Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ONCE NINETEEN

If Cullen could have picked how and when he would die, he would have chosen differently.

He would have been older, of course. Who wants to die at nineteen years of age?

And it would have happened quickly, like a sword wound perhaps, severing an artery.

Or if it must be drawn out, no injury, just the natural process of death, which would find him lying in bed, bones weary with age, the window open on a clear blue sky, a gentle breeze catching his last breath.

But not like this.

Not like a dog in a cage.

Sitting down on the cold hard stone outside of the Harrowing Chamber, with nothing to do but contemplate his grim fate, Cullen tries to understand how it came to this.

There has been no warning signs, no tell-tale rumors of an impending crisis. 

Or perhaps Cullen hasn’t noticed them. 

Too busy trusting mages, too quick to befriend them, too lenient.

Greagoir’s usual complaint - the only one - on Cullen’s monthly assessment comes back to haunt him now, because the Knight-Commander was right. Cullen has not been paying attention.

Would it have made any difference if he had? It is unlikely seeing no one, neither his superiors nor the senior members of the Circle of Magi, saw this tragedy coming.

That is why he is here, because no one noticed Uldred's schemes.

And now, they must all pay the price for their negligence. The Templars, of course, first victims of this terrible act. But the mages too whose screams, as they turn into abominations at the hands of Uldred, are splitting his eardrums.

Cullen folds in on himself, his arms wrapped around his head to muffle the sound, and he prays. He prays for this ordeal to come to an end.

It does not.

After the first day or so inside his prison, it becomes impossible for Cullen to tell time. 

A mere moment, or an age, might have passed since it all started, for everything looks the same in the cage.

No day or night. 

No water, except for the putrid content of his own waterskin, and that will soon be empty.

No food, only scraps thrown at him. Unsatisfactory. Not meant to feed him, only to sustain him for a little longer.

And if the starvation does not kill him, the lyrium withdrawal will. Already his veins feel like dried-up husks and the craving, the terrible craving, is like nothing he has ever felt before, his skin breaking out in goosebumps while cold sweat runs down his back, the nausea made worse by the emptiness of his stomach.

At one point, there are two things Cullen is certain of.

One, he is the last one left.

Two, he will die soon.

Therefore when the mage returns to ask him more questions, Cullen is surprised. None of his friends have made it past the first probing.

“Well, templar, are you ready to show me more?” Gravid’s voice rings with genuine curiosity.

Cullen winces. 

Earlier, his mind was breached by the mage’s blood magic. The object of this particular exercise is still unclear, and Cullen refuses to even imagine what the mage could possibly be up to. All he knows is that it cannot do any good to spill his thoughts to his enemy, and he involuntarily shakes his head when the man enters the cage.

“No?” Enchanter Gravid cackles, “we’ll see about that.”

Pain, sharp and acute, makes Cullen cry out when Gravid, using the same dagger, reopens the wound he has inflicted on Cullen’s arm earlier, closing it up again with a healing spell dispensed by a careless flick of his hand, for Gravid’s full attention is now focused on the vial of Cullen’s blood he has just obtained.

Witnessing his own memories, as if he was a bystander, has been a peculiar, unpleasant feeling, and not one Cullen particularly wants to try again and yet, for all the terror and disgust he is filled with, there is a certain fascination watching Gravid perform the same ritual as before.

A splash of red on the ground, where the blood hits the floor.

An incantation, spoken in a monotone voice, almost like a chant, and before long, the same red haze lifting out of the bloody stain. It surrounds Cullen, as if the life-force severed from him were seeking to return home and soon, red heat spreads through Cullen’s body until it reaches his eyes, momentarily blinding him. 

And then, quite suddenly, he can see again.

A kitchen.

A young woman, with long blond hair tied in a bun, and a kind face.

Millie, his own mother, holding Cullen, then a newborn infant, in her arms.

Mia, playing nearby, babbling to herself in the unintelligible speech of a toddler as she moves a few wooden figures around. 

The wind rattles a few branches outside, and it sounds as though long nails are scratching at the thick opaque glass of the window. 

Millie puts the baby down in his crib and, her hand on his cheek, caresses him  gently. “Sleep, little one,” she tells her infant son with a smile, but it does not reach her eyes. Tears well up there instead, and her solitude emanates from her like a veil of smoke.

Back in the kitchen, she puts on her apron, on which she has dried her tears, and lines up the ingredients she will need for her weekly baking. 

As she kneads the bread dough, she hums softly, a song her own mother used to sing to her, but the sound of her voice is drowned out by Mia’s peals of laughter.

When Cullen opens his eyes again, he can still here the laughter, but it comes from his captor. 

Behind the shimmery glow of the magical barrier, Gravid is observing him with interest.

“There was happiness, in that house, but there was loneliness also," he says, peering at Cullen's face. "Tell me, Rutherford, does it make your little templar heart bleed, to see your mamma cry?”

Cullen closes his eyes, as if it might help keep the intrusive presence of the man at bay. As much as seeing his mother and sister has momentarily enchanted him, he hates that the vision was shared with a stranger, and the feeling of violation makes him gag.

“Why is she so lonely, I wonder?” Gravid asks.

Cullen’s friends, in their steadfast refusal to engage with the mage, only reaped the reward of a painful, prolonged agony, and Cullen thinks that maybe, he has a chance at survival if he keeps Gravid interested and thus, through gritted teeth, against his better judgement, Cullen answers his question. 

“My father worked all day on the farm, so my mother was often alone. She left her own family behind in Redcliffe when she came to live in Honnleath after their wedding. She often talked about missing her mother and sisters, even after she had us. Even after she had made new acquaintances in the village,” Cullen explains through a haze of tears.

Seeing his mother, talking about home has awoken the almost-forgotten, near-physical ache of missing his family, like he used to when he first joined the Order, and he longs for them just as much now.

Longs to be reunited with them. 

Instead, he will never see them again.

When the tears run down his cheeks, Cullen lowers his head, ashamed to show his sorrow to this heartless man. “I guess one always misses one’s family,” Cullen says with a sob he can’t stifle.

Gravid’s eyes narrow, and he considers Cullen with a sneer. “And yet, you fail to recognise how cruel removing a mage from a loving family is. You are full of contradictions, templar.”

“It’s different for mages,” Cullen’s head snaps up in outrage. This man ought to know there is no other way, that a family is not safe with an untrained mage on their hands. Has he not heard the stories, time and time again, of uncontrolled, untamed magic and the damage it has caused, the people it has killed? Surely an Enchanter knows of this? 

“It's not the same thing at all and you know it," Cullen continues, defiant.

“I know no such thing. All I know is what your Chantry and your Order have told me. And I don’t believe any of it any more. I refuse to,” Gravid spits.

Absolute hatred distorts his features, and Cullen squeezes his eyes shut, awaiting the spell that will end his life.

When nothing happens, Cullen looks again to find Gravid wiping his bloody hands on a cloth, and despair blooms in his chest at the thought of being left here once more, in this static place between death and life, between terror and resignation, between the real world and the nightmare.

A thought so distressing it makes him whimper.

“If you wish for death, you will be disappointed. I have no intention of killing you,” Gravid says nonchalantly, now dusting down his robes, “I enjoy looking into your mind too much.”

“But why?” Cullen asks, his curiosity piqued despite his aversion to the man standing in front of him. “What purpose can that possibly serve?”

Gravid beams, his face affable now, as if they were discussing the weather at a tea party, as if they weren’t in a room full of corpses, as if the horrendous screams coming from the Harrowing Chamber weren’t sickening.

“I believe there is a great misunderstanding between us mages and templars. We’re not so different, are we? We both have blood running in our veins. We both have hopes and dreams. We both have similar feelings, apparently, for I too cry for my lost family,” the man explains calmly, pacing in front of Cullen, “I want to study you templars, which is only fair, you will agree, given how much scrutiny us mages have always been under. Did you know when mages die, you people cut them open, to see if the magic within is still there? Well, my job is much more simple. I want to look inside to see where your cruelty comes from. Lucky for you I don’t have to cut you open for that, or just a little,” he adds with a laugh as he points to Cullen’s still-bleeding cut.

“But I’ve never been cruel to anyone,” Cullen protests, “I’m a soldier, sworn to protect mages. I have no intention of ever harming anyone.”

“Your very existence is cruelty, for your order is nothing more than jailers keeping perfectly innocent people prisoners. And killing them when they fail an arbitrary, unfair test. You say you never harmed anyone? Were you not the one holding the sword during Harrowings, pointed straight at a mage’s heart?”

Cullen winces, for the man tells the truth. He has had to kill.

But only when necessary.

Only when the mage was turning into an abomination.

Only to protect the rest of the tower.

“If I had not, we would have been overrun with demons far sooner,” Cullen exclaims before taking a step back, for the man in front of him glowers.

“You tell yourself a nice, convenient story so you can sleep at night, don't you, templar,” he pronounces that last word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth, “but I know what you are, and I want to know how you became it.”

“Why me?” Cullen asks softly, his defiance slowly subsiding under the glare of his opponent.

The mage snorts as he tilts his head carelessly toward a pile of bodies beside him. “Simple. You’re the only one who let me in. See you again soon, templar.”

His robes trail behind him as he departs, and Cullen is left alone.

His eyes return to the spot where Gravid was standing and, forcing himself to look at the bodies, he becomes lost in the morbid contemplation of his fallen comrades.

It is difficult to single out one person out of the mass of broken, tangled limbs, but soon he finds what he is looking for and the blank and waxy face of Annlise, his oldest friend from his training days, comes into focus.

Her dead stare, it seems to Cullen, is full of accusations.

His knees buckle under him, and yet he holds her gaze, even as he slumps to the ground with a thud. 

“Forgive me, Ann, please forgive me. I could not protect anyone. I could not protect you,” Cullen whispers, reaching out to her but not daring to touch the shimmery veil of the cage, enchanted to burn if his skin comes in contact with it. 

All Cullen wants to do is go to her and close her eyes, move her to a more comfortable position, cover her face, perhaps, for he is certain she would hate to be lying there like this, her body discarded like a rag doll. 

But he is powerless.

Instead, with a sigh, Cullen does the only thing he can do, and launches into the fervent recitation of his prayers, the comforting words his only sustenance. 

He prays for Annlise. He prays for all the others too.

And he prays for himself.

Chapter Text

On Cullen’s eight birthday, gifts from Mamma’s sisters had arrived from Redcliffe. The presents usually consisted of candied fruits, or perhaps items of clothing - knitted from the fine lambswool Mamma’s family was famed for -  and thus it was with no small amount of excitement that Cullen had opened Aunt Roberta’s present, which promised to contain something different to the usual fares, if the shape of it was any indication.

Everyone had admired the play sword Cullen had pulled out of the box, but none was more enthralled by it than Cullen.

Aunt Roberta’s main passion, as she liked to remind the children whenever she visited Honnleath, was reading, and she would sometimes leave books behind for them after her visits, a generous contributor to the Rutherford’s otherwise sparse library. In the long fereldan winters, the books became Cullen's refuge, when there was nothing to do but stay by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, while the snowstorms raged outside.

Of course, as soon as he’d seen the sword, his mind had immediately conjured all of the dashing princes, noble chevaliers and valiant knights from the stories he loved, and he'd spent the rest of his birthday fighting dragons as one of the heroes, only ever so slightly disappointed that he, Cullen, would never get to fight anything.

It was on the family’s next trip to Honnleath, a few days later, that he suddenly realised there were real life heroes living nearby, and while his mother and siblings perused the market stalls, Cullen had wandered to the Chantry to look at the men and women of the templar order, soon wondering how he had never noticed their gleaming armors and long swords, and he admired their strength and grace as they practiced in the yard until Mamma sent Branson to fetch him.

That afternoon, at the lake, he had not joined in with his siblings as they enjoyed one of their last swims before the true bite of autumn put an end to their outdoor pleasures, spending his time instead attempting to reproduce the movements he had seen the templar knights perform, more and more certain of his calling. 

So much so that when his siblings had joined him again, Cullen had declared, in a solemn voice, that he was going to become a templar. 

All three of them had laughed, of course - who had ever heard of a farmer’s son becoming a knight - and Rosalie had said she might herself become a princess. Or a cat, she wasn’t sure. 

Branson, for his part, had grabbed Cullen by the waist, calling on ‘Ser Cullen’ to defend himself lest he wanted to be thrown into the lake with his clothes on.

But Mia who, as the eldest, was always in charge of everyone, had shushed them both, smiling indulgently at Cullen while she had assured that he could indeed become anything he liked.

Three years later, the sword is long gone, broken one afternoon against a particularly vicious monster disguised as a tree. Since then Cullen makes new weapons out of tree branches, but Rosalie, who spends her entire time imitating Mamma, keeps taking them to use as brooms. 

The sword Cullen holds now, hastily fashioned out of a piece of Father’s broken fence, feels like a poor replacement of Aunt Roberta’s sword, but Cullen consoles himself with a heart-warming thought. Even if the weapon is inferior to his old one, his technique, on the other hand, has greatly improved, thanks to the time he has spent watching the templars and studying their every moves.

It is much simpler, in the summer, to find time or reason to go to the village, and Cullen, even though a little bit of shame gnaws at his insides, takes full advantage of that, often inventing errands to justify his absence, just like he has today. But, he thinks as he runs past the golem, his heart thumping in his chest, it’s not like he will skimp on his chores. They will be done, just a little later, and surely that doesn’t cause any harm to anyone?

And so, by the time he reaches the Chantry, where he can see his friend Ben waiting for him, leaning against the fence as he takes a bite of an apple, Cullen has forgotten all about his guilt, replaced by an altogether much more pleasant feeling of anticipation.

