The air in the War Room was heavy with anticipation, the tension palpable as the flickering candlelight cast long, wavering shadows on the stone walls. Cullen, together with the rest of the Inquisition’s council, stood in a semicircle around the war table. Everyone's faces reflected a mix of concern and curiosity, their eyes fixed intently on Leliana. The Spymaster had summoned them all in the middle of the night, an unusual move that signaled the gravity of the news she bore.
The Left Hand, her posture rigid and expression grave, stepped forward and placed a wooden figure representing the enemy forces onto the map of Thedas spread out on the table. "I have at last deciphered the documents we discovered in the red lyrium mines. Samson, along with the main body of the Red Templar army, has entrenched himself in the ruins of the Shrine of Dumat, deep in the desolate reaches of northern Orlais." The council members exchanged uneasy glances, the name of the ancient Tevinter god evoking memories of dark times and forgotten evils.
“Has the traitor now become a heretic as well?” Miriam’s voice was as cold as the Spymaster's glare. With deliberate slowness, she removed her mask, slipping it into the pocket of her robes, her crimson eyes reflecting a profound and chilling disdain.
Leliana shook her head. "He is not using it as a place of worship. He is..." She paused, her voice tinged with incredulity. "I can hardly believe it myself, but my agents report that he is gathering the Tranquil there, restoring their connection to the Fade and then corrupting them with red lyrium."
"Andraste preserve us," the mage uttered under her breath as Josephine, who had been diligently taking notes, nearly dropped her quill, her usually composed demeanor shattered by shock.
"So, he achieved his goal... but how?" Cullen's voice rang out, tinged with disbelief. "The Rite of Tranquility is irreversible, a permanent sentence. Not even the Magisters of the Imperium possess the power to undo it." Looking for answers, he addressed Cassandra, "Do you have any insight?"
The Right Hand clenched her fists so hard that the leather of her gloves squeaked. "When I joined the Seekers of Truth, I was told that our Order was entrusted with the solemn duty of guarding the secrets of the Rite, only the highest among us being privy to this knowledge." Her eyes moved from one face to another. "Given that Lord Seeker Lucius was slain by the Envy demon, who served the Elder One just as Samson does, we must assume this is how the way to reverse it fell into the enemy's hands."
"We have to intervene as soon as possible," Miriam uttered, her voice sharp with urgency. "Mages who have been subjected to the Rite are bound for a reason. They are either extremely dangerous or incapable of withstanding the temptations of demons."
Cullen furrowed his brow, his mind flickering to Kirkwall’s Tranquil, many branded for the slightest misdemeanor. The ideal of the Rite often clashed with the harsh reality of the City of Chains. He wanted to voice his opinion and argue her statement, but he knew now was not the time to be sidetracked by such discussions. Instead, he turned to the Spymaster, “Do you know why he is doing this?”
Leliana paused, her expression dark and contemplative. “We deprived Corypheus of his mage army at Haven, so this must be his desperate attempt to build a new one. Samson is merely a pawn. The Elder One exploits his hatred for the Chantry and his fervent desire to free both Templars and mages from its grip, twisting these sentiments to his ends.” Cullen's mouth contorted with a grimace. Samson's concept of liberation was a grotesque parody of freedom. For the Templars, it represented a cruel transition from the frigid chains of their existing bondage to the searing, blistering shackles of red lyrium. And for the mages, it entailed substituting the numbness of Tranquility with the torment of madness.
“The corrupted Knight is no better than an abomination or a maleficar.” Miriam sneered, her eyes flashing with an almost otherworldly intensity as her emerald veins began to faintly glow. “The flames of Andraste are too merciful for Samson, he belongs on the gallows.” Cullen shifted uncomfortably, a deep sense of unease settling over him. He had seen it before—the way her righteous fury would build and crest in a wave of zeal that inevitably crashed down with destructive force, leading her to use the mark with disregard for the consequences.
