"Keep your wits about you and remember the Fade is a realm of dreams. The spirits may rule it, but your own will is real."

—First Enchanter Irving

You don't know how long you've been wandering in this empty landscape, how long you've been putting one foot in front of the other. You don't remember your name, or how you got here. You only know that you must move forward, ever forward, or everything will be lost. As far as you can remember, you have been here always and forever.

Eventually you see something appear in front of you. It takes a while for the word to form in your mind, but by the time it comes within touching distance, you have pulled it from the emptiness of your mind and set it loose from your lips.

"Door."

Reaching out, you lay your hand on the door. For a moment you pause as you stare at your arm, pondering the scars and rough skin. Questions whirl in your mind. Who are you? Why are you here? What have you endured?

Hoping that some of the answers lie on the other side, you push open the door and step through—

—into a brightly lit, warm cottage. The smell of apple pie lingered in the air, as well as the comforting smell of the cedar wood his mother used in the fire during the winter. He moved to the nearest window and peeked out, smiling as he recognized the familiar shape of the snow-covered golem statue in the town's main square. Another word rose from the void within as he turned back and studied the room with its worn wooden furniture and crackling fireplace. Home. He was home.

Memories rose in waves from the darkness. He remembered endless evenings spent on the great bear rug in front of the fireplace, listening to his Da tell stories as his Ma cooked in the kitchen. Days were spent either in the hills around the town playing pretend Templar with a stick and a pot lid, or in the Chantry with the real Templars as he learned how to protect others as they did. On the days when it was too cold to be outside, he would wrestle on the bear rug with his brothers or—

"Cullen!"

Jumping in place, he turned to look at his sister with a scowl. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" Is that my voice? I sound so young.

Rolling her eyes, Mia grabbed his arm and dragged him to the table. "Come on, you promised. You can't hide forever."

"I wasn't—" Cullen protested, then yelped as Mia plunked him into the seat next to the chess board. "Hey!"

Mia took the seat across from him and took one of each color from the board. "Pick your color," she insisted, holding out her closed hands to him.

Realizing he wasn't going to be able to avoid another trouncing, he sighed and tapped one of her hands. It didn't matter which one, of course—she'd beat him regardless, like she always did. As she set up the pieces on the board accordingly, he found himself staring at his hand. Was it always this small, this weak? When Mia cleared her throat, he started and looked up, seeing that she'd already made the first move. "Sorry," he mumbled, then pushed one of his pawns forward in response.

"So," she said in a low voice after a few moves, "did you talk to Da about it yet?"

Cullen sighed glumly as he moved a knight—his favorite piece, of course. "Yes. It didn't seem to make much of a difference. He still wants me to start working the fields with him come spring. No more practice at the Chantry."

Mia worried at her lower lip as she contemplated that for a moment, then leaned forward. "I've heard that someone's coming from Denerim," she whispered. "A Knight-Captain. Susan does the rooms for them, and she told me that the Templars have been in a buzz ever since they got word."

"A Knight-Captain?" Cullen straightened, mind working quickly. "They can sponsor recruits, even older ones."

"Exactly. So maybe if you make sure you're there to practice that day?"

"I can do that." Cullen frowned and glanced to the kitchen, where their Ma prepared dinner while softly humming, as she always did. "If the Templars want me, Da will let me go, won't he?"

"You want to protect people," Mia said with a nod. "Why wouldn't he want it? He just has to know the Templars want it, too." She gave him a wink. "Your move."

"Right." Cullen drew a deep breath and focused on the board. "My move."

And, for the first time, he won. Instead of being upset as he'd expected, Mia just beamed at him and jumped to her feet. "Come on! Let's sneak some pie upstairs to celebrate."

"But Ma's right there!" Cullen said, eyes widening.

"Trust me," Mia said with a giggle. "I'll distract Ma, you grab the pie." With a wink, she turned and moved into the kitchen.

Grinning, Cullen rose to follow, then stopped as the door slowly opened. Half-expecting his father to march in and put a stop to their mischief, Cullen instead stared at the stranger who stepped through the door.

Or... was it a stranger? He would have sworn that he had never seen the man in his life, but there was something about the deep grey eyes and curved mustache which made something deep within Cullen sing. For a long moment, he gawked at the man, unable to look away. Finally he whispered, "Who are you?"

"Come back to me, Cullen," the man said, and held out his hand.

A new urgency overcame Cullen, and he stumbled towards the man, one step at a time until—

—you stumble into the nothingness once more, exulting as you press forward. Cullen. You take your newfound knowledge and hold it close, reveling in the weight and significance of it. Cullen. Your name is Cullen. You have a sister named Mia, and brothers, and parents. You wanted to be a Templar. You love homemade apple pie.

