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Cullen had lost count of hours. It may have been an entire day now since the walls of this rosy, diaphanous cage had closed around him and kept him prisoner. Each time he awoke he had to retrace the steps having led to that moment, walking in reverse back to where it all started. Numbering the steps helped. He counted five of them.
Five – his eyes opened on the cage closing around him, woven by threads of blood.
Four – a wave of shock threw him, and his mates against the walls of the Harrowing Chamber.
Three – grunts of pain, and the sound of flesh being slashed through.
Two – their leader giving the call, his emaciated hand rising, blood running from his open palm.
One – the meeting, supposed to decide how the Circle would provide its help after the disaster of Ostagar, went sour.
Cullen tried not to lose consciousness again. His whole body felt like a deep bruise, so tender his bones hurt. The merest motion had him clenching his teeth not to cry out, not wanting to attract attention. His sight blurred as he sat up at last, nausea pooling in his stomach. He could feel sweat on his brow, and his heart began to pound sharply, threatening him with another fainting fit.
He breathed in and out, deep and slow, keeping the back of his head against the wall behind him. The stone's cold touch was grounding. He retraced the steps again, one by one, trying to recall as many details as he could. It wasn't a dream, he was certain of it now. No matter how many times he awoke, he still found himself in this prison, its membrane-thin walls a deceivingly fragile rampart.
Now, Cullen tried to sense what was going on beyond that barrier. He could see only blurredly past it; there was a similar prison to his own just in front of him, with someone trapped inside it too – but that someone laid on their side, facing away from Cullen.
His own prison seemed to be encased between two walls and a staircase. He recognised this configuration: it was the antechamber to the ultimate floor of the Tower, where the meeting had taken place. There was blood running down the stairway, and the tiles in front of Cullen's cage bore similar, sinister stains.
Cullen heard about blood magic, but he hoped it were only a rumour. What mind, even a mage's, would resort to such madness? And yet, it was unarguably real. Cullen saw first-hand how the wave of power, that sent him like a rag doll against a wall, emerged from the old mage's wounded palm.
He had always known within himself there was something wrong with Uldred. He was a sketchy one, openly stating his hatred for the Chantry and never arguing about the crimes imputed to him. Cullen didn't understand why nothing had been done against him.
It had been this one who called for a meeting when he returned from Ostagar. The battle had been a disaster, and no one in the tower expected any of the mages sent there to return. Cullen, and a handful of his mates, had been summoned to supervise the meeting. Every enchanter of Kinloch Hold was gathered, and a vote was to be expected. Cullen listened closely to what was being said, but picked up the uncanny tone in Uldred's voice. The man sounded insane. His croaky voice had a light tremor in it; something unusual for someone well-versed in eloquence.
If Cullen had picked it up, the enchanters must have too. Irving's face was stern, his brow furrowed. He was probably the one in that chamber who had known Uldred for longest, and he immediately caught something was off. Cullen blamed it on aftermath from the battle. Uldred wasn't exactly young; it was a miracle someone his age went to war and returned physically unharmed.
Cullen remembered the enchanter's suggestion: lending the mages' unbridled forces to Loghain against the Blight, and in counterpart ask for the Tiern's assistance in breaking mages free from the Chantry. How dare he speak so openly against the Circle, within its own walls? Cullen couldn't believe his own ears, and it seemed his mates shared his bafflement.
He exchanged questioning looks with them, but he couldn't step in. The Order was here to make certain mages stayed in line, and they should trust the First Enchanter to temper the most rebellious of his flock. After all, this was no different than how usual debates went when Uldred was involved.
But this time it did go differently – and terribly so. Wynne, the other survivor from Ostagar, called out Loghain for treachery. She had been staying behind during the battle, providing the wounded with healing; and she saw how Loghain called off his own forces and retreated. Uldred argued there was not much choice if there were to be any survivors at all, but Wynne called high treason on the Tiern – and by extension his associates – regardless.
But Uldred didn't care about any of that; all that mattered to him was freedom for the Chantry's yoke, and if the Tiern could provide it, then he was worth siding with.
