A/N: So I know the previous readers will recall that I mentioned that this would be a 2 part series. However, after much agonizing, rewriting, and editing, I've decided to make this a three-part story. Don't worry! Part 3 is, in fact, almost complete. I just felt the pacing would be much better served if spaced out this way. Not to mention, I wouldn't have to sacrifice characterization for speed/length.
For those wondering why the heroine doesn't have a name - it's done as part of the challenge of the prompt so that the reader might view this from the perspective of whatever heroine they wish :)
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to my wonderful readers!
This is my gift to you! (As is part 3 when it comes out in the next day or two)
If this made you smile, please let me know. Your happiness is your gift to me 3
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Judgment
Chapter 2 - Awakening
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I am…
Who am I?
The question is still unanswered. It whispers to me in the darkness, urging me to find the truth. In my life, I have been many things. Dalish, a huntress, an elf, the Keeper's First, a Herald to a shemlen legend, and now the Inquisitor. But, where the boundaries between these things used to be simple, now they've crumbled. Things aren't as defined as they were before; Justice isn't as simplistic as it may have once been. Where I might once have known what to do when a criminal was brought before me, now I tremble at the thought. I fear that I am crossing the line between fairness and vendetta and thus, losing the sense of who I am.
I must find myself.
Now that I have a mission, the darkness holds no sway.
The first to awaken is my heart. Like before, it's heavy in my chest. Like before, it throbs and pains me.
Next is my memory – raw, bruised, full of anguish and regret.
It isn't easy to awaken my body. I don't want to face the world. I don't want to look into the eyes of those left behind the latest tragedies. That, and I'm enjoying my dream. I'm in the forest of my youth, taking a break after a particularly long hunt. The trees sway with a gentle breeze, sunlight filtering through their slender branches and lighting up my favorite lake. Even when I take off my armor and sink into the water, I don't shiver. Here, I'm blissfully warm. Here, the Conclave never took place. The Keeper never sent me to investigate the affairs of humans. I've never met any creature called Corypheus, and there's always a tomorrow. It's just another day – another chance for me to feel free.
This is not freedom…
This is a dream…
The words are unwelcome, but undeniably true. My logic is as merciless as always. I suppose I couldn't hide here forever, after all. Something catches my attention. The sound of voices arguing. I flip over and tread through the water, trying to make out the identity of a pair of figures on the shore. They look like humans.
Shemlen? Here?
Curious, I swim towards them, for not just any humans can find their way to this lake. The paths in this forest are winding and long. Being Dalish, we learn to map the forest at a young age while humans simply wander and lose themselves in it. Have they blundered in here by accident? Are they hunters or soldiers?
As I get closer to shore, the water grows colder. By the time I can make out the details on the figures' clothing, my muscles are tense and trembling. The humans are both men, one wearing crimson armor and the other dressed in elaborate robes of an origin that I don't recognize. The man with dark hair and bronze skin is upset, his gestures stiff and aggressive as he speaks to the one with lighter hair.
"If I hadn't come in when I did, you'd be arranging a funeral now instead of an execution," he glares.
"You can't just keep her locked in here, drugged and asleep - "
"She needs time, Commander. She isn't a doll. You can't truss her up and parade her around, expecting her to have no feelings."
"I never implied that. None of us did. We are all concerned about her, Dorian."
The dark-haired man snorts at that. "Concerned? If you're so concerned, then where were you that night? Her lips were blue. She was half frozen and incoherent…" he snaps, then stops as though he's said too much. "You weren't here. You didn't see what I saw, and I hope you never do." He makes a sound of disgust. "That's what sickens me. You claim to love her, yet you weren't here when she needed you the most."
I watch the light-haired man's face crumple, and the expression tugs at me. I want to rush to him and soothe that guilt from his features. There's no need for it. This isn't his fault. I was the one that chose to distance myself from everyone. He already has so much on his shoulders; there's no need for this to burden him as well. I reach out to him, but I'm weak, too weak to do more than whisper something before my eyes close and I drift off again.