All of these things by themselves aren't much, but together they help ground you, pull your mind from wandering in the expansive nothingness around you, and give you something to focus on, a direction in which to direct your thoughts. Quickly you hone in on one in particular which follows naturally from the memory of your childhood: did you become a Templar?

As if summoned by the question, the vagueness ahead of you swirls into a new shape, another door. Instead of a door to a warm family home, however, this door is more utilitarian: tall and wide and banded with pitted, aged metal. Hesitantly you reach out and settle your hand upon it, suddenly uncertain if you want to see what is on the other side. When nothing happens, you take a deep breath and push it open to reveal a dirt courtyard surrounded by low buildings. In the distance you can see people in some sort of uniform making their way through a series of obstacles, and a vague hint of a memory tickles the back of your mind. Curious what you might learn, you cross to the other side—

—and onto the scuffed and creaking wooden boards laid out around the courtyard. When a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, Cullen pivoted quickly and found himself looking into the impassive face of Knight-Captain Broder. "You took your sweet time, Rutherford," Roder said bluntly. "I expected you sooner."

"I was on the course," Cullen told him, trying not to sound apologetic. Broder was a good man, and an exemplary instructor, but he also despised whinging about, as he called it. Cullen had learned early to state his business and wait for orders, a tactic which met with remarkable success. "Alistair waited until I reached the end to give me your summons."

Broder grunted, taking in Cullen's sweaty and dusty condition, then turned and gestured Cullen to follow him into the armory. "Understood. With me."

And that was that. With the looming cloud of possible discipline removed, Cullen gave a silent breath of relief. "What is the task today, ser?"

"No task." Broder led Cullen to the back of the armory and gestured at a small door, then held out a key. "It's time."

Cullen's eyes widened, a tingle creeping up his spine as he stared at the sign on the door: Forbidden. Still, Broder wasn't the type to brook any nonsense or hesitation, so Cullen took the key without a word. In a trice, he'd unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping through into the room beyond.

The smell hit his nostrils like a full blown punch, making him rock back on his heels for a moment before he shook himself and pressed forward. The room needed no light inside, as the dim blue glow coming from the boxes around them lit the room as well as any candle. He swallowed as he pondered the lyrium, then glanced at the door so he could gauge the thickness of the stone separating the rest of the keep from the lyrium. Almost a foot thick. Is that how they keep it contained?

"It hits you like a gurn, doesn't it?" Broder observed with a chuckle as he followed. "The smell, I mean. Even after you've taken it for years, it still packs a wallop." Broder paused to take a deep breath, then shuddered. "Well? What're waiting for, Rutherford, an engraved invitation? Pick a kit so you can use it."

With a nod, Cullen blinked and looked for the shelf which held the prepared lyrium kits for Templars. The vigil would be the final step to becoming a Templar, of course, but taking lyrium for the first time was the first true indication that his formal training was at an end. His hands trembled as he reached towards the pile of kits, touching each one until he found one that felt right. He pulled it out, noting with a smile that it was weatherbeaten and nicked and scratched. "This served another Templar well." Indeed, the stylized figure of Andraste carved into the box exuded serenity, as if she bestowed a blessing on the kit with her very existence.

"That it did," Broder said. He glanced down at it and smiled faintly. "Oden's old kit. He did well, taking down that pack of abominations in the Graves. Good choice, Rutherford."

Cullen noted that Broder didn't speak of Oden's passing, one week ago in a small cot in the South Wing, surrounded by Templars with whom he'd worked for years but who were only strangers to Oden at the end. None of the instructors mentioned the South Wing, or the Templars within, tended to by lay sisters of the Chantry in the last years of their life. It was known, but unspoken—the shadow of sacrifice that stalked everyone who trained to become a Templar.

Without another word, Cullen tightened his hold on the kit and met Broder's gaze for a long, silent moment before he nodded, accepting his duty and his fate.

Broder grunted, then headed out the door. "Come on, Rutherford. I'll teach you how to use that thing like a proper Templar. Lock up here and meet me in the chapel."

As Broder moved out of sight, Cullen looked down at the kit in his hands with a furrowed brow. The import of what awaited him, of the South Wing and the blank stares of its inhabitants, suddenly weighed heavy on his shoulders, and he closed his eyes as he let it become part of the constant burden he already bore. If this was what was necessary to help people, then he would accept it, as he had accepted rising before dawn and practicing in snow and sleet and rain. He would endure, because he must.

When he opened his eyes, it was to find the stranger in the doorway again, grey eyes glimmering a pale blue in the reflected light of the lyrium. Cullen swallowed harshly as the man reached out and plucked the kit from Cullen's hand, dashing it to the ground with a vehemence which shocked Cullen. "Come back to me, Cullen," the man repeated, reaching out to lightly touch Cullen's cheek.

