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Chapter Text

~ * ~

An air of malaise lay over him, heavy and thick and terrible, and all around him the world was tinted red by the energy cage in which he moldered. The stench of death and decay was overwhelming. The only way to ignore it would be to stop breathing altogether, and Cullen wasn’t ready to do that yet. Maybe in a while…maybe soon…but not yet.

The young templar lay on his side, curled in upon himself, as far from the edges of his prison as he could hold his limbs. He had countless burn marks from learning that lesson over and over again. There had been a time when he had the energy and the strength to throw himself at the barrier without a care for the wounds, but not anymore. Now he was weak with hunger and thirst, now his wits were scattered and his body wrecked from the agony of lyrium deprivation. Now this cursed barrier served as both a prison and protection from the horrors that lurked beyond it, waiting.

There was a sound close to his head, a ghastly slithering of rough scales and soft wool over floor tiles. He jerked back from it instinctively and then whimpered and cursed himself for letting the demon know that he was conscious.

“Wakey wakey, sweet little templar. We’re so bored. Join us for a new game, my succulent little blood pudding. Are you ready to wager for your freedom yet? The buy in isn’t so dear, just a pound of flesh. You may even choose which pound it is to be. Isn’t that generous?”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut tight. He didn’t want to see the face that hoarse, inhuman voice belonged to. Beneath the demonic rasp he could still hear just a hint of the original dulcet tone. She had once been beautiful, a sweet and innocent mage whom he had rather liked. Not anymore. Now he hated her with all his being. He hated her for being so weak, hated her for letting it in, hated her for all that she had helped do to him…would continue to do… Mages were supposed to be better than this. Other templars had told him, warned him, said not to trust them.
They were right. They had been right all along and you were a trusting fool. When had his internal voice begun to drip with the same scornful rasp as the taunts of his captors? He curled up tighter against it.

”Blessed are they…who stand before the corrupt and…and the wicked and…do not falter.” His real voice was dry as dust, but the words were clear enough. ”Blessed are the righteous…the lights in the shadow. In their blood…in their blood the Maker’s…w…will is written.”

”But you aren’t, little templar.” The slithering sound circled him so very close, the words seeming to hiss right into his ear. He could feel the fetid breath and jerked back from it. ”You’re neither standing nor unfaltering…no no no…you certainly are not blessed…and your blood…oh my sweet little one…in your blood is the Fade…oh so delicious…oh so fleeting now…”

Suddenly he felt the heat from a roaring flame and he gasped, eyes flew open to find that he was not alone in his cage anymore. No, the cage was gone. The cage was GONE and rising up from the molten stones beside him was the liquid fire form of a rage demon. With a rasping cry, Cullen tried to scramble back from the demon only to feel the scaly female form of the possessed mage wrap her arms around his throat, clawed fingers sinking into his flesh, drawing him against a scaled bosom as he choked for air.

He gagged as the abomination nuzzled her rough cheek lovingly against his face, his very skin attempting to crawl away from the touch. His hands clawed at her monstrous arms, like iron crushing his delicate throat. The stench of her decaying, twisted body filled his nostrils, seemed to slough off on his skin, tore at the remnants of his armor and uniform. Her touch filled him with loathing, with rancid horror, with shuddering disgust, oh how he HATED her!

”That’s it, my darling, my sweet, my treasure. That’s it…oh my yes…you are soooo delectable…we could just…devour you whole… Her body shuddered against his almost like a lover at climax and he DESPISED HER SO MUCH!! His body rebelled, retching and gagging as if it could expel her. Maker, he wanted to kill her with his bare hands. Grab her head, gouge out her eyes with these thumbs, tear her skull open like a ripe melon… He thought he had just enough strength to do it, but if he let go she would crush his throat.

Then the rage demon loomed over his prone body with a terrible growl that almost could have been sensual if it were anything else, the heat of it causing sweat to erupt from every pore. Helpless, wrathful tears streamed down the templar’s cheeks and then his world went white hot with rage and pain as it plunged its burning claw deep into his chest. Just give up…let it be done…it's been so long…you're so weak…just let it be over finally.

”NOOOO!!!”

When Cullen found reality, it took him far too long to understand what was happening. He was fighting for his life, kicking and punching for all he was worth and someone was screaming. No, that wasn’t right. The voice screaming was…it was his voice. He dragged in a hoarse, rasping breath through pained vocal chords and suddenly all the fight went out of him. There were five other templars in the room with him, each of them fighting to get control of him and he didn’t know what was happening. “Wha…what…? I…ho…? Wait…”

Before he could manage to get a coherent question past his lips, the group bore him bodily back to slam against the wall, pinning him there, then one of those templars reared back with a wrathful snarl and punched him full in the face. His head bounced off the wall and he sagged there, boneless but conscious still. I’ll remember that…remember you… Rage sparked for just an instant with that thought, but it flitted away again like sand through his fingers as caution took its place and kept him compliant.

He still didn’t know what was happening. His head lolled, eyes rolling in their sockets as he took in the room. His cot was broken and the room was in shambles from the fight. Slowly the dream came back to him and he realized that he must have been in the throes of it when they tried to wake him. He must have lashed out and just…just… So you started it, you deserve everything they dished out and more. “I’m sorry. …I… I’m… I’m okay… I’m sorry…”

Cullen continued to hang there a moment, held tight in gauntleted hands. He expected them to pull away, but they did not. He lifted his throbbing head and squinted around painfully. They were all staring at him like he might grow another head at any second. “I’m okay… You can let me go now. It was… It was a nightmare… That’s all.” Obviously, you are not okay. Even they can see that, you idiot. You have no friends here. All your friends were eaten. They let them get eaten. There was rage again for an instant, but he tamped it back down.

They just looked at him in silence, then at each other, their expressions were guarded and closed off. Not a single one of them moved except for the one that had hit him. He looked like he might hit Cullen again just for the principle of it. Cullen swallowed hard and let his eyes lower again. It was becoming increasingly clearer all the time. You’re no longer one of them. They think you’re tainted. Perhaps this transfer was actually for the best, even if it was sending him so very far from home.

The tense atmosphere was broken only when Knight-Commander Greagoir entered the room and looked at each templar in turn. His hard gaze came to rest on Cullen and it might have softened just slightest bit. “Any injuries?” All the knights in the room straightened and shook their heads in the negative. “No, Sir!” Graegoir waved his arm in sharp dismissal to them. “Alright, everyone out. Back to your duties.”

The room quickly emptied and Cullen pressed himself more firmly to the wall so that he wouldn’t fall when they yanked their hands away, as if he were something unclean. You are unclean. Notice he didn’t ask if you were alright. Even your commanding officer knows. Greagoir waited until the others were gone, then he shut the door and turned to examine his charge. The single survivor of the recent calamity that had happened in the tower just above their heads. He tipped Cullen’s chin up, examined the blood that seeped from a split lip and bruised nose. “Nothing broken. Good. What happened?”

Cullen flushed and turned his head away, steeling himself and stepping to the side to put some space between the Knight-Commander and himself. “I...It was just a nightmare. I… It took me a bit to wake up out of it. I guess… They were just defending themselves.”

Greagoir peered at him, eyes narrowed in consideration, then he nodded to himself and turned away to toe at the pieces of the cot that littered the floor of the small room. See how he looks at you. “Yes, well, considering the circumstances such things are to be expected.” The older man spied a heavy duffle situated by the door and he nodded to it. “All packed and ready, Rutherford? Good. The ferry will arrive within the hour. Transport has been arranged to meet you on the shore to get you to the harbor. There’s a ship waiting there to take you to the Kirkwall Circle. Make sure you do not miss it. There’s a Blight coming. Best for you to be safe behind those walls before the rest of Ferelden gets the same idea.”

The entire statement came across as stern and indifferent. Just facts and orders. It gave Cullen the distinct impression that he was nothing more than a commodity, a chess piece, to be moved about at will to wherever he may be of most use or wherever he will be least in the way. Out of sight, out of mind. His eyes dropped to the floor again and he nodded. “Yes, Knight-Commander.”

Greagoir eyed him for a last long moment and then strode decisively to the door. “Get yourself cleaned up, Rutherford. It’s bound to be a long trip. Remember that outside these walls you are a representative of the Order and the Chantry. Be sure to act accordingly. Also, make sure you pick up the travel pack that the Quartermaster has prepared for you. Normally I would send a contingent with you to the harbor, but with things as they are…” The older man sent him a last uncomfortably long look and didn’t bother to finish his sentence. “Good luck.” He gave Cullen only those two final parting words before he walked out, closed the door behind him, and was gone. Alone, the young templar dropped into a worn chair and rested his bruised, bloody face in his hands.

~ * ~

Cullen Rutherford stood on the very point of the bow of the ship as it approached the monstrosity that was Kirkwall. He stared up, his neck craning higher and higher as the huge statues drew closer and closer. It was the chains that really hit home the point of those statues. They made a clear statement. This is not a nice place. Maybe this is exactly where you belong. It might as well have had a sign that said Abandon hope all ye who enter here!! The place could definitely make you feel very small indeed, full plate armor or not.

He glanced behind at the ship crew and received more than a few pointed glares from a number of the sailors before turning back to the apprehensive view. As much as he didn’t want to enter Kirkwall, he had certainly worn out his welcome aboard this particular vessel. Between his own personal range of recent mood swings, his sensitivity to being in such close quarters with other people, and his absolutely ridiculous night terrors, he had managed to really piss off quite a lot of people during this trip.

For just an instant he let himself feel sorry that the Knight-Commander hadn’t sent even just one other knight templar with him. Someone who could have explained his situation. Someone that could have put himself between Cullen and the rest of the world, even if all they said was ”Eh, just ignore that guy. He’s harmless.” Then again, that person might have been just as likely to wake him from his nightmares with a punch in the face each time, so perhaps it was better to be alone.

Besides, he had recently found himself doubting whether he really was all that harmless anymore. At least four sailors with black eyes and broken noses or other injuries could attest to that. In his defense, though, only a true idiot didn’t heed a freely given warning to not sneak up on the edgy man in full plate armor. He did warn them. It wasn’t his fault that there were very few places on a ship like this that he could put himself where he might never be startled.

He looked to the dock as it slowly drew near and hefted his duffle over his shoulder. The instant the crew set the gangway into place, he was on it. There was a slight wobble in his legs once he stepped onto dry land, but within ten strides he was steady and on his way to search out his new circle.

He wasn’t sure if it was in keeping with the rest of the decor when he learned that the name of the circle here was The Gallows or whether it was just poor taste. His lips twisted slightly as he stared up at the obvious prison entrance for a very long time, feeling it out, considering it from as many directions as he was personally able to after everything he’d been through these past months. Finally, after some minutes passed with him merely standing there at the base of the stairs, his lashes fluttered, blinking a number of times as if something sort of snapped into place. They belong in a place like this. There will be no escaping this time. Not through those bars. His eyes focussed once more on the iron gates and his brows drew down to shadow them.

“Good.” The word came out in a dark rasp, startling a random passerby who glanced askance at him before moving on. He ignored the person and, with a new sense of certainly settling over him, he mounted the steps to his new home.

Oppressive didn’t even begin to describe the feeling as he strode along beneath the gaze of all those slave statues. Though, he supposed that for all intents and purposes, the statues could now be attributed to the new inhabitants of this place rather than slaves that had been dead for a thousand years. Did that include the templars as well? He didn’t want to follow that train of thought. He didn’t really want to think at all. His thoughts recently tended to go to places that he wasn’t all that comfortable with. These stone depictions of torture that had bombarded him from the moment that he disembarked from the ship weren’t really doing much for his peace of mind.

Cullen pulled his gaze away from the damn statues and tried to focus on the people that he passed instead. Templars. And templars. …and…more templars. Templars posted practically every score of paces. He didn’t see anyone who wasn’t dressed just like him and every one of them gazed right back with unblinking, stern, severe expressions. Occasionally he noted a hint of curiosity, but it was always secondary to a glare. Everyone here was so…serious.

Most importantly, he didn’t see a single mage anywhere. Some part of him eventually began to unwind slightly at the obvious lack of robes and staves and even a hint of magic in the air. He blinked at that thought. He felt no magic. None at all. Not anywhere.

He paused and turned in a circle, drawing the curious frowns of the templars posted within sight of him. At his old circle there was always the tingle of magic. From the gardens outside the tower to the library to the upper floors where classes occurred to the mages’ sleeping chambers to the storerooms below the tower, there was magic everywhere. Even just from ordinary enchantments. He used to like the tingle. He had made a point of learning to differentiate even between the different types of tingles. Different types of magic had almost a taste to them, so to speak, but here there was…nothing.

The air here was blessedly clean and tingle free. He closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. He released a long heavy sigh, his shoulders relaxing and loosening beneath his pauldrons.

“Cullen Rutherford, I presume.”

He opened his eyes and turned at the sound of his name to face a severely-faced older man with a lieutenant symbol on his armor and the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen. “Yes, Sir.” He was still distracted by the wonder of his realization. Despite himself, he completely ignored protocol and just blurted it out. “Sir, there’s no magic here…?”

The lieutenant’s icy blue eyes narrowed and he seemed to gain an inch as his spine stiffened beneath the heavy plate. “You’ll find no unsanctioned magic here. Not even a spark without proper supervision and recourse.” The man stated this in a calm, soft spoken, matter-of-fact voice that said that this was just the way of things.

Cullen let out another breathy sigh that he hadn’t even noticed had gotten caught in his chest. “Not even a spark… Thank the Maker for that.”

The lieutenant blinked at him owlishly and then smiled, the edges of his eyes crinkling up with grandfatherly crows-feet and only then did Cullen realize he’d said something foolish. The young templar blushed brightly and cleared his throat. “Ah… Excuse me, Sir. I forget myself. It has been a long trip.” He immediately stood to attention and gave his superior a proper salute. “Knight-Templar Cullen Rutherford reporting for duty, Sir!”

The older man nodded approvingly at him. “Lieutenant Otto Alrik. Welcome to The Gallows, my boy. I believe you will fit in here perfectly well. Don’t you?”

~ * ~

Lieutenant Alrik was quite the companionable guide. He seemed almost fatherly and after everything else recently, Cullen appreciated it very much. The lieutenant led him through The Gallows on a quick tour, explaining some history and some more relevant facts about his new home. It was all templar-focussed. Any reference to their mage charges seemed to only be incidental to making sure that Cullen understood their stance here and the mages’ rightful place here. As they turned a corner Cullen noticed a familiar style of swishing robe disappearing around the next corner at the far end of the hallway. He immediately tensed, forcing down a flash of panic. “Who was that?” He pointed down the hall where it was already empty again. Jumping at shadows now like a frightened child? Great first impression.

“Hmm?” Sir Alrik glanced that way, but just shrugged in dismissal. “Oh, that was the first enchanter. Orsino. You’ll see him haunting these halls. His office is just there.” Alrik off-handedly gestures to a specific door. “Don’t worry, he toes the line and keeps his nose clean. There'll be no trouble from him. Come on, boy, let's get you settled in.”

When Cullen realized that the templars here shared what looked like a large open-room style barracks full of bunks, he balked suddenly. He stared down the line of beds for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze to the floor. “Sir. You…ah… Are you…aware…?” He trailed off in uncertainty, glancing up at the older man, then back down to the floor again, not wanting to make eye contact. Did he really have to verbalize his…problems? Maybe…maybe the lieutenant didn’t care. Maybe you’re a selfish fool asking for special treatment. Was he even worth such a thing? He didn’t feel worth it… But… He had begun to hope for a fresh start here. If he woke up the entire barracks of templars while screaming his head off like a lunatic… He shuddered at the thought. How long will it be before one of them murders you in your sleep just to shut you up?

The lieutenant blinked with those owlish eyes that seemed to see everything. He was taken aback for just an instant, but then he gestured for Cullen to return to the hallway. They walked a short ways until the older templar turned into an office and aimed that fatherly smile at him again. “We can speak here.”

There was a pause while Cullen attempted to find words, but he couldn't get them past his throat. You’re really pathetic…you might as well ask him to tuck you in at night too. His shoulders start to scrunch with tension.

“I understand that your previous circle was…difficult.”

Cullen looked sharply at the lieutenant and his…word choice. “Difficult.” He paused again. “I suppose you could say that…” He swallowed thickly and then forced himself to push down his pride, push down the hurt and shame and terror and anger. So many emotions that he practically couldn’t tell them apart, much less act on any of them. He was a templar. He had to…conquer this…somehow. That would require you to grow a pair and not cower like some neutered mutt. “Did my transfer orders come with…any…background information?”

Sir Alrik crossed his arms in front of his chest, tilting his head just the slightest bit. “I couldn’t tell you that. I didn’t see them. The Knight-Commander only told me to expect you and that there had been some sort of ‘Difficulty’ at your last circle.

Cullen stared at him and then blinked twice as he realized that no one here knew. No one knew about him. Except maybe the Knight-Commander, maybe not even her considering the warning that Knight-Commander Greagoir had given him regarding holding his tongue about it all. And…what was he going to tell his new lieutenant? His new commanding officer. This kindly seeming father figure. You’re going to lie your ass off just to save face and hope for his respect. You are pathetic.

“I am the sole survivor from my unit.” Not a lie. Not a lie. Technicalities matter, right?
“And I have…ah…night terrors…” He made a pained face and reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking off to the side. “...really loud…violent ones…” He glanced up and then down again. “...on the journey here the ship captain nearly had me thrown overboard…”

Whatever the lieutenant had been expecting, it apparently hadn’t been that. His eyebrows lifted high on his bald head. “The sole survivor…? Of what?” He almost sounded disbelieving, but still unsure.

Knowing it was coming and hearing the question being asked were two different things. Somehow Cullen managed not to wince. He cleared his throat, but the word still came out as a tight rasp anyway. “Abominations.”

Now the older templar stepped forward, his arms uncrossed and his icy blue eyes peered into Cullen’s honey-brown ones. Cullen shivered at the sustained gaze, but stubbornly stared back. Alrik’s eyes were so piercing, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Whatever the old man saw in his own gaze, he reached out and rested an encouraging hand on Cullen’s shoulder. Then he gave Cullen a slight shake and nodded with understanding. “Well, my boy. Night terrors are a trial.”

Alrik thought about it for a moment and then raised his eyebrows at him again. “It is irregular, but I think I may have a solution. So long as you can accept having to share a room with one of the knight-corporals.”

With a wince, Cullen grimaced but nodded in acceptance. That was better than he had dared hope for. “I pray that whoever it happens to be is forgiving of losing sleep more often than not.”

The older templar chuckled and patted Cullen’s shoulder again. “I have just the man. Don’t you worry, lad. Raleigh hardly sleeps as it is and he’s got the patience of a mabari.” Alrik grinned over at him. “Maybe the grooming sense of one as well, but I believe having a young templar to mentor will be good for him.”

~ * ~

They soon arrived at another part of the barracks and Alrik knocked on one of the cell doors. From inside the room came a muffled voice. “Oy! I’m on leave! That means leave me be!” Sir Alrik rolled his eyes and opened the door, throwing it wide.

“For all of our sakes, Raleigh, hold that tongue of yours before it lands you in trouble yet again. As of right now you are no longer on administrative leave. Report to the duty officer tomorrow morning for your post orders. Also you have a new roommate. Cullen Rutherford, this is Knight-Corporal Raleigh Samson.” He smiled at Cullen and moved back from the door to make way for him.

“Oy! I never heard that another templar got a promotion! Why do I gotta share? An’ what about my rations!” Samson shook his fist impotently in the air from where he was sprawled out on his bed without a care.

Sir Alrik raised an eyebrow at Samson and snorted. “No promotions. Rutherford is a new transfer and you get to share because I control the assignments. I do not, however, control your lyrium rations, so you stay at half rations for now. But I will speak with the Knight-Commander for you.” The older man jabbed a finger at Samson with a stern look of warning. “And, Raleigh…Discretion is the word of the day for you. Remember it.” Then Alrik was walking away and Cullen and Raleigh were left looking at each other in awkward silence.

After a cursory glance around, Cullen closed the door and walked over to the empty bunk across from where Samson was lounging. He set his duffle down and sat on his new bed, elbows resting on his knees with a metallic clink. “Hi.”

Samson swung his legs down and mirrored Cullen’s pose, elbows settling on his own knees. He was a scruffy, athletic man who looked to be thirty-something, maybe even forty, and who wore nothing but a pair of flimsy linen pants, having been apparently taking a nap in the middle of the day. He seemed a little thin for someone who was trained as a templar, but there was obvious strength in his wiry figure “Hello, yourself.”

“You don’t happen to enjoy punching people, do you?” Cullen asked wryly, eyeing Raleigh’s sinewy arms.

“Depends on whether they deserve it or not.” Came the snappy answer off a sharp tongue.

“Sir Alrik said you don’t sleep much. By any chance is that true?” Cullen started to show a very preliminary smile at the surprisingly endearing irreverence the other man radiated.

“Do I look like someone that gets their beauty sleep?” The older man commented snarkily, starting to grin.

“If I answer that honestly, does it earn me a punch in the face?” Cullen was grinning now too, he couldn’t help himself as all the tension in the room seemed to have just evaporated.

“I can’t see the reason in punishin’ a man just for bein’ honest.” Raleigh waves a hand dismissively.

“Ah…what if he screams like a lunatic in the middle of the night? You know…when beauty sleep usually happens…” Cullen looked down at his hands, fidgeting with them nervously, waiting for the judgment to set in when Samson realized just what he might be in for. Here it comes…

There was a moment of silence. “Huh. An, what? Does a punch in the face fix that?”

Cullen shook his head gravely. “Not really, no. Definitely it doesn’t.” Still only giving Samson a bit of side eye and then shrugging helplessly. What else was there to do?

There was another moment of silence followed by a shuffling sound from Samson’s side of the room. “Well then. I guess that answers that.” Suddenly there was a cheap brown bottle held out in front of Cullen’s nose. The contents were pungent and a bit overpowering. “Care for a drink, roomie?”

“I… Yeah, actually. I really would…” The relief was rather a novel feeling. He hadn’t felt that feeling in such a long time that it surprised him how good it felt.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

The monstrosity that was the city of Kirkwall was unlike any place that Cullen had ever experienced before. Granted, the young templar wasn’t exactly widely traveled and his past experience had been limited to farm, forest, lake, and perhaps a handful of excursions to Denerim in his youth. That, of course, didn’t include his year long assignment at the Kinloch Hold circle tower where his education had ranged quite a bit beyond that of the “normal” templar experience.

Supposedly there were templars out there that had never seen a true abomination, much less ever had to face off with a true demon summoned into the physical realm. Supposedly there were templars who didn’t know what it was like to be tortured to the very brink of psychosis by angry circle mages who had embraced blood magic and madness. Supposedly there were templars who did not startle at an unexpected touch or sound nor did they wake from nightmares in screaming, frothing terror, and have to be talked back down to reality for both their own safety and the safety of anyone around them.

These simple ideas of a peaceful templar existence seemed completely unthinkable to Cullen now. To him, they were like a quaint, innocent daydream that was foolish and naive to such an extreme that thinking about it left him reeling emotionally. It did not help that his previous knight-commander at Kinloch had ordered him to keep his experiences between himself and his direct command. He didn’t know if the knight-commander of Kirkwall even knew of the reason for his transfer here. Maybe she didn’t care. He had yet to even lay eyes on her. This particular knight-commander seemed to leave the day to day management of her templars to her lieutenants.

He had turned his efforts toward accepting his new surroundings and getting to know how the circle here functioned. The Gallows. Even the name left you with a very specific feeling. It was a line drawn in the sand. It was a boundary set in stone and framed with chains. To exist in The Gallows was to be fully aware of the knot of the noose that hovered over your head, waiting to drop around your neck and cinch tight. That awareness was meant for the inhabitants of the circle; the wards, the mages. It was understood that here the templars were the ones that gripped the other end of that noose. That understanding came with a relief that was tangled up with guilt for Cullen, even though that small guilt also had its own larger guilt hanging upon it as well.

Because templars existed to safeguard mages from the world and from themselves, but he had seen for himself what those mages could be. Was every single mage a danger?
Yes. Unquestionably.
But was every mage so weak willed? Were they really so easy to tempt? Was every single one of them nothing more than a ticking time bomb? What did that actually make a mage? Was a mage even human to begin with? How could a real human with real human feelings and thoughts and morals and a beating heart…be capable of such…inhumanity? He hadn’t been able to answer any of those questions. Not yet.

Lately there were so many little things weighing down upon the young templar’s mind. He felt as if he was steadily being pressed down further and further until he was surprised that he could still breathe. How could he still stand up with straight shoulders beneath the added weight of his cuirass and pauldrons? Sometimes he found himself wondering if perhaps the ship captain really had tossed him overboard into the sea on the journey here, as he had threatened. Maybe all this was just a desperate dream that would be snuffed out when he finally gave in and drew the sea into his lungs. How was he supposed to keep breathing like this?

He was surrounded by fellow templars day and night here in The Gallows. His commanding officer Lieutenant Alrik had checked in on him with a fatherly smile each day so far. The corporal of his unit had been surprisingly helpful while making sure he was learning the rounds, considering the man had apparently been on restriction until being saddled with Cullen as a new roommate to mentor. Yet he felt utterly solitary and alone, separated from the herd by the way his psyche had been eviscerated and skinned like a carcass for the butcher block. You were always alone, you were just never such a coward about it before. Cullen grimaced at the sneering self recrimination and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes with exhausted resignation, slumped at the little table on his side of their shared room. The dark shadows beneath his eyes were starting to hurt like real bruises and he was so tired.

It was his fourth day here and he had gone to the Chantry earlier at the end of the day. He’d hoped the soothing embrace of the Maker would be a balm for his soul. What he’d actually found there had been disturbing. The chantry here was nothing like the tiny little chapel he had grown up with. He’d been informed that the Kirkwall decor was actually left over from the Tevinter Imperium builders of the island citadel. He had to say that his thoughts were rather divided about it.

The small sliver of farmboy within him that had somehow managed to survive his own personal “harrowing” absolutely hated this place. The templar in him found a promise of security and safety within the prison walls of The Gallows; power and stability from the lyrium he was supplied with by his quartermaster. There now seemed to be a third piece of him, somewhere in between the farmboy and the templar that he’d never had need to examine before. Perhaps it was the faithful choirboy that he’d always associated with the templar that he wanted to become. It was the part of him that knew the entire Chant by heart. The part that wanted to believe that there was a plan and a reason for all things. The part that knelt beside his bed each night and prayed to the Maker for the salvation of his tattered soul.

As he had stood there in that huge, imposing, and altogether unfriendly chantry hall and stared up at those looming statues that seemed to stare right back at him, he didn’t feel seen. No. He didn’t feel soothed. There was no Maker’s embrace here. There was no Andraste smiling down at him with love and understanding. All he felt was…nothing. No, that wasn’t quite true. Not nothing. He felt…betrayed. Forgotten. Lost. He felt so lost. …so angry. …and so filled with despair.

It probably didn’t help that he hadn’t really slept since that ship captain had threatened him. He’d lost count of how many days it had been since then. He also hadn’t wanted to destroy the new friendship that seemed to be growing between himself and his irreverent roommate. Speaking of which, as if summoned by the thread of his thoughts, the door to the room snapped open and Raleigh Samson stomped through, flinging it closed behind himself with a slam so hard that it had Cullen practically climbing the wall beside him in a flash of unwarranted panic.

“Sweet Maker’s Arse, Raleigh!!” Cullen pressed his back firmly to the wall and held his hands back over his eyes for a long moment as he tried to get his heart back down out of his throat again.

“Tsshk! Get the stick out of your hind end, roomie. I’m not gonna bite you.” Samson rolled his eyes at Cullen then pulled his gauntlets off and tossed them uncaringly at the desk on his side of the room. They slammed down with a loud clatter and he began yanking at his cuirass. “Did you hear what Gerold was goin’ on about in the mess? E’s such a jackass. Got all those new recruits eatin’ out of his greasy hands, he does.” He shook his head disgustedly.

It was taking Cullen longer than he wanted to get himself back under control. He took a deep breath and held it as he forced himself away from the wall and made his feet take him across the room to help Samson with his armor. All the while he was silently counting backwards from ten, trying to encourage his slamming heart to slow down. His hands shook as he undid the clasps on the other man’s shoulders. Cullen tried to cover it up by moving quickly and being as indelicate as possible while he yanked the metal pieces off the man, carrying them over to dress the dummy that sat beside the one that was already wearing his own armor. Cullen had no idea what Samson was talking about because he hadn’t actually gone to the mess hall for dinner this evening. He hadn’t been hungry. “He does like to hear himself talk.” That seemed a safe enough response and encouraged Samson to keep ranting for a few more minutes while they got ready for lights out.

Cullen, already dressed down to his sleep clothes, soon sat down on his bed, averting his eyes while Samson stripped and threw on a pair of loose pants, then went searching through the bottle collection on his desk for one that wasn’t empty. Before they could commit to getting comfortable there came the sound of boots in the outside hall and a knock at the door. Raleigh jumped to answer the door, hurriedly receiving their evening lyrium ration from the templar there. The man started to say something smug to Samson about still being on half rations, but the annoyed corporal slammed the door in his face before he could get it out. “Right. About time!”

Raleigh came over and held out the full draught to him. Cullen eyed the beautiful blue vial without any real relish and didn’t reach out for it until Samson shook it impatiently. “Come on, what’s wrong with you?”

Reluctantly Cullen took it, fingers grasping the glass just above where the liquid stopped. He didn’t want to feel the cadaver-like luke-warmth that emanated from the stuff. The knight-corporal went back to his bed, cradling his half-ration like it was precious. Examining his own full ration, Cullen’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his roommate. He still had a hard time rationalizing his thoughts about the lyrium. It helped… It did help. But it also…didn’t. He couldn’t explain it. Part of him wanted it badly and part of him loathed it and wanted to throw it away. He hadn’t felt that way before. It made him numb and it quieted his thoughts and made him feel invincible and strong. Not taking it hurt so much, it made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams, but it was also a hook that had been sunk into him that could be pulled and yanked by…anyone…anything. The things that they had made him do for it…still shamed him…horrified him…those things lived inside him like beetles burrowed under his skin, into his flesh, squirming in his guts.

“Hey.” Raleigh was just bringing his ration to his lips when Cullen spoke up. “Let’s trade.” He held out his full ration toward the scruffy man whose eyes went wide with surprise, swinging it tantalizingly in the air.

“What?” Samson’s brows drew down into a suspicious frown.

The younger man lowered his eyes down to the half full draught rather than keeping eye contact. “I know what it feels like, not getting enough. You’ve got a headache, don’t you? This’ll help.”

He stared back at him incredulously. “A headache?! My bleedin brain feels like it’s gonna melt out my ears. Is that what you call a headache? If it is, then, yeah, I got a bleedin’ headache. How’d you guess?” The sarcasm was unrepentant.

“Well, it might have just been your shining personality coming through, but I just had a funny feeling.” Cullen retorted with a dry snort. “What with all the shouting and slamming and throwing things.”

“What? My shining personality ain’t companionable enough for you? I don’t see you makin’ an effort at conversation. Bring me a ribbon an’ I’ll braid your hair. We can chat about pretty ladies and munch away on fancy hightown cakes while we’re at it.”

Cullen looked up to glower at him impatiently, regretting that he had said anything at all. “Do you want to trade or not?”

“Oh, I want to! I just can't figure out why you want to.” He idly swirled his half ration in its vial.

Shrugging, he started to withdraw the offer. “It’s fine. I’m just used to less. My old circle didn’t give us so much. I don’t really need it, but if you don’t want it...”

“Now hold on a minute, I didn’t say that.” Samson leaned forward hungrily, eyes latching onto the fuller vial greedily before going back to Cullen. Then he shrugged, unwilling to let the option slip away. “If you don’t need it…well, by all means, no reason to let it go to waste. Give it here.” He held out his half dose more than willingly now. They traded and Samson went back to his side of the room, all his attention focussed on the treasure he held in his hands. “You better not let on that you’re not takin’ your lyrium. It ain’t done. But, ah, I ain’t gonna complain.”

Cullen took the half empty vial and angled it past his tongue so that he didn’t have to taste the stuff, quickly throwing it back and swallowing before Samson had a chance to question him anymore about it. He held in the shudder when it hit his bloodstream, eyes closed to the wave of power that rushed through him and made his stomach turn sour. How could something be so wonderful and yet make him feel so sickened at the same time? “Maybe, um, maybe we can keep trading on and off. As long as you’re stuck at half. I don’t mind it. I don’t…really like the stuff.”

He could tell that the other was sending him a strange look even without turning to see it. “Rutherford, you are a daft duck, you know that? But yeah, sure. Any time. You should turn in. You look like a pack of alley cats sank their claws in those pretty curls of yours and dragged you around town like arm-candy.”

“Maker, Raleigh. What is that even supposed to mean? I swear I can’t understand you half the time.” Cullen grimaced at the comment, but stretched himself out on his bed, pressing his back to the wall like he had the last three nights.

“It means that you look like shit and I’m cuttin off the lamp so I don’t have to look at you no more.” Which Samson did without any further hesitation and they both settled in for the night. There was a book on Cullen’s nightstand along with a stubby candle which Cullen had been using to keep himself occupied once his roommate fell asleep and that was the plan tonight as well. Unfortunately, while the young templar lay there waiting for his companion’s breaths to slow and even out, his own fluttering eyelids ever so slowly slid shut and stayed that way.

~ * ~

Hunger gnawed at him like some sort of scavenger had burrowed its jaws into his guts to tear and tug at his flesh. Thirst made his whole being yearn for something, anything liquid that he could bathe his tongue in and wash away the sensation of gritty dust that coated it. His eyes strayed to a dark, thick, congealed puddle that had oozed over the flagstones at the center of the rose colored barrier. A flash of memory flared in his minds eye of crawling on hands and knees, of the cold, clotted, coppery taste of desperation on his tongue, smearing on his lips. His whole body convulsed, dry heaving and retching in horror as his stomach rebelled and he scrambled to face away from the sight and the suggestion. Had he done that before? Or was it only more of the twisting influence of his captors. He could hear the whispers clearly here in this cage and he could understand the words, the suggestions, the temptations.

They were unending, never tiring, ever bombarding, and he couldn’t differentiate between what was real and what was a vision pressed upon his tortured mind. All he could do was…endure. Until the others came. They would come. Surely, surely they wouldn’t abandon him.

There was a problem with that hope. An undeniable flaw that poked and prodded at the validity of that hope. It was rooted in the stench of decay that wafted up from the corpses that kept him company all around. Those dead templars and mages that lay all around him, who would never be saved, who had hoped just the same as he still did.

”There is no hope for you, my sweet. No escape for such a tasty little morsel.”

He whimpered and lifted his hands up to cover his face, then his fingers traveled further up and curled into his hair, clenching painfully as he hid his face in his arms as if it would protect him.

”You cannot hide. You know this to be true. We will be one. Bound. Like lovers, to partake of this body. You will give in. We will fill you up, we will revel in your world, and we will feast like never before. It will be glorious. You cannot deny me. We are inevitable.

As the demonic voice rasped in his ear, Cullen felt as if there were hands, fingers, claws around him, ghostly caresses that weren’t real. At least, they weren’t physical. He could see that there was no one within the cage with him, but he could feel it and he twitched and jerked away from the sensations. “...no…no, I deny you…” His voice was so weak, his throat so dry. “...I deny you…”

”Do you? Do you think you can?” The sensation of white hands, cold as the grave, slid around his chest, impossibly touching his skin as if his armor was no barrier at all. There was the slither of dead black wool against his back and a cowl nuzzling the back of his neck. Cullen whimpered louder and tried to writhe out of the grasp of those frozen hands. ”I think not. I think you know your worth. You know this is your due. Your deserved reward. Such sad, pathetic hopes you cling to. Let them go. Accept the inevitable. There is no escape for you.

A soft, hopeless sob broke free of his throat because he knew that it was the truth. There was no hope for him. Despair expanded within him, overflowing him, spilling out like an old overfilled waterskin, oozing through weakened seams and cracked wax threads. “...n…no...I…d…d…deny…y…” His attempt at words dissolved into wracking sobs that shook his entire torso and he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even feel it as the ethereal fingers sank into his flesh, pressing deeper, delving into him, wrapping around his lungs, clutching at his heart.

Thump Thump
The sensation of his heart struggling to beat within that grip startled him out of his stupor and he gasped violently.
Thump Thump
Cullen sucked at the air like a drowning swimmer whose head had just breached the surface. He bucked against the demonic grip on his body, trying to tear away.
Thump Thump
The next desperate beat of his heart was accompanied by the blinding flicker of lyrium blue this time and the young templar managed to drag in enough oxygen to scream out his denial once again.

”NOO!! I deny you!!”

The hands around his heart turned to claws and began to eviscerate him from the inside out and once again he found somewhere deep down inside himself was the strength to fight for his life, to fight for his soul once again.
So he screamed and he fought.
He fought to the very last inch of him.
He would fight to his last breath.
For all those that he held dear, yet could not bring himself to face, to even write a letter, he could do no less than to fight to the very end. For them, if not for himself.

~ * ~

The first thing that Cullen was able to take in with any coherency was that the icy claws seemed to withdraw from his flesh as if they had never been there at all, taking with them the pain and overwhelming despair. That was a relief, true, but the terror and panic was still on him like a thick heavy blanket that he strained against with all of his might. No matter how hard he tried, however, he could not break free. He was pinned in place as surely as if he were secured with chains.

The next thing that he became conscious of was hot heavy slow breaths on the back of his neck with accompanying gruff muttered words that he still couldn’t quite understand. It caused him to struggle anew, still straining for his freedom from the demon’s grasp.

“Oy! I know you can hear me. If you head butt me, we’re gonna revisit that little talk about face punchin’. Settle yerself down now. You’re alright. Ain’t nothin’ here but you and me.”

Once he recognized Samson’s voice he was able to reason out where he was and what was happening finally. He had fallen asleep and had his first nightmare within The Gallows. He’d woken up his roommate while in the middle of a fit and… Still breathing harshly, his eyes rolled in his head to try and understand what was wrong with his body. He couldn’t move and all he could see was the blank wall in front of his face. He tried to swallow and his adams apple made an appalling noise as it was unable to move under the squeeze of a thickly muscled bicep. Samson was in Cullen’s bed with him, blanket gone, he had their legs tangled together and locked up tight, then he had both of Cullen’s arms twisted up behind himself and hooked immobile with just one arm, while the other arm was wrapped around his throat in a sleeper hold just waiting for that last ounce of pressure that it would take to cut off the blood to his brain and put him back to sleep. Cullen realized with some confusion that the fingers of that arm were rubbing tiny little soothing circles at the back of his neck, completely at odds with the older templar’s growly voice.

“You can hear me, right? Come on, say somethin’ before this gets awkward. I could do this all day, you know, but you’re not exactly the company I’d choose for it. I mean, I guess yer pretty enough…” The conciliatory tone Samson’s voice started to turn toward was too much for the young templar to take just yet. His cheeks flared hot with mortification.

“I’m awake.” He rasped out through the tight grip on his throat. “It… It just…takes me a minute to…catch up.” Cullen took a deep, faltering breath and then forced himself to unlock his muscles and go completely limp and boneless against Samson’s chest. Completely surrendering in his grip. Samson felt oddly safe. Steady. In control. Maker, he wished he could feel that way too. Except now he knows how pathetic you are. All that easy camaraderie will be gone now along with any respect he might have shown you. The corporal held him for another few seconds, as if testing just to make sure he wouldn’t lash out, then, with a surprising dexterity, Samson released and disentangled them in one fluid motion and sat himself down on the edge of his own bed again.

Cullen slowly rolled over and pushed himself to sit up. His blanket and pillow were on the floor and the stub of candle on the nightstand was lit, making the room seem cavernous where the shadows stubbornly clung to the walls. His face felt flushed, but thankfully the candle was not bright enough to show it. “...ah… I uh… I can’t say I’ve ever been subdued quite so…um… thoroughly…before.” He rubbed at his aching shoulders. He’d been stretched a bit, but at least he wasn’t bruised and bloody.

Samson snorted. “No? No, I don’t suppose you would’ve. Most poncy templars wouldn’t know how to do a thing like that. Too much armor in the way. Once you hit the ground in all that armor, it’s over. Me, I grew up in the slums. There, you take your opponent down to the ground fast and hard and then you make sure he stays down so you can walk away.”

Silence stretched between them in the dimly flickering candlelight. Cullen fidgeted and stared at his hands in his lap and Samson lounged on his bed, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, seeming completely at ease. “So, now I know why Alrik stuck you in here with me. I was starting to wonder, what with how quiet you’ve been these last nights. I thought I was supposed to be the one that didn’t get his beauty sleep, but you’ve got bags under your eyes bigger than the duffle you walked in with. You ain’t been sleepin’, have you?”

Cullen shook his head miserably. “No…I… I don’t think I’ve slept for…a while…” He swallowed and this time his adams apple was able to complete the previously aborted attempt.

“Alright, so… Let’s have us an understanding. You tell me what you can. Yeah? And I’ll help where I can. No promises. I’m just a man, afterall, I ain’t got any miracles up my sleeves, but if I can help you I will. You’re my recruit, afterall.”

The silence remained unbroken between them, Cullen unwilling to fill it or not knowing how to go about breaking it. What was he supposed to say? He’d only even told Alrik a few generalities and the lieutenant had accepted them without pushing for more.

“Come on, kid. You gotta give me something, here.” Samson eyed him with a grimace and then shook his head when it seemed clear that the younger templar wasn’t going to speak up. “You know you talk in your sleep. I might take some of the stuff you said out of context. You know, when it sounded like you were havin’ a spirited row with some kinda maleficar or something.”

This swallow was completely audible in the quiet space this time and Cullen’s eyes lifted reluctantly to his roommate. “I talk in my sleep?” His expression was so horrified that it was almost comical. No wonder so many people had given him so many of the same looks over the last weeks…if he talked…said some of the things he’d dreamed… Sweet Maker Above, no wonder they didn’t trust him.

“That’s right. You didn’t know, huh? Probably not something you used to do before you started having such shity nightmares?” Samson shrugged and searched around for the half-full bottle beside his bed. Cullen watched him dully while his thoughts whirled. “...no…I… I didn’t realize…”

Samson grumbled in the gloom on his side of the room, having found his bottle he tipped it up and drained what was left in it. It suddenly occurred to Cullen to wonder how a corporal actually managed to get away with the slovenly state of his room and the ever present alcohol. But, Andraste guide him him, he was not about to bring it up. Probably ever. “So, I think I’m starting to get the idea here. Something happened back at your old circle. Somethin’ bad enough that it even fucked with someone as good with Mental Fortress as you’ve proven yourself to be during drills.” Samson squinted at him in the dark.

The corporal knew what kind of templar he was, he and lieutenant Alrik had put him through two days of intense drills just to see if he was on the same level with training requirements here in Kirkwall. Cullen had aced every one and had proven himself as well trained if not better than many already here. When he was a young recruit he’d been keen and studious. He’d learned everything he could and he’d applied himself diligently to his training. He’d asked to take every course, even the electives and the religious study courses that weren’t required. Cullen Rutherford had been the most keen, knowledgeable, literate, and informed teacher’s pet to graduate from templar training in the last decade, or so said the leadership at the facility. Even when he’d gone to Kinloch Hold he had continued to learn on his own and, despite not having magical tallent. He’d even paid attention when he was posted around the mages’ during magical theory classes or in the library. The mages liked when he had been posted there and they would often draw him into discussions they were having. Looking back, the young templar now suspected that the entire reason they wanted him around was to act as a buffer between them and the less friendly, less tolerant templars that would pass through.

“Let me guess. You’re under direct orders not to talk to a soul about it, aren’t you?” The knowing, jaded look that Samson shot his way actually made Cullen flinch like he’d been jabbed with a hard, pointy finger.

“...ah…that…would be a good guess.” He finally supplied along with a single jerk of a nod.

“Well, okay then. So something happens and you start talkin’ in your sleep to some maleficar and screaming your bloody head off like something is stripping the skin off you. An’ all your fellow templar buddies start actin’ edgy around you. Maybe a couple of ‘em hit you with a Cleanse or two? Yeah?” The empty bottle waved around expressively in Samson’s hand while he spoke. Cullen nodded despite himself, looking a little pained. “Maybe a Smite when that didn’t snap you out of it? Am I gettin’ warm?” Cullen nodded once more, guiltily, but the older templar just continued to ruminate on it. “But I bet that when that Smite didn’t do anything, none of them had any ideas left and that’s why you’re so sensitive about being hit in the face, yeah? ‘Cause that’s about all your average and below average templars know to do. If it can’t be Smited then you kill it, If you can’t kill it then it’s time to look for an officer to handle things. An’ your officer said send him to Kirkwall and here you are wakin’ me up in the wee hours. Is that really the whole of it?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” His voice was still a little raspy from Samson’s tight grip on it earlier. He shrugged helplessly.

“So you can’t sleep and you can’t talk about it.” The older templar let out a loud, barking, wry laugh. “So who is it you’re talking to in your dream? They don’t sound like a great talking partner. There weren’t no joy in that conversation from what I heard.” Cullen’s eyes go wide at Samson and his mouth goes dry because there is no way that he could possibly answer that question. No way at all. Not without telling everything. “Come on, Rutherford. There’s nobody here but the two of us. I swear on my great aunt whatserface and whatnot, yada yada, I won’t hit you and I won’t kick you out and I won’t go telling anybody. So spill it.”

Finally there’s silence in the room for a long moment and Cullen took a deep, stabilizing breath. Then it was the first time since the hero of Fereldan faced him with derision and disbelief through a hateful rose red energy barrier that Cullen spilled his guts to another person about what really happened to him in the tower of Kinloch Hold.

~ * ~

The templar quarters of Kinloch Hold were located on the fourth floor, the only thing higher was the Harrowing Chamber at the apex of the tower. Looking back on it now, Cullen couldn’t help but think what a stupid idea that had been. Whoever had made the decision deserved nothing less than the fate that befell every templar on that floor. A part of him really believed that and felt zero empathy and another part of him knew it was a foolish thought and that no one deserved what had happened to them. No one except Uldred and his brood of blood mages. Still, it was an important detail, considering how things went down.

It had still been early in the day, sometime around ten bells. They had finished morning drills and breakfast and the majority of the templars who weren’t already on posts were back on the fourth floor getting cleaned up after all that sweaty work. Half of them had still been out of their armor, the unluckiest ones were clad in nothing but a towel with soap still lathered on skin when the call to arms went out. Cullen couldn’t imagine going through any of it without his armor on. He’d barely survived as it was. To have had to try without…the thought made him shudder.

The floor was laid out much like the barracks in Kinloch. Large rooms full of bunks with the officers separated into their own shared rooms. There really was no privacy to speak of. No hiding places, either. There were three units of templars on the floor. The first unit was the quickest to respond. Their captain gathered them all up and they went downstairs to discover the source of the alarm. None of them were ever seen again. They never made it to the ground floor or the entrance, but by then knight-commander Greagoir had already ordered the tower door to be locked. He locked them all inside with the horrors to come.

Cullen had been with the remaining two units on the fourth floor. They had done their best to organize with only one corporal left to lead them. The plan was to break into groups to begin their own scouting of the tower while those templars who still had to don their armor were left behind, expecting that they would group up and follow suit once ready. It didn’t really sink in how serious the situation was until the sounds began to carry up from below and, worse, they began to hear them coming down from above as well. From the Harrowing chamber. There were howls and screams, human ones, but there were other noises that were completely inhuman. Completely terrifying.

Two groups of templars mounted the stairs to the Harrowing chamber, but when they pried the doors open it unleashed a horde of demons onto the floor with them. The initial shock was enough to overwhelm the first group of templars. From that moment on, it was nothing but terror and horror and blood and death and the discovery that there were some things truly worse than death. It was at this point that Cullen faltered in his reluctant retelling of that fateful day. It was after those doors opened that the young templar started to lose his grip on the actual passage of time and the order in which things occurred. He did know that along with the horde of demons spreading into the floor it was the first time that he had ever laid eyes on a true blood mage. Uldred himself followed the horde and he ordered the demons specifically. He led them like a commanding officer and the templars were practically mowed down in his path, trampled beneath the chaos of what was to come.

“There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. There was blood and death. There were demons that…that I don’t even know the nature of. They don’t teach us the names of them all…did you know that?” He looked at Raleigh with a haunted expression that spoke of unspeakable trauma being relived. Raleigh stared right back, not daring to interrupt now that he’d gotten the young man to finally talk.

When the blood and dust and magic settled again, a surprising number of templars still lived. Well, they breathed, but that wasn’t to say that they were still…living. Some of them had been ensnared already by the demons, their minds taken over, their bodies nothing more than a fresh warm buffet for the thing that had control over them. Those who still had their minds, who hadn’t run to seek sanctuary, Cullen had found himself huddled together with them. Uldred had trapped them inside an energy barrier conjured from blood magic. That was when Cullen discovered that there was a world of difference between an ordinary mage and a blood mage maleficar.

“You know that a barrier takes on the color of the type of magic used to manifest it. Do you know what color a blood mage’s barrier takes on?” It’s really just a rhetorical question. Cullen didn’t wait for an answer before moving on to the next important question that came to mind. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “Did you know…that…you can’t…you can’t dispel some blood magic? It’s not…it’s not like your normal spells and incantations…it’s not so clean and tidy…it’s something else entirely. Sometimes…sometimes even killing the caster…won’t end his cruelty…”

Once the battle was over and every living threat to Uldred and his cronies was routed, everything seemed to just halt in place. Like time itself ceased to exist within the tower. It had to be evening, but he couldn’t remember exactly. He’d been half in and out of consciousness for those hours. In shock and exhausted from the fight and the fear. That night was the first of many when the demons came to frolic and play among them. No one fell prey to the demons that night, but soon. Very soon after that, they began to fall one by one. When the lack of food and water began to take its toll. Then the lack of lyrium began to hit them all at once. In the beginning there were thirty of them all within hearing distance of one another. Ten of them were housed within the same barrier as Cullen.

And there was Drass.

Drass could be thanked single handedly for destroying the hope and the nerve of at least four surviving templars. His demon paraded him around the floor daily, flaunting him, using him as a totem, an example. Drass was so happy. Never was such a traitorous, weak, worthless scum ever so happy as Drass was. Cullen shuddered and hugged his arms around himself as he described the bewitched man. His horrifying wife and invisible children. The dream family that he always wanted. That man outlived them all. He could still be alive today for all Cullen knew. Still wandering, deliriously happy with his succubus, draining away his life essence one drop at a time, sustaining him despite the lack of food, water, and lyrium. Blissfully unaware. So unfair.

The rest of them fell, one at a time. Sometimes it didn’t happen for days at a time, but eventually someone would fall and then there would come the feeding frenzy. Demons and even blood mages would come en masse. Sometimes there would be screams as the fallen were devoured alive. Sometimes they would speak, deliriously happy as Drass was, until the last gurgling sigh was expelled. Sometimes it was just quiet, broken only by the greedy noises of the feeding predators. Part of the horror then was watching the still living mages, having been driven mad by the lack of food and water or by their own summoned demons whispering to them. They had to eat and drink as well and Greagoir had trapped them all together.

A memory returned to take over the landscape of his mind. He’d forgotten…or he’d intentionally wiped it from his mind…but suddenly it was right there before his eyes as if he were still there in that horrible room again. The vision from his dream tonight. The stench, the tension, the pain, the horror. There had been a young templar the same age as Cullen. He had come from Orlais and always was every girls’ favorite, probably because of his accent. His name was Anton and he used a jagged tear in one of his pauldrons to open a vein, then he begged them all to eat and drink from him as his life’s blood pooled and steamed on the flagstones in the center of the blood red cage. To survive another day on his sacrifice.

The fucking suave smug soft selfish Orlesian bastard.

The telling stalled out here and his voice trailed off weakly. For a long time there was nothing but silence in the small room that the two templar’s shared. Cullen couldn’t force his tongue to frame any more words after that. He was seeing flashes of scenes, those he had shared and those that he hadn’t yet. Flickering instances of realities that could have been, but also might never have been real at all. They had taken such joy in torturing them, in twisting reality to what they wanted, controlling what the mind interpreted…maybe even inserting whole atrocities directly into their imaginations. There was no telling what if any of it was actually real. Like the taste of blood. Cullen knew intrinsically the taste of it, he could describe it in gory detail, but he would swear…he would swear upon his parents and his siblings and his childhood mabari that he never lapped up a gritty, cooling, congealing puddle of templar blood in order to survive another day.

But he couldn’t be sure.

Just like a part of him was sure beyond sure that he’d killed Danton with his own bare hands. The knowledge sits deep down at the back of his mind, blurry and fuzzed at the edges almost like a fever dream. He couldn’t say why or how and his mind skidded away from the details whenever his attention drifted that direction. All he knew was that without a shadow of a doubt, it had been kill or be killed and he was still here, while Danton was not.

But he couldn’t really be sure.

Are you sure about that? Really really sure?

~ * ~

Still sitting in a daze, Cullen didn’t hear the boot steps in the hall outside, but Samson did. He looked sharply at the high window and realized that morning had come and gone while Cullen told his story. He cursed and jumped to his feet, leaping for the door. He yanked it open and stepped out into the hall where he met an unseen templar and had a gruff conversation. “Yeah, yeah, I know, right? Good man, lookin out. Do me another favor and pass this on to Alrik. I got the new guy on a special detail today. Off the books. He’ll know what I mean. Go on now.”

The knight-corporal returned with their lyrium rations in hand since they’d missed morning roll call and accounting. He held out the full vial for Cullen, but the young man just stared at it and refused to move. He couldn’t force his hand to rise. Couldn’t force his body to accept the draught. Was that why he killed Danton? Was it for a draught of lyrium? Or maybe just a drop of the blue? Maybe just for the powder? He didn’t know. How could he ever know?
“I don’t want it.” He sounded like he hadn’t had a sip of water in years.

