Chapter Text
It’s an accident. She’ll tell him that later, and she’ll stand by it – she didn’t intend to do it.
Ellana opens her eyes. She hears a scream from somewhere several feet away. It echoes off stone that’s all around her - in the walls, the ceilings. Trapping her. Her hands tremble at the sight. There’s no light here, no air, nothing familiar. She grew up in forests, and this reminds her of Chantries, of temples – it’s a shemlen place. She shouldn’t be here. She climbs to her feet, hearing another scream, and something that sounds like… laughter?
She’s in a corridor in an unfamiliar building. The ceilings are high, and there’s…
There’s blood everywhere. Smeared across the walls, pooling on the floor. The place reeks of it, and of blood magic; the stuff must be powerful, because it’s oppressive, nearly seeming to choke her. There are bodies scattered around the room (so many, Creators, what happened here?), and after a moment, she recognises templar armour and mage robes on them. Is she in a Circle?
Her chest is tight with panic, and she tells herself to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. She can’t think, she can’t think…
Colour draws her eye. Purple. She turns her head, unwilling to look and brave some new horror but needing to know, to distract herself from the tightness of her chest and her inability to breathe. She sees nothing more than a barrier. It hums, the magic obviously powerful, and behind it is another body.
No. Not another body. She hears it, now she’s paying attention: the lowest murmur, barely a whisper. She can’t even tell what the words are, but it has the tone of a recitation, of repetition.
She moves closer, approaching slowly, tentatively. Alive. At least someone’s alive in this place. As she reaches the other side of the barrier, she sees templar armour, matted blond curls. His head is bowed as if he’s in prayer, but there’s something desperate about it. He’s shaking. Now she’s close enough, the low murmur is just about decipherable as the Chant of Light.
“Hello?” she tries.
He looks up, his surprise quickly turning to such rage that she finds herself backing away, fear crawling up her spine. “What is this?” he cries. “What new trick are you…?” It’s interrupted by what sounds like a sob.
He’s painfully young, barely into adulthood. She sees brown eyes, wide and half-wild but somehow resigned. Underneath them are dark circles that speak of little or no sleep for a long time. His cheeks are painfully gaunt. His skin is pale, and there’s blood on his face, the red stark against the whiteness. His voice is hoarse, desperate, as if he’s been screaming, and… and familiar.
She tilts her head, looking again at him, and seeing. “Cullen?”
Why would he be in her dream? She likes the commander well enough, though she sometimes finds him rather intimidating, but she can’t even say they’re friends. They speak little outside of war room meetings. And why would she imagine him like this?
Even so, he’s something familiar in such a nightmare, and she finds herself wanting to cling to that.
His eyes widen, panic settling in them, and she wonders if she’s made a mistake. “What - ? I – Inquisitor?” His eyes are wide with surprise, but something else is blooming in them, too. Something akin to guilt, or shame.
It takes her aback; even here, he’s attempting to retain formality, rank and order. She looks around at the scattered bodies, the blood-covered walls, the chaos around them, and thinks she can understand why. She turns back to him, unsure how to address this… this boy in front of her. “Where are we?”
He swallows, hesitating. His voice is rough when he speaks; it sounds as if the words hurt him. “The Circle, after the, the demons – “ A sharp inhale, his eyes widening. “This isn’t real.”
Frowning, she asks, “What?”
She realizes that his words have truth in them. She doesn’t remember how she got here, and this place feels… hazy, more an impression of horror than something concrete. She can’t think why she would dream of such a place, and it has the feel of familiarity, of memory. Not her dream, then. So it must be…
The anger of before is relighting in his eyes. “How did you find this place?”
“I didn’t, I – “
“You shouldn’t be here. What did you do?”
“Cullen, I swear…”
“Leave.”
“I can’t.”
They are left staring at each other, both breathing heavily and on the verge of panic. The stone around them echoes, and she wonders if she’s in danger. It may just be a memory, but he mentioned demons; she can feel blood magic.
His brow creases in confusion. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
She wants to explain, or apologize, to do something… “I mean that I – “
The world becomes a flash of white, and she wakes.
She gasps, opening her eyes. Instinct moves her. She reaches out with her mana and listens, needing to be certain. No, she’s no longer in the Beyond. Foolish as it is, she reaches a trembling hand out to touch the wall next to her bed. She runs her fingers down the stone, but while it feels reassuringly real, it also makes her remember the grey, cavernous dream-Circle. The sound of blood dripping off the walls.