The touch sparked a jolt that ran through Cullen, and he gasped as he fell to his knees. For a long moment, the smell of lyrium filled his senses, overwhelming him as it flooded his nose and mouth and nostrils. In the next moment, it twisted and turned even darker, as more and more flashes of memory flickered and danced before his eyes. The song swelled and swept over his entire being, consuming his thoughts and his soul for a few heartbeats before he was elsewhere...

...elsewhere, in the chapel with Broder, his hand full of blood and glass shards as he stifled screams and struggled against the arms firmly wrapped around him. Distantly he heard Broder repeating an endless litany of It will pass, but it was hard to believe him as the lyrium invaded Cullen's mind and senses, changing him as its melody worked its way into every part of his being...

...elsewhere, in Kinloch Hold, kneeling before a man who had once been at his mercy, begging Amell for the vial of lyrium dangling just out of reach. Amell's hand fondled his jaw as the mage demanded the unthinkable, and the temptation for a sip or two of the dancing blue liquid slowly melted away Cullen's resolve as Amell guided his mouth closer...

...elsewhere, in Kirkwall, staring into the face of a man Cullen knew, but whose name for a terrifying few moments was lost in the part of his mind clouded by lyrium. Is this the beginning of the end? Cullen wondered. Is this when my mind starts to lose the things that make me Cullen? The man rolled his eyes impatiently and snapped a question, and suddenly his name emerged from the cloud—Hawke—and Cullen was never happier to remember anything in his entire life. After that, no matter how bad the haze, Cullen never forgot Hawke, even when Meredith herself was nothing but an enigma in a steel crown. Even when the man irritated Cullen to no end, at least Cullen always knew his name...

...elsewhere, on a ship, traveling to Maker knew where, hands gripping hard on the railing as he stared over the Bitter Sea. It had been a week since he'd last had any lyrium, and he could still feel every minute of every hour since then in the pain of the echoes left silent by the absence of the lyrium's melody. Sometimes Cassandra came by to help as she was able, but there was little she could do except be there, a pillar of support, as he jerked and shuddered through wave after wave of withdrawal pain and hopeless desire. He realized just how hollow he truly was, drained by remorse and regret, but also grateful for the chance to help others again. Perhaps this time, he would find something or someone worth serving again—and perhaps even redeem past mistakes caused by his blind loyalty. Cassandra's conviction regarding the Inquisition was compelling, after all...

...And then you find yourself in the nothingness once more, head brimming with memories. Some linger in your mind for a moment, offering new clarity, while others dance and disappear, leaving you more confused than before. Two names in particular tickle at your awareness, however, and they resonate deep inside your mind. Amell. Hawke. Neither of them were the man who had twice now interrupted your memories to pull you back to this place, but perhaps they signified men of import nonetheless.

As you ponder the matter, the nothingness around you changes. This time, two doors form: one of stone and metal and profundity, the other wood and rot and ignorance. After a moment of hesitation, you move to the stone door, the door which awakens the greatest sense of unease and dread, and pray only that the other door is still here when— if—you return.

As you touch the door, whispers sound in your ear, though you cannot distinguish the words. The voices resonate within you, though, tickling on the edge of your awareness with their familiarity, and the need to know pushes aside your hesitation. Squaring your shoulders, you push the door open and step inside—

—into a room lit mainly by mage light. The lanterns, maintained by the older Apprentices in Kinloch Hold, were spaced throughout the drafty interior of Greagoir's office, staying lit even in places where an errant breeze would regularly snuff a fire lantern. Cullen closed the door behind him and came to attention, waiting for his Knight-Commander to acknowledge his presence.

Turning from the fireplace, Greagoir gestured Cullen to join him. "Templar Cullen," Greagoir said with a tired smile. He always seems to be weary of late, Cullen noted as he moved closer. "You arrived in good time. I feel as if I just sent out the summons."

"I happened to be delivering a message to the Knight-Lieutenant, ser," Cullen explained. "I came here straight away."

"Excellent." Greagoir looked Cullen up and down with his piercing eyes, then nodded. "There is to be a Harrowing today. I want you to take part in it."

A bundle of nerves coiled in Cullen's stomach at the news, but he held his expression to a stoic neutral. "Yes, Knight-Commander. I am ready."

Greagoir's eyes narrowed slightly, and Cullen wondered if perhaps he hadn't controlled his expression well enough. "Ready for your blade to end a life if necessary?" he asked softly. "When Harrowings go wrong, it happens very quickly, and the window of opportunity is narrow. You must strike without hesitation. You've been here long enough to have learned the name and nature of each Apprentice, to know on a personal level their quirks and foibles. And now you must use that knowledge to determine if the person who emerges from the Fade is still them or a demon." Greagoir paused, then asked again, in a more pointed tone, "Are you ready?"