Slowly the blue was withdrawn and the corporal looked between the vials in his hands. He grimaced at the conundrum that he now found himself saddled with, then he let out a heavy sigh. “You know that’s not gonna be acceptable. You are a templar, hence you have your lyrium. It’s what makes us strong. It’s what stands between us and maleficarum and abominations everywhere. How are you gonna smite the next mage that tries to kill you or do worse? How are you gonna protect those that can’t protect themselves? That’s the job.”

He shook his head so hard that it made his stiff neck pop and the sound startled him. Rubbing at his neck, Cullen forced himself to move for the first time in hours. “It’s…like I have a fish hook in my mouth, towing me along. Towing the line…for anyone that might give a little tug. …I don’t want it.”

Samson huffed, but then he nodded. “Yeah. For a dog-lord like you, I’d expect you to call it a leash rather than a hook, but yeah. That is what it is.” The corporal sat down beside Cullen, their knees touching, shoulder to shoulder. Raleigh was lean and warm and very real next to him, something that could anchor him to the here and now. Something to keep the past from swallowing him up now that he’d stirred it up like he had. The full ration of lyrium was held out to him again.

“You an’ me are gonna go hunting. You can call it therapy or whatever you want, but that’s what we’re gonna do. An’ to do that, you’re gonna need this. Come on. Trust me. I’ll have your back.”

Cullin let out a long, shuddering wheeze and looked Raleigh in the eyes. He found that he could do it now without so much trouble. He also found that the way the other held his gaze was reassuring. Honest. There was an aspect of compassion there that he didn’t think he’d see in anyone that knew even a little of what he’d been through or what he’d done. This impossibly gruff, irreverent, seemingly unconcerned, insolent man still wanted to help him and Cullen knew better than to throw that away. He took his ration with unsteady fingers and forced himself to choke it down.
He let the blue wash the red away.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

When Samson had said that they were going hunting, Cullen didn’t actually think about what that could possibly mean. He was too preoccupied with trying to tuck in his soul’s proverbial shirttails and make himself emotionally decent again. How did words make him feel as though he was stripped bare? Granted, they were terrible words that revealed deep, horrible scars, but still it was all just words. He couldn’t paint the images in bright relief or project the memories of his trials directly for Samson’s perusal.

Thank goodness for that.

As far as he was concerned no one should have to see the things that lived inside his head. He’d bared his soul enough for one day. Once he settled from the immediate high after the full draught of lyrium that he’d gulped down, Cullen threw himself into mindlessly dressing and armoring up. He said little and offered no questions to his companion, only responding when his corporal gave him directions. In fact, he was startled when he realized that they were walking out of The Gallows and into the wide open Hightown square. It was the first time he’d left the circle since arriving. He hesitated on the threshold, only for a moment, before he dutifully followed wherever his corporal was leading.

Hightown was just as full of grandiose statuary as The Gallows, but as they walked Cullen could see signs that the nobility had attempted to downplay them at least a little bit. It definitely felt less oppressive and a little more like ornamentation the further they walked until the Tevinter influence started to vanish altogether. Thankfully. The young man found that he did not really care for the decor. He let himself become distracted with looking around like a tourist while he just followed along beside Samson. Eventually Hightown gave way to the Lowtown marketplace which revealed an environment that Cullen felt more at home in. Ignoring the towering buildings and walls, it could have been the market at any little town that he’d visited in his youth. Soon Cullen realized that Raleigh was taking them on a patrol of sorts. They’d had him memorize a map of Kirkwall, but it was very different walking the route in person.

The march through Lowtown revealed an increasing level of poverty which caused a slight frown to begin to grow on Cullen’s brow. He wasn’t used to seeing such hardship. Growing up on a farm was not glamorous and his own family was definitely not wealthy in any concept other than perhaps the love shared between them, as his mother would say. They always had food and clothing and anything else that was a necessity. If they needed something there was always some way to get it, whether by hunting, gathering, or bartering. Here, these people seemed to be unfortunately limited in their options. It made him feel sympathy for these people who had such struggles in their day to day lives. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. Look at him, feeling sympathy for other peoples’ plights when his own life was in such shambles. How ridiculous of him, he hoped that he didn’t come off as pretentious as he felt.

A hand on his arm caught his attention, pulling his gaze over to Samson who had managed to buy food from one of the street stalls while Cullen was distracted. The older man jerked his head toward a bench and crates where they could sit and eat easily enough. From their vantage point there was a clear view of the docks and the lower edge of Lowtown and all the traffic and individuals haunting the area. Cullen found a sandwich shoved in front of him and he didn’t argue about it. He hadn’t actually eaten since the previous midday meal and he was starting to feel just the slightest hint of an appetite. The two of them took off their gauntlets and gloves and ate.

At first they sat and ate in silence, just watching the movements of people and carts and boats within their view. Eventually Samson began to narrate the things that were clear to him, being a native to Kirkwall, that Cullen didn’t know enough to spot. Highly questionable goods being ferried to and fro. Fences meeting with desperate sellers and shifty buyers. He pointed out street urchins that were priming marks for their gangs and looking for easy victims to pickpocket. There was a prostitute that Cullen would never have thought was anything but a noble’s maid, not that he had any experience with that sort of transaction. At the revelation Cullen stared at the woman with wide eyes and then his cheeks went crimson and he quickly focussed all his attention intently on his sandwich. Samson laughed heartily at him and slapped him on the back, announcing that they would absolutely be visiting The Rose sometime soon but not today.

Samson went on to point out other persons of interest. Members of the carta or other smuggler groups and gangs. Locals that were known to work with them. Cullen didn’t bother trying to remember any names that were mentioned, but he did give their faces a good look when he had the opportunity. Eventually they both pulled their gloves and gauntlets back on and Samson tilted his scruffy chin toward a group that had gathered further down the docks. “That group there, just disembarked from that ship. They’re known to have dealings with a real piece of trash that goes by the name Danzig. Slavers. Not exactly templar business. More the city guard’s problem, but let’s be honest, huh? The guard ain’t worth much around here. More than a few times we’ve managed to pluck wild apostates out from under their fingertips. Ain’t managed to get a shot at Danzig, though. E’s a fucking poacher. Selling off his own kind to anyone with the coin.”

Cullen’s gaze swung instantly to Samson. “Danzig is a mage?” At the other man’s nod, Cullen turned back to the group, eyes narrowing as he tried to take in every detail he could glimpse from this distance. They watched as the group conversed for a few minutes and then moved off into one of the warehouses. The older templar suddenly stood up. “Right, off we go.” Samson led them straight toward the last place the group of nerdowells had been visible.

~ * ~

By the time the two templars arrived at the spot where they had last seen the suspicious group there was no one visible anywhere. Samson strode along without any hesitation, glancing down at the dusty hard packed ground as he went. There were countless prints and marks and Cullen was not sure exactly what the other man was reading from them, but Samson seemed sure when he chose an entrance, nodding at it. But instead of entering, he led them around the corner, into an alley and to a rear entrance that he obviously already knew well. He faced the young templar with a serious expression.

“Now. You’ve been trained bloody well. You know what to do. This is where you gotta stop thinking so much. Right now, all that shit slidin’ around in your head, you leave that shit outside this door. When you walk in there you’re a templar an’ your only job is to locate apostates and unsanctioned magic an’ subdue it by whatever means necessary. Do you understand me?” The look that Raleigh pinned him with could be felt right down his to the base of his spine and Cullen straightened visibly.

“I…” Rutherford hesitated, but only for a second. This was his job, he knew what he was supposed to do, it was what he’d always wanted. To be a Knight Templar with all that entailed. Samson was giving him something here. He was giving him the chance to find out whether it was something that he still could be. He had to do this. “Yes. I understand.”

Samson nodded, he expected no less. “Right. We’ll go in quiet, get a good look at what’s up, identify the targets and threats. Then subdue. By whatever means necessary. You and I will walk away from this warehouse today, even if we’re the only ones that do.” They both turned to the door, loosening the swords in their sheethes, then Samson carefully opened the door and they slipped inside.

~ * ~

The bartering was already underway and they could hear muffled voices in the distance. The room that they entered turned out to be a storage area with another closed door that led into the main area of the warehouse. Samson and Rutherford moved together to the door, each of them pressing to the wall on either side of it. The corporal quietly eased the handle so that the door cracked open and then they could hear more clearly. First Samson peeked through the crack, got a look at the people in the next room, then he pulled back and nodded for Rutherford to do the same.

Cullen pressed in to peer through the gap. He tried to put to use all the insight that this little patrol had given him today. He thought he could tell the difference now between the slavers from the ship and those who were native Kirkwallers. Beyond them four distraught youths knelt on the ground, manacles chaining them together in a line, two boys and two girls. He took a deep, steadying breath and narrowed his eyes as he focussed on the room, allowing his awareness to extend outward. It was something that he once had done just naturally keeping his lyrium enhanced senses open all the time, but after what had befallen him he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do this in what felt like ages. He focussed on each person in turn and then pulled back from the gap, voice pitched low. “The buyers have one heavy hitter, two fighters, two rogues with bows, and two mages. The sellers are three rogues and one mage. One of the captives…could be…I’m not sure. She’s very young…”

The absolutely pleased look that Samson sent him made the blood rush to his cheeks and he ducked his head, embarrassed by how good it made him feel. Raleigh nodded, keeping his voice soft, but not whispering because any non-fool knew that whispering made your S’s that much more noticeable. “I’ll have to remember you can do that. Right…I’ll go first and hit the two, you take the third, and then we worry about the rogues. The Heavy can wait until we have to deal with him. The rest, we’ll have to play by ear.” Samson kicked at a heavy burlap sack by his feet and smirked as he came up with an idea. He drew his sword and stabbed it into the sack and fluffy white flour started to seep out of the cut. “Watch this.” The older templar grabbed the sack with his left gauntlet, armored fingers spearing into the sack for purchase. He nodded to the door and Cullen yanked it open.

The knight-corporal threw himself through the door, moving damn fast for all the heavy plate he was wearing. He crossed the empty space of the warehouse floor in five long strides, going straight for the larger group. Cullen was only a second behind him, drawing his own sword as he ran toward the second group. Samson let loose a shout and a Smite and Cullen echoed him with his own Smite. The combined blast of power was so staggering that it shook the building and brought dust raining down from the ceiling beams. At the same time, Raleigh flung the sack overhead and the bag tore open sending a cloud of flour drifting down all around.

Shouts from the fighters and choked wails from the impacted mages flooded the room as the cloud covered up the templars’ movements. Samson let loose a Cleanse for good measure and then he laid in with his broadsword, relying on surprise and speed to take down the combatants that he could no longer see before they could move to protect themselves or to try and attack.

Cullen held his breath as the white flour filled the air and covered their movements. It also covered the movements of their enemies, but the advantage was on their side so far. A shadow materialized before him, blindly waving a staff in the air and wheezing hard. The mage. Right where Cullen knew he would be. Swiftly and without mercy, Cullen brought his armored fist to bear and the already dazed mage went down like a sack of potatoes. The rogues were already moving, but he lunged and swung his sword at a shadow and was rewarded as one of them went down with a telling gurgle. He surged after the next shadow in the cloud.

On the other side of the room Raleigh had also taken down one of his mages, more permanently than Cullen’s, but when he lunged for the second one, his sword found one of the fighters instead. The mage had managed to scuttle out of reach. There was no time to do more than internally curse his luck and keep moving as silently as he could. There were plenty of other shadows to target and he meant what he said when he told Cullen that they would walk away from this by any means necessary. Screams continued to reverberate through the room along with the sound of clashing weapons, peppered with the ring of metal on platemail. When the cloud began to thin, the last mage finally revealed himself and there was the pull of the Fade on both Cullen’s and Raleigh’s lyrium enhanced senses. Samson let out a shout of warning and threw himself down out of the way just as the taste of ozone and hot coals and burning marshmallows flooded the air. Cullen managed to fling himself away to the side just as the remaining flour floating in the air ignited in a fireball far larger than the flame that the mage had intended to throw at his attackers.

The young templar found himself staring in shock at the flaming mage that fell to the ground, writhing and screaming along with three other combatants who had been too close when the fireball exploded. Samson stood up, scorched armor smoking slightly, and quickly put the mage out of his misery first, then they both rushed to cut down the last of the scorched slavers. Stepping back to back, Raleigh and Cullen took in the smoky warehouse and counted the corpses. There were two persons missing from the dead. At a closer look, it seemed that only rogues had managed to escape. They could have been hiding in the shadows, but more likely they had run while they could. The two templars had no way to check for sure, so they turned their attention to the four captives. Three of the youths were coughing from the soot in the air. The fourth, a young girl, lay in a dazed stupor.

The knight-corporal knelt down and nudged her. She made a soft noise, but barely stirred. “Well, roomie, looks like you were right about this one.” Ignoring the comatose girl for now, Raleigh moved to release the other youths from their bonds. He sent them running to wherever they called home and they didn’t hesitate to go at all. Turning, the older man paused to study his hunting partner.

Cullen stood in the center of the room, looking around at the chaos that they had wrought and the bodies that littered the ground. He looked down at his steel boots and grimaced at the blood and dirt that had caked onto them during the scuffle, but dismissed the mess as unimportant. He moved over and checked the mage that he had downed. He might have cracked the man’s skull, but he was still breathing. Two mages had been subdued, two mages had been neutralized. Six mundane slavers had been neutralized as well. It was something to feel good about. He turned in a circle, looking at the bodies on the ground. Slowly he realized that he did feel good about it. He found himself in a musty, dirty, sooty room filled with death and it felt…clean…honest. It felt right. Easy. It was so…easy. Why stop here when they are such easy prey? This time. It might not be so easy next time. Cullen took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “So how do we get them to the circle?”

Samson laughed and grinned. “That’s the question, ain’t it? I’m not carryin’ them all across Lowtown and Hightown, that’s for sure. That’s what recruits are for. You stand watch on these. I’ll just pop out and hire a couple of runners.” He sauntered triumphantly out through the warehouse entrance, scorched bloody armor and all. Cullen found himself all alone in the warehouse with the dead and the two unconscious mages and suddenly the feeling of secure victory left him. Tensing, he focussed on the mages again.

Likely the child was down for some hours yet, but depending on the strength of the apostate he could very well regain consciousness at any time. The only sure way to stop a mage is to kill his connection or just kill him. Easiest to do it now. He made a guilty grimace at the thought and shook it away. The time for killing was past. Now he had an unconscious but living mage to deal with. He quickly set to making the mage safely restrained for the trip to the circle. If he were at a circle, or otherwise sanctioned by the Chantry to carry them, there were tools that could be employed to prevent magic use like magebane or enchanted wristbands or harnesses, even collars, though those were often considered a bit distasteful. Desperate measures entailed ripping cloth from one of the dead which he then tore into strips and used to first gag the apostate and then to bind his hands up; first binding the fingers together, then wrapping them into fists to prevent spell casting. It couldn’t prevent every kind of cast or spell, but most of the really complex spellwork required dextrous handwork in combination with chanting or prayer or some somatic component. The last thing he did was collect a set of manacles and fasten them on the apostate’s wrists, locking them behind his back. For good measure, he even hogtied the man’s ankles to the manacles. It’s not like this one will be missed. Pillar of the community, he is not. One less worthless mouth fed by the circle… His hand rested on the hilt of his sword for a moment, squeezed the hilt with white knuckles, then he shook the thought off angrily this time. That was not his decision to make.

Turning attention to the young girl, she looked to be only about twelve years old or so. Not too young to be a danger. Not too young to be a predator in the making. Too young to chain like a common thug. He absolutely was not going to treat an innocent untrained girl the same way as the disgusting animal at his feet. He let out a heavy sigh and his lips twisted with distaste, but after another moment of indecision he decided that erring on the side of caution was the least foolish thing to do. He took the last strips of cloth and wound them around the young girl’s hands, binding her fingers together, but leaving it at that. As if they were bandages on burned hands rather than a flimsy barrier between the world and her burning hands, though if she knew that spell these rags would be less than worthless against it.

There was a crate a short distance away, close enough that he could slam another Smite down on the apostate if he needed to. He perched himself on it and settled in to watch and wait. It actually wasn’t that long of a wait, but Cullen found himself alone in the quiet with his thoughts and they kept going to unpleasant places. He kept feeling the sensation of hard flagstone beneath him, kept hearing faint sounds that were impossible here. Echoes of uncomfortable memories. He scraped his gloved knuckles hard on the rough wood of the crate to remind him where he was, the sensation and pressure grounding him in the here and now. Why did he feel as if he were floating elsewhere? He didn’t like this sensation. Belatedly he realized it must be because of the Smite he had cast earlier. It likely had leached at the lyrium in his system, spent the draught that he’d taken this morning. The sudden impact on his body must be what made him feel a bit loose, a bit unmoored from his surroundings. The Fade in the blood and bones. Once it's there there’s no getting rid of it. Not really. But using his abilities had caused a noticeable drain today… Probably because he hadn’t been diligent in taking his rations these past weeks. Not since escaping Kinloch. A very slight ache had started behind his eyes and he took note of how caustic his inner voice had become again. It always turned harsh and nasty when he started to feel the lyrium deficiency, it always made him feel out of sorts and a bit ill. There was nothing for it. Whether he had lyrium or not it seemed that he would always feel bad either way now.

Eventually the warehouse door opened and a troop of templars entered along with Samson. Cullen jerked to awareness and blinked at his surroundings. It wasn’t that he’d drifted off or anything, he’d just kind of…slid into preoccupation…that’s all…staring down at the unconscious mage. Eyes fastened there so that he would see if they roused. He couldn’t be blamed if he spent the whole time fingering his sword nervously. He stood quickly as Samson strode over to him, then watched the corporal continue past to pace a circle around the downed mage. Raleigh paused, leaning down and tugging at the manacles, eyeing the makeshift hobbling that Cullen had employed. He did the same with the young girl, then moved to join the young templar while they watched the troop take custody of them both. “Right, roomie, I think that’s a days work well done. Let’s head back.”

Following Samson’s lead, Cullen didn’t question and was rather relieved when they left the stuffy building and returned to the comparably fresh air of the docks. The trip back was far less meandering and within no time at all they were mounting the steps of The Gallows again. Cullen stopped halfway up the steps and after a few more steps Samson noticed and turned to face him. “What’s up?”

A niggling sense of something had been growing in Cullen during the entire walk back until finally the young man decided that he had to say it. He had to know if he was right. He looked up at Samson with some trepidation. “This…today…this hunt… It was a test, wasn’t it? You were testing me.”

The knight-corporal tilted his head and sent Cullen a crooked grin. He shrugged and then nodded. “Yeah, you caught me. I wanted to know what you’d do.”

Cullen’s eyebrows lifted and he looked away out over the square below them. “When you left me alone with them. You left me for a long time. I could have done anything…” Again he felt that sick twisting deep down in his gut because he couldn’t say that he hadn’t had…thoughts. Thoughts that were unworthy.

“Yeah, that’s right. You could have done just about anything back there.” Raleigh moved down until he was back on Cullen’s same step and they could look each other in the eye. “But you didn’t.” Samson shrugged his armored shoulders, looking at Cullen with an open sort of honesty. It was an expression that said that this man would not have condemned him if he had come back to something different than what happened, but he was pleased that it was not the case. “That counts. Come on.” He slapped Cullen on the back with a ringing metal clang of his gauntlet and continued mounting the steps.

They entered The Gallows together and once again Cullen found himself following Raleigh’s lead as he thought everything over again. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t realized he was being tested, it was so obvious now. The two of them entered Lieutenant Alrik’s office and Samson threw himself heavily into a chair before Alrik’s desk, slouched comfortably, long legs askew. The very picture of slovenly disinterest. Alrik raised his eyebrows at the two of them. Cullen hesitated, but then moved to sit in a second chair, spine stiff and straight.

“I hear you two have had an exciting afternoon.” Alrik said in his soft-spoken fatherly tone, those piercing blue eyes watching all.

“That’s right. Two new inmates for the spook house! On his first day out, too. How lucky is that? Took them down like a champ, both of them.” As if Raleigh gained anything from talking him up to their senior officer. It still made Cullen blush and try to keep a serious expression on top of the smile that wanted to take over his face at the praise.

Alrik’s eyes twinkled and he did look pleased. “I heard that it was a full on skirmish that you engaged in. Slavers, was it?” Alrik shook his head with a sigh. “You know how I hate to forward these reports to the guard captain. He does not appreciate our intervention…for singularly obvious reasons, I’m sure. Do be discreet, will you? And legible. Last time the cheeky bastard sent it back with notes jotted in the side margins of the text.”

The corporal let out a guffaw of a laugh, grinning at Alrik in what was likely a shared inside joke. “Not to worry, LT. Newbie here is gonna write the report. I’m just assisting.” He smirked over at Cullen and then pushed himself back up out of the seat, waving for Cullen to follow again.

Their officer’s voice followed them out. “If you keep this up, Rutherford, you might even garner a meeting with Knight Commander Merideth. She looks quite fondly upon templars that produce results and she is committed to rewarding those who prove themselves stalwart and unfaltering in the face of adversity.”

The difference that Cullen felt as he strode alongside Raleigh to their room was marked. It was like his armor weighed nothing. Like he practically floated along the way. He honestly hadn’t felt this good in… He couldn’t even say how long it had been. Then a stack of watermarked and letterhead embossed blank pages were thrust into his hands. “Right, so roomie… How’s your handwriting?”

~ * ~

By the time the report was done, most of those good feelings had fallen away and Cullen was now actually quite disgusted. First, he was not happy about the lack of detail that Samson had encouraged him to place on paper. It made the whole thing feel less honest, like there was something to hide. But there wasn’t anything to hide. As far as he could see, the entire situation was very straight forward and clear. Something illegal was happening which involved mages. They had every right to take the steps that they had. Cullen had been given extensive training on how to write reports. Far more exacting reports than this. He prided himself on his report writing skills and his handwriting! When he’d handed over the first draft for his knight-corporal to proofread, he had been appalled to see Raleigh take a quill and begin to cross out half of what he wrote with a “You don’t need all that… Not this… Definitely not this… No names… That should be alright… Write it up again like this… Oh, and add a line that makes it sound like we respect the guard and really wished they’d been around because we would never purposefully step on their toes.”

Cullen couldn’t imagine any self respecting officer would accept the trash report that bore his name…no, it didn’t even have his name on it! Raleigh had said no names! The report was absolute rubbish. He let out an exasperated grumble as he shoved the pages at his corporal. Samson only smirked at him, took the report, and then pushed the stack of pages from his original first draft back in front of him. “Good. This one will go to the guard. Now… Write this one up again and it’ll go to our records.”

The twinkle in Raleigh’s eye as he grinned at Cullen’s gobsmacked expression had him stuttering. “Wh…wha…wait…no…No! You didn’t… Didn’t you just… What?? Write it up again?? What do you mean…?” Cullen stared at the pages, then he shook them in the air at Samson. “If this one was good, why did you cross through and mark all over it?!! I already wrote it up once!”

“Sure you did. But you’ll never forget all these marks, will you? Just because you actually wrote a good report, doesn’t mean that someone ain’t gonna rip it apart and make you redo it for no reason other than that they can. It’ll happen, I promise you. Better that you get to see me do it and not someone who has a real attitude problem about it. Now hurry up, it’s almost time for dinner.” Then Samson blinked, remembering something important, he poked the stack of papers with his index finger, catching Cullen’s gaze with his own for a serious second. “Oh, one more thing. Do not share with your fellow templars that you can glean a mage on sight. For one thing, they’ll start dragging you around on all the bad patrols. For another, not many Templars can actually do that, usually they’re too lazy or too lyrium addled to do it proper or they just don’t have the talent. Whatever way it is for them, they’ll try and make you do all the work if they can. Especially this lot. You don’t want to be stuck on patrol with just any of them… Some of the men here can be real mean little shits an’ if they know that you can just see...I dunno…that magical…aura…or whatever it is… Just you keep it to yourself. That’s my advice, anyway.”

Cullen took that information in, considered it, then cursed aloud and then cursed Raleigh too for making him have to consider these kinds of things. "What a minute. ...wait just a damn minute...!" He stared incredulously at Samson as some new idea snapped into place and fit. "Is the city guard compromised? Are they...are they working with...or taking bribes? ...from slavers? ...from carta??" Samson's only response was to raise a single wry eyebrow and stare right back at him. The implications were clear. Cullen looked back down at his work, then he wordlessly picked up his quill and sat to a new stack of papers, putting extra focus on the shape of his letters and being extra neat and concise with his lines. If he was going to write this damn thing three bloody times, then it was going to be immaculate! When he finally slapped the new stack of papers down in front of Samson, who was now three bottles and one sheet into the wind, the older templar just grinned and patted him on the shoulder. “Come on. We’ll drop these off on the way and I’ll buy you dinner.”

Following Samson with the two reports in hand Cullen rolled his eyes and sighed tiredly, still feeling that ache behind his eyes. It was starting to stab into his orbital socket from bending over so many pages for so long. “Dinner is free, Raleigh.”

“So you’re a cheap date. That works for me.” Samson laughed at the slightly outraged expression on his roomie’s face and marched off toward the mess hall. An honest days work done. Well…he’d watched Cullen put in an honest days work, at least.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Days slowly passed by, turning to weeks, turning to months; soon two months had passed, then three. Cullen spent the time concentrating on getting himself back on track, trying to rediscover his love of being a Knight-Templar. Trying to rekindle his faith in the chantry and, shamefully, his trust in the Maker Himself. So far, all he had discovered was a great dark sea of sorrow and heartache deep within himself that tended to boil and beat at the shores of his resolve. It was especially tumultuous in the quiet when he knelt at vigil before Andraste. The meditation that he’d been taught as a templar did nothing to alleviate any of the things he was struggling with. More often than not it was from these vigils that Samson would swoop into the chantry, scoop him up, and then drag him off to either The Rose or The Hanged Man for “a different sort of meditation” as Samson put it.

Most of the time, Cullen found the interruptions to be…well…problematic was the most polite way to put it. He didn’t like them and he didn’t like having to figure out how to get away without upsetting his fellows. He had always had fellows that took an immediate dislike to him on principle. Usually it had something to do with his unfortunate penchant for giving his all and doing his best. It seemed to upset those of his order who didn’t have such tendencies. Raleigh was usually quick to step in and defuse any tense displays, but when the knight-corporal was already deep into his cups Cullen had to try to deal or defuse on his own. It was very tiresome and a complete waste of his time, arguing with lazy or insecure templars who wanted him to “relax.” They saw him working hard to salvage whatever tattered vestiges were left of his self-worth and it made them feel some guilt or some lacking in themselves, but the solution they sought was to drag him down to their level, not rise to his. He had no time for that sort of rubbish.

The Rose also had risen to the top of the list of places that he HATED to enter. Each time he’d been dragged there had been worse than the last and the first time had been pretty horrible as experiences went. Cullen had come to realize that he had a serious problem which could not be explained to anyone, not even to Samson. Especially not when the corporal was already drunk and looking for a good time. When that was the case, there really was no reasoning with him. Cullen had no idea what to do about this problem or if there was even anything to be done. Honestly he just wanted to pretend that it didn’t exist and just…ignore it. He could. As long as he just didn’t go there and didn’t think about it. His fellow templars thought that he had a terminal case of shyness and ridiculed him mercilessly, but that wasn’t even on the same continent as his real issue. Maker help him, if that were his real problem it would have been a mercy and he’d be grateful for the ribbing.

The Hanged Man wasn’t really any kind of problem, at least not beyond the fights that had the potential to erupt there. Cullen certainly wasn’t above having a drink or two, but he rarely over indulged. It had never been a habit of his to drink very much. Pile onto that the fact that his fellows had more than once tried to take advantage, as soldiers do when left to their own devices, either posturing, trying to pick a fight or attempting to talk him into things that went against his good instincts while sober. Another thing that held him back was that, even though he had never been known for his temper before Kinloch, now his temper was so much easier to rouse especially after drinking. It was as though the alcohol winded his tension up to another level that was harder to keep a tight grip on.

The last time he lost his temper drinking had actually been at The Rose where he’d knocked a fellow templar’s teeth right out of his head with his bare knuckles. It hadn’t been all bad because part of his punishment had been to haul that half unconscious templar back to The Gallows for healing. He had been so glad to get out of The Rose that he’d managed not to beat the man any more once they were out of view. It would probably have been an interesting sight for any watchers. Cullen had been absolutely beside himself in rage, especially at Terent. He wanted to HURT him! The other templar had completely crossed the line and deserved the retaliation that had been delivered. When Terent’s legs gave out and he would have crumpled to the ground in a drunken stupor, it tipped Cullen over into seeing red. With an enraged snarl he yanked the larger templar back to his feet by one arm, then with another wrathful shout he hauled the man up over his shoulder in a fit of angry adrenaline. Somewhere in the back of his mind he idly wondered if he’d torn Terent’s arm out of the socket and the part of him that was seeing red hoped that he had. Cullen wavered under the weight of the thickly muscled man and his armor for just a moment, but he drew hard on the hot rage to bolster and fill him up, leaving no room for weakness. Teeth bared in a rictus snarl, he stubbornly carried the man all the way to the very gates of The Gallows. There he dumped him into the arms of some templars near the entrance. It took both men to catch and lift Terent’s dead weight and they both stared with wide eyes as Rutherford stomped on inside without more than a glare and a growl. Cullen was panting heavily, but it was due to the seething rage he was holding in rather than from the heavy burden he’d just abandoned. After that, when other fellows attempted to accost Rutherford, Terent was conspicuously absent from their company.

He had gone on more mage hunts with Samson or with a few small teams. On every single one he had managed to identify either an apostate or a wild mage that was just coming of age. He had taken Samson’s advice and kept the details of just how he gleaned their ability to himself. If asked, he would just say something inane that was usually accepted as rote. He’d begun to earn a reputation for being especially observant and sharp-eyed. The others may not know it, but he knew that this circle had ten more inmates all because he had once been a superb recruit that actually enjoyed his studies and meditation. That alone was a great boone to his ego and his personal sense of wellbeing here.

A few times Cullen caught glimpses of the mages that he’d helped wrangle into the circle. Many of them looked far improved over the state they had been in when they’d been found. Now they were clean and fed and clothed in circle robes. A few of them also carried a new mark upon their foreheads, those that had been really difficult to round up. That first mage that he had taken down, that slaver trying to sell children, Cullen spotted him often. That man, no longer a mage, had been assigned as the new tranquil manning of one of the chantry booths out in the Hightown square. It gave Cullen a fair amount of satisfaction, seeing that worthless man doing something of worth. That man would never again sow hurt and pain and heartache to another person. He was…safe.

Toward the very young girl that was brought in with that man, Rutherford found his feelings were more complex. She was just a child. Now she was here in the circle where she belonged, where she could be watched and cared for, where she could be taught and guided, where she could grow and live a life. She seemed like a very sweet girl. …but she wasn’t safe. …she was still a threat. She always would be. …unless…

~ * ~

Then there was today. Today had set that deep dark sea inside him to chopping and buffeting.

There had been one little “hiccup” so far. Just one. So far. Looking back on it, that little “hiccup” still caused him no end of shame and self reproof. He had been doing so well until it happened.

It had been a mage.

Of course it had been a mage, what else? She had been in the courtyard of The Gallows attempting to leave through the main gate. The templars there had turned her back even though she claimed to have been given permission to leave on a day pass. She made quite a fuss about it until the men there began to lose patience with her. Cullen had watched the whole thing and something deep in him twisted up tight as the argument began to escalate. He couldn’t be sure when it was that he started to move closer, he only knew that the mage began to nag and shriek like a brat about to have a tantrum and suddenly he…recognized her voice. As soon as the recognition clicked into place a number of things began to happen all at once. First the bottom fell out of his stomach and it filled with a queasy numbness that set his hands shaking. He felt the blood rush downwards to fill that aching hole in his stomach and further, pooling in his feet, turning them heavy and leaving his face ghostly pale. He staved off the feeling of faintness by clenching his hands into white knuckled fists within their gauntlets, tendons creaking. Then the mage turned around and her waspish, witchy expression came to focus on him.

He might not have been certain then, because he did not recognize her face, her odd makeup should have been memorable. Who wore white lipstick? Then her eyes widened in recognition of him. “...You…?” There was no hesitation. He did not think. He only reacted, instincts shoving to the fore and taking him over. His armored fist swung out and connected with all the weight he could put behind it and she went down with a scream, clutching at her face. She is still a threat! Take her!! Take her now! Kill her NOW!! She deserves NO MERCY!! DESTROY HER!!! He felt the pull of the Fade as she reached for her magic and he slammed her with a Smite so powerful that she was thrown back against the legs of the other templars, fully unconscious. It was such a strong attack that for a second it made his own legs feel weak. He locked his knees and his voice didn’t sound like his own with how harshly it grated in his throat.

“Not this one. You cannot trust this one. This one is from Kinloch Hold. This one should be made Tranquil. Do not let her go.”

“What is the meaning of this?!” An angry male voice rang out from behind him and Cullen whirled around, his hand on his sword. When his eyes landed on an older male elf mage approaching at a trot, his sword half slid free of the sheath.

“Stand down or you will join her!” Rutherford snarled at the mage. He didn’t give a damn who it was, though some part of him deep down did know exactly who this elf was. The rest of him was balanced on a knife edge, just a sliver away from drawing his sword and spilling red across the courtyard.

“How dare you! You have no right to deny her pass. I signed it myself!” Argued Orsino, though he held his hands up in at least a partly placating manner. He eyed Cullen as if the young templar were a wild dog, then he sent his pleading stare beyond to the other two templars. Neither of whom were about to go against one of their own, not for a mage. Not even for the first enchanter.

“Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.” Cullen snarled out the verses as if they were a shield to block the other mage. “So help me, by the Maker, this Maleficar shall find no rest here!”

"Oh dear me, what seems to be the trouble here?" The steely piercing blue eyes of Lieutenant Alrik were such a relief to Cullen that it managed to unseat the rage that had control of him when their gazes locked.

Alrik’s blue eyes flicked pointedly at the mage at Cullen’s feet. It caused some bit of reason to filter through and Cullen side stepped away, removing the threat of his presence hovering over her body. “Sir…” He cleared his throat, some of the rasp clearing out of his voice. “Sir, she was there. She was there. She should be Tranquil.” He turned to stare down at her prone body like it was a snake coiled and ready to strike. “I told them… They should have all been made Tranquil…” His hands were still shaking and he tightened his fists further to stop it.

“Hmmmm… I see.” Alrik turned his gaze to Orsino who was already hurrying to argue the unfounded accusation and the horrible statement, asserting that the girl was a new transfer and innocent of any wrongdoing. The lieutenant held up a hand to stop the first enchanter’s tirade. “I think that you should first see to your charge, first-enchanter.” He looked to Cullen again. “Don’t worry, Rutherford. We will investigate this thoroughly.” That fatherly, encouraging smile appeared that was always so disarming to the young templar. “Let us handle this, my boy. Go on to the quartermaster, tell him that I’ve ordered you an extra ration today. I would like to speak with you later about this. Come to my office in an hour. Go now.”

The young, upset templar hesitated like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to say more, like he could convince them, but he finally nodded and gave a sharp salute before striding away. “Yes, sir.” He had been dismissed, afterall, and he couldn’t stand here anymore. Under all these eyes. He couldn’t stand here and do nothing.

He did as he was told and received a full draught of lyrium from the quartermaster without a single question about it. He held onto it tightly until he got back to his room. There he sat down on the bed and set the full vial on the nightstand and just stared at it. Should have killed her. Could have killed her. So full of hesitation. Such a scared little rabbit. What kind of warrior are you? You are worthless. The only worse thing you could have done is if you’d had a panic attack too. Right in front of everyone. His cheeks burned and his eyes watered and his fingers found their way up into his hair, pulling painfully at it. He tried to control his breathing, but it only made him feel as though he were hyperventilating. Maker above, he couldn’t calm down. What was wrong with him? He felt manic, swinging wildly between wrathful hatred and shame-faced despair. What kind of mage hunter are you? You are pathetic. Go kill her. Kill her now. Redeem yourself, if that’s even possible. You’re not fooling anyone.

The door to the room flung open, Samson strode in and stopped short when he saw the state Cullen was in. “Shit, Cullen.” He yanked off his gauntlets and gloves and threw them down as was his habit, but then he was right there working Cullen’s armored hands out of his hair. There was blood on his gauntlets from where he’d pierced into his own scalp. Some of it might have been mage blood too. “None of that, now. Look at me. Look in my eyes. You see me? I’m here with you. I see you too. Come on, Cullen, breathe. Slow it down a little…yeah… Slow it down… Yeah…that’s it… Good… You’re fine. Everything is just fine.”

You’re not fine. You’ll never be fine again. You spend night after night screaming in a cage in your mind and now there’s a bloodmage sneaking around your safe new home. Just give up. Give in. Now. There’s nothing left but that. There is no safety for you. Give in. There is no other choice. Nothing else. No relief. Just give up. Now! End this!

Samson pulled the distraught young man’s gauntlets and gloves off and the second he let go Cullen’s hands tried to sink back into his bloody curls again. The corporal snatched up the vial from the table and grabbed for his hands, cupping them around the vial instead. “Hey, you need to drink this. It’ll level you out an’ put some space between you and the shit. Come on. You’ll feel better. Promise you that.”

Cullen was trembling all over. He was afraid that he’d choke if he tried to drink the stuff, afraid his body would flat out reject it. He shook his head weakly, but Samson popped the top of the vial and pushed it to his lips and it was beyond him to try and fight it. His world turned a brilliant flash of blue and a few moments later he let out a shuddering breath. He did feel better, steadier. His heart was slowing down, his head didn’t feel like it was going to implode anymore. There was a dazzling pain behind his eyes, but the rest of him felt that wonderful lyrium high and that well of power brightening up that deep dark sea inside of him. His inner voice was quiet now, though he still felt the burn of its acidic words. His pained eyes focussed on his corporal who was still knelt down in front of him, still holding his hands between his. “Thanks, Raleigh. I…ah… I kind of…lost it a bit, there.”

“Heh, yeah. No shit.” Samson leaned in a little, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “You think you can get yourself together for Alrik?”

Nodding slowly, Cullen took a deep breath and straightened up a little, rubbing at his face and his bloody scalp. “Yeah, yes. Just… I can do that.”

“Good. ‘Cause Knight-Commander Meredith wants to see you too. Lucky you.”

That was how he found himself where he was now, nervously awaiting his first meeting with his new knight-commander. After three months, he supposed that it was about time. Still, he’d heard stories and he absolutely did not feel worthy of this meeting. Not after his public near meltdown and his private actual meltdown. Hopefully this little hiccup wasn’t about to choke him.

~ * ~

Samson had brought him to the hallway, but had not waited with him. He had a sneaking suspicion that the corporal wanted to be nowhere nearby when Meredith appeared. In the three months Cullen had known him, the knight-corporal seemed to be on permanent outs with many of the other officers. Rumor had it that Samson was one of the last officers leftover who had enjoyed the good graces of the previous knight-commander and Meredith did not share the same goodwill.

When the door finally opened, Sir Alrik smiled at him and gestured him inside. Cullen nervously entered and then moved to stand at attention before the large desk. Beyond it stood an older blond woman, tall and strong and serious. Alrik stepped to the side of the desk so that he could face them both at once.

“Knight-Templar Cullen Stanton Rutherford. My Lieutenants and others have said many promising things about you.” Her voice was strong and sure with an aspect of no-nonsense in it.

He had absolutely no idea how he should go about his response to that simple statement, so he just stayed silent and at attention. She hadn’t asked him anything, so that led him to think she didn’t want a response just yet.

“This may sound harsh, but I am not accustomed to receiving transfers from Ferelden as well trained as you are. You have caused me to consider raising the bar for my men here.” Her hands moved to rest on her belt, thumbs hooking into the leather as she gave him a thorough once over. He felt like she saw absolutely everything about him. She did not show whether what she saw pleased her or disappointed. “Over the years I have received many templars suffering from battle sickness, in need of a sanctuary to recuperate. I must confess that you are the youngest of them. I did not believe your situation to be as significant as an older soldier’s might be. I have done you a disservice because of that assumption.”

Now, Cullen didn’t have to keep himself silent. He had been shocked into stillness and stared back at her with wide eyes. This was the first time that anyone had actually talked to him in any way that made him believe that they understood what was happening to him. Even Greagoir had only spoken at him, avoiding the subject of him as much as possible. He had certainly never heard the term “Battle Sickness” before. As if this were…well, not a common thing, but an affliction…something that happened to soldiers…something that wasn’t just weakness and shameful. Her tone and her words put no shame to it, merely a sad reality.

“Moving forward, whatever care or focus you require will be addressed properly. I will not have any Templar in my care suffering adversely when they can be helped. Thus far, you have conducted yourself admirably and that is to be commended.”

He could feel the heat rising in his chest, traveling slowly all the way up to cheeks. His vision blurred for a moment and he quickly worked to blink back the moisture, swallowing hard to clear thick saliva from his tongue. “......Thank you, Knight-Commander.” It was the first time he’d said those words and meant them in such a terribly long time.

A small, sincere smile crossed Meredith’s lips as she gazed at him, the crows-feet crinkling at the edges of her clear blue eyes. They were very much like Alriks’ and Cullen found himself wondering idly if they were related. “In the short time you have been here you have proven yourself an exemplary Knight and a great resource for our efforts at quelling the mage rebellion in Kirkwall. In my experience, the most constructive way to manage battle sickness is with focus, diligence, and honest work. Thus, I am going to expect more from you, Rutherford. Much more. You may rue gaining my attention.” Her smile took on a wry twist that said she was a taskmaster and she knew it and reveled in it openly and Maker help anyone that complained. “As you have met all the necessary requirements and are already housed in the officer section, it is only fitting that I make your status official. I am promoting you to Knight-Corporal with all the burdens, obligations and responsibilities the position entails. You will be entrusted with a unit of your own and accountable for every templar in it and all the actions thereof will reflect upon you. In a year's time, as with every other knight-corporal, there shall be an accounting of your progress, your own and your unit.”

Cullen was floored. How was he supposed to be responsible for a unit of templars? He could barely keep himself in line, how was he supposed to do that with a hundred templars? A hundred templars who were likely all older than he was. As his mind raced he thought about all the things he’d heard Samson bitching about as a corporal, all the problems, all the headaches, all the disputes… Some of them he’d even helped Samson with already. Gave him ideas or techniques that he’d learned in training… Actually… Now that he was over the initial shock of it, the idea really wasn’t all that overwhelming. It wasn’t a bad thing. It would… It would keep him busy. Very busy. And…it was a challenge. Something that was completely grounded in reality. And…he loved challenges.

Meredith was watching him closely in the silence that took over the room and he realized that she knew exactly what he was thinking. She had a pleased expression on her face. She knew exactly how he’d respond to this. This woman was an angel. This woman was a real Knight-Commander. If he could make this Knight-Commander proud of him…that felt like a worthy thing to do. “I will strive to uphold the honor of the Order to the best of my ability, Knight-Commander.”

“See that you do.” She pinned him with a serious stare for a count of five. Then with a roll of her shoulders, it was obvious that this section of the conversation was over.
“Now. There was an incident today.”

Lieutenant Alrik spoke up now that the meeting had come to this part. “A young lady had been stopped at the gate, as my men there had not been informed yet that any passes had been issued. It was an oversight on the part of the first-enchanter that he did not inform me promptly. An unfortunate altercation occurred because of it.” He paused for emphasis. “Corporal Rutherford has made a very serious accusation toward the young lady. One that I believe requires thorough investigation.”

“Yes. Orsino was in my office earlier. He was so angry that he was practically spitting. I haven’t seen him that worked up in some time. It was a thing to behold and quite a feat to accomplish. Debrief me.” The order was aimed at Corporal Rutherford who was brimming with new confidence at the use of the brand new title. He had to live up to it now.

Corporal Rutherford took a deep breath and drew all his dignity about himself like a shield against the things that swirled in the periphery around the facts that he must tell.

“I…” He began, but then cut himself off again just as quickly as he tried to put his thoughts into order, the semblance of a report beginning to form in his head, pushing all the relevant details into their proper places. “To fully explain my actions, I will have to tell you about the circle at Kinloch Hold.” He closed his eyes and pushed onwards. “I have trouble putting what happened there into words. It was…singularly horrific.”

Meredith and Alrik exchanged a pointed look and then the Knight-Commander gestured for the three of them to be seated. “Very well, Corporal. Proceed at your own pace.” They sat down and Alrik filled a glass of water from a pitcher on a side table and placed it in front of Cullen. He appreciated the thought and to have something that he could focus on other than both of his commanding officers’ piercing gazes.

“I don’t know what Knight-Commander Greagoir has allowed to be known. I can only tell you what I know and what I saw.” He paused a last time and then he just plunged into the mire of words. “Two hundred and sixty seven knight-templars were killed. Four hundred and eleven mages died. Only the children were kept safe because they were housed in their own wing, separate from the rest, they and those with them. And the templars that were with the Knight-Commander. Of those who were locked in the tower…there is only myself…and three mages that hid well enough to walk out alive. The attack on the tower was led by Senior Enchanter Uldred. By him and his brood of blood mages. They released a horde of demons that washed through the tower more thoroughly than if the tower had sunk into the lake.” Again he paused to swallow, then he picked up his glass of water, turning it in his hands before taking a sip. He closed his eyes, let the liquid slide down and push the heavy lump in his throat down with it. He kept his eyes closed for the rest. “I didn’t recognize her. Not her face. But her voice. I recognized her voice. I heard her… Her voice arguing with Uldred’s. Echoing through the tower. She was one of his. ………when I saw her face, I wasn’t sure……… But then…she knew me…. And… I couldn’t stop myself… I reacted. Poorly.”

“I don’t know about that, my boy. I think you showed tremendous restraint.” Alrik’s soft, fatherly voice drew him back out of himself and he opened his eyes again, looking at his leadership in turn. “I do think that this demands a very serious intervention. I can take the young woman to task. A proper interrogation. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Meredith was leaned back in her throne-like chair, caught up in thought as she pondered the situation. “It is a very serious situation. If it is to be believed. Do not think that it is you that I doubt, Rutherford. I would not have put you in the position that I have if I had doubts about you. No, it is the fact that you do not recognize her face. It may very well be that she is one and the same as the mage you heard. I can confirm that she was sent from Kinloch Hold. You are certainly right about that.” She gestured toward Alrik. “It does seem rather soon that such a new arrival might be allowed a day pass out of the circle, especially unescorted. It is quite irregular.” Her fingers created a steeple shape in front of her as she considered. “Has Orsino shown any sign of preferential treatment toward this woman? Favoritism?”

“I am uncertain at this time. I will find out. She has been here no more than a month. I can’t imagine he would have any satisfactory reason to do so.” Alrik shook his head in distaste.

“For now, let us avoid the interrogation. If it is true and she is a blood-mage and she has already been involved in such a genocide, then she will have nothing to lose should she decide to fight. No. I think that this may have extended us an unexpected opportunity. One that we cannot overlook.” She raised her blond eyebrows at Alrik demandingly.

The Lieutenant shifted in his chair, tilted his head in thought, then he looked consideringly at Cullen. “Wellnow, that is an interesting suggestion. Hm. Yes, by all means.”

Meredith smiled broadly. “I had a feeling. Alright, Rutherford. On top of your normal assignments as a corporal you will work alongside Alrik on his special detail. I am sure that you have realized that the Kirkwall circle is one of the largest active circles outside of Orlais. The sheer scope here comes with its own specific challenges. One of those challenges goes by the moniker of the Mage Underground. If this woman is what you say she is, then I can’t imagine she would have any other destination in mind. Keep a tight watch on her for now and let us see what develops.”

Otto Alrik let out a wry huff and then smiled over at Cullen. “Well, my boy, I do look forward to working with you.”

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

It wasn’t long before Rutherford’s initial assessment of the issues he would have to deal with in this promotion were confirmed. He was in fact the youngest knight corporal by a good six years. He also realized that he really was the best trained of them all, so he used that to his advantage as much as he could. Even Samson had commented to that end, though he added on the caveat to “jus’ make sure you’re not a dick about it.” He took that advice to heart, as he had with a lot of Samson’s advice. For any and all of the older man’s many flaws, Samson was pretty well grounded and he understood his men in a way that Cullen supposed only a native to this area could. He could be compassionate when it was called for and yet still tow the line of a no-nonsense templar when the need arose. Cullen really appreciated that and tried to emulate the balance himself whenever he could, he knew he would never be able to let go or “loosen up” like the older man, but he tried his best to at least “not be a dick about it.”

At the same time, he couldn’t help but remember the lesson that he’d learned from Terent. Sometimes it paid to be a violent prick when not being a dick just wasn’t going to cut it. Specifically when an older templar didn’t want to take orders from some jumped up, boot licking, ass kissing, wet-behind-the-ears kid. He’d already heard all the insults. The much older ones were usually okay, they just wanted to be respected and carry on as they always did. Cullen worked well with that. The younger templars who were still in their prime and still had the energy to strut around like tomcats were the ones that openly challenged him. They may have posed him a problem back when he still had that sad little stutter, back when he was a tender nineteen year old and so easily discombobulated. Now he had no stutter, now when he was pushed it was his first instinct to shove back harder, now it was a challenge and he would not back down for anyone at any time when they pushed him like that. If a horde of demons couldn’t break him at his most vulnerable, what the hell did he have to fear from some asshole in full plate who couldn’t even match him in the sparring ring? So he wasn’t a dick about it. He just trounced them within an inch of their life on the training grounds and sent them limping back to the quartermaster for healing potions. Afterall, he was twenty years old now and changed beyond just the number of years he owned. At some point he had realized that his birthday had come and gone sometime in the weeks during his “Harrowing,” as he’d begun to call it in the privacy of his own mind. It was the age that should have made him feel like a true adult, but the only thing he felt was that it had been robbed from him along with so many other milestones and experiences he would never get back.

Including him, there were now six corporals. His unit had been assigned under one of the oldest corporals, so hadn’t received as much attention as they likely should have. The man, his name was Gil, may have been a talented templar when he’d been in his prime, but it was plain to see that he was already showing signs of becoming lyrium addled. Cullen felt distinctly uncomfortable when conversing with the man, part of him focussing far too unhealthily upon the idea that that was what he had to look forward to. Nightmares, fits of battle sickness, and eventually losing his mind completely. It bothered him immensely, more than it should, and he didn’t know what to do about it. There was nothing to do, was there? You could stop. You could quit it. Quitting would be different than forced withdrawal. At least if he quit, it would be his choice to endure it. But he was a templar! As Samson had told him once, lyrium came with the job. Besides, how could he even think about quitting now that he was actually starting to feel useful and productive again? These men he was responsible for had been woefully ignored for too long and it was the highlight of his day when he dragged himself and selected squads in his unit onto the training grounds at the crack of dawn. They had no end of complaints, but he didn’t care. They needed to refresh their training and he was happy to smack them around until they faced off with him or accepted his orders. Some of these lazy templars carried around a disappointing amount of pudge stuffed into their armor and that was unacceptable. The most important thing was that he was starting to feel stronger every day. He felt like he conquered himself a little bit more each day as well.

Then there were the nightmares. They were as prevalent as ever. Every single night, like clockwork. There had been nights when he’d woken up fighting, or trying to fight. Raleigh was really good at pinning him down with one of those wrestling holds of his until Cullen came to his senses. The topic had come up during one of his briefings with lieutenant Alrik. He hadn’t meant it to, he didn’t like telling anyone about his dreams, but there was no hiding the deep, sunken, heavy state of his eyes and the shadows beneath them. Alrik had asked specifically about his sleep and had listened without trying to drag more from Cullen than he wanted to tell. Then the lieutenant had posed his solution; double rations before bed. It was a solution that Cullen really didn’t like. He hated going to sleep with the taste of lyrium on his tongue, but he couldn’t deny that over the week after that his sleep became a bit heavier and he didn’t wake to Raleigh smothering him into his mattress. He found himself sometimes waking groggily to the sound of Samson whistling some soothing melody in the dark. It was harder to remember his nightmares beyond vaguely disquieting images. He still tried to offer his lyrium to his roommate. Maybe half the time it was accepted, but there were evenings when Raleigh would look at the offered vial and then take a good look at Cullen’s face, taking in how stressed he had been that day, how heavy the shadows were, how much he’d need his sleep that night, then he’d shake his head and push it back at Cullen no matter how hungry his eyes were. “Tsk, I need to sleep tonight, roomie. Take your medicine.” He’d say gruffly.

~ * ~

Elsewhere in Thedas, the blight was beginning to show itself. News of Lothering falling was the first that Cullen had really paid any attention to the rumors. Greagoir had told him that it was coming and he was sure that it had been said before that, but in his defense he really had more pressing matters on his mind at the time. But Lothering was not so far from Honnleath. He found himself closest to being able to put quill to paper when he heard how the town had been wiped off the map. As worried as he was about it, though, he still couldn’t bring himself to open up that channel of dialogue to a worried, loving family. He was nearly at the point of doing exactly that when he received a missive from the chantry. More accurately, his commanding officer received the missive and sent for him.

Lieutenant Alrik was waiting for him when he entered the office. The older man was pouring over a stack of papers and maps when he entered. Cullen stood before his desk and looked curiously at the maps. He had yet to meet with the lieutenant about the special detail that he would be helping with and he was intensely curious. Alrik glanced up distractedly and then gave him a double take, remembering suddenly just why the young corporal had appeared. He pushed aside the stacks of papers and straightened in his chair. “Rutherford, lad. Do sit down, would you?” He began digging in his desk drawer.

“Sir.” Cullen sat and waited attentively, watching Alrik pull out two letters. One of those letters was very familiar, it was officially waxed and sealed from the chantry in Denerim. The other letter was plain and creased and travel stained and the hand writing adorning it was none other than his sister Mia’s. “Oh.”

Alrik gave him that encouraging smile that he’d grown fond of, but this time there was a hint of concern crinkling at his eyes. “I’m afraid that communications have been badly impacted along with safe travel all over Ferelden with this blight. These letters arrived together. I hope that you’ll forgive me for opening this one, but I, for one, am glad that I did. He placed his palm over the broken seal of the chantry letterhead on his desk. You see, sometimes when they arrive together like this, it can mean a few things. I think…that it would be best if you look at this letter first.” The lieutenant indicated the unopened letter from his sister. Then Alrik stood up. “I must go collect something, I’ll be back momentarily.”