Leliana crossed her arms, her expression grave. "I'm afraid that's another matter we need to address. Samson has been given a new armor, forged from red lyrium, and while I cannot confirm it, rumors are circulating that it is indestructible. It could happen that, neither the flames nor the gallows will avail us."
"I wouldn’t worry too much about it," the mage interjected with fervent enthusiasm. "If the whispers hold true, I'll boil him from the inside, just like the Behemoth in the red lyrium mine."
Cullen's jaw clenched in concern. "I would rather explore other options first. Calling upon the mark in this way would surely exacerbate the already worrying changes in your body or could even prove fatal."
"What options?" Miriam asked, her gaze expectant yet tinged with frustration.
"We shall first confirm the rumors, and should his armor indeed prove indestructible, we will endeavor to unveil its vulnerability before facing him," he proposed, his tone steadfast.
The Spymaster interjected into their conversation, her voice carrying the weight of calculated pragmatism. “I must admit, I support the Inquisitor's boldness. Every passing day sees more Tranquil brought to the shrine. If we dedicate months to confirming the situation and then even more time to devising strategies against Samson's impervious armor, we will lose a multitude of soldiers in the ensuing battle. Such losses could imperil our chances of victory against the Elder One and his dragon. It would be much more beneficial to take the risk and resort to the use of the mark if necessary. The Breach has been closed for good, so even in the worst-case scenario, the loss of the Inquisitor, though significant, would not be catastrophic," she stated matter-of-factly. Then, she glanced at Miriam and added, "No offense."
The mage nodded solemnly. "None taken. As the Herald of Andraste, it is my duty to safeguard as many faithful lives as possible. I will not shrink from any dangers that may come my way because of it." The red-haired woman smirked but remained silent, her eyes betraying a hint of approval.
Cullen's brows furrowed deeply, his concern for Miriam's safety conflicting with his duty as Commander. As a man, he adamantly opposed even the possibility of endangering her life. Yet, he couldn't ignore the truth in Leliana's words. The uncertainty surrounding the armor and the threat of Samson building a new army for the Elder One couldn't be overlooked. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope pierced the gloom of his mind. "What about Fenris?" he began eagerly. “His lyrium markings grant him the uncanny ability to pass through nearly any barrier. True, he struggled with the one Meredith created when we confronted her at the Gallows, but it remains a possibility worth exploring before the Inquisitor resorts to her powers."
"Very much so." Cassandra nodded, her agreement firm.
Josephine, too, seemed to grasp the merit of the idea. "Indeed. Besides, Fenris would benefit from the diversion and a chance to release some of his pent-up emotions. Since Hawke's untimely demise, he has become particularly brooding, often untoward towards our noble guests. Naturally, he will need to be accompanied by Brother Sebastian, the two have become inseparable in their shared grief."
"I have no objection to that course of action," Leliana uttered softly, her voice carrying the weight of deliberation, as she placed markers representing the elf and the Brother onto the map. A wave of relief, akin to a sudden thaw after a harsh winter, washed over Cullen. The chances of Miriam needing to wield her powers had just dwindled. "Very well, then," the Spymaster continued. "I propose that we proceed with the swift dismantling of Samson's plans, with Miriam as our option B in case his armor proves indestructible and presents a challenge for Fenris. Let us vote." Cullen watched as every member of the council raised their hand, and then reluctantly lifted his own. “Perfect. With everyone in favor, the matter is settled.” With a graceful motion, she retrieved a set of scrolls from a nearby shelf and extended them towards the Commander. "These documents contain maps of the surrounding area and the layout of the shrine. It is up to you to formulate our military approach."
Accepting the scrolls, he inwardly invoked the blessings of the Maker, fervently hoping that the elf's powers would prove adequate if they were needed.
As the days flew by and preparations for the impending mission intensified, Cullen meticulously studied the documents provided by the Spymaster. In scrutinizing the layout of the shrine, he discerned its imperfections as a defensive stronghold but also noted its strategic positioning, rendering any approach by the enemy visible from afar. Consultation with Maddox also revealed that the shrine had an intricate network of secret passageways, which he was fortunately able to locate, providing Samson with a means of escape should the need arise.