Cullen swallowed harshly. He knew Greagoir to be a fair man, if a bit acerbic when others around him seemed to be acting the fool. Still, if this was what it took to become a Templar in full so that he could help others... And besides, wasn't it the Templars' ultimate duty, to protect against abominations? He nodded, trying to look as confident as he could manage. "I am ready."

The other man's eyes studied Cullen's face for a moment before he finally nodded. "You're a good man, Cullen," Greagoir said softly. "Never forget that." Before Cullen could do more than blink in response to that, Greagoir pushed away from the fireplace and headed towards the door. "Come. They're waiting for us."

"If I may inquire, ser," Cullen said as he hurried to fall into place next to Greagoir as he strode down the stairs, "who—"

"Who will endure the Harrowing today?" Greagoir asked. "Apprentice Amell. I believe you are familiar with him."

"Yes. Yes, the apprentice with…" Cullen gestured to the left side of his face. "He strikes me as a man who fears little."

Greagoir grunted and shook his head. "He has fears. They're just a bit more exotic than most. He is...unusual. He came into his power early. Very early, in fact, and in the most unfortunate of circumstances."

Cullen frowned. "Then the rumors are true? About him and the Templars?" When Greagoir shot him a sharp glance, Cullen blanched and stammered, "Forgive me, Knight-Commander, I just remember hearing—"

"No, no. Perhaps I should have known some of the others would speak of it. Bran, was it?" At Cullen's nod, Greagoir gave a heavy sigh. "He was one of the Templars who found Amell, half-burned and near death, in a circle of dead bodies. The only Templar who survived the fire confessed to the worst of it before succumbing to his wounds, so we know Amell was provoked beyond reason—which was why he was not rendered Tranquil. Amell's sister was given proper rites, and Amell was brought here, at the tender age of five. Poor Wynne. She tried so very hard to get through to him, but he's never really opened up to anyone."

"Senior Enchanter Wynne has the patience of Andraste herself," Cullen noted. "If she couldn't win his confidence, then perhaps it is best to leave him to his research."

"As long as he doesn't become an Isolationist or a Libertarian," Greagoir muttered under his breath, then continued in a more normal tone. "At any rate, here we are. Look sharp."

Cullen nodded, a frown on his face as Greagoir pushed open the door to the room where the Harrowings took place. Silently he followed inside, then settled into place where Greagoir pointed, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited. Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving spoke quietly for a while, but as soon as Amell arrived, they fell silent and looked at him.

He's so confident for one so young, Cullen mused, resisting the urge to reach over his back and touch the familiar handle of his sword. Is that a bad sign? Or a good one? As Amell crossed the room with no sign of hesitation, shoulders thrown back and head high, Cullen glanced at Greagoir, and noticed the look exchanged between him and Irving. There's something going on there, he decided. And I don't want any part of it.

He watched, stoic and, hopefully, implacable, as Greagoir and Irving explained the nature of the Harrowing. Amell seemed to simply accept the information and walked to the lyrium with the same confidence with which he had entered the room. No wonder some of the others call him arrogant, Cullen mused, watching as Amell touched the lyrium and succumbed to the trance of the ritual. Well, that's it. It's time.

Pressing his lips together into a grim line, he reached over his shoulder to draw his weapon, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand wrapped around his wrist. Whirling around, he found himself staring into grey eyes above a delicately curved mustache, the man's face mere inches away from his own.

"Come back to me, Cullen," the man whispered, then closed the distance between them for a passionate kiss.

Cullen's fear and confusion melted away, and he leaned into the kiss eagerly. More than anything else in the world and beyond, it felt right. More than that, it felt perfect. His hands rose so he could sink his fingers into that beautiful hair and muss it just so, and he moaned softly as hands landed on his hips and pulled Cullen even closer. When their lips parted, Cullen pressed their foreheads together for a long moment. "I will," he whispered. "Always and forever, I will."

Always and forever...Dorian.

You open your eyes, to find yourself once more in the land of nothing, collapsed onto your hands and knees save that this time, you have everything, or rather, the most important thing: his name.

Dorian, you whisper to yourself, holding the name as close to you as any prayer you've ever uttered—closer, perhaps. It feels more real and more sacred to you in this moment than any word offered to the Maker or Andraste. Slowly, bit by bit, the memories begin to trickle back, as other memories have before, but you can still feel the wall around your mind, weakened but still unbroken.

Jaw tightening in determination, you look up at the final door as you slowly rise to your feet. What lies beyond it, you know not. What you do know is that no matter what it is, you will keep your promise to Dorian.