He watched the older man leave the room, beginning to feel the tidings of dread slide down his spine. Smoothing the letter on the desk, he stared at it for about thirty seconds as he worked up the courage to tear the delicate paper open. It was not Mia’s special paper that she normally used for her letters. It was coarse and cheap and weather stained and it wasn’t right at all. He unfolded the page and smoothed it out as well. The ink was smeared and the lines were a bit crooked, but still written in his sister’s immaculate loopy style. It was the words that hit home to him how wrong everything was. He couldn’t quite grasp the true gravity of all of those words. It took four re-readings of the letter before the tears began to burn in his eyes.

Almost blindly he reached out for the chantry missive. It was much shorter than his sister’s letter, a total of three sentences, in fact. Followed by a selection of verses from the Canticle of Trials 1.

’On behalf of the Denerim Chantry Ward, please accept our deepest sympathies
for the loss of your parents.
The chantry wishes you and your family courage and peace during this time
of mourning and strife.
Our hearts are saddened and our thoughts are with you.’

‘You have grieved as I have.
You, who made worlds out of nothing.
We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay.
Comforting each other in our art.

Do not grieve for me, Maker of All.
Though all others may forget You,
Your name is etched into my every step.
I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself.

Maker, Though the darkness comes upon me,
I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.
I shall endure.
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.’

When lieutenant Alrik returned to the room, Cullen did not hear him. He was too busy staring balefully at the words on the chantry embossed letterhead. He was too busy seething. He felt like his insides had begun to roil, to boil over, to melt and bubble up until the space behind his eyes began to fill with that dazzling ache again.

I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself. Came his inner voice suddenly, it had been absent so much lately. It reared up in all its angry glory once more. Rather poor taste, isn’t it? Oh, so sorry! Sorry, did you lose something? Oh, well, that’s alright. You’ll forget all about it soon enough. Just endure until then. Eventually you’ll forget it all. Someday you’ll be as relevant as knight-corporal Gil and no one will remember this letter, no one will even remember you, much less the two insignificant farmers not mourned by this letter.

The older man stood at the door to watch him for a few seconds before slowly moving next to him. The chantry missive was nothing but a crumpled wad poking out of his fist at that point. Strong, aged hands reached up and took the fist between them, just encircling it loosely, not attempting to take the page. Just holding his trembling, aching fist within their warm embrace.

“They couldn’t even be bothered to write their names.” Came Cullin’s soft, hopeless whisper.

“No, I don’t suppose they would.”

Cullin looked at his lieutenant and was caught by his crystalline blue gaze. There was compassion there and understanding, just a hint of pity, but not enough to make him feel unmanned. No, it was a look that seemed to understand. It was a look from someone who had suffered loss as well.

He realized belatedly that he was standing, he didn’t know when he’d risen from the chair. Also he was shaking. His entire body was vibrating and he wasn’t sure if it was the grief or despair or rage that was the catalyst, but one of them was going to cause him to spontaneously burst into flame any second. “My…family…fled from darkspawn… There was darkspawn…in Honnleath… From Lothering… My sister… My siblings…are looking for a new home…in South Reach…”

The warm, rough hands around his fist slowly closed a little tighter, pressing in on his trembling knuckles. “That’s a good thing, my boy. The further east, the better things are out there. Especially so close to the Brecilian Forest. The Dalish tend to keep the wilds in check there.”

A minute seemed to crawl past while Cullen struggled with the deep dark sea of emotions battering against the shore of his mind, his core, his heart. Finally his fingers responded to the steady pressure of Alrik’s hands and released their hold on the ruined paper. The old man smiled and gently removed the page, dropping it on the desk and forgetting it, both hands encircling his again. It felt rather similar to how Samson had held his hands after he’d had his little meltdown in their room. Was this some kind of technique to calm someone down? Create a connection? Maybe to impart some portion of strength from Alrik to himself? It did seem to help ground him in place. An anchor to keep him from flying apart. It was probably a defense mechanism of some kind that allowed a quiet corner of his mind to consider these ideas with such detached curiosity. He thought that there must be some mental compartmentalization happening in him, but he certainly had no control over it at this time.

“I don’t suppose…I would be of any use…” He started to say slowly, but then shook his head because he knew the true answer to that. He would be less than no use at all in the state he was in now.

“No, lad.” Was Alrik’s gentle answer. “You have your own adversity to master while they have theirs. It's admirable to worry for them and to want to protect them, but you must also care for yourself. I cannot in good conscience encourage you to travel all over South Reach to search them out, away from lyrium and away from your brethren. I do not wish to see you regress. I am sorry to be yet another dispassionate face telling you to be strong, but I find I must.”

Cullen looked down at his sister’s letter where it lay on the desk and slowly he forced himself to sit once again, Alrik still holding his hand. “Yes… I understand…” Gradually the shaking started to ease and he breathed in deep deliberate breaths and got himself under control. He couldn’t go to them, he didn’t even know where they were. He wouldn’t survive the trip. He had barely survived the trip here and that had been curated specially for him. He couldn’t ask Samson to abandon everything here and go with him. No, that was utterly foolish and selfish. “...It’s not fair.”

Alrik blinked patiently at him and then shook his head knowingly. “That it isn’t. Duty rarely ever is. But we stand diligent. We must. If we don’t, then who else will?” Then the lieutenant fished into his pouch and brought out a full vial of blue and placed it in Cullen’s hand, pressing his fingers around it. “I’ve excused you from duties for the rest of the day and tomorrow as well. It is my wish that you take this ration and think on how best to spend this time. I’ll not accept anything solitary and certainly no vigil, unless it is a vigil spent with a brother or sister.”

After a long moment Cullen nodded. He understood why Alrik made the demands that he did. If he was left alone and to his own devices, he was sure that he’d devolve into something self destructive. As it was, his automatic reaction likely was just as self destructive, but at least he’d be in plain view. He doesn’t want you to slit your wrists like the pathetic weak flotsam that you are. Haven’t you had enough yet? Isn’t it time? Past time.

He shuddered and flexed his fist around the vial. He couldn’t take that voice, not right now, not after this. He needed a little bit of time to shore up his walls and his strength again. He thumbed the cap off the draught and drank it down in two swift swallows, giving into the bright flash of blue that took him over for a long moment. When his gaze managed to focus again, Alrik was watching him with that same expression. Somehow sympathetic and at the same time respectful, even approving. “Actually… I think… I think I would like to spend some hours in the practice ring. If that is acceptable, sir.”

His officer nodded and touched his forearm with encouragement. “Certainly. This afternoon there are three squads practicing and two more this evening after dinner. You may join them for however long you like. I’ll put in a standing order for double rations for the week. Don’t let yourself run low. You are still adapting and transitioning to many things. Best to be clear headed as can be for now.”

Again he nodded his compliance. He didn’t want the double ration, but he was beginning to accept that he might need it. Even if just to keep his spiteful mind quiet. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He stood to go and Alrik gave him a last encouraging nod. “When you are feeling up to it, come and see me. I have some papers that could use your young eyes on them, but that is for another day. Go on, wear yourself out and then try to recuperate.”

Cullen glanced at the papers on the desk and thought that his initial belief had been correct. Alrik had been working on the Mage Underground issue. But like everything else, it could wait for now. He took himself straight to the sparring grounds to grind his misery and anguish into compliance with the ache and pain of a masochistic amount of physical exertion. Maker have mercy on anyone that challenged him over the next days, because he didn’t have any mercy in him right now.

~ * ~

Over four months had passed in Kirkwall and the young Rutherford had really started to view the place as his home. He was better, getting better each day or so he felt. Even if it was only in the tiniest ways. The journey of a thousand steps still moved only one step at a time. He was sitting on the edge of the training arena wiping down and working on mending a piece of his training armor.

Samson strode up and dropped a leather pack on the bench beside him. “Brought you some grub. Ya skipped mess hall again. You keep doin’ that and old Alrik is gonna get cross with you. I know how snug you two are gettin’.” Cullen rolled his eyes at Raleigh’s suggestion, but before he could get any words out to tell him off, Samson’s next statement made his teeth snap closed audibly. “One of the inmates wants to ask you somethin’. He was too nervous to come looking for you himself. He’s watched you trainin’ and got the idea that you might be dangerous.” Samson grinned at him.

The young templar’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and looked around the courtyard. “Which one?”

Samson offhandedly gestured to where a middle aged mage was standing, toying idly with the sleeve of his robe and watching them. Cullen frowned, eyeing the mage. He had no staff, looked to be in his forties, showed no magical aura to speak of at the moment, and he did not recognize him. The fact there was no aura only meant that the man had superb control of his magic and no intention of using it right now. Lesser controlled mages sometimes ‘leaked’ magic when they weren’t consciously controlling or focusing it. That he didn’t recognize him wasn’t very surprising because there were just so many mages in the circle here. It was nearly three times larger than Kinloch had been, afterall. He opened the pouch and poked through it, checking out the sandwich and snacks that Raleigh had talked the kitchen staff into putting together for him. He took a few large bites before finally waving for the mage to come closer.

The mage approached eagerly as soon as Rutherford motioned to him. He wasn’t sure what to expect from the young templar. If he was anything like some of these other young templars, then it would be best to try and keep things as cordial as possible. He stopped a courteous distance away and gave a respectful bow of his head. “Hello. My name is Karl. Karl Thekla. I heard that you transferred here from Kinloch Hold.” The instant the name of the circle crossed his lips the templar stiffened and seemed to close down. He knew that he had made a mistake, though he was not sure how, and was intensely grateful when Samson spoke up for him.

“Awe, don’t sweat him, Rutherford. Karl here is a good one. Been here for years an’ years. E’s proven himself a stand up fellow.”

Cullen raised a very distrustful eyebrow at the mage, but he did trust Raleigh and Raleigh had brought the man over. He set the food down, the last thing he wanted to do was eat now. His voice was tense when he slowly responded. “I did transfer recently.”

That was good enough for Thekla, it wasn’t as if he had any other option for the information he wanted. “I only want to know… That is… I had a friend there. It has been some years, but I thought that maybe…you could tell me… I heard that something happened at the circle…” Rutherford made a face that almost seemed to be disgust. It caused Karl to falter a second, but he really needed to have his say, so he pressed on. “I just need to know if my friend is alright.”

Cullen grimaced and looked down at the armor he’d been working on. He hesitated and then sighed. He wasn’t about to talk to this mage about what had happened, but… He glanced up, glimpsing the mixed look of hope and dread that the man was trying hold in. “I hate to tell you this, but if your friend was there when I was there, they are gone now. The veil has grown too thin there. If the circle hasn’t already been shut down, it will be soon.” He shifted the training armor to under one arm and stood up, reaching to gather up the pouch of food. He didn’t intend to say any more about the subject.

Hurriedly Karl moved to stand before Cullen, afraid to let the templar go just yet. No, he had to know! “Please. Please, if you could just… He goes by Anders. I… It’s been a very long time…”

Tilting his head in surprise, Cullen didn’t pursue his initial instinct to glare at the mage until he backed off. Of all the names he might have expected, that wasn’t one of them. “Wait… Anders?” He glanced over where Samson was still standing close by, watching interestedly. The older templar just shrugged and Rutherford turned back to the mage. “You mean the serial escapist Anders?”

From the way Thekla’s face lit up with joy and mirth, that was exactly the Anders he meant. “Oh? I suppose he does have trouble sitting still for very long.” Suddenly his expression caught up with the conversation and it turned worried. “You do know him. That’s…that’s great… I mean, if… Is he alright? Please, tell me. I can’t stand not knowing anymore.”

Cullen’s shoulders relaxed and sagged slightly. He hadn’t interacted much with that mage, but he’d heard many stories about him. A spirit healer, very rare and powerful, which was why they had put up with his shenanigans for so long, but Greagoir’s patience had been running thin with him. He supposed that there wasn’t any harm in answering the man’s questions. It wasn’t as if he actually knew anything important. “Anders was locked in solitary confinement for most of the time that I was there. He was released from solitary about…I’m not really sure…something like six months ago, maybe? More? My timelines aren’t really so sure these days. Before the…thing that happened.” He shook his head and lifted the pouch. “Suffice to say, serial escapist Anders promptly escaped and has yet to be seen again as far as I know. If you hear from him, you should encourage him to return. For his own good if no one else's. He didn’t seem to have a very well developed sense of self preservation.”

Cullen didn’t bother to wait to see if Thekla had any other questions. He’d given him what he could and there were no more answers to be had. He gave the mage a respectful bow of his head, same as he’d received earlier, then turned to Samson and the templars walked back inside together.

“That was a nice enough thing to do. You know, he’s been sick over his boyfriend back in Ferelden since he got here. I can see reason in most things, but I just can’t see the reason in tellin’ them they can’t even send letters. I mean, if it keeps them happy, why not? Keepin’ them happy just makes our job easier, don’t it?”

Cullen shook his head in disagreement or maybe it was just refusal to agree. “I dunno. I thought they were pretty happy at Kinloch…”

~ * ~

A week after receiving the news about his family, Cullen met with lieutenant Alrik to begin work on the special detail that he was going to share the burden of. He was looking forward to it or to being as busy as he could manage to make himself. He wanted to collapse unconscious into his bed at night. He had found that exhaustion could force his body into a deeper quality of sleep without heavy lyrium intake. It wasn’t nearly as peaceful a sleep, but he was too worn out to wake in violent fits at least.

Together they had sat at sir Alrik’s desk and had poured over stacks of documents, an entire wealth of mixed and seemingly random information. There were news articles, handwritten notes, sketches, incomplete sections of maps, official reports from both templars and city guard, personal letters, there were even ledgers from certain vendors and shops. It was an incredible amount of seemingly completely hodgepodge chaos.

Sighing heavily, Cullen threw down a half sketched out map on the desk and slouched back in his chair. Difficult to do while strapped into his chestplate. “Sir, I don’t understand what we are looking for? What is the use of any of this?”

The lieutenant glanced at him and then returned to the pile of papers. He reached for a stack to his side and one by one he started to lay the pages down in front of Cullen. The first was a letter which he skimmed. It was just a letter, someone was requesting a delivery of flowers and various colored ribbons, likely in preparation for some sort of celebration or maybe a funeral. The next paper placed down was a query about the stock of embrium, arbor blessing, and felandaris at a street vender that was signed by the same person. The next paper that was placed before him was a shipping schedule for some goods deliveries at different times and dates…also signed by the same signature. He frowned as he tried to figure out how the pages were connected aside from the person’s signature. Then a crude sketch of a partial map was placed down on top of the rest. It showed a partial map with notes and symbols scribbled on it. Some of the symbols were runic and some were magical or shorthand for potion and poultice crafting. He read them easily, having seen such shorthand often when he used to be posted at the library and observing while the mages did research. The symbols read as Embrium, Arbor Blessing, and Felandaris and various colors including green, white, black, and red. Numbers were written in rune form in places. Suddenly he understood exactly what he was looking at.

“This is…this is a map. This is three passages or routes along with set times and dates that are identified as safe, clear, blocked, or danger. All in a magic study based cipher.” Cullen stared at the page as new information sorted itself out and snapped into place. His eyes widened as he took in the stacks and stacks of papers with new understanding. “All of this? Are all of these pieces of encryptions and ciphers? How many are involved? How big is the Mage Underground?”

Alrik chuckled and stroked his beard, pleased that Cullen had followed the clues before him without need for any prodding or hints. “It is not small, I can tell you that.”

Cullin frowned and picked up the partial map, turning it at different angles as he tried to work out the possible location of the routes. “Where is this? What location is drawn here?”

The older man reached out and turned the page to a certain angle and then he set down an extremely old set of blueprints that showed the shape of The Gallows and the circle on it. “I am fairly certain that these are tunnels located deep down beneath our very feet. I have not ventured forth to search the cellars for myself yet.”

That news sent an icy chill right down Cullen’s spine and he stared wide eyed at Alrik. “That’s… That’s unacceptable. We need to scout the basement, the cellars?” He didn’t even know what was beneath his feet. Well, he supposed that he would find out soon. Very soon. “Immediately.”

His lieutenant smiled at him, eyes twinkling, and he nodded. “Choose your party wisely. I would prefer that you lead them and I want to know each one’s name. There are some sympathizers among the brethren. There’s no telling what might be waiting down in the depths, you’ll want those at your back to be loyal members of the Order.”

Cullen looked troubled at the thought, but nodded eagerly. He couldn’t wait to get down there, to see what was what. To get this taken care of and make his new home feel safe again.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

The hour was late into the evening, nearing midnight, and knight-corporal Rutherford was troubled. He was often troubled in the wee hours of the night, but unlike most nights this time it was not nightmares that had him on edge. He was working through a heavy stack of seemingly random documents searching for connections and clues that might lead to clues for the Mage Underground network. He was alone in Sir Alrik’s office because it was private and it was quiet and because he’d been tasked with keeping all this research absolutely secret. Only he and lieutenant Alrik knew about this “special detail” that they had been tasked with and when he’d posited to his lieutenant the names of some templars that he felt were prime to take as a squad into the underbelly of The Gallows, most of those names had been rebuffed. It had given him pause and had impacted his certainty, something was making him uncomfortable about the whole thing and he was extremely hesitant to examine his thoughts about it. There were things that he could read into it all, but he just flat out didn’t want to go down that path. He felt like it had put him on the back foot suddenly, upsetting his delicate balance. He needed that balance. So instead he had shelved the squad issue and threw himself into the stacks of documents.

Secrets. Everything always seemed to swing back onto secrecy. To trust. If the order couldn’t trust itself…what did that mean? What was really left to rely on? Who?

He was growing more and more agitated as he tried to concentrate. He hated it. Finally he flung down the pages in his hands and they spread out over the table, messing up the stacks already sitting there. With an aggravated sigh he shook his head at himself and then gathered them back into neat piles again until the disarray was fixed.

It always came back around to secrets. Uldred and other mages secretly consorting with demons. Greagoir trying to cover up the catastrophe that occurred on his watch. Mages keeping secret communications. Servants helping the mages in secret out of missguided compassion. Templars harboring secret sympathies. The servants didn’t know any better, but there was certainly no excuse for that within the Order. Templars should know better! That thought carried guilt with it because he had once been one of those templars that didn’t know better. He had learned his lesson.

But now here he was discovering ever more secrets, finding them in every corner, delving deeper and deeper searching for the bottom, growing more afraid that there was no end and that he was going to be drawn under to drown beneath the sheer weight of them. Alrik was mired in these secrets and he took his orders from Meredith, these secrets had to extend to her as well, didn’t they? Was it really so necessary? Was there really so little trust to be given? Even to their brethren?

He sighed again and rubbed hard at his darkly shadowed, fatigued eyes. Well, he’d had enough of this for one night, but he wasn’t tired enough to know that he would sleep if he went to his room. Besides, Samson was there and he didn’t want to look the man in the face after Alrik had struck down the idea of taking the other corporal with him down to the cellars. If that told him nothing else, it said that Alrik thought Samson was a mage sympathizer. That didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel correct…but…but he couldn’t say that it was truly false either. Samson…he wasn’t close to any of these mages, not that he’d seen, but Samson did treat them…well…he treated them like anyone else. And that was… Cullen’s thoughts petered out there because he didn’t want to have to examine how that thought was going to progress. He could…could examine all of that…later. Much much later. Right now… Right now there were cellars that needed searching.

Earlier Cullen had removed his armor and left it in his room so that he could work through the evening in comfort. If he returned to armor up now in the middle of the night Samson would have questions. He didn’t want to have to lie or go into why he couldn’t tell him. After a moment of thought, he locked the lieutenant’s office as he left and made his way to the armory. He had never gone there outside of daytime hours and was surprised to find a clerk on duty. The man greeted him cordially while he worked on mending a dented cuirass that looked like it would need to be hammered back into shape. It didn’t take long to realize that the man wasn’t really a clerk. The first hint was the way his eyes never quite lost that distracted, faraway look no matter how he concentrated on the armor. The man had introduced himself as Marco and happily directed Cullen to where some light training armor was kept. Cullen collected some dusty leathers and a chest plate that wasn’t too shiny for bumbling around in the dark. The second hint came when Marco looked up as Cullen came back and showed absolutely no recognition of him. The poor addled man had either forgotten him already or didn’t realize he was the same man as earlier with different clothing, a small satchel over his shoulder, and a sword strapped to his hip. Marco cheerfully told him that if he took anything, he would need to sign it out on the clipboard by the desk. Cullen made his way to the pad in question and picked up the quill from the inkpot next to it. He was still preoccupied by the whole Secrets business so as he looked down at the sheet he hesitated.

Glancing over his shoulder he could see that Marco was paying him absolutely no mind at all. Slowly Cullen brought the tip of the quill down to the paper, but after a moment of thought, he didn’t write anything. Instead he set the quill back in its place and, with a last look toward Marco, he just bid the man a good evening and left. He told himself that he would bring the man something when he returned the items later to assuage some of his guilt. He was sure no one would notice the missing items as long as he was back before the morning clerk arrived. In the meantime, he quietly made his way down into the bowels of The Gallows.

~ * ~

There were not very many templars up and about this deep in The Gallows, especially not this late at night. All the templar night guard posts were located on the more exterior areas. The idea was to keep the mages in their circle and out of the templar-only areas like the garrison and barracks. No one wanted mages to be able to sneak around soundly sleeping templars. Certainly Cullin didn’t want that. So once you made your way past the guarded outer halls, there really wasn’t all that much active security, but there were plenty of locked doors. At each locked door he checked the handle to be sure, then took out a ring of skeleton keys that he’d been given by lieutenant Alrik. He locked each door behind himself for good measure, though he knew that he may have merely been being paranoid. It wasn’t long before he descended some stairs into a new level that was unlit. It felt empty and cold, uninhabited, perhaps a bit haunted. The stonework down here had lost a lot of the decorative touches in favor of plain stone walls and unpolished floors. It felt distinctly dungeon-like. Which made sense as that was probably what these halls were. Tevinter dungeons under a Tevinter prison and slaveyard. He took a small lantern from his satchel, lit it, and shuttered it so that it only radiated light in one direction and that opening could be quickly shuttered as well if he needed to hide it. He supposed there wasn’t really much difference between the past slaver citadel and what it was now. Is that so? Are you sure about that? Don’t they deserve this? Don’t they deserve everything they get? Or was that you? Was it you that deserved everything you got? For being the ‘soft one?’

“Oh shut up, will you?!”

The sound of his own angry voice snapping in the dark hallway startled him so much that he jumped at the echo. “Shit…” He cursed himself and took a moment to let his tension ratchet down again. “Damn it.” He said softly and straightened up while his inner voice snickered. Oh ho ho ho, you’re talking to yourself now. That’s really wonderful. Priceless. Let’s converse, shall we? Maybe you’ll be able to fend off some of this loneliness. A prison full of templars and look how lonely and pathetic you are. Now you can’t even talk to your washed up friend. How long do you think he’ll last, anyway? How long do you think suspected sympathizers last in this circle?

Cullen sighed and rubbed his aching eyes again. “That’s just great. I’m really on a good one tonight. Why right now?” He really didn’t want to think about what his inner voice said. Not at all. He did his best to shove it down and shake it away. If he concentrated hard enough and focused on the mental fortress exercises he was best at, he could shut that voice down at least partially. At least for a little while. Until he lost his focus again, until something came up that he was not braced against. It loved hitting him below the belt whenever it could. He shoved it away and turned his mind to the task at hand.

There were odd noises down here in these dank halls. The way they echoed and bounced and dispersed through the dark, he honestly couldn’t explain all of them. He was sure that some of it was water dripping, perhaps animals…rats and big spiders…the kinds of creatures that snuck into dark uninhabited places like this. Sometimes he heard what sounded like footsteps, but there were no torches or mage lights to be seen anywhere. Perhaps these halls were haunted, that wasn’t beyond belief. Not beneath a circle or a building that had been here as long as this place with such a dreadful history. Cullen was not afraid of ghosts. Spirits and demons, certainly, but ghosts? No, he’d survived real physical and psychic terrors. He knew not to give power to the intangible, fear was power and he was not afraid. Oh, how precious you are. You don’t really believe that, do you? Surely you know better than to lie to yourself so brazenly.
No. He was not afraid. He clung to that sentiment with his all.

Cullen walked the entire cellar. He found the dry goods storage, ancient furnishings storage, restricted magical items storage. That reminded him a lot of Kinloch, the magical item stores there had been extensive. He found a room that was moldering away with tapestries and rugs and other material that was slowly disintegrating with the wet and the beetles and rats. There was a section where a doorway was so thick with cobwebs that it was obvious that no one had gone that way in years. He didn’t disturb them, moving on with his search. Eventually he made his way back to where he’d entered the cellar with nothing to show for the effort. This level seemed to be a dead end. Standing at the base of the stairwell, he considered everything he’d found thus far with a confused frown. Finally he decided to conduct another check of the magical item room. If there were any apostates or mages sneaking around down here, that would be where they would be most interested in going. He carefully poked his way through the maze of items again, giving special attention to searching for any signs of disturbance in the dust. A drop cloth waved in the breeze of his passage and he glimpsed the reflective surface of a large mirror hidden beneath it, but it was nothing of interest. At the far end of the room he finally found something that was very interesting.

At first it merely looked like a scuffed flagstone, but at closer inspection he realized that a cabinet had been pushed slightly askew from the wall there. Cullen slid his gloved fingers into the gap and pulled, it slid across the stone with a grating noise. There was a hole punched through the brick wall and beyond it was another room. It looked like this gap had once been a door and had been bricked over. He stepped through and found what had once just been another dead end room. Someone had dug out through the brick right into the stone to create a landing and then dug down. Roughly hewn stone steps led into the darkness of the tunnel to yet another level below. Well well well, crafty little rabbits digging warrens. Does that make you a fox? Or are you just a rabbit of a different color?

He growled to himself and locked down on the voice again, focusing on putting one foot after the other, holding up his little lantern to see as far as he could. There were just stairs and they went quite a ways. This might have been where he began to feel a little itch of that fear he so adamantly denied, but he had a job to do and, Maker help him, he was not a coward. Oh really? You act so sure. Looks a little different from my angle. Only one way to find out, right? Let’s go, let’s go into the dark…let’s see what comes back out…

The young templar almost stopped and turned around right there. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and let out a shuddering breath, one hand coming up to press at his aching temple. Then he shook his head and glared into the daunting darkness. He was not a coward! Fishing in the pouch on his belt, he took out a half vial of lyrium and threw the draught down his throat. In frustration he slapped the cap closed and shoved it back into the pouch and began to descend into the unknown.

~ * ~

Hours passed by while Cullen navigated the tunnels beneath the prison. It was a training exercise in itself and far more of an expedition than he had ever expected. The caverns that opened up from that first tunnel were huge and sprawling and terrifying. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was access to the Deep Roads somewhere beneath Kirkwall. With an active Blight in progress right now, that was a terrible thought on its own, but the followup thought that he entertained was probably worse. It was the idle curiosity that wondered if he could just march into the Deep Roads from here and avenge his parents and how long would it take? Maybe he could be back by lunch, maybe by weeks end…or not at all. Would that be so bad? To wander into the darkness and never return. I’ll keep you company. You’d let me after a while. After the darkness seeped into your very bones and the lyrium faded out of them… Yes… Stride right up to the Archdemon and burn it to cinders with our bare hands. Who says only a warden can kill it? Could find that apostate too…she’s a warden now...and she was a rude bitch last time you saw her…kill two birds with one flame.

He was so exhausted that even his inner self wasn’t making much sense anymore and he did not want to think about her at all, ever. He growled and shoved the voice away angrily. He was fatigued and worn and sore, hungry and ill-tempered and despondent because of this ordeal. He should never have come down here on his own, but part of him was glad that he had. He was glad that he had chosen the light armor instead of his plate. That was probably the only reason he was still in one piece. He was trained to be a bulwark, to use his heavy arms and armor to bash through resistance and turn aside head-on attacks while crushing his enemy. Down in these catacombs and caverns, though, the number of creatures and threats was vast and numerous…any mages wandering about down here would have their magic thoroughly tested. He was no rogue, but he had pushed his stealth capabilities to their very limit and that wasn’t far. He certainly did not want to clear the threats out, they were a functional barrier to this Mage Underground and served a good purpose down here. Still, his armor was spattered and sticky with gore; big lizard entrails and splotches of poison spit from those little bastards and from some giant spiders that he hadn’t been able to evade. There had even been some undead horrors shambling around one cavern, but he’d managed to avoid the majority of those easily enough. He hadn’t been able to find out where these tunnels led yet. He had a feeling he’d need a much extended visit down here. With supplies and a bedroll. And lyrium. It had been long enough since he’d taken that last half draught that a headache was starting behind his eyes. It seemed like it was a little too soon for that. He thought that he used to be able to go so much longer before he started to feel the need for a draft. He couldn’t say why that was. He wasn’t regular with his lyrium by any means, some days he got more, some less…but, no matter what, he was getting more of it here than he ever did back in Ferelden.

Shifting position, he stretched his head up to peek over the rock he leaned against. He’d been resting in this shadowed alcove for a little while, conserving his strength for the push back to the basement of The Gallows. There was no sign of uncomfortably large lizards or shambling corpses or giant spiders in sight. He had come across some human remains. They seemed to be relatively fresh, but all the flesh had been devoured so he hadn’t really been able to tell how fresh. Then some predator-like noises had prompted him to take cover for a while. He’d put out the lantern in this cavern because of the prevalence of glowing mushrooms all over the walls. It was just enough light to get along and still cling to shadows. He dropped from the alcove ledge as softly as he could, but still a soft grunt escaped him. He was sore. He may have pushed too much. It certainly had to be close to dawn already if not past it.

The tiniest whisper of a hoarse voice reached his ears. “...Is someone there?”

Cullen spun in a circle, trying to identify from where the whisper came. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and moved closer to a craggy shadowed spot with lichen growing over it. “...yes. I’m here. What is your name?”

There was a shifting of gravel and a delicate, filthy hand slid into view. A dim glimmer of gold flickered, there was a pretty gold ring on the second finger, it had a white stone and a carved ivory image of a dove in flight around it. “...Helisma...thank Andraste… I was afraid no one would come back for me…” The accent sounded like Antivan.

Cullen let out a silent sigh and schooled his features, even though he doubted Helisma would be able to see his face well in the gloom. “How long has it been, Helisma?”

“I… I’m not sure… My…my hip… I just hid… I’m so thirsty…”

Focussing his mind, he reached down to touch the dirty, limp hand. He held it with what might be confused for compassion, but he was only putting his templar senses to work. He sensed not even a hint of magical aura, but that was most likely because the girl was exhausted and injured and on the verge of severe dehydration. Her sleeve looked like that of a circle robe that had been dragged through a quarry. “Your hip is injured? Can you walk at all?”

“I… No… I can’t…I… …I mean… I… I can try…” The way she started to answer honestly, but then quickly tried to backpedal her answer told him everything. If she could walk, she would have tried to continue her escape. She was helpless. They are never helpless, don’t you remember this? Did you forget so easily? Maybe you need another lesson. This is the perfect opportunity for it. She was helpless, he affirmed forcefully.

“Right…and your escort left you when the creatures came, didn’t they?” He spent a minute thinking about how he could handle this. He fished in his satchel and brought out the small waterskin he’d had the foresight to bring. It was only half full at this point. He pressed it into Helisma’s hand and she took it into her hidey hole. “If I must carry you out of here, I will have to rest first. I take it that you don’t have any potions?”

“Everything was used up…and then I was separated from the others…” She was carefully avoiding placing blame or saying that they abandoned her. She didn’t want to insult her rescuer. She still hadn’t realized that he wasn’t some underground rogue or fighter returned to the scene.

“Alright. I’m going to climb back onto the ledge and rest for a while. I suggest that you stay still and rest as well. You’ve done well staying alive down here. When I wake, I’ll take you out of here. I promise I won’t leave you.” He was so very tired. If only he’d known that this would turn into such a trial. He’d planned to spend maybe four hours tops down here and he was sure that it had actually been more like six already. Now it looked like he might not get back to The Gallows until sometime that night.

“Thank you, my friend. …Thank you…”

Are you really going to sleep while a wild mage escapee hides two dozen feet from your delicate body? One that even came from the land of assassins? Maybe you really are growing tired of it all. Finally.

Cullen shook the voice away. The girl was fully drained and injured. Even as her magic well refilled, it would continue to drain as her body struggled to stay stable and heal. If she could create and hold a magelight, he’d be surprised. She didn’t strike him as very strong or very well trained. Probably a recently found apostate. Besides, he had no intention of sleeping down here, he wasn’t a total idiot. Of course he would never sleep in conditions like this. He settled himself into the shadows and put himself into a meditative trance that was close to sleep, but not quite unconscious. He didn’t want to imagine what trouble would stir up if he awoke screaming from a nightmare down here. After what he thought was close to four hours passed, he roused himself and checked his surroundings again. All was quiet except for the expected ambience in a haunted cave. He then checked himself over, flexed stiff muscles, straightened his armor and tightened his weapon at his waist. His head was aching, but there was nothing to do for it and it wouldn’t stop him from getting out of here. Slipping down from the ledge, he checked the area one more time before moving to the mage’s hiding place. “Helisma?”

“...nnh…still here…” Came her soft rasp. She still sounded thirsty.

Cullen leaned down to try to peer into the shadows around her. “How much pain are you in? Will you be able to keep quiet if I move you?”

“Umm…” He heard her shift slightly in her alcove, heard a very soft gasp and the shifting stopped. “I think…as long as I don’t…put pressure…or tense up… But I had better stay quiet anyway, right?” There was a wry snort that sounded like it was likely accompanied by an eyeroll.

He made a soft huff of amusement back and nodded. “That would be wisest. On which side is your injury?”

“It…um…my left side.” Both of her hands reached out for him from her shadow. He grasped them firmly, but gentle, then drew her out of her hiding spot. Her body slid easily over the lichen and he could see the stain of dried blood down the left side of her robe. She was also likely in too much pain to concentrate on using whatever magic she might have access to right now. There were plenty of signs so far that Cullen knew and could rely on to make sure that he was not making a grave error in his treatment of her, they also served to keep him calm in such close proximity to her as well. He carefully curled her into his arms, pressing her uninjured side against his chest in a princess carry. She wasn’t so heavy that he would have too much trouble with the burden, even less trouble without his normal heavy platemail on. Now that he could see her a little better, he knew that she was not one of the apostates that he had brought in. She was petite with short cut black hair and her skin was a shade that spoke of growing up in a warm sunny place.

She gasped a little as her body settled into the new position against his chest, but she did stay quiet. She smiled wryly up at him and one of her hands raised, fingers starting to come toward his cheek. As soon as he saw it, his entire body went rigid and he jerked his head back, the expression on his face shuttering in distrust.

Her hand froze between them and she stayed silent as they regarded one another for a long, uncomfortable moment. Finally her hand lowered to her lap. “You didn’t come back for me… You’re not a transporter, are you?”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He admitted to her, watching carefully to glean what she might do in response.

She stared at him for another long, silent moment and he felt her breath beginning to hitch. He realized after a second that she was crying quietly. “I just wanted to go home. I want to see my nana.”

He looked away. He had to. He couldn’t…he couldn’t…trust…those tears. He couldn’t examine that. He didn’t want to acknowledge her pain. “.........The circle is your home now. I’m going to take you back and you will be healed. Please don’t fight me.”

The silent shaking sobs continued for a moment more before she managed to get herself under control again. Then she just laid her head on his shoulder, giving over completely to whatever he chose to do with her. Her soft voice sounded sad. “A knight is rescuing me…and you’re not even wearing your shining armor.”

“I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what exactly the apology was for; the lack of shiny armor or for fulfilling his duty to the Order in spite of her tears. He resolved himself to concentrate on the next part of this struggle and rose to his feet with her held securely in his arms.

~ * ~

Young and strapping he might be, but he was still working on getting back to his pre-Harrowing fitness level. After some hours he began to take more frequent breaks. Real breaks, not just hunkering down in dark corners while waiting for threats to disperse. Those kinds of breaks were not restful at all. In the beginning, he had been distinctly uncomfortable with the closeness, but eventually his mind settled about it. She really was helpless. It would be so easy to deal with her. Neutralize the threat. No one would ever know. The creatures would devour what you left. There were even a few times when he realized that Helisma was asleep in his arms, hopefully it was sleep and not unconsciousness. He encouraged her to drink the last of whatever was still left in the waterskin on one of those breaks. She needed it more than him, especially with the bloodloss she had suffered.

“...you know…you are very nice…for a templar.” Her soft, small voice just barely carried to his ear even though her cheek was cradled against his collarbone. He was concentrating on keeping his breathing deep and steady under her weight, so he only grunted non-commitally. “You haven’t called me a…a worthless apostate…or even complained about how…how heavy I am.”

“You’re not heavy.” He responded automatically even as he shifted his grip on her to ease a cramp in his back.

“You didn’t even try…to make that convincing.” Her tiny laugh sounded more like a cough. “But you still said that to be nice…and you didn’t need to. See? Nice.”

“.........I’m really not that nice.” He denied softly, then he almost tripped over a loose stone. He wobbled but managed to catch himself without breaking his leg and decided that he really had to stop for a little while. He shuffled on for a minute more until he found a good enough spot to lay Helisma down so that she wouldn’t be too uncomfortable. He sank down just a few feet away, far enough that she couldn’t reach out and touch him unexpectedly. His head fell back against the cavern wall and he closed his eyes, concentrating on trying to relax his poor over extended back muscles. “I have sisters… It was an automatic reflex.”

“You still haven’t told me your name, my friend.”

He wished she wouldn’t call him that, but he knew it was just a saying and an Antivan form of greeting. It made him feel guilty for some reason. “My name is Rutherford.” He reached up and braced his palms on the curved cave wall and used it as leverage so he could lift his legs up and try to stretch out his lower back muscles and thighs as well as his upper back, flexing his entire body as hard as he could in hopes that the cramping would release when he let go.

“Oh? ….Oh… You’re that new knight…” He wasn’t sure what her tone meant, but apparently he was known amongst some of the mages. She paused for a long moment, possibly watching him trying to work and loosen his muscles. “You’re not as scary as I’d heard. Tarohne said…well…she said a lot of things… She said you broke her jaw.”

It took a moment for him to remember where he had heard that name, but it came to him quickly enough. That was the name of the mage with the white lipstick. The maleficar from Kinloch. He finally flopped down and let his muscles lose all their tension. “I could have done worse than that. You shouldn’t associate with mages like her. It’s not good for you. Not for anyone, really.”

“I would associate with anyone that could get me back to my real home. …She’s gone, you know? I’m pretty sure she made it… She’s tough. Is she why you were down here?” That was news that he hadn’t wanted to hear. He covered his eyes with a hand and shook his head in denial. She’d escaped?! If only he’d been sooner…

“I’ll find her again. I won’t let her sow chaos. No one will ever go through that again if I have anything to say about it.”

“So you know. I guess you’d have to…if you both came from the same circle.”

That was so jarring a statement that it brought him straight to sitting up in one jerk of motion and his back twinged. “Know what? What are you alluding to?”

Helisma shifted over onto her side, her head pillowed on her arm. “That she practices blood magic and she’s not very nice. I… I guess that I do hope that you find her. I never imagined saying that before. But she has said things… There’s probably nothing I could say that would convince you to let me go and go find her instead…?”

To hear another confirm his beliefs, to hear it from another mage no less, was troubling. He resigned that he would find Tarohne and he would stop her once and for all. “Not really, no. I will find her too, don’t worry.” A long moment passed by before he finally asked the question that had been burning in his throat for most of this conversation. “What sort of things did she say?”

The quiet continued to stretch on and he thought that she wouldn’t answer, but when she did answer, it caused every muscle in his body to tense on its own. Actually he was lucky his bowels didn’t turn to water. “She said she knew a way to change things. Make templars see reason… She called you soft… ‘The soft templar’ she said. I… I didn’t really understand everything. She also talked about…something she called fade-touched. Something about ethereal passengers, spirits...dark things. I didn’t… I’m not sure that she’s entirely… That is…some of the things she said were quite…mad. I just wanted to go home.” She looked discomfited by the memory and afraid of being damned just by repeating any of it. The silence stretched between them again.

“I’m not ‘the soft one.’ Not anymore. Mages worse than her made sure of that.” Phantom pain flashed through his body when he made that last statement, leaving him with the sensation of having been scooped empty and scoured hollow. Maker, how was it that that moniker would come up in someone else’s mouth only hours, at most a full day after his inner voice had mentioned it? But there was something about what she said that was far more troubling than a telling old nickname. Two words kept repeating over and over in his mind. ethereal passengers. What…what…did that…mean… There was a thick, pulsing horror building in him, but every inch of his psyche immediately closed ranks and locked shields in the equivalent of a mental phalanx to keep all musings, knowledge, thoughts revolving around those words at bay.

At length he straightened and rose up onto his feet once more. “It’s time for the last hard push. I want to get you to the infirmary before the staff retire for the night.” He lifted her back into his arms. This was the last section of caverns if he remembered clearly. Then it was up the long staircase and back through the cellar of The Gallows. They were nearly there.

~ * ~

It was even later than he hoped when he strode into the infirmary. There was thankfully still a circle healer working on the medicinal stores and the two templar guards posted, they were playing cards at a table in the corner. There were no patients here, there rarely were since they did have a few mages talented with healing. He carried Helisma in and moved all the way to the back of the room where she could be kept separate and out of sight. The healer came quickly to help the new patient.

“Treat her and keep her here for the rest of the night. She is not to speak with anyone or meet with anyone other than myself or lieutenant Alrik. In the morning, she will be moved to solitary until the lieutenant decides she may be released.” The healer nodded their grave understanding.

Cullen then went to the two templars and told them the same thing. They nodded their understanding, though they did look intensely curious about Cullen’s state of dress and gore. They tried to ask where he’d found her, but he just shook his head and left. He needed to debrief with Alrik, clean himself up, and then collapse.

He located his lieutenant at his quarters, it was that late. He didn’t even have the energy to hold himself at attention when the older man answered his door. The instant Alrik’s clear gaze landed on him, it was taken over by an odd mixture of shock, surprise, interest, and approval as always. “My boy, where have you been? Don’t tell me that you decided to go it alone. Come in, come in, you look like death warmed over. Come, sit. Tell me what you found.”

The man’s quarters were comfortable and littered with bric-a-brac and trinkets and seemingly random assortments of items placed on shelves and any flat surface. Some of them looked so very out of place that Cullen didn’t really know what to think of them. On one shelf were portraits that looked to be of extended family, siblings, perhaps children, grandchildren or other relations. Cullen sat on one of two chairs at the table and let his head tip back tiredly. “I went down on my own, yes. I had only intended to scout, but… I found the entrance and you won’t believe how massive the tunnels are. I’m surprised that darkspawn have never boiled up from below the city.”

He took his time explaining what he saw down there. Trying to remember every detail as best he could. When he got to the part where he had found Helisma, Alrik’s eyes took on a gleam of excitement. He wanted to know everything she said, about the transporters and about the missing maleficar. It felt like another hour passed before the older man finally dismissed him. Alrik pressed a large vial of lyrium from his own private stores into his hands and sent him off to get cleaned up and rest. “I’ll see to the girl in the morning. You’ve done very well, Rutherford. Exceptionally well. We will be able to use this to our advantage. I’ll have to consider a proper reward for all your considerable efforts.”

It was all he was capable of, to go to the bathing chambers and rinse himself down. He couldn’t bring himself to put his soiled clothing back on, so he was wearing only his breeches when he stopped off at the armory to return the cleaned gear he’d taken the night before. Marco was there, but he showed no recognition of Cullen or the items he carried. He paused at the sign out sheet again, but again he left it blank before leaving.

The room he shared with Raleigh was dark when he entered. He heard his roommate shift on his bed as he moved around. There was just enough moonlight shining in from the high window to see by. “Well, if it isn’t my absent roomie. Look at you. You been lettin’ alley cats drag you around again.”

Cullin quickly threw his soiled clothing down in a corner, pulled on a clean set of smalls and thumped down into his bed, dragging the coarse blanket over himself. “Hmmm… Something like that… I had a really long day…” He pressed his face into his pillow with a muffled groan of relief.

“Long night last night too.” There was a long pause. “You gonna drink that lyrium or you savin’ it for breakfast?”

Cullin turned his head and squinted over at his nightstand where the large glass of lyrium sat forgotten. “Mmmm…naw…you can have it…” As much as taking it would make him feel a bit better, he knew that if he gave it to Raleigh it would assuage any questions the other had burning in his mind. It was worth the sacrifice. He was exhausted enough to sleep without it anyway. He rolled over and was asleep before he even heard Samson moving to grab the draught.

~ * ~

Awareness came upon him slowly, seeping into his flesh, into his bones, with a cold as inexorable as the grave. He felt stiff and immobile with it, as if he’d been frozen into place. Stuck to the frozen stones beneath him. His armor was hard and unforgiving and heavy, pinning him in place on the ground. It chafed terribly and he stank of so many days spent in it. Weeks? Months? Not years? No, he couldn’t survive years of this…how long could he stand it? How long before he found a ragged edge of metal and chose to end it like the Orlesian had?

“Wake up, my lovely. How can you keep me waiting like this? After all we’ve been through, I’d like to think you could be a little more welcoming to me.”

That voice caused a violent shudder to pass through him and set him trembling, the first movements he was capable of making just yet. “...not you…not this...” His voice was a pathetic whisper. “...please...leave me be…”

“But you are our soft one. The sweet one. Precious little templar. Such a tasty, tender little morsel. Mmm…so eager to please…” Now the tone was just mocking, but the voice was feminine and familiar…with just a hint of inhuman rasp in it.

Then the hands came, fingers tipped with talons, sliding over his skin, beneath his protective armor, what good was it if it couldn’t protect him from this violation? No good. None at all. His armor meant nothing in this place. Then his body jerked, spasming, and he choked out a sobbing gasp as a horrible, guilty, painful wracking pleasure coursed through his body against his will. “...no…no, no, no, no…nonono…”

He tried to twist and tried to arch his body away from the source of the terrible sensation, but the paralysis was total. It felt like control of his body was being wrested from him, as if he were a doll to be manipulated as the puppeteer saw fit. As if he were to be forced to mime for an audience, to act out such perversions for the entertainment of…all who watched...but no one was watching...not now...this was just a twisted memory... This wasn't how it happened.

Pleasure surged through him again, ripping a cry from his lips and forcing his fingers and toes to curl as his entire body almost bent back upon itself, a torment of bliss. When his eyes managed to focus through the haze he found himself staring up into a ghastly, once beautiful, all too familiar face of an abomination as she plunged her talons through his armor as if it were only an illusion. That also never happened. Where those unforgiving talons plunged and raked through his flesh, instead of tearing into his skin and organs and entrails, instead of pain, there was pleasure so intense that it was the singular most hideous sensation he’d ever known. A part of him knew what scene this was a caricature of, these sensations. Part of him remembered. The part that had shut down and was trying to block it away, actively trying to separate itself from his traitorous body and its responses. The part of him that just wanted to escape, to die if that was the only route to do so. This torture lit up that part of him like a bolt of lightning and tore into it without remorse or mercy or any signs of stopping.

All he could do was bite down hard on his tongue and try to be elsewhere and endure.

When he opened his eyes to the false predawn oozing through the tall window in their room he felt as if he’d had no rest at all. Silent tears had crusted on his cheeks and the taste of blood was in his mouth, but for once Samson was fast asleep and there was no soft soothing whistle and no witness to his wrecked and wasted state. He just breathed, deep and even and soft, letting his body forget the nightmare as the day slowly chased away the gloom and horror. Intellectually he knew that dream had been influenced by the hours and hours of having that mage’s soft, warm body pressed against him in the caves. Even though there had been nothing sexual about it, his subconscious had taken the ordeal and twisted it into something awful that he couldn’t escape, something he was too familiar with.

Maker, when had his own mind become yet another enemy waiting to pounce upon him in his weakness?

Eventually he dragged himself painfully from his bed, dressed and armored, and went out to start his day at the training yard with as much physical effort as he was capable of right now. He wanted another kind of pain to replace what had settled into his flesh and bones and psyche overnight.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Time passed in a blur for knight-corporal Rutherford. The issue of creating a hunt squad was solved by Cullen asking Alrik for the specific criteria the lieutenant wanted him to consider when choosing templars. Alrik also named a few knights that he considered reliable already. When Cullen went to speak with those men, he came away with a new understanding of exactly what Alrik liked about them.

They were all forthright and stalwart, tough minded, unrelenting, very short on mercy, patience, or trust, in fact one could describe them as downright vicious. That and every single one of them had been exposed to the worst a mage could do with the scars to prove it.
Just like him.

Cullen wasn’t a completely blind fool, no matter how willfully he might try to be sometimes. He wasn’t really sure what motives to assign to his lieutenant’s actions and intentions with this. At least one of those knights had been harmed so badly that he was willing to burn down the world if it would catch a few mages in the flames. Was Cullen himself really so damaged that he fit in a group with a man like that? If anything was to be gleaned from his reaction at his first sight of the mage from Kinloch…Tarohne…maybe it was true.

Thankfully, he had plenty of things to distract him from pondering just how damaged he was and what it meant for what he’d always believed were his core beliefs, the things that he based his life, his very being on, his peace of mind if he would ever have such a thing again.

Some weeks after his first venture below The Gallows, he went again with five of Alrik’s trustworthy templars. This time he was properly armored in his full plate as the rest were. It made the trip both easier and harder at the same time. There was no possibility of stealth, the six of them made so much noise that it allerted all the enemies in the first cavern. That allowed him to witness each man’s fighting style and capabilities. They were all fearsome fighters, some of them seemed to take pleasure in the fights. All signs of good, strong soldiers, but there were some other signs that Cullen picked up on that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t have the experience yet to be able to trust his feelings or thoughts on them, so he kept his doubts to himself. He did not take those men further than that first level. Instead he gave them the task of securing the base of the stairs and mapping every nook and cranny of that first cave. The last thing he wanted to do was clear the threats that the Underground transporters would have to fight their way through. Another thing he didn’t want to experience was taking these men into a fight that he wanted any control over. Cullen had a feeling that some of these men would spit even a peaceful mage on their sword without ever considering their surrender.

But in certain situations, so would he. How was he any different? How was he any better? The honest answer was that he wasn’t any better at all.

They went to extensive efforts to set up what could loosely be called hunting blinds within view of the base of the stairs. Hidden spots where a knight or even half a squad might be able to hunker down out of sight and either spy on passersby or fall upon mages attempting to flee the circle. Since these men were going to be among those who these secret posts fell on, they put forth extra effort to make sure there was at least some comfort to be had.

All the knights that were inducted into the special detail were given specific instructions for what to do if they did witness anything in this cavern. Alrik wanted to be informed immediately when any mages were found down there and for them to be held until he arrived to take charge of the situation. Alrik’s orders also stated that if he couldn’t be found, then lieutenant Karras should be sought out. Thus started a number of secret guard posts in the tunnels beneath The Gallows, placed under Cullen’s purview to keep track of and inform Alrik if anything needed his attention.

Of course, they couldn’t allow the mages or the smugglers know that they were monitoring the thoroughfare. Most of the time it was just information gathering. Alrik was the one that made the decision whether to allow passage or to fall upon the groups. They always tried to make it seem like bad luck or happenstance, right place wrong time, rather than a strategic ploy. Even when a party was allowed to traverse the tunnels, Alrik had his own squads that were placed somewhere near where the tunnels surfaced.

In fact, after realizing first hand just how noisy a squad of templars could be in the tight echoing confines of tunnel walls, corporal Rutherford made a point of meeting with sir Alrik to suggest some new training regimens be instigated. If they expanded training to provide specialized templar stealth and distance fighting techniques, it would be far more ideal to assign knights to the tunnels that had a more proper training for the environment. He was praised for the suggestion and authorized to work with the quartermaster on the logistics and implementation of some training plans for knights that would specialize in rogue and archery type skills rather than the officially accepted sword and shield. The young templar had been surprised and pleased that his suggestions were met with such enthusiasm and very happy for the interesting new role. Of course, once the new training began he was one of the first knights to take part and encourage participation.

~ * ~

Some months into his new responsibilities, Cullen was out in the Hightown square with Samson, grabbing lunch and hopefully not about to be dragged to The Rose or The Hangedman. Cullen was in the midst of a snorting laugh at some nonsense Samson was spouting when his eyes landed on one of the chantry booths and his mirth died in his mouth. He stopped short and just stared at the two tranquil manning the table. One was the man that he’d seen there for months, the very slaver that he had brought into the circle, but the other… He found his feet taking him to her without any conscious effort of his mind, which was stunned. When he arrived at the table, he reached out and grasped the hand of the woman standing there with the sunburst brand on her forehead. His thumb slid along a finger that was no longer wearing the gold and ivory dove ring.

“Helisma…”

“Yes, that is my name, sir. Do you wish to hear the good news of the chantry?” Her voice was flat and unfeeling, bland and gentle. There was no sign of the strong, but quiet girl, not a girl, a mage, that he had carried for hours and hours in that nightmare maze of tunnels. All he could do was stare at her.

Finally a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and Samson was speaking softly into his ear. It took him a moment to register the words. “People are starting to look this way, roomie. Maybe, let the tranquil go, yeah?”

“I… I just…” He glanced around suddenly and realized the odd looks being cast his way. He let go of Helisma’s hand quickly. “I… No, thank you, Helisma.” He forced himself to turn away, but Samson was staying at his side with a nonchalant expression that told him his roommate was concerned, but trying not to show it. “How long has she been there?” Cullen asked him softly as they walked away. He could only stare straight in front of him, the shock of seeing her like that was more than he knew what to do with.

“What? That girl? I dunno. …a few weeks? They come and go, you know. Hard to keep track.” Raleigh answered with a shrug.

“I saved that girl… She…” He’d also never checked on her afterwards, never even thought to do so. Cullen rubbed at his temples with armored fingers. “I… I didn’t know…” He didn’t know how to absorb this either. Yes, she had tried to escape, but that was not a Tranquil making offense. Not that by itself. Hell, the spirit healer at Kinloch had escaped seven damn times and no one made him tranquil! Why…? What are you upset for? Isn’t she ‘safe’ now? Isn’t that what you want? Don’t you want all of them to be made safe? You should be happy. Would you rather just kill her instead? Why not? Just kill her if she upsets you so.