Ben, once his light meal is done, is not quite the sparring partner Cullen would wish for, his enthusiasm for sword practice only feigned to please his friend, but Cullen enjoys wielding his ‘sword’ nonetheless, instead of one of his father’s farm tools, which he would be doing right now if he’d stayed home.

Simon Rutherford would frown to see his son wasting his time here, outside the Chantry, and Cullen knows that. But he doesn’t care. This is what he loves doing, and nothing, not even his father’s disapproval, will stop him from coming here.

It is especially gratifying at present,  because one of templars just turned his head their way, sending Cullen’s heart aflutter, and he redoubles his efforts.

“Ouch, Cullen, my fingers,” cries Ben when Cullen whacks his hand a little too hard in an attempt at disarming him.
 
“Sorry, Ben,” Cullen replies distractedly as he watches, with a pinch of disappointment, the soldier turn away from them again, “I’ll be more careful.”

But Ben has had enough, and no amount of cajoling him can change his mind . Instead, he sits down under one of the old oak trees that line the town square, watching as Cullen, piqued by the premature end of their training, hits a tree trunk with force for a while before he heads back home.

The tall soldier is there again the next day, and Cullen thinks this time, surely, he might get a chance to make an impression, and he renews his effort despite the soreness of his clenched fingers, the pain in his arm, the cramp in his leg. With loud grunts, he forces Ben to retreat, until the boy lands on his backside, a cloud of dust lifting from under him as he falls, and Cullen places the tip of his pretend sword to his friend’s neck.

“You are dead, Ben,” he declares, and there is no denying the feeling of triumph coursing through his veins, the excitement of besting an opponent. Nothing he does in his everyday life gives him quite as much thrill as this, and his eyes dart up to the man in the distance.

Has he been watching? Is he suitably impressed? 

Cullen’s heart skips a beat when not only the man smiles, but also makes his way to them. 

Extending a hand to Ben, who is grumbling about having torn a hole in his breeches, Cullen helps his friend up, and with a nudge of his head, he silently points to the approaching soldier. 

Ben’s face pales at the imminent arrival of a stranger, and Cullen rolls his eyes to the sky when the younger boy hides behind him.

“What are your names, boys?”

The man is broad-shouldered and very intimidating, speaking with an accent Cullen is not familiar with. The metal of his impeccably-polished armor shines brightly in the still-strong evening sun, and when he removes his helmet, beads of sweat litter his forehead.

“This is Ben,” Cullen tilts his torso to reveal the boy hiding behind him, mildly annoyed at his shyness - it’s not every day a templar speaks to them, and Cullen wishes he would be more amiable -  “and I’m Cullen,” he adds, straightening his shoulders to make himself look taller.

The templar nods in salutation. “You two hang around here a lot, don’t you?”

Cullen nods. “We like sword practice.”

“I can tell, you are really good,” the man says with a smile, and Cullen feels his cheeks redden from the compliment. “Show me your sword,” he continues, and Cullen, his face growing hotter but from embarrassment now, places the plank of wood in the man’s outstretched hand.

“It’s not even a proper sword,” Cullen mumbles, lowering his head.

“You don’t need a ‘proper’ sword, young Cullen. In fact, we use wooden swords for training. Much safer,” the man counters, and brandishing Cullen’s weapon, he twirls it this way and that, cutting the air with sounds like a real sword would make. “Even a simple piece of wood can be a good weapon, if wielded correctly. But if you wait here a while, I may perhaps be able to provide a more suitable alternative to this.”

Cullen hesitates, for the chantry bell has rung six times and he ought to be going home, but he nods anyway, even after Ben has excused himself to walk back to his house, a stones throw away from the Chantry, and Cullen stands alone as the man disappears inside the chantry.

After what feels like an eternity, the soldier returns with a templar training sword in his hand.

“Here, Cullen, I have a spare one, so if you want this one, it is yours to keep.”

Cullen’s mouth falls open, and he can’t think of anything to say.

“My gift to you,” the man continues with an encouraging nod, and it is only then that Cullen dares to take the proffered gift.

“Thank you,” Cullen manages to mumble, running his nail along the tiny templar symbol carved on the base of the blade.

“Continue to practice, young Cullen, and remember if you want something badly enough, you need to work hard to get it,” the man adds, ruffling Cullen’s hair before taking his leave.

Cullen takes the time - time he doesn’t have - to watch the armoured bulk of the man retreat to the soldiers’ quarters and after he finally disappears from view, Cullen swivels on his heels, running the whole way home, holding the precious gift close to him, and he tells himself Rosalie has better stay away from this one.

By the time he gets home, a spectacular stitch has formed in his side, and night is falling. 

The thatched house looks cosy, in the gathering dusk, golden light shining through the thick glass of the windows. A thin trail of smoke rises from the chimney, and when a gust of wind catches it, the pungent smell of burnt wood fills Cullen’s nostrils.

Even though he knows there will be trouble because of his tardiness, Cullen can’t help but smile at the memory of this most wonderful afternoon as he enters the house, interrupting his family’s singing, a favorite post-supper activity of his parents.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” his mother says, standing up and beckoning him to her, “where have you been? I was getting worried.”

Cullen catches Branson whispering into Rosalie’s ear as they both look at the sword in his hand, but they all fall silent when Father glares at them.

“I’m sorry, Mamma, I was talking to a templar, and I lost track of time.”

A giggle from Branson and a huff from Father.

“Don’t tell me we have to listen to more of this templar nonsense,” Father says, his eyebrows furrowed in that look he gets when he’s upset.

“He said I am really good. Look what he gave me,” Cullen replies hurriedly, because maybe, just maybe, if he shows Father the sword, he will understand. 

Father, however, is too busy putting on his work boots to listen.

“I expect your chores to be done before you go to bed,” he orders before he leaves without another look at Cullen, whose throat is too tight to speak, and who would very much like to throw the weapon at the door. 

But Mamma is beside him now, gathering him to her in a tender embrace, and when he buries his face against her, Cullen’s anger melts, replaced by shame to have caused his mother to worry.

“I’m sorry, Mamma, I won’t be late again.”

Gentle lips kiss the top of his head. “Come, darling, you must be famished. You supper is waiting, and I even kept you a slice of pie. You can tell me all about your exciting day - and your gift - while you eat, and then you can go do your chores.” 

Cullen nods in the softness of her arms as she caresses his hair. 

Her apron smells of sweet blackberries, of flour and butter, and of home.

Eight years later, in the Tower, there is no gentleness in the cage, no scent other than the stench of death, no sound other than his own labored breaths, and Cullen whimpers as the soft haziness of the memory ebbs away, replaced by the harsh purple glimmer of the magical prison walls he can’t break.

"Who knows me as You do? 
You have been there since before my first breath. 
You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. 
You composed the cadence of my heart."

Out of nowhere, seemingly of their own volition, Cullen's lips find the verses Millicent Rutherford, his mamma, read out a long time ago during her sister Roberta’s funeral, and Cullen thinks he can hear his mother’s voice reciting with him, breaking the silence of his ordeal for a beautiful, if short-lived, moment.

Chapter Text

At twelve years of age, Cullen is taller than most of his peers.

Outside the Chantry, when the lessons he and all the village children attend come to an end, it gives him an advantage because no one dares bothering him. 

In fact, he has emerged as a bit of a defender, stepping in when someone is being picked on. A role he relishes, for it appeals to his protective nature, and when Rosalie, who is often on the receiving end of nasty behaviour due to her shyness, tells him she feels safer when he is around, Cullen thinks it makes the altercations - and the cuts and bruises he earns in the process - worthwhile.

Not that he loses those brawls very often, given he is also stronger than most, thanks to the hours he spends helping Father on the farm, and the time he dedicates to his sword training.

For Cullen has never forgotten the day the templar gave him his sword, nor his words of advice.

“Remember, if you want something badly enough, you need to work hard to get it.”

Since that day, the soldier has unfortunately left, his station in Honnleath only a temporary one, but for all the disappointment of his departure, other good things have happened.

At home, Father has eventually agreed - though he prefers saying Mia has worn him down - to let Cullen practice, providing all of his work is done. His siblings, encouraged by Mia, help him. It’s mostly pretend sword play, for neither Mia nor Branson really care for the game, but to Cullen, it means everything, and he is grateful to them. Especially little Rosalie who, wearing a mage robe fashioned out of one of Mamma’s old dresses, grumbles a little about always having to be the apostate, a role she plays very well, adding impressive flicks of her wrist when she ‘casts’ spells with her makeshift staff.

When he has more time on hand, Cullen also goes to the village to practice. There, he is watched by Ben, who has long given up sword play, and the very lovely Philippa Milne, Ben’s neighbour. Cullen tries to forget about Philippa’s pretty smile when he hits the straw dummies, which the templars have allowed him access to, only blushing a little afterwards when she asks to feel his arms, which he flexes to show off his burgeoning muscles.

But even having Philippa’s attention is eclipsed by the thrill of training with templars, which happens on occasion, when they have a bit of time to spare. His teachers are kind and helpful, providing him with tips and lessons he puts into practice later.

No, Cullen has never forgotten the advice of the tall templar, honing his skills through hard work and dedication, shaping his body and his mind with each passing day.

One day, without notice, the tall templar returns, more than an year after their initial meeting, and when he sees him, a large smile splits Cullen’s face.

“Ah, young Cullen, I am glad to see you,” the soldier greets him, also beaming, “I heard you have been an assiduous visitor. It pleases me greatly to see you put my advice to good use.”

“Thank you, Ser,” Cullen replies, and this time he doesn’t have to straighten his shoulders quite as much to appear tall.

“Your friend isn’t joining you?”

“Not any more,” Cullen replies, pursing his lips disapprovingly with a shake of his head. Ben, the son of a Honnleath Council officeholder, has decided combat training isn’t for him, and that he should concentrate on following in his father’s footsteps instead.

The man shrugs. “Oh well, not everyone has the discipline required, Cullen, and that’s quite all right. We templars only want the best recruits, and it’s better to find out what one is made of before they join the order.”

“I don’t think Ben ever wanted to join the order,” Cullen explains.

“Ben has every right to seek some other fortune. I sacrificed many things, when I decided to become a templar. It’s a hard life, Cullen, make no mistake. I cannot imagine doing this work if I wasn’t fully committed to it.”

Cullen reflects on that a little, wondering how much he would be prepared to give up to realise his dream.

“What must you give up, to become a templar?” he inquires eventually, because he can’t quite imagine what those sacrifices might be.

“Oh, a lot, Cullen” the man replies, coming to crouch by his side, “family being the biggest sacrifice. The family you were born in, of course, for training will mean parting from them, but also any future family you may want to have. Very few of us are allowed to marry, or have children. You also give up your body, for it no longer really belongs to you, but to the order. We… There is a vigil, at the end of training, during which a recruit takes a vial of lyrium, which is what gives us our powers. There is no turning back after that, for the lyrium will be needed for the rest of your life within the order. And some might say you give up your freedom also, for your movements and the places you will live in shall be dictated by the order. Requests can be made, of course, for we are not prisoners and have some agency, but in general, we do as we are told.”

Cullen nods.

“But,” the man continues, “the rewards are great. Becoming a knight is a worthy pursuit, something that helps people like you and me, born to lower classes, to elevate ourselves in the world. And if they are not stationed in a Circle, some templars get to travel the world, discovering places and people they would never have seen otherwise. But greatest of all is the satisfaction of working for the Maker.”

That last argument catches Cullen’s attention the most. Aside from sword practice, the one thing he loves is practicing his faith, which Mamma instilled in her children from their youngest age by taking them to the Chantry regularly. Prayer time at home is a perfect moment of peace and reflection, each word of the Chant spoken reverently by Mamma’s clear voice, and followed by passionate theological conversations around the table when, assembled for a light meal, the family discusses the holy texts. 

Surely, Cullen thinks later that day, as he makes his way home, there can be no greater calling than serving the Maker? While he walks, he also ruminates on the other things the templar mentioned.

Giving up on having a wife and a family is not something Cullen will lose sleep over, even though he does get a twinge of regret thinking about Philippa Milne, who kissed him once and wondered if he might like to marry her someday.

As for hard work, it doesn’t scare him, seeing he already gets up an hour earlier than his siblings to jog around Father’s courtyard and practice his footwork - and neither does taking that lyrium thing the soldier mentioned, if it means he can be a better soldier.

There is only one thing he is not sure he can do, and the thought of it makes him break into a run, eager to get home to his family. The notion of parting from them steals his breath away, and when he sees Mia in the garden, bringing in the washing from the clothes line, he rushes to her, flinging his arms around her so hard that her basket falls to the ground.

“Cullen, what is with you?” she exclaims, ready to admonish him but when he holds her tighter, she hugs him back. “Cullen? Are you all right?”

He nods against her shoulder - he is almost as tall as she is now - before planting a kiss on her cheek, letting her go as abruptly as he held her to pick up the basket his embrace made her drop.

Mia shakes her head with a little laugh. “Come on, you pup, let’s go in. Mamma is getting ready to serve supper.”

"So, tell me then. What do you know about templars?”

The tall soldier - who finally introduced himself as Ser Campbell from the Free Marches - is a Knight-Captain, on a repeat visit to Honnleath, where he has come to oversee recruit training. His busy schedule, however, has not stopped him from spending an hour with Cullen every day for the past two weeks, very pleased with his progress.

It is Ben who answers him first, watching them from the sideline as he crunches noisily on an apple.

“They hunt bad mages who have escaped from their Circles.”