He didn't care about politics, he said; he couldn't care less about a juvenile king's death or whom would replace him; he couldn't even begin to care about Grey Wardens, or the Blight, or war—
Open your eyes! He suddenly cried out, desperation seizing him by the throat.
This is the moment we've been hoping for all these years, and you're about to let it escape? Take a step back and look at this precious equilibrium you hold in such high esteem, Irving, and dare telling me we are level with our oppressors. Dare telling me your Aequitarian principles are still respected, and that we're given as much as we're owed.
The man was boiling. Cullen never saw him this way; he knew the unsettlingly calm, cold Uldred, who scared off lingering looks with a mere glance. And now his voice was breaking, and it seemed the rest of him would soon follow.
Irving tried to regain control over the situation, but it was obvious he was distraught. He knew Uldred and his wrathful fits, and how they had often brought him to the dungeon in the past, but there would be no such punishment any more. Irving looked to Cullen and the sword on his side, before bringing his attention back on to Uldred.
Cullen palmed the pommel of his sword, ready to draw.
I won't calm down, Irving. Not this time. Not when we can finally tip the balance in our favour, and overthrow their chains.
Blood began to run from the man's crooked nose. Uldred wiped it with the back of his hand, and clenched his fist tightly. When he opened his palm again, his sharp fingernails had broken through the skin.
It's our time to make a change. If not for us, think of these generations to come, so precious to you. Think of all the promising Amells, the wasted-potential Anders, the brilliant Suranas – all these poor birds you've had your part in clipping the wings. Think of the day they'll ask you why you didn't seize the opportunity today. Think of what you'll answer, when they'll ask you whether they'd be free, had you mustered the courage to rise up. Think of Owen, this once-dear friend you completely overlook now – is it shame, or guilt? Have you looked him in the eyes since you approved, even suggested his being made Tranquil? Think of Jowan, and all the other ones you've failed.
Irving's face seemed to light up, though not in the way Uldred had wanted. The last mention seemed to have been too much. Irving let out a long sigh, closing his eyes. He shook his head slowly.
So this is what it's all about, Irving said. If your answer to the Circle's methods is forbidden, dangerous magic, then you're further lost than I thought.
He nodded to Cullen to draw his sword, and so did every other Templar. Uldred looked around himself, understanding there was no point in arguing no more. He repressed a cough, a thin thread of blood escaping his tightly pursed lips. The man was deteriorating by the second. How could he embody a threat at all?
Stand down, mage, one of Cullen's mates said, pointing his sword to Uldred's chest. You will explain your attitude to the Knight-Commander.
The way Uldred smiled was in no way reassuring. It was a devilish grin, sharp as a cut slit by broken glass.
This was the moment it all went down. The spray of blood Uldred spat in the Templar's face instantly melted skin off bone, and the sound of sizzling, bubbling flesh filled the chamber at once. The wounded man screeched in agony, clawing at his own visage with steel-gloved fingers, that only ripped more tissue off his exposed skull. Another Templar fell down his knees and began retching. Wynne let out a terrible scream, and fled the chamber before it went any worse.
And worse it did get. Uldred held his hand up and palm open, and the mangled Templar was made to levitate off the bloodied floor, arms apart and immobile, face petrified in terror.
Cullen wished he closed his eyes, just like his instinct urged him. He wished he didn't see his mate, his brother-in-arms shaking uncontrollably as blood poured out of every orifice, and splattered on to the tiles below him. Cullen wished he had palmed his ears to the stomach-turning gurgles, and animalistic growls, and wheezing breaths of his friend. But he could only watch as his mate was slowly killed, his spine bending backwards until it snapped, and the back of his disfigured head emerged from between his legs. When he was rendered a shapeless lump of flesh and steel, his body hit the floor in a loud, wet, metallic sound.
We'll force a change, Uldred finally said, slowly turning to Irving. No matter the cost.
This was the signal. All around the chamber, mages that had attended the meeting drew out knives, or scissors, or knitting needles; and tore through their own skin. Cullen threw distressed eyes to his mates, seeking for reassurance, but he found none. They were outnumbered, powerless against blood magic, and all of them were recruits. They didn't stand a chance.