“Huh, yeah? When’d you do that?” Samson asked, eyebrow raised knowingly. He was well aware that Cullen was doing a lot of errands for Alrik lately. “I guess it just depends on who had the brand that day. I know Alrik likes to brand ‘em. Maybe you didn’t know that.”

Cullen stopped short at that news, but he didn’t turn to face Samson. He was afraid that Raleigh might be able to read all his thoughts in his face and he couldn’t even sort through his own thoughts just yet himself. “I’m…” He stopped again and then just shook his head. “Sorry, Raleigh. I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll…catch up with you later.” He marched off before the other could say anything to stop him. He didn’t know where he was going, he just…he needed to think.

~ * ~

It was after evening prayer and Cullen was still trying to order his thoughts, so far they had rebuffed all of his efforts. He sat in a pew at the very back of the chantry. He didn’t want to pray. He could admit now that the chant did not bring him solace anymore, all it ever did these days was make him full of rage, but it was quiet here and no one had disturbed him.

Seeing Helisma like that today had brought something to the forefront of his mind that he had been ignoring until it had fallen by the wayside beneath all of his duties.

“Are you well, my son?”

He supposed that it would only be a matter of time before they had to bother him. He raised his head up from where it had rested in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “Oh, I’m just wonderful, couldn’t complain at all, fit as a fiddle, right as rain, six shades of fantastic, that’s me. I certainly wouldn’t waste your time on someone as well as I am right now.”

The priest blinked at him in confusion for a moment and he couldn’t hold in the temperamental snort. “Anyway, since when do brothers wear formal scalemail? And…is that…is that Andraste on your crotch??” Cullen half turned in his seat to give the man a thorough look from head to toe and then he scoffed, well aware that he was being a jerk and not feeling guilty about it. He just wanted to be left alone.

The other man just stared at him with his mouth slightly agape for a moment, then he looked down at himself and his molded belt buckle. Finally he gave a little laugh and smiled ruefully, eyes twinkling in amusement. “May I sit with you for a while? You and I could pray together if you like.”

“I think I’ve prayed enough for two lifetimes and received little enough in return for it. I’m only here because it is the most quiet, peaceful place I know. At least it was.” To his disgruntlement, the brother decided to sit in the pew with him despite his rudeness. “Honestly, I don’t need any looking after. I just…have things on my mind.”

“Aye, you have the look of a man with a heavy load weighing him down. You know, brother templar, as a brother in the chantry I’m allowed to hear confessions.”

The young templar could feel his ire rising, as it did so easily these days. “And why do you think I need to confess anything?” He should have stopped there, but that hot blazing annoyance was quickly rising up inside him. “And even if I did, the things that I’ve got knocking around in here could burn your little confessional right down to cinders. Consider yourself blessed that I am not here to confess and count your lucky stars.”

“I like to think that I am blessed already and I do believe that man may make his own luck at times.” The brother leaned back in his seat, resting his elbows comfortably on the back of the pew. His mail tinkled softly with the movement, almost like little muffled bells.

Cullen leaned back, more slumped, and let his head fall back to stare up at the huge beams that braced the cavernous ceiling of the cathedral. It seemed that this chantry had been designed specifically to make those within it feel small and insignificant. “I know what you are.”

The brother sounded genuinely curious at that statement, maybe a little wary as well. “Oh? Do not hold me in suspense, then. What is it that I am?”

“You, my friend, are either a bastard or the third or fourth son of a noble house. Aren’t you? I knew someone like you once upon a time.” Cullen closed his eyes against the view of the vast ceiling. Maker, he was tired again. Or still. He didn’t think he was ever not tired these days. “Or maybe not a bastard with that outfit. That’s what he was. Packed up and shipped off to the chantry then dropped into the templar training center. You know that you and I have received the same training, right? Well, up to a point.” Rutherford rapped his knuckles on his chest plate, making a hollow ringing that echoed through the room.

“Yet it seems that you do not derive the same comfort from it. Why do you think that is?” The brother’s tone was so damn reasonable and patient that it set Cullen’s teeth on edge.

“Oh yes, whyever could that be? Perhaps because my experiences extend beyond the peaceful walls of the church itself. Tell me, how many abominations have you battled in this cathedral? How many demons? How many of your brethren have you watched torn limb from limb? When did you have to pick through their remains to retrieve personal effects so that they could be identified?”

There was a long pause then and he thought that maybe the brother had finally gotten the hint and would leave, but he was not that easily put off apparently. “What happened to your friend?”

That threw him off a bit. He honestly hadn’t thought of Alistair for such a long time. Had it been a year? No, it had been longer than that. Two years? Maybe by this time. It hadn’t been that long since he’d last seen his face, but that short meeting had been a blur in the center of the furor of his Harrowing and he hadn’t had the mental capacity to care much at the time. “...He… He had been conscripted by the Grey Wardens. They took him directly from the training center before he had the chance to be knighted.” Before his first taste of lyrium. Alistair had never had to taste the invisible leash and collar that hung around Cullen’s neck. It felt like such a long time ago when he last trained with his brother in arms. Brother no longer.

“I wish I’d gone with him. Anything would be better than this…” He said the last bit quietly to himself, though it was silent enough in this room that there was no way that the priest didn’t hear it. He hurried on because he didn’t want a response. In fact, he was realizing that he had allowed the other man to bait him into speaking, but now that he’d started it was hard to stop. “Darkspawn… I could be gleefully fighting darkspawn right now. I could have taken my family to safety. Maybe my parents would be alive right now if I could have been there instead of this godforsaken prison city.” His voice turned desolate, angry, dark. “I wouldn’t have received some disingenuous letter from the Denerim chantry telling me to be strong and to look forward to the day when the lyrium steals my mind from me and finally grants me some peace.”

Again there was silence, but this time it felt both triumphant and hollow to the templar. He’d made his point, as wretched a point as it was. After a moment he realized that the silence had become ever pervasive. He turned his head to glimpse the other man out of the corner of his eye. The brother wore such a stricken expression on his face that Cullen slowly straightened in his seat, just studying his face. At long last he spoke again. “Or am I not the only one that has received one of those fool letters. If so… I apologize.”

The brother shook his head and tried to force a smile into place. “No, I apologize. We all have our share of burdens to bear. I am afraid that I cannot claim anything even close to what you’ve described, but… I daresay that being a grey warden would likely come with no less suffering and adversity. It is only a different calling, not a better or worse one.”

“That…is likely very true. Forgive me, I am not usually… No, that is a lie. I didn’t used to be so hateful.” The tiredness came through in his voice and he didn't attempt to hide it.

“I don’t sense hatefulness from you. Just a pervasive burden. You know you don’t have to carry the weight of the world upon your shoulders. No one expects that of you, certainly not the Maker. He wouldn’t give you leave to lay down your burdens at his feet if that were the case.”

“The burdens I carry are damning. I can’t just leave them where they’ll be stumbled upon. That would be very irresponsible of me.” He suddenly laughed out loud at that, the sound echoing around the room. It sounded obscene and he quickly silenced himself.

“You can lay them down here. They’ll not be found by anyone else, I can promise you that.” The brother sounded honest, at least.

Cullen was startled by the weight of a touch on his arm, just fingertips at the gap between his vambrace and gauntlet. He looked down at the hand, then up into the man’s blue blue eyes. Why did so many people in this part of the world have such startling blue eyes? “Perhaps another time.” He stood and gave the other a respectful tilt of his head, then left before he could say anything else he would regret. A chantry brother was not a safe nor deserving recipient for the things inside his head right now.

~ * ~

There were no good answers to be had in any of the places that he had access to. Not the chantry, not at the tavern, not within his order, especially not in The Rose. When he couldn’t force the issue of Helsima from his mind, he went to his lieutenant to ask him about it. He did his best to not show the extent of his interest, acting as if he were merely curious, merely looking for confirmation of the facts.

As far as Alrik was concerned, it was all very straight forward and he said as much. The girl had spent a questionable amount of time fraternizing with the maleficar, knowing what she was and not informing anyone. She was unrepentant about her escape and openly stated that she would try again. Last of all, she was privy to secret information and would have willfully damaged the control that was essential to their tracking and stopping of the Mage Underground. When Cullen asked if putting her in solitary was not an option, Alrik merely stated that secrets have a way of outing themselves, especially where willful and unrepentant mages were concerned. The risk could not be taken. Cullen had made a point of considering it all thoughtfully before nodding his agreement with his lieutenant’s decision. He walked away feeling hollow and cold inside. Perhaps not all inside, his fingers felt positively icy today.

It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To make them all ‘safe.’ How else will your delicate skin ever feel safe again with monsters like them wandering around free as can be? When they can so easily slide beneath your skin with all that power at their fingertips. Or maybe you’ve grown to like it…

Cullen stopped short in the middle of the hallway. His instinctual response was to shove the voice away, but he held himself back. He forced himself not to lockdown even as a shudder wracked through his body, forced himself to breathe and count to ten, concentrating on each number as his feet moved him along. The moment he came to a door that was unlocked and led him out of the open hallway he darted through it. He found himself in an insignificant storage room, a room that no knight would ever have a reason to enter. He pressed his back to the door and pressed his palms to his temples. Maker, was he really considering this? Was he really going to…?

If they could see you now. What would they say? How would you answer their questions? Imagine how they’ll look at you…

‘Are you my ethereal passenger?’ It was a question that had been lingering on the edge of his consciousness ever since Helisma had said it. He kept it within the silence of his thoughts because he couldn’t stomach the idea of speaking out loud to the voice in his head. If he started talking out loud to himself… He thought that would be the beginning of the end. As it was, the voice seemed to be startled into silence because it did not respond.

As seconds ticked by his tension lessened bit by bit until he was about to laugh at himself and his own foolishness. What did he think was going to happen? He was merely stressed, he was overworked, he was on edge, he was letting his fears run riot over him. He was not…

What if I am? Will you give in? It can finally be over. I’ll devour you and we will finally know peace again.

Ice flooded Cullen’s veins and his knees gave way, sending him crashing to the ground under the weight of his armor and the shocking revelation. Knowledge of his no longer hidden passenger froze him solid, this thing that had been riding him like a steed, kicking him mercilessly with its spurs for…months...a year? ‘Oh sweet Maker above, shield your faithful servant. ……you’re real...’

Really? Faithful servant? You can think of a better lie than that. No. Brother Scalemail, now that is a faithful servant. He didn’t even rise to your baiting. But you? No. I’ve had lots of time to get to know you. You’d love to burn this place down. I could help you with that…

‘Oh...Maker…no…no…Andraste…please no…nonono…someone...anyone…nonononononono…’
He couldn’t have this, couldn’t deal with this, he hadn’t really believed, he still didn’t want to, it was too much, too much… His body rebelled. This was it, this was how it ended, finally, he hoped that the darkness threatening to envelope his consciousness would just swallow him whole. He suddenly felt like he might be dying, like his heart was going to explode, his vision was graying at the edges from lack of oxygen. Was this what it was like when a demon took possession? When an abomination was borne? He couldn’t breathe, his body went numb, his vision narrowed to a black tunnel and he was helpless to do anything but endure it while his stomach emptied itself on the tiles.

Is this really all it would have taken? Is this all I had to do? Just reveal myself? All the time that could have been spared if I had just known that all I had to do was introduce myself to break your insignificant little mind. So pathetic.

~ * ~

It took some time for the fit to finally end. When it did, he was not dead. He was not changed. He was fine. Sweaty and shaky and sick feeling, but still fine and he had no idea how much time had passed.

It had just been a panic attack. One of the worst panic attacks he had ever experienced in his life and that was saying a lot. He’d experienced some intensely bad things, afterall. Nearby him was a puddle of vomit which he’d somehow managed not to lay in. He spent about twenty minutes just coming back to himself in the silent little room. There was no commentary from his passenger, thankfully. But the voice wasn’t always there. In fact, most of the time it was blessedly absent. It only reared its ugly voice when he was…preoccupied…or when he was ill…when the lyrium hunger was strongest…when he was most susceptible to its scorn and hatred and already feeling unsteady…unstable… That was when it liked to try to nudge him over the edge.

Maker help him, all this time he’d had a demon trying to claw around inside of him.

How…?

Fade-touched…

Why…?

Blood magic…

Most importantly… Why was he still himself? How did he continue to stay himself?

And…

What could he do about it now that he knew? Did he really know? Maybe this was just…maybe he really was crazy and imagining all of this… Oh, Maker let that be all it was…

And…

Did he dare tell anyone else…?

Certainly not. He knew where that would lead. He could not falter now, not after everything he had been through. He’d had enough of his brethren attack him just for having nightmares. Granted, now that this was out…maybe they’d been in the right all along.

No.

Cullen Stanton Rutherford was no abomination. He had to find that maleficar. He had to make her put things to rights. If anyone would know how…it had to be her.

Or we could just kill her. That would be good too. I’d love that. Don’t go thinking that I’ve enjoyed this purgatory either. As much as I’ve enjoyed seeing through your eyes at times, glimpsing this marvelous physicality, I would rather have that juicy body all to myself.

He didn’t respond to the voice this time. It didn’t even startle him when it spoke. Now that he knew to expect it, knew it had motivation…whether it was insanity brought on by blood magic or a demon, it had a purpose… It almost made it better. Almost. He climbed to his feet shakily and held the wall for balance. ‘I’ll find her…and then I’ll put an end to you.’

Sure you will. Well? Get on with it then. I’m waiting.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

The circle tower of Kinloch Hold stank of death and spilled fluids. The sound of flies buzzed over everything. Sometimes when they were disturbed great dark clouds of flies would lift away from some portion of the floor and slowly circle the room before finding a new delicious spot to land.

Within the rose colored barrier, Cullen was blessedly protected from those flies. He shuddered to think what state he might be in if that were not the case, with his myriad of open wounds for Uldred’s bloodletting. Even from inside the barrier he could hear the sticky sounds of maggots burrowing in wet flesh, at least when it was so quiet like it was now.

All was quiet. There were no screams, no cries, no growls or shrieks of demons running wild through the tower. It was like… Like a reprieve of sorts. There was only one thing in the room with him, but it was crouched far away at the base of the stairs and all it was doing was watching him. Maybe it wasn’t even watching, it hadn’t moved, it didn’t approach. It was just there, giving off little licking flames that scorched the stones it sat upon.

For a time they just stared at one another, but eventually Cullen turned his back on the rage demon and curled up to sleep. It wasn’t an easy sleep, but he received these breaks so rarely, he had to take advantage while he could. He was so exhausted. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. In quiet moments like these, it was too easy to despair and think. Sleep was the safer option.

There was no knowing how much time passed in this place. Reality was warped and twisted so it could have been hours or days or minutes, but eventually Cullen roused to the sound of a merrily crackling fireplace and a warmth on his face. He opened his eyes to the sight of the rage demon crouched at the outside edge of the barrier, still watching him.

”It is a pity that we cannot truly converse here. As this is nothing more than a dream to you, little templar, and there can be no accords like this. This is only an island, frozen and anchored into the Fade. A playground with its own special rules to which we all must comply.”

Then it reached out with a long arm tipped with molten claws. It reached through the rose colored barrier as if it did not exist and caressed his cheek. It was such an unexpected thing that Cullen couldn’t react quickly enough to jerk away. The long fingered fiery hand caught his head and held him still. He expected to be burned, but the normally scalding touch was only hot. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t take. He did his best to bear down on the terror and hold his resolve firm for whatever was about to come, though a whimper did manage to squeeze past his throat.

Nothing came next. That was all that happened. The demon held him in place and just…caressed his cheek with an uncomfortably hot talon. They stayed locked together like that for minutes and Cullen just tried to keep his heaving breaths quiet and just…stay calm. Just wait. Because it would come eventually. It always did…the agony, the torture, the wearing away of his spirit one attack at a time. It would come…

”We cannot converse here, but you will remember. ………now Wake.”

~ * ~

Knight-corporal Rutherford walked into lieutenant Alrik’s office and proposed a series of targeted raids and strikes on various locations at Lowtown, the Docks, Darktown, and portions of the Wounded Coast. He posited that he’d gathered enough information and it was past time to locate and begin to neutralize the bloodmage infiltration that he was sure Tarohne was instigating.

When he first started to speak, Cullen was sure that Alrik was merely humoring him. Who would actually take him seriously? It had to be obvious that he was giving in to an obsession that had been intensified by his battle sickness. For that reason he had worked tirelessly on this proposal. He had to make it sound reasoned and intelligent and not the panicked ramblings of a knight that thought he was on the edge of being possessed.

Ever since the enlightening and horrible discovery of his ethereal passenger. It had given him all the inspiration that he needed to get his ass in gear to find that damned woman. Any hesitation that he’d harbored before, whether from fear or from uncertainty of his position or companions here, that hesitation was no more. This was about his own survival, about the purity and strength of his very soul. He had reason to survive, no, to live. What he’d been doing these last months barely resembled living.

No, he refused to be a victim to a bloodmagic-damned demon for the rest of his days! He was very motivated and by the end of his discussion, Alrik seemed to have caught his spark as well. If the older templar had any suspicions about Cullen’s sympathies, by the time the meeting was over there were no doubts left about the lad’s fervor for the project.

He was granted permission to split his hundred men into ten squads and begin a concentrated hunt for unsanctioned magic. He created a number of grid-search patterned routes and issued each squad a specific patrol area.

The orders that Rutherford gave to his knights were to put pressure wherever and on whoever they could to provoke a reaction. If a mage let themselves be provoked, then they would be dealt with accordingly. He reasoned that a bloodmage would not hold back if provoked properly and eventually they would deliver Tarohne to him tied up like a present. He gave explicit orders that capture and recovery was his primary intention and that they must bring the mages in for information gathering if they possibly could.

Yes, he was aware that some more innocent mages would likely be caught up in the pattern, but that was a risk that he was prepared to take, for now. A truly innocent mage would not allow themselves to be provoked. They should know better. Certainly any circle mages would. At least, that was how he reasoned it out as he put together his plans. Like chess pieces on a board, and he was very good at chess. He’d been playing it since he could understand what the pieces meant. Once you knew how each piece moved, once you understood each piece’s motivation, it was just a matter of either placing them or enticing them to place themselves where you wanted them to go.

You are really serious about this. You think you’ll be rid of me so easily, do you?

‘Deadly serious. Do you think I wouldn’t be? After everything I’ve endured? You’ve failed to break me thus far and I’ll not give you the satisfaction any further.’

So sure of yourself, little templar. Fractured little whelp. Do you really think you can stand against me? I have existed since before humanity, since before time immemorial.

‘Just watch me.’

We could come to an accord.

‘I’ll not seek any accord with a demon. Never. I’ll see us both burned into the afterlife first.’

Do not be so certain, hasty little human. Imagine the power I could grant you, the forces we could wield together. You have no idea how your borrowed powers affect the Fade already. So much potential…wasted.

‘Never.’

~ * ~

Rutherford couldn’t afford to show weakness. He couldn’t let himself falter or fall. He had seen what happened to every single other templar in Kinloch Hold. He had survived despite everything that they did to him then. Apparently he’d survived Uldred’s attempt to force his possession as well. Somehow. Now that he was aware, he was on his own. He had held out this long, he wouldn’t give in now. This also meant that he had to keep up appearances for his fellow templars and his lieutenant. No one could know what his true motivation was. His priorities certainly were now very much…not in opposition…but not inline with those of the Order any more. He felt selfish, but he would not compromise. He could not.

The grip on Kirkwall that the Templar Order maintained tightened over the next weeks and months. There was heightened insecurity and uncertainty among the circle mages who could sense the underlying tension as more and more magically inclined individuals arrived in various states of health, brought in by indelicate templar hunters. Cullen tried to make sure he was the first to interview each new mage. It was during one of these interviews that he had an epiphany. Well…rather…his passenger…saw fit to enlighten him to one.

One apostate was brought in after a grueling battle that injured five knights, killed one knight, and killed four non-combatants. Cullen was waiting with baited breath. This was the first undisputed, confirmed blood mage they had been able to take alive. He arrived at the cells as swiftly as he could, before anyone else could be called for. There were three veteran knights overseeing as they secured the mage. Corporal Cullen entered the cell to triple check that all safeguards were securely in place.

It was a man, in fact it was a Tevinter slaver, no less. Cullen had never spoken to a Tevinter before, the man’s accent was new to him. He was dark of skin, hair, eyes, with a tiny immaculately groomed beard, and he held himself stiff and haughty in his seat. There were four templar guards in the room, one was holding a concentrated Silence on the mage. The Tevinter himself looked as if he might have been bled a bit more than he would have wished once the knights had control of him. Rutherford, eyes always on the apostate, held out a hand to one of the guards. “Give me an elfroot and a draught of lyrium.”

The guard did not hesitate to draw two bottles from his belt satchel and hand them over. They all watched intently as Cullen tucked the lyrium into his own belt and then strode to the mage with the red. The Tevinter was bound so tightly that he could barely even wiggle in the chair. His hands were folded into hard mitts that were enchanted to block magic and his mouth was gagged. All of these precautions wouldn’t completely stop blood magic, but there was the hope that the man was too injured or tired or low on blood to call on it. He set the red bottle in the center of the table in front of the mage and then he reached over and yanked the gag off roughly. All the templars in the room tensed.

“Will you answer my questions willingly?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, it was so hard.

Ooooh… Look at you, so serious, so focussed. It is so quiet in here now. I don’t think I have seen this side of you yet. The approval in the voice sent a shiver down his spine. I like this side of you. I can work with this… Cullen didn’t want to know what that meant, he concentrated on the apostate instead.

The Tevinter worked his jaw and mouth for a moment and then scoffed. “You southern barbarian templars need to have some manners ins-” The meaty, wet crunch of Rutherford’s gauntleted fist smashing into the Tevinter’s face could be heard all the way down the hall.

“Will you answer my questions willingly?” His voice did not lose any of its edge.

The apostate took a few seconds to recover from the punch. He spit blood out over the table before him. “The Tevinter Imperium bows to no-” This time blood spattered the wall and Cullen’s arm and chestplate and drew a slightly shrill noise from the mage.

“Will you answer my questions willingly?”

“What questions?! You’ve asked no questions! Ask me your questions, damn you!” The Tevinter snarled and spit again. The man, for all of his resistance, didn’t seem to be used to pain. At least not this kind of pain.

You haven’t really looked at him yet. You should really look at him. See him. See what I see.

That drew Cullen up short. He tilted his head and regarded the Tevinter. To everyone else in the room it probably seemed like he was considering his questions or just pausing to make the man sweat. He drew on his templar senses and he looked. He could see the aura of magic capacity around the man, magic he’d used recently, magic that was resting inside him, hidden away from the Silence that held it at bay. Magic he didn’t have the ability to control right now. It was like a ghost of the glow that lyrium gives off, barely there. It had a shadow to it, like a sickly haze beneath it. It was a heavy, rusty, coppery miasma that tasted almost like coagulated blood to his templar senses. Blood magic. That was new to him. He had never before been able to see… His eyes widened slightly and he stopped trying to look instantly. He couldn’t let the demon manipulate him like this.

It was not I. I merely showed you that you could. Nothing more. You are not tainted yet. Not by me, at least.

‘I’ve never been able to do that before, how could it not be your influence?’ Cullen growled back.

Perhaps it is…easier…because you have been rooted to the Fade.

“Will you ask your cursed doglord questions or not? Your silence tells me that you would rather beat me instead!”

Rutherford moved around the table, dragging a chair noisily into place and he sat across from the Tevinter mage and glowered at him. “What are you doing in Kirkwall?”

“I am conducting business with a number of perfectly legitimate agencies, all of which is my business and not yours.”

“Who invited you here?” These were cursory questions, uninteresting and pointless, but they would establish a baseline to continue from. At least, that was how normal interviews went.

“My contacts are none of your business. They wouldn’t appreciate my indiscretion and really, you are just templars. You have no authority over me. Your job is to caretake for your little southern mages. Release me now. I am a respected member of the Minrathous Circle of Magi and when the Imperial Divine hears-”

“We do not acknowledge the authority of the Black Divine here. Try again.” Cullen rested his chin on his non-bloody fist thoughtfully, as if bored by the exchange.

You should look again.

Should he? What could it hurt… He focussed once more, unsure what it was he ought to look for specifically. He looked. He saw what he’d seen before, the faint auras, the haze… He felt a nudge that he had not expected and it startled him. He almost stopped and he had no idea that for just an instant an ethereal flicker flashed in his eyes, but then he saw. There was the faintest miasma of that sickly rust, almost like a mist it floated out into the room. It seemed to radiate from the fresh blood that had been spattered about.

The Tevinter spoke again, his tone was even and almost cordial. “You should show more respect to your betters. You should release me before this all comes to light. I can be understanding about everything. All can be forgiven. You need only come over here and-”

Then Cullen felt it. It was a sensation that he knew intimately. This sensation had carded through his veins so many times when Uldred had used him to power his bloody rituals and demonic experiments. Suddenly his head jerked around and he saw the miasma floating around all the templars in the room and more than one of them had an absent expression forming on their faces.

He lurched out of his chair, it flew back and hit one of the templars behind him with a clatter of wood against armor. Rutherford vaulted over the table, smashing his considerable weight down onto the Tevinter. The chair beneath him smashed into splinters and the mage screamed as he was simultaneously impaled on countless shards of wood and Cullin’s armored fists turned the rest of him into pulp. Cullin was growling the entire time.

When he finally stopped he was panting heavily and there were large heavy rivulets of dark scarlet dripping from his gauntlets and vambraces and red was smeared all across the templar emblem on his chest. He felt good, right, he felt…satisfaction. Maker above, where did that feeling originate from? Was it from him or from… His blood suddenly ran cold.

The other knights in the room all looked at one another with huge eyes and gaping mouths. One of them, the one that had been hit with Cullen’s chair, stepped forward. “I… I’m sorry, corporal. I… We…we didn’t realize… How was he able to do that? He had been made safe, we were careful… The Silence was in place…” The knight sounded unnerved.

Rutherford straightened and stepped away from what remained of the man. He wanted a towel desperately. He wanted the foul stuff off of him. “There is no way to make a blood mage completely safe. Not without a Brand. It is different from normal magic. It is…insidious.” He responded darkly. “It was not your fault.”

He turned back to the mess and examined it as if from a far off distance. Had he just beaten a man to death? Had he done it on his own? Had he been in a panic to stop the mind control from settling in? Or did he have…help? He really didn’t know the answer and his demon was being quiet now. He was not going to talk to it to find out. He did not feel like he had been out of control, he had felt focused…zeroed in…like an arrow. The sensation was already fading, hard to grasp at. His stomach felt sick. He went back to the mage to check for pulse and breath. It was extremely faint, but it was still there. But the Tevinter was too dangerous.

“Call for the Brand. We'll do it here. If he survives long enough for it I’ll see what can still be salvaged from him afterwards. Let this be a lesson to you all. Blood mages require vigilance and caution at all times. You cannot take chances with them. It will be your last.”

One of the knights hurried out and the rest of them stood in the silent chamber and just stared at the ruined, bloodied mage as if waiting for him to rise up and attack. It wasn’t long before a host of armored boots could be heard in the hallway. Alrik entered the cell, followed by a number of his knights who carried the Rite of Tranquility equipment. The knights moved automatically to set up the Rite. Alrik approached Rutherford and raised his eyebrows at the honestly shocking amount blood that covered the corporal.

For his own part, Rutherford felt no embarrassment for his present state and no remorse either. If he hadn’t acted, the Tevinter would have set them to murdering one another and escaped, causing untold death and destruction as he fled. “He will not cooperate. He knows how to Dominate and attempted to do so. He is too dangerous.”

Alrik held his gaze for a moment and nodded with a small smile. “So it shall be done.” He turned to the Rite and took the brand in hand. Cullen watched. He had seen it before but only once. He knew the words, the litany to be chanted, the preparations that it all entailed. He watched impassively as the rite proceeded and then there was a flash that blinded the room for just an instant as the lyrium brand was pressed into place upon the mages forehead, severing him from the Fade and his magic and his emotions forever. He might have had the thought that it severed him from his humanity as well, but this piece of trash had no humanity to speak of already. Alrik took a moment to study his handiwork, the sunburst brand had been placed exactly, then the old lieutenant trailed thick fingers down to the Tevinter's richly embroidered collar where an intricately jeweled dragon brooch was pinned.

Rutherford picked up the elfroot potion from the table and opened it, moving to the side as he waited For Alrik to step away. He tracked Alrik's hand as he pocketed the tiny item and stepped back. Rutherford looked at Alrik for a few seconds, but said nothing about it. Now he knew why the lieutenant's room was so cluttered, it was a museum of Tranquility, a trophy room. Turning away he then stepped to the tranquil’s side and tipped his head back, taking great care as he dribbled the potion past his lips. He did this just a trickle at a time, waiting for the man to automatically swallow before giving more. While he did this, he realized that everything he had been able to see on the man, the glow, the miasma, it had all vanished as if it had never been. Minutes passed before it seemed he had been healed enough that he would not die from the wounds and the branding. He ordered one of the knights to summon a healer to tend to the man. When Alrik sent him a curious, questioning look and Cullen shook his head decisively. “I’ll not question a tranquil in this state. It does not matter what he once may have been. It would be pointlessly cruel now.”

There was surprise on Alrik’s face for just an instant, but it quickly faded and the older man just nodded in respectful acceptance. Rutherford left then, headed straight for the bathing chamber to wash away this entirely uncomfortable experience.

Well that was very interesting to see. Very enlightening indeed. You fleshy creatures do so many interesting things.

~ * ~

When ‘innocent’ apostates were captured and brought in, he did what he could to try to ease their entry into the circle when he had the opportunity to. He even occasionally tried to place himself as a buffer between them and the Brand when they were especially undeserving of the punishment, but he wasn’t always successful. It really depended on who held the Brand at any given time. He had found that it was nigh impossible to turn Alrik aside when he had chosen a mage to make Tranquil and he knew that he couldn’t risk drawing the man’s suspicion onto himself, so he shouldered the guilt when he laid eyes on an innocent tranquil mage and bore it as best he could. He told himself there was nothing he could do about it. He was only a corporal, he had no power beyond what he was granted by his lieutenant.

The thing he did have was the respect, faith, and loyalty of his knights, because when Cullen Rutherford put his mind to something it was accomplished swiftly, cleanly, and it was done right. Not to mention the fact that he was gaining a bit of a reputation for putting down dangerous mages. No one had said it to his face yet, but he’d heard talk of Knight Corporal Culling. He HATED the play on his name. Outside of true battle, while protecting himself or others, he had never murdered an ‘innocent’ mage or anyone in cold blood. It was for these reasons, his templars might whine or balk or complain and they might not like him personally or want to hang out and have drinks with him like with Samson, but he was a damn good corporal and they all knew it. He used that for as far as it would get him.

It was a struggle, but one that he was equipped for. Not only did he keep himself in Alrik’s good graces, but his steadfastness earned him three more meetings with his knight-commander as well. Each time that he met Meredith face to face was a blessing and a curse because he really really really liked the woman.

She was strong and stalwart and she seemed like such an indomitable and fearless pillar, at the same time she was a reasonable curator who knew what the Order stood for and upheld its tenants to the best of her vast capabilities. He wanted to believe in her so very very much that he decided that he must. She had given him no concrete reason to doubt her, in fact…if he was honest…she seemed to embody everything that he’d ever loved about becoming a Templar. The only reason for any of his hesitation toward his commanding officers was all the secrecy, which as far as he could really tell…that was Alrik’s doing. That and the growing Tranquility within the circle. She trusted Alrik unquestionably. Was that a mistake or was it very much on purpose? He didn’t know.

The fourth time that Meredith called him to her office was the day that the gift was placed upon his shoulders. She had called him a “Force Multiplier” and an asset to be put to a greater use. It was a great gift and at the same time a huge load and he knew that he was absolutely the wrong person to carry it. It was a foolish gift. But it was given to him and he would make the best use of it that he could.

Knight Captain.

Him, a Knight Captain. Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.

It was absolutely laughable. What could she have possibly been thinking? All the reasoning that he had worked through to prove that her intentions were in the right place and her logic was sound fell to pieces before this one decision.

What sane person looked at a twenty-one year old, battlesick, nightmare riddled, sleep deprived, irredeemably damaged, hot-tempered corporal and thought ‘That’s my next Knight Captain’?

No one did. No one who didn’t have very specific reasons for it. He was very good at chess and strategy. He could tell when someone was employing a very select strategy, even if he couldn’t see what that strategy was meant to accomplish. From his standpoint, it was very possible that she expected Cullen Rutherford to prove himself a younger version of her favorite templar, Otto Alrik.

Because on paper that was likely exactly what it looked like. Since he had taken over the project to eradicate wild magic in and around Kirkwall, the circle had increased inmates by thirty percent and templar recruitment had nearly doubled. Everyone saw Templars actively enforcing Order and were either understandably frightened into hiding or excited and enticed to help. Corporal Rutherford had proven that he could get results and he didn’t have to do it from the front, he rarely joined any of his hunts personally. He was busy elsewhere, following the paper trails, searching for signs of that one single bloodmage.

What might Knight-Captain Rutherford be capable of?

The position opened up so many new avenues to him. It gave him access to so many secrets.

It couldn’t bring back his only friend in The Gallows, though.

Apparently Samson had been caught carrying a letter from a mage in the circle to a citizen in Kirkwall. It was nothing. It wasn’t even in code or cipher or suspicious in any way. It was just a letter. From one lover missing another. It had been a tiny little favor for someone who had no other options and a desperate ache for connection. No one would ever accuse Samson of being a bleeding heart, but he had compassion which was something that very many templars lacked in The Gallows. He was gone and that mage had been made Tranquil before Cullen ever knew what had happened and there was certainly nothing he could do about it once it was done.

He spent one night alone in their shared room. He didn’t sleep at all that night, he couldn’t bring himself to try. He worked instead. The next day he was moved to the captain’s quarters. It all happened so fast that he was left with his head nearly spinning.

So much was happening all at the same time that he could hardly keep up.
First, a few templar recruits had started vanishing. They would disappear for days at a time and then turn up with suspicious excuses or no excuses at all, some were just gone. He was alarmed by it and many of the recruits seemed to be afraid, regretting joining the order, whispering among themselves, making up stories to try to explain what was happening within their ranks. These tales needed to be put to a stop.

Second, there was rumor of an apostate running a healing clinic in Darktown: Location Unconfirmed. He planned to look into that rumor himself. If it was a real healer, then it couldn’t be left to just any templar to round them up. Real healers were too rare and too valuable to risk harming or mistreating.

Third, a few veteran templars had been murdered and many of the older knights were demanding retribution and justice against the unknown assailants. Investigations needed to be conducted and the murderers brought to justice for the peace of mind of everyone.

Last, Kirkwall had been inundated with refugees fleeing the Blight for months, so that was an added layer of chaos stirring up the anthill and possibly the source of much of the violence that had escalated everywhere. Rumors said that the Blight was over and Ferelden had a new ruler, but that didn’t take care of all the people that had been displaced here.

He had his work cut out for him.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

The position of Knight Captain opened up an amazing number of doors for Cullen. More than he would have ever expected. Possibly more than it should have here in Kirkwall. He suddenly found other leaders within the area looking him up, requesting meetings, promoting friendships, seeking to secure agreements. From the Viscount to the Guard Captain to the blasted Carta leader. He realized very quickly that everyone that wanted to have Meredith’s ear suddenly saw him as her gatekeeper. He supposed that it made sense that would also be part of his job, right? He certainly saw her more often even if it was just because his room was down the hall from hers. All the distractions pulled him away from the things that he truly wanted to focus on. There was not enough time or lyrium to handle everything on his plate. The best thing about it all was that there was no longer anyone looking over his shoulder and questioning him every time he missed or sought a draught of the blue.

Not long into his new duties, Rutherford came to the conclusion that he needed a bit of guidance for how to handle certain…issues…that…well, that he was frankly not equipped for at all. Politics. He knew that there were countless political machinations occurring at any given time in Kirkwall and he honestly didn’t understand what his role or stance was supposed to be beyond the obvious stance of the Order. He had seen Meredith pass through the wing earlier, so he walked down the hall to the large double doors of her apartment and knocked.

He only faintly heard the knight-commander’s voice from beyond. “Do come in.”

Rutherford was a little uncertain at first, but then he straightened and strode into the quarters. They were clean and bright with great windows that showed the expanse of Hightown below and the sea beyond. Everything was orderly and neat and all in its place. Meredith seemed to appreciate a rich variety of golds and yellows, reds and burgundy in her decor. Meredith herself was without her armor, wearing her evening robe as she stood before the great window. She was painting the sunset skyline on a canvas. Cullen was taken aback.

“What is it, Otto? You know I prefer my evenings to myself.” She finally glanced back when she received no answer and she was also taken aback when she realized it was not Otto Alrik calling on her at this hour. She stared at him for another few seconds before her eyebrows rose with recognition. “Oh. …Rutherford, yes, Cullen. I apologize, I did not realize… I was not expecting you.” She blinked at him and then turned back to her painting, gazing out at the skyline again as the colors spread and darkened.

Cullen slowly approached, part of him feeling like he was witness to something that he should not be. “No, I apologize. I should have sent word…or a request… I just… I was hoping that you would counsel me on some things.”

“Of course. Come stand by me.” She again began dipping her brush in her various paints and bringing it to the canvas.

He stopped beside her. “You are…very good at that. I take it this is a well enjoyed pastime?”

There was a long moment of silence that stretched between them as the sky darkened beyond the window. “It was. I have always loved to paint since I was a little girl. Now… Well… Seeing as you are my new knight-captain, it is foolish to think you won’t know soon enough. It helps…with focus and memory. When I find I cannot remember someone’s name or position or when I cannot remember the day of the week I can do this and find my focus once more. Now it is merely another tool in my arsenal, but one that I do enjoy. But you have questions, what can I help you with?”

Cullen felt a tightness in his chest at her words, so matter of fact, sounding of inevitability or perhaps destiny. Even this remarkable woman was not immune to the malady of the templar order. It made him incredibly sorrowful to hear her speak of it. “I have had certain persons approach me this week requesting access to you. I know that you do not take many meetings outside of the Order… I just wanted to know what your wishes are regarding your privacy.”

“I do not take meetings with the various scions that strut around Kirkwall. Only Grand Cleric Elthina may call upon me without appointment. My Lieutenants handle all unscheduled public appearances unless my presence is necessary. Even then, those meetings are carefully curated to ensure that nothing undue may embarrass the Order or damage our standing here. You are aware of how delicate the state of things has always been in Kirkwall. It is like a tinderbox waiting for a spark.”

He thought about that for a long moment while Meredith continued to paint. Another glance around the room brought his attention to the sheer number of paintings that lined the walls, were even stacked out of the way in corners with cloths draped over them. The lieutenants controlled all access to the knight-commander. Part of him had known that, but now that the reason for that was clear…it brought other concerns to the forefront of his mind. “I am sure that the lieutenants have done an admirable job up until now. But you yourself appointed me knight-captain. They need not trouble themselves with that burden anymore. I can take that on.”

Meredith stared at the canvas thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes. You are right, of course. It is only proper that the responsibility should fall upon the knight-captain now that we have found a suitable candidate. I will see that they follow the appropriate chain of command now. I do still hold the final verdict on any decisions made within The Gallows, do not forget that.”

“Of course, knight-commander, I would try to never usurp your authority. I merely want to be sure that I am carrying out your will as you require of me.” He said it automatically, but it was no less true. Whatever suspicions he had about the lieutenants now, he did not intend to just take their place as gatekeeper or caretaker, but to do the job in which he had been placed. That likely meant that he had to be ready to put the lieutenants back into their proper place. For some of them he had a feeling that it had been far too long.

“Thank you for seeing me, knight-commander. I will leave you to your leisure. I wish you a pleasant evening.” He backed away and moved toward the doors.

“Good evening, Cullen. You may call me Meredith if you choose. Do be well. I am here if ever you have need of me.”

~ * ~

Knight Captain Cullen had an office all his own now and he sat there brooding over all the things that had begun to come clear to him. There was still so much more that he didn’t know, hadn’t been told, wasn’t privy to, but it was a start. Still, he was very troubled by it all. There was one thing that was weighing on his mind especially. He had to do something, but part of him was unsure if it was the right thing.

Raleigh Samson.

The man was proud and independent and a bit of a rebellious and obstinate rascal if all truth was told. He wouldn’t be very amenable to charity or pity. Was there anything that he could do for his ex-brother in arms? He couldn’t just send him lyrium draughts, the chantry gripped onto their stores tightly and it would be noticed if lyrium was regularly packed up and sent to an ex-templar. He couldn’t be seen supporting an oath breaker like that.

Templar knights didn’t really get paid all that well, since for the most part they were kept with room and board and lyrium inside or alongside the circles, but he had a bit saved up. It wasn’t like he entertained the sort of vices that many other young men his age did. He also would never just hand Raleigh money because he knew the man would go straight out and spend it all on smuggled lyrium and cheap booze. There was an idea starting to grow. Possibly something that would benefit himself as well as his friend. He had heard about a shop that catered to Fereldan refugees. It was probably worth a shot, but he had some preparations to make.

Sometime later Cullen made his way through Lowtown. He was dressed in plain clothes and only a nondescript sword hung on his hip. There was no chance that he would ever cross Kirkwall without at least one weapon on him even if he left his armor behind. That was just stupidity. It was late when he arrived at Lirene’s Fereldan Imports, but there were still quite a bit of people loitering outside. Most of them looked desperate and down on their luck. He had taken a good look at the surrounding buildings and the faces nearby, looking for anyone familiar or anything that would help him personally. At length, he went inside. It looked like an ordinary Lowtown shop and he moved to speak with the woman behind the goods table.

“I was hoping that I might speak to Lirene or possibly the proprietor of this shop.” He said softly, not trying to garner too much attention from the others in the room.

“Well, you’ve found her, both people. You sound Ferelden, if you’re seeking aid, leave your name with my girl. If you’ve money, take a look at our wares. If you've got coin to spare, we won’t turn it down.” She was brisk and straight to the point. She’d likely heard it all by now.

“I am Ferelden, miss, and I am looking to solve a particular need, but not one that I think you might be expecting. I have the coin if you’d be willing to hear me out.” He glanced around the room again. “Perhaps away from the shopfront.”

She looked surprised for a second, but then she waved her girl over to take her place and motioned for Cullen to follow her to a more secluded spot in a back room. “I’ll have you know that I do not treat with any illegal business.” She warned him sternly.

He knew that was most likely a lie, but he couldn’t blame her suspicion. It proved that she was a shrewd woman. “Miss, I assure you that there is nothing illegal about my business. I merely want confidentiality and I am willing to pay for it. I figured that if you accepted my coin here, that it may also go to a good cause.”

There was still suspicion around her, but she was willing to hear him out and said so. He smiled, encouraged. “You see, I just want to rent a room, but it needs to be discrete and autonomous with its own entrance. A place that won’t be bothered by anyone that doesn’t belong there, but also won’t seem strange if someone were to come and go at, say, odd hours.”

“You do know that The Rose is an above bore establishment, don’t you, sir? I don’t know what you take me for, but I am not-” Lirene’s tone now started to sound annoyed.

Cullen blushed brightly when he realized what the woman was implying and he stammered for just a second before he could lock down on his foolish reaction. “I…that is… No… No, it’s not anything like that. I promise you, really nothing like that. I’ve… I’ve a friend who…that is… He will stay and keep an eye on the place. I am the one that might come through at odd hours.”

Lirene eyed him with a frown for a moment and then her eyebrows rose. “Oh, I see. So you are worried about your good standing, then. You don’t want people seeing what you and your good ‘friend’ get up to in your personal time? Certainly no one here would judge, but I still don’t see why-”

It was plain to see that there would be no getting away from the woman’s initial assumption so Cullen didn’t bother to try to correct her any more. He just blushed all the way to the tops of his ears and reached for the purse at his waist. “I’m willing to pay Hightown rates if it will help. Like I said, I thought that you could put the coin to good use. I would be interested in a standing lease. I can even arrange to pay in advance.”

That shut Lirene up. He could see the sovereigns dancing in her eyes as she started thinking about just how much he was willing to “donate” to her little shop. “I suppose…that…arrangements could be made. I have been looking at the adjoining property…and there is space… You said that you can pay in advance?”

Cullen took his purse and placed it in her hand. “I can. I have one year’s worth of rent here. Hightown rate for a small living space. I bet it would go a long way toward acquiring the property you’re looking at.”

She stared with wide eyes at the purse that sat heavily in her palm, it was a very fat little purse. “Ah…when…when did you want it available?”

“As soon as it can be? Weeks end?” He was so glad that this had gone smoothly. He’d been afraid that she would actually laugh in his face, which is why he decided to sacrifice as much money as he was. It wasn’t like he was using it. Besides, now that he was knight-captain… His little stipend had grown quite a bit. What the hell was he supposed to use it on? It would only go right back into his savings.

“How do I contact you, sir?”

He shrugged and smiled at her. “Uh… You don’t have to. I’ll stop by again at weeks end. In a years time the two of us can decide if we wish to continue our arrangement, change it, or end it. Does that sound fair?”

“That sounds very fair. If I am to be your landlady, I think I should probably know your name.”

“You may call me Stanton, if you like. One other thing… My friend… If you happen to see him, he does not need to know about our agreement. Especially not how much I’ve just given you.”

“Your secret is safe with me, serah.” Now there was a bright grin on her face and she was already thinking about the future.

~ * ~

The stars over Kirkwall looked yellow through the haze that tended to lay over the Docks and they were not ideal lighting for picking through gutters, but there was nothing to be done about it tonight. Cullen had heard that Samson was around here somewhere and he was determined to find him. Eventually he did, but it was only because he heard him drunkenly singing an old sea shanty beneath the stairs where he had once sat and eaten a sandwich with the man while they watched the docks. That felt like such a long time ago now.

The cloud of stench around the ex-templar was absolutely rank. Samson was in a wretched state and Cullen couldn’t bring himself to actually get near him. He left the stairwell and returned about thirty minutes later with a large bucket of water and a duffel bag. He held his breath, crouched, and began to try to drag Samson’s rancid clothing off of him. Throughout this, Samson didn’t actually seem to be aware of his presence, though he did not stop talking or singing until Cullen had already divested him of his coat and his shirt. The man seemed to come aware of the struggle with his belt.

“Hey, hey!! Hands to yourself, mate! I ain’t into that…unless you can make it worth my while…” Samson slapped his hands away and Rutherford rolled his eyes.

“Like I would have any designs on you in this disgusting state. You’re positively putrid, Raleigh. You need a bath.”

“Roomie?” Samson’s bloodshot, baggy eyes squinted up at him. “Haven’t seen you in a fortnight. Did they toss you out on your arse too? Finally figured out you weren’t a total arse-head, ay?”

Cullen sighed and tried again for Samson’s belt. “Oh Raleigh, it’s been a bit longer than a fortnight. Come on. Help me out here. You’re deep in lyrium withdrawal and I know you’re in pain, but… Help me at least get you out of your own sick.”

Samson laughed hoarsely. “Hah! More the fool you, that’s not sick, that’s shit. I shat myself…I dunno when…been a lot on my plate, you know.” He did finally start to fumble stiff, swollen fingers at his waistband. He still wasn’t much help, but at least he wasn’t fighting.

Some drunken sailors stumbled past and whistled and hooted at them on the way, as if they thought there was something else happening under the staircase. They probably did. Cullen ignored it all and concentrated on getting his friend out of his soiled clothing. He pulled a rag from the duffel, dipped it into the pail of water and swirled it around until soapy suds floated in the water. Then he tipped the cold soapy water over Samson, saving some for later, and handed him the rag.

“Come on, scrub as well as you can. I’d rather not dump you into the sea, but I will do it if I have to.”

“It’d be a mercy so long as it’s my old pal sending me to the Maker’s side and not some street urchin robbing me for coin I don’t got.” Samson snarked at him, but he did his level best to try and clean himself.

They used some more rags and left them all in a pile while Cullin poured the rest of the soapy water over him to wash away whatever was left. Then clean clothing was pulled from the duffel and Samson was stuffed into them. Probably an hour and a half had passed since Cullin had found Raleigh and it was well past time to get going. Who knows if anyone had seen them other than drunks. Cullen didn’t think anyone would recognize them, but the less chance the better. He gathered the duffel and pulled Samson’s arm over his shoulder, walking him from the Docks up into Lowtown. For all that the older man liked to ramble and sing, he still seemed barely cognizant of what was happening. Half carrying him, Cullen got them into the tiny flat that he’d secured from Lirene with a sigh of relief and dropped Samson on a small single bed.

The little flat consisted of nothing more than two bedrooms and a modest sized storage closet. In the closet were two dummies, one was dressed in some nondescript medium armor that Cullen had acquired for himself. He’d also stocked the storeroom with some essentials like food, water, various potions, and some spare sets of clothing. In the corner of the first room was a stand with a washbasin and a table and two chairs. The second bedroom was set up much the same.

He looked down for a long time at Samson who was mumbling incoherently on the bed. The man was a wreck and rightly so. Cullen felt terrible seeing him in such a woeful state. He set the duffel down by the bed and took a number of bottles of potions from it, all of which he set on the table. He took a red and knelt down beside the cot, trying to tilt some of the liquid into Samson’s mouth. At first it was messy, but after some initial clumsiness Samson swallowed the rest down willingly and let out a sound of relief. After that, the ex-templar slept soundly and Cullen sat at the table with a pack of cards to wait.

~ * ~

“Huh. Well this is somethin’ I ain’t never expected.”

Cullen almost fell out of his chair at the unexpected voice. He hadn’t intended to doze off and he was glad that he hadn’t been under enough to dream. He rubbed at his heavy eyes.
“Oh? Yes? What is it that you never expected?” He asked with some slight amusement.

“My old buddy settin’ me up in a flop house. That’s what this is, ain’t it?” Samson was on his feet and he was moving very slowly and carefully, but it was obvious that he’d already explored the little flat before bothering to wake Cullen up. He already had a draught of lyrium in his hand. He’d been sipping at it like it was whiskey and the glass was half empty now.

Cullen frowned at him and straightened in his chair. “I’m not actually sure what a ‘flop house’ is, but that might be accurate. That’s my bedroom back there and it would be downright neighborly of you if you didn’t drink all the lyrium all at once. I’d appreciate it if you left me one or two bottles for emergencies in the storeroom.”

“Got it. Leave a bottle for emergencies. Yes sir, Captain sir.” He saluted sarcastically and Cullen sighed.

“Please don’t do that, Raleigh. I never asked for any of this.”

“Never said you did. You didn’t try and get me back on the inside either, though.” Despite the words, Samson didn’t actually sound like he was blaming him. It still made Cullen feel gloomy to hear him say that.

“I didn’t know. Really, I didn’t. The same day that I was promoted was the day you were already gone. I couldn’t change their minds. I’m here now, though. Does that count for anything?”

Samson was quiet for a moment, took another sip of lyrium, and then nodded and came over to sit at the table. He moved like a man who had been ill for a long time. “Yeah. Yeah, it counts for somethin’ alright. So…this room is for me, then? What about when they find out? You gonna move in with me? We gonna be roomies again?”

He shook his head. “No, they won’t find out. You’ll have this place to yourself for the most part. I’ll only come by when I drop off some ‘things’ and when I need to get out of that place.”

“That’s not templar armor in the storeroom, but it’s not my size.”

“...No…that’s mine.” This was where it got a bit awkward for Cullin.

“So… You moonlightin’ or somethin’?”

“I’ve…………been……looking for blood mages…” He finally answered very reluctantly, looking down at the cards on the table and pushing them around.

“And you can’t do that wearin’ templar armor?” Samson sounded doubtful.

“Not all by myself. Not in Darktown.”

“Aaah, I think I see now.” Samson gave a soft, raspy little laugh. “You’ve been going hunting on your lonesome. You didn’t even tell old Raleigh. What a shifty fellow you are.”

“I have to find her, Raleigh. You don’t understand.” Cullen started to try to figure out what to say, but Samson just waved the conversation away and sipped at his lyrium again.

“No, don’t get all defensive. I didn’t say nothin’ about it. I understand. If someone did something to fuck with my life as bad as her, I’d be after them too. I mean…I really hate Meredith. I hope she takes a long walk off a short pier. But I don’t exactly have it in me to try and take that on. Not anymore.”

Cullen sighed again and shook his head and then shrugged. “I don’t think Meredith did this to you. I think it was one of the lieutenants. I’m not sure which.”

“Yeah, well Meredith had the last say. It was her signature on my discharge.”

“I know.”

There was a long silence again when neither of them had anything else to say. They just looked at each other for a long while and eventually the silence became companionable again.

“Just don’t drink all the lyrium, okay?”

“I will try.”

~ * ~

There was one last thing on Cullen’s personal to-do list. At least one thing that was weighing heavy on his mind. He was in his quarters sitting at the desk by a window. It wasn’t as grand a view as Meredith’s was, it looked out toward the chantry towers. Not something he was all that thrilled to stare at.

Eventually he picked up a piece of parchment emblazoned with the seal of the Order. He began to write with careful, purposeful script. He addressed the letter to the Revered Mother of the Kirkwall Chantry cathedral and explained that The Gallows circle library was not properly staffed and, as the new knight captain, he was officially requesting two Tranquil be assigned to provide some much needed oversight. He named two candidates which he had personally deemed suitable for the task.

The names he wrote were Helisma Derington and Maddox(no surname).

Then the parchment was carefully folded, sealed with wax, and stamped with his new official office seal. Rutherford walked the letter personally to the office at the end of the hall where Meredith’s personal Tranquil clerk worked. He asked that the letter be delivered immediately, then he returned to his quarters and sat before his window again to watch the clouds over the towers change colors with the setting sun.

~ * ~

Sleep found him curled on the frozen stones of Kinloch tower as it always did. He had learned overtime that when he woke here, there was a chance, just a chance that if he pretended unconsciousness he might be left alone. If he stayed still enough, quiet enough, they might not see him.

