Cullen sat hunched behind his desk, meticulously perusing the report dispatched by the Champion from the Southron Hills. With tempered satisfaction, he noted that the search for the red lyrium mine was yielding promising results. Hawke, determined as ever, pursued a lead that held the potential to unravel the clandestine network of the Elder One. The news brought a measure of relief—the sooner they discovered the mine, the sooner they could undermine the resources of their foes. Yet, beyond the strategic implications, he harbored hope that this quest might uncover a trace of Samson. The mere thought of the man stirred conflicting emotions within him. A traitor and a monster who callously administered red lyrium to his brethren, he was also a casualty of Meredith's merciless tyranny over her own followers. The last image of Samson imprinted on Cullen's mind was that of a broken man, reduced to the state of a beggar. The specter of addiction had proved insurmountable for him, as it had for every Templar before him, as far as his knowledge extended. The thought chilled him to the bone, but he pushed it aside, relying instead on Leliana's ability to recover Chantry's records. He hoped that someone, somewhere, had managed to break free of the lyrium chains, and that they could serve as an example for him to follow.

A hesitant knock echoed through Cullen's office, interrupting his contemplation. The door creaked open, revealing a messenger with an urgent countenance.

"Pardon the intrusion, Commander," the woman began, fidgeting nervously. "But you're expected at the uniform fitting. It's taking place in one of the chambers by the chapel. You were supposed to be there after the morning bells."

Cullen furrowed his brow, perplexed by this unexpected revelation. "Uniform fitting?" he queried, the notion escaping his recollection.

The messenger nodded, anxiety creasing her forehead. "A note was sent to you two days ago, sir. It detailed the arrangements for today."

Cullen rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to jog his memory. He couldn't recall receiving such a note. With a nod of gratitude, he dismissed the messenger, promising to attend promptly.

Once alone, he sifted through the papers scattered on his desk, his search guided by a sense of growing disquiet. A crumpled piece of paper surfaced amidst the documents, and as he unfolded it, he recognized his handwriting. The time and date for the event were encircled, a detail he apparently had seen fit to underscore. Yet the act of marking the note and the idea of what his uniform-fitting matter was all about eluded him entirely.

He sighed, weariness etching lines across his features. Closing his eyes for a fleeting moment, he reassured himself that all would be well. The frequent lapses in his memory were troubling, but he had weathered worse storms. Steeling his resolve, he rose from his seat and made his way to the seamstress.

Cullen entered the chamber, his gaze falling upon Josephine, who stood at the center of the room with an air of regal authority. She seemed engrossed in an impassioned discourse about the significance of the Inquisition council attending the peace talks adorned in special uniforms—a symbolic gesture of unity and solidarity. As her eloquence filled the air, Cullen felt a certain relief; at least now, the purpose behind the uniform fitting became clear.

His arrival, however, cut through Josephine's monologue, drawing her attention. With a court nod, she acknowledged him. "Commander, I'm so glad you could make it. We were just discussing the importance of presenting a united front at the Winter Palace."

Cullen nodded in agreement, glancing past the Antivan woman to find Miriam standing with the seamstress, the mage's expression betraying a hint of displeasure. He greeted her, and she reciprocated with a gentle smile. Then the enchanter shifted her gaze towards the Ambassador, voicing her reservations about the attire." I am not quite sure that this uniform puts me in a favorable light, Josephine, nor am I used to the confinement of such tight garments."

Observing Miriam's petite frame, emphasized by the tailored fit, Cullen couldn't help but study her more closely. As the mage turned at the seamstress's request, a moment unfolded where the shirt shifted slightly, revealing the nape of her neck and a part of her shoulder. His gaze lingered, tracing the contours of her pale skin and the radiant emerald lines that extended lower down her back. He wondered what the rest of her body might look like. The notion flustered him, and he quickly averted his gaze, inwardly chiding himself for such inappropriate contemplations.