The Knight-Captain peers at him. “We call them apostates. And they are not necessarily bad, although they do break the law. So yes, bringing them back to their Circle is part of a templars’ job. What else?” he probes again, turning to Cullen this time, who is reflecting on what was just said. “What do you think, Cullen?”

“They… protect people?” Cullen ventures in a hesitant voice.

“Very good. And who do they protect? What people?”

“Non mages. They protect non-mage people from mages.”

“Think further, Cullen,” Ser Campbell asks, visibly fired up by the conversation. “Are you afraid of mages?”

“A little,” Cullen admits, and from the corner of his eye, he can see Ben eagerly nodding in agreement.

“Why are you afraid of them?” the man wants to know.

Cullen thinks for a moment. He’s not exactly sure why. It’s not like he has even met a mage. The closest he has ever come to magic is the Sulzbacher family but even then, only Wilhelm, the father, was a mage, and he is long dead. Rumours of his demise - supposedly at the hand of the golem - seem far fetched but it is very clear people still fear the mage’s widow and her son, Matthias, for they rarely have visitors, aside from Mamma who has become Matilda Sulzbacher’s friend.

“Because of stories I’ve heard, I guess,” Cullen replies, for he cannot deny the uneasy feeling he gets whenever he accompanies Mamma to the mage’s house, where demons are said to still be lurking in the cellar.

Ser Campbell leans closer, his dark eyes intense. “Ah you see, therein lies the problem. We are all afraid of mages without quite knowing why, based only on the tales - some real, some invented - we have heard. In my experience, fear leads to trouble. Non-mages are known to kill mages just because they are afraid of them. So yes, we protect the general populace from potentially dangerous mages but also, we protect mages from people who might cause harm to them. But above all, we must protect mages from themselves.”

“Why? What do they do?” Ben asks, enthralled, for even he is fascinated by mages. 

“They are born with powers they may or may not want. Sometimes, powers so strong they can’t control them. They are also preyed upon by spirits, some of them malevolent. And that’s where templars come in. To protect them, we bring them to Circles, and watch over them there.”

Cullen nods, but because he only has a vague notion of Circles, he asks what they actually are.

“They are where mages live,” Ser Campbell explains, “and where most templars start their careers. There, the mages won't be exposed to the dangers of the outside world, and they are taught to control their magic, and learn to resist demonic temptation. They also study the arcane arts, and many other subjects. It's a scholarly life, but peaceful and worthwhile, for they contribute to a lot of research which benefit everyone. The templars make sure all the inhabitants adheres to the Circle's rules, and intervene only if problems arise."

“But they can go if they want, can’t they? The mages, I mean,” Cullen asks, thinking about Wilhelm Sulzbacher again.

The templar lowers his head, and for a moment he looks quite sad. “No, they cannot. There they must remain, bar a few who get to work outside of the Circles.”

“What if they don’t like it there? Aren’t they sad they can’t do what they want?” Ben quips.

“Of course, some of them are sad. Mages are not so different from us, you know. They have feelings, and dreams too. But no, they can’t ever leave, even if they don’t like it there. For that reason, we must always strive to be good to them, ensure that they are as happy as they can be within the Circle. So tell me, Cullen, do you still think, after hearing all this, that you would make a good templar?”

There isn’t a shadow of a doubt in Cullen’s mind, for he now understands what he can bring to the Order. 

Yes, he is strong, and yes, he is good with a sword. But Mamma always says his biggest asset is his heart, and how much he cares for his family, how fiercely he protects his little sister. He will be good at protecting people, and mages.

“Yes,” he answers, holding Ser Campbell’s scrutinising gaze, “I would make a good templar.”

But before the man can reply, a voice rises behind them. “Are you ready to go home, Cullen?”

Cullen and Ser Campbell both turn to find Mamma standing there, her basket in the crook of her elbow, Rosalie in tow, hiding behind her mother’s brown skirt. There is a peculiar look in Mamma’s eyes, a mixture of fear and resentment, Cullen thinks, something rare enough that it unsettles him.

“Are you Cullen’s mother?” Ser Campbell asks, and Mamma nods briefly.

“I am. Millicent Rutherford, at your service,” she answers in a clipped tone.

“A pleasure,” Ser Campbell says, beaming, “I am glad to meet you today. I have been meaning to visit your house for some time. May I have a word with you now?”

Mamma glances at Cullen, her expression changing to sadness, but it is so fleeting - a polite smile swiftly replaces it - that Cullen thinks perhaps he has imagined it.

“Certainly,” she says, and when she steps away with the man, Cullen holds Rosie’s hand, Ben coming to stand by their side too. There is something strange in the air, a silence hanging so heavy between the three of them that no one dares break it.

What the man has told Mamma, it seems Cullen will never know, for she remains quiet the whole way home, her mouth pinched in a thin line. Sometimes, her hand tightens around Cullen's, and he gives her a little squeeze back, like that old game they used to play together when he was smaller. 

Except this time, she doesn’t smile, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on the path ahead. Even little Rosie, who normally hums or picks flowers as they walk, seems subdued, clutching the handle of Mamma’s basket.

It is only long after supper, and long past his bedtime, that Cullen finds out what was said.

Sneaking up to the barn, into which Mamma and Mia just walked in, Cullen crouches behind a barrel, and overhears the conversation within.

“I see you brought your staunchest ally with you, Millie,” Father tells Mamma in a gruff voice. “Nice try, but my answer is still no.”

“Mamma brought me here to try and reason with you, Pappa,” Mia replies in an animated voice, “because she said you are being as stubborn as a mule.”

“What is it you two want me to say, then?” Father’s voice booms, and Cullen cowers a little. “That I agree to part from my son? That I have no problem sending him away to some Maker-forsaken country? I have plans for him, and none of them include him spending the next decade in a monastery.”

A high-pitched exclamation from Mia, before Mamma’s gentler voice takes over. “What about his wishes, Simon? Are they not important too?”

“Exactly,” Mia adds passionately, “Cullen has plans too, you know. Why do you think he has been working so hard? He told me, when he was eight years old, that this is what he wants to do and I have never once doubted him since. His focus, his determination have convinced me, Pappa. And the Knight-Captain has been convinced too, he said he believes Cullen has what it takes to make an excellent soldier. Why can’t you let him do what he wants to do?”

Silence falls, and Cullen dares not breathe, lest they should hear him.

A sigh, before Father speaks again.

“And you agree with this, Millie?  You think he should go? You would be willing to part from him, your beloved son? You would send him away from here, knowing full well how lonely he’s bound to be? You always say how much you miss Redcliffe. How do you think he is going to fare, a child, hundreds of leagues from home?”

There is a tremor to Mother’s response. Cullen can almost picture her quivering chin, her eyes full of tears, and it makes his own eyes water. 

“Homesickness can be tamed, but a broken heart can’t be mended and we will break his if we refuse him, Simon. It will hurt me to my very soul to lose him, but I’d rather my heart be broken than his. I want him to be happy, above all else. And if it means parting from him, I can live with that.”

Another break in the conversation, during which only Mamma’s sniffling can be heard.

“Please, Pappa. For him. For his sake,” Mia pleads, and Cullen can tell she is crying too.

“Fine," Father says after a moment, his voice strained. "So be it. Let him join the Templar Order. We can tell that Knight-Captain our Cullen will go with him.”

Behind the barrel, Cullen is too stunned to even think about what this means.

The cage is still up, its magical humming echoing softly amid the silence of the room. The Harrowing Chamber, on the other side of the heavy door, has been quiet for a while, and Cullen wonders if everyone is dead there also.

Perhaps only Gravid, who is sitting across from him, remains.

“How very interesting,” the mage says, holding his chin in his hand as the visions of Cullen's home dissipate in a haze of red mist. 

Cullen keeps his eyes on the cold floor beneath him, running his finger on the lines of the stone slab he is sitting on. Father’s voice echoes in his head, and he’s not sure if the sniffles he hears are Mamma’s, or his own.

“You really did want to do good, didn’t you, templar" Gravid continues, his pale grey eyes watching Cullen. “You really did think mages need protecting. It would almost warm my heart, if I didn’t know what you truly are.”

“What am I?” Cullen asks dispassionately. He has learnt Gravid will only answer questions he chooses to.

“A jailer. A murderer. At what point of your training did your precious Order tell you mages could be killed at will? Made Tranquil whenever we say or do something you people forbid? At what point did you abandon those ideals of yours to embrace the Chantry doctrine? Let us find out.”

Cullen looks up in alarm. “No, please, no more. My head hurts. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. Why are you doing this? What does it matter? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

It’s true. Cullen knows it. In an hour, a day, a week, he will be dead, and all of his memories with him. He will join AnnLise and the others on the pile of bodies beside him, slowly decaying alongside them. He will add his stench to theirs, and he has come to believe it would be preferable to this torture.

His body is weak from the hunger, from the lack of lyrium, from the repeated loss of blood caused by the injury Gravid inflicts on him every time he seeks to enter his mind. Worst of all, Cullen now thinks he can feel a presence nearby, whenever he hovers between consciousness and the dream-like state the blood magic induces. He is almost certain it is a malevolent spirit and he tries his best to close himself off. But the fear, very real, of being possessed, even though he is a templar and not a mage, gnaws at his insides. The terror is such that he has become scared of falling asleep, slapping himself awake as soon as exhaustion overcomes him.

“You are my experiment, Rutherford, it matters a great deal to me that I should get to see more of your thoughts. I will give you an hour to rest, but prepare for my return. I want to see what happened to your little templar heart, when you had to say goodbye to your Mamma.”

As he walks away, Gravid cackles, and Cullen closes his eyes. 

Not even praying will make him feel better, for leaving his family was hard enough once, and he’s certain he won’t have the strength to do it again.

Chapter Text

Once settled in the monastery of Leastead, a tiny village ten miles south of Danemouth, Cullen does not allow himself to think about many things.

He will not, for instance, bring to mind the endless journey from his native village to his new home. Dull days, spent in the uncomfortable confines of a horse-drawn carriage, the only distraction in the form of towns and villages, woods and fields and, once past Redcliffe, the monotonous immensity of Lake Calenhad. Interminable nights, during which sleep was hard to find, his bedroll too thin to cushion the hard ground, his travelling companions’ snores too loud, the night-time sounds too bewildering.

Nor will he think about his family. As soon as his mind wanders to them, he banishes all thoughts of Honnleath, and Father’s house, certain his heart will shatter into pieces in his chest if he allows them in.

Instead, he throws himself into his new daily routine, every waking hour spent either on martial training or studying, tiring his body as much as his mind so that he is exhausted enough to fall asleep as soon as his head hits his pillow.

A few weeks into it, Cullen can tell Ser Campbell, the Knight-Captain who secured his place in the Order,  has not lied about how taxing this soldier life will be, and he is glad the man helped him prepare for it over the last few months of his stay in Honnleath.

Getting up before dawn every day is not difficult, for Cullen has always been an early riser, well used to the demands of the milking schedule of Father’s cattle, and while the…

“You are toying with me, Rutherford.”

Cullen’s eyes flutter open, the red skin of his eyelids replaced by the crimson mist his blood creates as it surrounds him, floating about under the spell of the mage Gravid.

“What?” Cullen asks in a croaky voice as he attempts to focus. It takes more and more time to come out of the trance-like state, because his mind is so fuzzy.

Perhaps from the lack of lyrium, or from the repeated exposure to blood magic.

He doesn’t know - or care - any more.

“You are not showing me what I asked,” Gravid says in a vexed tone, and Cullen flinches when the mage raises his hands.

Punishment, in the form of a lightning spell, has been inflicted before for such infractions, but Cullen knows it’s no use begging for mercy.

“I can’t. I… My thoughts wander of their own volition. I cannot control them.” 

This is more or less true. The weaker he gets, the more difficult he finds it to concentrate on the question Gravid asks. 

But today, Cullen’s will is strong, and he takes full advantage of that to stop the onslaught of the magic on his memories. It’s a taxing effort and his underclothes, under his armour, are drenched in sweat, sticking to his skin.

“If only you could let me rest,” he continues, squeezing his temples between his fists to alleviate the pressure building in his skull, fearing that more prying will break his resolve.

“I don’t have all day, templar,” Gravid spits as he paces in front of the magical cage, like a predator sizing up his prey.

There is an undercurrent of desperation to Gravid’s rage now. Malevolence still oozes out of his every pore but there is also a sense of increased urgency, and in a flash of clarity, Cullen realises perhaps Gravid is not quite 'Gravid' any longer. 

Glancing at the Harrowing Chamber’s door, Cullen understands what is happening in there, and it sends shivers down his spine, his sweat turning cold.

Uldred is experimenting on his fellow mages. They have become his playthings, doomed to turn into abominations.

When his eyes dart back to Gravid, Cullen thinks he sees a ripple, right there under the skin of the man’s face, where an entity from the Fade might be seeking a body to possess.

“Well, do I have to ask again? Or are you telling me you can’t remember the day you left your family?” Gravid all but growls, and Cullen lowers his head.

Of course he can remember parting from his family. Only six short years have passed since he stepped into the carriage that bore him away from Honnleath. Every detail of that day is etched in his memory, but it is for him, and for him only. He will not allow greedy, malicious eyes to look upon his heartache.

“I can’t. I blocked it out a long time ago. The memories are gone,” Cullen lies through gritted teeth, dark satisfaction coursing through him at the thought he is still strong enough, no matter how powerless he feels, to keep some parts of himself hidden.

Short lived joy, swiftly replaced by absolute terror when a deafening, blinding crack of lightning erupts inside the walls of his jail.