He was not so lucky tonight.

The abomination came to him this time. He tried to ignore her. He tried to block her out. He attempted to let his mind fly away to somewhere safe, but there was nowhere safe for him. Never anywhere safe. She told him so over and over with words and claws, teeth and tongue.

There was only a matter of time before the screams could be drawn from his poor raw, thirsty, starving, withdrawal ravaged, dying body.

When consciousness dragged him from the nightmare cage, he thought for a moment that he was back in the room he shared with Raleigh. There was a soft unfamiliar song carrying through the dark…but it was being hummed not whistled.

Then he realized that long thin fingers were carding through his hair. That they had drawn him so gently from his sleep that his body hadn’t reacted in violence. There was the weight and warmth of a body on the bed behind him, but only the tips of those fingers touched him. He rolled just enough to look over his shoulder, ignoring the wet streaks that had crusted on his face during the night.

“…kni…knight commander?”

Meredith sat on the edge of his bed in a rich gold dressing gown that was securely tied at the waist and her hair was pulled back in a tidy braid for sleep. Beyond her, propped against the wall beside the nightstand and out of his reach, was her great sword still in its sheath. Her fingers only stilled for a second, then continued toying with his curls.

“I heard you all the way in my chambers. It was only prudent to check on you. I cannot have anyone or anything accosting my knight captain, certainly not thirty paces from my door.”

The mortification was complete and he covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry…forgive me for…interrupting your rest. I…it won’t happen aga-”

“I used to suffer nightmares. It’s a terrible thing for one’s mind to turn upon them when they are at their most vulnerable.” She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, brushing off his apology.

“It’s been this way since…since…” He swallowed audibly in the dark then closed his eyes and sat up, pulling the blanket up to cover his state of near undress; he'd slept in just his smalls this night.

Meredith smiled at him and her hand dropped down to toy with the bed sheets between them. “Dreams are tricky things for such as us. Mages can wander the dream realm with ease, they can choose whether to consort with the denizens of the Fade or ignore them completely. They have a measure of natural control that we lack. But there are techniques that even mundanes can employ to try to control their dreams.”

The more she spoke the more that he was amazed by her once again. This miraculous, intelligent, strong woman. There was so much knowledge and understanding sealed away within her. For it not to be there all the time…it was unfair and so tragic. His hands settled on the blanket in his lap. “Techniques? I haven’t…haven’t heard of any techniques like that.”

“Most people would not. They are very difficult to master, not everyone can. The secret is that they must be exercised to the point where they sink deeper than muscle memory, deeper than consciousness, all the way into reflex, into unconscious control. That kind of control can only be achieved with diligence and deep commitment. You must want it more than anything else. Then you can walk in your dreams without them controlling you, without fear or uncertainty.”

Cullen pursed his lips as he listened, nodding along with each point that she emphasized. “I will try anything. You don’t know how…how tired I am… I haven’t slept properly in so long. So long… Raleigh helped me however he could, but…”

Her long fingered hand reached over and rested lightly on the blanket over his knee. “I can teach you some of the techniques. We can do it right here, right now. You will have to work hard and it won’t happen overnight, but eventually if you are serious about learning, you will.”

“Please. Thank you, knight-commander…uh…Meredith.”

The rest of the predawn was spent that way with Meredith leading him through a dozen new meditations that he’d never learned in templar or chantry training. She had explained each and every detail as if she were a scholar as well as an instructor. She explained the reasons behind each intention and action. By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon Cullen had memorized every technique and he’d even written copious notes which he gathered and carefully placed in the drawer of his nightstand. He didn’t want to forget anything she had told him for fear that he’d never be able to hear it again.

Then it was time for him to go to work and for Meredith to return to her interrupted rest. She stood, tall and slim and strong in her golden gown, grasping her greatsword in a steady hand. She swung it up onto her shoulder as if it weighed absolutely nothing. A lifetime of practice and muscle memory. She wouldn’t need her mind to wield that weapon, but when her mind was beyond reach… Cullen knew that he would mourn that day.

But that was neither today nor tomorrow.

Commander Meredith returned to her rooms and Captain Rutherford dressed to start his day.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Everything seemed to take far too much time to deal with. He had so many more responsibilities now and as much as he wanted to stay busy and not have to have time to think or to brood or to wallow in less constructive musings, he wasn’t actually that happy to be run completely ragged. He knew that part of the load he carried now were things that the knight-commander would normally handle, but obviously that couldn’t be helped. He wondered how many of these problems and duties had been dropped on him by the lieutenants as well. He resigned to deal with some delegation sometime soon…or…maybe he needed a tranquil assistant like the one that attended to Meredith’s needs. Eventually he’d find some time to think about that. Later.

Finally Captain Rutherford was able to make a little time for some of his own priorities.

Like the Darktown clinic.

This time when he went on his excursion he merely walked out of The Gallows in plainclothes as if he were having a day off. He left before dawn so that he likely wouldn’t be noticed, taking advantage of the quiet hour just before shift change when even the most reliable templar could be caught nodding at his post. He knew exactly which exit to leave by and not be remembered. He made sure that he wore no templar insignia anywhere and then stopped at the little flat to pick up his ‘invisible mode’ armor. It worked. He was just another Ferelden refugee when he strapped on this outfit. Someone no one wanted to acknowledge, much less try to recognize. There was no sign of Samson in the flat.

It was still early when he made his way down into the bowels of Kirkwall. The sights and smells were, as always, delightful. He never enjoyed his excursions down here. It was always dangerous, especially for his hunt squads. There were far more enemies in Darktown than mere apostates. Even the city guard did not come down here, though that may have more to do with bribes and payoffs than anything else. Cullen had no such agreements keeping him out. Beyond that, it was just depressing seeing how the least fortunate in Kirkwall struggled day to day.

He wandered the dark tunnels, pausing here and there to lean against a wall and listen to whispered conversations, to sit in shadowed corners and watch other figures slink through, to pretend he belonged there. He took note of the symbols and sigils that were carved and painted and chalked onto walls and passages and hatches. Some of them he could read, some he couldn’t. He made sure to note every new marking for further research into their meanings once he got back to his office and the circle’s extensive library. He was hours into his search when his luck took a distinct downturn.

As muggings go, it was rather embarrassing. He held his own well enough. He wasn’t about to let himself be robbed and murdered by the dregs of Darktown. Still, there had been a large pack of them. The lack of his heavy armor was both a positive and negative in this case. The positive was that he could move faster and respond more lightly on his feet, great for keeping up with multiple enemies. The negative was that this lighter armor did not keep sharp blades out of his body nearly as well as his platemail would have. That was how he found himself slumped on a set of stairs, holding a quickly dampening wad of cloth tight against his side, trying to put enough pressure to stop the blood flow. There was a dark trail of droplets that led back to the scene of his attempted robbery and the attackers that he’d left to rot there.

I could have helped you back there. If you would have asked. Nicely.

Cullen rolled his eyes and ignored the voice. It had become a little easier now that he knew what its source and its motivation was. He tried to rarely responded to it. Now that he knew that it was always bating him, that it couldn’t actually do anything. It couldn’t make him do anything either. Not unless he got really mad, then it almost seemed like it could tap a bit into his anger, could try to influence him then when he was already at the edge of self control. It still seemed to be his choice though. The demon couldn’t force him.

Pushing himself to his feet, he strode slowly onwards, making his way to one of the exits. On the way a pair of Darktown orphans popped out of a side tunnel and eyed him. If he were any worse off they probably would have tried to take advantage, but they weren’t stupid if they had survived this long. He looked at the two boys consideringly and then motioned for them to come closer. “I’ll give you each a silver piece if you take me to the healer.” He knew he had them when their eyes took on an excited gleam.

“Make it three silvers each or you can bleed out right here.” The more shrewd of the boys retorted quickly.

“Done. Lead the way.”

~ * ~

The boys led him to a dead end tunnel that he would have sworn that he’d explored already. At first he thought that they were planning to turn on him once he’d lost enough blood to be easy prey, but as they got closer he realized that there was a set of lit lanterns that he had never seen before. How could he possibly not have noticed them? He stopped before the entrance and frowned at it, trying to focus on… He found his concentration just sliding away like water slipping off a waxed cloak. Oh that was sneaky. The entrance was warded. Very well warded. He fished out the coins and passed them to the boys and then stepped inside.

The room was bright with oil lamps and smelled of tallow and elfroot and embrium with just a hint of stuffy sickness underlying. Also he could smell lyrium somewhere nearby, probably hidden in that back room. There were cots lining the walls and a wash stand toward the back where a door in the back wall led into another room. All was quiet. Cullen was hesitant to break the silence. “Hello?”

“Just a moment…” A man’s voice called out from the back room and there was the sound of quick shuffling just out of sight. A few seconds later the man revealed himself, sweeping through the cloth drape that blocked the door. He was very tall and impossibly lean and his robe was shabby and threadbare. Cullen had to physically control his reaction when his gaze reached the man’s face, specifically the familiar long strawberry blond hair. Despite how the years had obviously been hard on the mage, serial escapist Anders was apparently alive and well. Had he really come all the way here to find his old flame? ……oh, this could be trouble.

“So, what seems to be the problem?”

Cullin blinked in confusion for a second, having forgotten all about his injury when he’d recognized the spirit healer. The powerful spirit healer. He could sense it easily at this close proximity and the man was making no attempt to hide it, had he always been this strong? Could he possibly be powerful enough to help Cullin with this…passenger problem? No, best not go there, stay focussed. He blamed his momentary hesitation on the blood loss. “Uh… I seem to have encountered a bit of bad luck.” He carefully loosened the straps around his torso and drew the bloodied rags out of the gap of his armor. There was a lot of blood and it hadn’t quite stopped oozing yet.

“There’s been a run of bad luck going around it seems.” Anders responded cheerfully and Cullen felt a tug of magic in the air as the mage used a cleansing spell on his hands and marched right over to push his armor aside for a look.

“Hopefully this run is over now.” The templar had to lock down on his immediate reflex to jerk away when he felt the flare of magic again so close to his skin. He stiffly reminded himself that this man was a healer and even at the old circle it was understood that Anders was only an annoying sort of trouble, not a dangerous sort.

“Oh? That’s encouraging news.” He couldn’t hold in the gasp and flinch when he felt searching fingers probe his wound. Anders smiled at him in apology. “Sorry, this will only take a moment. It looks worse than it is. You can sit for this if you want.”

His hand grasped firmly onto Anders’ wrist before he could cast anything else and held it tight while he took a breath and steadied himself. His heart felt like, if he had enough blood for it, it might try to beat its way out of his chest. “First……what do you expect for payment?”

The apostate had tensed when he was grabbed, but he didn’t try to fight. He just held still and looked right back at Cullen without fear or anger. Rather, he smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. My healing is free to anyone that needs it. If you wanted to make a donation for the sake of others, it would be accepted gratefully, but I expect nothing in return.”

The templar blinked a few times in surprise at that. “You can’t run a clinic on nothing.”

Anders laughed and then shrugged, still waiting patiently to be released. “Not well, no. But it runs as long as I have mana for it.”

“You aren’t afraid of the templars finding you?”

The mage rolled his eyes as if to say that templars couldn’t find their asses if they sat on them. “No, not really. They’ve come through before. I’ve never had a problem with them yet. Only those who have need can find the door. Like you. May I?”

Cullen knew what he said was true. There had been some squads through Darktown recently and they’d reported no sign of this clinic. “I guess I can have no objection to free healing.” He released Anders’ hand and moved to sit on one of the cots with a pained grunt.

The healer knelt down beside the cot and Cullen held his armor open so that Anders could see the wound and braced himself for the sensation of magic tugging at the lyrium in his bones. Suddenly there was a brilliant flash in the mage’s eyes and Anders pulled back abruptly, turning wary. “How…how long…since you left the Order?”

The captain stared at him, eyes widening. “......Why do you ask that?” Had he been caught? Did the apostate remember him? Had he given himself away?

“Because I can smell the lyrium on you. It’s not the normal strong stink like on a templar, but it’s still plain as the nose on your face. So? What’s your answer?”

“.....Huh.” That was the only response he could give for a moment. He’d never realized before that he smelled like lyrium. It was just such a prevalent scent around The Gallows and the circle. “I didn’t know that. I guess it makes sense. I can smell the lyrium in your back room.” He sighed and pondered how to answer. “There are a lot of hard up templars around here. If you have that much lyrium stored up, you likely see them from time to time. …I’m…a friend of Samson’s.” He knew that Samson was having a very hard time right now without his daily lyrium ration, even with what Cullen had left him in the ‘flop house.’ He wondered suddenly if Samson had come here for help.

It seemed that he made a good wager with his admission. Recognition showed on the healer’s face and the mage relaxed again and reached for the wound once more. This time Cullen barely had to control the flinch as magic washed over and through him, spreading out from the wound then for an instant from his head to his toes. More than he thought was needed. It took every ounce of control Cullen had to not Silence him right then and there. Then the sensation receded, but it left his teeth on edge. “What did you just do?” His voice may have been a bit hoarse.

The mage just shook his head and smiled at him again, a genuine smile like his first one. “I’m sorry, it’s just harder to get a read on templars or ex-templars. The lyrium in your body throws off my ability to scan you properly.

Cullen put on a smile in return, he was sure that it was far less sincere than the one Anders wore, but he gave it his best effort. “Oh? How’s that? What does it do exactly?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious. Maybe this could give him a hint or clue for what to do about…his demon.

Wait a moment. …did you just claim ownership? Over me? Our relationship is evolving. Baby steps, yes? It sounded very amused beneath the ever present grumble. Cullin blinked at the comment and then was struck by the question. When had he started thinking of it as his demon? Sweet blood of Andraste, he needed to deal with this! Soon!

“Well…if you’re really interested…” Anders’ tone said that he found that unlikely, but he was willing to entertain him until he got bored, however quickly that might be. He stood up and went to the wash station to rinse the blood from his fingers. He wet a ragged but clean towel and brought it back to hand to Cullen. “Lyrium creates…a sort of negative space. Say that magic is positive, equal and opposite to it. Actually…no…because lyrium is magic itself as well, but it’s not. There’s actually a ton of theories about what lyrium really is, but everyone agrees that it provides a link, a connection…amplification…sort of. But sometimes it does the opposite and cuts connections away or blocks them, like with templars. It really depends on what you’re using it for. It’s not really that clear cut, of course, but that’s just the easiest way to try to explain…um. I guess it’s not that easy. I really sound like an idiot that knows absolutely nothing about lyrium, don’t I?” He grinned at Cullen and showed surprise that he was still listening with apparent interest. Anders shrugged and continued talking, looking off into the distance as he ordered his thoughts on the topic and Cullen cleaned the blood off himself.

“So… Okay, baseline understanding. Lyrium is an ore that exists in both the physical plane and the Fade. You should know that from your training.” He started idly organizing his supplies while he talked, seemingly content with the company even though he believed Cullen to be an oath breaking ex-templar. “When a mage takes lyrium it strengthens our connection to the Fade and some is consumed while it aids us with refilling our mana wells faster, the rest returns to the Fade with the connection. That’s one of the reasons mages are encouraged not to over use it. Stronger connections make us more noticeable to spirits. When silly non-mages take lyrium, it soaks into your bones and tissues and creates a weird…sort of…blank space that is hard to navigate with magic. And then some of you figured out how to take that negative/blank space and slap mages with it so that it disrupts our connection and we can’t cast spells for a while.” At this point in the lecture it started to sound more like a rant and Cullen couldn’t help but smirk a little.

Anders frowned at him. “I see you smirking over there. You can just take that smirk and go Smite yourself with it.” The tone was not aggressive despite the words. Cullen couldn’t help but snort softly. “Anyway, it’s a weird thing that no one really talks about because templars get grouchy and suspicious when you start talking about their abilities and how they work. As far as I’ve ever seen, templars lose interest in learning anything new once they have Smite, Silence and Cleanse all learned. What else could they possibly need? It's not like they are trained to do anything constructive with it. How constructive can something be that will eventually drive one mad, anyway?”

Cullen ignored the jabs at his order in favor of the discussion. “So if I have all this lyrium stuck in me and it’s both here and in the Fade at the same time…does that mean that I am…connected…to the Fade?”

The mage’s brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Well…I mean…everybody has a connection to the Fade. Except Tranquil, of course.” His voice was caustic for a moment. “And Dwarves…and Qunari, I think. Lyrium just makes that connection stronger, but it doesn’t get used to help refill a mana well by non-mages. It just sits there. I mean, some gets used when you use your abilities, obviously templars can keep taking it and it doesn’t start overflowing out their eyes and ears or anything, but...really it just spreads out and sits there and does bad things over time.” He turned to regard Cullen seriously, lips pursed for a few seconds of thought. “Do you ever think about that? What the chantry did to you and how it will affect you as you get older?”

The templar sat there on the cot for a long moment, bloody rag in his hand forgotten, looking back at the apostate healer and thinking of how ironic this situation was. And this conversation. It was like a joke that was missing the punchline. “I think about it constantly.”

“Hmmm…” It was just a soft sound, it shouldn’t have meant anything by itself, but Cullen thought that it said a lot. The least of which was the feeling that the apostate was commiserating with him over the evils of the chantry or some such thing. It was oddly…not a bad feeling.

“But you said that it strengthens connections. And if connections to the Fade are…are problematic for mages… Could that say, cause nightmares in non-mages for instance? Maybe draw demons to non-mages?”

“I also said that it practically makes you invisible. At least the way templars employ it. Grey Wardens too, though that’s far less significant. Even if it did strengthen a connection, it wouldn’t make you more interesting to denizens of the Fade, most likely less.”

That derailed Cullen right out of his train of thought. “Did you say that Grey Wardens use lyrium? For what?”

Anders seemed derailed as well, but not as much as Cullen. His reaction was more like embarrassment for sharing something he wasn’t supposed to. “Did I say that? Oh, I suppose I did. Well, yes, they do, but it's only for their joining ceremony. I was given a choice, let Templars drag me away to the tower in chains or join the wardens. They wait until after you survive the joining to tell you that eventually you will go mad and run into the Deep Roads to either be killed or join the darkspawn you are supposed to fight. But at least the templars had to let me go.”

At this point Cullen was just staring at the mage with his lips parted, jaw gaping a bit. After a moment he clicked his mouth shut and let out a breathy sigh through his nose. So much for the idea that things would have beeen better if he’d chosen to go with Alistair and the wardens. “What is it with huge secret organizations luring you in by telling you how important your service is? Then dumping you into a meat grinder and making you push through until you are used up?” His tone might have been a bit disconsolate.

“What is it, indeed?” Anders agreed with him sagely, he made no attempt to curb his sarcasm whatsoever and Cullen could easily see why the man had annoyed the elders in the circle so badly. “So, I left the wardens and here I am in a sewer. More power to me, I suppose.”

The part of this conversation that felt really twisted was that Cullen realized that he seemed to share many of the same feelings with the apostate, but for his own order and himself. No, that wasn't correct. Anders was officially not an apostate, he was a grey warden. That meant he was officially and politically not Cullen’s problem…except…for Karl. That was both good and bad. It meant that Anders the healer had a measure of protection…at least politically, for good or ill. “So that’s it, is it? This lyrium in me, it’s just there forever? No matter what I do?”

“Well, there are ways to try and use it up. I don’t know, you could go around Smiting people until you can’t anymore, that’s a favorite pastime for some. Or you could offer your body to the chantry for experimentation, no, wait, did that already. Um…ooh, here’s a thought. Have you ever considered becoming a battery for a mage? I have no idea how one would go about making a connection like that, but the idea is intriguing. I wonder if anyone has ever posited any theories about it. I bet a templar Smote them good and proper right afterwards and the topic was never brought up again.”

Oh no, that made him think of Uldred and that was not a place that his mind needed to go at this exact moment. He shut down all of those thoughts and memories. Cullen was still just sitting there with the forgotten towel in his lap now. He remembered something else about serial escapist Anders. The man could talk. For hours. Cullen had only sat that post in solitary a couple times, but he remembered the never ending chatter while the mage sat bored in his cell. “So you’re saying I’m stuck with the lyrium forever and good luck to me. Yes, I suppose I’ve resigned myself to that.”

Anders snorted at that and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because you hate mages and magic so much that you would never even consider letting one experiment to try and help you, right?”

They stared at each other for a tense moment until Cullen just shrugged helplessly and put on that dry smile of his for whatever it was worth. “Pretty much. Yes. ...I never said I wasn’t a fool. Actually, I thought that was implied by my choice of profession.”

“Huh. Pretty much. Yes, alright. At least you’re honest about it.” There was that genuine smile again on the warden’s lips. “But you’ll accept healing from a mage and that’s alright.”

“You have no idea how hard it was to do that either.” Cullen admitted quietly.

“Ah, well, I’m so glad that you found it within yourself to allow me to stop you from bleeding out. That was downright gracious of you.” The eyeroll was so violent it looked like it should have hurt.

The knight-captain seemed to remember himself then and he looked around at the clinic. He let out a soft sigh. “I should be going.” He stood up and then took the coin purse from his hip. He held it out to the healer. “For the clinic. A donation.” He set the bag into Anders’ palm and then he caught his gaze with his own. He realized that he had come to a last minute, probably too hasty, decision. “It’s really not safe for you here. There’s a project being set in place. It’s called…” He took a deep breath and locked himself onto this path no matter how foolish he knew it to be. “It’s called The Tranquil Solution. You should move on.”

The shock on the mage’s face turned to a mixture of rage and horror. “I… I have a friend.”

He almost says more, but he’d already said enough. He’d said far too much. They stared at each other for another few seconds, then Cullen nodded his understanding. There was nothing to do about it. Anders would be coming for Karl. “I should go.”

Some new patients entered carrying a sick child with them, the new arrivals took the healer’s attention away from him and he was able to slip out without damning himself any further.

~ * ~

As Rutherford left the clinic, in the tunnel beyond he passed by a party that looked a little worse for wear, likely heading for the clinic. One dwarf, three humans, one of those was a strong looking woman wearing city guard armor. He could sense easily that one of them was an apostate. A relatively strong one. He took a quick look at each face, then turned his gaze down and away from them as they moved by. He could hear a few Ferelden accents as they conversed quietly. He thought that the woman leading them was definitely the mage, definitely Ferelden, a refugee trying to make her way just like the rest. He knew he’d see her again under different circumstances eventually, but now he had no intention of bothering any apostates in Darktown today.

Are you really so starved for a friendly ear that you spent half an hour in the sewers chatting with a wild maleficar about how terrible templars are? The amusement was clear. We could converse, if you like. I can remind you of all your faults as well. What else is there for me but to listen to you anyway?

‘He’s not a maleficar. No maleficar would waste their time healing Darktowners for free. And conversing with you always leaves me feeling worse afterwards, I’ll pass.’

It doesn’t have to be that way. The voice sounded odd for a moment, almost pensive…as if the demon were really giving the idea true consideration. Nurture me. Satisfy me. It is your physical world I crave. We need not be at odds. Give me these experiences and I will listen to your woes without venom or ire or scorn. Well…I will try. It is hard not to scorn your blindly groping fleshy ways.

Cullen just shook his head and refused to respond to the voice as he moved swiftly through to the nearest Darktown exit.

We could come to an accord that would benefit us both. You give me what I crave and I can grant you power, strength beyond what you know. You would never have fallen to those vermin with my power in your grasp. You will never have to submit to magic again.

‘I did not submit to anything! I chose discretion over comfort. Nothing more. I changed my mind when I realized who he was. That is all.’

You didn’t sense the Fade on him, did you? You were too busy being afraid of his magic.

‘I was not…!’ Cullen stopped himself from being bated into a pointless argument with the demon in his fucking head by gritting his teeth so hard that they creaked and his jaw muscles burned. ‘Of course I sensed the Fade on him.’

No, you didn’t. You sensed his magic and you stopped there. I could feel it. The last bit had a smug sound to it, as if the demon knew something he didn’t and was rather tickled by it. That was an interesting conversation you had with him. The mage has a point. You have no idea the vast potential of this enticing physicality you take for granted.

‘I’m not giving you my body. You might as well get past that right now. It. Will. Never. Happen.’

So you say.

~ * ~

Rutherford made his way back to the little flat and cleaned himself up, changed into new clothes. There was still no sign of Samson so Cullen just took some vials of blue from his pouch and put them on the table before leaving. Access to lyrium, while never that hard for knights, turned out to be so much easier as Captain, no questions were asked so long as it wasn’t an out of hand amount.

He returned to The Gallows then. Morning drills were finished, but it was still early when he arrived at the training grounds to check on how the new training regimens were progressing. He was back in his proper platemail and looking every inch the knight-captain that he was hoping to become. Fake it ‘til you’ve fooled everyone, as Samson would put it.

As he conducted his rounds, checking on captains and knights and recruits alike, he ended up in some conversations that he had hoped to avoid, like about the recent missing recruits. It was just another thing that he hadn’t quite made the time to really focus on. He was in the middle of discussing the merits of different punishments and whether they would help or hinder things when a recruit was already regretting trying to join the Order, when a young lady recruit spoke up. It wasn’t a conversation that she had any part of, but she seemed a precocious and brassy sort of lass. She’d have to be if she wanted to become a knight with all the grueling effort and training it entailed.

That was how Cullen found out that Wilmod had been seen just a short while ago and had, once again, left The Gallows! Had even gone intending to leave the city itself for, of all things! A walk to clear his head?! This really was out of hand and Rutherford needed some answers. He ordered miss Ruvena to keep her tales to herself and then he headed off to track down one of his wayward recruits.

Of all the places that he might have expected a wandering male recruit to take him, hiking up the cliff sides of the Wounded Coast was not one of them. This wasn’t anyplace he wanted to be alone…and especially not hiking around under the hot sun while wearing full-weight templar regalia. The worst thing about it was that the further Wilmod led him, the longer it took to get the young man in his sight, the worse the feeling became in his gut, the more thoughts of bloodmages began to press his ever present fears to the fore. When he did find Wilmod…in his little camp…hidden on the outskirts of the cliffs where slavers and smugglers and other ne'er-do-wells spent their time, the more he knew this was wrong. He was in no mood for games by then.

It was all too easy to catch Wilmod unaware in his camp. Rutherford strode in quietly, looking around. Obviously Wilmod had been here a while, as had some others. There were multiple packs and bedrolls and marks in the earth where still more had been taken away. “Tell me, Wilmod, what is a cobbler’s son doing camping in the wilderness when he should be training with his brethren for the Order?”

The sheer terror on Wilmod’s face told Cullen so much more than any words ever would have. Rutherford’s stance became tense and aggressive then and he drew himself up to tower over the boy with all the authority that he could possibly muster. “Who have you been spending time with, Wilmod?” The suspicion in him drove his voice down into a deep, angry growl.

“No one, sir! No one, I just come out here to think and be alone sometimes! Really!”

You haven’t looked at him. Do you really only look at magic users? More foolish fleshy thinking. There is so much you don’t see.

The voice caused a pit of ice to open up in his stomach. No, he didn’t try to use his templar senses on other templars, that would be useless. …wouldn’t it? Did he even dare to do it after what happened the last time the demon prompted him? Could he afford not to? If he hadn’t then, he might have been killed. He forced down his internal panic and made himself focus on the recruit. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious at all. Then he felt that nudge and he snarled internally at the demon. ‘Stop that!’ But then he did see something that he had a hard time putting a name to. It was like the echo of an echo, so very faint. He had no idea what it meant, but even as they stood there it was fading even more. Almost like a scent of incense, the smoke fluttering up and dispersing away after the charcoal was snuffed out. It wasn’t anything he could use, not really.

Hmmmm……frustrating fleshy mortals…perhaps it is hidden from you by the flesh…you are part flesh…perhaps lay your meaty hands upon him and see more clearly then. This flesh is so distracting, so irritatingly anchored to the corporeal...

Oh, Maker, why was he entertaining this? But all Wilmod was doing was cowering and denying any guilt while looking like the guiltiest man to have ever gotten away with a crime. He would have answers. So he lunged forward and grabbed the boy by his collar and dragged them face to face. “Andraste be my witness, Wilmod! I will have the truth from you!” That’s when he got the faintest, tiniest, most uncertain whiff of the lingering scent of desiccated earth and a metallic tang…of sulfur…of blood…it was the absolute faintest echo of what Cullen had easily gleaned from that Tevinter blood mage weeks ago. If there was any scent that he knew better than any other at this point in his life, it was the scent of blood. He didn’t think to question just how it was possible that he could smell such a faint trace of it.

“Mercy, sir, mercy!”

Rage bloomed up in Cullen as this ungrateful, unrepentant, sneaking little whelp dared to lie to his face and then beg for mercy! He dared to consort with blood mages while the emblem of the order sat proudly on his chest! “Were it that easy!” He hissed into the boy’s face and then his knee crashed into Wilmod’s guts and he threw him down. Part of him was sure that he’d gotten all the answers he would, that Wilmod obviously did not plan to talk, but no, he needed more. The boy had been here waiting, to meet someone or for orders or for a signal…for something! If Wilmod had been consorting then he might know where Tarohne was. That was the only thing that mattered. He had to know.

“I will know where you are going and I will know now!” He drew his sword and swung it down with all the threat that he didn’t need to fake. He didn’t want to hold back. He would prove to young Wilmod just how serious he was about this. There was a part of him just wanted to slide his blade into soft flesh and slice away all the false-

“Don’t you lay another hand on that boy!” An angry woman’s voice called out from down the path, distracting Cullen’s seething fury away from the recruit.

“This is Templar business, stranger!” Rutherford snapped back at the woman, only glancing her way at first, but his senses were still wide open and focused and for a second the apostate on the path practically blinded him with the magical capacity held at her fingertips and ready to strike him down. It distracted him completely away from the problem of Wilmod. It was enough that the boy was able to scramble away, but then a twisted cackle burst from the boy’s lips.

“You have struck me for the last time, you pathetic human! To me!” Cullen’s senses were blinded for the second time in a row and he had to cover his eyes as the recruit before him suddenly exploded with Fade energy and…transformed…just like…just like…like…

Just like the others at Kinloch Hold.

More than that, he summoned demons right from the Fade all around him! That shouldn’t have been possible! Not with a recruit. He wasn’t a mage, he wasn’t even a templar yet. He hadn’t even taken his oaths or his first draught of lyrium!

He could not believe his eyes and it was everything he could manage just to push back the tunnel vision threatening to take over his vision. “Maker preserve us…” This was not Kinloch. This was not Kinloch. It’s not Kinloch. Not Kinloch. Not Kinloch. Not Kinloch. Not… It… It was Kirkwall. This was the Wounded Coast and Kirkwall. There was no Uldred here. No. Not here. No, it was demons… …Just demons. He could handle demons. He could handle this… This was what he was trained for.

Cullen raised his sword and flung himself into battle.

When the fight was won and every demon and Wilmod had been sent back to the Fade and put down, Rutherford found himself facing the apostate and her friends. It was the same party that he’d seen in the sewers just that morning when he left the healer’s clinic. There was a guardswoman, a female apostate, a male dwarf, and a young man with a broadsword. But Cullen was so beside himself that he honestly paid them all very little mind right then. They had helped him fight, afterall. Unless they intended to turn around and kill him too…but they didn’t look like that was their intention. Not anymore at least. Whatever suspicions he still harbored for the mage…at the very least he knew for a Maker blessed fact that he hadn’t seen any hint of corruption in her magic throughout the fight. She was definitely not at the top of his priority list right now, just the same as earlier in Darktown.

Instead, he stalked back and forth in agitation as he tried to work through all the thoughts that were overwhelming him. “I knew, I knew that he was involved in something sinister! But this………is it even possible…?” He trailed off, coming to the realization that he might have actually been right all this time. That this had really followed him all the way from Kinloch. He’d never spoken his deepest fears here because even he knew they sounded like terrified ravings, certainly no one had listened to him at Kinloch.

“Do you think he was possessed?” The woman asked and he turned to her sharply. This was templar business, just as he’d admonished earlier. There was no way that he would ever air out templar problems to the masses, much less to some apostate… But… But… There was something here, some sort of opportunity. If he could just gather his thoughts well enough to decipher what it was.

He had to think fast, his mind whirled around the situation. He could see it, laid out like a chess board. Here was a very strong apostate, looked to be a mercenary, and apparently well equipped to battle demons and abominations. Not to mention her three equally dangerous partners. And Cullen was tired from the battle. He didn’t really want to push things in the direction that the Order would normally demand of him. Not all by himself here in the wilds. He’d just be another corpse on the ground and what would that serve? Other than maybe grant him some peace. Or maybe he’d spend his afterlife stuck in a Fade prison and tortured for all eternity. What a nice thought that was. Anyway, that was off topic.

Cullen had known that he would need to hire some outside help for a while now, ever since he’d realized that, as promising as his new position was, it was still very precarious. Especially if one or more lieutenants were to take offense at his efforts to truly be what the knight-captain should be. So… A mercenary group that had no affiliation to The Gallows…with an apostate that he could keep in reach for when he had the opportunity to take her in…boots on the ground with eyes and ears to spare…and maybe he would get knifed less often in Darktown… Would he regret this? There was always that possibility.

He sank down into a kneel a safe distance from the group while he caught his breath and rested from the bloody exertion they had just experienced. It also allowed him to concentrate on the tale that he was about to spin…because he had an idea slowly starting to take shape. “Normally we only worry that mages fall victim to possession. I have heard of blood mages or demons in solid form who could summon others into unwilling hosts.” He shook his head, he couldn’t believe that he was saying this outloud. “I had not thought one of our own would be susceptible.”

“You shouldn’t have been out here on your own with him.”

He managed to hold back a snort at her statement. She made it sound as if she didn’t believe him capable of holding his own…or was that genuine concern on her part? He didn’t know. He straightened up and faced her squarely so that he would be ready for whatever her reaction to his next words would be. “I am Knight Captain Cullen.” To her credit, the apostate didn’t even twitch, but he also hadn’t shown any open threat toward her yet either. “And I thank you for your assistance. I have been conducting an investigation of some of our recruits who have gone missing. Wilmod was the first to return. I had hoped to confront him quietly, out of sight.” As he said this he hoped that it wouldn’t come across as a lie. It was mostly true…but…he remembered the rage from earlier and some of the places that his thoughts had begun to roam before the battle commenced. A part of him wondered what might have happened if he had not been interrupted, but he pushed that question away. The end result would have been the same, Wilmod had been an abomination already. There was no question of that.

“If you didn’t know he was possessed, why draw your sword on a recruit?” The apostate sounded suspicious still, but she was not being accusatory. So far, so good.

Now, Cullen had to scramble a little bit with his explanation. “He’d only been back a short while when he left again secretly. It set off some warning bells.” All of this was close enough to the truth to soothe his conscience. “I meant to scare him into a confession. He had to believe my threats were genuine.” …Oh had they ever been genuine…

“The recruits believe that Meredith was conducting some sort of deadly ritual.”

That struck Cullen right between the eyes. First with incredulity. Meredith?? Deadly ritual?? The most Cullen had seen of Meredith recently was when she needed more colored paints and had gone to the quartermaster to requisition some. “What?! That’s preposterous. Recruits can be worse than a weaving circle with their rumors.” He rubbed at his temple, exasperated by the very idea. “There’s a vigil before templars take their oaths, but the gravest danger they face is falling asleep.” Also, what did this apostate know about recruits telling stories? Someone sent her here, didn’t they?

“Do you know what happened to Wilmod while he was gone?”

Cullen grimaced and glanced away. He didn’t want his eyes to give away his thoughts or his untruths or his fears. “Obviously more than I had anticipated.” He could very well imagine what had happened to the boy, but that was Kinloch, not Kirkwall. This place was a different beast. How to spin it…? This woman was definitely interested, she was obviously fact finding and had already been put on the scent of this by the recruits complaints. He didn’t know why she was concerned, but she was. What would lure a mercenary apostate? Perhaps the plight of mage sympathizers being preyed upon? “Wilmod has never been fully…convinced…by of the Order’s rules.” Here he looked the apostate in the eyes as he spoke. He kept his voice level and non accusatory, unthreatening, watching to see how she reacted. “Mages cannot be our friends. They must always be watched.” The woman kept her face impressively impassive. He honestly couldn’t tell if she had been circle trained or not. She was certainly not cowed by him at all.

This was where the real deception came into play. The chess board appeared in his mind's eye again as he began to place the pieces. “I thought Wilmod might be meeting with some old friends who had escaped the circle.” Completely untrue, but necessary to establish the parameters for the bounty he hoped would be born from this conversation.

“I’ve got friends who are mages. Are you saying they need to always be watched as well?” Ah, there was the pushback that he’d been waiting for.

“I was at the circle tower in Ferelden during the Blight. I saw first hand how templars’ trust and leniency can be rewarded. I still have nightmares…” He knew that rumors about the Kinloch had begun to travel around despite Greagoir’s efforts to cover the truth of it. His voice started out strong, but quickly trailed off. He was not going down that rabbit hole. Not here, not now. It wouldn’t help what he was trying to do, only hinder his clear thinking.

“I was trying to find another recruit, a friend of Wilmods. Do you know where Keran is?”

Aaaah, so that was it. This woman had been set on Keran’s trail by someone, his sister or his father maybe. He could work with that. He shook his head and put on a look of defeat. Maker bless him, this might actually be a windfall for him! Maybe this woman was sent by Andraste herself, he thought with dry sarcasm. “He also disappeared. They were last seen together at The Blooming Rose.” And that was absolutely the last place that Cullen ever wanted to go, investigation or not. So he hadn’t. He hadn’t gone there at all, he hadn’t even tried. Everything out of his mouth next was a complete lie and his conscience wasn’t hurt at all by it. “But I had no luck interrogating the…uh…young ladies there. I doubt they know anything of magic or demons.”

“I’ll speak with them. You never know what you can learn from pillow talk.” Cullen had never been so relieved to hear a woman make a racy comment in his presence before. He would do anything, within reason, to keep him from having to deal with any part of the Rose in person.

“The Order will surely be in your debt if you helped us with this.” He resolved here and now to pay the woman handsomely if this panned out for him. Possibly a moot point if he were to drag her off to the circle afterwards, but that was an issue for later. “No one at the brothel will speak with me for fear I will shut them down for serving our recruits.” That would never happen, of course. He couldn’t imagine how fast his knights would rebel if such a thing were to occur. “If you learn what manner of creature did this to Wilmod, please come tell me at The Gallows. I will ensure you are rewarded.” And he could revisit his decision to look the other way with this mage then and there…with backup if need be. “May I know your name? And that of your associates?”

Introductions were traded with no hesitation on the mage’s part, which was surprising but not terribly so after the way she had behaved thus far. They were Hawke, Carver, Aveline, and Varric. With a last look at the group, he took his leave of them and hurried back to The Gallows to submit his report…to…huh…to himself, he supposed. It was still strange, remembering that he was, Meredith notwithstanding, the prime authority figure reading all these damned reports. Maker, but he did not enjoy the paperwork part of this job!

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

It had to be past 12 bells in the evening at least. Knight-captain Rutherford had snuck himself to the kitchens for a midnight snack and was on his way to his quarters. He’d been too busy to eat the entire day and had missed dinner. He was dead tired by now, but the sight and sound of knights running through the halls woke him right up again.

He broke into a jingling, clanking jog alongside a pair of templars and demanded an explanation for the activity.

“There’s been an attack at the Chantry! Some apostates rioting, what else could it be? Right inside the chantry in the Maker’s sight!”

There was no further info to be had from these knights, so Cullen ran on along with them. When they arrived at the chantry, it appeared that the rebels had escaped already, but they had left plenty of devastation behind. He was shocked into a heavy silence and a horrible feeling started to rise up inside him. His stomach gave a queasy flip, but he forced himself forward. He was Knight Captain. This was his responsibility. These were his men. Dead. It was…different now.

Captain Rutherford slowed as he surveyed the awful scene. There were templars strewn all around like dolls. Death and destruction. Body parts. Blood. There was so much blood. It brought back to him what he’d said to the scalemail clad brother. Was the brother’s armor too shiny to pick through the bodies that now littered his cathedral? Or would he ever even know this happened within his safe little chantry world?

Cullen just walked among them all, his feet taking him to each body where he stopped and tried to memorize each knight’s vacant face. Some of them he knew. This was one of Alrik’s squads. At each face, each wound, each sign of violence, the rage rose and filled him a little more. A little bit more…

A trembling had started in him by the time he reached the final body. It was that of a mage. He stared down at the man in stained circle robes and finally his mind began to unfreeze again. The blood was still spreading from the mage’s body, that meant his heart had not stopped yet. He bent down suddenly, grasping the man’s shoulder and rolling him onto his back.

It was Karl.

Rutherford found himself staring with wide eyed horror into the mostly vacant eyes of Karl Thekla…with the Brand fresh on his forehead. The skin was still inflamed. It hadn’t even had time to heal yet. It had to be only hours old. Maybe even less. “......no… Why? Why would he do this? He’s a healer!”

Karl’s eyes tried to focus, but one of his pupils had already blown wide. “Be…cause…I…asked him to…” The tranquil’s features twisted with pain and confusion. “Why did I…? ...I…don’t…understand… …I…don’t…” Then Karl’s face slackened, what little flicker of life that still remained in his eyes darkened and went out.

Cullen stared down at the dead Tranquil. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Everything just seemed to stop, the world around him freezing in time. These were his knights. This was his mage. They were killed on his watch. For that long moment he felt nothing but the slamming of his heart and the seething, boiling dark sea within him. It was beginning to catch flame, turning from dark water to roiling magma.

He slowly rose to his feet. He slowly clenched his fists. The edges of his vision were blurring and darkening, tunneling. All the pressure in his chest made it feel like his heart was going to explode. “No!” His shout echoed back to him from the shadowed and cavernous ceiling, bouncing around the chantry hall.

He turned, taking in the scene again. The shiny, polished tiles beneath his feet flickered and for the barest moment they looked like gray gore splattered tower flagstones. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to maintain a grip on himself, on his surroundings. “No!” He was in the chantry. In Kirkwall.

He began to stalk back through the bodies again, looking at each one of them in turn again, and the other templar knights that were standing around without direction began to pull back from him.

”No!!” The faces of the dead were blurring, flickering. Those that he hadn’t recognized before now they began to look all too familiar. Their faces were morphing and melding with those that were long dead and gone already.

”No!!!” A buzzing began to fill his ears and beneath it was a sticky, wet, sound like maggots burrowing within decaying flesh. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but he forced them down. This wasn’t real.

”No!!!!” Growling filled his awareness, a deep, menacing, wrathful rumble that he couldn’t identify the source of. Or was it him? Yes, he had a definite suspicion that it was coming from him.

Turning again to stalk through the destruction once more he found himself face to face with Lieutenant Otto Alrik, just arriving on the scene as well. The sight of the man’s hard blue eyes and infuriatingly calm face made his vision flip and flush to red, as if the capillaries in his eyes had just burst into bloody clouds. ”NO!!!!!” He was shouting in the man’s face before he knew what he was doing.

Let me out. Release me now! I can do what you can’t. What you won’t. What you’re too afraid to. Let me unleash Wrath upon them all!

Rutherford jerked himself away from Alrik before he did something that he would regret and he stalked across the room, putting space between them. This could have been avoided! Things didn’t have to be this way! None of them needed to die! Not his men…not his mage… He’d proven himself an obedient, humble circle mage! He didn’t need to be Tranquil! He hadn’t done anything! There was no…no…need…for…this…

That tranquil…mage…no…he had a name…Karl…his name was Karl and he’d said… His last words in this world had been… ‘I asked him to kill me. Why did I do that? I don’t understand.’

Cullen didn’t understand either.

He should have killed Anders that morning. He should never have spoken to him. He should have killed him on sight. If he hadn’t told him… More of your silly fleshy foolery.

‘SHUT UP!!’

There is a viper in your midst, but it is the one smirking behind your back with diamonds for eyes. You would see if you did not blind yourself with soft sentiments. There is no softness in him. Let me have him and ease your guilt.

Cullen looked over his shoulder. Maker help him, he was tempted. He wanted…to…give over…to the violence seething inside him. Feeling as unstable as he did right now, there was zero chance of shutting out his demon”s voice.

Alrik had gathered his men around himself, they were giving their briefing. Some of the knights were looking his way with wide, uncertain eyes. Alrik must have known…he must have planned this. He’d intercepted some letter or contact between Anders and Karl. He knew the healer would come tonight. He put his men in place. He branded Karl just this evening and then placed him here as bait. He wouldn’t risk Karl escaping with the healer. It was Cullen’s fault that it had happened so soon, but it was Alrik that held the Brand and set the trap, waiting like a spider.

He turned away again, placing his hand over his mouth as his mind raced. This was his fault. He had been so caught up with trying to locate that Maker-forsaken bloodmage that he had allowed this to happen. He’d allowed it all to get out of hand. No, he had made it happen. He’d given Alrik everything he needed to accomplish this. It was thanks to all his efforts this past year. This was absolutely unquestionably his fault. Cullen might as well have killed everyone here with his own sword. He worked to try to get his breathing under control, to try and slow it down. Raleigh wasn’t here to pry his hands out of his hair this time so he forcefully kept them down flexing at his sides.

He could feel it when Alrik came to stand with him. His senses seemed to be humming with the maelstrom of lava heating his insides, he could feel everything, he could smell the blood, he could taste it. There was sweat on his temples and sliding down his back beneath his armor. “When did you know this was happening?” He demanded of the older man.

The smooth fatherly voice answered easily. The same voice that he always employed with Rutherford. “Earlier this afternoon. Notes came to light being passed between the mage and one of the servants. That note originated with a rogue known to have connections to the Underground. We intercepted them, then let them go and planned this operation. I had thought that two squads would be more than enough to handle it. It seems that these smugglers were of a higher caliber than I foresaw.”

“Do you know who did this?” His voice sounded too dark, there was a rasp in it that wasn’t from his earlier shouting.

“Not yet. But we will. It is only a matter of time.” Alrik sounded so sure of himself, so composed, as if he were not standing in the middle of a blood bath. His own men. Was he unmoved at all? Cullen flinched and almost struck back when a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy. We will find those that did this and we will have retribution.”

A heavy, long, low growl eased out of him, almost a sigh as he forced at least a portion of the rage he felt to be expelled with the breath like steam escaping a boiling kettle. He had to release some of this tension or he might break some ribs. Maybe not even just his own. He shrugged out from under the older man’s hand and stepped away. “I want to be informed on all future operations like this. I want to be involved. This can’t happen again. If I am to be responsibl-”

Alrik interrupted him and he looked over at the man sharply, furious animosity rising in his expression for just an instant before he could shutter it away. “I claim all responsibility for what occurred here. It was my call, my men, my plan. These things cannot always be avoided.”

“I am Knight Captain!” Rutherford snapped sharply, then he took a calculated breath and his voice dropped another octave and took on a dangerous edge. “If I am to be responsible I will be informed!”

The lieutenant was quiet for a few seconds and Cullen waited him out, refusing to look at the man. He refused to allow that fatherly, encouraging gaze to undermine the tension holding him on what felt like a razor edge. Because there was ‘a viper in your midst’. The words kept repeating, echoing all through him. A viper. What did it mean when a demon called you a viper? What did that make him?

That makes you Knight Captain of the vipers, of course.

‘SHUT UP!!’

“I want to see all the Lieutenants tomorrow. Whether they are involved in the special details or not. I want an all hands conference. Then afterwards, we will discuss all the special detail projects with whoever is involved.”

“Rutherford…lad… I know that this situation is upsetting, but there is a reason that the knights involved in these projects have been kept separate from one another. If one of them were captured and interrogated by-”

He had no patience for this. “Then I will meet with each of them alone! But I will speak with every single one of them! I am culpable and I will be involved. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

Again the silence stretched out between them. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear. I will make the arrangements and inform everyone.” Alrik’s voice was stiff.

“And where is the Grand Cleric? Has no one seen fit to inform her yet?” Rutherford didn’t wait for anyone to answer, he just turned on his heel and speared one of the templars in the room with a pointed finger. “You! Wake up the Grand Cleric and inform her of the…state of her chantry. This must be cleaned before parishioners arrive for morning prayer.” He pinned another templar with his attention. “You! Stand post at the entrance. This cathedral is sealed until the Grand Cleric sees fit to have it opened again. The rest of you, form a squad and come with me to sweep the perimeter. If there are any tracks to be found, we will find them!”

With that, he turned his back on Alrik and swept out of the chantry with twenty angry knight-templars hot on his heels and raring to go. If that night and over the next week there was a marked decline in attacks and muggings all throughout hightown around The Gallows and the Chantry and more blood spatter than usual on the flagstones…well...no one complained about it.

~ * ~

Captain Rutherford didn’t go straight back to the Darktown clinic after the attack on the chantry. He knew that if he did, there was no telling what he would do. There was no telling what his demon might do. He was very aware that he had nearly lost himself in the cathedral in the midst of the stress and the flashbacks he had to fight off. He’d nearly found himself back in Kinloch…while he was awake. If anything could prove him insane, that would have been it. In fact, he didn’t sleep for two days after the chantry incident. He told himself he was too busy with damage control, but he also just didn’t bother to make time to sleep.

The magnitude of the incident, even if it was mostly political, meant that Meredith had to make an appearance. It was the first time he’d been involved with that sort of ordeal. Otto Alrik, of course, attempted to curate the affair as he was most likely used to doing. Rutherford only allowed it until he had a general idea of how they had gone about these appearances up until now. Then, to Alrik’s barely hidden irritation, he inserted himself in between the lieutenant and Commander Meredith and Grand Cleric Elthina. The look on Alrik’s face made Cullen feel almost like a playground bully, but he wasn’t about to back down on this.

He had grown up in the Chantry from age twelve, he knew how to speak and act properly and effectively with the clergy even despite his recent…waywardness. To be honest, Cullen couldn’t really tell whether Elthina was actually aware of Meredith’s mental degradation or if she was always so full of fatuous platitudes that used a lot of words to say nothing at all and give no direction or purpose. Elthina seemed convinced that all would work out in the end regardless of their actions or interference. Why couldn’t it be this woman suffering from lyrium addling? That would be no tragedy at all. Despite everything, Meredith was a picture of decorum and authority. She stood tall and composed and intelligent, speaking clearly and succinctly. She assured the Grand Cleric that all would be done to bring these murderers and rebels to heel and restore the sanctity of the cathedral. There was no question that this would not be allowed to stand. It was obvious to Cullen that Meredith held the grand cleric in very high esteem, the way they spoke with one another.

Through it all, Cullen felt like a duplicitous wretch. There was so much that he had answers to, so many questions for which he just held his tongue. He knew who had orchestrated the attack and how it had been preempted…and the failure thereof. The only thing he didn’t know was who else was involved, but he knew where to find out. He just had to bide his time a little longer and let his volatile temper settle back into his control. Then he would get his answers. He did make a point to ask the Grand Cleric about contacting the families of the dead, about restitution and ensuring that they were taken care of. She assured him that the Chantry would handle all of those details, but he knew what that entailed. Some blasted, detached heartless letter full of scripture and a year’s wages payout. It didn’t feel like enough, it certainly didn’t feel genuine.

At length, Meredith was able to return to The Gallows and Rutherford was able to get back to his own work. Or that had been his intention until Lieutenant Alrik saw fit to step into his office for an impromptu meeting. The lieutenant was obviously perturbed. “I think perhaps that we should talk, lad. These last days have not been easy on anyone.” It was easy to see that Alrik had come here expecting to calmly sooth his feathers and talk some sense into him.

Unfortunately for Alrik, Rutherford was not in any mood to be talked down to or placated into submission. Especially not in his own office! He had a list of dead templar names sitting in front of him and he was still very angry and it made this entire conversation so much easier. He stood up behind his report strewn desk and faced off with the older man, his stance was unmistakably intractable. “Yes, I suppose we do have to talk. Somehow I came to the conclusion that, as this is my office and I now live in the knight-captain apartment, that I’d been appointed knight-captain of the fucking Kirkwall Circle! Have I been mistaken the last month? Am I not the knight-captain? Did all of the lieutenants not confer over the decision and then place the papers in Meredith’s hands to sign?”

Alrik looked irritated, but he drew himself up and nodded. “No, lad, you are not mistaken. But there are other-”

Rutherford did not give him the room to try and talk circles around him. “Did you not decide that I have the skills or potential for the job? Did you not actually want me to be an effective knight-captain? Perhaps you thought that I would not attempt to fulfill my duties to the best of my abilities. If that is so, then I must say that, yes, you chose the wrong man for the job. Because, as I am knight-captain along with all that that entails, I absolutely intend to do the job as it ought to be done and I will not be a marionette dancing on strings and pretending they don’t exist. If this is something that you didn’t foresee about me, then I can’t help but wonder just what did you think would happen when you pushed to put me here?” Honestly he didn’t know for sure that it was all Alrik, but he bet it had been mostly him.

Again there was an uncomfortable stillness between them. Rutherford broke the silence first, not out of weakness, but in an attempt to keep control of the conversation. “Have I interfered with any of your objectives? Have I upset any of the plans that are in process right now? Have I, in any way, disrupted anything that you or the others are doing? Do I not have my own affairs in process with all of my hunt squads prowling the city?”

Alrik had looked more and more disgruntled as he spoke before, but now the older man started to relax some and he seemed to finally resign himself to whatever his thoughts were. “No, lad. You haven’t disrupted or meddled, but I ask you to employ patience. There has not been a knight-captain in quite some time. Most of us are used to handling Order business ourselves. You needn’t take on more-”

Rutherford interrupted him again. He made a point of it because he was still irked over Otto doing it to him before. “No. I wear this regalia and I will act accordingly. I have no plans to interfere with you, Alrik. I expect to be given that much respect and autonomy in return. I would have thought that it would be a relief, what with Meredith’s…situation. Or has it been so long since you’ve had someone in this role that you can’t handle even the idea of my presence?”

“Of course not, boy!” That did it. He’d never heard Alrik raise his voice before, not even on the training field. Cullen shouted at the recruits all the time. Sometimes you just had to shout. Something about making Alrik crack like that just made Cullen so pleased even despite the older man calling him boy. It was an unquestionable victory, so he didn’t rise to the bait.

