The song is your soul.
No, that's not quite right. The song is in your soul, writhing and twisting as it slithers through the core of your being, leaving a trail of corruption in its wake. You push against it, against its tainted grasp, against the devouring of your soul, but end up only getting sucked further in.
You float in a red sea of agony, drifting wherever the tides of the tilted, twisted melody lead you. Memories and visions dance in your mind until you no longer know for certain which is a true memory and which is a fabrication. Insidious and effective, the red lyrium that boils and surges through your veins slowly, meticulously, chips away at your memories, seeking to shape you into a suitable vessel for its corruption.
Over and over you relive your torture at the hands of the demons in Kinloch Hold, and with each iteration the quiet, ugly thoughts nag at you: Are you sure you didn't enjoy it? Are you sure you didn't deserve it? Are you sure? Are you sure?
Over and over you walk the streets of Kirkwall, and each time the actions of the mages and Hawke grow more and more sinister as a whisper sounds in your ear: Are you sure Meredith was wrong? Are you sure you chose the right path? Are you sure? Are you sure?
Over and over you stare at the retreating silhouette of Kirkwall, the doubt looming larger and larger as the same voice slides like ice through your mind: Are you sure you want to abandon your duties? Are you sure you aren't just going to get more people killed? Are you sure? Are you sure?
You realize this is wrong, that all those moments are past. You concentrate, seeking the present, and remember the feel of ropes around your wrists and ankles, the sting of red lyrium freshly etched into your skin. You remember…
...breathing deeply, as he'd been taught, to bring himself to a state of utter calm. He kept his eyes closed, both for concentration and so that the sight of Zevran pacing back and forth restlessly in front of where Cullen hung from crossed wooden beams wouldn't distract him. Instead, he concentrated on his mental fortress as the Templars had taught him, trying to shore up its defenses against red lyrium the same way he'd been taught to use it to keep the effects of normal lyrium at bay.
After a few moments, the buzzing and disjointed melody seemed to dim, and he released a soft breath of relief. He wasn't safe of course—he wouldn't even consider himself safe until he was back in Dorian's arms—but at least he had a moment of peace in the eye of the storm to consider his options.
For the first time he moved, tugging at the ropes that bound his arms to the wood. Immediately he felt a sliver of metal press into his neck, and he opened his eyes to find himself looking down into Zevran's narrowed gaze.
"Don't push your luck," Zevran warned. "I'm watching you. Until Amell returns, I would advise you not even so much as twitch a muscle, or I will stick two inches of steel into it."
Cullen swallowed, but didn't answer, letting his sudden stillness speak as acknowledgment.
Seemingly satisfied, Zevran jerked his dagger away and stepped back. "He's going to win, you know. Amell, I mean. He defeated the Archdemon and lived. No one's ever done that before. And for all that you think he is so evil, his intentions are good."
"How?" Cullen demanded with a croak, wincing as the words caused pain in his lacerated throat. Maker, how many times did I scream?
Without responding, Zevran moved to a pile of equipment arranged with apparent haste, digging through it until he emerged with a waterskin. Returning to Cullen, he lifted the skin to his lips. "Drink," he ordered curtly.
Knowing better than to object, Cullen opened his mouth, accepting the gift and hoping it was just water. When the tepid liquid hit his mouth and proved to be just that—or even water with a bit of elfroot—he relaxed and drank it with gusto.
"He wants to end the blight. To rid the world of the taint," Zevran said softly. "So that we can be together for the rest of our lives." Pulling the waterskin away, he asked, "How can that be a bad thing, hmm?"
"Then why kill Mailani?" Cullen asked, swallowing a few times to clear his throat when it still came out harshly. "Why work against the Inquisition if his goals are so pure?"
"He wanted the Anchor," Zevran said. "To open the way to the Fade so he could cleanse the Black City of its taint."
"And he thinks that will end the blights?" Cullen asked incredulously. "Sounds like he's fooling himself, or searching for a reason to do what Corypheus intended."
Zevran stiffened. "He has no wish to be a god. He just wants to be left alone. If he hadn't been cursed by the Grey Wardens, he would have gladly left Kinloch Hold long ago and vanished, never to be found. But the Wardens kept pulling him back in."
"Which is why he subverted the Queen of Ferelden to his will," Cullen scoffed. "I don't believe that, Zevran, even if you do. Either he's lying to you, or he's lying to himself."
The slap caught him by surprise, slamming his face to the left with a jolting motion that made his head burst with pain. For a few moments he wheezed as Zevran grated, "You know not of what you speak. Silence."
Cullen licked some blood off his lip, since the blow had split it open, and nodded warily.
With a curt nod, Zevran nodded and returned to his restless pacing.
Closing his eyes, Cullen sought his inner peace again. A kernel of an idea had formed in his mind, and he wanted to chase it before the thought escaped. If I can build my fortress here, and it works, then perhaps…
Touching a mental hand to the wall of his mental fortress, the only bastion which separated him from the melody and confusion of the red lyrium, he took a deep breath, braced himself, and then dismissed it.
Immediately the cacophany of the twisted, tilted song rose around him, threatening to drive him from his own mind once more. Stubbornly he clung to his mind, to himself, and let his consciousness fall into the madness that buffeted him with the wild winds of the tainted melody. Though difficult, his long practice in resisting normal lyrium when he'd been in withdrawal gave him an edge to retain his will and focus despite the whispers which surged in his ears and soul. Eventually he found what he was looking for: the core of power which lay at the center of the melody.