Cullen didn't even have time to utter a warning, before a wave of shock swept across the chamber and threw every unprotected body against its walls. Cullen's ears ringed with the impact, and he slumped to the floor under the weight of his own body encased in heavy steel, before everything went black.
***
Cullen fumbled with the buckles of his gloves, seeking to free his hands. The first one was difficult to take off. Cullen's hands were shaking. When he finally felt the glove coming loose, he threw it off himself as if it burnt, and tended to the other one just as promptly. He immediately brought his bare hands to his face, feeling his skin and trying to make out any missing part. Nose, lips, eyes, cheeks, ears – he was whole. The image of Bron, with his face melting like a candle, flashed by his eyes each time he blinked.
He had never been one to take fear and seek to protect himself before his comrades, but something in the grisly sight of his mate's disfigurement had touched something deep within his core, something primal that urged him to cower like a frightened animal. Was that how deer felt, when they heard an arrow fly by their ears?
In front of this unnatural form of magic, non-mages could only be preys. It was fair, some – especially Uldred's like – would argue. For once, Templars were the one to feel in danger. But no Templar, no matter how bitter or vengeful towards mages, would ever display such vicious methods of killing. The Order was no stranger to torture, but this was above anything ever perpetrated by Cullen's brethren.
Was torture what awaited him, now? Why was he kept here, in that magic-woven cage, if not for some sinister purpose? Or perhaps there was, in the remaining bribes of humanity left in Uldred's degenerated mind; a plan to trade his freedom. Yes, Cullen thought to reassure himself, a hostage was what he was. Demons didn't think. Therefore, if already possessed, Uldred wouldn't have spared anyone in that chamber. Perhaps there still was hope – a fool's hope – to find mercy within the madman, and appeal to his clemency.
But minutes, then hours passed, and Cullen felt hope thinning like a waning moon's crescent. His mate, in the prison facing his own, was still motionless. Beyond the unnerving hum of the cage, he couldn't perceive anything. No sound save for that droning, murmuring noise, that seemed to seep further inside his brain with each passing second. Cullen was exhausted, but couldn't fall victim to slumber again. He must stay alert, must keep his senses sharp and his sword ready—
His sword. It laid on the floor next to him. He dashed towards it on his hands and knees, and grabbed it like a line in a raging sea. The touch of its handle, on his bare palms, had something of a grounding effect. His heart and mind slew down, and he took in a long, deep breath.
Focus. Pray. Hope. Stand ready.
With the tip of his sword touching the floor, he folded both his hands on the pommel, rested his forehead against the handle, and bent one knee to the floor. Belief was the source of the Order's might. The Maker would not turn His back on those who, devoted to keep His accursed children in line, swore themselves to Him.
The Maker would not let him, and his comrades down. He would not allow maleficar to thrive within these walls, meant to contain the curse of magic. Cullen shut his eyes tightly, barring the sound of the cage that seemed to grow louder, in response to the litany he repeated without halt. He made it as loud as he could in his mind, recalling how deafening choirs could be when chanting with passion. His frenetic whispers made no sense, but he saw the verses, as though carved in letters of fire on to his eyelids.
But despite the torrent of worship flashing by his mind, and cascading from his lips, he picked something up. Something exterior, intrusive, that came from without the cage. Cullen opened his eyes, but did not move yet. There was someone in front of his prison. He feared to look up. He already knew who stood before him. He recognised the floor-long, sheath black dress, and the bone-white, gnarled hands folded in front of the figure.
“If not for your heartbeat, I might have thought you dead,” Uldred said in a calm, disconcertingly poised voice.
Even from within that prison, Cullen could smell blood. The iron stench pooled at the back of his throat, tickling his urge to vomit. As he looked up at last, Cullen met the glacial eyes so intensely anchored on to him. Uldred had always borne that air of fragile sanity, but now, there was something else. Something no longer dormant, ready to lash out. It seemed all the inhibitions Uldred once bothered himself with were gone for good.
