Chapter Text
Blood magic was everywhere. That is the lesson Cullen learned when Uldred staged his coup of Kinloch Hold, and it was not a lesson he would forget lightly. He learned quickly; this had always been a point of praise from his teachers, both as a Templar recruit and even before. So when blood magic came to taint even the strongest of his Templar peers, when the assault began in earnest against his own mind, Cullen vowed never to forget the lessons the Maker taught him in this time of terror. He prayed for safety and for strength, repeating holy words like a chant of protection.
And when Neria came into his vision, as gorgeous and kind as ever, he believed it first a trick of demons—
“Begone, demons! Leave! I—I will not…”
—but when her existence persisted, when Wynne sounded ever familiar and the Grey Wardens explained they had not died at Ostagar, he thought perhaps it was an answer to his prayers.
“You protect, too. You understand. They must be struck down.”
This was shattered by the revelation that she wanted to save the First Enchanter, whose screams echoed still in his skull, a nearly physical sensation. He tried, he begged for Neria not to go.
There was blood magic there, and he knew, he knew that even she could not guarantee her own safety from its insidious promises. (Daylen was even more dangerous, even more likely to turn to that danger for power.)
He could not convince her, though. He shouted at her. He said things that could never be forgiven in his anger and fear. Whatever he may once have felt for her, whatever he may have once dreamed of, he shattered with his own words.
“They must be destroyed.”
Still, she and her companions promised to save him as well as the First Enchanter. Perhaps they were simply naïve. Perhaps they truly believed they could. It didn't matter.
One of their number stayed behind, though, and Cullen knew that this one was innocent. He was no blood mage; a blood mage would not have stayed behind when facing others of their kind. A blood mage would not cower against a dog and cringe at the sounds of violence.
Cullen knew that he must protect this frightened boy, this mage so tormented by what had happened here that he clung to his mabari and sobbed. Cullen watched as the other Dalish, the one with the bow, tried to bring the boy along, as the boy begged to stay.
“Your friend has not been corrupted by the blood mages. I have no quarrel with him. He is an innocent in this, and a Grey Warden.”
This was enough for the Wardens, and so Cullen was left with him. Vir’era, according to how the Dalish archer had addressed him. Cullen watched from behind the blood mages’ barrier, itching to move but not daring to. Vir’era clung to the mabari (Littlefoot, they’d called him) and the shaking sobs only strengthened Cullen’s resolve never to forgive or to forget. Blood magic was evil. No one should suffer it.
He drew his sword and knelt, one eye watching Vir’era, the other watching the door.
That Vir’era was a mage did not escape his notice. The plain staff which lay near the shaking elf was evidence enough. Still, Cullen believed in his innocence. Maybe it was just foolish, a desperate need to have at least one person that he could say was not a victim of the blood magic. He didn’t really care. Vir’era was innocent. That was what mattered.
Cullen was a Templar, and Templars were protectors of the innocent, first and foremost. He had failed Kinloch’s mages. He would not fail this one. He caught himself pressing a hand against the barrier, as if to reach out and offer Vir’era... something. He didn’t know what. He pulled his hand back, clenching it tightly enough that, if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, he’d likely have drawn blood. The pain helped him concentrate, though, a distraction from the whispers and lies that still floated in his head.
The blood mages’ power over him dimmed slowly. He assumed that meant the Grey Wardens were killing them, and a vicious part of him was glad for the violent deaths they likely faced, longing only to join and inflict at least some amount of his torture back upon his captors.
He shook his head against these thoughts, the larger part of him horrified that such dark desires could have so great a presence in his heart; was he not a virtuous man? The blood mages deserved death, and certainly he could not risk any which had lingered in the Harrowing Chamber, but that did not mean he should give in to the darkness himself. They should have clean deaths, quick ones like any criminal so sentenced. He should not want to torture anyone. No one should endure such a thing. Not even blood mages.
Suddenly, the barrier holding him captive dissipated.
For a moment, he was so shocked he didn’t move. He feared it simply another trick, but the whispers and scratches in his head had stopped, too. He was free. He stood on shaking legs.
The door to the Harrowing Chamber opened. Voices floated out, and among them, he recognized First Enchanter Irving. But was it just Irving? Was the First Enchanter uncorrupted? He doubted it. None who had entered there, save perhaps the Grey Wardens, could be trusted. All had been exposed directly to the blood mages’ madness. The mages certainly could not be trusted, no matter how he might wish it otherwise. Neria, too.
But the crying elf, Vir’era—he was safe. He had not been exposed.
Cullen forced himself up and held up his sword, standing in front of Vir’era. The Grey Wardens leading the way—Neria and a red-haired woman—stared but did not stop. The other Dalish began to move for Vir’era. Cullen couldn’t allow that.
“Come no closer!”
They didn’t understand. Maybe they didn’t want to. It didn’t matter; he kept himself between them and Vir’era, even forcing them to walk down first.
Though he was weak himself from so long behind that barrier, his conviction held him strong. His world had been badly shaken, the rug torn from beneath his feet—but the pillars stood, and he could continue on.
Vir’era, on the other hand, could barely walk. Whatever the mage had seen in his efforts to save Kinloch Hold, whatever he had done as he climbed the tower’s steps, had brought him to his knees and refused to let him up.
Cullen was a Templar, and Templars were protectors.
“Let me carry you.”
He might not know if the Grey Wardens and their party were safe, but he knew Vir’era was. No abomination would ever become so weak, so distraught, without turning to violence—and if there was even one good mage in the world who could resist such a temptation, there might yet be others.
It was his duty to protect them.