Two weeks.
Two weeks of interrogating Theoren, fretting over Cullen's prone form, biting at his nails until they're down to the quick and even further, scabbed and sore. Pacing, sleeping only when exhaustion claims him, harassing the other healers for information.
And yet Cullen still sleeps.
It is no natural slumber, and they all know it. The issue at hand is that simply knowing that it is unnatural doesn't suddenly reveal the cause, and blindly channeling magic into Cullen could do far more damage than good. At least that's what Dorian tells himself as he gnaws at his thumb nail, ignoring the taste of blood as he bites. The pain is enough to keep him focussed, keep him from withdrawing into his mind and being trapped by an endless cycle of worst case scenarios.
Cullen's wound is long healed enough to remove his stitches, and besides the one nightmare on his first day, he hasn't moved an inch on his own. He's been force fed only broth and water and yet hasn't lost any weight. The healers who at first assumed he was simply recovering from the tremendous stress of being the commander of the Inquisition's army now scramble for answers. Dozens of hands check books in the library, turning the place on its head, and even more send messages and missives to healers across the countryside who may have more information, though of course without letting on to who it is they're trying to heal.
Even now, the Inquisition comes first, and rumor of the Commander being unwell leaving Skyhold could be disasterous.
All the while Dorian remains at his side. While he may be a great researcher and experimentalist, his talents are tied to the arts of the dead and making things dead, not so much healing. He feels useless, a feeling he's not used to in the least.
But it isn't the healers that find the truth, nor is it located in any book. No, it's Solas who figures it out, and by accident.
"It seems that, while in his weakened state, the Commander was ensnared by a demon." The elf leans against his staff, voice bland like this isn't a big deal, and Dorian would consider punching him if he wasn't so close to panicking. The air's been knocked out of his lungs and the room spins. He braces himself against the war table with both arms to help tether him to the ground. There's a buzzing in his ears, a white fuzz that threatens to drown out everything around him; he swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.
Elena, the only other person present, frowns. "How is that possible?" She's incredulous, as she should be, and Dorian would be too if it didn't just make so much sense.
"He is not possessed," Solas clarifies, "I have no doubt that Cullen is safe from that danger." He shrugs nonchalantly-Dorian hates him for it-and shifts his weight. "I suspect he slipped into the Fade while he slept after his injury, though I'm still unclear how he managed it." The way he speaks, it's like Solas will question Cullen the second he's awake and harass him for information. "I was unable to get too close, however. The demon is extremely protective of its captive."
Maker, Dorian can almost see it. The demon exploiting all the barely healed wounds on Cullen's soul after his torture at Kirkwall, using his weaknesses to its advantage to sink its claws in and tear him apart after he's spent so long trying to piece himself back together.
He barely makes it out the door before emptying the contents of his stomach on the freshly renovated stone floor.
Dorian opens his eyes. Blinks.
He stands in a field of spring wheat, heads swaying in a gentle breeze at hip height. Everywhere he looks he sees it, a sea of gold that surrounds him on all sides. The sky above is a tableau of shifting colors, red, then green, then purple-a kaleidoscope of shades that bleed into one another seamlessly.
And there, on the horizon, is a black dot, made indiscernible by distance.
Somehow everything in that direction seems sharper, clearer, edges harder and colors brighter. And in the opposite direction color bleeds away, forms and shapes becoming indistinct in the way that things seen in peripheral are indistinct.
Dorian can tell he's in the Fade, not by the fanciful sky display and optic tricks, but by how potent his magic feels, how deep his reservoir of mana has become. It coils under his skin, waiting to be released with nothing more than a thought to make it tangible. A mage learns quickly how to recognize the Fade else they end up an abomination.
Which is why Dorian shouldn't be here alone. He hadn't planned it, had only meant to sleep dreamlessly (if at all) by aid of a potion. He was supposed to come here with Elena and Solas in tow, three fully capable and powerful mages to break Cullen free of his prison.
