#templar!cullen

Ebrisa opened her eyes, her hazy vision slowly focusing on a broken pillar across the floor. She pulled herself up and took a good look at her decrepit surroundings, trying to remember where she was or how she got there. The last thing she recalled was sitting in the isolation cell after finally being given fresh, new clothing. Orsino and a small squad of templars took her to a spacious room in a section of the Gallows she'd never been in before with large wards engraved into the otherwise smooth floor. It was filled with more templars and the knight-commander, all of them standing around a glyph and watching her expectantly. Orsino had said something, something important, and directed her to a glowing basin. She touched the liquid, and then... then she...

“This is... the Fade?” Ebrisa's voice carried further than she thought it would, cutting through the silence and echoing back to her with an eerie reverb. Everything looked wrong somehow, distorted, and she wondered if it was normal to feel so disoriented in the Fade. This was not the Fade she knew – far from it – but this wasn't a dream, this was her Harrowing. The mage pushed aside the uneasiness and tore her eyes away from the small islands floating in the yellow sky. She focused on the cracked tiles beneath her feet and followed them away from the collapsed ruins she'd woken up in.

The path degraded into loose cobble stones, twisting around strange statues and climbing over hills. She had no idea what she was supposed to do, where she was supposed to go, and that was part of the test. The Harrowing was a carefully guarded secret and Ebrisa couldn't help but wonder if that meant each was different and suited to the specific mage, or just too trying and unpredictable to recall correctly later.

There were rumors, or course, whispered horror stories from an enchanter that someone knew from another Circle or recorded in a journal an old roommate had found or some other impossible to confirm source. Demons lie in wait to kill the apprentice or possess them. Templars will kill you if you take too long. If you get lost, you are stranded in the Fade forever. It seemed the only thing no one knew was how to successfully complete the Harrowing and return to the waking world.

“My, oh my,” a rich, feminine voice called out from above. Ebrisa jumped in surprise and shot her eyes upwards. A glowing figure sat atop the capital of a column, too far and bright against the sky to make out. “Oh, forgive me.” The being floated down from her perch and dimmed her shine, reducing her form to something more solid, though still vague.

Its entire being, save its deep violet eyes, was a soft lilac. The arms and legs fanned out like the fabric of an elegant gown, ridding the figure of defined hands or feet. It had long, flowing bangs that twisted to the side and floated gracefully around her head as she moved. “This is better for mortal eyes, yes?”

“It, um, yes.” Ebrisa blinked at the figure, its presence not entirely unexpected, but still rather surprising. “Thank you.”

It smiled sweetly. “I am a spirit of love, and you are no dreamer.”

“I...”

“Oh, do not fret over me, sweet child,” the spirit giggled. “I've seen many of these tests over my long existence.”

Ebrisa chewed on her bottom lip, knowing she should be cautious but also knowing she needed a little direction. “Can you tell me what I'm supposed to do?”

The spirit studied her for a while, watching her shift uncomfortably under her dark eyes. It grinned widely, nodding once. “I sense a great capacity for love in you, sweet child. It would be my honor to aid you through this task so you might return and spread that beautiful nature.”

“Oh, you needn't bother yourself,” Ebrisa awkwardly tried to refuse. “A simple point in the right direction will do.”

“Nonsense,” the spirit chuckled as it floated down the path. “Allow me to be your guide, as I have assisted so many before you.”

The mage rubbed her forehead and took a slow breath. She had read about goodly spirits of the Fade – they were the Maker's first children, after all – and surely a being of love could be up to nothing malicious. With a soft hum, Ebrisa followed the spirit down the path.

“You should know that once you entered this place, a demon caught your scent – so to speak – and will be hunting you.” Love looked over her shoulder to frown in concern. “It is something that always happens and is part of your test. This demon you must defeat. Once you do, you pass.”

The idea of facing a demon all on her own was intimidating to say the least and Ebrisa's stomach twisted into nervous knots. When she faced demons in Feynriel's dream, she had merely provided support to Hawke and the others as they took down a dozen at once. They had made it look so very easy, but what could she do on her own?

This was a test designed to gauge her strength of will and aptitude for the arcane, not battlefield strategies and war tactics. The spirit had said there was a demon hunting her. Just one. It was possible to defeat a single enemy by herself, right? Ebrisa had defended the Harrowing to Hawke before, claiming the Circle wouldn't test mages just to watch them fail. The instructors must have seen something in her that made them confident enough to put her through the Harrowing. Why else would they do this now?

Cullen leaned forward in the chapel's front pew, staring at his sister's letter once again. He'd read the message so many times by now that the words were practically memorized. He tried to imagine them coming out angrily from Mia's mouth, but he realized that not only was his elder sister now a woman and would sound different, but he couldn't recall exactly what her voice was like before either. He folded the letter back up for the hundredth time, lining up the creases with care and slipping it back into the envelope to keep it protected.