“Good. Then I fail to see what the issue is. If that is all…I have some things that I have put off attending to for this…this little fiasco of yours.” It was a flat out dismissal and the older templar knew it. He stood there for another ten seconds more in silence, then the man just turned heel and walked out of Cullin’s office. The knight-captain hoped that he hadn’t just made a grave mistake, but it felt so damn good that he didn’t really care.

~ * ~

The following day, Cullen finally managed to sleep at least a few hours. He had been employing the meditations that Meredith had taught him, he was desperate to master them and gain…whatever relief could possibly be had. So far, there was none, no difference. He couldn’t say that he was especially good at the meditations and vigils that he was already versed with, but he had always been doggedly stubborn and that had served him well enough. At least he had gotten a few hours of rest.

It was midday when word reached him that Keran had returned and was in the courtyard. He immediately went to investigate, dreading what might happen if another recruit fell prey to demonic influence and in the middle of The Gallows at that. He had been striding up to question Keran when a woman’s greeting made him stop short.

“I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

The apostate…Hawke…was there with her group, no, she had come with a different friend with her this time. Good Maker, there was a woman practically in her underwear! Did Hawke just pick up one of the prostitutes at the Rose and carry her away?? Cullen quickly scanned the familiar faces of Carver and Varric and then turned to Hawke. “What? What is it?”

“Good news, Keran is safe. Bad news, half of your recruits may have been possessed by demons.”

That made his heart slam hard against his ribs for a beat. “Sweet blood of Andraste.” How could the woman say such a thing and be so blase about it?! This was his very worst nightmare…well…no, maybe not. Maybe that was a poor choice of words. This was a catastrophe if it was true.

“Demons? Did you say something about the recruits and demons?” A girl just to the side of Keran, likely his sister, sounded very worried. She stepped closer to her brother looking for assurance. “I didn’t want to tell you, Marsha. They were horrible. Those mages see the rest of us as ants to be crushed.” Keran told her reluctantly.

Cullen turned and stared at the back of the boy as he spoke to his sister and tried to reassure her. The emotion in Keran’s voice was different from the conversation he’d had with Wilmod. The tremor in it was familiar. Maker, he didn’t want to, but he seized his templar focus and looked at the boy and…Andraste help them both, but he could see the same…something…no…it wasn’t the same…but…he didn’t know what to make of what he could see. It was like the glow or haze you might see around an enchanted item, something that magic had been applied to, but not the source itself. He could see that magic had been used on Keran, but not what or how or whether it was still…active. It didn’t seem to be. It seemed to be fading. What if he touched him? What excuse could he come up with to lay his hands on the boy like he had with Wilmod…? What was the good of this…sense…if it didn’t help him at all?!

I could grant you knowledge. I could share such secrets with you. You have such a hunger for discovering secrets. Such hunger to cultivate and advance and progress… I can assist.

‘I don’t need your help!’ Cullen snapped at the demon mentally.

“Not all mages are like that!”

Rutherford was yanked from his thoughts by that statement. He turned to Hawke, slightly exasperated. He was not mentally prepared for this sort of discussion right now! “True, not every mage gives in to temptation, but none are ever free of it.”

“Sister…not now…” It was a low toned half whisper from Carver to Hawke. Aah…siblings. It really would be a fight to take Hawke while she was with her group, then.

“At any time, any mage could become a monster, from the lowest apprentice to the most seasoned enchanters.” Rutherford’s mood was anything but conciliatory and his words showed it. He maintained eye contact with Hawke while he spoke, knowing that what he was about to say was volatile, but it was the unadulterated truth and he was the Knight Captain and this was a very public place with countless ears listening. It also proved him to be the worst sort of charlatan, having a demon of his own while he said these words. That didn’t mean he didn’t believe in what the chantry stood for, but perhaps if they were somewhere else…he might have phrased it differently. As much as no one wanted to hear it. The circles were made for mages, they were a regrettable necessity, a safety measure required incase of the worst possible contingency. Yes, they were practically prisons, yes they were harsh at times, and yes they could fall to corruption as he well knew that The Gallows had…but… “Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.” That last was directed at the mundanes around him, of course.

“Surely that’s a bit harsh…” Keran’s sister Matcha looked appalled by what he’d said, understandably so. It was harsh, but what was the alternative? There was a boy standing right here that had suffered…harshly.

“They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.” Why were so many people so willfully blind? They wouldn’t admit the obvious truth even to themselves.

“Mages are humans and elves just like the rest of us.” Hawke affirmed incredulously.

“Many might go their whole lives thinking that. But if even one in ten falls to the lure of blood magic, they could destroy this world.” Or at the very least…make this life not worth living. He did know that first hand. He turned to Keran, feeling heavy with the words he would have to say next. If Keran was… Maker’s arse, he was such a bloody fool hypocrite! “For now, Keran, unless it is proven you are free of demons, I must strip you of your commission immediately.”

“No, you can’t really think that! Keran’s fine. He’s safe.” Marsha rushed to her brother’s defense admirably, but what else could he do right here in the main courtyard with others looking on? “Please, sir. I tried to resist. I never took anything they offered. I need this position or my sister can’t eat. I’ve been training for five years!” Cullen felt for the young man. He couldn’t help but wonder what he would have done if Greagoir had said the same thing to him a year and a half ago. He was sure that he wouldn’t still be standing here, or anywhere. “Please, Knight Captain, I’ll prove I’m loyal. Ask me anything!”

“Keran did nothing wrong. You can’t strip his livelihood on the off-chance Tarohne succeeded.” It was Hawke, she sounded a bit perturbed even.

That name from the apostate’s lips stopped Cullen’s heart dead in his chest. He turned to look at her, he didn’t know what the look on his face might have been. He hoped it wasn’t as stark as he felt, as if the bottom had dropped right out of his stomach. They found Tarohne.

“We conducted tests on Keran. He’s not possessed. He can stay in the Order.” Hawke seemed determined to help the young man and that…that didn’t go over Cullin’s head. Why would this apostate care about a templar recruit’s livelihood so? Was it really altruism? Or was there some other reason?

And………what sort of tests…could they possibly have done? Could they really know? “I hesitate to ask what methods you used that you are so certain.” Hesitate was a huge understatement. He was aching to know and terrified at the same time. Also at the same time he realized that she had offered him a way out of the unpleasant choice he ought to make. It was an offer that he leapt upon more enthusiastically than he probably should have. “Still, you have done much for us by stopping these blood mages. I will heed your request. If he has shown no sign of demonic possession in ten years’ time, Keran will become eligible for full knighthood.” True, that was double the time Keran would have taken, but at the moment that was the best he would do with the risk of yet another ‘ethereal passenger’ in his ranks. Oh…how many more might there be? That was a horrible thought.

Marsha stepped forward now, thankful for how the conversation was moving. “Thank you, serah. Again. But without a full knighthood, Keran’s pay is so small… I do not know if I can reward you as you deserve.”

Rutherford jumped on that opening as well. So it had been the sister who hired them at the start, that was good to know. He quickly moved closer, gesturing for Marsha to nevermind the matter. “I will handle that, miss.” It was a blessing that he’d already been handing other matters of coin this day and he had more than enough on his person to handle the ‘reward’ here and now and have it done with. “You have done the Order a great service. We will not forget it.”

He didn’t even bother trying to count out the contents of the purse, but it was heavy enough that it should suffice for the kind of mercenary jobs this group likely took. He took the purse and, with both hands, he pressed it into Hawke’s hand and held it there for a few seconds. Just long enough to bring his senses to bear on the woman with added physical contact. He knew with instant relief that Hawke was not a blood mage, there was no sense of metallic miasma or corruption, no decay, no…deception…just magic. Just so much magic. Andraste, Hawke was a strong apostate. He looked the woman in the eyes and she just stared right back, she likely knew exactly what he was doing…or maybe not…she likely thought he was issuing her a threat or challenge of some kind. He should counter that idea before it took hold.

He loosened his grasp but didn’t let go completely. “You found Tarohne. I would very much like to know where it is that she is hiding. We have been seeking her for some time.”

Hawke just raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh, yeah, that lady was about as mad as a bag of cats. Well, you’ll be glad to know that she’s good and dead and will trouble no more recruits.” She must have seen the stricken expression cross his face because she blinked at Cullen, looking a bit startled for just a second.

Cullen realized that his hands around hers and the purse had become a death grip and he instantly released her, lowering his hands to his sides where they flexed into tight fists, but hopefully wouldn’t get him into trouble. “Ah. You…” How could she be dead? He had been searching for so long. “Please, if you would be so kind as to give me the location of her remains. We must confirm them.”

He couldn’t quite read the look that Hawke gave him, but she shared the location of the ‘Sanctuary’ in Darktown willingly enough and then she took her leave with her group. Cullen stared after them feeling empty and hopeless inside. The last link to Kinloch Hold was gone…and with it went his optimism of ever being free of his passenger. If he weren’t in full view of everyone in the courtyard, he might have fallen to his knees in despair as the dark waters inside him tugged at his psyche, trying to draw him under. He struggled to stay above them. It was so hard.

Well. She just wiped your slate clean, didn’t she? Back to the drawing board, then?

He wanted to scream. He didn’t. He went to Darktown instead.

~ * ~

Cullen had managed to get himself thoroughly lost in the sewers for quite a while, but eventually he found the place that Hawke had described to him. He found the bodies. The still human ones were dressed in Tevinter mage robes. He found the signs of the demons that had been dispatched back to the Fade. There was no one else around, so he just sat down on a random broken crate with his head in his hands and silently remonstrated on his ghastly deplorable luck. Was there truly nothing to hope for anymore? Was it all for naught? Was there even a reason to fight anymore? His breaths came heavy in his chest and it felt like a monumental effort just to keep drawing in and pushing out, his shoulders lifted with each inhale and each exhale shook his whole body.

You have to let go eventually. No one can fight forever. Why continue this when there is no end in sight? This situation is as much a trap for you as I. You can end it. We could end it amicably with an accord. If you would but open to it.

He didn’t respond to the voice. He didn’t have the energy to do so. He didn’t have the energy for tears or for screaming. He felt numb, disoriented, unhinged. He couldn’t fight right now. He didn’t want to and he knew that was dangerous, so he didn’t engage with the demon. He felt as if he were treading water and so he lay back in the deep dark cold of it all and let himself just…drift a while.

Eventually he made himself conduct a thorough search of whatever was left that Hawke and her party hadn’t ransacked already. He did find some cultish looking papers, notes that posited some of the things they were attempting here, but there was nothing exceptionally helpful or insightful. One thing that it did tell him was that this was not over. Tarohne might be ‘good and dead’, but her legacy, no, Uldred’s legacy continued to live on with this infiltration of Tevinter mages. It definitely wasn’t over yet.

As long as he was down here anyway… It was well past time that he dealt with his other terrible mistake. He went in search of the Darktown clinic again.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

There was no telling just what time it was when Rutherford finally found his way to the dead end sewer where the clinic was hidden. He was healthy and so he couldn’t see the entrance, but he knew this was the place and he was on a mission. He stood there looking at the blank wall with crossed arms. He could feel the ward pushing at him, trying to press his attention away, trying to convince him he was wrong. Nothing to see here, just move along now. It was a good thing he was so stubborn and contrary minded at this point of his life or it might have worked, but he had no intention of letting himself be turned aside by anything. He strode forward and placed his hand on the grubby wall, trying to feel his way where his eyes and his attention kept skating away. It felt like stone and dirt even though he knew that there was a door and lanterns here…somewhere…close…

He closed his eyes and felt with his fingers. It still felt the same. He began to slide his hands along the expanse before him. After a few paces he stopped short and pressed his palms flat on the wall. He had found it, this was where the ward originated. It was intricate and bright feeling to his senses, almost like a web, but pushing away instead of catching. He took a step back from the wall, eyes still closed so that the ward couldn’t force him away. Carefully lining himself up, he kicked at the wall with all his strength. If it really were solid stone it would have hurt a lot, maybe even have injured him, but instead he felt the wall give way and the door slammed open. The door didn’t seem to have a lock or even a proper latch, there had been no resistance to speak of. He walked in to find the clinic empty and dark, uninhabited. He stood in the room and let out a heavy, unhappy sigh. Could his luck be any worse?

After conducting a thorough search of the outer room and then the back room, he at least came to believe that the healer hadn’t abandoned everything and gone from Kirkwall altogether. He sifted through some of the items in the back room. He found a small stock of herbs and ingredients for salves or potions and some papers that looked like the beginnings of what could be interpreted as a manifesto. It seemed that Anders was extremely and understandably upset. Well, Cullen was still very upset too. He touched a small, embroidered pillow that rested on the threadbare cot. It looked old, but cared for; a personal memento. He peered around the room again with a puzzled frown. He didn’t see any lyrium, but he could smell it…or…no…not smell it. Last time he was here he thought that was true. Now…he could feel lyrium close by, it was…was it…humming? Rutherford moved around the small room curiously. He didn’t understand what it was that he was sensing. It was lyrium, that was clear even if it was confusing to his senses, but it felt odd. Since when did lyrium hum?

His questing fingers slid along the wall instinctively and found a loose stone. It came away in his hand and he peered into the dark hole that was revealed. There was a glow inside, definitely the glow of lyrium, but it was so bright. He almost reached into the hole, but he stopped himself at the last second and yanked his hand away. It wasn’t the mage’s stash of lyrium philters as he had suspected. It was a ring made of pure carved lyrium ore! That could have been deadly if he’d touched it. It was one thing to handle processed lyrium powder and filters or potions, but pure raw lyrium could even harm a dwarf! He frowned and carefully pressed the rock back into place in the wall, hiding the lyrium glow again.

Oh…ooooh….the song…you hear the song, mortal… It sounds different in your physical world. It is beautiful. It is the sound of home.

Well, that was odd. Everything about the demon’s statement was odd, especially the strange sense of awe he could hear from it. He shook the oddness away and tried to decide what he was going to do now. He could go, there was no telling when the healer would return…but this clinic still seemed active. His belongings were still here. Anders would return eventually. He stood there for a long few moments, trying to decide on the course of action he intended to commit to. He couldn’t decide. When he had first gone in search of this clinic, he had definitely violent intentions, but his temper had been leading him along…and possibly his demon had as well. He couldn’t allow it to influence him so much and when he was angry it seemed to be able to push him. He still had a purpose here, he still intended to have answers and a pound of flesh if it came to that, but…no…he would not leave. He would wait. Cullen went out and closed the entrance door, then he went back to the back room and made himself comfortable at the end of the mage’s cot.

To pass the time, he began to work his way through some of the meditations and mental exercises that Meredith had taught him. They should help to calm him further if nothing else. Every so often during each exercise he would press the first knuckle of his index finger into a specific spot on the joint of his thumb where he could make the joint pop when he flexed it. This was supposed to be his reality-test. Supposedly if he was asleep, it either would not work or…well…something would happen that would let him know that he was dreaming. He still didn’t know how to make it work while he was asleep or how to even remember to do it, but he’d done it so much now while he was awake that he was starting to develop a callus and a habit.

Quite a few hours passed before the sound of voices brought him back to awareness. Cullen quickly roused and eased his sword loose in the sheath as he pressed himself back against the wall, staying out of sight of the main room. He considered trying to peer out through the drape to try and see, but he didn’t want to be spotted yet. Besides, from the sound of the voices he was sure that he recognized at least three of them. One was Hawke, the other was Anders. So, they knew each other well enough to travel together. With that understanding came the feeling he now knew who had helped Anders slaughter Alrik’s templars, Cullen’s templars now that he was knight-captain and he would have satisfaction. He still hadn’t quite decided what, if anything, would satisfy him. After just a few minutes the others left and he could hear Anders moving around the clinic. The anger that had dampened while he had sat still and quiet in meditation was building in him again, but he held it back resolutely. He did not want to lose control again. He waited, still sitting in the dark of the back room at the end of the healer’s threadbare cot.

After a few minutes Anders bustled into the back room, a dim mage light was shining over his head and following him like a balloon. He placed down a stack of folded cloths and then noticed Cullen sitting there. Startled, the mage let out an extremely unmanly sound and bounced off the wall with a curse, nearly falling on his ass in the process. Rutherford just watched him with narrowed eyes and did not move, did not smile, he was not here to play. He still hadn’t quite decided whether he planned to drag Anders back to the circle where he’d likely be made Tranquil, or whether he should just kill him and be done with it all. It would be the first mage he will have ever killed in cold blood. “Some interesting friends you have made.” He said softly.

“Aaah! Who in Andraste’s knickers are you and why are you in my bed?!” Anders’ mage light, which had flickered and nearly blinked out in his shock, immediately brightened to illuminate the entire little room. “Oh, it’s you…” He frowned suspiciously and glanced toward the main room, probably regretting having left his staff out there. “What do you want, sitting here in the dark like a creeper?”

Cullen just stayed sitting for a drawn out breath, idly fingering the hilt at his waist. “Are you and your friends the kind who perhaps indulge in midnight prayer outings? I hadn’t thought so when I met you before, but it seems that may have been mistaken.” His voice was still quiet, on the verge of a whisper, there was a soft rasp in it that could have been from disuse or from something else.

“What? How did you even get in here?” Anders drew himself up to his full height, his anger starting to rise at this unwelcome and disconcerting guest. “No, nevermind, just get out. I won’t tell you again. If you need healing you look well enough that you can come back in the morning.”

Mmmmm… This should be interesting. It would be prudent to exercise caution here, mortal. There are things that you still have not gleaned from this one.

“No.” Rutherford responded cooly and he finally stood up, hand pointedly resting on his sword. He might have said that to either the mage or the demon or both. “I am going to clear the air, and I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.” He placed himself between Anders and the doorway, turning his body slightly as he settled into an aggressive fighting stance. There was no way for the mage to mistake his intent now and, from the way Anders’ frown turned to animosity, he definitely hadn’t missed the threat.

Anders took hold of his magic, staff or no staff, and prepared to defend himself. “I don’t know what it is you think you are going to get out of this, but if you press me this is going to get ugly.”

Cullen laughed out loud at that and it was an awful noise to his own ears. To him it sounded all too much like unhinged anguish and despair. “Oh, it is already pretty ugly. I wish you had just gone when I told you to go.” He drew his sword and the metallic hiss of brandished steel filled the room. The Order runes engraved along the weapon flashed in response as he readied his templar abilities for true combat, he had brought his own sword this time rather than the ordinary one that he normally brought into Darktown when he was incognito. “I should probably introduce myself properly this time. I am Knight Captain Cullen Rutherford.”

Anders gasped and tried to take a step back, but he was already pressed practically against the wall. Then Rutherford saw as the realization and fury rose up within the mage and his magic flared bright along with it. When it did, the knight-captain took that as the signal to unleash his Smite. It was kind of ironic after their last conversation. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that the uncomfortable pull on his bones meant that he hadn’t had any fresh lyrium in the last day or two, but he’d been too occupied and on edge to realize it before now. Rutherford raised his sword and advanced with brutal intent.

The mage screamed when the anti-magic field hit him hard and this time he did fall back against the wall, his magic fizzled and snuffed out like a candle flame. Then, to the templar’s astonishment and awe, the magic suddenly flared anew. More than a flare, it burst from the mage, cracking through his skin and blazing brightly from within him with blinding intensity. ”You! You are to blame! You will not touch another mage ever again!” The voice was distinctly different in manner and tone. Yet also unmistakably familiar to Cullen. It was the voice of a demon.

If you do not accept my aid this time, you are going to die. The likes of you cannot stand against a sibling of the Fade. You cannot win this fight.

Fear washed over Cullen, making his skin crawl from head to toe. He didn’t have time to apply any more meaning to the words, he barely had time to get his sword into position to run the mage through. Even then, Anders’ glowing, crackling arm came up and batted the sword away as if it were a toy, the discharge of energy when flesh and blade touched was blinding and concussive at once and then they crashed together and Cullen was borne backward and down. The situation changed instantly, snatched right out of his control, and he found himself with his back pinned to the ground and staring up into eyes that were filled with the energy of the Fade…of a demon…an abomination.

He pulled desperately on his abilities, he frantically cast Silence, Cleanse, even another Smite and yet there were barely flickers, barely dents in the power of the creature that was trying to get its hands around his throat to crush him. This wasn’t…wasn’t…normal… A last desperate Smite was cast. Rutherford screamed as the pull on the lyrium raked at his insides. It hurt him probably as much as it must have hurt Anders, but there was enough impact this time that he was able to kick the abomination off of him. He scrambled up and out into the main room, barely managing to drag his steaming sword with him, it felt hot in his hand. He turned to see the glowing Anders coming for him, fast and furious and unrelenting.

You are going to die. I would rather not have our affiliation come to an end like this. This is not like any simple trickster abomination you have faced before. This Fade brother was invited. An accord was made and he is fully in your world.

Cullen’s sword was torn out of his grip then and flung so hard that it made a loud metallic clank wherever it landed. Then they were locked together in a hand to hand fight that the templar should have easily been able to control. He largely outweighed the mage in muscle no matter that Anders had an inch or two of height on him and Cullen had extensive hand to hand training. To his consternation he could feel his tendons creaking in protest and he couldn’t…hold…him…back… He realized what a huge miscalculation he had made. He had come here without his true armor and its runic enhancements and protections, without his lyrium, without any real preparation other than his sword. He hadn’t thought any of this through properly beforehand. He’d allowed his rage to lead him straight to his destruction. He realized that he had to do something to change the dynamic of this fight or he really was going to die. He twisted desperately, pulling and pushing Anders past him, tipping both of their balances and then the fight devolved into frenzied grappling and punching, kicking…no biting yet, but it would only be a matter of time before desperation made that seem a sensible last-ditch option. Cullen felt muscles starting to tear, bones cracking, fracturing. A harsh grunt was pulled through his gritted teeth as he felt something in his side give way and snap.

It was very clear now, he was going to die.

‘I won’t…no…never…give myself…to you…’ Even his thoughts were struggling and disjointed, this fight was so intense. ‘...can’t have…me…shit…shit…shit…damnit…fuck…!’

It was disheartening how fast he was tiring, while the abomination showed no signs of hesitation. He couldn’t believe things were happening this way. The onslaught was not slowing whatsoever. ‘...you can’t have me…but…fuck……’ Something vital in his chest gave way.

‘…help me…’

Suddenly roaring cherry flames and yellow firelight exploded from Cullen’s body, sending the abomination and his silver glow, as well as any nearby furniture, hurtling away from him. The dark, cold, lonely sea inside him erupted in flame and he was filled with the seething, screaming, joyous exhilaration of pure unadulterated fury and there was POWER flooding his every cell.

”What deceitful Templar trickery is this?! You will not thwart Justice!!”

The templar rose to his feet again, enveloped in dancing, licking flames, his hands lifted, filled with a fire that caused whatever close furniture that had survived the initial explosion to begin to smoke and scorch. The metal of his armor was blackening even though his skin was unaffected. When his mouth opened and his lips formed words, it was not his voice that spoke. ”Come, brother! Let us see just how long Justice may stand in the face of righteous Wrath!”

”Demon! Sneaking blackguard miscreant! How dare you condemn others for falling to demons while a Templar falls to one just the same!”

Laughter bubbled up in Cullen’s throat, wild and overwhelming as he stared down at his own hands. The sheer potential at his fingertips, twisting through him, wrapping him up like a fiery maelstrom, the storm was right on the edge of carrying him under. He could feel everything, the air, the dark, the blood, the mage and the other Fade creature, the desolation of the sewers beyond this room. He could feel himself twisting, his back arching and bowing as his body tried to shift to fit them both. Just as he was losing his grip, about to be swept away, Cullen desperately seized upon his Mental Fortress and Locked. It. Down.

“No!! You’ll not have me!! There was no accord!!”

“Foolish Mortal!!!” The sound of two distinct voices coming from his single throat was disorienting and horrifying.

The inferno that had previously licked at his flesh harmlessly now began to burn like all the fires of hell and Cullen screamed in agony even as he continued to force the demon back down into whatever recesses of his mind that it had been secretly inhabiting until now.

It felt like years, like decades, before he finally felt like he was back in his own skin and he could tell it was dire. He was on his hands and knees in the dirt and he was shaking so hard that it was a wonder he was still upright. His body had been ravaged by first one demon and then the other in punishment for clinging to himself. The shock and the sheer agony of the burns would likely kill him now, as swiftly as the internal injuries might have already. His shuddering, shallow breaths were the only sound in the room now and heavy strings of saliva and blood trailed from his lips to puddle on the earth. He forced his head to lift enough to spot the mage just as the ethereal glow around him crackled a final time and faded away, leaving Anders himself again, if looking a little disheveled and very much aghast.

“This is your chance…to do a good deed…” His vocal chords felt stripped raw. “…put me down…before I lose…myself completely… Come on. …can’t stop you… Avenge your…Karl...” He heard the sharp intake of a breath and let his head hang down in defeat, eyes closed, waiting for this to finally end. Just end it now. He’d tried to hold out far too long. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was done.

No strike came, though, and he was trembling so hard, it was all he could do to stubbornly cling onto consciousness still. Just when he felt he was about to collapse completely into the dust, long fingered hands slid over his blistered skin, they cupped his jaw and lifted his head up again. His eyes opened to find Anders’ face so close, peering uncertainly into his. Laughably, his foremost thought was that Anders didn’t have blue eyes and he was so thankful for that small mercy. The mage still wore rage like a cloak, but there was a myriad of other emotions in his gaze now as well. Shock, pity, wonder and something that looked akin to resignation.

“I don’t want to hear his name from your mouth after what you did.”

Cullen coughed, or maybe he tried to laugh, but it was just a harsh expulsion of air. “Was my fault, yes…but I didn’t do it… I was…I might have…let you take him. I…considered it…” He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to look at Anders anymore, but part of him also wanted the mage to know that…that…he wasn’t the same…he wasn’t the same as Alrik. He didn’t take joy in it…he didn’t want to be cruel…he only did what he had to…he wanted to…to do better…that it shouldn’t have to been that way… “…I didn’t know…until after…” …but really what did that matter afterwards? He couldn’t change anything. It was done and now so was he. He was done.

He tried to swallow and found that his throat wouldn’t work that way. “Please…end my torment…it just keeps getting…harder to resist…” He forced his eyelids open again and there was a red blur in his vision that said there was blood in his eyes. “...how…do you keep…your self?”

The healer sighed and leaned away for a moment, obviously coming to a decision of his own. “Justice was my friend and he was a spirit when we merged, not a demon. He would never try to take me over completely like that. He only came out to protect me from you.”

Then magic flowed into him from Anders’ hands on his head and Cullen whimpered and twitched, but that was all he was capable of no matter how hard the instinctual panic seized him. His body went rigid, but the magic only brought him waves of relief as the burns began to slowly heal.

“Hush. I’m not done with you, but I won’t kill you…not yet at least. I am still really pissed at you by the way. Don’t think I’m not.” The waves of physical relief were followed instantly by a bone deep weariness as his body’s reserves were nearly tapped out by just a partial healing. Then the healer, with surprising wiry strength, dragged him away from the devastated center of the room and dropped him unceremoniously face down onto an unbroken cot. Anders pulled back to give his mana well time to refill some.

All Cullen could do was grunt disagreeably and lay there on his stomach, his body was limp and useless, exhausted. It was hard to breathe this way, to push enough air to form a sentence and his breaths were wet. There was liquid in his throat now, draining from his lips at the edge of the cot onto the ground. Blood probably. He struggled not to choke. “I’m not…too fond of you either... Why draw this out? You have the…knight-captain…helpless as a kitten.” He was partly muffled by how his face pressed half into the cot, but he didn’t have it in him to try to roll. “You know how long I’ve…been captain? …one month………it’s been…hellish…”

“Do not compare yourself to a kitten. I like kittens.” Cullen could hear Anders moving around, it sounded like he was cleaning up the broken furniture. “They are loving and loyal and noble creatures. I see no resemblance to you. In fact, if I had Sir Pounce-a-lot here he would probably scratch your eyes out just for the principle of it.”

There was silence for a moment and Cullen sighed wetly. “…fine…everyone keeps…calling me a…doglord… I feel like a beaten dog now…”

“Well you look like one too, so there is that.” There were more sounds of items being tossed around into piles along with miffed sniffs of aggravation. “Do you know how hard it is to get furniture down here? Look at this mess! I should make you clean it up. On your knees. In an apron. And a dress. Could make a whole thing of it. And you’d deserve every minute! Come in here pretending to be some…Andraste’s rosy buttcheeks! I can’t believe I fell for the act you put on before! …and walking around with a demon too…the sheer bloody gall!!”

“...Maker…you still talk so much…” Cullen groaned, but he still didn’t have any strength to try and cover up his ears in protest.

“What?!” Anders stomped back to loom over him and the templar just strained his eyes to try and look up. The mage looked incredulous.

“...you talked a lot back in solitary.”

Anders stared in wide eyed shock for a few seconds and then glared at him. “Well that’s just great. So you really did know me this whole time? You, my good sir knight, are a total arsehead and fuck you too. But I didn’t recognize you, so at least I know you weren’t one of the templars who spent solitary in the cell with me.”

A choked sound forced its way out of Cullen and he finally found it in himself to try to move. He almost fell off the cot and it was only Anders’ grip that stopped him and got him balanced back on the bed again. “I… I would never… Never!”

Anders glowered some more, but seemed to accept his denial for what it was worth. Admittedly it was worth very little. Anders shook his head and then finally grabbed a stool and sat on it beside Cullen’s prone body. “Oh, yes, I remember. Because you hate mages and magic that much.”

“No.”

“No?”

“...well…yes…but no…it’s complicated…”

“Oh good grief! Since when does a bloody Knight Captain lose his faith and not know where he stands? It’s very simple. Either you are with mages or you are with the Templars. Pick one, damn it. You do not get to play both sides!”

“That does seem to be…the popular opinion…”

“It's not an opinion, it’s a fact!” The mage snapped.

“……says who?” Was Cullen’s stubbornly contrary retort, followed by a wet hacking cough that had his body wracked with agony all over again.

“......I……… What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You mean…other than the obvious?” He said with heavy resignation, he closed the eye that wasn’t smooshed into the pad of the cot and wished that the dark cavern ceiling might just collapse on him.

“Huh…yeah, I guess that was a dumb question.”

Cullen let out a soft sigh and winced as something shifted in his side. Strangely enough, some part of him actually felt relieved for how helpless he was. It meant he wasn’t responsible, that he didn’t have to fight tooth and nail right now because he just couldn’t. What was the point, anyway? “Did you help kill Tarohne? …With Hawke? I bet Hawke’d kill me…if you asked her to. …she seems to like to…to kill things.”

Anders leaned in a little. “Did Tarohne do this to you? I thought she was only taking recruits. How does a fully fledged knight templar end up with a demon in him? I didn’t think that was possible…”

He answered without hesitation because it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. “No, not her… was Uldred. At Kinloch. …I was the only one that…made it out alive.” Cullen shuddered and jerked his head in negative shake, or what little he could manage of one. “I was going to find her…and make her fix this. ………I was an idiot.”

“Oh.” Anders put his hand on his chin thoughtfully and crossed one leg over the other while he studied the captain. “Not exactly an option for you anymore, is it? Uldred, huh? I did hear that something horrible happened at the tower, but I didn’t really care to get all the details. Too busy running away from templars and toward darkspawn and…other things. …Wait…that was…that was a long time ago...how…?” He didn’t finish the question, instead there was another long moment of thoughtful silence. “You are a bit of a loose cannon, you know, with that thing squirming around trying to get out of you. But then again… You were practically in mid transformation and yet you still managed to shut it down. I’ve never seen that happen before.”

Cullin’s eye snapped open and he stared at Anders for an extra beat. “But…you did it too. I saw you…push the spirit back down.”

“Mmmm…no, not really. Justice and I are one and the same, I can’t tell where one of us ends and the other begins. It’s not like I can hold a conversation with him.”

Something about that didn’t ring true to Cullin. If that was true, then why would the mage have had to transform? And…no…no, that wasn’t right. There was Fade energy. It was completely separate from the mage’s magic which he was able to block from Anders. “Really? …’cause mine talks to me…aaaalll the tiiiimme. …Sometimes it won’t shut up.” He sounded so fatigued as he said it. “And sometimes it's nowhere around. …used to think it was my own…inner voice monologuing…and saying really shitty things…when I was least prepared…scoffing at my weaknesses…or…uh…soft fleshy ways…” An odd look floated up on Anders’ face for a few seconds, but the mage wiped it away swiftly. Not before Cullin saw it. “I wonder if maybe yours is just…craftier than you give it credit for.”

Anders looked agitated for a moment and then frowned angrily at him. “Hmmm… I’ve never heard of a demon of Wrath before. I can only assume that’s your influence on it. You seem like you could be a wrathful kind of guy. Definitely, the way you just came at me in here. That happens to me sometimes, when I see something that smacks of heavy injustice. Gets hard to restrain myself.” The mage suddenly took a firm grip of his armor and rolled him to his back, then laid a hand on Cullen’s chest and the templar gasped again as a fresh bout of healing magic was pressed into him, knitting internal organs and ribs back together. It was almost enough to make him pass out this time.

When it was finally over Cullen lay gasping and fighting to stay conscious. “I didn’t used to be.” At least he could breathe again.

“What do you want with me? You’ve been here twice, first to warn me off and then to try to kill me. I don’t get it. And all the stuff you said about not liking your job and wanting out. You pretended to be an ex-templar. You still don’t smell much like lyrium, that’s some impressive dedication to the ruse.”

“I never actually said most of that. You inferred the rest yourself, I just let you. All I said was that I was a friend of Samson’s. Which is the truth, by the way. He was my roommate.” It was a real battle just forcing his eyes to stay open at this point. Talking was probably the only thing keeping him awake still and…he realized belatedly that the bleakness that had come over him before had faded some. It wasn’t so overpowering anymore. Being able to breathe probably helped with that.

“Jackass.”

“Are you actually planning on healing me and letting me go? Because that’s what it’s starting to look like from my end. That seems…inadvisable.” His curiosity was genuine and he was still feeling detached enough to sincerely discuss it.

“Really? You’re actually going to argue against me letting you go now? What do you expect me to do with you? Keep you as a pet? Pretend you’re a mabari named Doglord, perhaps? I really am more of a cat person. I’m not really into the whole leash and collar thing, but I’ve never actually tried it so...”

“I don’t know. So far you’ve been the best conversationalist that I’ve met in Kirkwall. I keep ending up in these long involved chats with you. It could be our thing.” Now who was being a sarcastic little snipe? Cullin snorted at himself. Maker, he must be feeling better…or maybe he had just gone completely loopy from so much shit in such a short span of time.

“We don’t have a thing and I’m certainly not looking to start any things with any templars, knight captains or not.” Anders’ tone suggested that he might be thinking the same thing.

They fell into a pregnant quiet again. It lasted a long while, both of them becoming lost in their thoughts, Cullin struggling to stay awake. At length, he searched around for something else to say to keep himself conscious and alert. “I read your manifesto.”

“You what?” Anders was disbelieving.

“I did. It seems a bit flawed.”

“Oh? What would you know about it?”

“I know how it feels to be tortured for weeks or months or…I still don’t know how long it was. Tortured by blood mages and demons. The one in my head still tortures me in my dreams. I’ve seen the worst that can happen in a circle…while Uldred used his blood magic to bond demons to us…and I was the last one. Tarohne was there. I wanted to make her fix me. Now? Well, fuck. Now I’m just broken. That’s all there is left to say.”

“And I know what it's like to be ripped from a loving family and locked in with jailors who have complete autonomy to do with you as they please, whenever they wish, with no repercussions for the damage or the terror that they spread to anyone that they touch. We are locked in with our abusers too, for years not months. We were there first, so whatever happens to any templars or other authority figures…well…it is the institution that they created in the first place which caused what happened to you.”

Cullen didn’t respond, he just stared up at the ceiling in silence because there really was nothing honest that he could say to refute that. It was not an inaccurate description and it felt so very familiar. He grasped for something else. “I don’t like Grand Cleric Elthina. The woman is a…a…what’s a useless inanimate object? A turnip? No, you can eat a turnip. What’s more useless than a turnip?”

“Oh Maker’s tits, she is the wettest wet blanket that ever wetted itself, yes.” The mage actually chuckled over the very very strange camaraderie that they seemed to be playacting at. It was the most outlandish thing he’d experienced in quite a long time. “Last time you asked about lyrium. I take it that was because you were trying to figure out what to do about…this.” He gestured at Cullin’s body pointedly.

“My passenger. Yes. I thought that maybe if I could get rid of the lyrium, it might break the connection. The demon says we’re bonded. Implied that Uldred forced us together and that it is as trapped as I am. …but… The less lyrium I take, the harder it is to control it. It makes me more susceptible. But the more lyrium I take the more…inclined…I am to not think for myself and merely be led and directed and told what is what. …and then I have a pathetic death to look forward to. I find myself split down the middle and I hate it.”

“What do you want from me?” It wasn’t the first time Anders asked that, but Cullin still didn’t really have an answer.

“Well………… Well, for a little while there I really just wanted you to kill me. But now that my will to live has reasserted itself, I think I would like to survive this. I don’t really have any evidence that I won’t still be bonded to this thing after I die. …that would be less than ideal…”

“Hmmm… I guess that's good because I’ve pretty much lost the desire to kill you. At least in this situation. I still don't like you, but I don’t like a lot of people. I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

“I don’t suppose…? Is there any way that you could, um, help me wake up? Just a little bit? It’s only that, if I pass out, eventually I am going to start screaming. I can imagine that, after what happened, the demon is really angry and it’s just waiting for me to sleep so it can get to me.” He was having an increasingly hard time keeping his eyelids open.

The mage eyed him, not showing even a hint of concern for his request, then just shook his head. “Sometimes the body must heal and refresh on its own. There’s only so much that magic can do without complications. If I heal you any more you will be unconscious. If I don’t, well, I’m a healer. I’m not that cruel. So… Nitynight.”

Cullen tried to protest, but the healing magic was already washing over him. He arched and tried to jerk away at the lack of warning, but then that was all his body could take. Blackness descended over him and he was gone. When Anders was done, he stood up with a slightly woozy wobble and disinterestedly dropped a spare threadbare blanket over the templar’s unconscious face so that he wouldn’t have to look at him while he finished cleaning up his poor clinic. Whenever anyone entered and asked him what had happened, he told the truth. He’d been raided by templars. Well, mostly the truth.

~ * ~

When Cullen opened his eyes to the purgatory that was his unending existence in this rosy cage, there was an altogether new torture to endure. In shock and confusion, he scrambled up from stones that usually were hard and frozen. Now they were hot, they were molten and waves of heat were radiating from the floor. He could feel it through his armor…it was heating up his platemail…the skin that touched the metal was starting to blister and there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could hide from it. He scrambled, trying to move, trying to minimize his exposure. Was the tower on fire?! Had they set the tower on fire to combat the demons? He was going to burn!

Suddenly the rose red cage roared into walls of fire, forcing him to cower back from them. The puddle of blood in the center of the cage was steaming, bubbling like boiling oil, hissing and popping as it dried and cracked. The stones themselves almost seemed to be starting to melt with the heat. There was nothing else for Cullen to do but scream as he felt himself starting to cook inside his armor. The smell of cooking meat filled his nostrils and smoke began to fill the room, invading his lungs, making him cough and choke and grow lightheaded. The edges of his shiny armor were beginning to blacken and take on a rainbow of warped oily colors as it baked. He could feel the outer layers of his skin inside beginning to bubble up and slough off. The sharp phantom sting and deep ache of nerves being activated and cauterized at the same time was something too horrible to describe. Time stopped, freezing in place while the burning and torment and asphyxiation just continued on and on and on forever and all time. For minutes, for days, weeks, months, years. It was never ending, never relenting, never abating. There was no such thing as time here, there never was, there never would be again.

“No.”

A soft voice rasped out through the room, rolling over everything with the inevitability of the grave. All at once, after his existence had become nothing but agony for an unfathomable amount of time, suddenly a shadow rolled over the room. It caused the fires to dim and gutter, the bright yellow flames banking down and turning more the color of dark red coals about to burn themselves out. A cold dark washed over everything and steam filled the room like a fog, heavy and clinging. Dark water condensed on every surface and the stones that had been molten were now frozen again and for once it was a welcome reprieve, even as a layer of water washed over everything. The soothing, iciness of the water rose up around his scorched armor and burned body, seeping into every crack and crease. Enveloping and wrapping around him with a gentle loneliness, a bone deep weary acceptance of the inevitable hopelessness of it all. Cullen barely noticed as the water rose over him, burying him in its unfathomable depths, pulling him down to a watery grave from which he might never resurface.

Then a heaviness seemed to descend upon the entire scene, but this heaviness was different. It was a distinctly physical heaviness. It was almost peaceful, sleepy, and all encompassing. Unlike the dark water that tried to drag him under, this darkness descended over everything and when it pulled the templar away it was a true relief, not just a surcease of torture. Then Cullen slept hard and deep, the sleep of the truly unconscious.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Anders spent what was left of the night cleaning up the smashed and burned and scorched portions of his clinic and tidying. By the time he was finished, it was around dawn, but Anders wasn’t worried about losing a night of sleep. He often did for far less reason. He always felt a little guilty for lazing around in bed when he could be doing more constructive things. Honestly, he spent very little effort on anything that could be considered leisure time. He found himself watching the lump of templar hidden beneath the cloth he’d thrown over the man. This templar had thrown his entire world upside down in less than a week’s time and Anders was feeling a whole trove of things about it. Before he could think more on the subject a sickly-looking patient stumbled through the door, knocking timidly. Anders quickly offered a friendly greeting and went to help however he could.

Sometime later, the clinic was empty again. A few more patients had shuffled in after the first, but they had all gone again. He heard a sound from the far wall where the templar lump still lay and he frowned in that direction. He had almost forgotten about knight-captain Cullen over there. True to his word, after a bank of hours the templar had begun to act troubled in his sleep. Anders stood a safe distance away and just watched his shrouded form jerk and twitch beneath some unseen attacker. At first the healer went about his work still, ignoring the man, but when the little whimpers started to grow audible he could take no more. He wasn’t someone who could stand by while someone suffered, no matter how deserving they might be. The trouble was that some tiny corner of him suspected that this young templar might not be quite as deserving as some others, but he didn’t actually know the truth of it. A part of him couldn’t help but feel…Maker’s balls! Could he feel kinship with a bloody templar??! He knew part of that was because of the duality of spirit that they both suffered from. Yes, Cullin’s was a demon, not a spirit, but the similarities were…disturbingly familiar.

Anders used a flicker of magic to put out the lanterns outside and shut his door, causing the ward to cover it all with invisibility. If there was an emergency, they would still be able to find the door, but otherwise he wouldn’t be disturbed. Silently he picked up his staff, setting it close by so it would be in reach if he needed it. He didn’t think he would, but it was better safe than sorry. Anders then sat on the nearby stool and just studied the man’s face, he had pushed the blanket half onto the floor in all his twitching and flinching in his sleep. Definitely dreaming. The templar was so young. Anders hadn’t realized that before. How long did he say he’d been a captain? Just a month? How old was he? Anders absolutely did not remember him from Kinloch, so he couldn’t have been one of the regulars, he must have been one of the newer recruits. Maybe that put him in his early twenties? Everyone knew that the majority of templars didn’t live very long or healthy lives, though few knew that it was because of the lyrium issue. Even so, he was very young to hold such a high ranking title. Was it possible that he had lied about it? Anders couldn’t see why. There was no lie about the demon, certainly.

In his sleep Cullen looked even younger, and there was a deep sort of…sadness about him. To Anders, who saw expressions like this everywhere in Darktown, he looked like he was at the end of his rope and clinging on for dear life. Some of the things Cullen had said about his experiences, about hearing his demon and conversing with it…thinking it was his own thoughts for a while. All those things had Anders wondering just how much he hadn’t noticed Justice in his own mind. All the guilt over not being as productive as possible, all the missing meals and sleep and other essentials that he ignored. How much of it might be the spirit of his friend pushing him further and further? He knew that Justice’s energy sustained him at times of need or when he would normally collapse from exhaustion or when he just didn’t have the strength to do something that needed to be done. Like that fight with the templar.

Anders was a mage through and through. He didn’t fight with weapons or physical strength and he was gangly even if he was tall and long limbed. Without Justice’s experience and instincts and energy to draw upon, there was no way he would have beaten the heavily muscled and highly trained warrior. Thinking back on that fight was like trying to pin down details in a fever dream, though when Cullen had exploded in fire he remembered that. The shock of it had brought him back to himself, even though his Justice side or likely Vengeance was still in control then. Things were different when that happened. He couldn’t emulate any of what he had done now, he had only been able to draw on the knowledge and fighting instinct when he was in that state and he could never remember it clearly afterwards. Plus, those Smites always left him feeling sick and discombobulated. All he knew was that, without Justice, he might not have stood a chance alone.

Now, watching Cullin sleep, he could actually sit and consider everything that happened last night. When the Templar had caught fire, it had shifted everything back into perspective and pushed past his need for vengeance for Karl. Then he had realized that the templar was another abomination like those he had fought alongside Hawke and he had been very afraid as it spoke and stepped toward him. He vaguely remembered speaking back, but not exactly what he had said. But then the templar had fought it off and Anders had never seen anyone that far into possession come back from it like that. It shouldn’t have been possible, but obviously it was.

Anders leaned closer to Cullen, he really was being very twitchy. The blanket was now completely on the ground. The healer reached out one hand and began a soft scan of the other man’s body, looking for any leftover injuries. He took his time and really concentrated, attempting to examine the templar thoroughly, feeling out the blank shadows of lyrium that collected here and there throughout his bones and muscles and not much fat to speak of. Cullen seemed to be burning the candle at both ends much like Anders did, barely eating enough to keep up with his muscles’ needs. That thought was troublesome. Did that mean that it could really somehow be Justice pushing him to live the way he had been and not his own conscious choices? He wondered how different it was that he was a willing host while Cullen was most certainly not.

There were some inconsequential problems still left in the templar’s body, a little damage still from the fight, some more from older injuries. Since he was looking for it this time, he noticed there was some scarring on the templar’s skin and muscle tissues that made Anders frown because they were very old and deep and had not healed properly. They didn’t make much sense to him at first, but then he realized that those were scars from when the templar had been bled…had been bled heavily…and often. They had been cut into again and again and again and never allowed to fully heal until so much scar tissue had built up to make them problematic. No wonder he had nightmares. Maybe… As Anders probed the scars, attempting to smooth away some of the thick ropy buildup of the tissues, he noticed Cullen reacting more strongly, either to him or to his dreams. Carefully he soothed the templar into a deeper sleep, sending him below the Fade more toward unconsciousness where he would hopefully settle down. Anders did not want to be struck by a drowsing knight with these big muscles while he tried to work. Cullen seemed to settle down again and that was fine. He continued his work on the lingering maladies in peace. He told himself that it was in no way for the templar, it was for his own practice and sense of accomplishment.

A while later, once satisfied that the other was in as good health as he could be, he pulled his magic back and settled on the stool again. What was he going to do now? Like Cullen had said before, letting him go was inadvisable for any smart person and having the man in charge of the templars knowing where he lived and worked was also a problem. Had the man really read his manifesto? Anders kind of wanted to hear what he had to say about it. Obviously this guy was not a normal templar, could anything good come from this? He wasn’t sure how. Should he tell Hawke about this? He wasn’t sure about that either, he didn’t know Hawke very well. Besides, Hawke was gone now. Off to the deep roads in search of treasure, likely never to return. The healer sat and pondered the problem for some time, his chin propped in one hand, a preoccupied frown covering his face.

Suddenly Cullen sat straight up with a harsh gasp, looking around wildly. The movement was so unexpected, so abrupt, that Anders nearly fell off his stool. Then after they stared wide eyed at each other for a few seconds, the templar exhaled just as harshly and fell back down on the cot with a hand over his heavily shadowed eyes.

“Oh…hello… Do you often watch people while they sleep?”

“Only when it's as good a show as yours. Dreaming?”

Cullen nodded. “Yes…well…I did…but…but then everything went dark and…I don’t know…did you do something?”

Anders shrugged. “I did heal you a little more. I encouraged you into a much deeper sleep. I didn’t want you lashing out at me while I worked.”

Cullen frowned and then seemed to check himself over and then let out another heavy exhale. “I don’t know if it was from being beaten half to death or the healing afterward, but I think that was the best rest I’ve had in years. I almost feel human again.” He sounded like he was full of awe and disbelief and at the same time rather chipper about it. “...Maker…it’d be worth… Anything would be worth it to wake up even just once a week, even once a month!, and feel like this.” He let out a long euphoric sigh and shifted his forearm to lay over his eyes, going completely limp again.

Anders made a sharp noise in the back of his throat and shook his head. “I guess it’s time to talk about what is going to happen now. It would probably be pretty rude of me to kill you and waste such a restful sleep, wouldn’t it?”

The templar groaned and let his arm fall to his side again, turning his head to look at Anders with resignation, lips twisting downwards, almost looking pained. “I suppose there are certain topics that do require discussion.” He sat up and turned, planting both feet on the ground, but staying seated on the cot. He aimed his gaze at Anders’ chest rather than at his face and was quiet despite what he’d just said.

No one spoke for a long moment and then Anders huffed. He would have to start things, then. “Well, what did you think of my manifesto?”

~ * ~

A long, drawn out discussion had followed Anders’ question. Far longer and more enthusiastic than either man had anticipated indulging in. There had even been several minutes of shouting at four separate intervals throughout the discourse, one of which focused on the cost of the lives of templar knights who were guilty of nothing more than following the orders of their commanding officers. Interestingly enough, none of these shouting matches devolved into violence and each only required short interludes while tempers calmed. Then the conversation picked up again on some different, less volatile topic. Anders hated to and so did not admit that Cullen had any merit to his opinions or points, but the templar had also made some concessions that had been admirably liberal. Surprisingly so. Eventually they did finally lapse into uncomfortable silence again, sitting across from one another at a small table in the corner of the room, oddly it was the same little table that Cullen had in his little flat. Was there only one carpenter making these things in Kirkwall? This time it was Cullen that broke the silence.

“I…” He had three false starts after that and Anders waited him out until the templar managed to say whatever it was that he was having so much trouble with. “...I know who made your friend…I know who did it. He would have done it to you as well. I could…” Cullen cleared his throat, really thinking about what was already on the tip of his tongue. Was he really considering this? It would help him, but it was also a terrible thing to consider doing, especially with how serious he was. “I could tell you. And you could do with that what you will.”

There was only the sound of dripping water in the distance and nothing else. At last Anders spoke and his voice was soft, questioning, suspicious. “Why would you do that?”

Cullen pursed his lips and shrugged, but that was too disingenuous. “I… That is… He… He is the one that pushed me to this position and convinced everyone it was a good idea.” A wry smile that held no amusement slid onto his lips. “I am pretty certain that he was under the impression that I am…more like him than I am. But… I don’t want to be like him.”

The healer stared at him with narrow eyes for a long twenty seconds. “So what I’m getting here is that he’s a problem for you and so you are “offering” to let me kill him for you.”

The captain grimaced and immediately his eyes fell to the ground between them in shame. “When you say it like that… Yes, apparently I am that kind of person. Forget I said-”

Anders cut him off quickly. “No! …no… I want his name. I do want it. I just…wanted to be clear.”

“Oh.” They stared at each other for another long moment. “I could…also…tell you what I know about the Mage Underground. I actually have amassed enough that I could stop it if I decided to do that right now. Or stop it for a time, at least.”

The healer scoffed at him in disbelief. He didn’t believe him. He thought Cullen was putting him on? The templar frowned at him and then straightened slightly. “We’ve mapped the tunnels. Set up hunting blinds in them. Placed a few traps on the outermost routes to create funnels. It wouldn’t take all that much to close that entrance down under the cellar. I have knight-errant-templars holding posts as informants in different areas. They are rogue trained templars.”

Anders looked incredulous. “What? No. There is no such thing as templars with rogue training. What are you on about?”

Cullen grimaced and shrugged again. “There are now. I implemented the training program myself. They are elite hunters, granted there’s not that many fully trained yet…” Anders continued to stare incredulously at him and a soft, dry laugh cracked from his lips. He rubbed at his eyes, it seemed to have become a sort of nervous habit by now. “If I wanted to, I have all the tools at my fingertips to crush any mage uprising here. I am actually very good at tactical logistics. I have lieutenants who are ruthless and sadistic and love to hurt mages. I have loyal captains who like that I make their jobs easier whenever I can. I have knights who respect me and unquestioningly go wherever I send them because they’ve seen me at my worst and they don’t want it aimed at them. And a knight-commander that encourages us and trusts us all implicitly in everything. And, uh, I’ve also worked out all the thieves’ cant symbols that they’ve been leaving all over Kirkwall and the ciphers they’ve been writing their notes and letters in.” He took a deep breath once he got all of that out and Anders' eyes had grown quite large, now looking more horrified than disbelieving.

“If I wanted to do it, I could. I won’t lie and say that there is no part of me that wants to do it. I have all the reasons to do it and so few reasons not to. Right now there’s one really big, really personal reason at the top of that short list. I don't want to look back on all of this from a place where I’ve become the same as Otto Alrik.”

For once Anders seemed to be speechless and unable to think what to say or maybe he was still trying to sift through what Cullen had just told him was happening in The Gallows right now. What was in store for the rebellion. Obviously he was more involved in the underground than he ever let on so far.

Cullen continued to fill the silence a little more. “That feels like an incredibly selfish reason to not do something when there’s so many reasons to do it. Apparently, I’m finding that I’m an incredibly selfish person. So… I guess I need more reasons.”

Finally the mage managed to find his voice to ask the question he’d already asked a dozen times and gotten no answer to. “What is it that you want?”

“I want this demon out of me, I want my soul and my body and my life back. I want to live long enough for that to happen. ………can you help me do that? Would you even want to?”

Once again the expression on Anders’ face turned incredulous and the mage suddenly lurched to his feet and he began pacing the room, long legs carrying him back and forth as he worked himself right up into a conniption similar to one of their more heated debates. He muttered to himself, almost seeming to carry on a whole animated, agitated conversation with himself and ignoring Cullen completely. The templar just waited him out, wondering what had come over himself to have said all that he just had. But Anders was a spirit healer and they were supposed to be special and powerful and capable of miraculous things. Was it too much to hope that Cullin’s own spirit wasn’t beyond healing?