Cullen faced him, refusing to avert his eyes. He never liked looking at the man, but now it were a matter of dignity and duty. The Order was the armed hand of the Maker. Mages should always show respect in peace, and fear in conflict. Cullen knew how to dispel magic, and what to do when he couldn't. Steel feared no spells. If his own, lyrium-fueled power could not face Uldred, his sword would do perfectly.
“Listen to reason, enchanter,” Cullen said, as assuredly as he could. “Set us free and surrender. We may be merciful, granted you prove yourself clean from possession.”
“How very merciful have you been so far,” Uldred rolled his eyes. Cullen spotted a black stain in them. “How lucky are we, to be imprisoned under such gracious authority.”
His voice changed, just as he uttered that last word. It seemed to be doubled by a low, guttural one. The longer Cullen looked at him, the more numerous unsettling details he picked up. Uldred's skull bore symmetrical cuts, resembling closed eyelids, on each side. The inside of his thin, pursed lips was black, and so appeared to be his gums and the tip of his long, skeletal fingers. Some of his nails were broken, while others seemed to have merged with bone and curved like talons.
And of course, he was covered in blood. His head and face bore clotted drops and downward streaks. His dress, now that Cullen could take a longer look at it; was soaked, and its sleeves were shredded, as if Uldred had torn them with his bare hands – or something had caused them to rupture. There were holes in the fabric covering his arms, and from his elbow down it hung like curtains, revealing the unnumbered cuts, and nicks, and scars marring Uldred's skin.
Not all of them were fresh. Cullen now understood why the enchanter always wore such long and tight sleeves, which hem stopped well above his wrists. Any mage bearing such suspicious wounds would be accused of practising blood magic.
If 'Uldred' was still in-there, maybe Cullen could appeal to his remaining humanity. Maybe the possession process wasn't complete yet. He wouldn't expect Uldred to suddenly take conscience his doings were wrong, or that he should submit to Chantry law – a lifetime of anti-authoritarianism couldn't be erased – but maybe he could try. Maybe Cullen could touch something within the man's heart, even though charred and tarnished.
“Set my mates and I free,” Cullen said. “We are but recruits. None of us are in capacity of giving you what you demand. We weigh no power within the Order yet; just like Apprentices, we only follow.”
“How touching,” Uldred said, his mouth slitting into a disheartening smile. “Apprentice, mage, enchanter – these are but hollow titles, giving us prisoners a semblance of importance within our own kind. But none of you listened then – I won't repeat myself now.”
Uldred moved down, sitting on the tiled floor and wrapping his thin arms around his own knees. He rested his chin on top of them, staring with such intensity Cullen felt uncomfortable. It seemed the cage embodied no concrete barrier to his piercing eyes. They saw right through it, and Cullen felt them needle their way through his flesh. He felt their sting on to his organs, stroking his heart, raking at his lungs, clawing at his liver. If he looked down on himself, he wouldn't be surprised to see his skin ripple with this infestation. He swallowed through a tight, pounding throat. His heart was climbing its way up, seeking to escape this prison.
“Why are you keeping us here, if not for trading?” Cullen finally blurted out, abandoning the idea to inspire pity. If Uldred had a heart, it were of black granite and frozen to the core.
“Us?” Uldred picked up.
Cullen looked past the man and to the opposite cage, where his mate still laid unconscious.
“Oh,” he resumed, twisted amusement upon his visage. “Don't worry about him. He already served his purpose, and he didn't make it through. A shame,” he sighed. “But demons are picky of their hosts.”
Cullen felt all colour fade from his face. He opened wide eyes, unable to conceal the sudden terror grasping him. So, this was the plan. If convincing the Circle to lend its forces to Loghain did not work, Uldred would corrupt every remaining soul and offer them to the Tiern instead.
“Demons care nothing about politics,” Cullen said, attempting to sound assured, but his voice trembled. “An army of them is unfeasible.” But Uldred raised a brow, and shook his head.
“Of course, you don't get it. Why – how could you? You good little soldiers know only to obey. No time for humane considerations; after all, you just follow the orders. How could you conjure up the idea of desperation, if you've never even acknowledged our demands? But that's not your role – no, it's your superiors', your elders – how could you make decisions for yourself, when you've never questioned their rightfulness and legitimacy to begin with?”
