I need to be more than that

The Emerald Grove of Silvanus." Words engraved on stone greeted them on the other side.

Despite the welcome, albeit peculiar kinship with Zevlor and the instant sympathy for his people's plight, uneasiness gripped Cullen's heart the moment they chose to follow the tieflings beyond the portcullis. Shadowheart walked beside him, her calm and collected demeanor keeping him from nervously closing his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

He did not know what to expect once inside, but the sight that eventually greeted him was reminiscent of the valley below the fortress of Skyhold: a portrait of pure nature with lush, verdant trees, leaves swaying with the breeze, the unmistakable sound of running water coming from somewhere deeper, past the hollowed-out mountain, mixed with the manmade overflowing crates, dark wooden chests, tents and fire pits.

Tieflings with red, blue or violet skin watched their ragtag column keenly, their bright, luminous eyes betrayed deep-seated trepidation, or outright fear at their mere sight. They eyed their weapons with immediate concern, quickly gathering their running children to their sides, shielding them from the view of the armed newcomers.

They are afraid of us. They are afraid of me.

The realization sat heavy in his stomach. Zevlor's kind bore an uncanny, terrifying resemblance to some of the demons that plagued Thedas. By the Maker, it should have been he who was afraid of them, not the other way around.

Yet the more he observed the camp, the more pronounced their undeniable humanity became — demons were selfish, ambitious creatures, all cruel intentions and malicious means; alliances between them were always short-lived, prone to treachery and backstabbing as they endlessly tried to outplay each other. The tieflings seemed to operate fundamentally differently; even as a bystander, Cullen recognized the unspoken bond of community, built upon quiet foundations of trust and solidarity. It was obvious that Cullen and the rest had interrupted a supply distribution; large wooden wagons stacked with crude crates and barrels lined the path, food and blankets were changing hands. Two men were gently tending to the beasts of burden, murmuring reassurances. The children hid behind their parents' legs, their wide, alien eyes alive with a mixture of fear and pure wonderment.

These were not the monsters of his dreams. They were just refugees, stranded and bereft of protection.

"They are a long way from home, and even further from safety," Gale murmured, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register as he stepped closer to Cullen's flank. His eyes scanned the crowded wagons with a look of genuine sorrow. "Elturel's descent into Avernus was an unprecedented catastrophe. To survive Avernus itself only to be hunted by gnolls and chased away by xenophobic druids… it is a bitter pill to swallow."

"I will admit that their appearance makes me uneasy," Cullen's voice was low, barely louder than a murmur, his chest tightening as he watched a mother pull her little one closer to her chest. "But it is unfair that they have to live in fear of the world, regardless of their heritage."

Astarion let out a soft, breathy huff from behind them, though there was no real malice in it. "Oh, darling, if we judged everyone in Faerûn by their appendages, we'd never make any friends. Trust me, it's the ones with the prettiest smiles that you should watch." The elf glanced toward a group of tiefling youth huddled by a crate, his red eyes narrowing slightly. "Besides, real monsters would never let themselves starve."

Shadowheart quickened her pace, matching Cullen's long stride. Her green eyes flitted to the side, checking the shadows between the rock faces before she spoke in a sharp, hushed undertone. "Astarion is right, for once. But right now, the most important thing is to find a cure."

As if I could ever forget it. "I know that."

The four of them moved further away from the ravaged beach, guided by the overgrown path, going ever upwards until they reached a plateau. From this vantage point Cullen could see far enough into the distance to determine they were surrounded by bodies of water on three sides. The foliage was denser and more vibrant the more inland they traveled. Small animals rushed from bush to trees and vice versa, disappearing in the greenery.

They had taken a moment to rest and Cullen could quietly observe his allies; Astarion eyed a hopping rabbit with hungry eyes, his mouth watering at the prospect of food. Next to him, Gale bent to adjust his boots every second step or so, as if he was not used to walking in them. Shadowheart — by far the most vigilant of the three — looked over her shoulder often and intensely, on the lookout for possible foes. Her hand traced her knapsack, as if she was making sure that nothing was taken when she wasn't looking.

The quiet that had settled between them gave Cullen the time and space to actually think, to conceive a plan of action. He had to set aside all the awful things that had happened to him, sealing them away in boxes in the deep recesses of his mind. What he needed was to organize, to tackle one problem at a time.

The first objective would have to be the gathering of supplies — they had a long road ahead and almost nothing to sustain themselves; they carried no food and although the forest was bound to provide some things like berries, it would hardly be enough to satisfy four grown adults.

