In the heart of the Therinfal Redoubt, as the sun began its slow descent on the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the ancient fortress, Miriam found herself nestled in one of its chambers.
The dwindling light filtered through narrow slits in the thick stone walls, painting intricate patterns of shadow and light across the floor. The air was imbued with a serene calmness as the sounds of the day slowly gave way to the gentle symphony of the evening. The mage's appearance was somewhat disheveled, her hair falling untamed around her long, thin face. She was deep in thought, her pale eyes fixed on the marked palm of her hand as she held it out in front of her in frustration.
Whenever she harnessed the full extent of her mark's power, she felt utterly drained afterward. Being the chosen one, destined to bear the mark of the Maker’s Bride, should have meant that she could effortlessly command its might. Yet that was not the case, and she couldn't help but wonder why she struggled so much.
Shaking her head, the mage attempted to push aside these thoughts. If she had been chosen, there must have been a profound reason behind it. She needed to trust in the Maker's wisdom and have faith in herself. She was where she was meant to be, and her role in this grand tapestry of events was crucial. She had visions, and Andraste herself descended from the side of the Maker to save her in the Fade. It was a mantra she repeated to herself like a protective spell, hoping it would shield her from the creeping tendrils of doubt, but beneath the surface, they remained, lingering in quiet moments like this, when the world was still. The weight of responsibility bore down on her shoulders, and she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she might not measure up to the expectations placed on her.
She glances at Lysette, her unwavering resolve a source of both comfort and turmoil. She, too, believed in her, but what if that belief was misplaced? What if her magic failed when they needed it most?
With a heavy sigh, Miriam let her hand rest on the bed. Solas, who had arrived at the fortress the day before, had managed to stabilize the mark again, and she could feel her strength slowly returning. The mage turned her head and glanced at the weathered calendar hanging on the wall. It had been ten days since their arrival at Therinfal Redoubt, but the harrowing encounter with the Envy demon who had tried to possess her was still fresh in her mind. Miriam shuddered at the thought, realizing how close she had come to succumbing to its malevolent influence. If not for the power bestowed upon her by the Bride, she would have become the unwilling leader of the Red Templar army, marching against Orlais.
Documents discovered by Commander Cullen in Samson's chambers had unveiled a shocking truth: the entire upheaval within the Templar Order had been orchestrated by someone known as the Elder One. Both the Envy demon and Knight-Commander Samson had been mere pawns in this sinister scheme, doing the bidding of this mysterious puppet master.
The plan executed by the Elder One was deviously simple yet highly effective. Envy assumed the identity of Lord Seeker Lucius, while the real Seeker was killed and his body disposed of. Under this false guise, Envy proclaimed the Order's independence and lured his followers to the secluded fortress, where Knight-Commander Samson fed them red lyrium, promising liberation from the Chantry. The corrupting influence of the red lyrium made the Knights susceptible to the demon's control, turning them into puppets of his dark design.
The final stage of the sinister plot involved the demon possessing Miriam and attempting to impersonate her to perfection. Once successful, the combined forces of the Inquisition and the Red Templars were to unleash their might upon Orlais. To exacerbate the situation, there were ominous indications that the next step in the plan involved the assassination of Empress Celene. With Orlais torn apart by civil strife and lacking a strong leader, the fake Herald and her army would have conquered the nation in a matter of weeks.
Miriam held onto her amulet, feeling profound gratitude to the Maker that the Elder One's plan did not unfold as intended. The Inquisition thwarted the demon and saved the Templars from their dark fate. Although the Order suffered heavy losses in the process, there were enough remaining Knights to aid in sealing the Breach.
With a serene expression, the mage shut her eyes. Once she accomplished this feat, there would be no room for doubt or disbelief regarding her role as the Herald of Andraste. The need for any pretense or deceptive games with Lucia would vanish into thin air, for her influence would surpass even that of the esteemed Mother. At long last, she could exact the vengeance she sought, not only for herself but also for the retired Templars who had suffered under the wretched woman all these years.
Whenever her thoughts turned to the Templars, they inevitably drifted to the figure of the Commander. Ever since the dreadful encounter with the Envy demon and the vision she had experienced during that perilous ordeal, a longing had taken root in her heart—a desire for the brave boy who had come to her rescue at Redcliffe to be none other than Cullen. The thought seemed audacious, almost foolish, but against all odds, she clung to the hope, nurturing it in the secret recesses of her soul. Now that Miriam's mind could vividly recall the boy's face, she couldn't help but notice that the golden hair that crowned his head like a radiant halo and the eyes of honeyed amber bore a striking resemblance to those of the Commander. Even beyond the shared physical attributes, there was a thread that connected him to Cullen’s past. It was more than mere happenstance, she thought, that the song she had learned from her dear friend came from Honnleath, the same village from which Cullen hailed.