Cullen had trouble understanding both Uldred's mind and words. He was mostly muttering to himself, eyes unblinking and staring into the hanging air.
“I don't understand,” Cullen admitted. It seemed Uldred could still be conversed with. Maybe he could also be persuaded.
“No, you don't,” he mumbled. Uldred laughed, quietly, but bitterly. “You were right about being just like apprentices: ignorant and entitled, but wary of the consequences should you sing out of tune – though I doubt the fate reserved to disbelieving Templars should be the same as ours. Banishment and destitution can hardly compare to execution.”
What was the point of it all? Why was Uldred coming to sit down for a chat – or rather a rant? Cullen always thought the enchanter despised Templars. Why was he suddenly so friendly?
“What do you want from me?” Cullen finally mustered the courage to ask.
Part of him didn't want to know, on the contrary preferred to remain blissfully unaware and wait for rescue; but the other, reasoned part, urged him to find a way out. He knew help wouldn't come. He must understand, if only to get a chance to run and alert higher authorities – Denerim, Val Royaux – hell, the Divine.
Uldred let one of his deformed hands to the floor, and began distractedly toying with debris, tracing abstract shapes. He shrugged, taking his time to answer. He was definitely playing with Cullen's nerves.
“She hasn't manifested for you yet,” he finally said, his voice back to unnerving serenity. “It shouldn't take much more time now, though. A young, vigorous boy such as yourself is bound to be coveted eventually. If not by her, another one will pick you.”
She? Her? What was he talking about? Cullen frowned in bewilderment. Was there any sense left to be made of the man? But Uldred looked at him again, his eyes narrowing in amusement.
“You don't remember, do you?” He said, tilting his emaciated head to one side. “I shouldn't be surprised. We made sure of it after all. But maybe I should refresh your memory, so you can recall her when she comes for you.”
No, Cullen wanted to say assuredly, I do not remember. But as Uldred's eyes pierced through him, something at the back of his mind awoke. Like a long-unlit flower of brain matter finally blooming, the memory unfolded, fleshly petals opening slowly, each layer flayed to reveal a tenderer one, until the raw, throbbing core was exposed.
Cullen remembered it all at once. Ropes of blood restrained him to a chair, where he sat bare and blindfolded in a damp, cold chamber. Two voices – Uldred's, and another he had not pinpointed immediately, until his eyes were granted sight again and he recognised Jowan, smiling deviously to him as he sat on his lap, and buried his deft hands in Cullen's curls as he kissed him.
He remembered the blade pressed to his chest, the stinging pain as it cut him; the warmth of his own blood running down his body— the boy's tongue licking it up, kissing the wound like a mouth.
He remembered the abuse that followed, and the ghastly darkness gradually crushing him as two, golden snake eyes lit up within the blackness, and burned their mark on to him.
He remembered Jowan, getting back to his feet from between his legs, a smile too candid for what he just did on his reddened lips.
He remembered his two captors talking of an offering for Desire.
Cullen folded over himself as nausea hit him like a fist to the stomach. He coughed, he retched, he spat out bile as the corners of his vision shimmered. Sweat pearled and dripped from his nose as he kept his head down.
“It can't have been that bad,” Uldred laughed softly.
Cullen felt a hand in his hair. He looked up, startled, only to see Uldred's thin arm had reached through the cage and to him. These fingers felt like razorblades trying to be gentle. But gentleness was promptly cast off as the caress moved down to Cullen's face, and nails trailed against his temple and cheekbone, opening a shallow cut.
“You were lucky my Jowan took care of you,” Uldred resumed. “Had it been me, you wouldn't have to feel conflicted about pleasure – I would have given you only pain.”
Cullen couldn't move. A maelstrom whirled in his mind, making each and every thought to converge towards that moment.
He recalled feeling unexplainably flustered when he crossed Jowan's eyes in the days following that night. He recalled his own hand wandering down himself at night, in the sparse privacy of his bed, allowing embarrassment to leave place to pleasure as he took himself in hand, the only mental image guiding his him towards climax a pair of golden, reptilian eyes, burning in his mind and between his thighs.