The pain is as sickeningly surprising as it always is, even though he should have braced himself as soon the ozone smell that precedes the blow hit his nose, and strangled screams escape Cullen’s throat as he folds in over himself to try, unsuccessfully, to alleviate the burning, sizzling sensation underneath his skin.

And then, as quickly as it started, the lightning and the pain disappear, and so does Gravid, in a flurry of curses as he leaves the room.

Cullen sits up, dazed, nauseous and vaguely relieved that he is still alive, still breathing, and he spends the next few minutes running the tip of his finger over the mark the spell left on his arm where it hit him. 

Now that Gravid is gone, he doesn’t hold back the tears rolling down his cheeks, the whimpers coming out of his mouth.

Now that he is alone, he opens his mind to the flood of the images he kept from his tormentor.

Now that no one can hear him, Cullen isn’t ashamed to call out for his mother.

“Mamma?”

When Cullen walks into his bedroom, Mamma is sitting on the bed he shares with Branson, her hands resting idly on a small book she holds in her lap, her eyes lost in the quiet contemplation of  the woollen rug under her dainty slippers. 

She looks up on hearing his voice, her face lighting up in a warm smile. 

The sun shines through the thick windowpane, creating a halo of soft morning light around her. She has not styled her hair yet, too busy getting everything ready for his imminent departure, and it frames her face, her  blonde locks turning her into a slightly older version of Rosalie and for the first time, Cullen sees the young girl she used to be, one who had to leave her family too, once upon a time.

“Sit down here a moment, darling,” she says in a low voice, patting the space beside her, and he obeys, sitting as close to her as he can.

“It’s all ready,” she continues, pointing to the travelling trunk she has meticulously packed for him.

Various clothing items, washed, mended and folded neatly; a pair of new leather boots, acquired at great cost not two days ago; provisions for the road - including a net of crisp apples and the little poppy seed buns he loves so well, and his training sword, which he will not part from. 

“Thank you,” Cullen whispers, because he has seen the care she put into getting it all organised for him.

“There is only one more thing to add, and it is this,” she says, lifting the book and handing it to him.

 It is a prayer book, Cullen notes as he flicks through the pages. Here and there, in her small, neat handwriting, she has inscribed her own annotations, and a lump forms in Cullen’s throat.

“Just a little bit of motherly guidance,” she explains. “Things I want you to remember, prayers I turn to when I am struggling, or when I’m sad, or when I’m grateful. My favourite words, as it were, which I highlighted for you so that you and I can always share them, no matter how far away we are from each other.”

Cullen is too busy holding in tears to be able to speak, and when Mamma’s own voice breaks, he cannot contain them any longer.

“You are pursuing your dream, Cullen, and I am so grateful we were able to help you achieve it. Even if we cannot be a part of it. I know it will not always be easy, especially at the start. Leaving one’s family takes time to adjust to, you know how homesick I still get for my sisters. But you are strong and determined, and you will find a new family of sorts, in the people who share your ambitions. But when you are too lonely for even their company to suffice, turn to this book, and it will be as if you were speaking with me.”

The little leather-bound book is here in the Tower, in the templar quarters, safely stored in the small locker containing his personal possessions. Cullen has kept it all these years, and brought it to Kinloch, a precious heirloom he has consulted many a time.Throughout the long years of his training, he has found wisdom in the small, sepia-coloured sentences Mamma left for him.

He wishes for the book now, for the words of comfort he would get from it.

He wishes he had kept it in his pocket, just like he keeps Branson’s coin.

Rummaging through his clothes, Cullen clenches his fist around the small trinket, too worried Gravid will confiscate it if he finds out about it.

Cullen never thought the sight of the lake would make him cry, but here he is, standing by the pontoon as he casts his eyes over the ripple-free water.

He will miss this place. He has been here so often. Fishing with Father, or swimming for hours to cool off  on long summer days or, at the heart of winter, skating over the frozen surface of the lake. 

Always, of course, accompanied by his siblings.

If Branson is anywhere, it will be here, for he too loves the lake, and Cullen calls out his brother’s name.

Rising from the rushes, the boy emerges, wide-eyed and bewildered.

“There you are,” Cullen says, walking toward him, “they sent me to look for you. We have to go to the village soon.”

“Oh.”

How can he be surprised, Cullen thinks, slightly annoyed. Branson knows what’s happening today, how Cullen cannot miss the carriage that will take him away. But instead of rushing off, the boy just stands there, his hands in his pockets, and he’s not meeting Cullen’s gaze.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asks, because Branson is never, ever quiet.

“Are you scared, Cullen? I’d be scared if I had to leave home today.”

Of course, fear is one of the many feelings Cullen has been experiencing these past few weeks. Sometimes, it’s been so overwhelming that he has cried himself to sleep, his face buried in his pillow, wondering if he has made the right decision. 

But he won't tell Branson that. “I am, a little. But this is what I want to do. So I must be brave.”

There’s a little bit of awe on Branson’s face now, as he glances up from his feet, and he takes something out of his pocket,  approaching Cullen with a somewhat sheepish smile.

“Here,” he says, placing a coin into Cullen’s palm, “I’ve meant to give you this for a while, but I thought perhaps you would make fun of me. But since you said you’re a little scared, I want you to have it.”

“A coin?” Cullen says, and he traces the lines of Andraste’s image, engraved into the metal, with his finger.

“It’s a lucky coin,” Branson explains, and the seriousness of his tone kills off Cullen’s nascent smirk - trust Branson to indulge in superstition - as he understands how important a gesture this is for his little brother. The boy does not share things easily, and this is something he has clearly thought about a lot. 

“Matilda Sulzbacher gave it to me,” Branson continues, “at the winter festival one time. I kept losing at the 'bobbing for apples' game, and when I was about to give up, she placed the coin in my hand, and told me to try again. And I won that round, and all the other rounds after that. She winked, then, and told me to keep it, that it would bring me good luck. I wouldn’t believe it, you  know, coming from anyone else. But you know her…”

Cullen nods. To the Rutherfords, Matilda is Mamma’s friend, but in the village, people still call her ‘the mage’s wife’. They say things about her, that she could bring the golem to life if she wanted to, or that sometimes there are sounds coming out of her house. Unnatural sounds. Scary sounds. Sounds that fuel the village’s whispers, spreading the rumour that she, too, must be a mage. Of course, Mamma tells anyone who has ears the rumours are unfounded,  but  an air of mystery surrounds Matilda nonetheless, and it is not much of a stretch to think a coin of hers might be enchanted.

“Will you take it? Maybe it’ll bring you good luck, for where you’re going,” Branson says in a small voice, and the sniffle accompanying his words prompt Cullen to take his little brother in his arms.

“Thank you,” he replies, holding the smaller boy tight, “I will take it and never part from it.”

As he clutches Branson’s coin, Cullen prays fervently for it to be a lucky coin. If he ever needed luck, it is now, and he will welcome it in whatever form it takes, even from a trinket potentially infused with magic.

If magic can torture or kill him, perhaps it can save him too.

A flicker of hope flares up in his chest, and he feels a little better, allowing himself to lie down and rest.

His mind, free to wander without being violated, is at ease, and when he closes his eyes, he continues reflecting on his last day in Honnleath.

Rosalie’s little hand is in Cullen’s the whole way to the village, and when he glances toward her, the seriousness of her small, pretty face, partially hidden by her bonnet, tugs at his heart.

She is pouting, but not in a sulky way, and will not utter a word, not even when he asks her, in a futile attempt at distraction, to talk about the new puppies that will soon be born of her beloved dog, Lady.

But when it is time to say goodbye, she finds her voice again.

Her arms wrapped around Cullen’s neck, she holds on to him tightly and Cullen rubs her back, just like he used to do when Mamma entrusted him to look after his colicky baby sister, hoping it might soothe her like it did then.

“You won’t forget me, will you, Cullen?” she whispers against his ear, and he can’t reply, a sob making its way up his chest.

“Never,” he finally manages to say, and she smiles then.

Cullen smiles too in the cage, basking in the warmth and joy memories of Rosalie always inspire.

His arms are empty, however, for no beloved sister fills them and, his smile vanishing, he wraps them around himself.

They are no longer the arms of a boy, he thinks, and feel more like the arms of his father.

Strong.

Solid.

Safe.

Father…

Father has never been one for hugs. Gruff, grumpy and mostly quiet, he is the sort of man who would nod his appraisal, or offer a mumbled compliment should one deserve one.

Even though he is a perfectly nice man, and very kind and supportive in his own way, Father always looks upon his family’s propensity for hugs with mild alarm, a perpetual look of worry on his rugged features at the prospect of finding himself pulled into an embrace.

But today, on the square in Honnleath, Father climbs down from the carriage onto which he has securely tied Cullen’s travelling trunk, and he walks purposely to Cullen, taking him in his arms and pressing him against his chest as if this is something he has done all his life.

The surprise is such Cullen feels he has turned to stone, as surely as the golem he can see from the corner of his eye.

“Stay safe, my boy,” Father says, his voice shaking, “and write to your mother and sisters. And remember, you are always welcome back here, if you ever need to come back. You will always be my son, even when they put you into a templar armour. You’re a good boy, Cullen, you’ve always made us proud. Go now, and make yourself proud.”

When Father finally lets him go, Mia comes into focus, and it’s at that moment Cullen’s tears run free.

Mia, on the other hand, is not crying. Not any more. She promised Cullen, earlier that morning, she would be strong for him, for their siblings, for their parents, and she is keeping her promise. With difficulty, judging by the trembling of her chin, but resolutely because she is Mia. She is the most determined person Cullen has ever met, and he realises now how much she has taught him, how much he is going to miss her.

She sees his tears, and throws her arms around him, and he holds her back, clinging to her as the world around him spins. His breaths won’t come, his chest too tight, and when she lets him go, he stands bereft, overwhelmed, and unable to move.

It takes Mamma’s gentle coaxing, her soft hand taking his, for him to make his way to the carriage. She helps him up, and comes to stand on the footstep. Her light brown eyes are full of tears, but she smiles through them.

Behind her, Cullen can see the rest of his family, clinging to each other, and more people in the background. Relations, neighbours, friends of the family, curious onlookers - it’s not every day someone from Honnleath is joining the templar order - everyone he has ever known and loved. His friend Ben is there, and Philippa Milne too, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. 

In a daze, Cullen wonders briefly if he’ll ever see any of them again, before his focus returns to Mamma, who speaks in her low, melodious voice.

She leans over, cupping his cheek with her hand. "Goodbye, my sweetheart. We will always love you. Be good, and become who you were meant to be.”

Cullen swallows a sob. “I promise, Mamma, I’ll be good.”

“Who are you talking to, templar? Have you made a few friends in the Fade? Hope they last longer than these ones,” Gravid sneers, his outstretched finger pointing to the mass of rotting bodies by Cullen’s side.

The Enchanter is back - how long has Cullen been asleep? - and he looks even more ragged than before, his pale grey eyes bloodshot, his sunken cheeks and narrow mouth eaten by his black stubble, and more terrifying, for there is fresh blood on his robes.

“Shall we continue?” Gravid asks in a pleasant voice, much like he would if they were about to play a game of chess, and Cullen sits up.

Echoes from his dream conversation with his mother linger, and he's not scared any more. He remembers where he comes from, and the people who shaped him.

“I’m a good person,” he cries out defiantly, "and you can never take that away from me.”

Gravid raises an eyebrow in surprise at this emboldened behavior, and he surveys Cullen with interest, a glint of glee behind his eyes.

“We’ll see about that, Rutherford.”

Chapter Text

A big fish in a small pond.

An expression Mamma liked using whenever she talked about people who had ‘notions’, a word she always spoke with a wrinkling of her nose, about themselves. Conceit, arrogance, an overblown sense of self-importance, all of those things were particular pet peeves of hers, and Cullen has strived all his life never to be like those people Mamma dislikes so much and instead, to live by the values favored by his parents.

Humility, hard work, discipline, selflessness. 

But, Cullen thinks, while he has never bragged out loud about his sword fighting skills, they have always been a source of immense pride to him, and it is with a nasty jolt he has come to understand this pride in his abilities has turned him into the very thing Mother cautioned against.

A big fish in a small pond.

That’s what he was, in his native village, and it’s a very different story here, in the monastery of Leastead.

Adjusting to his new life has been difficult, and the strict schedule of praying, studying, training, and never-ending chores is taxing, even for someone whose life, as part of a busy farmstead, has never been idle. 

After a few weeks, however, Cullen has settled into the monastery’s routine. He no longer struggles to stay awake during the night-time prayers, doesn’t feel faint any more on fasting days, and his mind, to his immense surprise, is capable of retaining the vast amount of information his lessons provide.

He would be happy, therefore, but for one thing, as unexpected as it is unwelcome: he is not doing well during training.

As the oldest new recruit, he doesn’t belong with the eight and nine year olds who arrived at the same time as him and as such, he is being paired with the older recruits. But with years of practice under their belts, they are faster, stronger, their reflexes sharper, their technique more polished, and more often than not, training practices end with him hiding behind the stables with bruised, bloodied knuckles, tears of shame and frustration running down his face.

The sons and daughters of noble families are particularly difficult to deal with. Tutored at home by personal trainers before they could even write or read, they are the big fish now, favoured by some of the trainers, and with that perceived superiority, comes cruelty.

‘Turnip’.

That’s the nickname they gave him, on account of his village’s most famous export, and on his bed, on his desk, on his seat at the dining table, the letters are found, engraved in charcoal or red ink: "Property of Rutherford, the Honnleath turnip”. 

Cullen remembers the first time he saw his possessions defaced, how his ears burned at the laughter around him, how he tried to wipe off the insulting scribbles, only to smudge ink all over his outfit, earning himself a reprimand, and an evening spent in the laundry room washing his uniform.

