Mostly Dragon Age

Cullen had been in Kirkwall only two days when he first noticed Lady Trevelyan.

He was seated in the front row of the Gallows’ chantry, waiting for service to begin. This in itself wasn’t an unusual occurrence; after all, it was common in most circles every Holy day. What was unusual, however, and certainly different from the Ferelden circle, was that the mages were not permitted to choose their seats.

Instead, each mage had been assigned a Templar to sit beside, forming neat little rows: Templar, mage, Templar, mage.

Cullen had been assigned to a skinny twelve-year-old who flinched every time he fidgeted in his armor. So much so that Cullen had shuffled his position a few times, just to watch the boy flinch again.

A year ago, he might have felt sorry for him. He might have tried to comfort him, perhaps even asked his name. But not now. Cullen knew what mages were capable of—even the young ones. He would never drop his guard again.

A stocky, serious-looking sister stepped to the front, and the service began. Prayers first, with Templars and mages murmuring together, though the Templars kept their eyes open. Next, the sister read from the Chant of Light, and Cullen nudged the boy every time his attention wandered. Finally, the choir began—thirteen mages filing to the front with their heads bowed. A lute began to play, and they started to sing.

She was one among many, yet her lilting voice seemed to carry itself directly to him. It curled through his ears, drawing him in like a desire demon.

Maker, she’s beautiful.

He tensed, sitting rigid in his seat, making the young mage flinch once more, though he didn't notice. His eyes were fixed solely on her. How dare he think like that? After everything they’d done. Yet, he couldn’t look away. She was making his heart race, his face flush. Suddenly, his Templar armor felt stifling.

Cullen had fallen for Evelyn the moment he saw her. And it made him furious. He loved her and hated her in equal measure. He wanted her in his arms, to drag her to her room and lock her away, to shower her with kisses and run her through with his sword.

His infatuation made her the most dangerous mage in the Gallows, and he silently vowed never to speak to her.

***

He lasted three weeks.

There was one particular yard where the Templars preferred to carry out their punishments. It was vast, tucked far enough from the front square that the sounds of suffering were muffled. The towering spires of the keep cast long shadows for most of the day, the cold, damp air lingering like a weight in the bones.

He knew the square's reputation well and had been doing his best to avoid it. His mind had told him it was a wise decision, a neccessary evil, but the mere thought of seeing it firsthand churned his stomach.

But today, he’d overheard them, the Templars in the barracks, laughing, mocking. The perfect little choir girl.Tied up like a hog, they’d said. Left weeping and bare.

His feet felt like lead as he walked down the long, cold hallways toward the square, each step slower than the last, yet his heart urged him forward. He didn’t want to see. No, he didn’t. But he had to. He had to know, to see with his own eyes what had been done to her. He couldn’t leave her there, abandoned.

Though every instinct told him to turn back, to retreat to the safety of his room, to pray, to pretend it hadn’t happened—his body wouldn’t obey. He kept walking, each step a struggle. It was the cruelest kind of compulsion, and it held him captive as he neared the yard.

And there she was.

Someone had shoved her to her knees, strapping her wrists to a stock before leaving her there. Her robe hung loosely, it had been pulled open at the back, revealing the fresh welts of a lashing.

He didn’t know what to do. The Knight Commander had warned him about such practices; lashings were unheard of in the Ferelden Circle, but here, they were considered a necessary evil. He had agreed with her then, perhaps even smug at the approval in her eyes, but now, staring at the consequences, bile rose in his throat.

A drizzle began, a rare spot of rain for Kirkwall. Normally, the rain would have reminded him of home, soothing him in ways he hadn’t realised he missed. But now, it only made him feel like a monster.

He took a few steps forward, his heavy armour clanking with each movement. She flinched, expecting her tormentors were back, bracing for what would be another blow.

He stopped three paces away, unable to come any closer. It was as though his youthful infatuation had erected a wall between them, an invisible barrier. He felt almost embarrassed, as though he didn’t belong here, seeing her like this. She deserved so much more than this.

No, she didn’t. She was just a mage. A mage.

“What did you do?” he asked, his voice low.

Her head shifted slightly, tilting awkwardly to the side under her arm. She looked at him from beneath a veil of hair, her face mostly hidden, peering from one cold eye.

“Insolence, sir.”

“Insolence... how?” He could hear the edge of disbelief in his voice.

There was a pause. She didn’t want to answer.

“There was a visitor at the front gate. I spoke to her,” she said.

He understood. The mages were infamous for smuggling out letters, tools, secrets. Knight Commander Meredith had made it clear that they couldn’t be allowed to speak to anyone—too dangerous. She’d seen them use blood magic to manipulate anyone they could ensnare.

“What did you speak to them about?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t.

“She wanted directions.” Her voice was flat, almost serene, yet even from here, he could see the simmering rage in that one exposed eye. The hatred she directed at him was palpable, a thick, suffocating fog that seemed to hang around them both.

“I see.” He lied, his voice betraying him, cracking like a nervous boy. He wasn’t sure he believed her, and a part of him almost wished she were lying. If she wasn’t, if one of his own had done this to her for something as innocuous as offering directions... For answering a question, as she had answered his own.

His eyes fell to the welts on her back, and he noticed her flinch as each raindrop landed on them. The hardness in him cracked slightly, and he saw her now as more than a mage, more than an object of infatuation. She was a young woman in pain.

“Do you... would you like me to button your robe?” he asked, his voice softening.

She hesitated, then nodded faintly, the movement barely perceptible.

He made sure not to touch her skin, as if the mere contact might ignite him. With careful precision, he pulled the fabric together, reattaching each hidden clasp with slow, deliberate movements. Any quicker, and he feared he might linger too long, touch her more than necessary. She remained stiff beneath his hands, her breath shallow, barely audible, until he was done. Only then did he step back, giving her the space she desperately needed.

“Would you untie me, sir?” she asked, her voice small, made braver only by his unexpected kindness.

He had crossed a line. He shouldn’t have come here.

“No.”

With a final glance at her, Cullen turned away, retreating before he could second-guess himself. The rain was heavier now, but he didn’t care. He let it soak through his armour, the cold a welcome distraction from the turmoil in his chest. He needed distance, needed to escape the weight of what he'd almost done, before he lost himself completely.

No more weakness. Remember Fereladin. Remember what they did to you. 

He skulked back to his room for evening prayer.