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Sunlight surrounds the effigy of Andraste. Her raised hands to welcome him like an old lover. Kneeling in front of it, Commander Cullen lowers his head, hands clasped in front of his face, and begins to recite the Chant.
“O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places. “
Each versicle he recites brings back the memories he fights so hard to keep inside a locked box in the bottom of his mind.
“O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me.
Stand only in places You have blessed.
Sing only the words You place in my throat.
My Maker, know my heart:
Take from me a life of sorrow.
Lift me from a world of pain.
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”
The words sting on his soul like a piercing sword. He has lost the right to feel worthy of the Maker’s pride long ago. He sold his soul to the Order, lost his principles over a wrong ideal. How can he had been so blind? How can he look away from all the wrong he saw?
“My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace.
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”
Fire. Fire will clean his soul. Through pain and suffering, he will repay the wrongness of his younger years. Never again the hate will control his actions. He had lost the ability to hate from overuse. Let the fire of battle clean his hands from the blood of the innocents. May his actions today bring some peace to the souls of the wronged. May his repentance be the first step of a new era.
“O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death.
Make me one within Your glory.
And let the world once more see Your favor.
For You are the fire at the heart of the world,
And comfort is only Yours to give.”
The last words of the Canticle where whispered, hands trembling thanks to the onslaught of memories flowing inside his mind. Kinloch Hold… The dark moments of Uldred’s treason washed over him again.
A shiver is running down his back, he still can feel the touch of the demons, the caresses of them onto his very soul, the darkness that clutched his heart for years. But now that his mind is free of the lyrium’s yoke, he can see beyond that moment. He can just remember, as painful as it is.
“Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”
How impure he feels when he remembers. The words of the Chant scratching the armour of his heart, ‘Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter’. How ironic was that the Chant taught him to be a peacekeeper, a defender of the weak and mistreated, but he decided to ignore it, shielded by faith on an Order instead of the Maker itself.
The stains on his hands and soul will never disappear. The blood was on his fingers, and he will see it every time he set his eyes on a mage or a tranquil. In her younger ages, he decided to ignore what he knew was happening behind closed doors. He covered his ears while passing beside a weeping mage or to ignore the screams of the mistreated. He believed blindly on the righteous of their actions, but inside him, in the bottom of his heart, the doubt awaited. And then… Then his first Harrowing gone south and he was forced to kill the poor apprentice. He was just a boy, younger than Branson. He just needed a word from the Knight Captain to pierce his chest and end with his life. He didn’t even flinch hearing the command. He finished it–him, with a single blow, the scream of pain from him resounding on the tower’s walls. Inside the room, the rest of the Templars congratulated him, while the mages mourned for his fallen member. Irving closed his eyes while touching his hand lovingly. But the other Templars remembered him that he wasn’t a person, he was a mage, a burden for the Order, something to keep locked and chained because they were a danger to the rest of the world. And how much he wanted to believe it!
“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”
And a river of blood has guided him here, to Skyhold, to the Inquisition, to Lavellan.
Taking a deep breath, he raises his head, looking directly into the statue’s stone eyes. “Can the Maker forgive all the sins I committed in his name? Did I deserve His forgiveness?”
His hand moves to a pendant on his chest. Kirkwall heraldry and a phylactery. Bethany Hawke’s phylactery. Even after all the suffering, he let the others Templars inflict on her fellow mages. She never hesitated, never stepped back in front of injustice. She was the reason he began to doubt that all the mages were like Uldred.
But the damage was already done. The status quo of hate was only getting worse with every good action from Hawke. No matter how many mages he saved, how many people owe him their lives and prosperity, Meredith’s poison flowed freely across the city, doubts blooming on the heart of Kirkwall.
When he finally saw Meredith’s real face, it was too late. Anders has done it. The Chantry has been destroyed. The war has begun. He was there when Hawke has to choose between killing him for what he has done or giving him the chance to correct it. And inside his heart, Cullen never wanted his head. The explosion has killed good persons, yes, but the spur of it has been a necessity, a minor wrongness in a bigger madness. The equilibrium has been broken thanks to Meredith, and the mages needed an escape route. Hawke let him live, giving him a last kiss before joining Cullen and the rest to confront Meredith.
“Foul and corrupt are you
Who have taken My gift
And turned it against My children.”
He has recited this words to Meredith before raising his sword against her. In his mind, he can see a river of blood flowing from her feet. She was the reason, the symptom and the only solution to this madness. The red lyrium vibrated on him, making goose bumps appear on his skin, but he didn’t relent, didn’t doubt. She must be stopped, and he will die, if necessary, to do it. At the very moment he raised his sword beside the Champion, he promised himself to try to be a better person, to stop hating, to climb from the wheel of darkness where he has been living since his younger years. It was the time to begin to follow the Maker’s light again.
He will always remember the moment after the final battle with Meredith, when he had fallen to the ground, hands losing its strength. Bethany has come and knelt beside him, using her magic to soothe his pain, soft hands cleaning the tears on his cheeks. He muttered ‘I’m not worthy’ and her answer will be forever engraved on his heart.
“Though stung with a hundred arrows,
Though suffering from ailments both great and small,
His Heart was strong, and he moved on.
The deep dark before dawn’s first light seems eternal,
But know that the sun always rises.
Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs,
The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds.”
She helped him to take off his Templar regalia, leaning a hand on his chest when he is on his tunic. “You will do great things, Cullen Rutherford. The blindfold of your eyes has fallen. Now you can see the difference between wrong and right.”
Raising from the ground, he moves closer to the statue, lightning on a new candle on her feet. His left hand move to touch the Templar insignia on his vambraces, “I can finally see it, Beth.”
Leaving the Chantry, the Commander returned to his office. He will leave to the Arbor Wilds tomorrow with Lavellan. The end is near, and for once, he can feel the light of the Maker shining over him.