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Don't go near the mirror. Someone bar the door and set up a guard. I will explain when I can.
It probably said a lot about him that, after landing sprawled in the eluvian's chamber and determining where he was again, the first thing he did was check the journal he'd kept tucked in his belt. It hadn't worked in that cell...wherever in the world that had been...and part of him expected this to just be another trick. A punishment of some sort, continually inflicted for crimes he had long been ready to confess.
But he saw the writing appearing, saw the trouble, and the emotion that wended its way through him was complicated at best.
Cullen dashed off a message, hand trembling almost too hard to hold the quill, then focused on forcing his body to obey him. Weeks without food, with barely enough water to survive, with only enough space to pace six steps in any direction in the often absolute dark, had left him impossibly weak. He quaked and shook like an old man as he used the wall to pull himself to his feet, back to that damned mirror, teeth gritted.
His first step nearly sent him crumpling to the floor.
The second was only a little steadier.
But he kept going because he had to keep going, and by the time he reached the courtyard, he was able to keep his forward momentum by sheer bullheaded determination alone. (Even as the world swam around him with every blink of his eyes, a watercolor blur of sensation and shapes.)
He was needed. He needed to know everyone was all right.
But he saw the writing appearing, saw the trouble, and the emotion that wended its way through him was complicated at best.
Cullen dashed off a message, hand trembling almost too hard to hold the quill, then focused on forcing his body to obey him. Weeks without food, with barely enough water to survive, with only enough space to pace six steps in any direction in the often absolute dark, had left him impossibly weak. He quaked and shook like an old man as he used the wall to pull himself to his feet, back to that damned mirror, teeth gritted.
His first step nearly sent him crumpling to the floor.
The second was only a little steadier.
But he kept going because he had to keep going, and by the time he reached the courtyard, he was able to keep his forward momentum by sheer bullheaded determination alone. (Even as the world swam around him with every blink of his eyes, a watercolor blur of sensation and shapes.)
He was needed. He needed to know everyone was all right.
It happened the way it had before: one moment he was striding down the hall, heading to the War Room to reorganize the supplies (considering posting a guard so they could at least be positive the records remained accurate when people kept sneaking in to help themselves instead of going through proper channels and, no, he was not going to get uptight about this again) and the next moment he was standing in front of the eluvian.
It happened so fast only finely honed instincts kept him from crashing through. Cullen jerked back, one hand falling to the hilt of his sword...the knuckles nearly brushing the glassy surface of the dark mirror.
Nearly was enough. A dark tendril reached from the mirror and before he could pull back, he was being enveloped--yanked through, consumed in a watery ripple of light.
And then he was gone.
**
The prison he came to was strange. And dark. And cold.
There was no food. The only water came from the dew that wended its way down the stone walls. There was no door, no window, and no escape. He searched for a way out, at first panicked, and then methodical, and then just because there was nothing else to do but think and begin to waste away. Eventually, he stayed curled on his side to conserve his strength, letting himself gradually detach, unmoor.
Begin to give up.
It was at the moment he closed his eyes and let himself think, At least in the end there is some measure of peace that the darkness swallowed him and he was stumbling out of the mirror and crumpling to the floor.
Back in Skyhold once more.
It happened so fast only finely honed instincts kept him from crashing through. Cullen jerked back, one hand falling to the hilt of his sword...the knuckles nearly brushing the glassy surface of the dark mirror.
Nearly was enough. A dark tendril reached from the mirror and before he could pull back, he was being enveloped--yanked through, consumed in a watery ripple of light.
And then he was gone.
**
The prison he came to was strange. And dark. And cold.
There was no food. The only water came from the dew that wended its way down the stone walls. There was no door, no window, and no escape. He searched for a way out, at first panicked, and then methodical, and then just because there was nothing else to do but think and begin to waste away. Eventually, he stayed curled on his side to conserve his strength, letting himself gradually detach, unmoor.
Begin to give up.
It was at the moment he closed his eyes and let himself think, At least in the end there is some measure of peace that the darkness swallowed him and he was stumbling out of the mirror and crumpling to the floor.
Back in Skyhold once more.
Evelea had stared at the journal for a long time trying to decide what that meant. Wherever she was comfortable? There wasn't much comforting about this place. Finally she'd written back the garden? because she'd been working there each day and it was as familiar as anywhere else.