Contemplating these factors, it became evident that the most prudent course of action would involve deploying a small, agile group comprised of Cassandra, Miriam, Fenris, Brother Sebastian, and a dozen of the Inquisition's soldiers to infiltrate the shrine through one of the concealed passages and breach the inner sanctum where Samson had entrenched himself. Their objective would be to confront him directly, diverting his attention from commanding his forces.
Meanwhile, the Inquisition’s army, Templar forces, and Orlesian reinforcements led by Cullen, would surround the shrine. Their task would be to engage the Red Templars and corrupted mages in an effort to neutralize their threat while they are devoid of their leader.
With the plan finalized and every detail scrutinized, Josephine embarked on a diplomatic odyssey to secure the Emperor's blessing for the audacious military operation on his sovereign soil. After deft negotiation and skillful persuasion, His Majesty was convinced to offer the assistance of his seasoned soldiers but not to participate personally. Grateful to the Ambassador, Cullen sighed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't admit it to himself, but the thought of seeing Gaspard and Miriam together again gnawed at him uneasily. It wasn't mere jealousy that troubled him, but rather a deep-seated apprehension, as if he expected the wretched man to reveal some hidden card that might dash his hopes of uniting with his betrothed.
A palpable buzz of anticipation filled the air as word spread throughout Skyhold that the date for the mission had been set. The fortress, usually a scene of serene activity, now resembled a beehive of organized chaos, with soldiers drilling, blacksmiths hammering, and quartermasters rushing to and fro.
Each hour seemed to slip away like grains of sand in an hourglass, until, lying in bed, the Commander reflected that the day of departure was at hand. Tomorrow, they would plunge into the heart of northern Orlais.
The first rays of sunlight filtered through the hole in the roof, casting an ethereal glow on Cullen's face, prompting him to frown as he slowly emerged from the depths of sleep. The warmth of the light contrasted sharply with the chill of the early morning air, drawing him reluctantly from the embrace of slumber. He opened his eyes, watching as motes danced in the golden beam, creating a serene, almost magical atmosphere within the room. In the tranquil hush preceding the morning bells, he luxuriated in the rare opportunity of lingering beneath the covers. A precious moment of reprieve before the demands of the day encroached upon his sanctuary.
Miriam's body was pressed against his right side, her rhythmic breathing a soothing counterpoint to the silence. Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, her brown hair fanning out like a silken veil, its strands whispering against his skin with each subtle movement. Her hand lay gently across his chest, her fingers slightly curled as though she had grasped onto his shirt while drifting into the Fade. He should have been focusing on the mission, thinking about last-minute preparations, but instead, memories of the night when the mage kissed him overwhelmed his thoughts. The bashful curve of Miriam's smile lingered vividly, her eager lips leaving tender imprints. And oh, the caress of her fingers upon his countenance, each touch igniting a fire within him that threatened to consume all reason... With every recollection, he felt the warmth of desire suffuse his body. In all previous instances when they shared a bed, he had successfully suppressed any hint of longing, burying such yearnings in the depths of his consciousness. However, since Miriam’s desire for intimacy surfaced, the defenses he had painstakingly constructed were becoming increasingly fragile. Today, of all days, they felt especially precarious, teetering on the brink of collapse beneath the weight of his suppressed emotions.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
He placed his left hand over hers, tracing the uneven skin of the burns with his fingertips for a moment before venturing further. His touch skimmed over the fabric of her shift with a feather-light caress until he reached her shoulder. Then, with a practiced motion, his hand traveled to her back, the soft and thin linen of her garment allowing his fingers to feel the fragile structure of her body.
This was the point at which he would always stop, a self-imposed boundary he had never dared to cross. But as he gazed into her serene face, contemplating how long they would be in the field without a chance for a proper moment alone, the temptation to explore more of her form proved too tempting to resist. Hesitantly, he let his palm slide down her back. As he reached her waist, the tension inside him rose to an unbearable pitch. He felt hot and clammy, like a string ready to snap, the balance between restraint and desire tipping dangerously towards the latter. Yet he found himself too caught up in the moment to care.