His shame, however, has not been as easily scrubbed away, and he carries it around all day, like a floating stench following him. The mockery he encounters makes him keep people at arm’s length, wary of them and their intentions - who would want to be seen with the Honnleath turnip  anyway - and it is why, after weeks in Leastead, he has made no friends.

His loneliness serves to emphasise his homesickness, a large, gaping hole at the bottom of his stomach that nothing can fill. It colours his days a grey kind of shade, dulls the taste of food in his mouth, but thankfully Cullen can keep his feelings mostly dormant during the day, easily cast aside amidst the distractions of his many activities. 

But there is no containing them at night.

The yearning for home roars inside his chest then, as he lays in bed surrounded by the strangeness of the dormitory, and a voice screeches inside his mind.

You made a mistake. You should never have come here. You don’t belong here, on the edge of the world, where no one cares for you, where you care for no one. You belong with your family. 

In those terribly lonely moments, the longing for his father’s house, for his mother’s arms, for his siblings’ company, is so raw it almost makes him feel physically ill, and the only respite are the prayers, learnt by heart from reading Mamma’s little book so often -  which he recites softly, words soothing his hurt soul, until exhaustion overcomes him.

Yet every morning, refreshed from sleep, his outlook less bleak and his determination renewed, Cullen starts the day more focused than ever. 

He has as much right to be here as anyone else. Who are they, these people who think they are so above him?

What they have, they did not earn. It was handed to them on a silver platter. What he has, however, was carefully built through blood and sweat and hard work, and he is going to show them. 

Yes he’s going to show them what he’s made of, and for that to happen, he works harder than anyone.

Waking up far earlier than his peers, he has already been practising for an hour by the time they join him, and in the evening, after supper, when most of the recruits enjoy their recreation time, he is still at the dummies, red-faced and sweaty, going over the techniques they have learned that day. 

His efforts are paying off. Already his body begins to change, muscles now apparent in his arms and legs, his stomach no longer as soft as it once had been. With an increased appetite - which is thankfully sated by the plain but nourishing food the monastery provides - he is also growing taller, soon looking even the eldest recruits in the eye, and the mocking becomes more subdued, less pointed.

But it still happens, and now, as he watches a girl approach him, Cullen is filled with dread, so unused is he to company that someone seeking him out immediately appears suspicious.

The girl is, Cullen knows, about the same age as him, because they are both part of the same training group. Yet, since they have never been paired together, he’s never spoken to her, but he has noticed her. 

What she lacks in height, she makes up for in grit, and her fighting style, while not the most elegant, is very effective for someone of her short stature. Some of the strongest recruits can’t best her at times, and on those occasions, the triumphant smirk she wears as she taunts her beaten opponents is a source of admiration to Cullen, who wishes his own self-assurance had not melted away like snow on a sunny day.

Even now, as she makes his way toward him, the girl looks confident, her steps assured, her chin raised high, and Cullen can’t help but wonder why someone like her would be willing to talk to someone like him.

She stops short of a few feet from him, leans against the wooden fence, and in a clear, upbeat voice, she addresses him.

“Why do you come here every evening?”

The girl peers at him while she await his reply. Not unkindly, Cullen notes, but still, her scrutiny vexes him a little, as does the noise her sparring sword makes when she hits it lightly against the fence in a rhythmic manner. Her training outfit - tight leather breeches and loose linen shirt - fits her perfectly. 

Unlike his, Cullen thinks as he looks down at his own clothes, already much too small for him, giving the impression he has grown out of them. 

With a huff, he wipes the sweat off his face.

“To practice, of course,” he replies, raising his sword again. Perhaps if he is curt, she will leave him alone.

“Are the daily practices not enough for you? Or do you just prefer straw dummies because they can’t fight back?”

There is a hint of a smile on her face as she speaks, but Cullen finds no mockery in it. 

For now.

“At least the straw dummies don’t make fun of me. Or my accent. Or my village,” he replies, hitting his mark with a grunt.

She purses her lips at that, and a trace of sadness passes over her face, gone in a moment and replaced instead by a cheerful smile. Cullen notices for the first time how friendly she looks, her long black hair framing a face where dark eyes, as warm as her grin, shine. 

“It won’t always be as bad,” she says, approaching the straw dummy, “you’ll get used to the Silks.”

Cullen straightens up with a frown. “The Silks?”

The girl laughs. “That’s what we call the nobles, on account of the silk stockings they seem to favour. You’re not the only one not to like them. They are nasty to everyone, not just you. Void, they used to have fun at my expense too.”

“Why? Because of where you come from too?”

She shrugs. “No, I was sent here when my parents died so this is where I grew up, and the Silks never say anything about that because it gets them in trouble. The templars don’t like for the orphanage to be a source of mockery, too many of us recruits are selected from there. But it doesn’t matter. The Silks always find something to tease about. Sometimes, it’s my fighting style. Other times, it’s the fact I’m a girl, or the fact I’m a commoner, or my height. Could be anything, really. So you see, it’s nothing you’ve done. It’s just the way things are. They don’t like new people. Makes them feel threatened. And something you mock isn’t quite as threatening, is it?”

Cullen thinks on this for a moment, and sees the sense in it. His friend Ben had been made fun of by the other children, after he and his family had first moved to Honnleath. After a while, the mocking had passed, and soon no one had remembered Ben wasn’t from the village.

Perhaps there is hope for Cullen yet, and he looks at his companion, whose advice he receives gratefully. For the first time since he arrived in Leastead, Cullen finds himself smiling.

“Cullen, is it?” the girl asks then, returning his smile, and Cullen nods, shaking the gloved hand she has extended to him.

“I’m Annlise” she continues. “We can be training partners, if you like? I can request that from the trainer, he owes me a favour. That way, if the Silks want to bother you, they’ll have to pick on us both, and believe me, most of them don’t make fun of me any longer.”

“Why not?” Cullen says, and he can’t help admiring the defiant way she sets her chin.

“The trick is to beat them in training,” she replies, leaning closer to him, the way Rosalie used to do when she would tell Cullen one of her big secrets. “They’ll get a lecture from the trainers who favour them, but more importantly, they will see they can’t mess with you. Show them up where it matters, and they'll soon learn to respect you."

“I’ve seen you fight,” Annlise continues, “and I think you have a lot of potential. I’ve heard the trainers say the same about you, so I thought I’d let you know that.”

Cullen, even though he is charmed by her, is still waiting for all of this to turn into a way of mocking him, and he eyes Annlise sideways.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks suspiciously, “what’s in it for you?”

Annlise winks at him. “Well, I like the idea of having a tall, well-built partner. But more to the point, I think it would be fun to have someone to help me kick the Silks’ asses. Don’t you?”

Annlise is smirking now, and Cullen can feel the corner of his mouth lifting also.

Things don’t look quite as bleak, he thinks, because he is pretty sure he has just made a friend.

Cullen has never been quite certain what Annlise had seen in him that day, for her to select him as her companion of choice.

He never questioned it, and she never elaborated on it, even though they had soon grown so close they would discuss any subject. 

Theirs was a friendship that needed no analysis, an unspoken, tangible bond that grew stronger with each passing day, and for which Cullen was most grateful.

Life had become a lot easier for him after that first conversation between them, and they had spent every single day in each other's company.

How joyful the moment they had learnt they would both be sent to the same Circle, after finishing their training.

"I'm not rid of you yet, Cullen" Annlise had said, ruffling his hair, "you'll be talking my ear off in Kinloch Hold also, by the looks of it."

And now, in the magical jail, Cullen still talks to her - old habits die hard - even though he knows she's not with him any more, and the first time she replies, he is not surprised, for she had promised him, once upon a time, she would always be there for him, and he for her.

“I always keep my promises. Do you, Cullen?” she whispers against his ear now, and in the darkness, Cullen tries to see her eyes, because her voice, even though it’s hers, sounds off. 

Too seductive, somehow, which is strange since there’s never been anything romantic between them.

But Cullen shakes off his unease, quick to hold on to the returned presence of his dear Annlise. She feels like a buoy in a dark, bottomless sea, and he will hang on to her to keep his head out of the water.

“I do keep my promises, Ann," he assures her, "I’ll always be here for you too.”

Somewhere to his left, past the low violet shimmer of the cage, there is a soft chuckle, almost like a purring, but Cullen ignores it.

It feels so good, not to be alone any more, and nothing, Cullen vows out loud, nothing will take his friend away from him again.

Chapter Text

Annlise is gone.

The mask of death, initially in her likeness, slipped when decay set in, and there is no trace of her in the hollow features, not even in her eyes, long clouded over.

Since this happened, Cullen finds it less upsetting to look at her corpse, and those of his unfortunate comrades. They are no longer here, it is obvious to him now, and once in a while Cullen prays for the repose of their souls.

Perhaps he will see them again soon, perhaps not.

Either way, he hopes it doesn’t take long, their quick demise much more enviable to his own prolonged agony.

Cullen tosses and turns, his right shoulder and hip bone sore from lying on the hard ground for so long. But no matter how he positions himself, everything hurts.

All around him, discarded parts of his armour are scattered, thrown here and there as he removed them - he doesn’t even remember doing that - and his eyes are drawn to his arms. The linen fabric his underclothes are made of feels stiff from dirt and sweat, and he carefully lifts one of the sleeves to peek at the inflamed skin underneath, raw where the metal of the armour dug into it.

When he tries to sit up, lightheadedness overcomes him. His body is weak, weary with hunger, while his mind is exhausted, every single conscious thought requiring a tremendous effort he’s not certain he wants to make any longer.

‘What will kill me first?’ Cullen muses out loud as he scratches at his stubble.

The last of the lyrium has left his body, taking with it the blinding headaches the withdrawal caused, leaving only a slight shake of his hands, a coldness of body, and Cullen knows instinctively that he’s over the worst of that particular ordeal.

No, the lack of lyrium is no longer a threat.

But starvation is.

When is the last time he ate, or drank? Gravid throws sustenance at him from time to time, but even he has made himself scarce, leading Cullen to believe he might the only living person in the Tower.

“Yes, starvation. That’s how I will perish.”

Cullen lets the morbid words linger in the air, his broken voice the only noise in the silent prison he’s in, and dread shakes his entire body in a violent shiver.

What a terrible way to die.

His hands fly up, covering his face as he rocks to and fro, despair and frustration clawing at his insides.

“This can’t be happening,” he cries behind his clenched fists, slamming them against his forehead, “it can’t be. This is not how it’s supposed to go.”

Anger flares up within him, swiftly replacing any other emotion.

“This is not how it’s supposed to go,” he repeats, but this time he is shouting at imaginary foes. “We are your protectors. But you turned on us and now what? You’ve destroyed everything. Look what you’ve done.”

But his defiant cry dies on his lips, no more than a whimper.

Curling up on himself again, Cullen wraps his arms around his drawn-up knees and, resting his head on them, he sobs quietly. Soon, his mind wanders back to the monastery where his training prepared him for everything… except the position he finds himself in.

The winter of 9:26 starts abruptly one dark Harvestmere afternoon. Within days, it turns bitter cold and life, already harsh due to the demands of the templar training, becomes almost unbearable. Woollen blankets feel too thin, the nutritious food not warm enough. Even outdoor training, normally a favourite activity, is a challenge, the deep snow adding a level of difficulty to the drills Cullen is not sure he can rise up to.

But for all the brutality of his daily routine, there are plenty of good things too.

For starters, his homesickness has abated, replaced by a dull ache he only acknowledges once he lies in bed at night, curled up and shivering; a small, tender spot buried deep inside his rib cage that he nurtures, because if he lets it go, perhaps he might altogether forget about home, and this would be unthinkable.

Secondly, he is finally fitting in. The people who, not so long ago, were making fun of him no longer laugh at his expense. Perhaps it is because he is now as proficient as they are with a weapon, or maybe his studiousness is impressing them -  there isn’t a holy text he hasn’t learnt, a training manual he hasn’t devoured, a technique he hasn’t studied. Whatever it is, Cullen is grateful  their attention has shifted away from him, and he can walk with his head high, even among the noble apprentices.

Finally, the best thing of all has to be the friendships he has forged. With Annlise, of course, whose presence is a constant source of support by his side, but also a few other people with whom he has formed a trusted group.

But the winter of 9:26 embeds itself in Cullen’s memory for another reason: mages.

They arrive, one late snowy afternoon, walking briskly in a single file across the courtyard where Cullen and his fellow recruits are finishing their training for the day. As soon as the mages appear, their robes revealed by a gust of wind lifting their cloaks, it is as though the cold temperature has frozen the recruits on the spot. Swords and shields hang stiffly in the air while dozens of pairs of eyes follow the mages’ progress, until they disappear in a section of the building no-one else is ever allowed in.

“Are these… mages? What are they doing here?” someone finally says, and the spell is broken, chatter and activity returning once more to the young men and women in the courtyard.

“Of course, they're mages. Who did you think recruits are tested against, before they take their vows? Millers and shoemakers?”

The reply attracts laughter from a few people but the truth is, everyone is a little stunned, including Cullen, who up to that point, had never realised he would one day have to fight breathing, living people.

How, he wonders, has he not thought of that?

And later, as he is preparing for prayers alongside Annlise, he asks her that very question.

“Because,” she replies as she genuflects before sitting down on the prayer bench, “it’s much easier to think we will never have to use what we are learning here on actual people.”

Cullen stares at her, aghast at the very thought of harming someone, anyone, turning his stomach. Annlise laughs softly, poking him in the ribs with her elbow.

“Cullen, you big fool. You've really never thought of that, have you?”