The seamstress assured Miram that adjustments could be made, and Cullen joined her, offering his own words of advice, "We should trust Josephine's judgment in these matters, Herald. The Inquisition's image is indeed important, even if we find the affair vexing."

"As you can see, Herald, the Commander, understands the gravity of this matter and places faith in my competence," the Ambassador asserted with a trace of satisfaction in her voice. "I implore you to muster similar confidence."

With a resigned sigh, Miriam reluctantly agreed. "I will endeavor to comply."

As the seamstress adjusted the last details on the mage's uniform, another woman approached Cullen, holding a neatly folded set. "Commander, your uniform is ready. If you would follow me, there's a discreet area where you can change." He nodded in acknowledgment and trailed behind her as she guided him to the zigzagging wooden divider situated in the corner. As he shed his armor, despite his earnest attempts, the vision of the delicate details of the mage’s exposed shoulder and the tender sweep of her neck lingered in his thoughts, refusing to dissipate.

Once the fitting had finally ended, Cullen returned to his office, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. To his surprise, the Spymaster, whose usually cold demeanor now softened with sympathy, awaited him by his desk.

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"Good day, Leliana. What brings you to my office?" he inquired as he approached the woman.

"I felt it was necessary for me to inform you in person," she began, getting straight to the point. "My agents have painstakingly combed the records of the most prominent Chantry archives through Orlais and Ferelden, searching for any reference to a Knight abstaining from lyrium consumption while maintaining their sanity or studies documenting withdrawal symptoms. Sadly, they found nothing."

The news landed like a heavy blow, and Cullen felt as if the ground had shifted beneath him. Amid the tumult of emotions stirring within him, he tried to maintain a stoic composure. "Thank you. I am truly grateful for your efforts in this matter. Forgive me, though, as I would like some time alone to ponder this news."

The woman hesitated as if wrestling with the urge to say more, but ultimately she refrained from it. With a nod, she quietly left, the door closing behind her.

Alone in the silence of his office, Cullen sank into his chair. As he contemplated his future, a laugh bubbled up from within. It began as a hollow, bitter sound that quickly morphed into anguished sobs that wracked his frame. With his eyes blurred by the tears, he saw Thomas appear before him once more, wounded and battered. For the first time, Cullen didn't attempt to avert his gaze or dismiss the phantom. Instead, a surge of anger, almost fury, overcame him. He seized objects from his cluttered desk, hurling them at the apparition. The questions spilled from his lips like a torrent. "Is this your punishment for my sins? Are you happy now?” he demanded, his voice rising in a crescendo of frustration. “Are you!?"

Amidst his outburst, a knock on the door startled him, and his gaze shifted towards the entrance. "Commander, may I come in?" Miriam's voice inquired with concern.

In desperation, he turned his eyes back to where the vision of Thomas stood, but it had vanished. In a hurried attempt to conceal his vulnerability, Cullen began to wipe away the traces of tears from his face. The last thing he wanted was for Miriam to witness him in such a state. "In a moment," he intoned with haste, his movements brisk as he rose from his chair to retrieve scattered papers from the floor. But a sudden dizziness overwhelmed him, and his legs betrayed their strength, causing him to collapse with a resounding thud.

The door swung open, and Miriam rushed to his side, her features etched with worry. "By the Lady, what happened? Are you alright?" she asked, kneeling before him.

His veneer of composure faltered as he struggled to find words. "I... I'm well, merely overcome by dizziness."

The mage, assuming a supportive stance, assisted him in regaining an upright posture. As Cullen leaned on his desk for stability, she distanced herself, taking a few steps back. "I crossed paths with the Spymaster," she revealed, her gaze scrutinizing the disarray. "She insisted I seek you out in this very moment.” She turned her pale eyes to him, “Cullen, what happened?"

"Leliana found nothing in the Chantry archives," he confessed, his voice betraying a hint of desperation. "Nothing that would give me even a glimmer of hope that the withdrawal won't take my mind."