His hand continued to move, trembling slightly, until it came to rest against the modest flesh of Miriam's bottom. He paused, his breath catching in his throat, and then squeezed gently, feeling the thrill of excitement shoot through him. The act felt both ill-timed and profoundly right, as if crossing that line had been an inevitability he had resisted for too long. "Miriam," he whispered without even realizing it, savoring the feel of her.
Suddenly, the mage startled awake, her hand reflexively moving to smack Cullen on the chin, the sharp impact jolting him. "Ouch!" he exclaimed, more surprised than hurt. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" he began, stumbling over his words, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. He realized his hand was still on her backside but couldn't bring himself to move it, paralyzed by the mortification of being caught red-handed.
"Andraste’s ashes! I'm the one who's sorry. I'm not used to sharing a bed with som..." Miriam blinked away the remnants of sleep, her expression changing from remorse to confusion. With a pout, she shifted her body, “What am I sleeping on?” Reaching behind her, their fingers met, "Is that… oh!" A pink hue filled her pale cheeks as a conflicted smile contorted about her face.
In a mere instant, a whirlwind of thoughts besieged Cullen’s mind, offering divergent paths of action. Should he confess his intentions outright, risking fueling her perception of his demands? Or should he fabricate an excuse, allowing their relationship to unfold at a pace more aligned with her comfort? The choice seemed quite obvious, so wrestling with a pang of guilt, he resolved to opt for deceit. "I, um... when you awoke startled, I thought you were going to pitch yourself off the bed," he faltered, the lie tumbling awkwardly from his lips. "It was the first thing I... grabbed."
“Oh, yes, I see… that makes perfect sense.” Their eyes held each other curiously, trying to determine how they were going to untangle themselves. “So… I think the danger has passed,” the mage’s voice trailed off in a shy whisper.
“Right, of course,” yet as he went to move his hand, she squeezed it tighter, preventing him from removing it from her posterior.
“Wait.”
Cullen watched as the pulse in her neck picked up, and her lips pouted out to one side. Her eyes, however, stubbornly avoided his. "Miriam?"
Slowly, she lulled upward, her crimson gaze finally meeting his. Her hand still held his in place as she stretched up to press a chaste kiss on his lips. Confused and trying to process what was happening, he found himself wishing that one of them had more experience in these matters. Nevertheless, summoning his courage, he decided to take a chance. Gently lifting Miriam’s bottom to pull her closer, he went to reciprocate her kiss, but his lame arm betrayed him, spasming unexpectedly and jerking upwards. He crushed the petite mage against him, his hand gripping the curve of her buttocks with unintended force. She gasped, their teeth clashing painfully, and her hand shot out to steady herself on his shirt, her fingers clutching the fabric tightly as she tried to regain her balance. When the initial shock ebbed away, however, they found themselves lingering in the embrace, gradually surrendering to the moment. Their kiss deepened, each brush of their lips against the other's becoming more pleasurable as they discovered a natural rhythm. The awkwardness faded into the background, replaced by a shared moment of intimacy and connection.
As Miriam parted from him, he noticed her eyes widened, blinking at a fixed point on his chest. "We should... get dressed," she murmured. "I'm sure it would be time for us to depart soon."
At her words, the weight of their responsibilities and the significance of the day surged into his consciousness once again. "Yes, you're right." He moved to roll over, but failed to realize his precarious position on the edge of the bed and ended up tumbling off, landing ungracefully on the floor with a loud thud.
Above him, Miriam peered down, concern quickly melting into amusement as she realized he was unharmed. She glanced back over her shoulder, and a giggle escaped her lips. "Cullen, I wasn't about to fall off the bed earlier, was I?"
He hesitated briefly but gauging from her reaction that his earlier concerns were unwarranted, he offered her a sheepish smile. "No, not really."