Without warning Anders suddenly whirled and came to jab a demanding finger in Cullin’s face. “You’ll protect the Underground?! You’ll save mages?! You’ll help me save mages?! I won’t agree to help you for anything less, you are aware of this, right?! Quid pro quo? An equal exchange? Is that what we are discussing here?”

Rutherford frowned because now that the vague thought he’d woken up with was put into words, it sounded like a terrible idea. It sounded like the worst idea that would absolutely backfire on him like most every other idea he’d had since he’d agreed to the post at Kinloch Hold. But…what choices did he have? Curl up and die? At least he knew that this healer would really try to help him if he gave his word to do so. “I wouldn’t call it an equal exchange. Whatever I feel about mages personally, I would never say that my life is worth a thousand mage lives. But…essentially… Yes. As long as it doesn’t risk my position… Because my only usefulness to you is as knight-captain, yes? This definitely would be a waste of time if I ended up in the gutter next to Samson.”

“Yes.”

“………Yes?”

“Yes, my answer is yes.”

“...Oh.” Cullen licked his lips a little nervously now. Part of him hadn’t believed that Anders actually would. His life was about to become so much more complicated. “Okay.”

The templar had absolutely no idea what to do now or where the two of them should go from here. Were they supposed to shake hands? Grip forearms? Make a blood oath? No, not that last thing... Definitely not… Maker, what was he thinking? He couldn’t be thinking this… Cullen licked his lips as he continued thinking things he shouldn’t be and he tasted charcoal, bile, and copper on them. He really needed a bath. He couldn’t imagine what horror he must look like after everything. He felt like there needed to be something further. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling better physically than he had in so very very long now. He felt like he could do just about anything today. He was a Maker forsaken idiot, wasn’t he? “Um…where’s my sword?”

They both glanced around and Anders stood up, frowning as he tried to remember what might have happened to it. “...Uh… It’s probably in a pile somewhere…” After a cursory search the blade was located, undamaged, stuck half in a cot by the wall. Cullen retrieved it and turned to Anders with it still in hand.

“Go retrieve your ring of lyrium.”

“What?” The mage was both confused and angry all over again because how did he know about that?! And whatever for?! That thing was dangerous.

Cullen huffed and furrowed his brow at him. “I told you I could smell it or sense…I don’t know. Maybe it’s the demon that can sense it. Whatever. Just go get it. I’m sure you know how to handle it safely, it’s yours after all.”

Anders gave him the most suspicious, untrusting glower yet, but he went back to the little room and returned with an empty potion bottle and the ring shining brightly at the bottom of it almost like a little lantern. He held it up between them. “Alright, here it is. Now you better tell me what you’re doing.”

The templar faced the mage squarely, sword still in hand. “I don’t know how long this agreement is going to last. It could be done by the end of the year or when one of us is dead. However long it lasts, I don’t want there to be any question of my intentions or my word or my honesty with you. I know it will come up because of the nature of all of this…working with you betrays everything that I have sworn up until now. It means that my word is next to worthless and that…Maker preserve me, but that pains me no matter how willingly I choose this path. I am a knight. We swear oaths. It’s what we do. That thing in your hand is about as fine an oath ring as I can imagine. So, will you take my oath on the matter? What sort of oath do you require?”

The mage was frankly amazed and stared at Cullen with a loose jaw until it clacked shut again. “I hope you don’t expect me to swear any oaths.”

Rutherford shook his head. “No. I am willing to rely upon your integrity as a healer to keep you sincere in our dealings. Not binding in any way, but I would like to think you’ve already shown me the caliber of healer that you are. You healed me, after all. So, what are your terms?”

A hint of trepidation slid across Anders’ face for an instant, but he resolutely wiped it away and concentrated on the question. “You will not harm any friends of mine…or drag them off to the circle…nor order any of your templars to do so for you… Hmmm…well, I guess it can’t be obvious, of course, or your templars will turn on you too. If you have the ability to help without endangering our pact, you will do so. Period. Even if it’s just…even if standing back and doing nothing is the best you can do and not be caught out. And when we save mages, you’ll do what you can to keep your templars out of our way…unless we have arranged for a show for them. I know every raid can’t be successful, but…at least the important ones. How about that? I’ll try to only involve you in the important ones. And… And I want Otto Alrik. That is the name that you said before. He’s the one that…?”

The captain nodded slowly as he thought about the terms so far. This was going to become so complicated, he could already imagine it. “Yes. He’s the one.” He sighed. “He has a trophy room.” The look on Anders’ face when he heard and understood that made Cullen even more sure that this oath was necessary. They would have to be able to trust one another.

“Alright.” Cullen drew himself to attention, spine stiff and straight. He slid his thumb along the edge of his blade, leaving a drop of blood sliding down the metal. He reached out and smudged his blooded thumb against the glass of the bottle that contained the ring. Then he sank to a knee as he did for his first vigil and when he had been knighted, his sword planted before him, both hands gripping the hilt. He looked up into Anders huge, incredulous gaze.

“I vow that I will honor and protect you and yours. I will be true and faithful to you. When you call upon me, lest I be dead or dying or in the midst of battle with my enemies, I will come. I will stand with you against your enemies when I can. When I cannot stand with you in the open, I will extend my hand to you in secret. Even if all my other oaths lie broken in shame and ruin, this oath will I keep until the day that I die, I lose myself, or you release me from it. This I vow under the eyes of the Maker…and the demon.”

Perhaps that last bit was partly his own hubris, but he could feel it watching. Why pretend he didn’t. It was part of this. If he broke this oath, then the damned thing would have him anyway, he might as well make it official. Besides, the Maker wasn’t really watching and there was no authority lent by invoking His name.

Cullen looked up at Anders who stared back down at him, obviously unsure what he was supposed to do. Cullen smiled. “Do you accept my oath?”

Anders jerked as if waking from a trance. “Uh…I…do. ……shit, that was almost romantic. You know…up until the demon part. Are you sure about that part?”

“Would you trust me if I said that I wasn’t? It’s done now, there’s no taking it back.”

“I guess you have a point. I don’t know that I exactly like that part, but as you say, it’s done. I’ve never actually seen a knight swear an oath before, especially not one that looked the way you do right now.”

A laugh barked out of Cullen’s chest and he rose to his feet, wiping and putting away his sword. “It seems like every time I do something especially Knightly these days, I'm never wearing my shining armor. Blackened and scorched armor just doesn’t have the same ring to it, but it does seem fitting considering the circumstances.”

“I don’t know…I could imagine that you just battled a dragon and saved a princess or something, looking like this.” The mage reached out for his hand, taking it and using the tiniest spark of healing magic to close the cut on his thumb. The templar only twitched slightly around the eyes. “You said whenever I call for you. How will I be able to call on you?”

“Hmmm…for now…I guess you can send me missives… Aaah…It is known that I get regular letters from my family. We can start with that and then think on a better system. I’m sure you have many ways already, I can’t have sussed them all out yet. And Samson, I have regular contact with him and he can get to me easily enough. I will need to speak to him first.” He ran fingers through his hair and they came away smudged with soot, he blinked at them and then laughed again. “Maker, I must look a fright.”

“You certainly aren’t exactly blond anymore. I suggest you find a clean bath. Maybe three. Good news, I don’t think anyone is going to recognize you today, even if you strut right into The Gallows like this.”

“Well, small favors.”

“Maybe we can arrange an admirer for you. The knight-captain’s bit on the side who constantly sends him perfumed letters and invitations for a bit of fun at her place.”

Cullin winced and flushed uncomfortably at even the very idea of such a thing. “Um…no, that won’t work. Absolutely no one will believe that about me. I certainly couldn’t hold up that sort of ruse.”

Anders’ eyebrows rose, curious and teasing at the same time. “His place, then?”

Another flush, but at least this one was less uncomfortable. “Maker, is that really all that anyone anywhere thinks about? Is that really the most believable excuse for moving about unnoticed?”

The healer laughed brightly at the uncomfortable templar who once again looked very young to him. “Well, yeah, everybody likes sex and no one questions anyone for wanting a piece of the little bit that goes around. Especially between soldiers and warriors. You’re all about libidos and testosterone and posturing and conquests. You live with them, tell me I’m wrong.”

Cullen couldn’t argue that.

~ * ~

After leaving the clinic, Rutherford made his way from Darktown through the docks to his little secret flat in Lowtown. On the way he doused himself in the brackish sea and managed to scrounge up a relatively clean bucket of water and some more soap. What little he already had would not likely be enough. When he let himself into the room, he was greeted by Samson whistling to himself in his bed and already partway into a bottle despite the early hour.

"Roomie! You let them alley cats get at you again!"

Cullen stopped short in surprise, then snorted wryly and moved to the wash basin. "Ah, hey, Raleigh. Yes, those cats are ruthless." He couldn't help thinking of how Anders said his cat would have scratched his eyes out and smiled to himself. He smelled like a bonfire and was still covered in soot and blood and dirt despite the healing and a preliminary rinse at the briny docks before trudging inland. He probably really did look like a drowned rat right now.

Once Samson got a good look at him, the older man immediately got to his feet and came over to check on him in concern. "Hey, what the hell happened to you? You look like shit! …wait…huh…maybe not so much…" Samson had come close enough to see that he wasn't physically injured at this point, it was all cosmetic now. Cullin had noticed during his first rinse that some of his scars had somehow faded too. He didn’t know if that was just from being healed so well or if they’d been burned off with so many layers of his skin first. Whatever the answer was, he was pleased by the change. He never liked having to look at so many awful reminders of a past he didn’t want to remember.

"I had a rough night. Do you know that Darktown healer?"

Samson's eyebrows shot up and he looked almost alarmed. "No. Cullen, you didn't…"

Rutherford quickly held up his hands in innocence. "No, I didn't do anything, I swear. He's fine. Don’t worry.” Here Cullen actually grinned at the other man, an expression that was a rarity on him, but here he was grinning twice in one day. “You know that he's a Grey Warden? That makes him not my problem." He moved to the wash basin and started to work soap into a wet cloth and clean himself up.

Samson tilted his head and fingered Cullen’s scorched and blackened armor. It would be surprising if the older man didn’t notice the change from Cullen’s usual dour moods. "So how did this happen?"

"Demon."

"You’re shittin’ me."

"No shitting." Cullen paused, a flash of memory rising up of the inferno that had nearly swept him away. “It was…rough.”

"So he fixed you up good, huh? The doc does good work. And he's nice, even to us ex-templars. How'd you find him? I didn't think operating templars could find his place."

"...Yes. Um. Actually a couple of urchins robbed me and left me at his door." Not technically untrue. Six silvers was practically highway robbery.

Samson helped pull the smoky armor off him and, to Cullen’s dismay, he realized the clothes beneath were practically ash and rags. He had burned from the inside out, after all. Samson gave him a strange look that said he could see that too.

"It was pretty bad. I guess I was in the right place at the right time or I'd be dead now."

"Yeah, he is damn good."

Cullen finished cleaning himself and getting new clothes and Samson brushed down the armor for him. When he was done, they sat companionably at the table together. "So it's been a while since I saw you. How are you doing?"

Samson shrugged and toyed with his bottle. "I've been better, I won't lie."

"Is there anything I can do, Raleigh?"

"What? More than this?" Samson gestured at the little room around them. "I dunno… Can you get me back inside? That's all I really want."

Cullen nodded slowly, thinking it through a little. He'd already made one deal with a rebel mage, how could he possibly balk at making another with his friend? "Alright, Raleigh. I will. I just… I have to get Alrik out of the way…and a few others too. I need to make sure that they can’t get rid of me too if they realize I’m not doing what they want me to."

The older man leaned forward with wide eyes and an eager gleam. "Yeah? Do you really mean it, Cullen?"

"Yes. I mean it. We will get you back in. I promise you."

"Well alright then.” There was all the enthusiasm that Cullen needed to know that it really was what Samson wanted. That it was the right thing to do. “Do you need anything from old Samson?"

"Actually… There is something… What do you know about the Mage Underground?" He started the topic carefully. He didn’t want to go too fast for fear that he might trip himself on unseen obstacles.

"Oh, that is a loaded question, roomie." Suddenly Samson sounded just as tentative.

"I know, Raleigh. But…uh…you see…” Cullen took a few seconds to lick his lips and carefully consider his words. “So, that healer that saved my skin? I sort of made a deal with him.” He tried to ease the way into it because even though Raleigh was a bit soft on mages at times, it didn’t necessarily mean he would agree with the oath Cullen had given to Anders. It really depended on how badly Samson wanted back in. “If he ever calls on me, I’m going to answer and help him.” He shifted slightly in his chair so that he was looking sideways at Samson rather than straight on. “In return he promised to try to help me with my…battle sickness.”

“With your…… Oh!” It was gratifying to see how Raleigh brightened up, his brow rose and an encouraging smile appeared and he took a big swig of his bottle as if the occasion required it. It was a relief to know that the other man still cared even though things between them had gotten strained since he had been cast from the Order. “Ooooh. I didn’t know they could do anything for that. That’s good, roomie. That’s real good.” The pronouncement was followed by a contemplative pause.

“Yes. I mean… I don’t know if he actually can, but… It’s worth it to try. It’s worth anything to me. …Even helping the Underground.” Cullen was reluctant at first, but then he straightened in his seat and resolved himself to just push forward. He trusted Raleigh, he really did. Maybe not with his lyrium or his alcohol, but with every other thing he trusted him. “I guess you can imagine where that has put me. Where I put myself, really, because I did it willingly.”

Raleigh leaned back in his chair, the front legs tipping off the ground precariously as he frowned thoughtfully at the mouth of his bottle. “Yeah…I can imagine that. Well, first thing I’ll say is don’t let Karras get wind of anythin’ you do. He’ll railroad you faster than you can say ‘Well, shit.’ An’ you already know Alrik inside an’ out. There’s some others too.” He eyed Cullin pointedly over his bottle.

“Oh.” Cullen couldn’t help it, he dropped his eyes down to his hands on the table and he found himself picking at his fingernails guiltily. “Yes. I… Some things happened recently…and changed. I’ve been realizing some things that I’ve been…blind to, I guess? Or just willfully ignoring. I’m not sure. But I am going to have to make nice with Alrik again. At least for a while.” He glanced up at Raleigh sheepishly. “Last time I saw him I kind of told him that I’m his boss now and that he could fuck right off. In far more words than that.”

Samson just started cackling, he seemed especially tickled by how uncomfortable Cullen was at making the admission in the first place. “Oh, boy, did you? I wish I could have been there to see that! Nobody pushes back on that ol’ boy. Did you see that little vein that pops out on his temple when he gets really miffed? Hah!!” The older man nearly fell out of his chair with a fresh peel of laughter. “Oh, yeah, you are gonna have to play some serious pluck and tickle to get back in that one’s good graces!”

Cullen had absolutely no idea what that last bit meant, but the suggestiveness was clear and he couldn’t help the blush that heated his cheeks. “Yeah…well…first, it was what they did to you…and then he did it again except this time knights died over what he did…and…I really lost my mind for a few days…and now here I am in a spot I never would have pictured myself being in.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I don’t like walking on eggshells, Raleigh. I’m not good at it. I was not built for sneaking around. So, I am going to have to…ah…‘clean house’ a bit…and I have to keep it a secret as long as I can. It's not going to be pretty. Everything I’ve done the last year and a half…feels like it's all been for nothing and I now have to undo much of it.”

Samson frowned and let his chair settle on the floor with a thump and he leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the table around his bottle. “What have you been doing for him? I know he had you running circles all around and I know part of it was just to keep ya busy, what with all…your BS…” He smirked as he cleverly abbreviated ‘battle sickness’ to something that was probably far more appropriate than even he was aware. “...But you were always so cloak an’ dagger an’ tight lipped about it all.”

It was Cullen’s turn to laugh now, though he was wryly laughing at himself and all his BS as well. “I was fact finding on the Mage Underground, of course.” His brow furrowed and he shook his head in disbelief for how things had managed to work themselves so far afield from where he’d expected. He held up his thumb and forefinger just a tiny space apart. “I was this close to dropping the axe on it.”

The older man raised an eyebrow at him for a moment. “Wait, so you’ve been working ages, practically since you got here on this project to shut down mages escapin’ and hidin’ away……and now……you owe your life and a favor to one of the top underground supporters? Is that really what you’re tellin’ me right now, roomie?”

Again Cullen was back to staring down at his fingernails on the table. When he put it like that, it felt awful, it felt like an absolute betrayal of everything he stood for. It really was. But he wanted to live…he wanted to be free…he wanted just the same thing these mages wanted, if he was honest about it. “Yes.” He let out a long, heavy breath. “More than one favor. I’m practically an oathbreaker already and I haven’t even done anything yet.” He finally looked up and there was no remorse in his face. None whatsoever. “But if he can find a way to fix me, I honestly don’t care.”

“That’s a whole hell of a lot to put on an ‘If’. Are you sure about this, roomie?”

Cullen snorted, but nodded. “Even if I wasn’t… It’s too late now. I’ve made my bed and I will lie in it until I can do so without screaming my bloody head off so loud that you can hear it all the way down here.” He suddenly slapped the table and pointed at Samson. “Maker’s arse, Raleigh, three times now I’ve woken up with Meredith in my room with her sword in hand. I might not wake up at all one of these nights.” It was an exaggeration that might actually come true if Meredith happened to be in one of her less cognizant periods on one of these times.

That had Samson nearly rolling on the floor in glee all over again, just laughing uproariously while Cullen sat there and blushed and endured his teasing. He waited until the older man had laughed himself out and then gestured toward him. “I wouldn’t ask you join any of my stupidity, Raleigh. I don’t want that for you. It’s one thing risking myself like I am. I… I want to be honest with you.” He looked Samson in the eye now because he really did want to be honest with the man, as much as he possibly could while keeping their friendship. “I should be dead now, at least three times over. I don’t know how much more I can take and I’m tired. If the healer can help me, that would be great. If not, then I’ll get you back in even if it’s the last thing I do. I promise you that.”

The sudden stark quiet of the room almost felt like a cruelty after the uproarious laughter of just a moment ago and Cullen felt a little guilty for it, but it felt like this was important to have out in the open between them.

“…Cullen…”

Rutherford gestured a little dismissive wave at Samson’s reluctant attempt to fill the silence. “It’s just how it is, that’s all. Don’t worry too much about it. But, if you’re willing, in the meantime would you pass things on to me if they come to you? If the healer sends anything my way by you? Or anything you think I might need to know? That’s all I would ask of you.”

“Hn. Yeah, I can do that easy enough.”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but… It’s just… I’ve realized that things don’t have to be the way they are. I don’t like the way they are. I don’t know how they should be, but just not like this.”

“I’ll agree with you that things are pretty shit around here.” Raleigh said and raised his bottle in a mock toast.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Rutherford returned to the Gallows with what almost could have been interpreted as a new lease on life, though it was tainted by a new form of guilt than the one that he’d previously been saddled with.

Before, he had just been a liar hiding a deadly passenger from his fellows while he tried to survive another night. Now he was a liar hiding a deadly passenger and plotting to betray everything that had once been the cornerstone of his beliefs and intending to undermine all that was good and just in the eyes of the Maker just for the promise of help from a member of a freedom fighting smuggler group. A group that he was technically in charge of thwarting.

So, there was that.

Otherwise, it was just business as usual. It didn’t seem right that absolutely nothing had changed except him. Surely there ought to be some sign that something was amiss, but no, he was becoming quite good at downplaying his newly flourishing deceitful nature. Templars needed training, reports needed reviewing, stocks needed taking, the constant upkeep of a citadel that housed something like eight hundred knights and somewhere around thirteen hundred mages needed someone to keep things running on time. It was a job that no one had actually been doing for Maker knew how long and Rutherford didn’t even know the full extent of what his real duties were supposed to be yet.

Nothing summed up the problems better than the fact that, at some point in the past, the quartermaster had run out of armor grease and the merchant that used to sell that grease had left Kirkwall. Rather than figure out how to locate a new source of grease and then figure out how to transfer the funds over to a new payable account for the new requisition, the man had chosen to just start borrowing cooking oil from the mess hall and call it a day. It was no wonder that the stocks of armor were in such a poor state and in need of so much more repair and upkeep than they should have been. That was just one example of the terrible state of things within the Gallows. Rather than attempt to figure out difficult solutions, the Lieutenants and Captains resorted to half and quarter measures that would suffice for now, and then never went beyond the bare minimum necessary efforts to keep things chugging along as usual. All because no one wanted to figure it out for themselves. What was even worse was that they’d all kept all these things to themselves instead of admitting there was anything wrong! Cullen was sure he didn’t know even half of the issues.

The new knight-captain understood absolutely nothing about requisitions or account keeping or budget analysis, but Sweet Andraste’s Bosom! He knew that cooking oil was not a proper substitute for grease! And he also was not too prideful or stubborn to search out the damn person or persons or the Tranquil that might be able to answer his questions until he could figure out the correct solution. In fact, he was too prideful and stubborn not to do so, because he would rather be right than save himself embarrassment. He took great pleasure in it when he confronted the quartermaster, yelled about it a bit, and then shoved a brand new cask of grease into the man’s arms and stomped away, while the man stared after him sheepishly. Rutherford found himself doing a whole lot of shouting still, and it wasn’t just on the training grounds anymore. His new lust for life lasted about two weeks before he slid back into old habits and pure exhaustion again, but at least there was damned grease for his damned armor!

He had put together a list of templar-recruit names. All were recruits that had recorded absences, whether it be for an hour, a day, or days. They were all suspect, all possible victims of Tarohne or that Tevinter mage group. He made sure that all of these recruits were transferred into a separate unit and he personally chose the captain and lieutenant to have responsibility over them. Rutherford chose older, veteran templars for the duty and extended the minimum training period for those recruits. He was not about to risk any more hidden passengers infiltrating the Order. One was enough. He made a point of going down to the training ground when they trained so that he could watch and assess for himself. He intended to put them through their paces himself, often and mercilessly, using that excuse to lay his hands on some of them, looking for any sign of the Fade in them. He resorted to push them as hard as a templar had pushed any mage to the point of possession. If they endured, then he resolved that they would be damned tough knights in the end. His demon was silent, not offering help or hindrance. So far, there had only been three recruits that gave signs that caused Rutherford to worry. He had not decided yet how to handle them. Whatever he did, it would likely require the assistance of a mage. The only mage that he could imagine trusting with this problem was Anders.

He also had some lists of templar-knight names to deal with. Samson had provided him with two lists, he tried to think of them as his naughty and nice lists, because it was easier than examining the deeds that landed some of those names onto the bad list. He was slowly adding more names as they became applicable. One list was growing far longer and it wasn’t the list he wanted. He began to force himself to make a point of taking regular tours of the circle. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to spend more than an hour at a time amongst the mages and, at the end of each tour, he would take himself shakily back to his quarters where he would calm down with meditation and recitation of the Chant until he stopped shaking again. The chant didn’t really help so much as the mindless recitation and focus did. He still had a massively difficult time being surrounded by all those freely roaming mages. Though, perhaps freely roaming was not really a true description.

One of the places that he always made a point of visiting on his tours was the circle library, both because it was quiet and because he wanted to check up on Helisma and Maddox. He had requested that the chantry clerk place them there both for their safety and so that he could keep track of them. He hadn’t known what else to do at the time and it seemed as good an idea as any. That was, until he’d mentioned doing so to Samson. The older man had been surprised to hear what he had done, but he admitted that he was grateful for it. Samson had wondered what fate had befallen Maddox, but he had been too hesitant to ask. Then Samson shared the name of a knight that had gone right onto one of Cullen’s lists, the longer list.

The knight-captain had made a point of seeking the man out in the circle, where his usual post was, and having a conversation with him. It was all quite cordial and nothing out of the ordinary, of course, asking the knight how he liked his post and how long he’d been at it and any number of other things that a new captain would have need to ask. He didn’t let on that he found anything amiss or troubling about any of it.

Rutherford had the same conversation with dozens of other templars throughout the circle and more throughout the Gallows as well. Then he began to stop every Tranquil that he came across throughout both areas and asked them very specific and pointed questions as necessary. Finally he managed to bring himself to start to question the mages themselves as well. They were always courteous and simple conversations with the mages, nothing pointed or inflammatory or obviously invasive. Over time he began to pick up on little cues here and there. He began to notice little hesitations in answering or slight obfuscations, answers that were more deflection than honesty. It was beginning to trouble him greatly despite the fact that no one actually ever said anything was wrong, he was beginning to be able to hear what was not being said. It was all those things that weren’t being spoken that were starting to spark his temper once again. As per usual these last nearly two years, when his temper flared up he found he was able to do things that he would never have been capable of before Kinloch. He was beginning to think that Anders might be right and that he was becoming a very wrathful person.

After about a month of this new fact finding mission of his, he announced to his Lieutenants that, in the spirit of ensuring that all knights maintained the minimum level of competence and training expected of the Order, he was implementing an overall complete post rotation schedule. All he had to do to cite proof that it was a necessary change was point out just how fat some of the templars posted inside the circle had become. It was an embarrassment. Effective immediately and signed off by Meredith Stannard. Nowhere in his memo did it state that those knights at the top of the list for rotation out of the circle exhibited signs of predatory tendencies.

Neither was it stated in the note that he dropped in the donation box at Lirene’s Ferelden’s Imports that was addressed to The Clinic. The only thing written in that note were the words ‘All Postings Quarterly Rotation.’ When he didn’t sleep on the night of the first day of the new rotation, he told himself that it wasn’t because of the new names that would soon be added to the list of dead templars that was still sitting in the top drawer of his desk. He told himself that it was just natural selection, that it wasn’t his pen and his blade cutting away the ‘fat.’ He told himself that if nature intended for there to be fat, slovenly, sadistic, disgusting, rapist templars, then they’d fare just as well outside the walls as they did within. Besides…there were plenty of other dangers in Kirkwall that were not vengeful free mages or their families and there were no guarantees in this life.

~ * ~

Speaking of names added to the list of the dead. Rutherford summoned Sir Thrask to his office one morning. It was a belated summons that should have happened weeks before, but he had been so preoccupied with other things that he hadn’t even seen the man’s report until he cleared the stack that morning. When the knight entered, Rutherford stood to greet him. He hadn’t officially met the man before. They had been in different units before Cullen had been promoted to captain and it wasn’t like Cullen had been exceptionally social with other templars outside of the training area. Thrask was an older knight with a bright red bushy goatee and, of course, strikingly blue eyes. In fact, the man held such a striking resemblance to Sir Alrik, though the lieutenant’s beard was white and he was bald, that it immediately put Rutherford off a bit and made him more cautious.

“I only just came across your report from the Wounded Coast Approach. It somehow slipped itself to the bottom of the stack.” He raised an eyebrow at the other man, watching his expression. “Funny how gravity works around here.”

The knight certainly didn’t seem to expect the sarcasm, but he rolled with it admirably. “Oh? Yes, I’ve heard of such happenings upon occasion. It can be a trial.”

“I’m certain that in the past that might have ensured that some things vanished into the ether. Be assured, the report stack no longer leads to a bottomless black hole or hearth. I have plenty of tinder and kindling for that.” Rutherford gestured for them both to sit and then he pushed the report to the center of the desk between them. “Would you care to summarize this for me?”

Thrask glanced down at the very thin report and then back at the captain. “Surely it needs no summary, it is only a page and a half long.”

Rutherford raised an eyebrow at the man, starting to lose his patience already. He really was far too short on that lately. “Indeed. Shall I summarize it, then?” He picked it up, glanced at the front of it, then back at Thrask. Mages escaped, were found, eleven templars died, one mage surrendered and the rest used blood magic to escape.” He tossed the pages down again. They were so light they didn’t even make a satisfying sound on impact. “Eleven dead, including lieutenant Karras. Isn’t it a sad state of affairs when a Lieutenant of the Order can be killed in the line of duty and receive not even a whiff of acknowledgement?”

The older man’s lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were considering exactly how he should respond. “I think that perhaps it might be more telling that, without the prompting of a written report, no one saw fit to comment on his absence.”

A hard, humorless smile formed on Rutherford’s lips and he nodded at Thrask to concede the point. “And the other ten knights? Were they cut from the same cloth as their officer? Deserving of the same quiet end?”

Thrask’s expression did not change, but he slowly nodded. “Unfortunately, leaders tend to cultivate in their subordinates things that they hold in high esteem within themselves.”

Rutherford allowed the silence to stretch between them, idly fingering a knot in his desk as he considered the other man and what he had just said. “And the single mage that returned willingly? What guarantee is there that he is not a blood mage? Now hard at work poisoning the circle from within? Do not look at me like that. It happened once already just this year and I am still cleaning up the left-over mess.” He didn’t care that Thrask would have no knowledge of what that mess entailed or that it happened at all. It did and he was knight-captain, the man had better take his word for it.

“The boy was more afraid of those mages then he was of me or even the threat that Karras posed him. He forsook the others and eagerly submitted to my custody. I saved that innocent boy and I will not allow you or anyone else to threaten him for mere mistrust. Speak to him yourself, if you must. But see that you uphold the Order’s dictates as you do.” The admonishment from such a low level knight was a surprise.

He had not expected such firm and fearless pushback from the man. He raised his chin and really considered the templar. No wonder the man had been relegated to such a low ranking for so long. Under these lieutenants, he was probably considered a black sheep and an annoyance at the very least. It made him a little more certain about the tentative idea that had prompted him to call the man to this meeting. Along with the fact that the name Thrask happened to be on the short list that Samson had given him. “And what sort of traits would you encourage if you had the status to do so? I understand that you take great pride in your role as a caretaker of the circle. Under the previous knight-commander you were considered a favorite. That seems to have changed in recent years.”

The older templar grimaced then and shifted in his chair, his expression taking on a hint of deep-seated aggravation. “Yes, Meredith does not respect any templar that does not fear or despise the mages that we are supposed to watch over and protect, so no, I do not benefit from her favor.”

Rutherford noted the obvious aggravation in the older man, then he just dove into the real purpose for this meeting without further hesitation. “I am creating a new knight-corporal position whose sole responsibility will be to oversee just the postings within the circle itself. That officer will have full autonomy over the knights assigned to those posts, no matter what unit they belong to. As long as they are posted within the circle, they will be subject to that corporal’s dictates and penalties. Is that a position that you would feel qualified to fill?”

Again, Thrask was taken completely by surprise. “Are you seriously asking me that? You’re not putting me on? Why would Meredith want me to take over the circle?” He asked incredulously.

The captain leaned forward in his seat and looked Thrask squarely in the face, still keeping his hard expression fixed in place. “You won’t report to Meredith. You’ll report directly to me, and it is because I cannot abide by the things that the Order has come to represent within the circle walls. Whoever I place there, I will hold him accountable for all the actions that any templar takes among the mages. Now, are you the man for the job or not?”

Sir Thrask sat there, lips parted, looking almost like a bearded fish that had been scooped up onto the shore. “…I… I am. …I would take that on.”

Rutherford relaxed finally and nodded. “Good. I will be holding you responsible for the safety and well-being of all the mages and the Tranquil therein. If you have need of anything, you will come directly to me for it and you will submit weekly reports. More detailed reports than this one.” He jammed his finger at the waste of paper laying on the desk between them. “Oh, and do you have any argument against being housed alongside the mages?”

The man still sat there with his jaw hanging slightly, stunned by the sudden promotion when he’d stagnated as a basic knight for such a very long time. “I… No, I have no objection to that…”

“Wonderful. Handle whatever affairs you need to. By the time you are ready to move, your new quarters should be prepared. I expect you to continue to fulfill your role as caretaker to the best of your ability. You are dismissed, knight-corporal Thrask.”

Once the still flabbergasted man left his office, Cullen slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his weary face. He hoped that at least this decision proved to be a good one and stayed that way. He also hoped that it meant that he wouldn’t have to enter the circle so often anymore. He would rather deal with yet another report on his desk instead.

~ * ~

The tower was dark and cold, the frozen stones beneath him chilled him through his armor. Cullen sat up and looked around the rose red cage and sighed in relief when he saw that he was alone for once. He was so tired and so hungry, his tongue felt swollen in his mouth, thick with thirst. His joints were in agony from the lack of lyrium. His fingers were so stiff. He took off his gauntlets and rubbed at the cold, sore digits, trying to work life and warmth back into them. Then he froze. He stared down at his hands and then pressed the first knuckle of his forefinger against the joint of his thumb and tried to pop the joint. He couldn’t quite…manage…to… He couldn’t make his fingers do what he wanted. Such a simple little thing, but he just couldn’t… Why not? He did this constantly, practically a hundred times a day. Something wasn’t right about… He suddenly looked around the room again as realization struck him all at once.

He was dreaming.

This was a dream.

This was his nightmare.

He was dreaming and he was lucid and he absolutely did not want to be here! He had to get out of here before the demon realized he was here. He had to get out. He looked wildly around the rose colored cage. He had to wake up.

Cullen bolted upright in his bed with an audible gasp and looked around wildly. He was in his bed in his room in the Gallows. False dawn was radiating in through the windows and casting everything in a soft gloominess. He immediately pressed his fingers together and bent his thumb just so and was rewarded with a satisfying pop. He was awake. He was also immediately disappointed with himself. What had he been thinking? He finally managed to lucid dream and all he did was immediately flee for his cowardly life. What a wasted chance to learn. He flopped back down into the bed with a defeated sigh.

But at least he understood the entire mechanic of it a little better now. Hopefully he wouldn’t merely panic and run away the next time. He would have to integrate some new intentions into his meditations and preparations. Next time he would be better prepared.

~ * ~

Cullin was not looking forward to meeting with Sir Otto Alrik again, but he had put it off too long already. He needed to have this issue squared away before anything happened to further complicate his relationship with the old lieutenant. He hadn’t had a single hint of contact from Anders yet, but it was only a matter of time and he needed to be as ready as he could be for whatever that would entail. He had sent a missive ahead of himself out of courtesy to the older man. An olive branch or show of respect that had been lacking the last time he spoke to the man. He still found even the idea of him distasteful, now that he knew the truth behind his kind, fatherly smile.

At the door to Alrik’s office, he paused and respectfully rapped on the door jam, despite the fact that the door was open already. Inside, Alrik sat at his desk. The man looked up with a veiled expression but invited him in without hesitation. “Knight Captain. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” There was a very obvious distance placed on the title compared to the way they used to talk before the posed attack on the chantry.

Rutherford stepped inside, but he held himself stiff and straight, not quite at attention, but uncomfortable. It reminded him of times when he’d been taken to task in the knight-commander’s office back at the templar training academy for youthful tomfoolery and he relied upon that experience to guide him on how he should portray himself now. He hadn’t been the kind of youth to get into much trouble, but he had his few moments of overzealousness. Even though he knew that here he was in the right, he still had to put on the correct face for the old man.

“Sir Alrik.” He paused for effect, as if he were searching for the right words. “My behavior toward you has been less than considerate of late. I wish to apologize for it. I regret my words and actions. They were undeserved by you and unworthy of me. It was unfair of me to hold you responsible for things that would have been out of the control of anyone in our circumstances and certainly were in no way your fault. Most importantly, I regret having lost your trust and respect because of my own foolish stubbornness and rash temper.”

He paused again there and he didn’t have to project any false nervousness or uncertainty after having laid himself out for the other man’s scrutiny. Even if he didn’t mean a single word, saying them made him feel anxious. The other man continued to merely look at him silently, though a measure of Alrik’s tension had visibly melted away. Rutherford cleared his throat and made as if to take a step back. “That’s all I really wanted to say. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Before he could turn away, Alrik raised a hand to stop him and then gestured to the seat before his desk. “You needn’t leave so soon, lad. Come and sit. It is good to hear you come to your senses. I never doubted that you would, eventually. I know that all of this has been exceedingly stressful for you of late.”

A part of him was relieved that Alrik seemed so receptive to his apology, and part of him absolutely didn’t want to spend any more time in the man’s presence than he absolutely had to. Rutherford moved to sit in the chair and he smiled sheepishly, looking around at the office, really looking anywhere except at Alrik. Playing up the role of a brash young man admitting being in the wrong. He really did want this done and out of the way so that he could move forward from it, even if it was for completely different reasons than Alrik could ever imagine.

“I am aware that I am not the only one that has suffered the brunt of your temper of late, lad. I daresay that there have been days when I could hear your angry shouts from even outside these very walls. You certainly do not fool about when you get your wind up about one thing or another, but that is one of the things that I liked about you from the beginning. You do not hesitate when you see that something must be done, you want it done right and damned be anyone that gets in your way.”

He wasn’t sure whether he should be pleased hearing that from Alrik or whether he ought to be worried about his apparently hasty decision making. “But at least there’s grease in the armory again.” He muttered in his own defense, though he kept his voice low and restrained.

The lieutenant chuckled and nodded. “That, there certainly is, young Rutherford. That there is. There’s also the new Steward that you appointed over the staff. While a good many found it questionable, appointing a dwarf as steward within the Gallows, I can’t say that the staff has ever been better managed, and the repair work the man has already organized and begun contracting workers for does seem to be very promising. I can’t say that the latrines or showers have ever been in better working order either.”

Despite himself, Cullen flushed with pleasure at the praise Alrik was now easily doling out to him. Oh, the old man was too good at this. “Well, I didn’t know the first thing about how to upkeep a fortress like this. He seemed to know his business and came well recommended enough. I’m certain that he only agreed to the wage offered because of how much contract work would be available to his kin with all the repairs that have piled up. Frankly, if I’d known just how much work there is to do, there’s no way that you and Meredith could have ever convinced me to take on the responsibility.”

Again, the old man chuckled and Cullin could practically hear some more ice chipping away from between them. “Then it’s a very good thing for us that you were so innocent. You’ve been doing an excellent job of it. Even if you have upset quite a few of the more seasoned knights with this new quarterly rotation business.”

“Ah.” He tried not to wince when Alrik brought that up. He did know that many of the templars were upset about that, but the majority of those who were the most angry were the ones who needed to be rotated the most. Those who were too comfortable in their predatory ways, or those who were just plain fat and lazy and happy to slide by on tenure alone. “Yes. I know that was not a popular decision, but…”

“Oh, don’t think that I am criticizing you, my boy. I agree that it was a much needed and rather necessary decision. Honestly, I do. I had no idea just how fat Mercer had become until I saw him dragging his shield out onto the training ground last week. I cannot blame you for that, though it was a bit indelicate openly citing that he was the sole reason for everyone’s suffering.” Alrik showed that he was very much amused, no matter what he said. It wasn’t like Cullen’s decision affected the lieutenants or corporals, after all. Only the knights were put on rotation.

“I never cited his name specifically.” Just because everyone seemed to infer that Mercer was the cause for their misery, that didn’t mean he was the sole reason for it. He certainly wasn’t.

“There is one thing that did concern me a bit. This business with Thrask. I can’t say that I agree with your decision to place him over the circle. I don’t know if you are aware of his…shall we say…leanings.”

There was one of the things that Cullen had been waiting for. He just tilted his head and looked sideways at the old man. “You mean because he is a mage sympathizer.” He was rewarded with Alrik’s raised eyebrows. “I know what he is.” He let the silence stretch between them while Alrik considered him. He let the old man mull it over a bit. He was curious to see what he would make of such a suspicious decision. It would tell him if Alrik had any doubts about him at this point or not.

At length the older man steepled his fingers and leaned forward a bit. “So, what is it that you are planning?”

Cullin couldn’t help but smile. “I haven’t fully worked it out yet. I wanted to wait and see.” He glanced back to the still open door of Alrik’s office, but then leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t know if he is aware of the cellar or not. It has been very quiet of late, as you know. Ever since your roving squads encountered the last large groups outside the exit, they seem to be biding their time. Perhaps licking their wounds. I thought that possibly some friendlier faces might act as a lure.”

The lieutenant made a thoughtful sound as he considered it. “That might be. It might also allow some to slip through more easily when there are less eyes on the prize.”

“I had thought of that as well.” Rutherford nodded and leaned in a bit further, resting one elbow on Alrik’s desk as if they were in deep cahoots. “I had thought…wondered…if you would wish to take on the cellars in a more personal role. You and your unit. I could…exempt them from the rotation. If that was something that you would want. Your men are the only ones that have seen the cellars… Is that still true?”

“Yes, I have kept it just to my elite hunters and knights. They know how to keep a secret. Plus, I think that they quite enjoy the novelty of it. It is certainly more challenging than patrolling the city or the coast.” The older lieutenant looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I think I would enjoy that for a time.” He looked very pleased once another thought occurred to him. “I think that Sir Thrask would be quite affronted if he were to ever find out that even while he holds sway over the circle, I am there lurking beneath it, waiting for his precious magelings as they try to slink away.”

Cullen forced a smile onto his lips, even though the look on the other man’s face and the sound of relish in his voice made him feel sick to his stomach. How had he ever thought that this man could be kind and fatherly? How had he have been so easily taken in by him when the darkness within him was so poorly hidden beneath the surface? “I’ll see that your elites are removed from the rotation roster.”

They talked for a bit longer, but the rest was merely idle chatter like how they used to converse on occasion before Rutherford had been promoted to captain. Then Cullen took his leave and got back to his more routine duties. He went, feeling soiled and just a bit unclean and not only because of spending so long in the close confidences of a sociopath.

~ * ~

It was All Soul’s Day and that meant the chantry was busy with special vigils and prayers for the souls of those dearly loved and lost beyond the veil. It was a time of reflection and remembrance and feasting in honor of the dead. That also meant that Meredith was out and about, making appearances and speaking with chantry and city officials as necessary. It wasn’t one of the most auspicious holidays, but it was one that she enjoyed. That meant that she also had a contingent shadowing her most of the way. Cullen kept by her for most of it, but he found himself drawn into conversations with city leaders as well. It still felt odd to be considered on a similar par with such as the Senechal and the Grand Cleric and Meredith. He didn’t think he would ever get used to that.

There had been a point after the festivities when he noticed that a few of the dwarven merchants had approached her with wares for her perusal, but he paid them little mind, caught up in conversation a short distance away with some of the city guards. Apparently, there had been some drama that brought to light corruption and bribery in the ranks and now they had a new interim guard-captain. An ex-military Ferelden named Aveline. Now where had he heard that name before? He was sure it was familiar. The knight-commander was smiling and interested in the shops, and he was not about to dissuade her when she seemed to be enjoying herself so much. In fact, Cullen rather liked standing back and watching Meredith take pleasure in her outing for once. She seemed to be having a very good day and it was rare for her to get to wander about without one or a pair of the lieutenants hovering at her elbows. It seemed that she did find something that caught her fancy, because she called over her tranquil clerk to arrange for payment for whatever trinket she had purchased from the merchant. It looked to be held in a very ornate metal box that she clutched to her chest when the transaction was finished. She kept it with her for the rest of the day, until her entourage escorted her back to the Gallows.

His attention was yanked away from his discussion with the guards when he noticed a heavily built young man deep in conversation with one of the templar recruiters that were wandering the festivities. They were always casting about for new recruits, but Cullen did not expect to see the sibling of that apostate here and seeming to be seriously deep in talk with one of the Order. What was the young man’s name? Carver, wasn’t it? He would have to look into that. There was still a part of him that viewed the happenstance with suspicion and skeptical distrust, but he made an effort to quash that response. It didn’t matter whether the boy was there because he wanted to glean information on behalf of his sister or wanted to learn of templar strengths and weaknesses or whether he really had an interest in joining the Order. None of that mattered because he himself was no longer fully invested in the Order’s mission and directives. So he told himself that it was of no import, even as part of him still asserted that he would find out the young man’s motives. There was only so much of himself that he could cast aside into the midden heap.

As he returned to the Gallows courtyard, he saw ahead a chantry cleric with her knight escort glowering after Meredith’s entourage. They had obviously rebuffed her attempt to gain an audience with the knight-commander by camping in her doorstep. She would have had a better chance if she had attended the festivities today. That made Rutherford’s eyes narrow. The fact that she hadn’t, meant that what she wished to talk about was not a topic for prying ears. He sighed and approached the two. They were standing in the way of the entrance, staring in after the commander in vain. The woman turned and laid eyes on him and Rutherford was not pleased by the way she looked him up and down and examined the rank insignia on his armor before ever acknowledging him with a chilly smile.

“Ah, knight-captain. I am Sister Petrice. What a pleasure to meet you.” She obviously did not actually know his name and he doubted that she cared to. Even her knight gave off an air of cold disregard, though he did semi-stand to attention. Obviously he had been posted in the chantry for quite some time. Cullen instantly and instinctively disliked the pair of them.

“Is there something I can help you with, sister?” He asked politely.

“I had been hoping to bend the knight-commander’s ear on the matter of a grave threat. But it seems she did not have the time for it.” Her tone said exactly what she thought of the commander’s priorities.

“The commander keeps a busy schedule. Perhaps next time, you’ll consider seeking an official audience, rather than camping on the Gallows steps.” Ah, the response was both satisfying and served to affirm his first assessment of the waspish woman.

She actually made a face at him. As if she physically couldn’t contain the extent of her antipathy. “I have tried. Many times. Perhaps you might be more inclined to hear me out and judge whether the message I carry is of true importance, knight-captain.”

He managed not to sigh and roll his eyes. This woman was quite dramatic, wasn’t she? “Very well, sister Petrice, what is this grave threat that you spoke of?”

“It is the Qunari affront here in Kirkwall. They pose a great threat to the faithful. Something must be done.” Her tone was so clearly offended that Cullen understood the true issue immediately.

“Sister Petrice, while the Qunari are clearly heathen and strange to us, they have posed no overt threat to anyone, as far as I am aware. They have kept themselves separate and apart from the rest of the citizens and have shown that they prefer the privacy of the space that the Viscount has afforded them at the docks. There is nothing to gain from either the Chantry or the Order becoming involved in this affair.” He tried to keep the bored, exasperation out of his tone. He now remembered that he had received some letters regarding this very topic. Probably from this woman. After the first one, the rest had gone unanswered into the hearth.

“With all due respect, knight-captain.” Her tone showed very little of that respect. “These heretics are an insult to the Maker and their presence here is a catastrophe just waiting for a match. At the very least, they are causing some of the lesser dregs of our society, namely the elvish parishioners, to look upon these monsters and question their faith. Where these few falter, others of the flock may follow their example.”

“With all due respect, sister.” Rutherford retorted. “Perhaps you should think more on your own faith in the Maker’s sovereignty and focus your efforts toward learning what it is that your parishioners have failed to receive from the Chantry. When you find that, you will know what has caused their faith to falter so easily that something as alien as the Qun can draw them away. Good evening to you.” He turned a polite nod of acknowledgement to the knight who looked just as sour and insulted as his charge. Then Rutherford stepped around them and entered the Gallows, not bothering to stop the smirk that rose to his face as he walked away from the racist and xenophobic pair. He had enough on his plate just trying to figure out how to deal with the issues between mages and templars, he had zero time or effort to waste on the Qunari.

~ * ~

After the events of the evening, Cullen left the Gallows on his own. If anyone had asked him where he was going he would have made up some excuse, but no one questioned him at all. He slipped down to Lowtown and stopped off at Lirene’s to drop yet another donation in the box for Ferelden refugees along with another hastily jotted note to the Clinic. This one simply said ‘Elites in the dark seeking Trophies. Caution.’ From the Import shop, he quickly ducked into his little apartment, but found it empty so he plucked a few vials of blue from his purse and left them in the storeroom. Then Cullen went for a walk around the Lowtown market, browsing some of the wares for anything that might catch his eye. Honestly it was just to kill some time, he had no interest in buying anything, but he didn’t want to leave any direct trails that someone might follow if they were interested enough in his movements. After about an hour, he slipped into the Hanged Man and bought a pint of something that approximated ale but was too sour for his taste. He didn’t intend to drink it, alcohol did not help him control his temper at all, it was mostly for the look of it and to give him an excuse to sit quietly and watch the rest of the drunks act foolish. Maybe he would see Samson. He didn’t.

After about a half hour, Cullen was getting ready to call it an evening and return to the Gallows when a familiar woman in her underwear arrived at the bar. She looked to have already been far into her cups before she arrived and did not intend to quit any time soon. That was when Cullen realized where he knew the name Aveline from. That had been the name of one of Hawke’s companions. A strong looking woman in city guard armor with a Ferelden accent. Well, that was very interesting, but he also realized that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Hawke in quite some time now. Not that it was any matter to concern himself with. He had promised not to bother any of Anders’ associates, after all. He decided that was also his cue to return to the prison. He did not wish to endure the half naked woman’s flirtations, he could already see her making the rounds through the men at the bar. It would also not be the best choice to wait too late into the night before traversing the city alone, what with all the cutpurses that prowled about. He quickly retreated.

It was very late when he strode down the hall to where his and Meredith’s rooms were and he was very tired. Ever since the ‘incident’ between himself and the healer, his demon had not chosen to speak at him, which wasn’t a bad thing. It was a relief, really, but his nightmares had also been quite a bit meaner and polarizing. They seemed to be mostly swinging from one extreme to the other, either burning immolation or drowning inevitability. Just slowly wearing him down one night at a time. He hadn’t managed to lucid dream again since that first time, but he was still practicing as much as ever. Anders also hadn’t tried to contact him at all, but he wasn’t too concerned about that as of yet. There were too many other things for him to be concerned about in his day to day to worry about that complication.

With his hand on the doorknob, he paused because he thought that he felt something familiar. Felt? No…heard? Smelled? It was so strange, this sense. He was fairly sure that it wasn’t his own, or that it wasn’t all his own at least. The thing he sensed or heard was like a humming. After a moment of hesitation, he moved further down the hall toward Meredith’s room. Was she awake? Perhaps humming some melody like she did sometimes when she had woke him from his nightmares? He stood outside her door and listened. No, it wasn’t a voice…it was…it was like the hum he had heard from Ander’s lyrium ring. Had those dwarves sold her something with lyrium in it? That was the only thing he could think of. He certainly hoped not, but then again…who else would know how to handle lyrium properly than a dwarf merchant? He would have to check just to be sure. Later, when it wasn’t the middle of the night.

He returned to his room and by the time he entered, he could no longer hear the hum anymore and once the intensity of that evening’s nightmare hit him, he forgot about it completely. That night, the rose red cage seemed to be especially red, a much darker, truer shade of red. The whispers that had always been present in his Fade prison seemed to become louder, more prominent, more insistent. He slept even more poorly than usual and the next day he woke in a markedly foul temper, which then became the great regret of the recruits and knights both on the training grounds and off them.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

Cullen rubbed at the dark bruises beneath his eyes. They were really sore today and he swore that he had only perhaps slept for an hour at most last night. It seemed like as soon as he closed his eyes lately he slipped straight into his nightmare and there was never any rest to be hand in that Fade cage. He was so wrung out that he hadn’t even hesitated at taking his full draught that morning and had even considered chasing it with another, but he had refrained. It still reminded him of a cooling corpse in his hands and tasted of temptation and regret on his tongue. The physical high and feeling of potency that flooded him after ingesting it was just…it was in no way worth the awfulness that the vial represented to his cracked and splintered psyche. Still, there was no rest for the wicked, he thought to himself with reproach.

He entered the recruitment office and asked for the newest list of possible candidates. The captain there, Arkenneth, was happy to provide him with it. He was a well put together man and he looked the absolute picture of a proud Templar. Of course, he would have to be if he wanted to convince the young to join the Order. Rutherford looked over the sheet of names. Maker, but his world seemed to have devolved into just lists and lists and reports and reports. Names and details and orders and accounts and financial statements and problems and solutions. Oh, he longed for the days when the most he had to worry about was being shouted at by his training officer for not raising his shield high enough to avoid being clouted on the head with a blunt sword. Maker preserve him, what was the point of it all?

Sir Arkenneth enthusiastically went over the list with him, citing specific candidates which he thought had great potential and those who definitely were lacking. Eventually the name that Rutherford had an interest in came up. Carver Amell Hawke. When he laid eyes on the full name, he nearly dropped the entire list and just barely was able to restrain and hide the shudder that wanted to fight free. It was just a name. Just a common name. Surely there were plenty of families throughout Thedas, the Free Marches, Orlais, and more who shared that name. It did not mean anything! Get a grip upon yourself, Cullin, stop being a bloody fool!

He forced his focus to slide over to the names that he was interested in and ignore that one. So, Hawke was a surname. That was interesting as well, that the apostate did not even go by her given name like her sibling. He wondered idly if that was out of pride or some other reason. According to Arkenneth the name Amell was actually a very old Kirkwallian noble house that had fallen low over the years. It had nothing to do with Kinlock at all. In fact, the recruiter went to his records cabinet and pulled out a folder with the name Amell/Hawke written on it. That took Cullen by surprise, he had no idea that the Order kept such records. The surprise only lasted until the recruiter began to read off some of the information. Then it made perfect sense.

“The Amell family was a prominent one until some bit over two decades ago. It seemed that the daughter and scion of the Amells became infatuated with a mage that was housed within the circle. One by the name of Malcolm Hawke. Hawke managed to get the Amell girl pregnant, which would have landed Malcolm in quite a bit of trouble both with the Amells and with the Order, of course. There’s actually quite a bit of scandal in the whole story. I’m not sure if it is something which the Order would wish to revisit.” Here, Sir Arkenneth turned to Rutherford to await his response.

Frowning, the captain reached out to take the folder from him and look at it himself. “Really? Why do you say that? What is the significance of this family drama to the Order?” He started to scan the documents curiously.

“Well, to be perfectly honest, it involves your predecessor, the previous knight-captain.”

Now that caught Cullen’s attention and he looked up sharply. “What? What do you mean?” He began to flip through the pages until he found a reference to his title in the block of text on a page buried within the stack. He hadn’t actually been able to find any information on the last knight-captain. It was as if his presence had been redacted from the Order’s records.

“You wouldn’t know it, very few would at this point in time. None other than those of us who were here to witness the shame of it. Sir Maurevar Carver, the last knight-captain of the Gallows. It was because of this scandal that Meredith was sent to take over the circle. Well, maybe it wasn’t just this, but he was cast out of the Order shortly after the old knight-commander himself was. Honestly, it was the Amell family’s wrath that was the last straw that drew the Order’s attention. They crowed for justice for their favored daughter’s downfall for years until finally the right noble said the right thing to the right knight-divine, and then in came the Seekers to see what was really going on and then in came Meredith.”