Reaching out, he seized control of it as he would have with normal lyrium. He stiffened as pain seared through him, threatening to break his concentration and render him unconscious, but he took another deep breath and powered through. The agony intensified for a moment, then abruptly turned into a rush of power which coursed through his body. Knowing he had mere moments to take that energy and shape it before it found the core of his being and seared away his memories, Cullen shoved the power out of his body with a loud yell of exertion.
He felt the wood to which he was bound crack and disintegrate, dissolving into a pile of splinters as he fell to the ground. His eyes flew open in time to see Zevran's expression of surprise as the shockwave of Cullen's efforts struck him, flinging him hard into the trunk of a nearby tree. As Cullen rose to his feet, Zevran hit the ground with a rather satisfying thunk, then lay there twitching and spasming in pain.
Swaying, Cullen looked around the clearing, noting the uneven terrain and ancient bricks which made running at any speed a danger. For a moment he paused, looking inward to take stock, and noticed immediately that the song of the red lyrium had faded, as if expending it through his Templar abilities lessened its power over him for a time. Thankful for the respite, he stumbled to the pile of equipment from which Zevran had retrieved the waterskin and searched for his clothes, unwilling to brave the Arbor Wilds in the nude.
"Maldición," he heard Zevran swear, and looked up to see Zevran on his feet, seemingly as unsteady and weak as Cullen felt. "How did you do that? You are no mage!" Turning his head, Zevran spat out a large globule of blood which spattered on the ground next to him. Shaking his head, the elf fixed a dire gaze upon Cullen. "You know better than to resist Amell. Or have you forgotten the lesson he taught you at the Circle?"
"I have forgotten nothing," Cullen snarled. Rolling his shoulders to rid them of the remnants of the wooden beams, he reached down and grabbed one of the larger pieces of wood which had the size and heft of a sword. His hand and arm shook as he raised it, but the gesture of defiance mattered more than the ability to attack Zevran. "But most especially I remember how you stood by to watch and laugh at what he did to me."
Zevran paused, expression confused. "What? I did no such thing."
The conviction with which the elf said the words gave Cullen pause, but then he shook his head stubbornly. "Regardless," he snapped, "You are between me and freedom. I suggest you stand aside."
"And let you go?" Zevran barked a laugh, then drew his daggers from their place on his back. "Never. One, I would never betray my love like that, and two, I know all too well what would happen to me if I did."
Cullen snorted as he hefted his stick—which didn't feel all that impressive compared to the sharp steel in Zevran's hands. Still, it was all he had for the moment. "Afraid of the man you claim loves you? Doesn't that sound a bit off?"
"Silence!" Zevran snarled. "You know nothing!"
"Sounds like I touched a nerve," Cullen shot back, hoping to throw the elf off-balance with his taunting. "Now, I know what it's like to never have to worry about the man I love hitting me or taking his anger out on me. I know what it is like to feel cherished before all others. I know what it is like to love without fear that he will discard me when I am no longer useful." Admittedly, the last taunt was more a stab in the dark than anything, but the way Zevran's eyes went flat told him that it had struck the elf hard. Hopefully it was enough for an advantage, no matter how small. For all his bravado, Cullen knew he remained on his feet solely due to adrenaline and the red lyrium coursing through his veins.
And if either failed, well…
Forcing that thought to the side, Cullen focused on Zevran—just in time to see the elf launch himself forward without warning. Raising his makeshift sword, Cullen thanked the Maker that Zevran wasn't at his best, either, because he doubted he could take the elf one on one if he fought like he had at the Winter Palace after the desperate chase through the gardens. As it was, given his own still-weakened state, Cullen barely managed to duck away from Zevran's blades. A stumbling, half-falling sidestep was enough to use the elf's own momentum against him, though, and Cullen shifted in place to watch Zevran stutter to a halt a few feet away, like a bronto running past a red flag and wondering where it had gone.
"Maldición," Zevran spat again as he turned around. One of his arms drew back, the only warning Cullen had before he let it fly. With a yelp, Cullen raised his stick, only to curse as Zevran's blade ripped it from his grasp to land in a pile a few feet away. Zevran followed close behind, a dark malice in his eyes as he threw himself at the former Templar.
In fact, Cullen barely had enough time to Grab Zevran's wrists before the elf's full weight hit him, toppling them to the ground. Something on the ground hit Cullen's left shoulder-blade hard, and for a moment his whole arm went numb. Forcing his elbow and wrist to lock, Cullen concentrated his attention on Zevran's armed hand, breaking out in a sweat as he shoved back against Zevran's efforts to stab him. The dagger managed to kiss his cheek with a bloom of pain, but in a burst of strength Cullen shoved back hard enough to get the dagger out of range.
"Won't...let you...escape," Zevran grated between his teeth, shifting atop Cullen in an attempt to gain an advantage.
"If you kill me, won't Amell react the same as if you had let me escape?" Cullen demanded in a strained voice, even as a tingling spread through his left arm starting at whatever had hit his shoulder. He swore internally, hoping the blow wouldn't weaken his grip. "Gone or dead, he can't use me either way."