The tempest of emotions inside her surged, and she opened her eyes wide, overtaken by a sudden boldness. Why should she not dare to ask him? What harm could it bring to simply seek the answer from the source itself?
The prospect of finding out the truth, even if it meant facing disappointment, felt more appealing than dwelling in uncertainty. With newfound vigor, she rose from her bed, ready to act on that impulse.
With haste, Miriam donned her robes, striving to bring order to her disheveled appearance by running her hands through her tousled hair. Amid her efforts, a sudden question caused her to turn around. "Are we heading somewhere? Lysette's gaze bore down upon her, and an eyebrow arched as she ceased the rhythmic motion of polishing her sword and rose gracefully from her seat.
The mage exhaled, her hand instinctively seeking solace against her pounding heart as she remained silent, trying to come up with an excuse to see the Commander alone.
Lysette's countenance expressed genuine concern as she posed her next query, her tone tinged with worry. "Is something wrong? Does the mark hurt you once more? Should I call for Solas?"
"No, there is no need to worry," Miriam reassured her loyal comrade, her hands making calming gestures in the air. "It's not the mark that troubles me. I simply wish to speak with the Commander.” A flush of embarrassment swept over her cheeks as she confessed, "It's a personal matter, that's all.” She quickly reminded herself that there was nothing improper in her desire to speak with Cullen privately. "His quarters lie down this very corridor, not far from ours. There is no need for you to accompany me."
"I see," Lysette replied, regarding her with an enigmatic gaze. "You are a woman of virtue, graced with your own charms. Never forget that."
A mixture of gratitude and bewilderment washed over the enchanter as she looked back at the Templar, her cheeks now aflame like a summer sunset. "Thank you for your kind words," she replied sheepishly. "I will try to remember them."
"Very well," Lysette declared, acknowledging her friend's intention to depart. "I shall await your return here, polishing my armor for tomorrow's assembly with the Templars."
Miriam offered a nod of acknowledgment. The upcoming assembly held great significance, as she would finally address the remaining Knights of the Templar Order, beseeching their aid in confronting the Breach. With a gentle pass of her hand over her robes, she made a mental note to present herself with an added touch of elegance for the important occasion. "Fear not, I shall be back soon," she assured Lysette, and with that, she gracefully slipped out of her chamber.
In a hastened frenzy, she traversed the distance that separated her quarters from Cullen's chambers, as if her very determination might wane before she could reach her destination. Her breath came in hurried bursts, her heart thudding with trepidation as she stood before the door, her hand poised, ready to knock. Much to her surprise, the door stood slightly open, allowing a gentle gust of wind to drift out, carrying an unpleasant whiff of something sour. Her brows furrowed in concern as she hesitated. Summoning her courage, she called out through the partially open door, "Commander, may I come in?" Silence hung in the air, briefly punctuated by a faint sound—a stifled moan of pain, followed by shuffling noises. Her heart clenched with worry, for it was evident that something was amiss. Lysette had mentioned that the Commander sustained an injury during the battle with the Envy demon. What if his wound had flared up? Although she knew Cullen to be a man of great privacy who might not appreciate an uninvited intrusion, the urgency of the situation left her no choice. "Is everything alright?" she tried once more, her voice infused with genuine concern, but once again, her inquiry was met with only feeble responses—more moans, more shuffling.
Her apprehension outweighed her sense of propriety, she decided she could not simply stand by and let whatever ailment afflicted the Commander go unchecked. Slowly, she pushed open the door, her voice announcing her entry, "I’m coming in."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
As Miriam cautiously entered the room, her heart sank at the sight before her. The chamber was dimly illuminated and enveloped in a musty scent that weighed heavily in the air. The furniture lay in disarray, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. In the corner, near the slits in the wall, Cullen crouched on the floor, his head slumped. His armor, usually immaculately arranged, now clung to his form in a disheveled manner with loose straps and ill-fitted pieces. Noticing her presence, he slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. "Lady Miriam, I... I didn't anticipate your presence here, he mumbled, looking like a wounded lion reluctantly baring its wounds to an unexpected witness. With a feeble attempt to rise, he faltered, unable to muster the strength to stand. The sight tugged at the enchanter’s heartstrings, her healer's instinct urging her to call upon a curative spell to aid him, but a lingering memory reminded her of his aversion to magic.
She stepped forward, eager to maintain the balance between respecting his boundaries and offering the aid he needed. "Commander," she spoke gently, kneeling beside him, "if your injury has taken a turn for the worse, I can mend it with a healing spell. She awaited his response, fully aware that he might resist, but she hoped that in this vulnerable state, he would allow her to extend a helping hand.
