#jade is cassandra in both books and it's a terrible fate

[wormwoodandhoney]

books read in 2023: the indian lake trilogy [my heart is a chainsaw & don't fear the reaper]

Jade [...] breathes all the corruption in her lungs out. Well, not the blackness, she supposes. Not the horror. Never that.

[sinkat-arts]

Undone - Cullrian Fragment/Perma-WIP

A dream remembered as the world comes to an end.... 

Note: This evening has found me poking around my unfinished fic folder, and I stumbled across this fragment from December of 2016 (god, that feels like a century ago). I abandoned it because I honestly didn’t know how to get it where I wanted it to go... I only had a feeling of what the story should be. It was more emotion than plot. Anyway, there are bits that I like about this fragment, so here you go. If you’re of a mind to read something that leaves our heroes’ fates looking very gloomy, of course... 

---

The Inquisitor had fallen - broken, bloody, barely drawing breath. 

Cole was locked inside himself, silent but with eyes wide and screaming. 

Sera’s mind was blasted, her twisted mouth howling outrage at the thing in the sky. When she’d been hit and her sense obliterated, Thom had charged forward in blind fury to end the creature responsible, but what could one man do against a god?

Varric and Cassandra were missing, long since separated from the group. Maker only knew how well they fared wherever they ended up. They weren't there, though... and that was for the best. Maybe they’d survive a little longer than the rest of them. 

Bull’s hulking form was slumped. Silent and unmoving, hunched protectively over Vivienne. For her part, the First Enchanter was racing against time, words muttered in rapid succession, fingers weaving signs most mages never even knew existed as she desperately drew out the oldest magicks to keep her unlikely friend alive. She worked feverishly, even as her own life hung in the balance. 

And that left two. Two standing against someone they'd once called friend. Two standing against someone they'd broken bread with and asked counsel of. Someone who'd once fought to save them just as hard as they now fought against him. But that time had passed. He was no friend. He was no advisor. 

He was enemy. He was destruction. He was despair. 

And so they stood, weak, wounded, weary, each holding on for the others’ sake. A former Knight-Captain of the Southern Chantry and a Magister of the Imperium stood shoulder to shoulder and, for a fleeting moment, hand in hand. They squared off - pitifully, but trying - against the impossible thing tearing the sky to shreds, just as he commanded it to. The Dread Wolf, terrible and large with its face full of eyes, menaced the darkened sky. A looming spectral avatar of the man himself, it snarled as remnants of the veil hung between its teeth in bleeding green clumps and strands. And Solas… no… Fen’Harel watched it unfold - all to his design - a serenity on his face that was in violent opposition to the brutality he demanded. They were, all of them, shattered against his will. 

“Well, it's certainly not looking good, Commander,” Dorian quipped through labored breaths as he pushed bloody strands of hair out of his eyes, his other hand wrapped around his staff in a white-knuckled grip. It was all he could do to support himself. “At this rate, I'll have to cancel every one of my appointments next week. Mae’ll have my head.”

“I rather think she'll forgive you,” Cullen chuckled weakly. “I must admit... this isn't my idea of quality time. Maybe next time, we should…” His words cut off as he staggered in place, dizzy from the blood running freely and far, far too quickly from his shield arm. The extent of the damage... that was unknown, hidden by layers of cloth, leather, and armor. However bad it was, he couldn’t feel it any more, and that was a kindness. 

“Whoa there,” Dorian breathed, voice a soft rasp as he used what precious energy he had left to keep the other man from falling, careful to avoid the arm that hung uselessly at Cullen’s side. “We're quite the sorry sight, aren't we?” he asked with a smile, though his voice trembled. 

Cullen didn't even try to fight it and fell solidly against Dorian’s chest. These would surely be their last few moments together, so he'd take full advantage of the temporary calm over the battlefield. He dropped his sword to wrap his good arm around Dorian's waist, holding him as tightly as Cullen dared. The force of Cullen's weight brought them both to their knees on that bloody field, and they went down holding one another, clinging to each other like they clung to all those years between then and now. The stolen moments and all-too-short reprieves. All the promises of after. After Tevinter was stable. After Solas was taken care of. We'll be together for real after. 

A memory, unbidden and from a sweeter time, came to Cullen's mind. A gossamer image of a sunlit morning where there was just the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the sounds of their hearts beating and the fluttering of soft kisses across expanses of bare skin in the afterglow. 

‘“Do you ever think about... marriage?”

“So, you want to make an honest man of me, do you?”

“I'm serious, Dorian.”

“I know you are. You're always serious. And that's why I love you.”

“But?”

“But marriage... for a long, long time, that word only meant a life that was... impossible for me to survive. It’s hard to... divorce myself, so to speak, of that association.”

“Yes... Your father, your family... I can see why... I’m so sorry. It was unkind of me to ask...”

“Hush now, I’ll not have mournful sorries here! Not in my bed. We’re going to enjoy this glorious sun and pretend we haven’t a care in the world, or so help me...”

“Yield! I yield!”

“Good, I’m glad you can see reason.”

“Yes, but... we do have a care. We have too many cares, in fact. Until they’re put to bed...”

“Yes, until we can breathe without fear of assassins or the end of the damned world…”

“After, then. We can be together after.”

“We're together now, amatus.”

“You know what I mean. I love you... married or no, I want a real life with you. No more cross country journeys to steal just a day or two. A home. For us. For always.”

“Home? How... dreadfully domestic. It sounds wonderful.”

“Then you would? You would choose to build that life... with me?”

“Only in a heartbeat.”

“I'll hold you to that, Magister Pavus.”

“I expect you will, Commander.”

Home. A life. After. 

But what did they do now? Now that there would be no after. It was bitter, wasn’t it? They were so damn close. They'd fought tooth and nail to this point, clawing their way to face him in battle, only to be crushed so completely by the full strength of a jaded god. 

It wasn't fair.

And so they held each other, there at the end of all things, under that torn and angry sky. The foundation of their world shifted; everything headed towards a calamity that no one could stop. Powerless. They were powerless to stop this. 

“A dog,” Dorian said, voice muffled from where he'd nuzzled into Cullen's neck. 

“What's that, love?” Cullen asked softly as he buried his face into dark hair wet with blood and sweat but still beautiful. Still full of Dorian's scent. Still a comfort to his soul. 

“I would have gotten you a dog. Once we had our... home. One of those awful mabaris. I’d have acted the longsuffering martyr, of course, but just seeing you happy... That would have been my reward.”

Cullen's throat was suddenly thick. He was choking, heart breaking even as he smiled and rasped out his response. “And we’d have had a nice house - with land - away from it all. I'd make you a study and you’d fill it with whatever books your heart desired.”

“I'd have dragged you to all number of Tevinter social events. You'd have hated it, of course, but you'd be the most handsome, most bright… the best thing there.”

“You'd have met my family. They'd have loved you like their own and made sure you got seconds and thirds at dinner.”

“There'd have been nights in front of the fire with tea. The dog at our feet, me reading, you lying with your head in my lap, dozing off.”

“How dreadfully domestic,” Cullen mused.

“How positively wonderful,” Dorian returned.

It was a lovely fiction, it really was. Enough to bring a real smile, however weak and small, to Cullen’s ashen face. In another world, maybe, they could have had this dream of a dream. This world, however… this world was not made for beauty or kindness or the comfort of a home and heart and warmth. This world was made for gnashing cruelty and ripping loss. This world was made for stone and ice. This world was... undone.