The way Zevran uttered a string of curses under his breath, Cullen knew he'd hit the mark. "I still won't let you escape," Zevran hissed, even as he shifted his hold on the dagger, presumably to use the hilt rather than the blade for his next blow. Cullen took advantage of the change in grip to let his more primal fighting skills take over, and brought his knee up hard between Zevran's legs.
As the elf's eyes rolled up in his head, Cullen shoved him away and rolled to his feet, trying to ignore the agony the motion caused. Every inch of his body hurt, however, and a glance at the ground showed dark, wet patches. Maker, the tattoos are bleeding again. As he backed away from Zevran, the hint of grinding pain in his bones reminded him that they had only recently been healed. Still, Zevran was already showing signs of recovering, so Cullen set his teeth and pushed back at the feeling of utter hollowness trying to sweep over him. "I can do this all day."
"You…" Zevran groaned and forced himself to his hands and knees. "You've no clothing, no armor, no weapon. You're still wounded, and you're losing blood every minute that passes until mi amor finishes your healing. The Venatori are still out there. The darkspawn roam the wilds. Those strange elves are out there looking for intruders. You're on the opposite side of the forests from the Inquisition's camp." With a final shove, Zevran pushed himself to his feet, eyes boring into Cullen. "You won't last ten minutes on your own."
"Better than staying in your clutches." Cullen licked his lips as he evaluated his resources, not particularly happy to find agreement with Zevran's evaluation. Abruptly he realized that enough time had passed for the red lyrium in his blood to have regained its strength. If I have time to use it, that is.
Thankfully, Zevran continued to talk rather than attack immediately—or perhaps he needed time to recover, too. "Really? Is death better than serving a strong master?" As he spoke, he moved towards Cullen with his dagger held out at waist level. "You've obviously never done so. It is a marvel to be part of the plans of a great man."
Widening his stance by slowly easing his feet apart beneath him, Cullen raised his hands as if in self-defense. He could sense without looking that Zevran intended to back him into the ruined wall behind him and corner him there. "I already have that," Cullen growled. "And I don't want to serve a madman."
As Zevran's expression went flat with anger, Cullen called the force of the red lyrium into play, tugging and twisting it into a pillar of light that manifested at Zevran's feet. It was more than just light, of course—it was a manifestation of the power of the melody of lyrium, save that in this case it was even more powerful because of the red lyrium designs etched in Cullen's skin. Certainly it was enough to make Zevran cover his eyes and scream in agony as he fell to the ground, writing in pain as the song assaulted his untrained and unprimed mind and burrowed deep.
Taking advantage of the elf's condition, Cullen grabbed a rock from the ground and shuffled to where the elf lay. Falling to his knees, he raised the rock over his head, aimed carefully, and then slammed it down. Zevran's body went still, though his chest still rose and fell, and Cullen struggled to his feet, breathing heavily. He knew he was near the end of his strength, especially as he felt blood trickling down his chest and back as the exertion aggravated the multitude of tattoo cuts, but at least Zevran would no longer interfere.
Tossing the bloody rock to one side, he turned to take stock of what he might be able to scrounge from Zevran and Amell. He managed to pull on the trousers he'd been wearing before, but even the thought of wearing something on his torso made his skin twitch in pain. Maybe a cloak would be manageable, he mused, but as he reached for it, he heard a loud crash behind one of the nearby walls. When it repeated, he swore and tried to limp towards the nearest cover in case whatever burst from the trees proved to be hostile.
When something did emerge from the forest, however, Cullen only had a bare moment to see a flash of red hair and a burst of crackling red lightning before he felt the jaws of a spell close around him and lift him in the air. He screamed as he struggled against the crushing prison of the spell's clutches, but it was no use. It was too close to his last effort with his Templar abilities, and the red lyrium needed time to rebuild in his system before he could act.
As the magic slowly engulfed him, he felt the red lyrium in his veins react against it, sending his mind into cycle of despair that was enough to send him spiraling back—
— to the red sea of agony. You jerk and shudder as you realize that no, that was the past. It had already happened, and you were no longer trapped in that horrendous crushing prison. You vaguely remember a rescue, though it takes you a moment to remember the faces and, more importantly, the names of those who had come to your aid.
Dorian. Hawke.
For the first time you smile, even amidst your pain, for it is impossible to think of those grey eyes and curved mustache without your heart aching with joy. Even Hawke, the man you once thought irredeemable, has changed enough for his label to shift, though you're uncertain which one to pin on him now. Whatever it might be, in the here and now, he saved your life, and you hope you get to thank him for it.
Eventually, however, the euphoria of those memories fade, and you sink once more under the surface of the red sea of agony. It takes you time to build your fortress, but you do: brick by brick, wall by wall, the memory of Dorian and Hawke sustaining you until you settle the last brick into place. For a breathless moment you wait within its walls, wondering if the red sea and its torturous melody will slip through the cracks. Ultimately, you relax and close your eyes as the walls tremble but hold firm.
Behind the darkness of your eyelids, you spare one moment to give a sigh of relief before you stretch out, out, and out further, striving to rise above the red sea of agony, perhaps even to find—
—the path away from the ocean of pain. Slowly, Cullen opened his eyes, staring up at a canopy of leaves moving lazily in the wind. The world slowly swam into focus around him, though the first thing he truly recognized was Hawke's voice.