"No need, Herald," he muttered faintly, his voice barely audible. A weary half-smile tugged at the corner of his lips in a feeble attempt to alleviate the concern that lingered in her gaze. "My wound is mending as it should, but this discomfort..." his voice wavered for a moment before he continued, "stems from a different source. A subtle shift coursed through him, and though weariness dimmed his eyes, a faint gleam of resolve managed to pierce through. "Please, set your worries aside, all I require is a moment of rest."
"Then allow me to assist you in reaching your bed," she pleaded, her gaze filled with genuine compassion as it remained fixed upon him. Cullen's expression betrayed his struggle, seemingly torn between his need for help and his discomfort at the physical contact. Reluctantly, he nodded, granting her permission with a subdued acknowledgment. Miriam outstretched her hands and assisted him in rising to his feet. Gently, she nestled herself beneath his uninjured arm, her lithe frame providing a steady anchor for Cullen to lean upon. The man exuded a nauseating blend of vomit and sweat, his unyielding armor pressing painfully against her frame as they moved towards his bed, taking each step with a slow and measured pace. Cullen's reluctance to receive aid was evident in the tension in his muscles, but he allowed her guidance, perhaps recognizing that he couldn't manage on his own in his current state. Finally, they reached the bedside, and Miriam carefully lowered the man onto the mattress. He seemed to let out a small sigh of relief as the strain on his body lessened.
"Thank you," he uttered, a hint of strength seeping into his voice while he passed a hand over his face. "I've been feeling unwell since earlier today, and then it just hit me all at once."
A warmth began to radiate from Miriam’s chest. Cullen seldom revealed his vulnerabilities, so his openness about his struggles was a testament to the growing trust he was placing in her. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she inquired, her gaze steady as she observed him closely. "I can procure a healing potion or a vial of lyrium."
Noticing the faint wince that crossed his features at the mention of the blue liquid, her suspicion that withdrawal symptoms were at play here solidified in her mind. She couldn't fathom why such an issue persisted, surely the Templars could provide an adequate amount of lyrium to the Commander of the organization that had rescued them from the Envy demon. There had to be something more to this situation, and she felt an earnest desire to uncover the truth.
Cullen denied her offer with a shake of his head, and then, exhaling softly, he continued, "My initial plan was to broach this subject once the Breach had been sealed. However, given the rather humiliating spectacle you've just witnessed, I might as well confide in you now." She held her silence, allowing him to continue. "I... I've made a decision," he admitted, his voice tinged with both relief and trepidation. "I have forsaken the consumption of lyrium."
The mage's eyes widened in terror. In all her years within the embrace of the Circle's walls, she had never bore witness to a Templar who dared to sever the chains of lyrium and yet retain his sanity. Aghast, she contemplated that, in the most optimistic scenario, this endeavor would cost him his mind, but most likely it would claim his life.
Cullen's gaze faltered briefly before he continued, his tone measured but raw with emotion. "I need to break free from its hold and find a way to stand on my own. I won't pretend it's been easy. The withdrawal has been challenging...." Once more, a pause lingered in the air, and his fingers coiled tightly around the bed's edge as if seeking an anchor to steady himself amidst the weighty confession unfurling from his lips. "But I'm committed to seeing it through, for the sake of a future free from the lyrium's grip."
"The symptoms only worsen with time," she mumbled, still taken aback by the weight of his revelation.
"I know," he responded, his voice carrying an eerie sense of resignation.
"Maker, it could kill you!" Panic surged within Miriam, causing her to clutch the fabric of her robe tightly in her fists.
"I know," he repeated, unyielding to the urgency of her concern.
"Then why?! For what reason would you willingly subject yourself to such torment?" she leaned forward, her voice trembling with emotion.
"In all honesty, it is impossible for me to give you a straightforward answer to this question. And while I understand your apprehensions, know that I am not alone in this endeavor. Lady Cassandra and Liliana both lend me their aid." He turned his gaze towards Miriam, a glimmer of expectation in his expression. "And I was hoping that you too would be able to offer me your support".
The enchanter’s response was thoughtful, her tone carrying a mix of resolve and caution. "I would be more than willing to help in any way I can. I do have some experience in the treatment of withdrawal symptoms from my time in the Ostwick Circle." She paused, her gaze distant for a moment before refocusing. "But I must caution you. Available remedies can only relieve certain symptoms, such as headaches and lethargy. Unfortunately, they don't alleviate nightmares, memory loss, or hallucinations…" The mage trailed off as she touched upon the darker aspects of the challenge at hand. As she continued, her words became more measured, "I will also have to cast upon you, for potions alone have their limitations." Her fingers remained tangled in the fabric of her robes, the tightness of her grip turning her knuckles to white peaks, "I do not intend to discourage you from your pursuit, for I sense its profound significance to you. I only..." The mage's voice trailed off, her gaze dropping to the floor as she struggled to find the right words.