He had never been one for self-pleasure. Sexual matters must stay a trivial thing in a life of devotion to the Maker. But for a number of nights in a row, he couldn't fall asleep without this sweet release.
Without knowing it, he had allowed a demon to take advantage of him – and now, he paid the price. Part of him wished it had been Uldred who tortured him that night, so he wouldn't burn with shame as he, sometimes, envisioned Jowan as he touched himself. That wicked boy had bound a demon to Cullen through the pleasure he ripped off him.
“Boys like you are easy,” Uldred said with a certain fondness.
He tilted Cullen's chin up, feeling the hot, hacked breath coming out of Cullen's mouth on the tip of his thumb. He let his claw trace these lips, full and pulsing, and finally pierced into them. Cullen winced, tried to break out from that gentle yet iron-grasped hold, but he could only breathe out a pained, shaking sigh as Uldred smeared the oozing colour over Cullen's mouth. A glint lit in Uldred's eyes, and his smile sharpened.
“My Jowan was just like you in that way,” he said, and pushed the talon of his thumb into Cullen's mouth, pressing it down on his tongue. “But your likeness goes no further. You, are just a pliant little toy.”
Cullen felt the tip of the claw at the back of his throat, and he gagged as Uldred retrieved it. Droplets of blood fell to the floor as he coughed. But he had no time to collect himself, and in the blink of an eye Uldred's hand was back in Cullen's hair, gripping it and bending his head backwards. His other hand held Cullen's face tightly, forcing his jaw open.
Uldred was inside the cage now, and Cullen was powerless to move. He could only open horrified eyes and stare, helpless, at his tormentor.
“I wonder if all boys taste the same,” Uldred said, almost in a whisper.
His thin lips stretched into a grin. Something had changed in his face. No one should have that many teeth; and they were too sharp, too long.
You should stay very still.
The voice was inside Cullen's ears. It was resounding in his skull, impaling his brain as though these needle-teeth had sunk into it, and would not let go. Cullen could only stare, as he watched Uldred's tongue slither out of his mouth like a snake. It was monstrous, too long to be human, and it moved as though on its own. It licked Cullen's bloodied lips before entering his mouth, and Cullen let out a sound as the appendage laid against his own tongue.
He loathed himself for it. He felt a surge of shame as heat took him over, and it burnt only brighter as the kiss, though forced, deepened.
Desire can have you later. She'll make it better, no matter how dark I bruise you. I'll give her something to comfort you about.
Cullen felt another limb enlacing his waist. He felt a rush of heat despite his armour, as though that impious touch cared nothing for it. He felt it as a caress of flames, tingling in his loins and inside his thighs. It had to be a nightmare. He would wake up any moment now. Uldred held him with both hands now, his claws digging in Cullen's scalp. Cullen felt warmth trickling down his temples and nape, and he couldn't tell sweat from blood.
When the serpentine tongue withdrew, Cullen gasped for air. He coughed, still incapable of movement, but lifted pleading eyes to Uldred.
“Stop,” he panted, feeling his glossed-over lips throbbing with pain. “Please, stop, I've never done anything—”
“It's too late for that, dear boy” Uldred hushed him, tucking a curl behind Cullen's ear. “You won't escape here – or me. And even if you do,” he paused, and brought his mouth to Cullen's ear. “You'll never heal from me.”
The tongue licked Cullen's neck up to his ear; slow, disgustingly slow. Cullen wanted to throw up, but he was locked inside his own flesh. He couldn't move, not even an inch. He could only gasp and repress a whine. He felt like a trapped rabbit awaiting death.
“Please,” he repeated, “Please stop, please—” but the tentacle-like tongue slid inside Cullen's mouth again, further this time, and slowly pushed its way down his throat. Something in that foul magic turned off his natural, bodily reflexes, and instead of clenching to push that foreign body out, his throat only opened, forced into willingness.