She sat cross-legged next to the royal elfroot bed, frowning down at it in forced consternation. Was it real? Real enough to smell when she gently rubbed the pad of her thumb across a leaf, real enough to ease the sting of a scratch she placed there. It's medicinal properties held up. But did it grow? If they harvested part of it would new buds form? How were any of these plants faring without sunlight?
The sound of footsteps, when they finally came, startled her. She had been half-convinced that he wouldn't appear, at least not today. She didn't look up right away, hair in her face and hands clasped in her lap, trying to figure out how to even meet his eyes.
She sat cross-legged next to the royal elfroot bed, frowning down at it in forced consternation. Was it real? Real enough to smell when she gently rubbed the pad of her thumb across a leaf, real enough to ease the sting of a scratch she placed there. It's medicinal properties held up. But did it grow? If they harvested part of it would new buds form? How were any of these plants faring without sunlight?
The sound of footsteps, when they finally came, startled her. She had been half-convinced that he wouldn't appear, at least not today. She didn't look up right away, hair in her face and hands clasped in her lap, trying to figure out how to even meet his eyes.
Evelea had stared at that book for hours, pouring over the entries, the banter, the quips and doodles and jibes looking for clues. Her head ached and her eyes crossed and finally she'd admitted defeat. She wasn't going to be able to discern the verisimilitude of handwriting that she'd never seen.
The ones she recognized were worse.
She didn't know when she'd started to pray. She had rarely felt the need, never wanted to turn the Maker's gaze on her. She was a mage, and well, everyone knew the Maker had more than enough opinions about that. But somewhere as she crept along empty halls and peeked into abandoned rooms she'd started to whisper tiny, ardent pleas for help.
From anyone.
When she pushed open the door off the cloister garden her eyes focused up, fixing on Andraste's face. The short huff somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "A statue certainly isn't going to fix this, but thank you for trying."
The ones she recognized were worse.
She didn't know when she'd started to pray. She had rarely felt the need, never wanted to turn the Maker's gaze on her. She was a mage, and well, everyone knew the Maker had more than enough opinions about that. But somewhere as she crept along empty halls and peeked into abandoned rooms she'd started to whisper tiny, ardent pleas for help.
From anyone.
When she pushed open the door off the cloister garden her eyes focused up, fixing on Andraste's face. The short huff somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "A statue certainly isn't going to fix this, but thank you for trying."
( Private post )
Public post
My name is Cullen, and I am the commander of the Inquisition's armies and Skyhold. I've taken inventory of the armory, the smithy, and the requisitions office and gathered all weapons and armor--including enchanted items. If you require weaponry, please see me.
Public post
My name is Cullen, and I am the commander of the Inquisition's armies and Skyhold. I've taken inventory of the armory, the smithy, and the requisitions office and gathered all weapons and armor--including enchanted items. If you require weaponry, please see me.
Cullen could scarcely believe what was happening, even after everything he had seen from their battle with Corypheus. He peered down from atop the battlements next to his office, and saw the world drop off into nothingness beyond the bridge, the mountains in the distance replaced by a sickly green mist. He was reminded of the Inquisitor's description of the fade; could it truly be? Were they somehow sucked into the sky, some sort of elaborate demon takeover of Skyhold? He needed to get outside of the keep immediately, there must be enemies afoot.
He unsheathed his sword and ran down the steps - where were his soldiers? Where was anyone? Must be a trick, an illusion, he thought to himself. If he was here, others must be as well. He didn't want to think of the alternative; that they were all dead, and he was the only one left. Even so, he wouldn't go down without a fight.
Cullen reached the bridge and looked wildly around, hearing nothing but otherwordly creaks and groans. He saw nothing. Perhaps he should return to the castle and continue to search for others.
When he turned around, a figure was standing in the entrance to Skyhold.
"Identify yourself!" Cullen shouted, his sword at the ready.
He unsheathed his sword and ran down the steps - where were his soldiers? Where was anyone? Must be a trick, an illusion, he thought to himself. If he was here, others must be as well. He didn't want to think of the alternative; that they were all dead, and he was the only one left. Even so, he wouldn't go down without a fight.
Cullen reached the bridge and looked wildly around, hearing nothing but otherwordly creaks and groans. He saw nothing. Perhaps he should return to the castle and continue to search for others.