Always and forever.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward and open the door, walking without hesitation—

—into a darkened storage room lit only by the guttering light of a dying torch. Easing the door closed, Cullen stepped further into the dark, searching for some sign of the man he sought. "Hawke?" he whispered, reaching for the torch in case he needed it to search the limits of the storage room.

When the cold press of steel settled onto his neck, Cullen froze. "You weren't followed?" a familiar voice murmured into his ear.

"No, Hawke, I promise," Cullen said, swallowing.

"You sure?" Hawke asked in a harsh tone.

"The fog is thick as nug soup out there," Cullen told him. "Even if they tried, they couldn't have stayed on my trail."

For a long moment the dagger stayed at his neck, but then as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished, and a glimmer of light emerged from between the flaps of a thieves' lantern. It wasn't much light, just enough to light Hawke's face to fairly sinister effect, but it was enough to set Cullen at ease. "Sorry. Nervous times, this." He looked Cullen up and down. "I'm a little surprised you agreed to meet with me, given the circumstances."

Cullen shifted uneasily on his feet. "We may not have always seen eye to eye, but you've proven quite effective as the Viscount. I don't understand why you need to—"

"Disappear?" Hawke's jaw rippled as he clenched it tight. "Varric's agents got word that the Hands of the Divine are coming to Kirkwall, and I'd rather not get interrogated by either of them. I've met one already, and I'd prefer not to repeat the pleasure. I'll let the Seneschal handle them. Maybe he'll be odious enough to send them on their way quickly. Besides, it's as good an excuse as any to get started on my next mission."

"Kirkwall is your mission," Cullen said with a frown.

"Oh, come on, Rutherford. You know as well as I do that it's only a matter of time before the Templars turn on me—present company excepted, I hope." He looked pointedly at Cullen. "You are an exception, aren't you?"

Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Cullen nodded. "It's the red lyrium," he said reluctantly. "I didn't realize any of them had started using it until it was too late."

"Sooner or later they'll all be like Meredith," Hawke said grimly. "It's better to leave before they force me out. That way I can retain the title and authority for when I need it. The Seneschal can handle the day to day affairs in the meantime, and probably enjoy it. But if I have any chance of saving Kirkwall again, I need to find out more about the damned stuff—which I'm not looking forward to, by the way. Varric's paid for a bit of research to be done, and it's not pretty, but I can't wait for that to finish."

"So that's why you're leaving, then?" Cullen asked. "To find out more about red lyrium?"

"To start with. Varric's picked up rumors of other troubles that I may need to address, something that I was involved with in the past. We'll see how far down that nug hole I end up." Straightening, Hawke met Cullen's gaze. "In the meantime, I've delegated most operating authority to the Seneschal, so at least it's an orderly absence. I haven't told him where I'm going, or what I'm doing. He's learned not to question me—or maybe he's just happy enough to be put in charge that he didn't bother to ask."

"Then why ask to meet with me?" Cullen asked cautiously. This was Hawke, after all—unpredictability was practically his middle name.

Hawke set his lamp down on a nearby crate and pulled a small envelope from beneath his tunic. "For this. A final gift for you, if you ever need it."

"What is it?" Cullen asked as he took the envelope, feeling something small but heavy within. A glance inside showed a glitter of metal before he pulled it out. "A key?"

"To the Viscount's arsenal," Hawke said. "There's some choice pieces of equipment in there, if you ever wanted to raid it before you leave the Templars."

Five years ago, Cullen would have bristled at the remark. Now? For a long moment Cullen contemplated the key, then closed his hand around it as he looked up at Hawke. "I haven't made that decision yet," he said softly.

"Then you're a damned fool," Hawke said bluntly. "You've been through a lot of shit, Rutherford, enough to drive most insane. Look, I appreciate your assistance with the Templars since I became Viscount and I honestly think Kirkwall is better off because of your efforts. But anyone can see that you're wearing yourself thin. No matter how hard you try, you're not going to be able to help everyone—at least, not as a Templar." Hawke stepped forward and put a hand on Cullen's shoulder. "If I were you, I'd figure out a way to leave Kirkwall sooner rather than later. Eventually the Templars here will give you an ultimatum: take the red lyrium along with them, or die." Hawke flashed him a grin. "You can be amusing enough at times. I'd rather you didn't take that option."

"I don't like the sound of either option." With a grimace, Cullen pushed the key into the pouch at his waist. "But thank you. For the key, and for the advice."

"They don't call me the Champion because I'm as useless as a chastity belt in the Blooming Rose," Hawke said with a wink.

"Thanks," Cullen said dryly. "So are you leaving now?"