He heard soft footsteps approaching, not the loud clanking of a templar, and quickly rose to his feet. Cullen tucked the letter into his sash and left the chapel, not wanting to get caught in a moment of weakness by his charges or make a sister think he was running out on a service. He turned the corner and sighed in relief when the footsteps faded, indicating the person had entered the chapel. It did rather feel like he was hiding from the clergy, however, and a small pang of shame washed over him. Cullen was a strong believer in the Maker and His holy bride and tried to attend services in the Chantry at least once a week – the only time he could be found out of uniform – but he had trouble associating the Maker's Light with Circles. Here, he was always to be vigilant, always watching for trouble. Here, he could not let his heart sing the Chant. Not after everything he had seen.

To his annoyance, the footsteps returned, moving quickly behind him. He groaned, thinking he had been seen fleeing and the sister was going to try and drag him back. Ignoring the lapse in his faith was easy when he could separate the devote man from the dedicated templar, but having the issue forced in front of him tended to make him feel like a fraud. Hoping his pursuer would take the hint and give up, he increased his pace. The robed figure did too.

Groaning in frustration, Cullen spun around. “Can I help you?” He snapped the words unintentionally.

Ebrisa stood in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide and mouth hanging open just a bit in surprise. “I- I just...”

Well, at least he hadn't yelled at a cleric. Somehow, this didn't feel much better. “Yes, Trevelyan?”

She extended her hands, holding out an envelope addressed to him. “You dropped this, Knight-Captain.”

Cullen's hand flew to his waist, feeling for the letter's duplicate and finding nothing. “So I have...” He took the envelope, noting how carefully the mage held it, and checked the contents to ensure Mia's letter was inside. After losing it once, he wasn't going to walk away again without everything. He glanced at the young woman and caught her eyes briefly. “Thank you. This is... thank you.”

Her lips moved into what should have been a smile, but it fell just short of the name. “The difference in writing between your name and the address shows how much the author cares for you, so I knew it had to be important.”

“The difference...?” He echoed, studying the front of the envelope.

“In the pen strokes,” Ebrisa explained, moving to his side to point at the dark swirls. “The address is neat, but some of the letters run together with just the tinniest trail of ink, as though the quill wasn't lifted off the parchment enough. Your name, however, is written out with deliberate, defined strokes. Ser. Cullen. Stanton. Rutherford. Not a single slip of the hand in the entire line.”

Cullen let out a single puff of laughter. “How did I not notice that?”

“In all likelihood, you were more captivated by the contents of the letter than its packaging. A testament to how special this person is to you.”

“She is,” he smiled at that. “The whole lot of them are.”

“Whole... lot...?”

“That's right. Though I'm sure Rosalie would like to think she's the favorite just because she's the youngest,” Cullen explained as he tucked the letter away, taking the time to ensure it was properly secured. When he looked back at the mage, her face was amusingly red.

“And they...” Ebrisa lowered her voice. “They know about each other?”

“Yes?” He raised a brow at the mage. “Why wouldn't they...” The words trailed off as he figured out what the young woman was thinking before he flushed a bit himself. “Maker's Breath, I'm referring to my siblings!”

Ebrisa covered her face to hide her horrified expression, but her ears burned a shade Cullen hadn't even thought was humanly possible. “Oh, I- I am so – Andraste's Pyre! Of course you wouldn't have multiple lovers. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that, Knight-Captain. You are a man of character, and I am – Maker's Mercy – I am an idiot.”

Cullen was used to making mages uncomfortable, but to see Ebrisa work herself up into an embarrassed, fumbling mess without any assistance from him brought a lightness to his weighed down thoughts and he chuckled. The mage stopped her babbling and lowered her hands, staring up at the man.

“Apologies, Trevelyan,” he said as the too short bit of mirth subsided. “It was rather cruel of me to laugh.”

After spying the first plume of smoke rise up from the docks across the harbor, it didn't take long for the Knight-Commander to figure out the horned warriors had finally acted out. She worked with Cullen to formulate a strategy as the lieutenants rushed to organize troops into units. With luck, the patrols already within the city were holding their own and could meet up with the new forces as they arrived. Orsino insisted on helping defend Kirkwall and the Qunari threat was too strong to turn down the team of enchanters he gathered.

The templars were divided into two groups, each taking a different path towards Hightown with securing the viscount being priority. Meredith would lead the troops up the shipping passage and assigned Kerras to manage the others, leaving Cullen behind with the remaining forces to hold the Gallows.