The terrified young templar is haunting her. His eyes were half-mad, and sofamiliar. And he was covered in blood. She has to wonder if it was his or others’. She remembers the barrier, the state of him, and wonders how long he’d been trapped in there. And then she remembers the bodies, and wonders if he’d had to watch his friends die, people he knew…
No. Surely it was just a nightmare. It makes no sense. That can’t have been him, not really. A representation of him? A spirit? Why would she dream of such things? What is her mind telling her?
A memory returns to her. She remembers asking Cullen about the Blight, about what happened in the Circle, and she remembers the hunted look in his eyes, his polite but firm refusal to talk about it, his obvious discomfort. Perhaps her mind was feeding off that, trying to imagine it.
But why?
She sighs. They set out for the Wastes in three days, but for now she’s in Skyhold. She has the nearest thing to a rest possible. Maybe if she finds out what happened, displaces the facts with reality…
Yes. She’s awake now, her toes itching, her legs and feet restless. She huffs out a breath, attempts to tie up nigh-untameable hair and clothes herself, setting off for the library.
Skyhold is sleeping. The sky is still dark, and birds haven’t yet begun to sing. She sees barely any lights – there are torches along the wall still burning at guard posts, and she can’t help but notice that the commander’s window is glowing with candlelight. His sleep may well be restless too.
She passes soldiers, nodding to them. They make nervous eye contact, obviously uncomfortable around the Herald, the Inquisitor, and she tries not to sigh.
For once, Dorian is not in the library. Though he is her friend, she finds that she’s relieved. It would be difficult trying to explain her late-night research session.
She finds the history shelves quickly enough, and then she looks for works of the Circle, of the Fifth Blight.
She is still reading when the bell rings: not the alarm, but the lower bell, less strident in its tone. The war council is to be called.
She restrains a sigh, and then the reality of the situation hits her. She wonders if she will be able to look Cullen in the eye after her odd dream. She hopes so; there might be questions if she doesn’t.
She looks back to her book – one of Genitivi’s histories. There’s little said about the Circle’s fate, but what she does see is disturbing. Blood mages, demons rising, people trapped in the tower for days… It all seems terrifyingly familiar. It all seems so much like her dream.
She shakes her head as if trying to shake off that thought, rising from her seat and returning the book to its shelf.
The bell means she has maybe fifteen minutes before she must be in the war room. As she makes her way to it, the minutes passing, the dread of seeing Cullen rises in her chest, makes her limbs heavy and her hands weak. But she shall be professional, she tells herself. She must. Still, she can’t help but be afraid – of disturbing him with her awkwardness, or worse, looking up and seeing the frightened boy of the Circle rather than her colleague.
Luckily, that isn’t a problem. Less luckily, it is not she who seems to take uncanny interest in the floor or the walls, gaze skittering so eyes won’t have to be met, but Cullen. He spends the meeting barely looking at her, businesslike to the point of brusqueness. He usually has a greeting, or politely half-listens to Josephine and Leliana’s pleasantries and small talk, but today he seems distracted, a frown never far from his face. Josephine and Leliana glance at him, evidently puzzled, and then at her. Ellana shrugs when he isn’t looking, tries her best to behave as though nothing is amiss.
It’s only after the meeting ends, as she’s about to exit the room, that she feels a gloved hand on her arm. “May we speak a moment?”
She turns and looks up, seeing Cullen. His shoulders are tense, and he’s looking somewhere near her left ear rather than meeting her eyes. His face is pinched, uncertainty written on it, in his tone, but there’s something else. A trace of… anger? She remembers the wild-eyed fury of the Circle templar, the betrayed, demanding questions, and wants to run.
No. She is Dalish. She learned long ago not to be afraid of humans, and she knows this man. It was just a dream, and he must want to speak to her about some other matter, maybe some small offence…
She gently takes back her arm. “Certainly.”
With a curt nod, he carefully shuts the door. Then he crosses his arms and asks, “Have you always been able to walk in other people’s dreams? Is it a Dalish practice?” His voice is far too calm, studiedly so, and his hands are clenched.
Fenhedis. She opens her mouth, closes it again, struggling for words. “I can’t… That was your dream? I thought it might be, but I – I can’t. There are barriers in the Beyond, they limit dream-places, and I didn’t try to do anything. I just woke up there, I promise.” When he simply stands there, his face still grim, she tries, “In Mythal’s name, or – or by your Maker, Cullen, I didn’t mean to.”
Maybe it’s something in her face, or her eyes, but his expression softens, his mouth relaxing, and he leans back slightly, his weight shifting. “I see. It must have been…” He looks away from her. “…unpleasant.”
“That’s one word for it.” She wants to add a nervous laugh, but he seems tense enough. She has already hurt him by wandering into his mind, and she doesn’t want him to misconstrue such laughter. It isn’t at his expense. Instead, even though her blood and her bones are telling her not to, she asks, “Was that… was that a dream, or a memory?”
