a potion into you. It will help you sleep longer and heal faster. It's the best we can do until Ardum has recovered a bit from the first round." His eyes opened to watch as she gathered the dirty bandages and moved to discard them in a covered basket near the entrance. "Go on, give him a reddie."

Cullen half-turned his head to watch her assistant tug a healing potion from the basket next to his cot and pop the cork. Closing his eyes, Cullen felt a hand gently cradle his head and lift it as the glass bottle was placed against his lips. Obediently Cullen opened his mouth, swallowing without question as the assistant tipped the contents into his mouth.

At least, until the taste fully registered with him.

His throat convulsed as the red lyrium slid down, trying to reverse the flow of liquid as it made its inexorable way to his core. The hand holding the bottle to his mouth suddenly pushed his jaw shut, holding it closed as the man bent closer. "Now, now, amico . Drink your medicine like a good little boy."

And he knew that voice.

Even though every fiber in his body screamed with pain, Cullen thrashed in panic as he tried to get away, but Zevran simply covered his eyes and forehead, holding him in place ruthlessly until the bottle was empty. Somewhere through the red haze he heard the healer gasp, "What are you doing?" and felt his assailant shift as if she tried to pull him away. The hand on his forehead abruptly lifted, and he opened his eyes in time to see Zevran turn and strike her sharply across the face, sending her to lie limp on the floor, but there wasn't enough time to take advantage before the hand returned to his face to push down hard.

Weak and injured as he was, Cullen felt the last of his strength ebb away as his struggles grew weaker, until finally he went limp on the bed. The hand holding his mouth shut switched to stroking his throat gently, and he reflexively swallowed the last vestiges of the red lyrium with a weary resignation. "H-How—"

"How did you not recognize me?" Zevran asked, pulling his hand away from Cullen's head so that he could see again, but still pressing down against his throat in a way that Cullen knew was a veiled threat. "Simple. Mi amor has devised a very simple but effective technique to trick people's minds into seeing people they trust. I've used it to my advantage several times now, though it works best when the target is relaxed."

Reaching up, Zevran tugged an amulet from beneath his tunic and let it dangle. As Cullen stared, Zevran's face seemed to shift and waver, always hinting at people that Cullen knew distantly. Mustering up a hint of his Templar training, Cullen pushed away the quiet influence of the amulet's magic until the face changed back to Zevran, though this time he realized that it wasn't the Zevran he remembered, either. This Zevran had only patches of hair and gaunt cheeks, with a sallow undertone to his golden brown skin. "Adamant. Halamshiral. Your precious Forts. Skyhold once or twice. It even got me close to Leliana a few times." Zevran gave a throaty chuckle as he tucked the amulet back into place. "Not that she remembers, of course. Mi amor made sure of that."

The words galvanized Cullen, angering him enough that he pushed against the dull haze of the red lyrium and lashed out with the last of his strength. His hand closed around the wrist of the hand holding him down and shoved as hard as he could, pushing the elf away with a ragged grunt. Zevran staggered back a few steps, giving Cullen time to blindly reach towards his pile of armor in an attempt to find his sword. Before he could do more than close his hand around the hilt, however, he heard Zevran say, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, amico."

Cullen froze at the dark threat in Zevran's voice, then slowly turned to face him. He swallowed when he saw that Zevran had seized the now terrified healer, holding one hand over her mouth while the other pressed a dagger to her throat. As their eyes met, Zevran gave Cullen a cold smile. "Think carefully before you try to resist again, hmm? The consequences could be lethal. Maybe not to you , but lethal all the same."

A chill settled into the pit of Cullen's stomach. He knew Zevran had the advantage in several ways, and now he cursed himself for not shouting for help when he'd had the chance. "Let her go," he grated.

"Ah, no, that's not how this works," Zevran said with a dark chuckle. "First you give me your word that you will come with me quietly, and I promise to leave her here unharmed. I don't really relish the idea of dragging you to our destination, but I could. You, on the other hand, are in no condition to fight me, and you know it. So. Do I kill her and knock you unconscious, or will you be a good little boy and do what you are told." Zevran's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Who knows? There might even be some more lyrium for you as a reward, hmm?"

