A man could become surprisingly content in ‘upstate’ New York. In geography, if not the baffling state of technology, it almost resembled portions of the Hinterlands. Modern conveniences such as hot showers were only a bonus. Hamburgers had a milder flavor than druffalo, but far from a bad one. There was even Wicked Grace. Cullen’s success at the game remained highly inconsistent, but he had yet to lose his trousers. He chose not to examine how easily he’d been persuaded to take part in such a dangerous game, and instead to congratulate himself on escaping with his dignity intact. Even the ice witch’s recent siege had ended without loss of life, as close as it had come. No period of Cullen’s life could be described as ‘idyllic’ - if such a thing could exist in any world - but there were moments when he could almost sink into that feeling…
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“Do you accept the gift I offer?”
Cullen’s eyes shot open on the shimmering cage in front of him.
“Such entertaining escapes you craft for yourself,” the voice murmured, teasing at the hairs on the back of his neck. Such a sweet voice, despite the words, but the laughter rattled his bones. “Of all the lovely heroines to come to your rescue…” The demon circled around to smile invitingly at him with Neria’s lips.
“This trick again?” It was own voice mocking, his own laughter echoing and deepening into that bone-shaking boom. “Fighting every step of the way, but still so easily snared by the very same desires.”
“Begone, demon!” It was still his voice, but coming from his own cracked and dry throat. “This isn’t real!”
Cullen squeezed his eyes closed pushing back the vision. Hadn’t he fought off that terror a dozen, a thousand times over the last decade? The regular philter had dulled the dreams, washed out the sharp colors in the blazing song of lyrium, but not entirely erased them. It had been one of the temptations to return to the daily draught, not as physical as the tremors or the chills or the lightning in his veins, but he had fought that temptation as well.
A new jolt of lightning - electric, not chemical - lasting for hours, days, it seemed, sapping the strength from his muscles and draining the will to fight. He would not abandon the battle, however, not after coming so far, not when it would betray the support of his friends, the trust of Cassandra, the support of his - of the Inquisitor.
A flicker of movement and color to his left, and he opened his eyes against his will, the teasing form had a different face, framed in burnished braids and traced with gold and green lines. A different voice, like a bath of cold water. “Always what you cannot have, Commander. Is that the allure?”