“We know what these Qunari do to their mages,” Meredith hissed. “I would not see our own be subjected to such things.” In truth, she wasn't even certain the heathens would suffer any Circle mage to live and she was determined to not find out.

As soon as Meredith's units were on their way across the harbor, Cullen ordered each portcullis dropped and braced. The gates were the original iron weave from the prison days and did well enough keeping slaves and mages in, but the Knight-Captain had his doubts that they could hold up long against invading soldiers. Breaking in to the Gallows had never been a large concern before and the ancient gates were as likely to break as the stone grooves that housed them. Cullen was not so foolish as to rest all his hopes on the integrity of Tevinter masonry and set archers on the wall as well as stationing the meager troops he was left with around the entry yard.

On the off chance that the Qunari found another way into the Gallows, Cullen had the mages gather in the dining hall and appointed several templars to guard them. Of those mages, a few trusted enchanters were selected to bolster the defenses in the entry yard and some others assigned to set up and work a small infirmary. Anita protested the appointment of Trevelyan to the healer group, as she'd barely been mentored, but the Knight-Captain appeared to be deaf to her concerns.

“I suppose you'll be useful enough with the smaller tasks,” Anita muttered as they arranged supplies on the formari shop tables. “Keep in mind that bones must be set before they are mended, or they'll heal wrong and need to be broken all over again. If you find an injury that is beyond you, do not let pride blind you – call for a more experienced hand.”

Ebrisa nodded emphatically. “I'll do my best to not be a hindrance to you all.”

While most knew Ella had run to see her family, others suspected another's hand at work once again. The girl had made her suspicions of Ebrisa no secret, warning others away as she had tried to do with Edan, and the idea that the blonde had acted against her was not so far fetched to those who already feared her. These whispers joined the others, drifting from dark corners where the speakers could not be detected and Ebrisa continued to do her best to ignore them. The bite of them had lessened, as the mage did not feel at all responsible for Ella's actions or state.

With the distance others dealt her, Ebrisa was outright surprised to find a vase of white lilies sitting on her side of the desk when she returned to her quarters after assisting Berenice. Vemara sat at the other side of the planked surface working on an assignment her mentor had given her, quill scratching over her notes as her face twisted in concentration.

“Vemara, where did these flowers come from?” Normally Ebrisa wouldn't have interrupted, but the sight was so strange it had to be addressed.

“Didn't you bring them from the garden?” The elf replied without looking up.

“No, the ones I planted were crushed months ago...” The blonde gently caressed a petal, knowing full well that the white would normally be dotted with brown spots so late in the season. There was a faint thrum of lyrium in the flowers, something she had read about that preserved plants after cutting to elongate their usefulness. Normally such tricks were used on herbs or other helpful greenery, but it did stand to reason that floral merchants could employ the technique to keep their wares in prime condition longer. It wasn't a spell per se, and didn't violate any Chantry law but Ebrisa felt there was something innately wrong about trying to restore life to a long dead flower.

“Maybe the person who crushed it felt bad and wanted to replace them,” Vemara said while soaking more ink up the quill barrel.

“Maybe...” Ebrisa hummed and picked up the vase. “Still, it means someone came into our room while we were gone.” The idea did not sit well with her.

“Must have been a templar then. They can go anywhere,” the elf reasoned. “Maybe one likes you.”

The blonde nearly dropped the flowers, ceramic container and all, as she snapped her attention to the child. “Wha- that – Vemara, you don't know what you're saying! Templars can't like mages – there are rules against that sort of thing.”

The girl rested her chin in her hand, narrowly missing dotting her nose with ink. “Rules on feelings? That's silly.”

Ebrisa tightened her grip on the vase, the detailed etching pressing into her fingertips. “No, it's necessary. Templars have to stay vigilant, stay in control. They can't be our friends...” She felt a tightness rise in her throat as she spoke, knowing what she was saying was the truth, but at the same time knowing she had done much to undermine it. Ebrisa's knuckles had grown white from her clutching as she stared at the lilies in her hands. “They can't be. You'll understand when you're older.”

“Really?” Vemara turned to the young woman fully, frowning in confusion. “If you truly believe that, then why do you look so sad?”

“Cullen?”

At the sound of his name, he lifts his head to peer into the inky darkness that surrounds him save for the glowing bars of his prison.  He can just make out a form — womanly curves and wild ebony curls tumbling over her back and shoulders.

“S-Solona?” 

Dare he hope that she’s come back for him? As she steps forward, the blue light of his cage bathes her with its eerie glow, bringing out the blue and purple highlights in her hair. Maker, she is so beautiful; his longing for her eclipses his fear and pain.

“Yes, Cullen, it’s me.” She walks closer to his cage, and he can see that she’s wearing a robe of diaphanous white fabric that clings to her ample curves. Maker’s breath, he can see the dusky rose of her nipples and the shadow of her dark pubic hair through the flimsy cloth. “I’ve come back, Cullen. For you. I love you.”