His gaze skitters away from her again, and he raises a hand to his mouth, looking at the floor when he says, “Both. It was a nightmare, but one based on a memory.”
“Mythal. Cullen, I’m sorry.”
The smallest, harshest laugh. “It’s not as if it was your fault.” His voice is hopelessly bitter.
“No, not the platitude. I’m sorry for seeing it. It wasn’t mine to know. But it is a burden. You don’t have to carry these things alone.”
It’s too much; he isn’t ready for the suggestion. She knows that once she sees him tense again. “I thank you for your honesty. But I would rather not speak of such things.”
“Cullen…”
That small, sharp nod again. “Inquisitor.”
He opens the door, and he’s gone before she can say anything more.
The Inquisitor set out for the Hissing Wastes a day ago. She herself is far away, but her words are still with him, never far from his mind.
You don’t have to carry these things alone.
Cassandra has said similar things to him. Even Leliana has, in the quiet darkness of her rookery. Even so, it’s strange to hear them from Lavellan, who must have far more important things on her mind. The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste -apparently the saviour of them all. He must be forgiven for having his doubts.
He knows he frightened her. It was brief, but he saw it in her eyes. They were wide and green, fixed on him, and he saw fear in them. It startled him. She has always seemed harder than the rest of them, quiet and strong, and to see her afraid was… odd. Shame rose in him, and he stepped back, attempting to give her more room.
He shouldn’t have, but to know that someone had crawled through his mind, had seen his nightmares and his memories and the boy he has tried his hardest to leave behind… He finds that his breathing is uneven. He runs a hand over his face, attempting to calm himself. It won’t do him any good to keep turning this over. It’s an old wound, and it won’t be healed by picking at it.
He looks at the candle on his desk. It’s nearly burned to a stub, and he knows that it’s far too late to be working. He doubts anything pleasant awaits him if he sleeps, but at this point, he has little choice; he’s nearly fallen asleep twice at his desk tonight, and it wouldn’t do for him to drop off in the middle of a training session with the troops. It’s difficult to maintain command if you’re ridiculed.
He exhales, putting away his writing equipment, blowing out the candle and ascending his ladder. His joints ache. At first he assumed it was the cold here finding its way into his bones, but he’s beginning to think it’s the lack of lyrium. Everything’s the lack of lyrium.
It’s a quick matter to deal with his armour and clothes, and almost as soon as he hits the bed, the Fade reaches out to greet him.
He wakes staring at the sky. He realizes he’s lying on grass, and looking around, that he’s in a forest. Sun shines through trees, throwing dappled shadows onto the ground. Somewhere close by, he hears the sounds of a stream running.
It’s all very beautiful. This is the sort of place he used to dream about when he was on long shifts in the tower, sick of the sight of stone walls.
A twig snaps nearby.
He reaches for his sword, realizing that it isn’t at his hip. He looks down. He has no armour, either. He’s only in simple clothes, the kind he wears when he isn’t working – which, he admits, is rare. What in the Maker’s name - ?
Someone clears their throat nearby. It’s a very feminine throat-clearing.
He turns round, attempting to locate its source, and sees an elf. She’s wearing leathers, making her way unhurriedly towards him, a swing in her step that is close to a saunter. Her eyes are partly hidden by a tumble of dark hair and the dark lines of her vallaslin, but from what he can see, they’re green and bright, expressive. She’s relatively young, perhaps only nineteen or twenty, freckle-faced beneath the ink and grinning at him cheekily. “Afternoon, shem.”
He stares at her, knowing all too well who she is – but not the Inquisitor, not here. “Ellana?” It falls awkwardly from his lips, as if he rarely says it.
She frowns, cocking her head. “You know my name?”
“I…”
“Does that have to do with why you’re spread-eagled on Dalish ground?”
He struggles to recollect his journey here. “I don’t…” He looks at her, reassessing her armour. “Are you a hunter?”
She shakes her head. “Not as such. So… I think I’m at a disadvantage. You have a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘shem’?”
“Cullen. My, ah, my name is Cullen.”
She sits down next to him, the movement casual and rather graceless. She looks him over. “You look like a Cullen. It’s practical, but a little unusual. It sounds familiar.”
He says before he can help it, the words quiet as if he would like to take them back, “And you… you look like an Ellana.” She tilts her head, looking at him questioningly until he says, “It flows well. It’s graceful, most of the time, and quite Dalish.”
She grins, teeth a sharp white against the tattoos on her face. “Like me.”
He nods, having embarrassed himself into silence. Something about this place is making him strange. Thoughtless, or too relaxed.
Her smile softens, and suddenly she seems serious once again. “Ma serannas,Cullen. That was a kind answer.”
