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It’s a clear day when the Temple explodes. Cullen had just finished his morning meal and was hovering in front of the Chantry, debating whether or not he should go in and pray, when the earth starts shaking and a concussive blast nearly throws him off his feet. Shouts of confusion and panic fill the air and Cullen looks, then turns about wildly, his hand flying to his sword on instinct. He runs out the gate to find Cassandra, pale, her eyes fixated on a swirling vortex of green in the sky, hanging like an omen above the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Pillars of smoke take the place of crumbled spires.
Panic seizes his chest and the urge to do something – make something right again – takes over. He’s the Commander now, and he turns towards the small gathering of troops that have amassed at his back. He scans their faces for a split second, taking note of those choking back terror and those with a resolved glint in their eyes. Some maintain eye contact, awaiting his command. Others are whispering fervently with each other, dancing anxiously from foot to foot. These aren’t soldiers, not truly. They still hold their shields too high, only recently having traded hammers and plows for swords and bows. Who knows how many he’ll lose today?
“To arms.” His voice is gruff and curt. He has no time for inspiration. He has no idea what they’re up against now. As he turns and begins the ascent to the Temple, the band of soldiers at his back, he barely notices Cassandra and the Nightingale sprinting ahead, the Apostate hot on their heels. The sickly sweet scent of magic permeates the air and sets his veins on fire.
Demons. Did it have to be demons? Falling from the sky, crawling out of unearthly holes in the ground, seemingly connected to the Fade. Memories of Kinloch flicker in and out when he blinks, but he manages to keep the bile from rising as he sinks his blade into a terror. Its unholy screech fills the air and he withdraws his blade with a wet, slimy schick before moving on to dispatch several wraiths, fighting his way through the chaos into the heart of the temple. Red lyrium is jutting out of the ground in hazardous spikes and his jaw clenches against the Song.
The sight of the victims makes his blood run cold.
“Maker preserve us…” a recruit moans somewhere off his left. Cullen spares him a glance. He’s young, his face transfixed in horror at the sight before them. A crater where the Temple stood, the bodies of Conclave attendees frozen in terror, in pain, their mouths gaping, their eyes sunken, flesh ripped from their bodies. Many lay in heaps, their bodies broken from the force of the explosion. Some were frozen on their knees, their faces lifted to the heavens…
As if praying.
Cullen steps forward numbly. A memory of Meredith Stannard, frozen on her knees, a statue of red lyrium. Marian Hawke’s sword raised, her blue eyes feral, then confused, then daring to show relief. He blinks away the image.
Another crack breaks the silence and Cullen falls into a battle-ready stance, sword balanced and shoulders forward, unable to anticipate what might come next. The air before him seems to rip open – the same sickening smell of magic assaults his senses and he lurches left, but catches himself. He gazes into this… rift… and a flash of golden light shines through. He sees the silhouette of a woman, tall, back straight, her arm outstretched as if beckoning to someone not yet in view. His legs move of his own accord, not hearing the warnings from Cassandra and Leliana. He recalls an image from the Chant of Andraste bathed in flames – could it be her? – and then the woman is accompanied by another silhouette. This one is shorter, darker, more of a shadow. A demon, maybe, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate it any longer as the shadow materializes into the form of a young woman. She stumbles into the remains of the Temple. She steps right out of this rift, out of the Fade, and falls unconscious into Cullen’s arms. His sword clatters to the ground as he struggles to catch her.
Cassandra and Leliana fall into step as he carefully makes his way down the mountain, the mysterious Fade girl cradled in his arms. Her head lolls on his shoulder, her rich brown hair reeking of ash and magic. Could she be a mage? She looks far too frail in his arms to look capable of doing any damage, but he swallows that thought down as he recalls a certain slight, black-haired elf in the Kinloch Hold a decade ago. He tunes into the argument behind him:
“What should we do with her?” Leliana asks, to which Cassandra replies that they should kill her immediately, she killed Most Holy… her voice breaks but the snarl in her throat still comes through. “We need to question her,” Leliana points out, and Cullen finds himself nodding.