How strange. I didn't even realize that I was awake. What were they arguing about? I almost remember a plausible reason when the water around me grows cold and frigid. I look down and see that the halcyon lake beneath me has transformed to a black pool. Fear grips me as I realize that I'm floating over an abyss. My surroundings change. Things begin to float up around me. Heads severed from bodies. Faces. My breath freezes when I lift my hand and see that the water around me has transformed to blood.
These are people I remember from Adamant – Wardens and Inquisition soldiers. Their eyes open – black as the Void and sightless – to stare at me as though their owners blame me for their death. Of course they do. It's my fault. I should have spent more resources to keep an eye on Corypheus's movements. I should have tried harder to convince them to stop fighting us. I should have found a way to resolve this without losing so many lives.
Should have.
Should have.
But never could.
Hands emerge from the water and grip my shoulders and arms. I offer no resistance. If they want to take me, so be it. If they want to drown me, then I likely deserve it. If they want to rip me apart, then I have nothing to offer in my defense.
It was my fault.
All of it.
The sightless eyes stare at me for what seems like an eternity. I'm not without fear. In fact, I'm shaking with it. Cold sweat kisses my brow. Clammy fingers of dread caress my abdomen. The water grows colder and colder. Steam wafts from my lips with each trembling breath. I can hear my heart beating – slow and sluggish. The faces wait. What for, I don't know. Perhaps they are judging me now as I judged so many from my Dragonbone throne in Skyhold. At length, a voice speaks – the tone low and unfamiliar:
"Tranquility. A Mage's crime. A Mage's punishment."
Then I gasp with terror and denial as something grabs my feet and I'm pulled into the darkness.
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My own screaming finally rips me out of the clutches of my nightmare and hurtles me into the waking world. It's not a smooth transition, especially considering that I'm still seeing flashes of images of a raging battle – scraps left over from the Fade. I can still feel the heat of fanning flames, hear the booming of firing trebuchets, and smell the smoke and blood in the air. In my hand, I'm still wielding my staff, twisting and bending to avoid hailing arrows and overextending my mana to shield my comrades behind barriers. Beneath my feet, I can feel bodies. I step on them and over them as we make progress towards the true threat – the Wardens at the heart of the fortress.
Wardens and our own soldiers lay prostrated on the steps and battlements. It isn't the sight of blood or the gore of their wounds that burns into my mind like a brand; it's their faces. Their eyes are open, looking heavenward as though praying for their Maker to save them. What does that mean for someone like me, someone who doesn't and has never believed in the Maker? What does that label me, who leads the Inquisition under the banner of the Herald? Doesn't it mean they died for nothing? Doesn't it mean they've laid down their lives for an empty cause?
And then the screaming begins.
It's a sound more terrible than anything I've ever heard. When that starts, I throw down my staff and cover my ears. I collapse, joining the plethora of dead beneath my feet. My body goes rigid then curls in on itself. I roll in an attempt to get away from the horrid sound and flail as I snap open my eyes and fall off a bed. On the way down, I hit the corner of the dresser with the side of my face. The impact knocks me nearly senseless and makes me bite my cheek. As I lay on the stone floor, feeling the cold seep into my bones, tasting blood, and watching the ceiling spin in uneven circles, I try to get my bearings. It feels like lifetimes pass before the screaming abates and I can think straight again.
That's when someone calls my name. The whisper is silken soft, tinged with hesitation, concern, and something else. Another emotion. One I can't identify just now. I sit up, my hand cradling what will likely be a bruised jaw. The darkness shifts around me. For the first time, I notice that it's night outside. The moon is high above, shining tendrils of blue velvet light into a room I recognize as mine. A shape swims into view – red robes and glinting armor. Golden hair, mussed and tousled. Amber eyes, hard around the edges but liquid and warm in the center. Recognition is a long time in coming, but when it does arrive, confusion is trailing close behind.
The Commander looks disheveled – robes twisted and armor in disarray. He's sitting on a divan next to my bed, a coverlet pooling around his hips and no pillow in sight. How long has he been there? It couldn't have been comfortable. Where I can easily curl up or stretch out on that sofa, it's much too small for him. His legs are too long and his shoulders too broad. As he stands up, I note his slight limp; it's almost as though he's been sitting too long and his leg has gone numb. He doesn't seem to notice in his haste to join me. My head swivels as I follow his awkward movements, surprised when he kneels beside me.