They would need to go hunting, but only Astarion had managed to salvage a shortbow and a quiver full of arrows from an unlucky hunter, already dead by the time they came upon his body. They might have to set traps, but it was too much work for a potentially small reward.

Maybe they could barter with a nearby settlement — if one existed. Cullen could offer some manual labor in exchange for vegetables. Perhaps, he could even scrounge up enough to get himself some armor.

If he hadn't turned into a squid by then, naturally.

Which brought him to the second objective, to find a healer skilled enough to treat their infection. With some luck they might be able to track down Lae'zel — she had promised she would speak on his behalf to her people, who had a cleansing technique. Gale, amidst his incessant rambling earlier, had suggested that a powerful cleric could also potentially be an option. Shadowheart was one, but by her own admittance she was not able to cure them.

He had listened as they talked about places such as Baldur's Gate and Waterdeep, referred to them as cities with substantial infrastructure. Perhaps talented healers could be found there. Would it be feasible to travel to either one?

The next objective was the mission that had been thrust upon him by Selûne; to fight the rising evil. He had no leads for that other than her vague words and warnings, but he refused to let the ambiguity paralyze him. He was uniquely equipped for situations such as this — like any villain's lair, one simply had to spy on the comings and goings of their known associates.

It was exactly how he had tracked down Samson at the decrepit Temple of Dumat.

Cullen had meticulously cross-referenced the letters the Inquisitor recovered from the frozen quarries of Emprise du Lion with the hidden, stamped crates uncovered deep within the Emerald Graves. By connecting the smugglers' notes to the physical shipments of red lyrium, Cullen had mapped out Samson's entire network before a single sword was drawn. These mind flayers and their cultists would be no different. They were an army, and armies always left a paper trail.

After half a candle's worth of time inside the dark, dimly lit nautiloid, the welcome sight of dust particles dancing around streaming sunlight greeted them. There was a tear in the wall of the ship, large enough for a man to walk through.

He had never been more appreciative of such a mundane sight in his life.

They were out. Bless the Maker, they were out!

He all but fell on his knees to kiss the soil beneath his feet. Shadowheart kept giving him concerned looks when she thought he wasn't looking, but he could not bring himself to care.

They were out.

Only when the cool, salt-tinged breeze swept the scent of burning flesh from his nostrils did he finally stand. He breathed deeply with delight, wiping dirt from his palms as he surveyed their surroundings. They were on a cliffside — the woods were sparse with trees, but at a distance there were clusters of denser, taller trees. The clear, blue water below lapped at the jagged rocks, churning into white foam on their sharp edges. A fall from this height would prove fatal.

Long, thick grass and a large assortment of wildflowers and thistles in bloom carpeted the ground, swaying with the gentle breeze, separated only by unpaved dirt road in front of them. It was overgrown enough to indicate that it was rarely used.

He watched the bees and the butterflies flying from flower to flower, spiraling as they danced over thick clumps of mountain flowers around a long-fallen, hollowed log, overgrown with verdant ivy; a perfect picture of beauty and harmony.

But a glance in the opposite direction and the illusion of beauty shattered; the wreck stood smoking still, a large sinister, black mass of rubble that would forever mar the landscape.

He couldn't bear to look at it any longer, lest the oppressive feeling returned.

Shadowheart walked by his side, quiet and contemplative. Loose strands of hair had escaped the elaborate braid, revealing the pointy tips of her ears. He had not noticed them before, although he couldn't blame himself — not even half of what he witnessed in the nautiloid registered. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, in high contrast with her cool-toned complexion. Every so often her face scrunched — in pain or discomfort, Cullen did not know and would not ask.

She had silently offered the same courtesy before. It was the least he could do.

"A little help, please!"

It was a man's voice coming from further down the path that broke their unspoken, but mutually understanding moments of self-reflection.

"Another survivor of the wreck, perhaps."

Cullen's pace quickened and Shadowheart hastened to match him. Her strides were shorter but she made up for it with lithe grace, a spring in her step as if she was walking fast across stepping stones. There was a certain allure to watching her move.

Whatever happened on the nautiloid after Lae’zel reached the transponder, he had no control of it. He was flung around, or rolling on the floor, every movement stealing his breath until he felt he had none left in him. The ship shook, objects clattered to the floor. Dragonfire tore a large hole in the hull, the suctioning of the air carrying Cullen as if he was made of feathers, and he found himself in freefall.

The wind whipped at his face, and he tried to keep his eyes open but it was both difficult and silly, seeing the ground come ever closer. He was unmoored, gravity claiming him with terrible eagerness. He hoped that at least Shadowheart and Lae’zel were safe aboard the ship. He thanked the Maker that none of his friends had been drawn to this nightmare alongside him. He prayed for his soul, because nothing short of a miracle, could save him now.