“She is first and foremost a prisoner,” he says, his voice hollow and shaking. They move slowly down the mountainside, steep and slick as it is. “Shackle her, question her, and then go on from there.” Cassandra points out that she is most likely a powerful mage and shackles won’t do much to bind her once she awakens, and the acrid taste of Kinloch and Kirkwall falls on his tongue. He suppresses a shudder and looks down at her again. Her head has fallen back and rests against his bicep, exposing the pale column of her neck. Her eyes dart back and forth frantically behind closed lids. Thick, dark lashes fan across high cheekbones and her mouth has fallen open slightly to reveal straight, cared-for teeth. She’s likely highborn, he thinks to himself, but doesn’t comment aloud. Her right hand is clenched in the tunic she wears, right over her heart, knuckles white. Her left arm is thrown out beside her, swaying as he moves forward. A jolt of green erupts from her hand and he swears and almost drops her. Her body jerks and she whimpers, her face turning to bury into the fur of his mantle. His chest tightens – he almost feels sorry for her – and energy erupts from her hand once more. Cassandra resumes her tirade with renewed vitriol and Leliana studies the captive in his arms silently, streaks of tears dried on her face.
Villagers spit insults at them – at her – as they make their way through Haven to the ancient Chantry. He shifts her in his arms, concealing her face. He holds out a vain hope for her innocence, but the people have made up their minds. She is responsible. How dare this woman, this girl… how dare she survive – who is she that Andraste deemed worthy to save, to pluck from the Fade and shove back into reality, into his arms? Why her, and not Divine Justinia? A scowl mars his face as his thoughts follow a similar path. This is the beginning of the end of the world, and the limp child in his arms has caused it.
The Apostate and the apothecary stand vigil by her side, the former poring over her left arm as if it holds the secrets to the universe. As Cullen watches it periodically pulse and fade, he gets the feeling that it very well might hold the secrets to the universe. The apothecary pours potions down her throat to calm her fever and keep her alive so Cassandra can question and then kill her as she sees fit. They leave her side and Cullen sinks onto the stool on the edge of the dungeon wall, allowing himself to study her in the dim light. Locks of warm brown hair have escaped her coiled braids and fall around her temples. She’s slouched on her knees, sitting on her ankles, her head fallen to one side. He notices a small scar behind one ear. Faint freckles dust her cheekbones and the candlelight makes spiders of her lashes. Her nose is crooked, but only faintly – as if she had broken it as a child and it never healed properly. It lends some charm to her.
“She’s pretty,” says a new voice to his left. The Dwarf stands in the doorway, leaning on the threshold, staring at her with a scrutinizing eye. Cullen imagines that he’s taking mental notes of how to describe her when he inevitably writes her into his books. Cullen looks back at her and tries to see what Varric might. She is quite pretty. She might be beautiful if she opens her eyes, if he might see her smile.
“She is,” he agrees reluctantly. Varric looks at him with surprise.
He looks like he’s about to come back with some witty retort, but the mark on her hand pulses violently, filling the small dungeon with that unholy green light. A scream rips from her throat and it chills him to his core. Cullen knows that scream will haunt his already troubled sleep tonight. Her eyes fly open and Cassandra rushes in, blocking his view before he can get a look at the shape and color. She whimpers as Cassandra advances on her, and Cullen decides that he can’t bear witness to whatever her grief and rage might compel her to do. He isn’t strong enough to see it or brave enough to stop it. He slips past Leliana and marches out of the Chantry. Varric follows at a distance, reluctant to leave, but aware of the fact that his presence is presently unneeded.
The playback of the prisoner’s screaming is pushed from his mind as a scout approaches him, blood and ash caked to his face. “Commander,” he wheezes, wiping at his mouth. “Another rip… rift… whatever the fuck they’re calling them. Another one opened, on the path to the temple. Forces are stretched thin. We need immediate assistance.” Cullen nods and bids the scout return to his post, marshalling forces as he makes his way to the forward camp.