The mage's small smile blossomed into a full grin, illuminating her face with warmth and mirth as she laughed heartily. Caught off guard by her genuine expression of joy, Cullen couldn't help but be captivated. It was the first time he had witnessed her laugh from the bottom of her heart. Feeling a surge of emotion, he couldn't resist joining in, his own laughter mingling with hers. At that moment, he reflected that all the instances of embarrassment he had endured earlier had been well worth it.
As the day unfolded, they immersed themselves in the preparations required for the journey. Supplies were checked and rechecked, maps consulted, and equipment meticulously arranged. Only when every aspect was deemed in perfect order did they finally set forth on their mission, the landscape gradually morphing around them as they ventured ever closer to their destination.
The road ahead stretched like an endless ribbon, weaving its way through towering mountains, winding valleys, and sprawling plains. The united forces of the Inquisition and the Order moved in lockstep, their footsteps echoing in a steady rhythm that resonated with purpose. Despite the vast expanse of terrain traversed, the journey remained largely uneventful. His only concern was Miriam's growing restlessness. The closer they got to the shrine, the more fixated she became, her fervent hatred for the place of heretical worship overshadowing all other conversation.
After weeks of travel, they finally reached their designated meeting point with the Emperor's forces, a mere half-day's march from the Shrine of Dumat. With weary limbs and spirits lifted by the prospect of rest, they set about establishing camp amidst the tranquil embrace of the wilderness.
Tents sprang up like mushrooms, their fabric billowing gently in the evening breeze as soldiers worked in harmony to secure their temporary shelter. A fire was kindled at the heart of the encampment, its flickering flames casting a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow upon the faces of weary warriors.
Amidst the cacophony of activity within the camp, Cullen sought a moment of solace, his body and mind crying out for rest. Leaning against the steadfast trunk of an ancient oak tree near his tent, he observed the flames, their erratic movements reflecting the tumultuous currents of his thoughts.
Tomorrow would herald the long-awaited confrontation with the lingering ghosts of his past. With the imminent demise of Samson, the last tie binding him to the haunting memories of Kirkwall would be severed. Though it would not lighten his physical burdens— his mind was already becoming an increasingly unreliable vessel, forcing him to painstakingly document every fleeting memory in a diary lest it slip into oblivion, and his maimed left arm would forever remain useless in battle— there remained the tantalizing promise of emotional emancipation, a chance to free his soul from the weight of some of his past sins.
Lost in reverie, he barely registered Miriam’s approach. She moved with a purpose, a fervor that contrasted starkly with his introspective lethargy. As she leaned against the gnarled old tree beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm. Her right foot started to tap a restless rhythm on the moss-covered roots, each beat a testament to the agitation that seemed to radiate from her very core. "Can you feel the fetid miasma that hangs over this place?" she uttered, her voice barely above a whisper but charged with intensity. "The Maker recoils in disgust as He gazes upon it."
He glanced at her, unable to see her eyes beneath the mask she wore, yet he was certain of the disdain that burned there, searing in its intensity. Standing beside her, he keenly sensed the raw, unfiltered passion that drove her forward. It stirred his apprehension, his reluctance to allow her to confront Samson resurfacing. He turned to the mage, placing a firm hand upon her shoulder. "Miriam, remember our discussions. You will reserve the mark’s powers for dire necessity, only when all other options have been exhausted."
Her response was laden with a blend of resolve and acceptance. "I know what we agreed upon. However, it is ultimately within the Maker's providence to determine our path. I can merely supplicate that His will be done."
Cullen’s brow furrowed, shadows of doubt crossing his face. Before he could voice his concerns, the Chevalier leading Gaspard’s forces strode forward, the gold of his armor catching the flickering firelight. “Good evening, Commander, Inquisitor,” he greeted them with a formal yet warm tone. Then, turning to the mage, he added, “Your Worship, the soldiers of His Majesty seek the blessing from the Sword of the Faithful. Tomorrow we march into a heretical temple, and they need the assurance that His light will protect them from its dark influence.” Watching Miriam’s face brighten at the opportunity, Cullen inwardly cursed. Though absent, Gaspard knew precisely how to manipulate her emotions through his people. Ever since the emerald veins had marred her form, the mage had been shunned, no longer approached for blessings. Of course, she would be delighted by the offer.