When he turned around, a figure was standing in the entrance to Skyhold.
"Identify yourself!" Cullen shouted, his sword at the ready.
Cullen straightened, then slowly rose to his feet. He was in the main yard of Skyhold all right, but there were telling differences even beyond the troubling sky. The greenery hadn't all been stripped away, for one. The Herald's blood red banners were nowhere to be seen. The tavern still stood, and the high parapets were bare of their bristling defenses.
If he could ignore the tempest going on above his head, it almost seemed...peaceful. Like it was before things started going so wrong.
He turned in a slow circle, chains clanking, and silently noted the changes--then went perfectly still when he heard a footfall.
If he could ignore the tempest going on above his head, it almost seemed...peaceful. Like it was before things started going so wrong.
He turned in a slow circle, chains clanking, and silently noted the changes--then went perfectly still when he heard a footfall.
The Herald took Cassandra first, because she was cruel and knew the best ways to tear him down. It wouldn't have been so bad going to his death if he thought there was a chance Cassandra might survive--but that, too, had been taken from him.
Now, marching out to the scaffold erected in Skyhold's main yard, he could see his friend's head already mounted on its bloody pike, ready to decorate the walls. Her body was being carted away even as he was pushed up the slippery steps.
"Maker take you," Cullen murmured, fisting his hands. He had to swallow back slowly mounting rage as he faced down the Herald, refusing to bow his head and avert his eyes the way everyone else was doing. The courtyard was packed with witnesses--men, women, children. Even the babes were there, crying fitfully at the tension riding high in the air.
"Commander Cullen," the Herald said. Her voice was a cold sing-song. "For the crime of treason, I sentence you to death."
He could fight. He was still strong, and many if not all of the Templars and guards would hesitate to chase him down. There was a good chance he could make it as far as the gate. But what then? Would he begun a hunted man, chased across the face of Thedas? Would he waste his one opportunity to appeal to the Inquisition?
No. He couldn't fight, and he couldn't run. But he could try to make his death count for something.
"You are a false prophet," Cullen said, voice carrying across the field despite the days she'd tried to starve him into breaking. "You've used the Inquisition to conquer territory that is not yours by right, and--" She was already moving, axe lifting, one hand beckoning him forward. Cullen felt himself stumble forward as if pushed, and he fell to a knee, messily sprawling at her feet.
No, no, he needed more time.
"Fight her!" he called, struggling up even as he saw the glint of the axe coming down. "Fight her to your last--"
And then suddenly he was on his hands and knees in the grass, wrists still shackled together, breath coming in harsh, hard pants. The rest of the square was miraculously empty, but the sky when he looked up...the sky roiled in warning.
He wasn't out of this quite yet.
Now, marching out to the scaffold erected in Skyhold's main yard, he could see his friend's head already mounted on its bloody pike, ready to decorate the walls. Her body was being carted away even as he was pushed up the slippery steps.
"Maker take you," Cullen murmured, fisting his hands. He had to swallow back slowly mounting rage as he faced down the Herald, refusing to bow his head and avert his eyes the way everyone else was doing. The courtyard was packed with witnesses--men, women, children. Even the babes were there, crying fitfully at the tension riding high in the air.
"Commander Cullen," the Herald said. Her voice was a cold sing-song. "For the crime of treason, I sentence you to death."
He could fight. He was still strong, and many if not all of the Templars and guards would hesitate to chase him down. There was a good chance he could make it as far as the gate. But what then? Would he begun a hunted man, chased across the face of Thedas? Would he waste his one opportunity to appeal to the Inquisition?
No. He couldn't fight, and he couldn't run. But he could try to make his death count for something.
"You are a false prophet," Cullen said, voice carrying across the field despite the days she'd tried to starve him into breaking. "You've used the Inquisition to conquer territory that is not yours by right, and--" She was already moving, axe lifting, one hand beckoning him forward. Cullen felt himself stumble forward as if pushed, and he fell to a knee, messily sprawling at her feet.
No, no, he needed more time.
"Fight her!" he called, struggling up even as he saw the glint of the axe coming down. "Fight her to your last--"
And then suddenly he was on his hands and knees in the grass, wrists still shackled together, breath coming in harsh, hard pants. The rest of the square was miraculously empty, but the sky when he looked up...the sky roiled in warning.
He wasn't out of this quite yet.