"I don't care if it's magic," Hawke roared. "You are going to carry the Inquisitor and the Commander through that piece of glass, or I will show you why my blade is feared from Orlais to Rivain!"
"But, ser—"
"We need to get them to Skyhold now," Hawke interrupted. "And that mirror will do it."
"Oh, this is ridiculous," he heard a woman say— Morrigan, his mind finally supplied. "It is perfectly safe. Watch."
Cullen tried to turn his head to look at whatever it was that was causing all the fuss, but eventually gave up and stared straight up. As far as he could tell, he lay on something rigid that wasn't the ground, despite the fact he was outside. Someone had tucked a blanket around him, and a gentle breeze cooled his heated face. The melody of the red lyrium made it difficult to concentrate, but a few long, slow breaths managed to summon up enough of his mental fortress so he could focus. His body felt as if it had been cored like an apple, and nothing he did seemed to be able to cajole anything to move save for his eyelids, but he was alive, and the agony of the red lyrium was muted.
He heard an odd rush of sound, and felt a rush of magic nearby the moment before he heard Hawke speak again. "There, you see? Perfectly safe. Now let's get people moving through it."
"The healers are here," he heard. Leliana, he realized, but sounding very subdued. "Send them through, then follow the Champion's orders."
"Yes, ser," the same voice said, and Cullen tried once more to look towards the voices. This time he managed to let his head fall to the side, and he saw Hawke kneeling next to someone lying on a cot. His heart skipped a beat when he realized that it was Dorian, and a fresh wave of guilt washed over him as he suddenly remembered the tainted red lyrium smite he'd unleashed. Though intended only for Amell, the power of it had swept over Dorian as well, and Cullen winced as he remembered Dorian's screams of pain.
Is he alive? How badly did I hurt him?
Cullen couldn't speak—and, in fact, could barely move—but it was as if Hawke heard him, because the man reached up to cup Dorian's face. "Keep breathing," he said in a harsh whisper. "If you die on me, I'll hunt you down in the Void and make you regret it even more." For a moment he pressed his forehead to Dorian's, but then a nearby soldier cleared his throat.
"It's time, Champion."
Hawke quickly stepped back so that the men could pick up the cot and carry Dorian away. As he did so, he glanced at Cullen. When he saw Cullen staring at him, he rushed over to kneel next to him, cradling Cullen's face just as he had with Dorian. "You're awake," he said softly.
Cullen tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth the only sound that emerged was a breathless sort of gurgle.
Hawke's brows drew together, and he drew his thumb over Cullen's lower lip, effectively closing his mouth. "Don't try to talk," he said, taking Cullen's hand in his own to give it a quick squeeze. "We're still trying to figure out how to undo what Amell did to you, but don't worry. We'll figure it out." He smiled, a half-smile that was a strange mixture of cocksure arrogance and affection. "Even if I have to knock a few heads to make it happen."
Cullen tried to smile back, but it was hard to feel any levity through the pain and fear and guilt. All he could do was squeeze Hawke's hand in return, tight enough that he wondered he didn't cut off the blood flow.
In response, Hawke leaned over him and planted a soft kiss on his forehead, then pulled away far enough that their faces were inches apart. "I know it's difficult," he said softly. "Both to see him like that and to be helpless to do anything about it. But remain steadfast, and have faith in him, and yourself." Hawke's thumb stroked Cullen's jawline as he captured and held Cullen's gaze. "You can do that, I know you can. If you can be a cussed obstinate son of a bitch when working for Meredith, you can be that and more for Dorian."
Something about the way Hawke spoke the words made Cullen believe it, and for a moment he felt a sliver of hope. He took a deep breath, then squeezed Hawke's hand to let him know...well, there was too much to convey with a single squeeze, honestly, but it was all he had at the moment.
Hawke chuckled, the sensation traveling through Cullen's oversensitive body. "That's the spirit," he said softly. "Now, they're going to take you through an eluvian back to Skyhold, so the healers can work with Dagna to help you. I'll come see you as soon as they let me, and I'm certain Dorian won't be far behind. If he doesn't beat me, that is." Hawke pressed their foreheads together, as he had done with Dorian, and Cullen felt Hawke's breath hot on his lips. "Never give up. Never surrender. We won't let Amell win."
Cullen shivered, surprised at the strong surge of emotion he felt at Hawke's nearness. Hawke's change was too new, too fresh for Cullen to easily figure out what to call what lay between them, but for the moment, he was just grateful for the man's presence. It was a comfort when the world felt particularly cruel.
How long they lingered like that, Cullen couldn't tell, but at the sound of another cleared throat, Hawke sighed and rose to his feet, out of Cullen's view. As Cullen's cot was lifted and taken towards the eluvian which, apparently, was nearby, the voices faded behind him, though he did hear Hawke say, "I'll coordinate with Loghain and Cassandra about getting the troops back to Skyhold."
"Yes, your Grace," came Leliana's faint reply. "And then you'll need to—"
At that moment, however, Cullen felt a soft rush of magic that quickly surged into a deluge. He felt his body pass through the eluvian, felt the shift from one place to another. It activated the red lyrium in his skin, and swelled so quickly that he gave a great cry before blacking out entirely—
—only to find yourself floating once more in the red sea of agony. Your mental fortress lies in tatters around you, ruined by the passage through the eluvian, and the twisted song begins to close in around you once more.