"Now is a better time than later," Hawke said, glancing at the door. "Forgive me if I don't tell you the details, either. I'd rather the Divine's Hands can't pull it out of you one way or another. If you really need to get a hold of me, Varric would be the one to ask."

"You think they won't interrogate him?" Cullen asked in a skeptical voice.

Hawke's shoulders moved in a careless shrug. "They'd be fools not to, but I'm not too worried. He's a better liar than you are."

Cullen felt obscurely insulted, but couldn't really think of a suitable objection to the statement other than a scowl. "Fine. Then you'd best be on your way."

"Take care," Hawke said. "I wouldn't say we're friends, but you did the right thing when you had to, and that makes you a better man than I." Grabbing his lantern, Hawke headed to the door. "Don't do anything I would do. I expect better of you than that, Rutherford."

Then, before Cullen could reply, the man was gone, vanished into the thick Kirkwall fog beyond the door. Cullen stared after him, an odd feeling settling into the pit of his stomach as he realized he might never see Hawke again. He should be grateful for that, considering what Hawke had done on his way to the Viscount's seat, but he was surprised to find a strange pang of regret instead. Even a quick litany of Hawke's many misdeeds wasn't enough to fully stifle the feeling, until at last Cullen simply sighed and pushed his way through the door—

—and back into the nothingness from whence you came. You gasp and stumble as the full weight of your memories pour into you, as if the memory of that secret meeting with Hawke was the key to unlock the final vault in your mind. When the onslaught subsides, you roll your shoulders back and take a deep breath. You know who you are and where you are and, more than that, you know how to get back to where you belong.

For a moment you turn and look back the way you came, unsurprised to find the Fade manifestation of your needs and desires standing there. He may not be the real Dorian, but your will formed him from the stuff of the Fade to give you what you needed the most—strength to push through the mind fortress you constructed to protect yourself from the red lyrium pulsing in your body.

And now it was time to return to that body and resume the fight within it. Your memories contain the tool you need to emerge, and your heart holds the strength you need to continue the struggle. Kneeling, you assume the same position you took during your final vigil before becoming a Templar, and you calm your mind until it is empty of thought and feeling. Then, slowly, you reconnect with yourself in the waking world.

A finger here, a toe there eventually leads to an awareness of the strain in your shoulders and the fiery pain which permeates your body. You hear the twisted, tilted melody of the red lyrium embedded in your skin and flooding your veins, but you also feel the tension as your body fights against it. It isn't easy or simple, but you still throw the whole of your being into the effort so that you might return.

Because you must. Always and forever.

When Cullen finally pushed through the last of the mist which clouded his mind, the details of the world around him proved difficult to decipher at first. The pain of his body, especially the tattoos of red lyrium which Zevran had inscribed in his skin, occupied most of his attention, though he did notice that whatever brew Zevran had given him to force him to paralysis seemed to be wearing off. As far as he could tell, he still hung from the crossed beams to which Zevran had tied him, which explained the ache in his shoulders. Other than that, he had no clue of his surroundings, and decided to proceed with care.

Cautiously he clenched and relaxed his fingers and toes, and a brief test showed that he could do the same with the muscles in his neck. Once that was sorted out, he relaxed again and turned all his concentration to his ears, trying to pick out details which might tell him where Zevran had gone, and if it might be possible to test his bonds without attracting attention.

He heard two distinct voices nearby in a quiet conversation. Zevran's lilting Antivan accent instantly identified one, but the other voice made Cullen's blood turn to ice in his veins. Amell. Forcing his breathing to keep the slow pace of pretend stupor, Cullen focused all his attention on the conversation, hoping he would learn something useful.

"—sure they are both gone?" Zevran asked, a surprising amount of anxiety in his tone.

"I am certain of it," Amell replied with the same confidence Cullen recalled from his time in the Circle. "It worked exactly as I hoped. Two babies, two darkspawn Magisters. All that experimentation at Soldier's Peak paid off. Fertility is so easily manipulated by blood magic, after all."

"How can you be sure she carries twins?" Zevran fretted. "What if—"

"Zevran." Amell's tone contained a good amount of patient humor as he cut Zevran's sentence short. "It worked. I used the same spell on Alistair that I used on the Wardens we captured after Adamant."

"That's different than the one you developed with Oghren?"

"Very. That one was just to replicate Morrigan's ritual, in case another blasted Archdemon awoke," Amell said. "This was the next iteration, the one that affects the woman's fertility as well to ensure conception. We even verified twins with some of the women impregnated by those Wardens."