"Lady Miriam, please look at me," Cullen said with a gentle insistence that willed her eyes to rise and meet his own. "I shall endure."
***
Therinfal Redoubt stood strong against the backdrop of a stormy sky. Dark clouds churned overhead, their thunderous roars echoing through the air, and streaks of lightning painted jagged paths across the horizon. Rain poured in torrents, drenching the cobbled courtyard where the gathered Templars waited, their armor gleaming with rivulets of water.
Amidst the tempest, Miriam emerged, her robes billowing in the wind, her presence a beacon of defiance against the raging elements. Following in her wake were the figures of her companions. Cassandra, a paragon of strength, exuded a quiet authority that matched her status in the Order. Lysette, watchful and poised as ever, her eyes scanning the crowd for any potential danger. And of course, Commander Cullen, drained by battles both outward and within, somehow managing to look confident and strong for the occasion. Beside them walked the remaining soldiers of the Inquisition, their ranks diminished but their spirits high.
Miriam drew in a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon her shoulders. In the throes of the battle with the Envy demon, she had stumbled, her strength wavering after she unleashed the power of her mark. Instead of rising as the Herald of Andraste, she had found herself a momentary burden, a stark contrast to the savior she was meant to be. It was here, on this makeshift stage, that she sought to reclaim her role in the unfolding events.
She ascended the platform, her steps resolute, and raised her arms to silence the murmurs that had spread through the ranks.
"Templars of the Order," she began, her voice carrying over the howling wind. "The Breach that looms above us is a tear in the Veil, a wound that will consume all we hold dear." She paused, her eyes scanning the faces before her, meeting the gaze of each individual with a mixture of strength and compassion. "You have been betrayed by your leaders, led astray from your purpose, yet you have resisted their corruption and remained steadfast in your convictions." She declared, her voice a balm for the Knights wounds, known and hidden beneath armor and skin. Whispers of agreement rippled through the crowd; swords were held a bit higher, and spirits lifted. Lysette couldn't contain her excitement. Her face lit up with happiness, and she exchanged enthusiastic glances with her comrades, a spark of hope igniting in her eyes. Cullen stood on the edge of the platform, his presence offering Miriam silent reassurance. His eyes locked onto the mage’s, a subtle nod of approval showing her she was on the right path.
The rain splattered against the enchanter’s robes, the gusts of wind tugging at her hair, but she stood firm, her gaze returning to the Knights. "The once-gleaming reputation of the Order now lies shattered," she continued her tone grave. A flash of lightning illuminated Miriam’s silhouette, casting her in stark contrast against the tempest. "Yet at this moment, as the Herald of Andraste, I extend to you a chance to restore it. Stand with the Inquisition, for the Maker has chosen us to face this darkness, to mend the rift that threatens to devour our world!"
A heavy pause followed as the reverberations of her words echoed amidst the rain-soaked courtyard, each syllable a bridge between past regrets and future possibilities.
And then, as if commanded by the Maker, a collective motion stirred within the ranks. The Templars threw their arms to the heavens, their gauntleted fists grasping the swords pointing towards the tumultuous sky. The very storm seemed to respond, roaring its approval with booming thunder that echoed like a war cry. Rain cascaded from the clouds in unison with their fervor, as if Andraste herself wept in relief.
In a crescendo of fervent devotion, voices that had once murmured doubts and hesitations converged into a resounding chorus. "Andraste wills it!" they cried through the torrential symphony. The tempest raged on, its elements no longer adversaries but comrades in this moment of unity. Miriam's eyes, filled with the fire of her conviction, swept across the assembled Knights. Her gaze paused, her heart skipping a beat as it landed on Solas. The elven mage stood at a distance, his expression a stark contrast to the passionate atmosphere of the courtyard. His eyes were cold, his features etched with disapproval as if he were an observer who found no solace in the alliance that was forming.
For a moment, her fervor faltered, a pang of guilt nagging at her conscience. She was well aware of Solas' lack of affinity for the Templar Order and the teachings of Andraste. His beliefs were rooted in a misguided understanding of the world after all. Still, the weight of the moment and the sea of eager faces demanded her undivided attention.
With a determined exhale, she pushed her thoughts about the mage to the background. Her voice melded with the chorus around her, each cry punctuated by the roar of wind and rain, the brilliance of lightning and the resonance of thunder. All that mattered at this moment was that the Templars before her were standing united, their souls alight with the flame of renewed purpose, and their resolve forged anew.