It settles around you, probing and sifting through your mind and memories like a Mabari on the trail, winding through your thoughts and your soul with pernicious persistence. Suddenly those you love and have loved in your life flash before you, real enough to reach out and touch, and the melody slowly begins to work its way into them.
Over and over, you relive your time with Mailani, from the first awkward flirt, to the kiss on the ramparts, to the first explosion of passion on your desk. Over and over again, you see her smile and relive her kisses, but each time the corruption tries to seep in. Are you sure she really loved you and didn't just use you? Are you sure you loved her and weren't just succumbing to lust? Are you sure? Are you sure?
Over and over, the months of growing closer with Dorian pass through your awareness with the speed only a dream could provide. The slow waltz from distrust to friendship to affection to adoration speeds up, dancing before your eyes until it's difficult to see it as anything but a parody. Are you sure he doesn't just want your muscles? Are you sure you will care for him once you forget the pain of her death? Are you sure? Are you sure?
And then the song takes an unexpected turn down your mind's corridors. Suddenly you see, over and over again, your interactions with Hawke, from the introduction that ended with curt sneers to the moment when you watched him drive his sword into Meredith, from the moment the crown landed on his head as Viscount to the night he slunk out of Kirkwall with the Hands of the Divine on his heels, and from the moment he arrived at Skyhold and lured Dorian to bed to the moment you watched them kiss and smiled. Are you sure he's changed? Are you sure you want him to? Are you sure? Are you sure?
The choice of those memories rattle you unexpectedly, more because you would never have put Hawke in the same category as Mailani or Dorian. Perhaps that one Templar you'd spent the summer having a foolish crush on when you were fifteen, but...not Hawke. Your confusion in turn causes the melody to crash in on itself, unable to find a place to sink into, and it abruptly breaks apart in a jangle of discordant and useless notes.
Pushing aside the why of the melody lingering on your memories of Hawke, you seize the opportunity of its distraction to once again pull the bricks of your mental fortress together, rebuilding it more quickly than ever before. Soon you are safe behind the walls, and just in time, for the song crashes into your defenses, howling its broken chords as it tries to take your mind and form it to its own use. You endure, however, and center yourself, once again seeking to return to the waking world, to leave the red sea of agony far behind.
It takes a few moments, but eventually—
—Cullen emerged from the haze of red lyrium, feeling as wrung out as a squeeze rag used by the busiest stable in Val Royeaux. As before when he had emerged from the red sea, he had awareness, but his body simply lay unresponsive to his commands. It was terrifying, but the terror was as distant as everything else, including the aches and pains remaining from the injuries sustained from the ogre and Amell.
As he lay there, he noticed that, for the first time in a long while, the melody seemed...different. Duller, perhaps, or at least less pronounced, and somehow more harmonious than the twisted, tilted melody he associated with red lyrium. And for all that his body felt exhausted, he realized that he didn't feel as if he were being constantly sucked dry by some unseen, omnivorous force.
What that meant, he wasn't quite sure, but he hoped it meant something promising. Maker knew he needed it.
Focusing his thoughts, he forced his senses to gather information about his surroundings. He felt out his body, or tried to: the soft surface upon which it lay and the warmth which covered it probably meant a bed with a blanket, and the slight whistling breeze he recognized as the wind was unique to his room and the marvelous window Dorian had ordered built there.
I am home. Safe. But…how long have I been asleep?
He struggled to open his eyes to look, but found he simply could not. The thought spurred him onward, heightening his focus on movement as he slowly emerged from the pit into which the red lyrium had pulled him. He pushed his awareness out farther. Noises were slow to assemble themselves into something he could recognize, but more worryingly his body seemed oblivious to his commands. No amount of effort made his eyelids open, or his hands clench, or his toes curl. He felt the slow and steady breathing of sleep, but in no other way could he so much as twitch a muscle.
As a panic rose within, Cullen seized it and tamped it down, relying heavily on the same mental discipline he used when in battle. Later, he told the fear firmly. Later. For the moment, he forced himself to listen, to dredge something coherent from the muffled rumbling of noises around him.
It took him a few minutes for that coherency to come about, but when it did, it broke through with an abrupt clarity. The first voice he heard made his heart sing, for it was none other than Dorian.
"—old technique," Dorian was saying in a musing tone. "From the time of the first Archons, if not earlier. We are taught it for our first forays into the Fade, though, because, well, being able to control your thoughts in the Fade the first time you meet a demon is rather important."
"Bethany told me about that," a voice replied with a grunt.
Hawke. That voice was unmistakable, deep and rumbly and somehow always flippant even when he wasn't trying to be. Maker. Why now, after what...whatever that was that happened.
"Oh?" Dorian sounded surprised, then made an ah sound. "Yes, she was in the Circle in Kirkwall, wasn't she? What do they call it down here?"
"The Harrowing," Hawke explained. "She didn't give me all the details, just that she'd confronted and bested a demon during it. As I recall, she told me that when we had wandered into the Fade looking for a somniari in danger of going rogue. A lad by the name of Feynriel."