“This is wonderful news!” Miriam exclaimed, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “Please, take me to them.” She turned her attention back to Cullen, gently clasping the hand that had been resting on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, Commander. Everything will be as He wills it. I must go now—the faithful are waiting for me.”
He reluctantly withdrew his hand. "Go tend to this, but afterward, I strongly advise you to rest. Tomorrow promises to be a challenging day."
“I shall,” she replied with a smile before addressing the Chevalier. “Lead the way.”
The Orlesian gave Cullen a curt nod, then gestured for Miriam to follow him. “Please, Your Worship.”
Cullen watched them walk away for a moment and let out a sigh before heading off to discuss some of the details of tomorrow's operation with the representatives of the Order. The respite was over; he still had work to do.
In the early hours of the morning, when the sky was still adorned with stars, Cassandra and her team—Miriam, Sebastian, Fenris, and a dozen of the Inquisition's forces—departed from the camp to infiltrate the Shrine of Dumat through one of its secret passages, the entrance concealed deep within the forest. According to his calculations, they would reach the heart of the shrine at the break of dawn.
Meanwhile, Cullen stood at the forefront of a formidable force—a coalition of the Inquisition, the Templar Order, and the Emperor's soldiers. The combined might of these factions was ready to strike, poised for the precise moment when the shadows that still clung to the earth would be pierced by the first sunlight.
As the minutes ticked by, the tension among the troops was palpable. Soldiers exchanged expectant glances, their breaths visible in the cold air. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant cry of a bird. Cullen's eyes remained fixed on the sky. He waited for the moment.
Finally, a subtle ray of light flickered through the dark—if everything went according to plan, Cassandra’s team had reached their position. He raised his sword high, signaling for the combined forces to advance. With a thunderous roar, the army surged forward, their footsteps pounding against the forest floor as they charged toward the Shrine of Dumat.
The advantage of the shrine's position became apparent as the Red Templars and corrupted mages unleashed a barrage of spells and arrows from their vantage points. The air crackled with arcane energy as fireballs erupted and lightning arced through the sky, threatening to decimate the advancing forces.
In the midst of chaos, Cullen's voice rang out above the din, issuing orders with unwavering authority. The Templars under his command employed their abilities, with Spell Purge dispelling the hostile magic of the incoming onslaught while they advanced steadily toward the enemy lines.
The rest of the forces engaged the Red Templars head-on. Their blades flashed in the dim light as they clashed in a brutal melee. The air swiftly turned thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the cacophony of battle drowning out all other noise. Combatants fought tooth and nail for victory, each clash of steel echoing the desperate struggle for supremacy on the battlefield.
While the fighting raged on, Cullen's own desire to join the fray burned within him. Yet, with each pang of longing, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus on his duties as a leader. His arm, which was barely holding the weight of the shield, served as a constant reminder that he could not afford to indulge in the luxury of combat.
Instead, he channeled his energy into coordinating the efforts of his troops, rallying them with words of encouragement and strategic guidance. Suddenly, as he surveyed the battlefield, he noted all the Templars halt in their tracks, their movements frozen in mid-stride for a split second. He knew the significance of this pause—something had caught their attention.
A seasoned Knight with a scarred face, charged with leading the Templars, rushed to Cullen's side. His breath came in ragged gasps, evidence of the intensity of the battle. "Commander," he gasped, his voice laced with urgency, "an overwhelming surge of magical energy just emanated from the shrine. It's unmistakable. It's the Herald of Andraste."
Cullen's heart sank at the news. Miriam... Pushing his emotions aside, he fixed the Templar with an intense gaze. "Order your men to fight harder. We must reach Samson as swiftly as possible. The Inquisitor needs our aid!"