He hesitates to touch me, and it takes me longer than it should to realize that I'm shaking like a leaf in the wind. The moon behind him is huge and bright, throwing his face into shadow. The angle of his body suggests that he wants to embrace me. Yet, just as he reaches out to me, the night sighs, her wintry breath streaming through the curtains and causing me to flinch. He mistakes my reaction as fear and draws back. Instead of pulling me close as intended, he settles for moving my bangs away from my eyes.
"It's alright. You're safe," he promises.
"Cullen?" I rasp, my voice hoarse from disuse. I feel as though I haven't spoken a word in days.
"Yes, it's me." When I don't immediately say anything, his brow furrows and he brushes a gloved hand against my face, his fingers sinking into my hair. Helpless to stop myself, I lean into his touch. It feels incredible, and yet the gesture unravels me in a thousand different ways. The remnants of my nightmare release me from their clutches, almost as though his touch has driven them away. In their wake, I'm left with nothing but a hollow feeling, the sensation that my skin is not my own. Cullen's eyes bore into me. I want to tell him everything, but I hesitate. I'd decided I wouldn't share any of this with him, hadn't I? I'd resolved to keep this bottled up and hidden away where only I and perhaps Dorian could see it.
"Are you alright?" he asks. I back away from him, wrapping my arms around my shoulders and turning around.
"I…don't know…" I reply, a part of me wishing he would leave so he wouldn't see me in such a state.
"Is there anything I can do?"
I shouldn't say anything. He'll hate me. He'll think I'm a coward.
"Please tell me." His fingers travel to the back of my neck while his other hand takes hold of one of mine and brings it to his lips. Skin against skin. Each movement, a blade. Each word, a knife. Together, they hack at my resolve. I ache for him and for the promise of shelter that he offers.
"How can I ease your pain?" Everything about my countenance and my silence should reject him, but he doesn't leave. I'm helpless in the face of his persistence. Though I'm fully dressed in a loose chemise, I feel naked. Word by word, movement by movement, he cuts away my defenses until I'm left trembling and bare before him – exposed in a way that I've never been.
"Cullen…"
"I've been worried sick," he admits, and I can see that it's not something he does easily. Even in this darkness, I notice a heated flush creep up to darken his cheeks, and I understand. It's a weakness, this love we share. It's a vulnerability that we can hardly afford in our positions as the leaders of the Inquisition. Yet here we are, helpless to resist it. "Three days," he murmurs, his grip tightening on my hand. "For three days, I didn't know what to think. You left me looking a bit ill and in just a few hours…" He stops; can't continue. I can see the words choking him with remembrance and emotion. He's too strong to let them take control, and in this moment, that strength seems more precious than anything.
"I'm glad you're awake now. How are you feeling?"
I can't answer, though I do try. What comes out is something that sounds like a cross between a whimper and a sob. Explaining all the things running through my head is impossible. How do you describe something that you can't understand yourself? So, I don't bother. Instead, I act upon instinct and emotion. I don't just wrap my arms around him; I throw myself into him. I imagine diving into my favorite lake and becoming one with the tranquil waters. That's what I want – to melt until I break the boundary between us.
There's so much force behind my movements that I push him back with an audible oomph of surprise. He's so big and strong. Like a wall. Right now, that's what I need – something solid and immovable; something that won't shift beneath my feet like treacherous ice in a half frozen river. If I'm the sword, then he is my shield. I don't care if he'll think less of me; I don't care if I look like a needy child. I yearn for an anchor to this world – a tether to keep my sanity from slipping back into the guilt-ridden darkness of my restless dreams.
"It's all my fault," I whisper. "They're dead because of me. I killed them…" Over and over, one after another, the confessions slip from my lips. Water over the edge of a waterfall. Crumbling rocks over the edge of a cliff. I don't even know if what I'm saying makes any sense. Not that it matters. The moment Cullen wraps his arms around me and gives me the shelter I seek, I break. The tears start to flow, and there's no stopping them this time. He strokes my hair and holds me close, cradling my body between his legs and giving me everything in a wealth of silence and attention. Reaching up, he pulls the blanket off my bed and tucks it around me. He listens, encourages me to continue, and wraps me in a cloak of acceptance and understanding.