Cullen shuddered as a grating, terrible need awoke in him at the words, at the thought of sucking down more of the damned liquid. He didn't want to desire red lyrium, and he loathed that part of him quivered in anticipation of more despite everything it had done to him. Yet, deep down, he felt that raw need throbbing within, and couldn't help the way his tongue emerged to lick the last few drops of it from his lips.

"I have your attention, then," Zevran said with a chuckle, ignoring the whimpers of the woman he still held tight in his arms. "Your word, Commander . You will come with me without question, without fighting, without warning anyone about your plight. You will be a good little boy, si? Just as your master desires."

The healer pleaded with him with her eyes, shaking her head frantically as she kept saying No behind Zevran's hand. Cullen couldn't tell whether she was telling him to refuse Zevran's request or to not let him kill her, but either way, he was too weary to struggle against the inevitable any longer. It felt like no matter how hard he fought, no matter how hard he tried to rise above his addiction and his past, it always rolled in again to overwhelm him. Still, he did try to say no, to refuse the request, but only silence left his mouth as he opened it.

"Don't toy with me," Zevran warned, digging in his dagger until a trickle of blood appeared on the healer's neck. "Do you agree?"

For a long moment, Cullen closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. In the end, though, the lull of the red lyrium in his veins gripped him tightly, and he finally whispered, "I agree."

"Very good, amico." Cullen opened his eyes in time to see Zevran expertly knock the healer on the head with the hilt of his dagger. As the woman sagged in his arms, Zevran lowered her down onto the end of the cot, then reached to the basket and tossed a red bottle to Cullen, who fumbled the catch but eventually managed to stop it from hitting the ground. "Just a simple healing potion this time. Drink up and get ready," he added with a leering grin as he ripped away the sheet covering Cullen's lower body. "You can't be gallivanting around the camp without your clothes on, si?"

Cullen flushed, suddenly feeling quite naked despite the fact he still wore his smalls and Dagna's armor. Avoiding Zevran's gaze, he rolled slowly to his feet and hunted for his clothing while Zevran put the healer on the cot and pulled the blanket over her so she would look asleep. "Are you ready?"

"As ready as I can be," Cullen muttered. Perhaps I can overpower him later. After all, he hadn't told Zevran how long he wouldn't fight. I might as well learn something from demons, he thought grimly. It might as well be how to follow the letter of an agreement without following the spirit.

"Good." Retrieving the basket he'd brought in with him, Zevran reached into its depths and withdrew a large cloak which he tossed to Cullen. "Here we are. Put it on."

Gritting his teeth together, since even with the healing potion every movement sent a twinge of pain through his body, Cullen slowly pulled the cloak over his shoulders. He had no idea how Zevran was going to get him to walk for any distance, healing potions or no. His body simply couldn't handle it. With a final groan he settled the cloak into place and let his arms drop, grateful for the chance to rest them. "Done."

"Excellent." Zevran smiled as he reached up to tug the hood into place. "You're sweating. I take it you're still in pain, hmm?" At Cullen's scowl, Zevran chuckled and pulled out another potion. Popping the cork, he set it on Cullen's lips. "Very well. One more for the road." When Cullen frowned and pulled his head back, he suddenly felt something sharp prick his neck. A glance down showed the gleam of Zevran's dagger, which had appeared out of seemingly nowhere without Zevran's expression changing one whit. "You will drink it, amico," Zevran said in a threatening tone.

Cullen swallowed harshly, then slowly opened his lips so that Zevran could pour it into his mouth.

Whatever it was, it wasn't red lyrium alone. A roaring wave of heat surged through his body, and he opened his mouth to scream, a sound muffled by Zevran's hand before it even had a chance to emerge. For a few moments, Cullen only knew the fire of agony as his mind and body burned with the potency of whatever had been in that bottle, and when he finally came to his senses again, he felt strength flowing through his body.

His mind, though…that was another matter. The same red haze which had gripped him in Halamshiral settled over him as the world around him gained a red hue. Sound echoed in his ears with crystal clarity, but his pain had been put somewhere far away, waiting until it was time to feel it again. Somewhere in the middle of this new world, he felt a gentle touch on his cheek and looked down to meet the gaze of the one he knew he must obey, and a strange peace settled over him, one which almost drowned out the distant screaming in his head. Somewhere, he knew, the world outside was a place of right and wrong and battle and love, but his world, here and now, was a world only of obedience. "I am ready, master."