He has not, and thus he spends the duration of the Chantry service - the daily reflections entirely lost on him - trying to comprehend how he could have been so naive.

Later that evening as he lies in bed trying to find sleep, Cullen is still plagued by restlessness, his mind in turmoil.

Deep down, obviously, he has always known of the requirements of the Order, and has accepted that killing would at some point be a part of his duties. But when he imagined such things, what he pictured were not the calm and collected persons he saw today, but instead, demonic creatures, wild and feral, that templars must contain and eliminate. 

The people he saw today look ordinary. So ordinary in fact, only their robes give them away. Without their attire, it would be impossible to distinguish them from the general populace.

“Fool, what did you expect?” Cullen sneers at himself under his breath.

Truth be told, he expected actual mages to look a bit more… impressive? Or at the very least, mysterious.

And it dawns on him that the reason behind his expectations lies in Honnleath, in a part of his childhood he hasn’t revisited in a while.

His mother’s friendship with the widow of Wilhelm Sulzbacher.

Even before he’d ever met the Sulzbachers, Cullen had heard tales of Wilhelm - and of his mighty powers - in the village. The mage was long gone by the time Cullen was born, but his presence had left an indelible mark on Honnleath, and there were none who remained ignorant of him or his people. They were feared and respected in equal measure, for nobody was entirely certain Wilhelm had been the only mage in the family.

The Sulzbachers were indeed mysterious, Whilhelm’s wife, Matilda, styling herself as the village’s healer, growing herbs in her garden no one had ever heard of. Little jars of various colours perpetually lined the shelves in the corner of the house where she concocted her salves and potions, and it was whispered that perhaps, the reason of her success with various ailments were due to the secret ingredient she surely must be adding to everything: magic. Even her children were rumoured to have powers.

To a child like Cullen, whose life as the son of a farmer was dull (the height of excitement on the farm consisted of a birthing cow or an escaped piglet, at most), the Sulzbachers appeared imbued with an almost other-worldly quality. Even his frequent visits to the household with his mother, which could have removed the sheen of mystery, could not quench his fascination with them.

It is easy for Cullen to see now, with the eyes of a fifteen year old, how his younger self could have been dazzled by the idea of magic, and he has no doubt the next few days will dispel this newly acknowledged awe for mages.

He is wrong, of course, for the next day, their remarkable talents are in full display, and it is with his mouth agape that, wide eyed, Cullen watches as the older recruits are pitted against their extraordinary ‘foes’.

The mages wield their staves with force, but ever so gracefully, sending arcane frost, sparks and lightning flying around, while the soon-to-be Templars are displaying their own range of abilities as counter-measures. The entire exercise is conducted in safety under the constant control of both experienced templars and enchanters, but it is impressive nonetheless.

Never, not in his wildest dreams, could Cullen have imagined the power of a mage attack and he understands now why they are considered so dangerous. But he also realises something else.

The cautionary tales he has heard always focused on the possessed, raving mages who kill everything in their path.

A far different picture is forming right here, in from of his very eyes.

Men and women of all ages, of all shapes and sizes - all of them composed, strong, confident - are at all times in full control of their magic, and Cullen is more mesmerised than ever.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, to see them cast spells?” Annlise, equally captivated even though she has witnessed this part of the Templar training since she was small, whispers in his ear, and all Cullen can do is nod.

“Now you know why we are taking vows, Cullen, don’t you?” his friend continues, as serious as Cullen as ever seen her.

'To protect them,' he thinks but he's not so sure any more. They don't look like they need protection.

"No, why?” he asks Annlise, whose deep brown eyes shine bright as she replies.

“Because they don’t have a choice. The powers they are using right now, they are born with them. They can either learn to control them and flourish, or be controlled by them and die. And we, as Templars, are here to help them. If we don’t, then all the bad tales we hear all the time about magic become true. The beauty of magic becomes stained by fear. We can’t let that happen.”

“A mage lover then, are you, Ser Cullen? Is this what we have on our hands?”

Cullen’s reverie is brutally interrupted by a sultry voice. It has a purr-like quality, as if one of Rosalie’s kittens had taken human form, and Cullen cranes his neck this way and that to find the source of it. There is no one to be seen, however, only grey, lonesome walls, and cold sweat breaks out on Cullen’s skin when another disembodied voice replies.

“A mage lover indeed. I knew you loved me, Cullen.”

That voice.

Cullen recognises it.

“You can’t be here,” he cries, bewildered, “I watched you go when the Grey Wardens took you away. You’re gone. You are not here.”

“I always knew you loved me, Templar.”

No, there is no mistaking that hypnotic, rich tone, that faint Kirkwall accent - Eirica Amell has returned to the Tower.

But why can’t he see her?

“You want me, don’t you, Cullen? No point in trying to conceal your thoughts from me, I see you innermost desires. And I can give you everything you want,” she offers in a breathless moan, unabashed in her seduction, and Cullen presses his fists against his ears, but to no avail. It’s like the voice is coming from inside his head.

“No,” Cullen screams, “this isn’t real. You are not real. Oh Maker preserve me. Sweet Andraste, protect me.”

As soon as he starts reciting a prayer, words flying out of his mouth in a desperate staccato, the energy of the room changes, returns to silence, and Eirica Amell is muted. 

Only after he has exhausted his entire repertoire of prayers and hymns, does Cullen dare open his eyes.

But far from being comforted, he is instead filled with anger.

How could he ever entertain regard for mages? The Chant of Light has always warned him, has never hidden the mages’ true nature: 

They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.
They shall find no rest in this world
Or beyond. 

Something that feels like molten lava travels under his skin, sinking deep inside his throat, and he pants for breath, choking on a feeling of rage like he has never experienced before. It shakes him to his core, and a small part of him recoils in fear, looking around for assistance.

His gaze falls upon the corpses on the other side of the cage, and Cullen seeks Annlise’s eyes, forgetting they are hers no longer.

He finds nothing there of the benevolent advice she dispensed all those years ago, on that snowy day in the courtyard. No, all that remains in them is the horror inflicted on her by mages, and Cullen is not afraid any more.

He knows what mages are now, and how they shall be punished.

“Accursed ones,” he whispers, and the words are like honey on his tongue, “you shall find no rest in this world. The Maker forsakes you, Maleficars, as do I.” 

Chapter Text

The monastery of Leastead is not a place where many celebrations ever occur for the recruits, and the day of Cullen’s sixteenth birthday is no exception.

Today, he is coming of age, a milestone in any young Fereldan’s life, yet sadness creeps in the instant Cullen awakes, enveloping him in a heavy blanket of homesickness and nostalgia. Memories of birthdays past crowd his mind but here, there shall be no party, no presents or food prepared especially for him like there would have been at home. In that moment, his longing for his family feels like a sharp stab in the stomach and he wonders briefly if they miss him as much as he misses them, but he refuses to linger on that question, getting up instead to start his day.

There is only one way he knows of to counteract the occasional little heartaches he still experiences: throwing himself into work. Sure enough, the busier he gets, the less he thinks about things and by the end of the afternoon’s sparring session, he exits the training ring with no thought whatsoever about this day being any different from any other.

That is until Annlise swaggers in, a beaming smile splitting her face, asking if she can have a word with him. 

Cullen acquiesces, listening to her as he takes off his sparring outfit. 

“So, my dear Cullen, since we met, I’ve become your best friend and I’ve been teaching you things, haven’t I?”

Cullen nods. “You have.”

Annlise giggles, her eyes sparkling with vivacity. “Remember that time when I taught you how to kiss?”

Cullen drops his gloves to the ground, his cheeks turning red. “Indeed. How could I forget you sticking your tongue down my throat?”

“Don’t be complaining. I must have been a great teacher because I’ve heard only good things about you since,” Annlise laughs, and Cullen groans, his face burning even more.

“Are we going to discuss my kissing history?” he says as he continues to undress. “Is that why you wanted to speak with me?”

“No, no we’re not. What I wanted to discuss are your vows.”

Cullen sighs. He should have known better than to tell Annlise about that, she was sure to be interfering.

“My vows are my business, Lise. I know I'm two years early to be drafting them,” he says, “but I want to give them my due consideration.”

“Oh, I know. You are giving them far too much consideration, if you want my opinion, but that’s an aside. Remember what we talked about a while back? When you were asking me what parts to include or leave out? Well, I’ve thought about that and I think you’re making a mistake to also take a vow of celibacy. It’s not required of us, really. It’s only there for the over-zealous recruits to brown-nose the Templars even more.”

Cullen opens his mouth to protest. How can she think him that shallow? He intends to give himself fully to the service of Andraste out of devotion, and not to curry favour with anyone. But before he can speak, Annlise raises her hand up.

“I know, I know. You are doing it for other reasons. But I still think you are wrong. Because you have no idea what you will be pledging to give up. Now, you know I go to the Crimson Lantern on the regular. I make no secret of it. And I’m not the only one. Most of the recruits do, and some Templars too. And that’s because we know something you don’t.”

“Enlighten me, please,” Cullen replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Does she think him a fool, ignorant of physical pleasure?

“Don’t be so smug, Cullen. What you do under the blankets at night is all well and good, but really, the whole thing is much better when it’s done with another person. Or two. Or more,” she adds with an exaggerated wink and Cullen can’t hold in a snort.

“Snort all you want but I am speaking the truth. And I would show you if I could. But I can't teach you 'that', because, you know, it would be gross…”

“Thanks, good to know you find me too gross to sleep with.”

“You know what I mean,” Annlise continues, unfazed by his teasing, “you’re like a brother to me, it literally would be gross. But you are coming of age today, Cullen, and I really think you ought to become a man, and not just on paper.”

“Why is it so important to you, Annlise, what I do with my life?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Annlise answers, her face turning serious, “and I don’t want you to make stupid choices you may come to regret later. The way I see  it, we’re going to give our entire lives to the Templars, Cullen, our bodies will live or die for the Order, at the mercy of our duties, but we can still keep a part for ourselves. And physical relations are important. Which brings us nicely back to the subject of my birthday surprise.”

“What kind of surprise are we talking about?” Cullen asks as he pulls his tunic, drenched in sweat from sparring practice, over his head.

When his face emerges again, however, Annlise is no longer there.

Eirica Amell, the most beautiful mage Cullen has ever seen, the one he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since he got stationed in Kinloch, is standing in front of him instead.

Except, Cullen thinks, this is Leastead, not Kinloch.

“No, no. It’s all wrong. Eirica Amell wasn’t at the monastery.”

The sound of his own voice startles Cullen, and his eyes fly open. Dread swiftly replaces confusion when he finds himself lying on the ground of a filthy, rank room.

“What the … Where am I?” he mutters under his breath as he strains his neck to look around, cold sweat running down his back.

He half expects to see Amell, so vivid was she a moment ago, but once his vision adjusts to the light, Cullen lets out a curse. Amell cannot be here, even though he is back in Kinloch Hold, because she is hundreds of leagues away from the Circle Tower, now a Grey Warden whose fate shall be decided by others than Templars.

No, there is no one here with him, Cullen understands, in the putrid magical cell he is trapped in.

The dead bodies of his friends are his only company. Along with his thoughts...

Cullen curses again. Blasted mages, getting under his skin. Even in his memories, they find a way to corrupt him.

For all his new-found loathing of mages, it seems there is no getting rid of Eirica Amell, the very mage who has come to symbolise his hatred for her people. It's not that Cullen doesn't try very hard to control his thoughts, methodically casting her out of his mind as soon as she creeps back in and replacing her instead with memories of less evil times. It's just that it is becoming increasingly difficult to fight off the persistent intrusion of the young woman.

“Go away, mage. Leave me in peace,” he commands out loud to the emptiness while he hovers in and out of consciousness, and soon he returns to the memory of his sixteenth birthday.

Cullen is with Annlise again, but this time they are walking, the path they tread partially hidden by the misty darkness that surrounds them on that cold Kingsway night. He can barely make out the outline of his friend ahead of him, but he can hear her chatter. Mirth and smugness imbue her every word as she congratulates herself on the successful completion of her birthday surprise.

‘A surprise indeed’, Cullen thinks with a snort, still incredulous at the stunt she pulled to get this ‘present’ organised for him in that …that...bawdy house - he shan’t call it by its proper name, lest it makes him a bona fide patron of such an establishment.

The whole thing had almost not happened, because earlier that day Cullen had bolted upon hearing Annlise’s plan.

“No, Lise, not a chance. I am not going to that place.”

“Come on,” Annlise had cajoled, “it’s for your own good. You’ve never been with anyone yet, Cullen. You need to know what it is you will be giving up by taking up the chastity vow. Tonight will help you understand. If after tonight, you still want to go ahead with the full vows, I won’t object. But consider this my gift to you:  a chance to make an informed decision.”

Cullen had not protested further, seeing the logic behind her argument and also, he had to admit, because his curiosity had been piqued, even though the thought of availing of the services of the Crimson Lantern had been nearly enough to make him want to run away. 

But now, jogging behind Annlise on their way back from town, Cullen is absolutely glad he went along, his mind swimming with voluptuous memories and impressions - heady scents, gentle touches, lustful sounds - of the wondrous hours spent in the company of the women and men Annlise had chosen for him. She’d been most thorough in her selection of experiences, not knowing what he might like, and his body is still tingling from the sexual awakening so generously and expertly offered.

Already, he is rewriting his vows in his head, erasing the part about celibacy.

“Thank you for tonight, Lise. Sleep well.” Cullen says as he bids his friend farewell with a kiss to the cheek when they part ways outside the dormitories, but when he steps back, his smile freezes.

