Bad Blood

Chapter 11 - Red and White

The flashing light of the camera sparkled on the half-dried blood. The clicking sound filled the high walls of the cathedral but soon disappeared as the stomping sound of police boots followed it. The corpse was already rigid, as white as the robe before became soaked with the red liquid of its owner. Cullen was done questioning the sisters who were assigned to the Cathedral and waited for the coroner to have some preliminary report, although it was obvious what happened with the good Cardinal.

Morrigan busily gathered the small pieces of the skull, uncaring the detective standing behind him. She hummed an unsettlingly smooth melody as observed a piece of bone between her tweezers. This woman made his skin crawl, the naturality of how she handled the gruesome deaths. Although he should have been immune by then, after the countless crime scene he saw. But this was different. It felt like his very own home had been invaded.

Cullen's eyes caught the golden candelabrum painted in sanguine, the one he saw just yesterday the minister boy lit on the altar now supposedly was a lethal weapon. His sanctuary, the place seemed so unwavering even everything else collapsed was filled with the reek of death. He found here the redemption he always sought. Not salvation but a way to pay penitence.

On days like this, he really missed the haze of lyrium. Just a small sting into his vein and the delirium made him forget everything. For a time of course. It was a shortcut to happiness. It was happiness, in its twisted, false way as it was. It was a window to the Heavens and one always wanted more. Who would want to live in the living hell when he could have a peek at the Eden? How could anybody refuse this?

A wave of sharp pain washed through his skull, spiking at the nape of his head. He hissed and his legs sagged. A reminder that this privilege to see the Heavens had a very serious price. Discreetly, he took the flask that was always in his side pocket and drank a gulp of medicine. But the pain remained. And the nightmares. He wanted at least a good reason to have nightmares. At least Alistair had the war to give him a reason. But Cullen... Meredith cleaned his file like it never happened. In return... well, only the ancient walls of the Cathedral knew what he gave in return.

The heatwave that struck the city almost overnight made things even worse. It was uncommon in Ferelden, even in the summer time. The whole city felt restless in the scorching heat. Like a gunpowder keg that only waited for a small sparkle to blow up. Strangely, the uprises at the Alienage ceased, still, the dry hot air was filled with that magnetic feeling before raging storms that usually ended droughts.

Cullen himself was sleepless for weeks without the heat, but now, even with wide-open windows and always working ventilators and the beneficial airblasts didn't bring dreams and made his migraines even worse by day. The high stone walls of the Cathedral although banished the heat the days without rest made irreversible damage to his mood.

" Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written, " Alistair's thoughtful reciting derailed his thoughts, pointing to the unfinished text written on the altar by the blood of the victim. At least they assumed at this point it was the victim's blood. "Our killer at least has some poetic sense. What does it mean?"

"We have no idea yet," Cullen turned to his partner. He was in a black suit, his face was clean-shaven and his hair combed backward. He forgot about Teagan Guerrins's funeral. He tended to forget Alistair's bloodline but had the feeling he didn't mind that at all. "I'm sorry, we forgot-" Cullen muttered, but Alistair just dismissed him with a single gesture.

"I wasn't at the funeral," he said, carelessly shrugging. "And you've just spared me a very awkward wake. I don't think anybody would miss me there anyway."

Alistair had spent his childhood at Redcliffe, far from the curious eyes of the court, raised as a stable boy, sleeping at the servant quarter. Rumors had been spreading and gone of his origin. Most servants thought he was the bastard of Arl Eamon Guerrin. And they mostly felt this theory confirmed when Isolde, the wife of the arl, sent him away to a military school. At that time, even he was unaware of the truth. And later, after a few scars, visible and invisible, the truth became irrelevant. Someone told Alistair once the children were reflections of their parents. He hardly remembered his mother and he mostly knew his father only from photos and news and those few exceptions when he messaged him through a servant of the Court. So whose reflection was he? His own?