Cullen looked at the recruiter with real fascination and surprise at the story and then turned to scan the report, eyes eating up the words with great interest. It seemed that not only did Malcolm Hawke escape the circle, but he also managed to destroy his phylactery even though it was kept in the vault that could only be accessed by both a templar and a mage working in conjunction to open it. “We have a phylactery vault here?”

“Oh yes, we have one of the largest collections on this side of Orlais. We are considered one of the safest collections for obvious reasons.” Sir Arkenneth sounded proud, it was probably the same tone that he used with prospective recruits. “In fact, we hold many of the Ferelden phylacteries here. We hold all the ones from your old circle, I believe.”

The captain glanced at him. “Really?” He turned back to the pages again. “So, I take it that the overall belief is that this Maurevar Carver allowed Malcolm to flee the circle with his intended mate? I suppose that is the sort of thing that used to occur more often than it should have in the Gallows all those years ago. Quite an embarrassment for the Order. It’s no wonder that the official records have been redacted. I’m surprised that you have this much intact information here.”

“No one ever remembers that the recruiters keep their own records. Technically they aren’t ‘official’ records, they are just supposed to help us track templar family connections for assistance with recruiting. If your father or grandfather or grandmother was a templar, then your child might be more likely to want to join as well. Though, technically, this file is actually from the circle records of families with mage blood. The Hawke’s and Amells. And see, Malcolm was so grateful to the captain that he named his second born after him. Seems like pretty damning evidence to me.”

“So, are you suggesting that this is a reason to bar young Carver from joining the Order?” He turned to the recruiter once again, waiting to hear what the man really thought on the matter.

“I wouldn’t say that, but it is something to consider. The boy claims that his father died some years before the Blight and that he wants to blaze his own path, a warrior path. I say it is always good to keep track of ones like this one. There’s every chance that one of the boy’s offspring will be born a mage as well.”

“True. Well, I would like to be kept in the loop, whatever happens. If he is recruited…I think I might take an interest in him, just to be prudent.”

“Probably a good idea, Captain.”

~ * ~

It was the whispers that brought him around. All those damned whispers, stabbing into his brain like probing fingers, like questing claws, making his head ache and feel two sizes too small for his brain. He shoved himself up off the cold, frozen stones and staggered under the onslaught. They were like a physical weight pressing him down, down, bowing his back, making his legs bend, causing his knees to creak dangerously. He was barely able to think, to look around the horrid red cage. In impotent rage and anger, he yanked off first one gauntlet and flung it at the barrier, then the second and did the same. They both sparked with static and lightning and bounced and skidded across the stones. Then he did the same with his vambraces and then his pauldrons. He howled in helpless rage at the words and the melody that he couldn’t understand and yet couldn’t manage to block out, the incessant sound battering at him.

His tantrum finally exhausted him enough that he just stood, wavering in place, head hanging, hands at his ears. Nothing fended off the sound. Slowly, he caught his breath and brought his hands down to see that there was blood on them. Blood from his ears, his eyes, his nose. He stared at his hands and then began to try to rub at the blood, desperately trying to wipe it away, get it off, erase it from his skin. Then his fingers pressed together in a habit that had long since become ingrained into him and…and……and… He realized he was dreaming.

“Oh, Maker, preserve my soul.” He sank down to his knees and pressed his bloody hands to the frozen stones. “I’m dreaming… It’s a dream… It’s just a dream. It’s not real.” He looked back down at the blood on his hands and he wanted it gone and…suddenly it was.

As he stared in shock it flickered back again, flickering back and forth, blood, no blood, blood, gone. Cullen seized upon that and grasped desperately at everything that he had ever been taught about holding onto his Mental Fortress and he asserted his will. The blood was gone and it stayed that way. A trembling sigh escaped his lips and then he looked up at the ceiling far above.

“SHUT UP!!!”

Silence surrounded him. Oh, blessed silence. He almost collapsed to the ground again, he felt such tremendous relief. He almost went boneless in response to the lack of whispers, the absence of that horrible noise, now there was nothing and it was so welcome.

“Oh look at this…what a delicious little morsel it is… Look at you, all here, all present and accounted for. What a lovely little surprise.”

Cullen stiffened and lurched to his feet again, turning defensively toward the horrible hiss of the abomination. Now that he was lucid, he could see it for what it was. It was a trick, a pantomime, a thing that had been made specifically to feed upon his guilt and hurt and expose his innermost feelings. His lips twisted into a grimace of disgust and loathing. Sadly, it had been utterly successful. He no longer felt anything but hatred and horror for the creature and for the woman that it pretended to have once been. He stared at the horror that had been twisted from his memories of the sweet, pretty little mage that he had once had a juvenile crush on. All those feelings had been wrung from him and twisted around to the point that they were only pain and terror and…no, he couldn’t let his mind go down that road. He could feel the dream trying to reassert its control over him, trying to push his consciousness away. He forced himself back under control. Forced himself to think rationally. He was dreaming, that thing outside of the barrier was nothing more than a figment of the Fade set here to torture him by Uldred. Perhaps it really was a demon itself, pretending to be an abomination. Whatever it was… He did not need to fear it. He would not cower before a dream!

“Oh, dear, beloved, my love… I am so much more than that. Am I not all you ever wanted? Am I not beautiful? Do you not covet me? Do you not want me all for your own? Do you not want to be inside me? To lose yourself in the delectable heat of my embrace?”

The taunting made him want to vomit because he remembered all too many dreams where… No! He could not go down that path! There lay madness and the nightmare’s control. “You are not her. You are nothing! I deny you and I deny this nightmare!”

The abomination clicked her tongue as if at a naughty child. “Oh, but dear lover, I really am so much more than that. And now that you are here in full with me, I can finally show you just what I really can do to you.”

From the other side of the barrier, the horror advanced, it came right up to the cage and then it stepped through it. Cullen skittered back, looking around for escape. Of course, there was none. That was the point of this damn cage. But if it could go through, then so could-

His arm jerked back from the energy barrier and he hissed in pain, looking at the burn on his skin and cursing. No…no…it was a dream. It was not real and it could not hold him! He took hold of his will and stubbornly threw himself through the barrier. There was still discomfort, it still burned, because the cage had held him for so long that it was hard to truly convince himself otherwise, but then he was through it. He was out! He was out of the cage and…among the bodies. Maker, but seeing it all with his full faculties was so different. It was still just as horrible, but now he could look around with the detachment of understanding. He scooped up a discarded templar sword and shield from the floor and turned to face the monster. For the first time ever, he was able to face his terror like a knight should. He growled to himself and he realized that he didn’t feel starved for lyrium, he didn’t feel an unquenchable thirst for water. He felt strong.

He threw himself at the abomination and promptly lost himself to the dream again. Eventually, as with all dreams, it righted itself back onto its true pathway and once again the nightmare took control. By the time he woke up to false dawn oozing through the windows, he had been disarmed and trapped within the dark red barrier with the cruel and sadistic abomination all over again.

This time, he stared up at his ceiling with a thoughtful expression and a new puzzle to work through. A new problem to solve. He knew there was a solution, he just had to lay his hands on it and not allow it to be torn from his grasp. Ever again.

~ * ~

This time when Cullen made his way to the Darktown clinic, it was with slow, plodding footsteps. He took his time and meandered on purpose, partly to cover his path and partly just to give himself plenty of time to think about his purpose. To try to think as clearly as possible, though he knew that he wasn’t as clear as he wanted to be. He had come to accept that he wasn’t as in control of his faculties as he thought he was, even under normal circumstances. Did that mean that he was slowly going more and more mad? If he were honest with himself, then he would have to say yes, that was exactly what it meant. But he did not want to examine himself that closely or that truthfully, so he didn’t. He tried to concentrate on the things that he had some slight measure of control over instead.

When he eventually made it to the usual dead end in the sewer, he remembered the way fairly well by now, he stopped at where the door ought to be. He pressed his hands out and felt for the ward, it was as bright and pushy as ever, trying to repel him as best it could. He rapped on the stone wall. It sounded like wood. Then he stepped back and waited, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted down so far that his chin nearly rested on his chest. He could have been just another Darktowner huddled in the dark.

He had almost given up, thinking that Anders must be elsewhere tonight, but then he heard the scuff of a footfall from within and the wall cracked to reveal the healer’s drawn, sleepy face. The mage looked tired enough that he didn’t even seem to recognize him right away, but then he opened the door wide enough to invite Cullen in. “Please don’t tell me you have the plague too. You’ll have to wait a while, I’m all tapped out of mana right now.”

Oh. He had heard about some sickness going around the less fortunate areas of Kirkwall. He had completely forgotten, but even the Gallows had been taking precautions to ensure that none of the numerous inhabitants came down sick. As soon as one did, the rest were at far too much risk with so many living together. “I am…not sick.” He couldn’t say that he was fine, because he really wasn’t.

“Good for you. Wonderful, in fact. Please keep it that way. Make sure you wash up well when you go back to wherever it is you go.” Anders yawned and turned away, shuffling back toward his back room. “Come on, then. I need to lay down. You’ve already seen everything back here, so you might as well come too. Bring a stool.” He disappeared into the little room.

Cullen glanced around and chose a stool that looked like it was away from where the most use would likely have been and he followed the mage. Anders had already thrown himself down and pulled his blanket up over himself and had his little pillow snuggled under his cheek. It felt…awkward…being here like this. “I…would offer to come back another time, but…it is not so easy for me to get down here unnoticed. Not lately, at least.”

“It’s fine. I assume that you wouldn’t bother unless you had a good reason. It’s not like I need all that much sleep anyway, I just need to recharge a bit.”

The captain nodded and placed the stool down so that he could lean against the wall across from the prone mage. “Alright. I… I need to know about the Fade. About dreaming, specifically.”

The tired man glowered at him a bit. “And you couldn’t ask one of the thousand mages that you had on hand? You need me for that?”

“I can’t exactly ask them the right questions and so I likely wouldn’t get the right answers. If I turn out to have wasted your time, you’re welcome to slap me and throw me out. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Hah. You know, I’m going to hold you to that. Are you sure that you don’t actually like pain and punishment? You sure do seem pretty open to it most of the time.”

“We’re taught to ignore pain and turn it toward a positive end.”

“As I suspected!” Anders still managed to sound sarcastic and triumphant at once.

“It is honestly not something that I would do in my off-time when given the opportunity.” Cullen rubbed at his eyes and they stung unhappily for it. “I’ve been trying to lucid dream. I’ve managed it a few times, but I keep losing myself back to the nightmare. I need advice.”

The mage yawned wide enough that his hand barely covered his mouth. “Why in the world are you trying to put yourself further into the Fade than you already are? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is for a non-mage?”

With a heavy sigh, Cullen leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “Please, Anders. I have to do something. If I can’t do anything, then I might as well just disembowel myself here and now and call it a nap. I can’t take this…it’s never ending. At least when I’m doing something I can focus on that and push through. Even if I’m just fooling myself. That’s fine, I don’t care. But I can’t stop trying…because if I stop, then I’m done.”

Quiet reigned while Anders thought for a moment. Cullen hoped that the other hadn’t fallen asleep, but he didn’t bother to look. He was so tired and just resting his closed eyes in his hands was a tiny bit of relief. His head pressed into his hands so heavily that, even just sitting like this, his body wanted to sleep. He jerked sharply as he almost slid off the damn stool. He caught himself at the last second and righted again. Apparently, the mage had been watching him.

“Nope. No. We are not doing this. Not when we’re both about to fall down.” Anders sighed and then crawled tiredly off the cot. He retrieved a pad off one of the cots outside and a blanket. Cullen just blankly watched him move about without understanding what he was doing until the mage tossed the pad and blanket down in front of him. “Lay down. I have just enough juice in me to put you out. We can talk in the morning.”

Cullen opened his mouth to dispute the suggestion that he sleep here, or that he sleep at all. He couldn’t go back to that Fade prison, he couldn’t…

“No arguments! Just do it!!”

That last command was given with such authority that Cullen flopped down on instinct alone. Anders threw the blanket at his head and thumped back into his own bed again. “You better not snore or I will put you out of my misery.”

The last thing that Cullen felt was the cool wash of magic guiding him down into blessed darkness and he didn’t even care anymore. He half hoped that he wouldn’t claw his way back out again.

~ * ~

He was back in the damned Fade cage again, but this time he just sat there. His gauntlets were off and he was toying with his thumb. He knew he was dreaming. He didn’t know how long he had slept before he had found his way back to the Fade. He hoped that it had been at least a little while. Was it too much to hope for a few hours? Probably. He was just sitting, playing with his fingers and looking around. The place seemed different. Not so intense. Not so harsh as it had been recently. He wasn’t sure why that might be. Was his demon finally getting over how pissed it had been at him for forcing it back down? He had assumed that the awfulness of the dreams had been all due to his angry rage demon’s fury. Why did it feel different now?

He sat in his cage and pondered it. Yes, his surroundings were still horrible, they were still the thing of nightmares, but he had been here for so long and seen it so many times that while he was lucid it wasn’t enough to really upset him anymore. He knew that this was just a memory and, while the memory was gruesome and sickening, that was still all it was. It was the past. It was just an image as long as he didn’t try to remember, to experience it again. The real threats here were the inhabitants and just now that was only him. He supposed that he was a threat to himself too, depending on how close to the edge he was.

There was a time when he wouldn’t have been able to detach himself like this. He thought that it probably said something about how far he had been pushed to the edge, that he could see these things and not even flinch anymore. Like now, he could feel what could have been interpreted as the warmth of a hearth at his back suddenly. He didn’t need to look to know that the demon had arrived, but he did not panic on its arrival. It seemed like it was being subtle. He could appreciate that.

“So, what is it going to be tonight? Are we planning to melt my skin off again? Maybe roast me from the inside out this time, like when you tried to possess me. Maybe do something novel and hang me over a spit and roast me alive. You don’t happen to have an apple, do you? I could stuff it in my mouth.”

There was no response from the demon, Cullen glanced over his shoulder and could just see the glow that it gave off. It was just sitting there, on the other side of the barrier, probably only about two body lengths away from him. It was just sitting and watching quietly. Finally Cullen turned around to face it, settling down into a kneel that he would use for any long term vigil. He wasn’t trying to control the dream now, he just was practicing keeping himself lucid and in the moment. The demon crouched there, mirroring him, having taken up a similar pose. It was hard to tell, as it did not have legs, but it was similar enough.

“This prison has been intense of late. Something has changed again and it no longer stokes my rage so strongly as it has been. It has returned to the way it always was before.”

That took Cullin by surprise, hearing the demon relate the same thought that he had just moments ago. “You noticed it too. Funny, I thought you were just that pissed at me. Are you saying that it wasn’t you?”

“This is an island, cast adrift within the Fade. It was shaped and cut away from the rest by a mortal mind. I cannot change it more than it was intended to change. The same is true for you, no matter how deeply present you are.”

The templar frowned at the demon. This place had been shaped? It took him a moment to understand that. It had been shaped by Uldred. Uldred purposefully created a prison to torture him with. He had made it so close to reality that Cullen could find no escape, whether awake or asleep. It was diabolically cruel, locking him here in this purgatory so that there was no way out until the bloodmage finally bled him dry and killed him just like all the others or he let the demon take him over and devour him. Except that Cullen had escaped, or he had half escaped. His body had escaped Kinloch, the rest of him was apparently trapped here still.

“Alright. Then does that mean that something else affected this place, besides you and I? Do you know what could have made it so…intense?” He could think of a few other words for it; ghastly, repulsive, maddening, unbearable. Had he referred to his time in Kinloch as his Harrowing? He hadn’t thought it could have been worse, but apparently it could and it had been for weeks. Up until now. What changed?

“I do not know. All I know is that it has been maddening. It was as if a driving melody had wormed its way in to stir up coals and stoke flames. I cannot hear it now. I only hear the lyrium ring. It was not like the song that the Fade brother hoards and hides here. This song is soothing, it quiets and calms and whispers of home. When you quaff your tainted dilution, it makes the veil between your mortal self and this place too difficult to reach across.”

“So that’s why, when I drink a full draught, I sleep more soundly.” …But then he despised himself afterwards… Cullin half wished that he could love lyrium again, that he could just slug it down without a second thought, without a care, but that wasn’t how things were. He couldn’t imagine it ever being that way again.

The demon did not respond to him, not that he really wanted it to. He was being foolish just sitting here talking to it like this. He knew that, but that was the nature of this place. It forced them together, as if Uldred had shoved them into a closet and told them to make nice or he wouldn’t let them out again. But Uldred was dead, so here they stayed because that madman died with the key to this prison in his pocket. Or in his veins. “So why haven’t you started yet? Not bored of sitting there watching me?”

“I am drained. These past weeks have taken a toll on me, just as they have on your soft flesh. I may be far far more powerful than you could ever imagine, but even I am not boundless. Even Wrath may become weary with no resolution within reach.”

A moment passed by while Cullen pondered something that he had wondered about before, but there had never seemed like there would be an opportunity to feed his curiosity. Maybe this was as close to that as he would get, while they both seemed to be exhausted and uninterested in fighting.

“Why do you call yourself that? You’re a rage demon…but you claim to be Wrath.”

The demon shifted slightly, tilting its head almost like an animal might when it eyed some curiosity. “We of the Fade learn from the you mortals and your mortal concepts, your living existence is far different from the Fade. In you, there is much rage, it is deep and rich and vibrant, and powerful. It is what drew me, this complexity, this resonance. Through you, I learned the complexity of Wrath and I have embraced it.”

Cullen hesitated to ask, he thought that he might regret the answer, but he wanted to know. What was the influence that he might have had upon a demon? “And…what is Wrath to you?”

“Wrath is angry and violent, it is fierce and stern, but it has direction and focus. It is not frenzied or chaotic. Wrath is the consequence of deeply resentful indignation; thus it is orderly and disciplined, even while defiant. Wrath is divine retribution for wrongs committed and flouted, disregarded and overlooked too long. Wrath and Vengeance are brothers, cohorts and kin. My Fade brother clings to his old ideals, he fears the potential of what he may become if he embraces the leanings of his flesh suit. With you, I would merge eagerly and completely. Embrace me and we shall proclaim Wrath upon all those deserving of it.” ”

Cullen had a hard time swallowing for a moment, as his fear of the being before him reasserted itself again. He had sat here and conversed with it for too long. “You know, it is when you say things like that, that I remember that we are not allies and that I am never going to give myself to you to devour…or merge. This has been enlightening, but it’s time for me to wake up.”

~ * ~

The templar came awake all at once with a gasp and sat straight up on the pad. He looked over and found Anders looking at him from the cot he was still laying in, his sudden movement had woken the mage. They blinked at each other sleepily for a moment and then Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed, and shrugged. “Uh… Good morning?”

Anders just rolled his eyes and climbed off his cot, moving around in what was apparently his morning routine, ignoring Cullen for the time being. He didn’t mind that. It gave him some time to fully wake up and to think over the strange conversation that he’d had with Wrath. That last part of its explanation had been about Anders. Or, rather, it had been about Anders’ spirit of Justice. Vengeance, it had called it.

“So, do you always jerk awake like that?” The question pulled him from his thoughts.

Cullen looked up and watched as Anders prepared a pot of tea, stirring in some herbs and then wrapping his hands around the pot to heat it with magic. He supposed you couldn’t have a fire down here; the smoke would be deadly.

“I guess it happens more times than it doesn’t. I was having a chat with the demon. It seems that it was just as exhausted as I was when I stumbled down here. It agreed with me that something was wrong, but it said that it felt better being around your lyrium ring. Because of the song it makes.”

The healer brought over two mugs of tea and handed one to Cullen, then he sat on his cot again. “Apparently lyrium in its raw form is soothing to spirits. I don’t know much more than that.”

“It mentioned your spirit too. It keeps calling it a brother, but it called it by a different name than you use.” Cullen glanced up from his tea so that he could watch Anders’ face. “It called it Vengeance, not Justice.”

The reaction was more telling than anything the mage could have said. He witnessed Anders become very still and then the mage averted his gaze down to his cup, as if buying himself time to think of a plausible response. “Did it? That’s very strange.”

“I believe its statement was that it is ‘afraid to fully embrace the leanings of its meat suit.” He didn’t pull the punch because he wanted to see how the healer would react. He wasn’t disappointed.

Anders physically recoiled from the statement and hot tea sloshed over his fingers. The mage hissed from possibly burned fingers and quickly moved to snatch up a worn towel to clean the spill with. Neither of them said anything more for a moment. Finally Anders had dabbed up the mess and no longer had an excuse to avoid Cullen’s watchful gaze. He glanced over, saw Cullen watching him so closely…like a mabari? No. …Like a templar. Definitely like a Templar with a capital T. He signed and poured himself a new cup of tea and came back, sitting down stiffly before the Templar.

“After I let Justice into me… I affected him, we affected each other. I became more driven, more focused on the plight of my kind. But I was also full of anger at all the things that I’ve experienced and what I know others have experienced. My anger affected him and there are times when my friend Justice just…well…he’s not there anymore, now he is more Vengeance than anything else. It’s not something I’m proud of. If I could change it, I would.”

The templar frowned at that explanation. No. He didn’t believe that one single bit, but it was clear that was what Anders believed. He didn’t sense any deception in the mage’s tone or his words. He could see real regret there. Rutherford had a sudden thought, maybe it was an epiphany, maybe it was the influence of the demon or maybe it was just his over active imagination. He was suddenly sure that Anders’ spirit was shielding the healer from the truth of their cohabitation. For whatever reason, it hadn’t fully merged with him, just as Cullen was not fully merged with Wrath. Maybe it was because they had been ‘friends’ at the start or maybe it was as Wrath said and that Justice was afraid of losing himself. Whatever the reality of this situation was, it was too much for him to consider right now. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he chose to ignore it for now and move on.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly when I came down here. I feel much better now. Thank you for that. I know it was an inconvenience for you.”

Anders waved away the apology and sipped at his tea, happy enough for the change in topic. “That’s alright. it’s been a while since your last visit. It’s been a while since I got your last note too. That was an interesting way to get a message to me, by the way. How did you know to go through Lirene?”

“It was an educated guess. Enough refugees need help and have been getting it somewhere and the donation box was a bit of a hint. As a Ferelden that has done well enough for myself here, I’ve dropped plenty of donations in that box over time and I overheard enough conversations there.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. You are ever the detective, aren’t you? Well, I passed them on. It’s been agreed that it’s too dangerous to take action just now. As much as I hate that.”

“I had a feeling that was the case. I have convinced Sir Alrik to take a more personal interest in the tunnels for now, but I don’t imagine he’ll stay interested for all that long without…victims. If a strong enough or large enough force decides to clear the way…it would be in your interest.” He shrugged and left it at that. Honestly, he really shouldn’t be encouraging wholesale murder of living, breathing souls. It made him feel revolted, but the thing that Sir Thrask said came back to him. That leaders tended to cultivate in their followers what they themselves hold of import. He knew that Alrik had been trying to cultivate things in him too. Maybe he had succeeded, at least a little.

The healer thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I can convince a group to…take a personal interest as well.”

“Let me know if you do.”

There was a pause as they both sipped at their mugs and then Cullen breached the topic that had been bothering him since the beginning. “Do you have any advice for how to deal with my…recruit problem? Is there some test that can be done to see if they are possessed? Or have hidden passengers? I heard someone else say something like that.” He remembered Hawke saying that she had tested Keran and she was sure he was fine.

“Well, the quickest, easiest test would be to have a mage use a spirit attack on them. It won’t hurt the recruit physically, but if there is a spirit or demon riding in them, it would absolutely defend itself.”

A frown crossed his brow. “Would that…? Do you think that would work on me?” He did not like the thought of that. That an attack on him might cause his demon to pop out and wreak havoc against his will.

The healer looked considering for a moment. “I wouldn’t suggest we test that until you are better able to defend yourself. You still need rest. You look like you’ve spent a week sleeping in a barrel on an unfriendly sea.”

“Hmm…yes… I’ll put a pin in that for later thought.” He yawned hard enough that his jaw popped. “I’ve been doing these meditations to increase my focus…and presence…mostly for the lucid dreaming thing, but…I discovered that I can, up to a point, I can feel the lyrium in my system and, in some cases, even slightly manipulate it some.” He frowned as he tried to figure out what he had to say about this. Or if he had anything to say yet, he didn’t really know what to think of it. “You commented once about how templars don’t do anything constructive with their abilities. Do you think we could?”

The sudden laughter that filled the small room startled Cullen and he blinked at the healer. “Now there’s a contradiction in terms. A constructive templar! I don’t know, but it does sound interesting. I guess it really depends on what your kind are really capable of. Do you think you can do anything…other than what you already can do?”

Cullen slowly nodded his head, still uncertain. “I think that maybe I can… But I’m not sure what. I… It’s definitely outside of the realm of anything they teach to knight-templars, but obviously some of these things are knowledge that higher ranks can have. Meredith is the one that taught me the techniques. To help with my nightmares.”

The amusement turned instantly to disgust. “Of course, they wouldn’t want to give too much information or power to the lower ranks. That might encourage you to think for yourselves. They didn’t warn you about the lyrium, why would they do more in this case?”

That stalled the conversation for a moment, but Cullen pressed on, changing the subject to what had originally brought him here. “Something else happened recently, but I’m not sure what. My nightmare has been incredibly intense. Disturbingly so. To the point that it seemed like, every time I closed my eyes, I was pulled into it, and it has been…brutal. But when I slept here, it was right back to the old dream again. As if nothing had changed at all. I don’t understand it, but the demon said the same thing. I swear that it has been affecting me even while I’m awake. My temper has been especially hard to control.”

The other man looked thoughtful and then reached out a hand toward Cullen, who leaned away in instinctual response. Anders paused and raised an eyebrow, he looked insulted. “May I?” His tone showed it too. Cullen pursed his lips and steeled himself, then leaned back into Anders’ reach. The healer’s hand touched his temple and the templar felt gentle magic flow through him. He closed his eyes against it, but he didn’t fight the sensation. After a minute the magic stopped, the hand went away, and he opened his eyes again.

“You’re fine. There’s nothing wrong with you that I can sense. Maybe a bit of malnutrition. You should really try to eat better.”

A grimace took over Cullen’s face before he could stop it. “Yes, I know I should. I get busy and it is easier to focus on that, then I lose track of time. One of the cooks keeps telling me that I need a wife to take care of me.” He shuddered at the thought and didn’t try to hide it. He certainly wasn’t looking to have that position filled. He heard a chuckle from Anders and glanced over to see the mirth on the other man’s face. Of course, he didn’t understand what the problem was. He probably thought the same as everyone else, that Cullen just had a case of terminal shyness with women. Well, he’d had enough of that in the Gallows and he was in no mood to be laughed at here, especially not by Anders.

The words came out in a growl before he could stop them. “I had feelings for a girl in the circle tower once. Uldred found that out and so he took that mage’s image, turned her into an abomination, and set her as one of the guards in the Fade prison that I am trapped in at night.” He glowered over at Anders with a mixture of antagonism and defensiveness. “And she is one truly sadistic fucking bitch.” It might have been the unaccustomed language that hit the statement home, or maybe Anders had some other understanding at play, but the expression on the mage’s face changed immediately to regret and the mirth vanished. Good, Cullen thought rather spitefully.

An uncomfortable silence stretched out in the quiet room and Anders sipped his tea before making an effort to move the talk away from the touchy subject. “So…what might it have been that changed things with your nightmare? Do you really have no ideas?”

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t. But I feel like I’ve been half out of my skull since it started, so…I can’t really trust what I know or think I know. That's really the worst part, not knowing whether you’re mad or not or how much.”

“Well, the good thing here is that if you’re questioning your sanity, then that usually means you’re alright. It’s when you’re sure that the problem is everyone else that it’s time to start to worry.”

“You know, that’s not really as helpful or comforting as you might think.”

“I do my best.” Anders gave him his most winning, wry smile.

Now it was the templar’s turn to roll his eyes with exasperation and shake his head. “There was another thing I needed to tell you.” He hesitated there. It wasn’t like he had to go through with this. It wasn’t part of their deal. But, it probably should have been. He was sure that it would have been, if Anders had known. “It’s not the kind of thing that I could pass on in a note, plus I wanted to make sure that they were reaching you.”

The mage waved for him to continue and sipped his tea some more. Cullen took a deep breath and took yet another step further down this road to damnation. “Your phylactery is in the vault in the Gallows.”

For the second time that morning, Anders froze and tried hard to control his outward reaction. The mage took a long moment to respond. “How do you know?”

Cullen just looked right back at him, honest and open and as matter of fact as he could be about it. He knew that personal history was a touchy subject for any mage. “I checked. The Order keeps especially detailed records when it comes to those.” Especially detailed only applied to the last 500 years or so, apparently some chantry branch in that time became especially anal about tracking them and had set a trend that continued today. There were thousands of them, all divided between the largest circles. Hundreds of thousands of them. All belonging to mages living or dead for nearly two thousand years. It seemed that little effort was made to sort through them. Once they were in a vault, there they stayed. He fished in the pouch at his belt and brought out a small, folded piece of paper. “I know that Anders isn’t your real name, so I checked the origins and dates that would fit with yours. I found phylacteries under these three names.” He held the paper out to Anders.

He didn’t take the paper right away but stared at it in Cullen’s hand for a long time. Finally he took it, but he didn’t open it, he just held it. Cullen didn’t push him. He knew Anders’ story, or at least he knew the story that got passed around the circle when he had been there. For most mages, their family background tended to be a sore subject. “You know that the vault can only be accessed by both a mage and a templar in cooperation?”

Anders slowly nodded. He still hadn’t read the folded paper. “I do. I always wondered what the vault would look like. You know…I tried to find it once. Obviously, I failed.”

The captain nodded. “I also found out that my predecessor was ejected from the Order and erased from its records for opening this vault with a mage, giving him his phylactery, and letting him leave the circle. Funny that.”

“Oh, that is absolutely hilarious.” Anders’ flat tone was anything but humorous, but Cullen could see that he got the joke. Or the irony.

“Do you think there’s any way I could convince you to gift me with just a few more hours of deep sleep?” Cullen asked with quiet hope.

The mage huffed softly and gave him another of those crooked, wry smiles of his. “I guess I could be convinced. Since you asked so nicely. You still have to sleep on the floor, though. You haven’t quite worked up enough brownie points to sneak your way into my bed, but you’re getting there. Anders laughed at the way the templar blanched and then blushed scarlet all the way to his ears. “Oh, hush now, I’m teasing you.”

Cullen allowed himself to be pushed back down on the pad, though now he felt especially uncomfortable and vulnerable doing it. That only lasted for a few seconds. Then Anders’ warm hand was on his forehead and a cool, clean wash of healing magic was drawing him down into another deeply restful, dreamless sleep.

~ * ~

When Anders straightened up from putting the knight-captain to sleep, he again looked at the folded piece of paper still clutched in his hand. His name might be one of the three on this paper. His name. His phylactery. It was right here…right within reach…just locked away with hundreds of templars between him and it. Inside, he was a maelstrom of emotions all whirling and swirling around. Strangely enough, the strongest emotion was fear. He was afraid of what he might see when he read the paper. He decided that this was something better left to when he wasn’t so emotionally charged up. Anders found the loose stone in the wall and pressed the note, still unopened, into the hidden cubby along with his prized ring, then he pressed the stone back in place. Hiding his past away where it would be safe for another day.

Anders did better than merely grant the templar a few hours, he let Cullin sleep all the way through lunchtime, checking on him periodically to make sure that he stayed as deep as was physically healthy. Unconsciousness was not technically an ideal kind of rest for a person, but the templar was a special case. Besides, this templar had also given him a true gift, even if he hadn’t handed his phylactery directly to Anders, he had looked for it. The templar had to have sifted through tons of records to find his, while not even knowing his real name. That had taken him time and effort, and he even did it despite knowing what the penalty could be. That wasn’t lost on Anders at all. He knew there was a reason that Cullin had told him what the Order would do. The templar wanted him to understand and acknowledge the price that retrieving his phylactery could cost them both. He’d have to go into the Gallows with Cullen to get it. Unless some other mage was willing to pay the price, but Anders would never allow another to bear his burden like that.

When he roused Cullin, he brought him out of it slowly and gently and placed another cup of tea in front of the groggy man, along with a crusty piece of bread and an only slightly bruised apple. The templar really did need to eat better than he was doing. He did make a point of being gruff with the captain after he finished eating, because he was still a templar. Anders hadn’t quite gotten to where he could stomach the look of extreme gratefulness the man gave him for merely getting a night and half a day of rest. It was such a small thing. It didn’t feel right, that Cullin should look at him like he hung the moon in the sky for something that had really been effortless to give.

“If only every man I sent away looked as satisfied as you do right now.” Anders teased him and was much more comfortable with the way the templar blanched and couldn’t maintain eye contact anymore. Yes, he knew that wasn’t exactly nice of him, but he just wasn’t ready for the alternative. They were not friends, no matter what oaths or promises or gifts might be given. Mages and templars could not be friends.

~ * ~

Chapter Text

~ * ~

To knight-captain Cullen’s thorough surprise, he received a list on his desk of new recruits and near the top of it was the name Carver Amell Hawke. So, the boy had been serious after all. That required some thought on his part now. Did Carver count toward Anders’ friends if he was both not a mage and joining the Order in opposition to them? Just what was the young man’s motivation? Cullen had already been involving himself with the recruits more than a normal knight-captain would, because of the whole secret demon infestation thing, so no one would question if he continued the trend with this new group. He wrote a note in response to Sir Arkenneth’s report that stated that he wished to give a cursory introduction to the boys before their official signing on. It was a small enough group that it shouldn’t eat up too much of his time, and it would ensure he could have a private word with young Carver and not draw attention. He sent his tranquil clerk to deliver the note and was surprised to get an immediate response that they would arrive promptly to his office after lunch. Apparently, Sir Arkenneth worked fast once he got his claws into an interested youth.

It was a slight bit of a scramble to maneuver his schedule around so quickly, but soon it was done and then there were a dozen bright faced youths looking awkward and wide eyed in the hallway outside his door. He made a good show of it along with the recruiter. He knew his role well. He remembered when first Greagoir and then Meredith had played it up for him. He was to be the stern-faced and exacting taskmaster, who expected much and gave credit and respect only when it was earned and deserved.

After an initial introduction with all of them in the hall, he then took each of the youths one at a time for a short private talk in his office. Mostly it was idle and unimportant. A few questions about the recruit’s family history and asking why they chose the Order and such. All very vacuous and boring, really. Rutherford forgot most of it as soon as the recruit left his office. Then it was finally the last recruit, the one that he had been waiting for. He had told Arkenneth that he wanted a few extra minutes with Carver and that he would escort him along to catch up with the rest himself.

Rutherford watched Carver enter and he took an extra moment to examine him closely. The boy carried himself like he had something to prove, with a mixture of stubborn pride and childish defensiveness. That could be a recipe for either disaster or excellence. Only time could tell which it would be.

“Come. Sit.” He gestured to the chair, then he leaned back in his own seat and waited until Carver settled nervously across the desk from him. “Carver Amell Hawke. Quite a mouthful. Tell me, which name do you use? Amell or Hawke?”

An expression of distaste and aggravation crossed the boy’s face, that was interesting. “Neither. My name’s Carver. Those are other people’s names. I don’t need someone else’s name, I plan for mine to stand all on its own someday.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows high at that. Well, what a chip this boy carried on his shoulder. No wonder he was drawn to the templars with that sort of attitude. “Is that so?” He suddenly smirked and decided that he would return the sentiment in kind. “Bold words, considering that the name Carver also once belonged to someone else. Does your condescension only count toward namesakes that you have known?” He made the challenge open and obvious.

That made the boy’s eyes go wide and derailed his aura of disrespect a bit, so there was still a scared little boy under all that bravado. Good, then he might still grow beyond it. This little cub might have claws, but he was in the lion’s den now. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Your namesake. Carver. Are you saying that you don’t know the story of how your father escaped the circle here?”

If it had been his intention to merely scare the boy, he would have felt quite satisfied with himself now. The boy was definitely scared, but he had more in mind than that. He was almost proud of how the boy attempted to rally, but there was too much insolence in his defiance. “I don’t know what you are talking about. If you have a problem with me or my family, then you can jus-”

Rutherford shifted his stance, still in his seat, but he brought to bear all the authority that he could muster and that was quite a lot. His shift spoke of barely restrained temper and just a hint of violence beneath it. He found it far too easy to project this aura recently, but it did come in handy. Especially with rebellious little shits like this one. “Enough! I see that this attitude of yours has served you well among cutthroats and smugglers and mercenaries. But this is The Order. There is no place for undisciplined fools who run their mouths here.” He took a moment to allow the boy to glower at him, but Carver did not try to speak again. He’d known many boys like this in the training center in Ferelden. They had not liked him. He had always been too straight-laced back then, but he was different now.

“You should know that I know exactly who you are and who your family is. Surprise would be an understatement for my reaction when I learned that you wanted to join the Order. Though, many siblings think to do so when a member of their family is relocated to the circle. They join hoping to stay close or to protect them.”

“I’m not joining because of my sister!” There was that defiance again and a hint of something else with it. Was that…resentment? Jealousy? Oooh, so that was the rub here. Goodness, this boy had some serious baggage. Cullen could sympathize with that emotion. His own older sister had been a terror to him as well. He could never seem to outdo her in anything. She even bested him playing with wooden swords when they were children, she had boasted that it ought to be her learning to be a knight instead of him.

“That’s good. Because if your sister were brought to the circle, there is nothing that you could do to protect her here. Your tenure would consist of nothing but a feeling of failure. Most likely, you or she would be transferred elsewhere to avoid the conflict of interest.”

The young man frowned and looked troubled. He was obviously reconsidering what had brought him here and how he felt about things. That was also good. He wanted the boy to think carefully about his decisions. Cullen gave him a short moment, then spoke again. “You and your sister did the Order a great service recently. I will tell you now that the only ones who know about that service are myself, the boy Keran that you rescued, and the knight-commander.” That is, if she read his report on the matter, he did not know if she read any of those reports in her state.

“As you might imagine, recruits are now allowed far less freedom than before. If you do decide to join, you will not be free to leave the Gallows until you have been initiated into knighthood. Not until this Tevinter cult has been eradicated, certainly. Also, the only ones who know your personal history are Sir Arkenneth and myself. If you do not share that you come from a family of apostates, then all will be well. If you do, don’t be surprised when you are ostracized by other templars. It is not an easy thing to be considered a ‘mage sympathizer’ within the Order. The Gallows is not an easy place for anyone, not even templars. If you cannot adapt to this truth, then you will not survive here. That is as blunt as I can be.”

“Why are you telling me all this? I can’t believe that you tell all the recruits this. It almost seems like you want to convince me not to be a templar.” The boy’s tone was both curious and accusatory, but at least it did show that he was thinking it through.

Cullen just gave him a cold smile and nodded. “The Order will change you. Irrevocably. There are things that you will see here, things that you will have to do, that you’ll be ordered to do, that will change you and your view of the world and yourself forever. You are right, no other recruit gets a speech like this. You are getting it because this branch owes you a debt and because of your background. If there were more templars who cared for mages, then perhaps things could be different, but the Order does not condone such weakness. If you are not vigilant, it will expunge that care from you.”

The boy looked at him with incredulous anger. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from Sir ‘Mages can’t be treated like people’.” Carver even made a laughably bad impression of his voice as he parroted the words.

All the knight-captain could do for a moment was smile ruefully at him. Then he slowly nodded. “Yes. There’s a very large part of me that truly believes that. There’s a smaller part that…hopes to be better.” He took a deep breath and slowly let it out in a silent sigh. “That is why I will not bar you from joining. Because the Order needs more templars that can do more than fear magic. We are sorely lacking as it is. It will make your life far harder than if you chose practically any other calling. Some say that the only things worth doing are hard. I could not tell you if that is true or if it’s rubbish to make us feel better about our choices.”

“I am not afraid of making hard choices. I want to carve out my own life. Be my own man.” The boy did not seem so scared anymore. He didn’t even seem that angry. He seemed resolved and focused. Cullen hoped that he would hold onto those feelings.

“If that is so, then I’ll escort you to the barracks where Arkenneth and the rest are waiting for you.” Cullen stood up and eyed the boy expectantly.

Carver stood up too and moved toward the door with determination. “Yes. This is my choice. I’m here to stay.”

“Then welcome to the Gallows.”

~ * ~

The knight-captain had spent a fair amount of time in the Gallows library over the past few years since he had come to live in Kirkwall, mostly for reading material that would keep him awake late into the nights and out of his nightmare. Ever since his promotion, it had been a boon and a lifesaving reference for him. The library was huge and extensive with a surprisingly vast variety of tomes. Some were ancient history, others were exhaustive treatises on all kinds of topics. There were books on science and fighting techniques, on training techniques, there were books of poetry and there were copies of the Chant in 30 different languages and dialects. The books that he had concentrated on most recently were leadership manuals and essays on the running and management of circles and anything else he could get his hands on to help him not make a fool of himself.

What he couldn’t get from the library, he had been slowly squeezing out Meredith on her few good days and out of Mendrik, the new dwarven steward that he had hired. Once the man had realized that Cullen was not questioning his abilities and was actually trying to learn from him, he had become much more willing to impart some of his secrets. Cullen had never known that there was so much to know about stone and structures and the day to day upkeep of said stone structures. Apparently you couldn’t just slap down a stone castle and expect it to not fall down within a year, and this one had been standing for far longer than that. If Mendrik were to be believed, it was very labor intensive to keep them from turning into a haunted ruin practically overnight.

So, he was no stranger to the library. This night, he wandered into a new section. It was a restricted section that was not open to lower ranking knights and he had never questioned that before. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he would have a high enough rank as captain to enter the locked space until recently, but his master key fit the lock and turned easily when he tried it. It was not an extremely large space. It was only three aisles of shelves in a large closet sized room, but the books were stacked wall to wall and floor to ceiling, taking up every inch of space. He traced his fingers along the titles, frowning now and then at some of the texts in different languages. He had picked up a few words of Orlesian and Antivan over the years, but he was nowhere near fluent in anything but the common Trade tongue. There were quite a few books here that were not in Trade and did not have any translations slotted next to them. He sighed and knew that he would have to find some language dictionaries and reference books.

He took another tour through the room and began to pull a few tomes down, stacking them under his arm. There was one on The Seekers Of Truth, a thick tome that was a detailed study on the Mortalitasi Of Nevarra, one book that seemed to be a published journal of a knight-divine, two rather thin books on Necromancy and Demonology, another on Advancing The Wrath Of Heaven which seemed to be a technical manual. He grabbed a few more that looked promising, even one on the Tevinter Imperium and The Black Divine. In fact, there was an entire corner that looked to be either on Tevinter or written in the language, whatever it was called. Those were definitely restricted reading. He carried his haul back to his apartment and didn’t bother worrying about trying to sleep that night. There was too much information for him to sift through and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to sleep well anyway. He’d been hearing that odd, off-putting melody off and on again that day. He wished he could figure out what was causing it, but it always managed to elude him whenever he tried to locate the source.

~ * ~

It seemed that he was spending more and more time just idling in meditation these days. It felt like it was the only thing that was keeping him together at times. There was a specific technique that especially resonated with him, or with his intentions, at least. It was one of the ones that Meredith had introduced him to. It was an internal focused meditation that could be used to quiet the body and even possibly manipulate the trace lyrium within. Manipulate it to do what? She hadn’t gone that far into the explanation to answer that question. He had been more concerned with learning the exercise at the time, now that he was mastering it, now he had more questions.

He sat in his room before the window, feeling the sun on his skin, warming him in his inactivity. All his focus was inside, though. He allowed it to wander through him, seeking out the bright silvery reflection of the lyrium along with the almost shadow-like quality of its effect on his body. It was easier to find, now that he understood what it was and what it meant. Unlike when he used his templar abilities, this didn’t pull on the lyrium in him. This merely…lit it up. He felt it respond to his probing. He found that he could…almost…smooth it out with his intentions, even push it about…manipulate that negative space some. It was while doing this that he had a sudden epiphany.

He had always had a bit of a trick knee. It came from when he’d been thrown off a horse as a youth and it had never fully gone back to normal. After he had earned his knighthood and had his lyrium initiation, it had gotten worse. He had always just assumed that it was because of the weight of the full armor that he wore afterwards. It wasn’t until he began to master this technique that he realized that lyrium had begun to be deposited there, something about his old injury let it imbed and settle there. He pushed and prodded at it, and he felt the old injury flare with pain. He grimaced but kept at it. Pain was only a tool, a sensation, it would not stop him, it served as a focus. Just as the Order taught him. He mentally prodded at the area until suddenly he felt the reservoir there ignite, almost as if he had activated a Cleanse, but he had done nothing of the sort.

The flash provoked a cascade of energy that washed through him from one lyrium build up to the next, the release of energy was staggering and a shock. After it faded, he noticed that the buildup in his knee had somehow released itself and it felt…better. He didn’t understand what had happened, but now his knee didn’t ache quite as much as it had before, or at all, really. The whole thing also left him with one hell of a headache. That pain was so intense that he had to close his eyes and put his forehead down on the desk for a few minutes and just breathe. He groaned and rubbed at his temples when it started to fade. “...oooh……ow…” Maybe he wouldn’t do that again very soon.

Look at you go. Always trying to learn something new. Such a curious creature you are. When you grow weary of stumbling in the dark, you could ask me to impart secrets to you. If you ask me nicely.

He ignored the demon’s taunts. The next time he took a lyrium draught, as the power flashed through him, he felt it reach his knee and a very slight ache returned, but it was still nothing like it had been. Now he knew how to relieve that when it built up over time, though that massive headache had been off-putting. What, if anything else, he could do with that, he didn’t know. He wondered if that was why his hands tended to ache too. Because there were so many joints and ligaments, the lyrium seemed to like to settle into those kinds of spaces.

~ * ~

On day three, he was seriously considering going to Mendrik and asking him just how much it would cost him to smuggle him something crafted with pure lyrium ore, because he missed the calm, soft, soothing melody that always made him feel better when he snuck away to Anders’ clinic. He wasn’t sure if he should try to breach that topic, though. Lyrium was such a touchy subject. He definitely didn’t want to have to answer any uncomfortable questions or draw attention to himself from any Chantry officials, since the clerics were the ones that controlled the flow of the Order’s lyrium.
‘Why do you want lyrium ore?’
‘Oh, it makes the demon in my head happy and it dulls the nightmares it gives me a little bit.’
No, he didn’t want to have that conversation with anyone but Anders.

He was very tired, but he had found that he could go far longer when he was actively studying than just reading. He had a few different language books that he was working through with translation dictionaries and some language reference’s that he had a clerk bring him from the Chantry library. He’d attempted to read from a Nevarran text, but that had been miserable. The language was impossible to understand. So he had given up and started into an Orlesian text and a Tevinter one. Surprisingly, the Tevinter text was by far the easiest one. There were even words that he could recognize and translate without having to look them up, though the sentence structure was oddly mixed up. Once he got the hang of that, he started to make real progress.

He had never realized that the Templar Order in Tevinter was a purely political institution. Those knights might as well just be glorified constables or bodyguards at the most. They did not even take lyrium! Though, he did find a historical reference to the imbibing of lyrium or maybe it was more like an injection of lyrium that was used by assistants to some very high standing mages. The individuals that took on that responsibility were rewarded so handsomely that Cullen was aghast. Or, rather, their families were rewarded…as the individual was practically considered a living sacrifice, due to the effects of the lyrium on their lifespan. It was just another thing for him to be upset about with his own situation. Speaking of family…

Cullen rubbed at his eyes and leaned back from his translation work and glanced over to a pile of letters on the edge of his desk. He had let them pile up a bit. He wasn’t really sure why it was such a chore just to read their letters. It wasn’t like they expected anything from him. They were so far away. All they wanted was a simple response. They knew he wasn’t dead because he had set aside a stipend from his income to be sent to his family, but that wasn’t the same as a letter. It wasn’t like they would ever know what a disappointment he was. Not unless he told them and he dared not put that in writing. Ever. He sighed and pulled the stack to himself and began with the oldest one.

‘Dear Cullen,
We were so pleased to hear about your promotion. I’m so happy that you are doing well and that your Commander has seen all the promise in you. You are probably rushed off your feet now, what with all the captaining you must be doing. Do you get time to push around the recruits still? I know how much you liked doing that. Everyone here is doing well. Hugs and Kisses.
Your loving sister, Mia.’

He hadn’t told them about his promotion. They must have guessed from the substantial increase in the stipend. Maybe the chantry sent a generic ‘aren’t you proud of your templar’ letter to his next of kin.

‘Dear Cullen,
You are about to be an uncle twice over now. Just wait until the fall. I’ll have a family portrait made that you can hang up in your office. My oldest loves to hear stories of the Knight-uncle. I hope that you will meet them all someday soon. We all miss you dearly. PS. We got a new pup. His name is Bigsley. He slobbers almost as much as you used to.
Your loving sister, Mia.’

He couldn’t help but smile at the last part. She always had to give him a jab. As children, it had driven him crazy and they had squabbled non-stop. But now, he only felt a fondness for her that made him ache inside. She never did let him get away with anything, and she certainly would not entertain his dour moods now if she were around.

‘Dear Cullen,
You do remember how to use a quill, right? Maybe even just a pencil? I could send you one, if you need me too. Perhaps you have been sending us too large a portion of your pay and cannot afford to buy one yourself. I’m sure that you have a secretary that could take down a dictation. You wouldn’t even need to post the letter yourself, you lazy beast. Anyway, your nephew and niece are doing well. They have begun to claim that the Knight-uncle is merely a story that we made up to keep them on their better behavior. You will soon be relegated to the same place as the Winter Knight if you aren’t careful. Bigsley brought home a piece of a highwayman’s boot the other day. I’m not certain that there wasn’t a piece of the highwayman still in it. He’s such a good boy! Kind of like you used to be. Hugs and Kisses.
Your loving sister, Mia.’

‘Dear Cullen,
We are about to move again. We have just grown out of the little house that we found. Especially since your brother and his new wife have come to live with us and help with the farm work. Things have been tough here and we are very grateful for the stipend you send to us. We saved up enough to buy a large farmstead. I’ll send you our new address once everything is settled. It’s actually going to be closer to our old home. Just a little bit closer. We will still be on the edge of the forest. Lothering is still too dangerous. We are going to raise sheep and goats. Maybe a pig. The children are so looking forward to it. Just wait until they find out that mucking the stables will be their job!
Your loving sister, Mia.’

‘Dear Cullen,
We have moved. It’s a really lovely piece of land. We have our own pond and a little stream. Also, we have a dozen new mabari because the wolves are really aggressive here. You would love it. We can’t let the children stray too far with the predators, but one of the new dogs has turned out to be such an exceptionally big goof and the most attentive babysitter. We have named him Cullywugs. Can you guess why? You’re right! He’s got the the blond curlies just like you. Oh, I really hope that you haven’t gone bald. Branson is starting to thin a bit on top and he’s ever so upset about it! But he did always take after mother much more than father like we did. Love and kisses.
Your sister, Mia.’

The last letter had come with a carefully packaged tube. When he opened the end, out slid a rolled up painting. He laid it out on his desk and flattened it to find the promised family portrait. He couldn’t help but smile as he examined it. He noticed that there was a gap just large enough for yet another member to stand among them and he felt his eyes prickle slightly. He missed them dearly, even the little ones that he had never met. What would it be like to scoop that little boy or girl up onto his shoulders and just gallop about? No mages, no Order, no reports, no demons or abominations anywhere near, no vows…no threats of death or worse. Ah, to just be a horse for a day and then sit down to dinner together like in the old days.

At long last, he withdrew a piece of paper from a drawer and picked up a quill. He sat for a very long time, just looking at the paper before he finally began to write.

‘Dear Mia and Sundry,
It is good to know that you all are staying well and busy. I am sorry to hear about hard times, but I know that you will weather them. You’ve always been an oak, and I do not just mean in stature. Do you know that they call me a doglord here? That’s their favorite nickname for Fereldens in the Free Marches. I haven’t seen a dog in ages, much less a mabari. I fear that in this city they may meet a more…savory end here…if you get my meaning. I shudder to think on it. I miss you all. I received the portrait. It is lovely. I will have it framed and hung in a place of honor. I admit that my position does keep me frightfully busy, but I don’t mind. I always manage to find some time to myself. I don’t sleep much these days, but that’s also something I have adapted to. I will request to enlarge the stipend set aside for the family. I indulge in no vices, so my income only gathers into savings anyway. Better that it gets put to good use. Perhaps you could put aside some in a trust for the little ones. Cullywugs sounds like a fine fellow. I hope that he gives good rides, if he is the monster that you described. Perhaps a fierce saddle and a shiny little chestplate could suit him. I know a dwarf that could possibly order one made and would likely do it too, just for a lark. As for my own curls, they would make you proud. I will pity Branson for his poor constitution and light a candle in his name. Before you start to worry about your antisocial brother, know that there are a few that I count as friends here. At least, they let me bare my grievances and don’t hold them against me and that is a rare kindness indeed. I shall end here, lest my wordiness cause you to question my health. Let it be known that the Knight-uncle is alive and as well as can be and that I love you all beyond measure. I wish you all the best. Be well and be good.
Your brother abroad, Cullen.’

He poured a bit of sand onto the paper and slid it around to carefully dry the ink without smearing it. Then he smoothed the letter and folded it in precise quarters and slipped it into a crisp envelope. Then, for good measure he put that into a second envelope, because it would be traveling a long distance. If he sent many letters, then he might not have concerned himself, but this was the only one. He wanted it to weather the distance as well as it could. He carefully printed the address and then poured hot wax over the fold and then pressed it with his official seal for good measure. He turned the letter in his hands and smiled at it for a moment. Then he carried the letter and the portrait, carefully back in its protective tube, to his clerk to have the letter mailed and the picture properly framed.

Afterwards, he went back to his translation work and continued where he left off.

~ * ~