"It's possible that cases were intentionally left undocumented or simply destroyed when the Templar Order severed its ties with the Chantry," she tried to reassure him.

Frustration dripped from Cullen's words as he vehemently shook his head. "I cannot continue to jeopardize my ability to command the Inquisition forces for such a slim chance." He sighed heavily, his frustration giving way to a deeper sense of resignation. “Miriam, despite all our efforts, my memory is fading, reality blurs a little more every day. If my devotion to the cause holds true, I must either relinquish my post or return to the embrace of lyrium."

In the hushed stillness that lingered, the mage gently broke the silence. "Cullen, when you sought my aid to conquer lyrium addiction, you emphasized how crucial it was to you. Has that changed?”

Cullen's gaze shifted, and he spoke with pained sincerity, "No, of course not... If only you knew why breaking free from this wretched substance is so paramount to me, you would not question it."

Miriam, persistent in her concern, implored him with a softness that bespoke genuine care. "Then tell me. Help me understand why this battle is so important."

Cullen struggled to gather his thoughts; the full story had never escaped his lips. The prospect of laying his soul bare was frightening. Yet, swayed by the mage's request, a faint glimmer of relief beckoned him from the burden he had carried in solitude for so long. With deliberate steps, he turned and approached the narrow slit in the wall that offered a glimpse of distant ivory peaks and an azure sky. The boundless expanse before him soothed, making the task of recollection more bearable.

He started at the very beginning of his journey, reminiscing on the fateful decision of his childhood to join the Templar Order. He delved into the Vigil he undertook, the agonies endured within the confines of Kinloch, and the undeniable imprint it left upon his perception of mages and their arcane arts. Despite omitting his shameful longings for Lea and the nature of the visions with which the Desire demon tormented him, the remaining narrative unfolded in unfiltered detail, at least as far as the imperfect tapestry of his memory would permit.

The tale progressed to the chapter of his relocation to Kirkwall, ascending through the ranks with unwavering loyalty to Meredith's autocracy, unwittingly bolstering her rule until the onset of her descent into madness catalyzed by the red lyrium. As the conclusion of his story approached, Cullen summoned the strength to turn and confront the woman, "Now you know why I want nothing to do with that life."

Miriam's voice quivered as she responded, her eyes welling with tears. "Cullen," she whispered. "You're crying."

Embarrassment washed over him as he registered the truth in her words. He brought a hand to his face, trying to erase the evidence of his unguarded emotions, but the mage, with a tender assertiveness, extended her hands to gently halt his attempt. "Let me," she said softly. And as her warm fingers grazed his skin, wiping away the moisture from his cheeks, the embarrassment waned, replaced by a profound sense of solace. Cullen closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean into the delicate caress of her palm, tilting his head ever so slightly. Miriam's gentle hands, a tender balm, continued to cradle his countenance. "I am grateful for your trust," she murmured. "I see why you need to break the shackles of lyrium. I truly do." A moment of hushed reflection passed before she pressed on. "But, Cullen, the Inquisition needs you. I need you. Please stay as my Commander. We can find a way through this together." Cullen, eyes sealed shut, absorbed her words, an earnest plea threading through the air. "I implore you, do not relinquish hope. Believe that, even if none have weathered the withdrawal's storm before, you could be the pioneer. The Maker may wield cruelty, but I vow to seek appeasement in His eyes. I will submit to His will, and Andraste will bestow mercy upon you."

Cullen, stirred to his core by her words, eased his eyes open. The ache for hope seized his heart, and he enfolded Miriam in an embrace, clinging to her as if she were his salvation.

"Do you truly believe?" he breathed, his fingers tightening on the fabric of her robes.

"I do," the mage affirmed, her tone resonating with unyielding conviction.

At her words, his heart, a battleground between despair and hope, leaned towards the latter.