Draw your last breath, my friends Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, And be Forgiven.

The shrieking wind cut out, the air stilled. Was he dead already? His eyes opened.

He never asked for that miracle, but the miracle had found him all the same.

He was suspended in mid-air as if he had suddenly grown wings. Beneath him was a glimmering ocean, its rippled surface casting a million diamond spots of the moon's reflection. He looked up, a sense of amazement washing over him; he was greeted by a boundless night sky full of stars and a single, solitary full moon.

Thedas had two moons. Satina was nowhere to be found.

In the middle of it the endless ocean was an island of stone, where a silvery-white citadel stood, timeless and proud, a beacon in the night.

An unknown force moved him towards the magnificent acropolis, its architecture not unlike the illustrations in books about ancient Arlathan, the elvhen homeland.

He must be dead. That is the only logical explanation.

They spent the better half of the hour running down corridor after corridor, clearing room after sordid room, fighting their share of lesser devils — Lae'zel had corrected him every single time he called one of these a demon — and the Maker-damned walking brains that made his skin crawl.

They reached another room, one that had a dozen pods, most of them occupied by other abducted victims.

Just how many people have they taken?

"Tsk'va!" Lae'zel let out a hiss, her eyes widening at the sight of them. "How many hosts have these ghaik infected?

"Too many."

Cullen approached the nearest pod. He knocked on the glass to grab the trapped woman's attention, but her stare was faraway, as if she could not register his presence.

"There's got to be a latch that opens these things," he searched for one, running his hands all over the slimy surface but he discovered nothing. The contraption was simply to alien for him to make heads or tails of it.

Somewhere behind him, Lae'zel cursed. "We have no time for stragglers!"

Her temper was rising, but he had dealt with tempers of all kind; snobbish Orlesians who looked at him as if he was excrement on their feet, Maxwell Trevelyan's haughty and out-of-touch remarks whenever Cullen expressed disagreement with his choices, Leliana's quiet, cold ire for simply daring to exist, and Meredith's red-hot anger at the peak of her madness. He had lived through all. He would live through hers as well.

"If we leave them to this fate, we'll be no better than the mind flayers that abducted them!" Righteous anger threatened to rise from within. How could she suggest to leave these people, as if they do not matter?

He breathed deeply, calming himself. When he spoke again, it was in a cool, steadfast way. "Since you know a lot about them, do you have an inkling as to how these blasted things work?"

"I cannot make sense of it," she said with a pained look.

Cullen nodded. Perhaps the answer laid near another pod. A lever, or some sort of central hydraulic system that controlled all pods.

He moved to the next one, where a man was inside totally unresponsive. Probably dead.

What had been done to them? What cruel place was this?

He walked to each and everyone pod, hoping against hope that he did not see familiar faces. The thought of recognising any of these victims caused him more fear than the possibility of turning into grey tentacled monstrosity.

"Maker," he whispered, the word catching in his dry throat.

This chamber was as big as the previous one, but instead of the strange pods there were a number of nailed down tables, with bodies strapped tightly on their surface. The victims — for that he was sure they were — were in various state of undress, as if they've been undergoing surgery before something interrupted the process.

Another quake, and the vessel shook violently. The lanterns swinged back and forth, but remained holstered by their hooks.

As quickly the shaking had started, it stopped.

A grim choir of groans rose all over the room. The victims were still, in fact, alive.

Slowly, he approached one of the patients — a bald dwarf with a messy long fiery red beard — lying on his back. His chest rose and fell slightly.

"Are you alright?" Cullen asked quietly, mindful of the noise he was making, in fear of detection. Whoever their captors were, they had nefarious plans for them.

The dwarf's eyes were glassy and unseeing, its pupils reduced to a tiny speck of dust amidst the sea-green of his eyes. His mouth moved ever-so-slightly, enough to let out a whimper of pain, but not to formulate words.

Cullen had seen people in this state of catatonia before — wyvern venom or a strong dose of blood lotus could be the cause of it.

He tugged at one of the straps that help the dwarf immobile, when someone's voice broke through the silence.

::Save us from this place. From this place, free us.::

The voice was almost childish, scared and it came from somewhere extremely close to him. He turned around, trying to locate the person who had spoken, but to no avail — the room seemed as still and quiet as before.

::We are here.::

The hair on his arms rose — it was as if they were whispering in his ear.

The dreadful conclusion came right after — the voice was in his head, as loud and clear as his own racing thoughts.