A change is in the air. Cassandra has officially reinstated the Inquisition, against Roderick's orders. Cullen has nailed the missive to the Chantry door, the ever-seeking eye staring blankly into the village. The black banner has unfurled. Leliana and Josephine have been in a state of constant whisper for the past eighteen hours. The only thing anyone can talk about in Haven is the newcomer.
The prisoner… the Herald of Andraste.
The name brings a shudder to his spine. Half the world now thinks she’s a messiah. The other half calls her a heretic. Cullen isn’t sure what to call her, because nobody has bothered to call her by her blasted name.
He knows what he saw in the skeleton of the Conclave. He saw the golden silhouette of… someone… and the shadow of a girl tumble out of the Fade and into his arms. Could she be their salvation?
If Chancellor Roderick has any say in it, she is their scapegoat. Never mind the fact that there is a civil war in Orlais and a religious war everywhere else, in addition to the gaping hole in the heavens. The Divine is dead and someone must answer for it, and according to Roderick, that someone will be the new Herald.
He has yet to speak to her directly until she walks into the war room with Cassandra. Now that she’s walking and upright, Cullen can see that she’s taller than he first expected, estimating her forehead to reach to about his chin. She’s only a few inches shorter than Cassandra. Her rich hair is pulled up in a series of intricate braids. Cullen finds himself mesmerized by her eyes – they’re round and tilted ever so slightly inward, giving her almost a shrewd, catlike appearance, and they’re such an unfamiliar shade of green that he has trouble finding a comparison. Thin rings of gold encircle her pupils and reflect the candlelight in the room. Her lips quirk in a small smile as Cassandra finally introduces her:
“Lady Daphne Trevelyan of Ostwick,” she says, and Cullen mentally notes that he was right to suspect she might be highborn. It’s evident in the set of her shoulders. She also looks rather young, barely out of her teenaged years, but Cullen has always been a terrible judge of age. Daphne, he ponders, the name rolling around his head. It’s pretty. It suits her, pretty and simple. He’s pulled from his reverie when he hears his name: “May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” He sighs.
“Such as they are,” he begins drily. “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.” Daphne nods, her polite smile fading and eyes tightening slightly. Blaming herself, no doubt. Her eyes slide over him, appraising him, and he thinks he sees the tips of her ears go pink before she blinks and moves on to regard Josephine.
“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, ambassador and chief diplomat,” Cassandra says with ease. Josephine does a small curtsy. “And of course you know Sister Leliana.”
“My position here involves a degree of –“
“She is our spymaster.” Cassandra’s interruption is blunt and Daphne’s eyes go wide a moment before she regains her composure. Cullen holds back a snort as Leliana sighs.
“Yes, tactfully put, Cassandra.”
Daphne clears her throat. “Pleased to meet you all,” her eastern Marcher accent lilts. Her eyes roam between the three advisors before turning her attention back to Cassandra.
“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the breach for good,” the Seeker reminds her, and her shoulders seem to sink slightly. Leliana interjects.
“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.”
Cullen clenches the fist resting on the pommel of his sword. “I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well.” He tries to maintain his professional detachment, keep the edge out of his voice. Cassandra sighs and her tone becomes placating.
“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark –“
“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so –“
“Pure speculation.” Leliana’s hard tone cuts through his argument and his voice adopts a slightly more pleading timbre.
“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of.” Death. Destruction. Blood in the streets. His mouth goes dry and he’s spared from speaking further when Josephine speaks.
“Unfortunately, neither group will speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.” Daphne exhales sharply in a humorless laugh, shifting her weight onto one leg.
“That didn’t take long,” she says, and Cullen smirks. Herald or Heretic, this addition to the Inquisition is about to make things much more interesting.