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“Are you a templar?”
Rose’s question shakes him. It should be a simple answer, a confirmation and an age-appropriate explanation. Children had asked it of him before, often with their toy swords in hand and a light in their eyes that felt like looking into a mirror two decades ago. Trepidation and worry lace between Rose’s words, though, her ears back and her eyebrows knitted together.
Cullen sighs and crouches next to her in the snow, watching her tiny hands form balls to stack and line up. He takes his gloves off and joins her, following her silent lead and placing his slightly-larger spheres where she directs him. “I used to be.”
The time that Rose is silent stretches on to feel like years, the frozen snow making the bones in his hands ache while he waits for her to react. When he dares to take a glance at her face, she’s thinking. The inside of her cheek is between her teeth and she fidgets with her fingers. “Why?”
“Why did I become a templar?” Or why did he stay? One question was much easier to answer than the other.
“Mm-hmm.” Rose nods and starts a new line of snowballs. She takes several moments to watch his face, the little gears turning in her head while she waits for his answer.
“When-” Cullen sighs again, losing his words as soon as he thought he’d found them. “The Chantry tells us that templars help the people. Keep them safe. When I was a boy, I wanted to do that.”
“But templars hurt mages,” Rose counters. The snow is ignored in front of her now, all her attention on Cullen’s explanation.
“We only-” She’s right. It is not lost on him that Rose was probably raised to fear the Order, rightfully so. If they’d gotten to Mira while the Circles were still active, Rose would be without parents entirely. One way or another. “You’re right. That doesn’t feel very safe, does it?”
“Do you hate mages?” Rose’s confusion has made way to an indignant pursing of her lips and a glare that mirrors her mother’s.
“No,” he answers her quickly. Rose isn’t convinced, green eyes narrowing and patience thinning. Cullen grits his teeth a bit, a less worthy part of him wondering why he was indulging a three-year-old in justifications and answers. But she isn’t just indignant, she’s angry. Betrayed. He discards the snowball in his palm and directs all his attention to her face.
“I was afraid of them, Rose. I was… mages hurt me very badly when I was a young man. Sometimes when you’re afraid, it makes you do… stupid things. Bad things. I let-”
“Are you sorry?” Rose rests her balled fists on her hips and puts her weight on one leg, somehow looking down her nose at him while he towers over her. “For the bad things?” Her face is serious, but the fury in her eyes is dimmed.
“Yes. Every day.” Cullen lets her stare until she’s satisfied that he’s told her the truth.
“Is that why you’re not a templar anymore? Because you’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
Later he stares at the box in his tent. Its hinges do not creak, no dust litters its surfaces. The philter hums in the freezing night air of Haven. Blue the color of relief and duty taunts him in the dark, waiting to be taken up on its silent offer. The latch closes with a gentleness it does not deserve as he shoves it into one of the bags holding his few belongings, out of sight. He remembers the fury. He remembers the fear.
It is easier to ignore this night.