But something had pulled him from his sleep and lead him here, and though the smart thing to do would be to wake up, he's not feeling particularly smart. Especially when Cullen is so close. He's not sure how exactly he knows that the other man is close, but know it he does, deep in his bones.
Decision made, Dorian begins to walk towards the speck of black on the horizon, parting the sea of wheat before him with his hands. Wisps float through the air, attracted by his magical strength, drifting behind him like ripples.
Time passes, but Dorian has now way of keeping track of how much, or if it even correlates with time in the physical world. The flickering sky shows no sun, though the air is beginning to warm considerably. Even with his Tevinter blood the temperature brings a sheen of sweat to his skin, waves of heat shimmering above the wheat tops. But no matter how far he walks he doesn't get any closer; the tiny black dot in the distance remains a tiny black dot, though with each step the temperature rises until his lungs burn with each inhale, the air thick and cloying.
Dorian frowns and stops, wipes perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. An illusion of some sort, then, to protect the demon from intruders. Simple in its execution, yes, but still capable of keeping someone away.
Well, had this been the real world it would be capable of keeping someone away. But this is the Fade, and in the Fade thought becomes reality.
Dorian imagines himself standing closer to the dot, maybe a mile away for safety, and so he is. The world shifting disorients him for but a moment and he rights himself quickly. The air here is still warm but not oppressively so, and he's thankful. Air shouldn't burn on the way in like that, like boiling water in his throat.
It turns out that the black speck he'd spied is an old farm house, a single story thing made of aged pine. It's small but if what Dorian can see on the outside is any indication, it's been relatively well kept. Well, relatively well kept for something imagined. He knows it's not a real home with any actual upkeep but the fact that it looks in good repair says something about whoever-or whatever-it is that brought it to life here.
Slowly, Dorian covers the last bit of distance, alert and ready for any sudden attack. It's this alertness, this readiness of his magic just beneath the skin of his hands, that keeps him from losing his head as a blade is swung at his neck.
On instinct he throws up a barrier and the blade rebounds, giving him a chance to dance back. Spells just itching to be freed, he turns to face his attacker. Then stops and gapes.
Cullen stands with his blade drawn, a rictus snarl twisting his face into something Dorian's never seen before. Dorian would feel relief at finding him unharmed if it weren't for the bared steel focussed on him. Cullen's eyes stare at him without recognition, dull and black with blown pupils.
"Cullen, what-" Dorian dodges back again, wishing for his staff and, as it materializes in his hand, uses it to block another swing.
"I won't let you have him, demon!" Cullen stabs at him in quick succession; Dorian deflects and parries the blows but doesn't return the attack. How could he? It's clear that Cullen is not in his right mind, which is not surprising considering the circumstances, and it is not Cullen that he needs to defeat, but the demon.
Cullen presses forward and Dorian continues to dance around him and they circle back and forth, twisting and jumping. There's no way for Dorian to disengage without being fatally wounded, so he turns to his magic.
"Stop this!" Dorian yells, pushing Cullen back a good thirty feet with a gust of air. He lands on his back near the house's porch but scrambles to his feet as if he hadn't been thrown through the air like a ragdoll. More defensive spells lay half-cast in Dorian's hands, various tactics whirling through his mind as he not only tries to keep himself alive but also think of a way to snap the Commander out of this.
"Now, now, don't try to dissuade him," a voice says from inside, a voice so familiar that he instantly knows what the demon is playing at before it walks out from the shadows of the doorway into the light.
A thing wearing Dorian's face stares down at him from the porch with contempt, and the likeness would be perfect if it weren't tainted with something so wrong and twisted, the way the light reflects in its eyes, the cant of its head, the way it smiles. It's a smile so oily that Dorian's skin crawls just to look at it.
The demon saunters down the porch steps. "He is quite protective of me, but I think you've realized that." It winks at Dorian and sidles up behind Cullen, leaning its chest against his back and wrapping arms around his waist. Cullen shifts in its arms unconsciously and the demon rests its chin on his shoulder, peering at Dorian over the fur of Cullen's cloak. It's a pose the two had been in multiple times, while overlooking the mountainside or in the early morning as Cullen tried to get ready to train his troops and Dorian did everything he could to distract him.