He looks at her, sitting calmly next to him, and the incongruity of it strikes him. “Shouldn’t you be more cautious? As you said, I’m a human on your lands. You seem overly calm about this.”
That gentle smile remains, a hint of wryness in it. “I know this is my dream. A demon would be more subtle. You might be a spirit, but spirits tend to be kind or disinterested rather than harmful. So you have to be something I’ve dreamt up.” She looks away from him. “Now why would I dream up a shem? And why would he know me?”
It takes him too long to understand. “This is the Fade.”
With that, he knows. He remembers a frightened Ellana in his dream, his younger self… The positions have been reversed. She could wake him from the dream and make him understand, so surely…
“Inquisitor?” he tries. “I’m… We work together. In the Inquisition.”
Something sad settles behind her eyes. In the moment between him blinking and him opening his eyes, she is the Inquisitor again: twenty-seven, with more lines around her eyes than just her vallaslin, her hair tamed.
He almost misses the wild girl of before. Lavellan is quiet, often rather serious. Many of her companions are fond of her, but she speaks little, making herself difficult to get to know. Or at least, he’s found that to be the case. Perhaps he’s doing something wrong.
“Commander.” Her smile is gone now. “I take it I’m not the only one wandering into people’s dreams?”
He looks around him. “It would appear not.” He fixes his eyes on the ground, barely able to look at her when he thinks of their conversation in the war room. “My behaviour before – it was…”
“Cullen.”
“It was unfair.” He presses on, knowing that if he doesn’t say it now he may never do. He’s left so many things unsaid or half-finished in his life, and he won’t do it any longer. Not now. “If this is affecting us both, then there must be some outside force…”
When he returns his gaze to her, she’s shaking her head. “I’ve read up on… this. Fade connections. It can be spirits or demons, but sometimes it just… happens to people. It’s rare, but it’s been known.” She falls silent, and for several moments the only sounds are of the wind in the trees and the stream. She closes her eyes slowly, as if savouring the wind, the taste of this place. The leaf-shadows dance on her face, and he finds himself watching her for longer than may be strictly appropriate. It is, he admits, quite a lovely picture. “I’ve missed it here,” she says eventually.
“Did you grow up here?” he asks.
Her eyes open, and she watches him levelly. “We moved around. Clans have to. This was one of my favourite places we camped, though.” With a soft exhale, she adds, “I’m sorry about… me.”
It’s his turn to shake his head. “It was refreshing, actually,” he admits, unable to help a slight laugh. “The troops rarely call me ‘shem’. And you seemed to smile more.”
She looks at him in surprise. Those thick waves of hair settle over her face again, and he has the feeling that she’s hiding behind them. “Oh. Don’t I smile now?” Her voice is quiet, tentative and without anger.
“Not that I meant - !” He rubs his forehead, wincing at his own ineptitude. “I only meant to say… you seem different, now. In the Inquisition.”
“Sadder?” She’s still watching him carefully. She’s still hiding behind her hair, and those forest-green eyes are watching him carefully.
“Not necessarily. It must be difficult, being who you are.”
“I didn’t ask for the Mark.” She rests her chin on her hand, staring glumly at the ground. “And people keep putting me in charge of things. There’s an army looking at me, and if I falter, if I’m not strong enough…”
He lets out a small, harsh laugh with little humour in it, staring at his knees.
She stares at him, understanding. “Oh.”
He smiles at her. “It does get easier. But I admit, it is a burden at times. I sometimes wonder if I’m made of metal, for the armour’s all they seem to see.” Another laugh, but the weight of the confession is still apparent. He has never said it aloud before, though the fear has always lived in the back of his head, hastily denied.
“There are days when I figure I’ll be the Mark forever.” She sighs. “That’s all I am to them, to you…”
“That isn’t true,” he protests.
A rueful smile. “Thanks for trying.”
“No, I mean that. You’ve never just been the Mark, to any of us. We knew this would be hard on you, but there were reasons we named you Inquisitor. We needed someone who would be a strong leader and who could unite the Inquisition.”
With a small, startled laugh, she asks, “And that was me?”
“Yes.”
He realizes far too late that he’s leaning forward, looking directly into her eyes, trying to emphasize his words. She gazes back at him, those wide eyes on his, but it isn’t fear he sees in them. It is something else entirely, and he can’t quite place what…
He wakes to the beginnings of daylight. There is a straw mattress beneath him, not lush forest ground, and Lavellan is still far away, in the Hissing Wastes. He frowns, staring for too long at the tree growing through his roof.
As he trains troops, as he sends reports to Leliana, and as Rylen asks him why he’s so distracted, he is thinking of forests.