"There we are. My but you look dashing," Zevran purred as he pulled the cloak tightly around Cullen's face and body. "You are going to follow me like a good little boy? Keep your head down and your mouth shut?"

"Yes, master," Cullen said softly. Of course he would. What other choice did he have?

"Bene, bene, amico," Zevran said with a chuckle, then reached up to tug Cullen's face close to his. "And if you're a good little boy, perhaps I will have another treat for you later, hmm?" For a moment he caressed Cullen's lips with his own, and Cullen moaned softly in gratitude for the gift. Zevran chuckled and pressed a hand on Cullen's chest. "Perfetto. Wait here a moment, si?"

As Cullen waited patiently, Zevran ducked out of the tent to tell the guards standing watch that the Commander's tent should remain undisturbed while the healer continued her work. When he ducked back in, he gave Cullen a wink. "Now, follow me."

"Yes, master," Cullen promised, eager to earn his reward.

As Zevran led the way from the tent through a clever cut in the back corner which was quickly tied shut behind them, Cullen kept his attention focused on Zevran. With each step, the world sang around him, twisted and beautiful and crimson, to the point where he had to remind himself of his task to remain close to Zevran rather than lose himself in the discordant wonder around him. The screaming within remained, an itch deep in his mind, but it was so dim compared to the resonance of the lyrium and the deep voice compelling him to come that he almost couldn't hear it after a while, especially not as they wended their way through the encampment.

After what seemed an eternity of endless twists and turns as Zevran led him through the camp in a meandering fashion designed to avoid people and notice, they vanished into the thick of the Wilds. The sounds of the camp slowly diminished behind them, and Cullen suddenly realized that the distant screaming inside wasn't quite as distant as it had seemed to be amid the bustle of the camp. Though he still followed Zevran obediently, the nature of the elf as master slowly faded, replaced by the nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. As time passed, and the rich loam of the earth beneath his feet turned into the thick moss of the deep forest, the internal howling slowly increased in power until it at last overwhelmed the poisonous syrup of the lyrium's song and the constant chant of the deep voice commanding his presence. And, just like that, his mind returned to him.

His mind, and his misery.

With a groan, Cullen fell to his knees, hands rising to grip the sides of his head in a bid to stop it from bursting into pieces. The suddenly too-bright sunlight seared into his eyes, so he squeezed them shut with a loud moan to avoid the brutal glow. Zevran was forgotten in the sudden deluge of torment as every single wound awoke with a vengeance that drove him to fall to the ground, writhing in agony. Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and through a haze of agony he felt Zevran drag him somewhere dark. A moment later a bottle was pressed to his lips as a harsh voice issued a command. "Drink."

Cullen's mouth opened without conscious thought, feeling almost grateful as a fresh dose of red lyrium slid down his throat, followed in quick succession by the bitterness of a healing potion designed to dim the pain. As he coughed and sputtered, the agony of his wounds receded and his heart calmed, until he floated distantly in Zevran's embrace, eyes still closed as he waited for the spinning to stop. He realized that it wasn't the same brew as before, where his mind had been taken from him, but it did leave him feeling peculiarly detached and almost at peace with his fate.

Suddenly something bumped his lip, gently gliding along it with a delicate touch. Slowly Cullen opened his eyes, only distantly shocked when he found Zevran's finger lightly caressing his lips. Their faces were mere inches apart by this point, and Cullen lay still as Zevran explored his lips. "I remember you from the Blight," Zevran murmured, "though your memories may not be so clear or approving. Mi amor killed every other Templar we found inside the Tower, you know. Every last one. He took no small pleasure in inflicting upon them the same treatment they had performed on him over the years. But you—you he saved." The elf's thumb brushed Cullen's cheek. "If ever there was a Templar for whom he had any affection, it was you. In…in his own way." Zevran pressed his lips against Cullen's forehead in a soft kiss. "A pity I must give you to the Master."