He lost track of how long it lasted. The tongue thrust in, and out of his throat in a phallic penetration, and Cullen felt just as desecrated. Tears ran down his face from his open, imploring eyes, but his distress only seemed to excite Uldred. He gripped Cullen's hair tighter, his falsely fragile, skeletal frame pressing itself against Cullen's armour. The steel plate must hurt, Cullen thought; and he hoped it did. He hoped his faith burnt bright enough to sear and scorch that monster off him.
Let's get that out of the way, Cullen heard, rattling at his eardrums. He felt something get under his breastplate and waist belt, something thin as a spider's web, but strong as a thread of mithril. These strings pulled and tore at the straps of Cullen's armour, and he heard them snap. Steel clattered to the floor.
Cullen looked down to himself as Uldred gave him a break, and witnessed himself bare-chested. The dark tendrils that had ripped dignity off him were still crawling over his body; they seemed to come from Uldred's own figure, piercing through his dress and extending like tentacles.
“Isn't that better?” Uldred said softly, stroking Cullen's face with the back of his fingers.
Uldred smiled to him, somehow kindly, before brutally backhanding and sending him to the floor. Cullen stayed stunned in shock. How could Uldred have such strength? Demonic infestation could grant one terrific powers, but this was raw force. He would have no trouble manhandling Cullen, if he decided to. But it wasn't with his own hands that he made Cullen to stay still.
Cullen saw more of these tendrils, black as ink and tortuous as thorns, emerge from Uldred's body and take hold of Cullen's ankles, thighs, and arms; that were pinned above his golden head, stained crimson with blood.
And Uldred loomed above him, taller and more threatening as ever. He knelt down between Cullen's open thighs and crawled over him, until he could access Cullen's mouth again – and invade it once more, mercilessly this time. There wasn't any intention to pleasure him any longer; it was assault, plain and simple. Cullen gagged and choked around the appendage, his whole body shaking as he struggled against the burn of asphyxiation. Each time Uldred withdrew his tongue, it was only to give Cullen a false hope to breathe, before he resumed.
The last kiss he gave him was a proper one, and somehow, Cullen hated it more than anything Uldred had done to him. There was a satisfied look on Uldred's face as he sat up, straddling Cullen's open legs. He looked at him, at his vulnerable body; the dark-pink flush over Cullen's upper chest, the sparse, golden hair down his torso, and his fluttering, throbbing heart, beating so hard it rippled under the skin.
“How lovely,” Uldred said, running his claws over Cullen's chest, pressing their tip into the soft, pounding spot.
Should I push my arm down your throat and rip your heart through your mouth?
The tentacles around Cullen's arms and legs tightened, just as Uldred's voice gnawed at his brain. Cullen's heart only beat harder as terror grasped him whole. But thankfully, Uldred did nothing of what he threatened. He kissed Cullen's heart, and up his throat, and his cheek; and suddenly, Cullen felt as though sucked into a blackhole.
His vision blurred and darkened, and he felt himself limp as a dead fish. His ears rang. He was both blind and deaf, and for a moment he thought himself dead. But then, he felt.
His body burnt again, so intensely it hurt. There was nothing pleasurable in the intrusion that followed. He felt as though infested by a dozen snakes, penetrating his body through each aperture they could find past his waist. The stretch, the burn, the agony of it all made him hope his heart would fail him.
For a split second sight was returned to him, and he understood he was suspended off the floor. Uldred was down there, a swarm of tendrils coming out of his body and wrapping Cullen in a constricting coil.
He thought he heard screams, but he understood these were his own. These sounds of pain – and, shamefully, of pleasure – were coming from him. He began praying; for help, for deliverance. For death.
***
Cullen opened his eyes on his broken armour, laying just next to him. He felt no different. Slowly he writhed, and surveyed just how damaged he was. His legs trembled even as he laid down. His chest hurt from how hard his heart had pounded at his ribcage. His thighs, and his backside were sullied with slickness.
Cullen didn't try to move any more. He laid there, broken and awaiting whatever would come. He hoped death came before Desire found him. He hoped Uldred had torn him apart down-there, so he would bleed out.
Cullen let himself drift off again, and prayed not to wake up.