The sound of rustling cloth filled the silence as Hawke stopped talking for a moment. "And?" Dorian asked finally.
"I killed him," Hawke said softly. "At the time, I reasoned that he hadn't shown an ability to control his magic. His mother had hidden him from the Circle, you see. She was Dalish, but had left her tribe for a human man she fell in love with. Since I found her in the Alienage, you can guess how well that worked out."
"Oh, dear," Dorian murmured. "And then the child of that union turned out to have mage ability?"
"Yeah. It wasn't a pretty situation in any way, but…" Hawke paused again, followed by the sound of more rustling cloth. "Not one of my proudest moments. And I've had too many of those to ever really be proud of what I've done."
"You mean you use false bravado to cover a towering sense of insecurity?" Dorian asked mildly. "Certainly I could never know what that feels like."
Hawke snorted. "Oh, no. Never."
Cullen listened to the two men talk with an odd little twisting sensation inside. It wasn't jealousy, of which he'd felt a tiny sliver when Mailani had teased him by admiring Bull's musculature, but that didn't mean he had an easy time figuring out what to call the feeling. It wasn't unpleasant, just...odd. It hurt worse that he couldn't join in to the conversation than it did to hear them speak so convivially.
Maker, but he wanted to be with them. Dorian. With Dorian, he hastily corrected.
"So back to that mental palace," Dorian said smoothly, oblivious to Cullen's inner thoughts. "You say Vengeance constructed it for you?"
"Yes, but Anders said I was the one who kept it solid," Hawke said.
Anders? Cullen felt a shock run through him. What is he talking about?
"Ah, yes, Anders," Dorian said. "His soul must have remained linked to Vengeance after he died."
"However it happened, they saved my bacon," Hawke grunted. "Without them, I would have lost myself in that place Amell sent me when he kicked me out of my own body."
"So they pulled you out, constructed the Amell estate in the Fade for your soul to reside, and then waited for an opportunity to break the spell on your body?" Dorian grunted. "That's a longshot at best."
"And the only one I had," Hawke mused. "It was...rough at first. I mean, I did kill Anders. It took a long time for us to reach a place where it truly felt in the past."
"Ah, but a long time in the Fade could be an hour or an Age in the waking world," Dorian noted.
"Luckily it was the former, I guess. By the time we got back to my body, he and I had...well, he'd forgiven me." Hawke cleared his throat. "Don't look at me like that," he said sourly.
"Oh, I will certainly look at you like this," Dorian said, clearly amused. "So, is Fade sex better than sex in the waking world? Scholars through the ages want to know."
Cullen mentally groaned. The conversation had been fascinating, if a bit confusing, to follow until now, but he really didn't want to hear Hawke talk about his escapades with a dead man—especially a dead man he killed.
"Ask me again later," Hawke muttered. "Anyway, it worked. I finally got my body back just as I arrived at the Well of Sorrow—and then Vengeance promptly took it over, the bastard."
"What?" Dorian asked, clearly shocked. "They were still with you?"
"Yeah. Somehow. At least, they were with me when Vengeance shoved me head first into the Well."
"Fascinating. I wonder…" Dorian's voice trailed off as he hummed, a sound Cullen knew meant he was deep in thought. "Perhaps their joined sense of purpose was enough to pull them to the closest nexus of powerful emotion at the moment they died. Say...someone forced to kill the man he loved."
"What?" Hawke sounded genuinely startled. "No, they were waiting for me in the—"
"And how would they have found you, hmm?" Dorian asked. "I'm not saying that you were possessed, but it's entirely possible that they were able to anchor themselves halfway between the waking world and the Fade by using you to do so. It's a theory I've seen touted in a few places, but without much evidence. After all, there haven't been very many abominations—"
"Not that word," Hawke said in a pained tone.
"My apologies. Hmm. Shall we say, merged individuals? There just aren't that many examples in which any sort of equilibrium is reached between the two parties. Your Anders must have had quite the sense of self to withstand such a powerful spirit for so long."
"So...he was always with me? After I killed him, I mean." Hawke fell silent, then heaved a gusty sigh. "Because there's a lot I'm not proud of after that. Or before it, if I'm honest."
"I thought you said you didn't regret the decision to kill him," Dorian said softly.
There was a long, drawn out silence, broken only by the rustle of cloth and the creak of the bed as Hawke shifted his weight. When Hawke finally spoke, the tone was bitter enough to curdle milk. "I've said a lot of stupid things."
"Best not to dwell on it," Dorian said. "We all have times in our past for which we feel no pride. I spent months in a brothel, after all, and not all of it as a client. Pain does odd things to people, and the lucky ones are the ones who can find the way through." There was some more rustling cloth, followed by a sound that Cullen took a moment to realize was a kiss. "Like you."
"I—" Hawke began, then took a shuddering breath before making the oddest sound yet.
Is Hawke...crying? Cullen wondered, an odd feeling sweeping over him. For a moment he was back in his memories, curled into a ball with his head on Cassandra's lap, tears streaming down his face as she stroked his hair and told him the worst of it would soon pass. The memory lasted but a moment, but it was enough to feel a raw kinship with Hawke that he'd never felt before. A surge of emotion rushed through his body, and almost as if in reaction, he felt his right hand suddenly clench into a ball tight enough to cause bone-creaking agony.