Forcing his eyes open, Cullen met Zevran's gaze. "Th-then d-don't," he managed. "Don't…t-take me."

Fear flashed in Zevran's eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared, but strong enough for even Cullen in his current state of mind to recognize it. "I cannot fail him again. You do not know what he will do to me." Zevran's body shuddered beneath Cullen, just before he snarled and grabbed the shoulder of Cullen's cloak to yank him upwards. "Nap time is over. We still have a long way to go."

As they proceeded through the Arbor Wilds, Cullen heard sounds of fighting around them, but never too close. Screams and shouts, the clash of swords and the crackle of magic, all those reached his ears, but never his vision. Once in a while, Zevran would tug Cullen into a hidden glade and wait, though Cullen rarely saw what prompted the need. Each time he did, the elf would press a bottle to Cullen's lips and command him to drink. Sometimes the red was a healing potion, and others it was red lyrium, which made each drink both a terrifying and darkly joyful experience.

Cullen stumbled along in Zevran's wake, somehow still unable to do anything but obey as the elf led him deeper into the dark shadows of the Wilds. Wherever they were going, it was deep enough into the old forest that the light of the sun became only occasional rays of pale gold piercing the foliage above. A sense of unease grew in Cullen with every step they took, but it changed nothing of the waking nightmare in which Cullen found himself.

A nightmare he now feared would never end.

Time lost all meaning as the world gradually faded away. He was aware that it passed in a distant, uncaring fashion, but his attention became more and more fixated upon the bottles pressed to his lips, and the elf who gave him the drinks. In the moments of quiet where they hid from unknown, unseen dangers, his eyes scrutinized Zevran through a haze which darkened with crimson the more he drank. He could see the song in the elf, feel the thrum of corruption deep in Zevran's bones.

And the more red lyrium that passed his lips, the more he wanted to explore the twisted, tilted melody he could sense in the elf.

At one point, as they sheltered from discovery in the midst of the roots of a large flowering tree, Cullen reached out to touch the elf's cheek. He shivered as he felt the resonance between the taint in the elf and the taint in his own blood, his eyelids drooping closed as that shiver spiked down his spine to pool in his groin.

He heard a chuckle, and opened his eyes to see Zevran look down at him with a gleam in his eyes. "All in good time," he murmured. "Oh, we have such plans for you."

Deep inside his head, Cullen flinched back in horror, but his lips only curved into a smile as he murmured, "Yes, master."

Zevran leaned down and drew Cullen into a deep kiss, his hand tugging open Cullen's trousers so that he could press his palm on the bulge between Cullen's legs. When the kiss ended, Zevran pulled back and tilted his head. "Such a beautiful thing, to watch your awakening. Still, we must not tarry. Come. We are close."

As Zevran pulled him to his feet, Cullen followed him willingly, eagerly, his wounds a secondary ache to the thrumming of desire for the exquisite agony that being near the tainted melody of Zevran evoked. The sounds of fighting had by now been gone for some time, and only the sounds of branches rustling overhead accompanied them as Zevran led him through the remnants of a door into what had once been an overgrown garden.

Cullen paused as his eyes gravitated to the only thing which stood apart from the rest, a pair of heavy crossed beams which had been joined in the middle and staked into the ground. A distant alarm rang in his head as he frowned, trying to remember why such a sight was a bad thing. When Zevran touched him, however, the apprehension faded, and he looked at Zevran with lips parted slightly.

"Let's get rid of these rags, hmm?" Zevran suggested, even as he pulled the cloak away and tossed it to the side. Soon the elf had removed all of his clothing and that damned armor, leaving only the largest of the bandages in place in the wake of his clever fingers. Cullen swallowed harshly as the elf slowly circled him, tracing the lines of his scars and freshly healed wounds. "You bear the mark of so many battles," he breathed. "Much like I do."

"Yes, master," Cullen breathed, eyes locked on Zevran's hand as it made its tortuously slow descent down his torso.

Zevran chuckled, his hand pausing at the base of Cullen's stomach in a way which made Cullen moan in anticipation. "Tell me," Zevran murmured, "do you enjoy pain?"