The short form of Annlise has been replaced by a tall, graceful body, and Eirica Amell stands there in all her glory, all raven hair and milky white skin, her steel blue eyes and impossibly red lips beckoning him. In a heartbeat, he finds himself in her arms, not knowing how he got there.

“You can do better than such a chaste kiss goodnight, Cullen,” she purrs, running a long almond-shaped nail the length of his cheek before resting it on his lips.

“What in the name of….” Cullen stumbles backward as he pulls away from her. “What is happening?”

“You want me, Cullen. Not for you, the bought affections of brothel workers. No. You desire much more. You want real love, real intimacy, real feelings. And I can give you everything you want.”

Cullen continues to step back, his arms extended in front to him to keep her at a safe distance. He’s confused. He has heard her say those words before, but this time she isn't just a disembodied voice. She is right in front of him.

His to touch. His to hold. His to take. His to do with all the things he has discovered on this night, and he knows that with her, it would be a hundred, a thousand times better.

"No, I can't. This isn't real," Cullen whispers, shaking his head to wake himself up, for deep inside his heart he knows she does not belong here.

And yet, the more he looks at her, her perfect face the most enticing thing he has ever beheld, the less he can see anything wrong with her presence.

Except for the fact she is trying to seduce him.

Which she ought not to.

“Stop. Please. This isn’t right. You are a mage. You and I can never be together.”

A frown distorts Amell’s striking features and her eyes darken as she grimaces, rendering her momentarily ugly, but soon she gives Cullen a dazzling smile, and he knows he won’t be able to resist her much longer.

“ Why not, Cullen? We would be so good together.”

“Because I’m to be a Templar,” Cullen shouts and it is in that precise moment that the confusion lifts. 

She should not be here because he’s not a Templar yet.

In this memory, he is miles and miles away from the Circle Tower and Eirica Amell does not exist.

Cullen groans when raised voices shatter the silence of his jail, as well as the echo of his past, bringing him crashing down back to the present.

“Why is it not working?” someone asks, anger and menace in their tone.

“I'm not sure,” another person replies.

The curtain of exhaustion lifts just enough for Cullen to recognise Gravid’s voice, and to wonder how long the mage has been back in the room.

“You said Amell was a sure bet. So I ask again, why is it not working?”

Gravid’s answer comes in a rapid, nervous staccato. He is clearly under immense pressure. ”There was no mistaking the way he looked at her whenever she was around. I was certain if anything could break him, it would be her.”

What are they talking about? Break him? Why are they bothering him? Have they not done enough to him?

All Cullen wants to do is sleep, it’s not too much to ask. 

Please sweet Andraste, just let them leave me in peace so I can close my eyes and let the darkness take me. So I can forget everything. The grief. The fear. The pain. The hunger.

Still, something akin to curiosity nibbles at his consciousness and, redoubling his efforts, Cullen lifts his head off the cold floor, straining to hear the voices who continue to speak.

The second one is loud and confident. Cullen racks his brain, for he is certain he has heard it before, but the fog in his mind is so dense he can’t think.

“You’ve pushed him too far. He’s barely alive. Clean him up, tend to his wounds and get some food into him. I will talk to him then,” the man barks, and the authoritative tone finally reveals his identity.

Cullen drops his head back down, his cheekbone hitting the hard ground. The blow reverberates through his skull but he doesn’t care. 

Uldred - the  arrogant Senior Enchanter every Templar in the Circle always disliked, always distrusted, always feared, his temper as infamous as his cruel, mean streak; the very man, finally, who is responsible for the violence that destroyed the Circle, for the death of his fellow Templars, and so many mages too - Uldred has at last come out of the Harrowing Chamber, displaying his full control of Gravid.

The malevolence of his presence sends a chill over Cullen’s body, making him shiver violently.

With Uldred now overseeing his torture, Cullen knows death is inevitable, and the last of his fighting spirit leaves him, replaced by resignation.

As he takes a deep, long breath exhaled through his chapped, cracked lips, a strange sense of calm fills him.

The time has come. He must accept his fate.

“In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains,” he murmurs in prayer, words from his mother's book coming back to him now, in this darkest of hour, helping him make peace with what's coming. “Blessed Maker, I am ready. Hasten my demise and grant me eternal rest.”

Chapter Text

Cullen’s final year at the monastery of Leastead is one of absolute perfection.

He knows he has found his place in the world, and that coming here was the best decision he will ever make. 

His life in Honnleath, surrounded by a loving family, was a happy one but as he looks back on it now, Cullen sees it was incomplete. It lacked purpose, direction and discipline, all the things his templar training has provided. All the things that filled a hole within himself he didn’t even know he had.

Sure, he misses his mother, father and siblings, but after all these years spent away from them, the pain of separation has healed, and only a vague nostalgia remains for those childhood days, exacerbated once in a while by letters he receives from home, which he stores carefully after reading. 

But, Cullen knows, dwelling on the past serves no purpose. He is where he wants to be. He has grown up, and the people he has grown up with, the community that forms the monastery, are his family now. 

Within this community, he has become someone.

Years of martial training have turned the gangly, soft young boy he was into a tall, muscular man who can best even the toughest of opponents. His dedication - hours spent practicing in the sparring ring or running mile after mile in the quiet countryside surrounding the monastery - has paid off, his strength and stamina only matched by his speed and his precision. 

It is without an ounce of vainglory that Cullen would agree with anyone asserting he is one of the best soldiers the monastery has ever produced. At barely seventeen, he is on equal footing with the best of his trainers.

No wonder the knight-corporal decided to choose him to train younger recruits. He is a leader and therefore he leads, basking in the admiration - plain to see on their eager faces - of his young pupils. It reminds him of how far he has come and it makes him proud of himself.

Spiritually, Cullen is fulfilled too.

His daily life follows the rhythm of the rigorous praying schedule the monastery adheres to, a routine in which he finds great comfort.

The quiet introspection of those holy interludes fill him with peace and purpose, his faith nurtured by the rich texts of the Chant of Light.

All the familiar words, murmured fervently through laced fingers, are sustenance for his soul, and in the soft glow of the stained glass window and the haze of incense, the Maker has never felt closer.

Yes, life in the monastery is perfect, and Cullen is safe in the knowledge that he will always be happy here.

Another exemplary day begins, and Cullen wakes to a beautiful sunrise, which he admires as he stretches in front of his window. Deep, undisturbed sleep has him feeling restored, and it is with a sprightly step that he joins his fellow recruits in the refectory. With copious, delectable food in their bowls, the morning collation is spent in pleasant, companionable chatter. 

Later on, after changing into his sparring outfit, Cullen steps outside and he is momentarily dazzled by the light in the courtyard. Looking up to the heavens, he sighs contentedly, a gentle breeze caressing his face.

Even the weather is perfect.

But, Cullen wonders as he surveys the grounds around him, what season is it? It's neither hot nor cold. Just pleasant. It could be a beautiful spring day or an early autumn one.

Or perhaps, Cullen thinks as he takes in the deep, limpid blue of the sky; the sound of crickets; the soft, slightly hazy quality of the light, it is summer, his very favourite season.

How does he not know what month it is?

The trees he turns his gaze to, impassible giants swaying in the light wind, are too distant for their foliage to provide any clues. Keen on examining them closer, Cullen takes a few steps in their direction but Annlise’s voice rises up behind him. She beckons him to the training ring by waving her sword and her shield above her head. Her hair, up in a ponytail, shows off her face, made even more handsome by the broad smile she sports and suddenly the weather is of no consequence. Cullen forgets all about his question, soon engrossed in his training.

But in the afternoon, Cullen’s concentration wanes again and he pushes aside the book he is supposed to be reading, the question of time having entered his brain once more.

If it is indeed summer, it means he has a little over a year to spend in the monastery, for his eighteenth birthday will coincide with the vigil he will undertake to become a fully fledged Templar.

And after that, Cullen discovers with a gasp, he will have to leave this place to take up a position wherever the Chantry sends him. Just like when he left home, he will have to say goodbye to all the people he has come to love here. He will have to leave this life behind.

The thought leaves him breathless, dread and sadness crushing his chest so severely he abandons his studies to seek Annlise in another part of the library.

His friend turns a surprisingly cool gaze to him when he sits beside her, her dark brown eyes devoid of all the warmth he normally finds there.

“What are you talking about, Cullen?” she says, and even her voice is glacial.

“Well, you know. I’m talking about next year. How sad it will be to leave this place.”

“Next year?” Annlise repeats, shaking her head while she leans over her parchment. When she resumes writing, the quill makes an irritating scratching sound on it. “We don’t need to worry about next year.”

“How so?” Cullen asks, furrowing his brow. “It’s not like we have a choice in the matter. We have to face the fact that at some point, we will have to move away from here.”

He wants to add that they may have to go their separate ways too, but he can’t. The words are sure to catch in his throat and judging by Annlise’s hard stare, his sappiness would not be well received.

“We should just enjoy the moment,” she replies curtly. “We’re happy here, aren’t we? Why fill our hearts with dread when we can just be content in the life we currently lead?”

Cullen disagrees. “But dread is not quite the correct word. It's more like... anticipation? I do look forward to the future. It is what we’ve been working towards, is it not?”

A scowl settles on Annlise’s features, and for a moment, the normally jovial, good-tempered young woman looks nothing like herself. 

“I don’t know why you feel the need to come here and talk to me about this, Cullen. Are you trying to make me sad?”

Cullen jolts. Hurting her is the last thing he wants to do. “No, of course not. I just…”

He doesn’t finish, suddenly realising how insensitive he has been.

For him, leaving Leastead will be sad but it will only be another transition in his life, whereas for Annlise, who has grown up in the monastery-run orphanage, leaving will mean parting from the only home she has ever known.

“Forgive me,” Cullen begs as he takes her free hand, squeezing it lightly. “ I am an idiot.”

Annlise’s expression softens.

“Oh how can I stay mad at you and your big puppy eyes?" she says with a bright, carefree laugh. "Come on, let us not talk about this any more. Shall we go for a walk before the evening prayers instead? I know how much you love the sunsets.”

~~

The countryside surrounding the monastery is truly beautiful in the evening sunlight, and Cullen’s earlier malaise evaporates as he strolls by the crop fields, the ripening summer barley like a deep golden sea in the low sun.

Beside him, Annlise is quiet but the silence is never awkward between them, and it leaves Cullen’s mind free to wander.

When was the last time he saw those fields barren, stripped of their precious bounty and ready to go dormant ahead of the harsh winter snows? 

Time has a strange quality to it of late. It feels as fluid as sand and no matter how hard he tightens his fist, it seems to flow right through his fingers.

Come to think of it, when was the last time he heard from his family?

“I wonder how they are,” he says out loud, and Annlise frowns.

“Who?”

“My family. They haven't been in touch in a while.”

The malaise returns, like a cold wind blowing at his back.

“What are you talking about? Your mother and your sisters write to you every week.”

Cullen stops, digesting his friend’s words. 

He can’t think of a single letter he has received in the past month.

In fact he would be incapable of describing a single thing that happened outside of his set daily routine. No significant milestone, no minor event, nothing.

It’s as if he is living the same day over and over again.

“It’s so strange,” he says, seeking comfort in Annlise’s face for surely, he must be losing his mind and she, always practical, always honest, will set him straight.

He is met with a hard stare.

“What is strange?” she asks tersely.

“Sometimes, it feels like I’m stuck in a day,” Cullen says but before he can elaborate, the blood drains out of his face because the person by his side has turned to an enraged stranger, with veins protruding on her forehead and in her neck. 

When she screams, it’s a man’s voice coming out of her mouth.

The loud curse makes Cullen search frantically for the source of it. It doesn’t take him too long to find it.

Across the room, a towering figure looks down on him, rage distorting the man’s features so much that it takes several moments for Cullen to recognise the mage Uldred.

“Why are you resisting, templar?” he bellows, spit coming out of his mouth with every words he shouts. “Why is it not working?”

Cullen watches his captor pace in front of him, his hand holding his chin as he thinks out loud.

“When Amell could not seduce you, the demon adapted and picked a better, more desirable illusion. It’s giving you a perfect world yet this sickeningly wholesome recruit life isn’t enough either. You reject it. What will it take for you to give yourself over to it? Why can’t you, weak creature that you are, be as easily corrupted as us?”

Cullen shivers, revulsion pooling in his stomach as he slowly realises that the memory he has just experienced was fabricated, a mixture of real recollections and whatever the Desire Demon wants him to see.

“Is it the blood? Am I not using enough of it?” the Enchanter continues his frenzied observations.

The magic cage Cullen is trapped in disappears and Uldred bridges the gap between them in a couple of strides. The mage produces a dagger, kneels down beside Cullen and the razor-sharp blade slices through Cullen's forearm, reopening the deep wound that was already there. Cullen can’t hold in an agonised scream as he watches his own blood leave his body, myriads of red droplets lifted by magical energy circling around him. At the same time, an acute pain sears his brain as if another dagger, imaginary but just as sharp, was probing his mind to extract more memories.

“Stop, please, I beg of you,” Cullen pleads, holding his clenched fists to his temples. His nails are digging into his palms but he doesn’t care. He just wants the probing to stop.

“You will submit to the demon, Templar, if that’s the last thing you do on this earth.”

“No,” Cullen shouts, “please.”

“Quiet,” Uldred bellows, and with a flick of his wrist, arcane electricity crackles around the room, scarlet bolts of lightning bouncing off walls and pillars as they close in on Cullen. When they hit, his body convulses and he is thrown to the ground, twitching and shaking under the force of the attack, his teeth chattering so hard he expects them to break. The ordeal lasts only a few seconds but it feels like an eternity, the pain so intense, so deep  Cullen is certain the very fabric of his soul is being ripped apart inside him.