Cullen frowned. It hasn't been nine months since Adamant. How could they verify— As a likely reason why came to his mind, Cullen paled and swallowed against the need to vomit. Had it been anyone but Amell, he would have denied even the possibility, but since it was… Maker preserve us. Twins. Leliana. Alistair. Cullen fought against a physical reaction, but quailed as he wondered how Leliana would react when she learned that her miracle of pregnancy was a direct result of Amell's manipulation. He suspected she would not take it well, given her reactions whenever Amell was discussed.

"Clever," Zevran mused. "But how did you keep the Architect from figuring out your plans to be rid of him? You shared a body, after all."

Amell grunted. "It wasn't easy," he admitted. "Thoughts are difficult to hide. But I learned I could distract him, after a fashion, by dangling toys in front of him. If it wasn't the darkspawn, it was the Wardens. If they weren't available, I let him play with the Red Templars we captured. And if all else failed, I tempted him with thoughts of Cullen." As Cullen's blood chilled once more, Amell added, "Though he never truly understood the potential of a Templar thrall. He just wanted an incaensor who wasn't a mage. I, on the other hand, know exactly what to do with a Templar, especially once I tame the Orb."

Cullen's teeth clenched. No. Not the Orb. It made sense, of course, if Amell had destroyed Corypheus for true, but… Maker, no. Not the Orb, not with Amell. If he truly had taken possession of it...

As if in answer to his thoughts, Zevran asked, "You found it, then? Can you bend it to your will?"

"I am not the fool Corypheus is, to obtain an artifact of such power and assume that I can use it with impunity," Amell sneered. "It's contained, for now, and I will study it carefully as I plan my next step."

"Then you think it is what you've been missing?" Zevran asked. "The final piece to the puzzle?"

"It does hold tremendous power, but it also can be very dangerous, as the Breach demonstrated" Amell mused. "I prefer not to draw that sort of attention to myself. Regardless, I shall proceed with caution, once all the pieces are in my possession."

Cullen had to admit to a grudging respect for that, though he did remember that Amell had always been one of the more meticulous mages in the Fereldan Circle when it came to researching magic and artifacts. Being cautious about the Orb would not be unexpected.

"And Hawke is still a part of that?"

"Of course. He's the Vessel. Where Corypheus sought in futility to enter the Fade again for a meaningless ascension, I shall use the knowledge of the elves to give me all the secrets of the Orb and beyond," Amell said with relish. "One way or another, I will find the power to do what must be done. I swear it."

"And what of Hawke?" Zevran pressed. "What will become of him?"

It almost sounds like he cares about Hawke's fate, Cullen thought with surprise. Surely not, if what everything Alistair said about how Zevran treated them is true.

"After he gives me the knowledge from the Well, I have no further need of him," Amell said. "Do not worry yourself on the matter. I'll take care of him."

Cullen fought to remain still, uneasy at the implication of Hawke's fate before those words. No one deserved such a cavalier dismissal, not even Hawke. Or...or perhaps especially Hawke, given what he'd been through while in Amell's clutches. Besides, Dorian seemed to count him a friend, and that meant something to Cullen.

"No further need of him?" Zevran asked acidly. "The world might have said the same about you after the Blight." Cullen fought not to raise his head and look to make sure he'd heard right. Had Zevran pushed back against Amell? That didn't seem to line up with his earlier behavior.

"Enough. I do not wish to speak of it any further." Amell's tone indicated no argument on the matter, and even without looking Cullen could feel the tension in the air. "Have all the Red Wardens reported in?"

"They have," Zevran said in a neutral tone. "They're in the other part of these ruins, awaiting the order to return to the Peak. The darkspawn were eliminated as intended."

Amell grunted. "Not a great loss. That tactic will only work once anyway. Loghain will be on the alert for it now, as will Nathaniel. A pity I could not turn them. I could use a good military commander for my Wardens."

"Hopefully we won't need one," Zevran muttered. "I'm not really built for large-scale battles. Give me a nasty, dirty fight in an alleyway any time."

"There's the Crow I know and love," Amell said with a chuckle, then sighed. "I'm sorry I snapped at you, love. You don't deserve that from me. Never from me."

There was a long moment, followed by the sound of a lengthy exhale. "He truly is gone, then," Zevran murmured, voice tinged with relief. "He never would have let me push back at you like that."

Amell's laughter cut through the air. "You clever bastard. I never even suspected that was a test." There was the sound of clothes rustling, and then the far more distinct sound of the two men kissing with very audible passion, judging from Zevran's soft moan.

Sweet Merciful Andraste, I do not want to hear this. Cullen tried to block out the sounds, but it was impossible. When they finally ceased, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. In the next moment, however, he tensed as he heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching, and forced his body to relax so that he would look as unconscious as he could manage.

When Amell next spoke, it came from mere feet away in front of Cullen. "The tattoo designs are magnificent, my love. You have lost none of your artistry. How much longer will the effects of the potion hold him?"