It's so much more than I expected from the stern Commander – so much more than I feel that I deserve. I've seen his gentleness before, but not like this. His demeanor is different this time. He smells of leather and steel, of comfort and calm. And above that, there's a trace of something else, spicy and dangerous. His breastplate should feel cold and unnatural against my cheek, but I can't feel anything but the blazing heat of his embrace. When, at last, I have no more tears left and my breathing is slow and steady again, he kisses the crown of my head.
"I'm so sorry," he says. "I should have realized what happened. Even after I read the report, all I could think about was how the judgment would affect the Inquisition and the political ramifications of what we were going to do. I didn't consider your feelings." I try to explain that it isn't his fault. How could he have known that this would happen when I didn't anticipate it myself? I had no idea that I harbored such a weakness.
"It isn't a weakness," he assures me. "It's been a long time since I was thrown into my first battle. I've been fighting for so long that I'd forgotten what that was like."
"It's not my first…" I protest. I've been fighting ever since I stepped from the rift, and I've never been affected so strongly. What's thrown me into such confusion?
"But it is," he maintains. "You've fought on the field before, but a siege of this magnitude is different. The men we lost, the death of the Wardens, the dragon…and then your rift and what you saw in the Fade…" he shakes his head. "And the judgment. After thinking it over, I realized what it was that you were trying to do. However…"
"I wanted to see him tortured," I interrupt. "I wasn't judging him. I was," my voice catches. "You were right to doubt me, Cullen. I don't understand myself anymore."
"It will pass," he promises. "We are all soldiers; every one of us. This war has spilled into everyone's lives and, willing or not, we must fight." Experience accents every one of his words, making me wish I'd known him for longer than I have. "War stays with you. Even after many years have passed, you'll still remember the battles and the haze of adrenaline on the field. But, as time passes, you'll find that you doubt yourself less and less. Confidence crowns a seasoned warrior." I find myself wanting to know more about his past and all he's been through.
"And the screaming?" I ask, my voice small and tremulous. His arms tense around me. "Will that go away, too?" Cullen doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, his fingers slide under my chin, and I look up at him.
"I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?" The amber of his eyes has melted, even around the edges. The remorse there is raw and true. I shake my head and attempt a smile.
"There's nothing to forgive." Behind us, the curtains billow out as the night gives another restless sigh. I sit up, putting my weight on my knees as I lean up to kiss my Commander's cheek. My lips tingle. He hasn't shaved in some time, and his stubble is scratchier than usual. Using my fingers, I comb back his hair, moving the soft curls away from his cheeks. Finger pads brush against dark smudges under his eyes. He looks somewhat like himself again, though I'm certain that only a night or two of solid rest could fix it. A thought occurs to me.
"Have you been here with me all this while?" The answer is present in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the way he turns away from me and looks at me from the side, as though wary of meeting my gaze full on. He's embarrassed and uncertain, perhaps concerned of what sort of conclusions I'll jump to if I know the truth.
"What would you think if I said that I have?" My heart jumps into my throat, quivering at the thought of him caring so much.
"Then…what about your responsibilities?" I regret my words immediately. It sounds like I'm scolding or accusing him. He wants to escape, but I don't let him. "No, that's not what I meant." I grab onto a leather strap on his breastplate and hold on, keeping him here despite his discomfort. He frowns.
"It was just today…tonight, rather…and perhaps last night…" he confesses and begins to stumble over his words. He doesn't do so often, but when he does I know that he's struggling against a powerful emotion of some kind. In this case, I imagine it's either shame or embarrassment. "I couldn't concentrate on anything. Dorian was…and the waiting, the wondering, not knowing if you were alright…they were…"
"You don't have to explain," I rush to tell him. "I understand, and I'm glad you're here. I…needed you here." His fingers still against the nape of my neck, his eyes hard and unyielding once more. Duty is all he knows. In this world where rules and faith have been broken by a madman's corruption, he needs the security of mundane tasks and paperwork to keep him whole. Our love is an element of uncertainty. It breaks the chain of security; our emotions intervene. The battle at Adamant hammered the realization into me that we might all die tomorrow. All it would take is the slightest error, the slightest mistake. I might lose this man to war – my irreplaceable Commander – just as he may lose me. I wonder if the thought terrifies him as much as it does me, but I don't have to wonder for long. When he tugs me towards him and breathes my name against our lips, I know that the same fear haunts him.