A moment later, everything stops and Cullen lands on his side, inches away from Annlise’s corpse. Drool escapes his mouth in a thick rivulet, his jaw still twitching, but it is the only part of his body that moves, the rest of him limp and useless. He can’t even turn his head away, forced to look at the moribund, swollen face of his friend.

Her dead stare is terrifying.

Just as the feeling returns to Cullen's limbs, warm liquid pools in his crotch and the smell of urine reaches his nose. With the last of his dignity leaving him, his humiliation is complete and with a whimper, Cullen curls up on himself as he weeps.

Angry voices explode beside him but he refuses to hear them, drowning them out by calling for his mother over and over.

The words that do reach him, however, startle him enough that he stops crying and, pressing his hand across his mouth, barely daring to breathe, he listens intently.

“You are certain it’s her, Gravid?” Uldred says through gritted teeth.

“Without question. She is accompanied by another Warden. There’s also a woman and a Qunari. Wynne is helping them and they have already reached the second floor of the tower.”

An ominous silence fills the room, soon broken by Uldred.

“She has returned then," the Enchanter says calmly, his voice now deathly quiet. "Very well. Let us return to the Harrowing room. Make sure to enchant the door behind us. We are running out of time, and we will need to stall them.”

Peeking over Annlise’s head and through the purple haze of the renewed magical cell, Cullen watches the two mages as they retreat. Gravid comes to a halt and turns around.

“What of the Templar?” he asks and his master Uldred casts one last, disdainful look at Cullen.

“Leave him, we’re done. He has been nothing but a disappointment. Let Amell kill him when she gets here.”

A few more steps and Cullen’s tormentors have disappeared, the heavy door of the Harrowing Chamber closing behind them with a bang, and he is left alone.

Amell? Eirica Amell, now a Grey Warden, is in the tower?

It cannot be.

Yet a small part of Cullen, the one that hasn’t yet died, believes it and something akin to a flutter stirs within him. Hope, it turns out, has not fully abandoned him and for a moment, Cullen allows the warm thought of a potential, imminent rescue swirl through him. 

But then Annlise looks at him with her dead eyes, and Cullen finds a question in them.

Why should you be saved? Why should I die here and not you? 

No answers form in his brain. No words leave his mouth.

Instead, Cullen hides his face behind his hands and cries softly, asking for her forgiveness.  

Chapter Text

Cullen waits.

He sits, cross-legged, in the centre part of his cell. That way, he can keep an eye on the Harrowing Chamber door and he prays, with fervent words uttered in rushed whispers, that it remains shut.

What is happening beyond, he can guess at, the screams of human voices intermingled with the roar of abominations telling a story he need not imagine. 

Hunger and thirst - perils that have returned now that his captors have sequestered themselves in that room - leave him weakened and slightly delirious but in his more lucid moments, he is prone to angry outbursts, shouting at the top of his voice that he doesn’t care what happens to them, he doesn’t care if they all die in there.

“It is no more than you deserve, mages,” he screams at the door, spitting out that last word like he would something that tastes foul.

Sometimes, the depth of his hatred frightens him, and shame cools down his wrath when he remembers he has taken an oath to protect those mages, that he should pity them instead of revelling in their sufferings. It’s in those moments that he turns to his teachings, tries to remember how he once believed mages were to be treated with kindness, with compassion. How he admired them, even, so focused and disciplined on bettering themselves and taming their powers, so calm and accepting in the face of the fear they inspired, of the scorn they faced.

Other times, he gives in to it entirely, picks out, in the prayers he knows, all the verses that speak of the corruption of mages, of their evil hearts. Isn’t Uldred a perfect example of that wickedness, of the clear danger their absurd, unnatural magic pose, which the Chant of Light so rightly warns against? 

How can anyone, Cullen thinks, claim to own such power and be a force of good? Do they not see that, sooner or later, unchecked power such as this is bound to go to the head of even the most reasonable, the least ambitious mages, and corrupt them, turn them into the monsters that lurk beneath?

Should he survive this, Cullen must never, ever forget that. He must never, ever again show weakness. 

Or mercy.  

He understands, for the first time, why some Templars advocate ruling Circles with an iron fist. 

For the first time, he agrees.

Cullen waits.

He lies down on the ground, cools the cheek of his feverish face on the cold slabs of flagstone underneath him, his fixed gaze no longer staring vacantly into nothing, but straight at Annlise instead.

Her mouth has sagged open, he notices, and on the otherwise pallid skin, a dark spot has spread on the side of her face that is resting - just like his - on the ground.

Her eyes - how Cullen wishes he could reach beyond the arcane barrier to close them - have sunken deeper into their sockets, but despite the cloudiness covering them, her dark brown pupils are still visible. They are his connection to her because in them, he can still see the living, breathing person she was.

He recalls how her round cheeks would dimple when she smiled, how her eyebrows would fly up on her forehead when she laughed, how sharp her tongue could be, quick to tease but just as quick to soothe.

When he remembers her like that, and not the corpse he sees, it becomes easy to talk to her.

And talk to her he does.

In soft words, for he worries anything too loud will make the illusion of her presence go away.

“Remember, Lise, when we found out we would be stationed together?” How you ran to my dormitory and barged in, throwing your arms around my neck?”

There had been sniggers then, from the people who used to tease him about his ‘girlfriend’. Idiots, who could see the love between them but utterly misunderstood what kind of love it was. She was his best friend, his sister, his confidante. His strength during hard days, his solace during lonely ones. And so, to learn that they would not have to part after their vigils, that they would both begin their career in the same Circle, was a gift from the Maker, and Cullen had returned her embrace, laughing as he twirled her around, oblivious to the mocking words of their comrades.

Cullen smiles sadly. His own mother has understood that bond, even from a distance, glimpsed in all the letters Cullen sent home over the years.

That thought brings another memory to mind, one he is not afraid to indulge in it, free as he is from the horrifying effects of blood magic, and he welcomes the flow of uncorrupted images.

The month of Kingsway, a few days before his eighteenth birthday, a couple of weeks away from the time he would become a fully-fledged Templar.

A small travelling chest, made of the same dark cedar wood as the hope chest Mother kept in her bedroom, awaiting him as he returned from the morning’s Chantry service, the warm colour of the polished timber contrasting  against the drab beige of his bed cover.

His heart, picking up at the realisation his Mother parted from this most precious heirloom to send him a birthday gift. 

His trembling finger when he had, with bated breath, undone the latch and the rich aroma of the wood, mingling with the scent of the lavender sachets tucked inside the box, hitting his nostrils, instantly taking him back to his father’s house.

Back in his magical jail, Cullen closes his eyes, trying to hold on to those impressions of a moment in time where everything was right, where the past was wholesome, where the future was bright.

He wants to recapture that morning in which he was still full of life and hope and joy.

So he tries, as hard as he can, to picture the scene a little more clearly.

After opening the chest, he had sat there, imagining his mother and sisters preparing it, Mia and Rosalie handing Mama the items used to fill it as they chatted excitedly about his reaction when he would find each one.

Mia, Cullen had thought with tears filling his eyes, was a woman by now, married and expecting her first child, while Rosalie, a few years younger, was on the cusp of leaving childhood behind, and Cullen had been surprised how easy it was to imagine what they might look like, grown-up versions of the girls he’d left behind. But imagining his mother as an older woman had been more difficult. Was she slowly turning grey? Did she have wrinkles now around her eyes, on her forehead?

The homesickness had landed  like a fist in his stomach, taking his breath away. It had taken a while before he could open the letter that sat on top of the content of the box and in which Mia’s tidy script had detailed each items: a blanket, knitted by sweet Rosalie, to keep him warm on the cold nights he would spend up in the mountains of the retreat, where his vigil would take place; a plate and cup, the fruits of Branson’s labour, a true master of the Pewter Guild he now belonged to; a silk scarf, to tie around his waste on the day of his initiation, on which Mia’s neat needlework had depicted a sun embroidery as a symbol for the Maker; and finally, carefully wrapped in a cloth, his father’s favourite leather belt - the one he wore to go to the village on business - onto which a brand new scabbard - commissioned, no doubt at great expense, by his mother from one of Redcliffe’s most famous leathersmiths- was attached

“You all right, Cullen?”

Annlise had come out of nowhere, or perhaps he had been too blinded by tears to notice her arrival, and was watching him with a mix of concern and sympathy. Of all people, she knew how much he missed his family, how he had never been able to rid himself of his longing for them, even after all these years.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he had replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand while she sat beside him.

“Beautiful gifts,” she’d said with a smile, “they must love you very much to have gone to such trouble.”

“They do. I am truly blessed,” Cullen had nodded, fully aware how she, a resident of the orphanage since the age of three, had no parents to send her presents.

But Cullen’s mother had known that also and, with her customary kindness and thoughtfulness, had not forgotten Cullen’s dearest friend. With a beaming smile, Cullen had handed Annlise a similar scarf to the one Mia had given him.

“For me?” the young woman had asked, pale with emotion.

"My mother said it is high time to thank you for looking after me all those years, and for being my friend.”

Annlise had been speechless, a rare occasion for her, but the way she had run the palm of her hand over the soft fabric had told Cullen she would cherish this gift for years to come.

In the putrid cell in Kinloch, a single tear runs down the length of Cullen’s nose and lingers there before dropping to ground.

‘Years to come’ never did come in the end, cut short by the cruelty and malice of mages.

True to her words, Annlise hasn’t parted from the scarf, bringing it with her to Kinloch Hold. 

Cullen can see it, still attached to his dead friend’s waist but the bright fabric is darkened by bloody stains.

More tears gather in the corner of his eyes and spill over when Cullen realises that while the demon may be gone, the memory is corrupted nonetheless. 

Once upon a time, it used to warm his heart, but from now on, it is breaking it.

Cullen waits.

He is up on his feet and pacing restlessly, wondering why Eirica Amell won’t hurry up. 

Does she not know he has been hanging at death’s door for so long, it feels like he will cross its threshold any moment now?

From the floors below, Cullen can hear sounds - anguished cries, guttural growls, clangs of swords and small explosions of fire magic- attesting to the mighty battle taking place underneath him.

Impossible to imagine the scale of the atrocities, the magnitude of the losses.

Even more impossible is the thought of Amell, right in the middle of it all, desperately making her way to the top of the tower to rescue the pocket of Enchanters - First Enchanter Irving, her beloved mentor, chief among them - she believes are held against their will.

Cullen stops, scratches at his long stubble, at his dirty hair.

Amell doesn’t know, of course, the abominable corruption that has been taking place in the Harrowing Chamber. How could she, having left the Circle before the treachery of Uldred became a liability?

He will need to warn her, when she does get here, tell her whatever she finds behind that door is not longer worth saving. 

Will she believe him? 

And what will she think of him, who has so miserably failed at his duties, who has let these despicable acts unfold? 

Will she find pity in her heart to spare him?

Maybe she will. After all, Amell and he are not without history. 

Visions of himself - a more wholesome, if more naive, version - casting longing, lovesick glances at Eirica Amell assail Cullen’s mind.

Irving’s protégée. 

Most people, mages or templars, despised her for her arrogance, her haughty manner, the cutting wit of her tongue, the disdainful look in her eyes.

Most people, mages or templars, also admired her rare beauty and few were those who did not desire her.

Cullen, it shames him to admit it now, had not been immune to her charms either. He had, of course, never acted on what he knew to be only lust. Far be it from him to forget his place, to ignore the laws of the Circles. Mages were off limit, the power imbalance between them and Templars far too great to allow any romantic relations to take place.

But, Cullen had thought then, in his innocence, it wouldn’t hurt to daydream about her in his idle moments.

“Turns out it did,” Cullen cries out as he resumes pacing, his feet taking him as close to the door he expects her to come through as the magical cage allows him to. “Turns out they used my feelings for you to torture me. And I hate you for it.”

Even if Amell does find pity in her heart, Cullen is not sure he wants to be on the receiving end of it. The thought of owing his life to her feels distasteful. 

Perhaps death might be a better fate.

He will tell her as much, when she gets here.

He hopes she hurries.

Cullen waits.

He waits so long that when the door, blasted by magic, finally opens, he cannot be entirely certain his brain isn’t playing tricks on him. The demon, perhaps, is trying one last attempt at controlling him.

Surely Eirica Amell, who is now standing in front of him, is a figment of his imagination.

Fear of corruption throws him to his knees, hiding his face behind his joined hands. “This trick again? I know what you are. I will stay strong.”

“Cullen?” Amell says in her low, well-spoken voice, “don’t you recognise me?”

“Only too well,” Cullen cries, and he wants to drown her out, wants to shut her up. “How far they must have delved into my thoughts.”

How could he have been so stupid as to think the demon was gone? He will never be free of it, it will always tempt him.

"Enough visions," he mutters through gritted teeth. "If anything in you is human... kill me now and stop this game."

Amell replies something then, but he hears no words of what she says, for when he looks up at her, her willowy form is shadowed by one of her companions, who has just entered the room.

“Impossible,” Cullen murmurs, blood draining from his face.

There, standing by Amell’s side, is the unmistakable shape of a stone golem. The same one that stood on the square, impassible and petrified, every single day of his life in Honnleath.

Under different circumstances, the child in him would marvel at the sight of the statue, come to life and animated. But in this awful, disgusting cell, all the whimsy of childhood has died in his heart alongside the boy he used to be, and no sense of wonder can reach him.

Instead, the astonishing appearance of the statue, who had been there that day, when he was thirteen, a silent witness to the last time he had beheld his family, feels like a terrible omen.