"For a while yet," Zevran said. "But he can be roused from slumber. He just won't be able to move his limbs."

Is that true? Cullen struggled to keep his face neutral as the sheer hopelessness of his situation sank in. Is there no escape? In the next breath, however, he clamped down hard on that impulse and reminded himself that he would return to Dorian. Any other outcome didn't deserve even a moment of his time to contemplate.

He felt a hand settle on his chest, followed by a surge of magic, and didn't have to feign the gasp of pain as he opened his eyes. Whatever else the red lyrium was doing to him, it amplified the magic of Amell's spell to wake him at least tenfold, so that a spark turned into a storm that arced down his spine.

"I see the red lyrium has sensitized you," Amell said with a chuckle as a hand sank itself into Cullen's head and raised it. "Let me get a look at you."

Their eyes met, and Cullen flinched back instinctively from the man's intense gaze. The red eyes had been unsettling before, when they were more just a very unusual shade of brown Amell enhanced with magic to look true red. Now...now his irises were a true blood-red, the same color as red lyrium, and the effect was unsettling. He swallowed harshly as Amell tilted his head back and forth, examining Zevran's handiwork. "L-let me go," he managed to grate.

Amell's answer chuckle made Cullen's hackles rise. "Oh, no, Cullen. Not now that I finally have you. I have plans for you, after all."

"The Inquisition—" Cullen began, then cut off with a hiss of pain as Amell's hand tightened in his hair and jerked hard to one side.

"The Inquisition doesn't matter," Amell sneered. "Forget about them. Your place is with me, which is only fair. You Templars owe me, after all."

Cullen's mind raced, trying to figure out if Amell meant something specific, and remembered the memory he'd witnessed in his mind fortress. "'m not your sister," he gasped.

The blow came quick and hard after that, slamming into Cullen's jaw with enough force to rattle his skull. For a moment, the world jerked and twirled around him so hard that for a moment he couldn't tell up from down. As Cullen struggled to recover, Amell grasped his throat in one hand and squeezed, leaning in close to snarl, "When the Templars came, she hid me. They tried to force the answer out of her, but she resisted. When I heard her scream, I reacted the only way I knew how, but I couldn't save her. So, yes. You Templars owe me, and I will use you with the same care that your brethren showed my sister. Is that understood?"

The world swam in front of Cullen's eyes as the light slowly dimmed, the struggle for air overwhelming all of Cullen's other instincts. He tried to gasp an answer that would appease Amell, but failed, and felt his eyes start to roll up in their sockets.

An unlikely savior came in the form of Zevran, who reached out and tugged Amell's hand away from Cullen's neck. "He understands, amor," Zevran crooned. "But he needs to be awake for you to finish the ritual of control, remember?"

Amell stepped back and took a deep breath. "Thank you, Zevran. I forgot myself for a moment."

"That can be forgiven, all things considered," Zevran said, then held up a bowl filled with a viscous dark liquid. "The blood is ready."

"Good." Amell kept his eyes on Cullen even as he slammed the tip of his staff into the ground, leaving it standing next to him. "Then I will begin." He dipped two of his fingers into the bowl and swirled it around, withdrawing them only when they were completely coated and dripping. As he stepped closer to Cullen, he murmured, "The harder you fight, the more it will hurt."

Cullen swallowed hard, his eyes locked on Amell's fingers. Time seemed to slow as they drew near his forehead, and he tried to jerk his head away. Amell responded by grabbing a handful of Cullen's hair with painful strength, forcing Cullen to watch as his doom drew near.

A mere inch away from Cullen's forehead, the fingers paused as Amell frowned and tilted his head. Zevran noticed and stepped closer. "Is something amiss, mi amor?"

"Perhaps." Stepping back from Cullen, Amell turned to look off into the forest. "Someone tests the wards I set."

"Do you wish me to investigate with the Red Wardens?" Zevran offered. "It could simply be a bird or refugee from the fighting."

Sounding irritated more than anything, Amell said, "No. These particular wards would only respond like this if strong magic were involved. It must be either the Venatori or the Inquisition." Yanking his staff from the ground in a fit of pique, he gestured curtly towards Cullen. "Stay with Rutherford. I'll take the Red Wardens myself and deal with the interlopers. I must ensure that the ritual is uninterrupted."

As Amell stalked away, Cullen breathed a mental sigh of relief. He had a little time, and perhaps even some allies nearby who might be able to help him, if whoever had interrupted Amell's wards was from the Inquisition. He would have to be very careful indeed, whatever he planned, or he would never see Dorian again. And that fate, he would never accept. His place was at Dorian's side, after all.

Always and forever.