"Dorian!" Hawke said. "Cullen's hand. He's bleeding!"
Suddenly the bed shifted beneath him, and someone took his clenched hand. "The healer said to watch for this," Dorian said, and Cullen felt Dorian prying at his fingers. "Damn, it's too tight. I can't open it."
"Let me try," Hawke said, and the bed shifted as more weight was added. He felt hands wrap around his, and he could immediately feel the difference between Dorian and Hawke by the calluses on the fingers of the latter as they wormed in under his curled fingers. "Get a wet cloth ready, his fingernails cut through his skin," Hawke said through gritted teeth. "But I've got it, I think—yes."
Cullen felt his fingers eased open, followed by strong fingers kneading his forearm. As a cool cloth soothed the distant stinging in his palm, he heard Dorian say in a quiet tone, "It's a good sign, though. The first one since we got back from the Wilds."
Maker, how long have I been out? Cullen thought, suddenly worried.
"Andraste's knickers, we only returned two days ago. Even you only woke up yesterday," Hawke said with a chuckle as Cullen relaxed. "Look, he got stomped by an ogre and then turned into a pincushion for red lyrium by Amell. I figure he's earned a bit more rest."
"Yes, well…" Dorian coughed, sounding sheepish. "I'm just worried."
"That's fine, but don't start by making the problem into something that's bigger than it is. I learned that the hard way," Hawke told him. As he spoke, his fingers continued to probe Cullen's arm, working the muscles there until they released their pent-up tension. It felt good, but Cullen wished he could actually do something, anything, to let them know he could hear them.
"Do you think he can hear us?" Dorian asked, the anxiety clear in his voice.
"I don't think his hand clenched for no reason, no," Hawke said.
Dorian sighed, and Cullen felt his other hand claimed with a tenderness he knew had to be Dorian. "Dagna said it would be some hours yet before the suppressive agent she made would untie the last knot."
"The last knot." Hawke's voice sounded amused. "The last knot of what?"
Dorian chuckled softly, his fingers soothing as they stroked Cullen's hand. "I know what she means, never fear. Essentially it boils down to Cullen's soul being permeated by a matrix of red lyrium threads. The suppressive agent is designed to untie those knots from his soul and instead encourage them to tie around each other instead."
"And that will stop the corruption?" Hawke guessed.
"Yes, though not undo the infection," Dorian said. "Dagna and I talked about it extensively last night while we—" Dorian stopped talking long enough to yawn, then chuckled. "Pardon. We were up late last night discussing and preparing that concoction and what the next step will be. If I never hear the word matrices again, I shall die a happy man."
Hawke laughed softly, but the sound quickly subsided. "How's she doing?" he asked quietly.
"How would you feel if you found out that your hero was in fact a villain who used you for his own ends?" Dorian replied with a sigh. "She's...processing it. I think the revelation of Amell's calumny would have been enough, but to learn that he'd actually bespelled her... That is a difficult betrayal for her to process."
Cullen's blood froze. What did Amell do to Dagna? Suddenly remembering when he'd intended to talk to Dorian about Dagna's dreams, Cullen mentally cursed himself that he hadn't. Perhaps if he'd pursued it…
"She's also just as upset at how he used her, of course," Dorian said in a musing tone. "Especially when it comes to Cullen."
Me? Cullen wondered, again feeling frustration welling up inside at the inability to ask.
"Which is probably why she's so determined to fix it now," Hawke pointed out.
"Well, if I found out that I had been manipulated by a blood mage to design armor that would amplify rather than diminish the effect of red lyrium on someone, I'd be horrified myself." Dorian exhaled in a rush. "She's enormously upset that she didn't notice, despite how many times I tried to explain how Amell's spell affected her."
Amplify instead of— What? Cullen felt something soft brush his forehead, and realized Dorian had pressed a kiss there. It was a sweet gesture, but his mind still grappled with the revelation that all of Dagna's armors had, in fact, been worse than nothing at all.
"Well, if Amell taking Cullen is to have any silver lining, it's that," Hawke grunted.
"Yes, much as I am loathe to admit." The distaste in Dorian's voice painted his expression in Cullen's mind, the little pout of his lips and the wrinkle of his nose as beautiful in the mind's eye as that little twinkle in his eye after he pulled back from a kiss. "But that final confrontation helped me figure out the core of Amell's magic working. WIthout that, I wouldn't have known how to determine who he's manipulated. It's like hearing only the echo of a song that you are then required to sing in full yourself. Rather difficult, that."
"Well, some of them were obvious," Hawke pointed out. "Me, Alistair, Cullen… That's where we expected to find it."
"Yes." Dorian made a disgruntled noise, and Cullen could almost picture him pinching the bridge of his nose as he usually did when he made it. "I dread who else I will discover over the next day or two. Dagna was the first surprise, and I've arranged to meet with Felix this afternoon. I pray my instinct is wrong, but..."
As Dorian fell silent, Cullen slowly worked through the revelations he'd heard, both good and bad. Good in that Dorian would now be able to assure the Inquisition was free of Amell's agents and oversight, but horrifying to think of who else might have been touched by his insidious magic.
Like he had been.