The question gave Cullen pause, a ripple of uncertainty in the haze of red adoration. "I endure it."

"Hmm. Not good enough." Zevran's hand wrapped around Cullen intimately, his fingers reaching deep as he yanked Cullen forward with an intensely intimate grip. "But do not worry. I was once the same as you, but mi amor showed me another path."

Cullen shivered, caught in the midst of a heady mix of lust and fear, unsure how to respond in a way that would please Zevran. In the next moment, however, the elf pulled his hand away and shoved Cullen towards the crossed beams. "Back against the beams, arms up, legs spread."

Quickly Cullen obeyed, despite the nagging feeling that perhaps he shouldn't. That feeling persisted as Zevran moved behind him and out of sight, and then rose up in force when he felt the first rope wrap around his wrist. He gasped, and instinctively started to pull away when Zevran pressed a hand to his throat.

"Remain," the elf growled.

Something about the touch or the word or the tone or… something made Cullen freeze in place, long enough for Zevran to finish tying his wrists to the beams. He swallowed harshly as the procedure was repeated on his ankles. "I—I don't understand. I thought you were going to…" His voice trailed away into puzzlement, the lust from only a few minutes ago draining away.

"I still might," Zevran mused as he came around to stand in front of Cullen. His gaze dropped to Cullen's middle, and he made a few clicks with his tongue. "Ah, so the flag droops so readily? Perhaps the haze of the lyrium isn't enough, hmm? The Inquisitor weaves his wards well. Alas for you that we had someone within to aid us." Zevran stepped forward, pulling a small vial from his vest. "Open your mouth," he said in that commanding tone from before.

Cullen tried to resist, or thought he did, but perhaps that was only a fool's hope. His jaw dropped, and Zevran quickly emptied the vial into his mouth. As he swallowed the gritty and bitter contents, a surge of heat and cold swept over his body as it had in the healer's tent before, and he gasped. "What—"

"Red lyrium concentrate, and a little something extra," Zevran informed him with a dark chuckle. "To keep you helpless while I prepare you for your true Master."

Shaking his head, Cullen tried to focus past the growing red haze which sought to overwhelm his vision. "My true—"

Zevran smiled slowly, a smile which could not be mistaken for anything other than predatory, then left Cullen's field of vision. When he returned, Cullen's eyes widened as he saw that Zevran now carried a bowl filled with an eerily glowing red viscous liquid—the same eerie red glow as red lyrium. "Now, close your eyes, caro , and savor your transformation." He reached out and forced Cullen's eyes to close before slowly gliding his fingers down Cullen's face and torso as he murmured, "Oh, I am going to enjoy this."

And, no matter how Cullen fought the weight of the red lyrium as it slowly overwhelmed his mind, the world fell away, leaving him to tumble into the nightmares which awaited him.

Again the walls of Kinloch Hold pressed in around him, the demons laughing at his cries for mercy, except this time it was worse. This time they stripped him of his armor and grabbed his arms and legs. A desire demon inflamed him and took him, riding him as he screamed at her to stop, laughing at his pleas for mercy. When she was done, she patted him on the cheek, then gave the signal that the other demons had been waiting for. Slowly they began to pull on his arms and legs, taking delight in his shouts of pain. He felt his bones crack and splinter, felt them separate, and blacked out just as the flesh started to tear.

He awoke in a cell in the Gallows of Kirkwall, the walls of the tiny room he'd claimed as his own covered with blood and gore. Fighting his way to the corridor, he gawked at the sight of Meredith ordering the Templars to put more mages in the spike-filled coffins, more mages on the stretching tables, more mages on the sawhorses. He gagged on his own bile as one of the spike-filled coffins was opened and its contents fell out, barely recognizable as human. In despair he ran to Meredith to beg for mercy, to remember her duty. Instead she only laughed at him before pushing him to his knees as she forced him to watch the Templars slowly crush Hawke beneath a huge slab of red lyrium.