We've kissed and embraced many times before. Being this close and touching him still makes me dizzy, but it's a dance to which I know the steps. I know what to expect, and I thrill in anticipation of his attention. I love the way he gentles his touch when he caresses me, the way his voice lowers and turns into a husky purr when I do something that feels good. Like softly tugging on his curls, just there behind his ear, or slipping my hand between the breaks of his armor and running my palm against the crest of his shoulder under his mantle. I love how the scar on his lip feels against the corner of my mouth, the way he deepens our kiss and leaves me feeling so breathless that I lose track of time and space.
It's been so long, it seems, since we've allowed ourselves this reprieve. My heart flutters in my chest with each moment that passes this way. Each kiss, a healing spell. Each stroke of his tongue, a fan to the growing flames within my core. He's shy at first; then, not so much. Every time we touch, he shows me something new – a new facet to the endless turns and twists of who he is. He pushes, bends me back, and uses a hand on my forehead to tilt my head and expose my neck. As his lips trail fire down my throat, I lose myself again, for once glad and happy to be lost on paths both well-worn and unexplored. I am a huntress and tracker, but even Andruil couldn't help me find my way within the complexities of my Commander. He is wholly unique, and it is why I cannot stop myself from wanting more and more of him.
At length, Cullen breaks our embrace. Our eyes meet. My palms have settled on his chest. Beneath the broad metal breastplate, I feel his heart thundering like a war drum. I feel the raw heat and need surging from him like an aura all its own, and I finally understand that I've just stepped onto yet another new path in our relationship. Something is different. I sense it in the way his hands are trembling – light and almost imperceptible – and in the way his eyes shimmer in the moonlight. He's afraid, but not of losing me.
"What is it?" I ask him, my voice husky and my throat so dry that I can hardly speak.
"Perhaps we shouldn't…you're still tired and you should rest…" He moves back and helps me stand. I don't like this sudden distance between us, and I tell him so by pulling him down for another kiss.
"Don't leave," I whisper. "I need you." With a groan, he pulls me flush against him. My shoulders to his chest. My chest to his abdomen. My belly against his groin. And therein lies the truth of it. I feel my face flush when the evidence of his arousal presses against me. I understand, then, why he is hesitating. Our kisses have always been passionate, but they've bordered on playful and affectionate. As I look up at him, I see and feel nothing playful about this mood we've wandered into. I give myself a moment to understand what continuing down this road will mean and realize that I don't want to stop. With utmost care, I lift the imaginary veil that separates us, pressing myself closer to let him know of my consent.
The dynamic between us changes in a heartbeat. We careen into each other like dancing birds in flight. Between hot desperate kisses, his arms wrap around my body. He lifts me off the ground and sets me down on the bed, pushing me back until all I can see is him, until he is my world. Our fingers thread together, twining as much as our lips and our tongues. My body aches. My skin hurts. My soul cries out to be joined with the man I love.
His hands push aside the blankets, and I gasp when his fingers travel up my sides, grazing my ribcage and finally settling over my breasts. The sound seems to jerk him out of a trance. He pulls away from my neck and leans back, loosening the buckles and laces of first his bracers then his chest plate to give him a wider range of movement. As he leans back down and over me, the fur of his mantle tickles my cheek. At first, a giggle nearly bubbles past my control, but all mirth is drowned out when he kisses my chin and stares down at me.
"Are you certain?" he asks. The question may seem vague, but I know what he needs me to say. "We don't have to do this now. I'll stay even if we don't." His bare hand caresses the line of my jaw, trailing upwards to the point of my ear. I shiver, feeling an unfamiliar and painful heat pool in my belly. "I'll stay until you fall asleep and after, if you wish it."
"I wish it," I reply, "but only after this." He kisses my hand and waits, his eyes searching mine for hesitation. He wants to be sure. Then, at last –
"As you Command," he murmurs and nuzzles his cheek against mine.