"A good thing Cullen's a bit of a stubborn bastard himself," Hawke said with a grunt. "I'm not sure anyone else could have lasted as long as he did and stayed himself. Normal lyrium is bad enough, but red lyrium?" Hawke made a strange noise. "I saw what the idol did to Bartrand—Varric's brother," Hawke added. "I don't think anyone could recover from that level of delirium."
"Maker forfend," Dorian breathed. "No. No, I will not allow myself to think of Cullen that way. He will recover."
"He will." Hawke's voice was surprisingly gentle. "He knows you're waiting for him."
Yes, Cullen thought fervently, aching to reach out towards Dorian, to open his eyes, to speak—anything to let Dorian know he was there. Instead, his body stubbornly refused to answer his calls.
"I hope so," Dorian said with a gusty sigh, and Cullen could hear the pain and longing in his voice.
In a burst of frustration, Cullen drew his awareness back and turned his focus inward again, hoping to find whatever mechanism kept him helpless so he could abolish it. He felt a pulse of energy buried deep within, hidden behind some sort of veil which also seemed to keep his pain at bay. Deciding that he could deal with the aches if the reward was to speak with Dorian again, he stabbed through the barrier, diving towards the inner core of energy in hopes that it would help him reconnect with his body.
The moment he touched it, he realized that the energy was the red lyrium, not his own, but by then it was too late.
The mental fortress which had been protecting him from the corruption shattered with an internal explosion that sent a wave of pain crashing over him. All the muscles in his body suddenly spasmed and then pulled abnormally taut, clenching until his back arched and his arms and legs curled in on themselves so tightly his bones ached. The agony of the red lyrium and his injuries also returned anew, shaking him body and soul.
Outside that world, he heard Dorian cry his name, but Hawke was already turning Cullen onto his side with efficient motions.
"Go get Dagna and the healer," Hawke snapped. "They warned us about this. The red lyrium's trying to take over again."
As the sound of Dorian's footsteps retreated, Cullen felt something prickly nudge his ear, and suddenly Hawke's deep voice filled his awareness. "Come on, Cullen," he murmured. "Let it go. Just push it away and let it go."
As he spoke, another odd feeling swept over Cullen, but it was more to do with the voice than anything else. It was as if two people were speaking in his ear through one mouth—Hawke, and another voice that crackled and shimmered and resonated with Cullen's entire being. As he struggled to figure out what that meant, he felt Hawke's hand settle on his neck.
"You're a Templar, right?" Hawke murmured. "You've got that mental fortress thing they have to protect themselves. Go there until we fix this. Dagna can put that wall between you and the song again. That buys us a little time to figure out the next step. It's not forever, I promise."
Every fiber of Cullen's being screamed against the suggestion, knowing it would mean a return to the red sea of agony in which he'd floated. But the physical pain in his body was overwhelming, and his breath kept coming in shorter and shorter pants until he realized he might not be able to breath soon.
"Trust me, Cullen," Hawke breathed. "I promise, I will never forsake you."
Something about the words, combined with the intimate way in which they were whispered into his ear, calmed Cullen enough that he could let himself accept the wisdom in them. Besides, Hawke was right—the red lyrium was the reason his body was trying to twist itself into a pretzel, and the mental fortress could at least keep it at bay.
The struggle as he rebuilt the fortress stone by stone seemed to take forever, though it was helped by Hawke's constant stream of reassurance in his ear and the long, slow strokes of his fingers as he sought to force Cullen's muscles to relax. In the end, Cullen finally managed to shove the final brick into place—
—and crouch in the center of the fortress, hunkering down against the wailing storm of the red lyrium outside. It seems much worse than before, but for all the sound and fury, your walls stay strong.
The rage and anger within you is just as strong, however, and you seethe at your constraints. You want to return to Dorian, you want to hold him in your arms and know that he is safe and whole, you want to kiss him, to ravage him, to fuck him until you are one and the world is but a distant memory.
And there is but one man to blame for the fact that you are now apart.
Amell! The name blazes through your mind as you raise your arms and shout at the uncaring walls of your mental fortress, wishing that the mage could hear your wrath. Amell! With each iteration of the word, the need for vengeance burns brighter and brighter, until it feels as if it might consume you from within. Amell!
Suddenly your hackles rise as a cold breeze sweeps through your mental fortress, and for an instant you wonder if Amell did somehow hear you. When a hand lands on your shoulder, you shout and turn all in one movement, your eyes widening as you see Hawke standing in front of you. Except you notice immediately that it both is and is not Hawke—it looks like him, but his eyes glow purple and there is a lattice of lavender light woven over the entirety of his body—which is nude.
As are you. Odd how you didn't notice that before...
"Hawke—" you begin, but he raises a hand to stop you.
"I am Vengeance," he says, stepping forward to cup your chin. "And I'm here to help you. We can't let Amell win."
The Templar in you recognizes Vengeance for what he is, a being teetering on the edge between spirit and demon. You remember Hawke's words to Dorian, remember their discussion about merged individuals. You remember that it is a Templar's obligation to strike down abominations in all forms and circumstances.
But you also remember Amell.
"No," you say through gritted teeth. "We can't."
Vengeance smiles. "Then it is time for you to learn how to control the uncontrollable. Sit, and learn."
You nod and settle into eager stillness. You will learn.
And then you will end the threat of Amell forever.