That world faded, too, the sound of Hawke's feeble whimpering replaced by the crackle of the braziers in the main hall of Skyhold. His dull eyes turned to look up at the occupant of the throne, not surprised to find his Master sitting upon it. His Master looked down upon him and shook Cullen's leash, pointing in silent command towards the pariah mage kneeling in chains at the foot of the dais. It was time for punishment, and time for the Master's incaensor to mete it out. Certainly Cullen couldn't remember when he'd been anything but the harsh and heavy hand of the Emperor God, and stalked towards the man with a gleam in his red eyes. As Cullen settled his hands around the mage's neck and slowly squeezed the life out of him, he didn't recognize the grey eyes or the curved mustache above sensuous lips. His Master demanded the man's death, which meant that the man must die—even if the final word to escape the man's lips was the name of his murderer.

The tears, of course, meant nothing, though they wet the cheeks of both men. The Master wouldn't allow them to have meaning—or anything else, of course. Only the Master mattered.

Cullen jerked awake with a stifled shout, only to find his body immobile. His wits had returned fully to him while he had drifted in the land of red lyrium horrors, and now his breath came fast and quick as he stared wide-eyed around him. He saw Zevran standing in front of him, head canted to one side as he tapped an odd implement against his cheek.

And then his body truly awoke—with a vengeance.

At first, all Cullen could feel was pain, his entire being consumed by the raging fire of agony that stretched from his head down to his toes. Try as he might, though, he couldn't move so much as a finger save to draw breath, filling the overgrown garden around them with the sibilance of his strangled screams. As time crawled past with traumatic apathy, the raging fire slowly resolved into what felt like a million points of pain, as if Zevran had given him a thousand shallow cuts over his entire skin.

"Ah, the sleeper awakens," Zevran mused. "The paralytic effect of that last potion of concentrate will persist for a while yet. After all, I could not have you moving and ruining my work."

Cullen blinked rapidly, eyes stinging as liquid dripped into his eyes, and he closed them as Zevran reached up with a cloth to wipe it away. When he opened them again, he saw a smear of blood on the cloth, one which glowed with the eerie red liquid from the bowl he'd seen before. Cullen tried to speak, tried to demand answers, but only managed a soundless grunt.

"What work, you ask? Hmm. I suppose you deserve to see it. It is your new body, after all, though the Master will be the one to give it the crowning touch." With a chuckle, Zevran tossed the bloodied cloth aside. "Well, perhaps a small glimpse would be permissible." Moving to where a pack had been left piled against a rock, he pulled out a small metal mirror, then moved to Cullen and held it up so that Cullen could see his face in the dull patina of the mottled surface.

Cullen stared in horror at the mirror—or, more specifically, at the bright red lines of an extensive tattoo which now marked his skin with an intricate design. In an instant, a memory came to him of someone with similar designs, one who had endured a terrible life of his own, and an even grimmer fate.

Fenris.

He must have spoken the word, because Zevran chuckled as he lowered the mirror. "Ah, yes, he was part of the inspiration, it is true. An ancient art of flesh decoration revived by Danarius, but not created by him. No, the art dates back to the time of the Master, and you will be the new pinnacle of it." Zevran smiled. "Though I admit, it is satisfying to express myself artistically again, even if the ink is rather unusual this time. Your body is a willing canvas, caro . Oh, the needle marks might burn for a while, but that will go away once the Master fully activates the power of the red lyrium I used."

As Cullen again tried and failed to struggle against his bonds, Zevran returned the mirror to his pack. "And soon the Master will be here to turn my designs into pure power. You should be grateful to receive his blessing." After a heartbeat, Zevran half-turned to look at Cullen and murmured, "As I am grateful to be spared it. Though I will say that he wanted me to use the blade instead of the needles, but even I could not do that to you."

With a shake of his head, Zevran grabbed a clean towel from the pack, then doused it with the contents of what looked like a healing potion before he proceeded to wipe Cullen's body thoroughly, an act which made Cullen shiver and moan as that strange edge of lust returned. "Do not worry," Zevran crooned, lifting on his toes to kiss Cullen lightly on the lips. "Soon you will understand the exquisite beauty of pain, just as I learned so many years ago."

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if Zevran heard the hollowness in his own words. Bereft of an ability to fight back, he forced himself to slow his breathing and look deep within to find a quiet in the storm, a peace amidst the chaos, where he could wait and gather his strength.

And pray for an opportunity to strike.