Dorian's hands tighten on his staff, knuckles white as his hackles rise. Now, faced with much more than he thought this would be, he wishes he would have simply woken up as soon as he realized where he was and went to the Inquisitor and Solas for aide instead of assuming he could do this on his own. Facing a demon? He can do that with his eyes closed and hands tied behind his back, and has been ever since he begun to tap into his magic as a child. But facing Cullen, the one truly good thing in his life, as he attempts to run him through?
The demon grins and gives Cullen's hip a pat. "Go get him, amatus."
And Cullen charges. Every swing is precise, every parry and slice of the blade aimed for Dorian's vitals. How can he think of a way of freeing him when he's barely keeping Cullen's sword from disemboweling him? Especially when dying here would kill Dorian or, even worse, make him Tranquil?
In the back of his mind Dorian thanks his parents for being smart enough to teach him true combat skills with his staff, training him to use it as more than just a conduit for his power. The hours of quarterstaff work is certainly coming in handy.
All the while, Cullen is talking, spitting out words between grit teeth. "You cannot have him!" Swing. "I won't let anyone hurt him anymore!" Stab. The words hit Dorian more than the blows that slip through his defenses; tears gather at the corners of his eyes but he blinks them away.
A desire demon, then, using Cullen's desire to protect Dorian from his family and the hateful world at large and twisting it into an obsession he's willing to kill for. Desire demons aren't particularly strong but there's no way to kill the thing without finding a way to incapacitate or at least distract Cullen long enough to get the job done.
Sweat burns in a dozen cuts, drips from his forehead, slicks his hands on his staff as he defends himself. Cullen continues to press forward, forcing Dorian back, away from the house and the desire demon wearing his face.
Dorian takes another step back, and his heel slips on something. That one moment of dropping his guard as he fights for his balance is what undoes him as the pommel of Cullen's blade slams into his nose.
Bone cracks and blood flows freely from his nostrils and down into his throat as spots cloud his vision. Stumbling he takes another step back, throwing up a barrier out of desperation as tears blur his vision, but it's not fast enough. Cullen's fist connects with his jaw and, Maker, does it hurt. Dorian's head swims as his legs buckle, knees slamming into the ground. He's pretty sure he's concussed, and badly, if the pain blooming in the back of his skull is any indication. Blood drips down his face, pools in his mouth.
Through the tears streaming down his face he can see Cullen looming over him, chest heaving with exertion. The demon stands behind him, a hand on his shoulder. It stares down at Dorian with triumph, smirking. Dorian still has magic to use, still has a deep well of mana to pull from, but he just can't. His brain is panicking and there's no way for him to focus himself enough to cast anything worthwhile.
But is this really a bad way to die? No, no really. Dorian could have died so many times since coming south, but there's something poetic about dying at the hands of the person he loves. The person who gave his life new meaning, who helped him learn to love himself again and ignore the voice in his head that always works to bring him down. The person who Dorian could see himself growing old with, the person Dorian could see himself making a family with.
And if he doesn't die but instead is made Tranquil, he at least knows that he got the chance to experience such a wide breadth of emotion, got to feel love and happiness before having it all stripped away.
Cullen raises his blade and Dorian is at peace. Smiling, he leans back and bares his neck, staring up at the shifting sky above.
A beautiful last sight, if he is any judge of these things.
The blade swings.
An inhuman screech fills the air and Dorian starts, snapping his head down to find Cullen's blade embedded in the demon's side, sliced halfway through its middle. It no longer wears his face as it screams in pain and fury, fumbling with clawed hands to pull the sword free. With a shout, Cullen twists the blade and rips, cutting through the rest of the way and splitting the demon in two.
The two separate pieces fall to the ground with a wet thunk, its blood steaming on the ground, on Cullen's sword.
It takes a moment for it to register in Dorian's mind, but when it does he gurgles a laugh. "I guess that's that, then," he coughs out before blackness consumes him.