His heart beats faster as the words he’s longed to hear for years fall from those plump red lips. He rises to his feet and takes a step closer to the vision standing before him, a tremulous smile on his face.  She smiles at him encouragingly. “Come to me, my love,” she says. “Let’s get you out of here, and we can be together — the way you’ve always wanted. Forever.”

“My love,” he croaks.

But as he takes another step closer, a frisson of unease tingles up his spine, and he stops just out of her reach.  Something’s not right here. Cullen rubs his face with both hands and shakes his head to clear it of the haze caused by lack of food, water, and lyrium.

“Come to me, my love,” she whispers, glancing around the room. “Come quickly, before they return.”

He watches her with narrowed eyes. There’s a wrongness about this — about her.

When it comes to him, icicles encase his heart: Solona Amell can’t be here now because she is dead, murdered during Uldred’s takeover of the tower days ago  He watched the light go out of her violet eyes as she died in his arms.

Grief flares within his chest anew coupled with rage. Rage at himself for failing to protect her as is his duty as a Templar, and rage that this foul creature would take the form of the one he loved above all others. That it would use his everlasting shame against him.

“Get away from me, demon! I will not yield!” he snarls and backs away, his hands fisting at his sides.

“You disappoint me, Templar. This would be so much easier if you’d just submit,” the not-Solona hisses as its form begins to shift into its truthful shape. “I will have you, foolish human!”

Desire cackles at him, slitted eyes glowing as it licks its fangs with its forked tongue. It reaches for him with its horrible clawed hands.

                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cullen wakes, the scream on his lips barely stifled as he realizes where he is. Not the Fereldan Circle. He’s in Kirkwall, in his bed in the Gallows. Not the Fereldan Circle. He’s safe. He sits up in bed and tries to calm his ragged breathing.

“Maker’s breath!”  He runs a hand through his damp hair. He’s soaked with sweat, the bedding beneath him drenched. Again. He thought he’d seen the last of the nightmares — he hadn’t had any in almost a year, but now they’ve returned. Was he never to be free of them?

He gets out of bed and pads naked to his bureau. He bends and yanks open the bottom drawer, digs out a loose pair of pants. There will be no more sleep tonight, regardless of how gritty his eyes feel and how his body aches with exhaustion.  He steps into the pants and pulls them up over his slim hips, quickly doing up the laces.

He opens another drawer and takes out a philter of lyrium. He’s been dosing more frequently lately, and he wonders if it may be time to increase his rations. He eyes the vial of blue liquid carefully before palming it and grabbing a towel and his sword.  Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he picks up his keys and heads out of his room, determined to make himself sweat a different kind of sweat — the clean sweat of physical exertion.

                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 The exercise yard is deserted at this hour, thankfully.  Cullen drops his towel and lyrium philter on the stone steps and jogs down to the sandy floor.

In the center of the field, he closes his eyes and grips the handle of his sword with both hands. Raising it high above his head, he brings it down in front of his face. With a whispered prayer, he centers himself and begins his routine.

He moves between stances fluidly, his powerful arms holding his sword steady, the muscles of his shoulders and back standing out in high relief as he works.

He grins as he thinks about how much his recruits detest these exercises. To them, it’s mindless repetition, but to Cullen, it’s always helped him to focus his mind. Even during the black days following his captivity at Kinloch, he’d been able to calm his mind with this routine — at least temporarily.

Cullen whirls and dances across the sandy training yard, gliding into and out of the ancient poses, reveling in the burn of his muscles and the kiss of the night breeze ghosting over his hot skin, cooling the sweat on his body.

His Templar trainers always praised his self-control; his ability to silence the world around him and defer the needs of his body.  The Sisters at Greenfell thought that his iron will had been what had probably saved him.

He snorts.

If they could only see him now, still a shaking mess in his bed five years later, holding back his screams like bitter bile. If they only knew that he never feels completely safe; that some days, the crackle of magic from the apprentices practicing their spells makes him want to curl up into a tiny ball in the corner of a dark room and never come out again.

Magic. Mages.  His lips curl back in a snarl. He is glad his Knight Commander is as wary of them as he is. Even the most innocent appearing mage can turn into an abomination if you look at him wrong. And blood magic. Maleficarum roam the city, and there is always the threat of blood magic infecting the Circle.

Solona’s eyes, the color of heather, swim before him and he falters, collapsing on his knees, exhausted and breathing hard, sweat rolling off his forehead and dripping into the sand. Solona. 

How he had wanted her. Watching her going about her activities, always from a distance, of course, and imagining what it would be like to touch her soft skin, to kiss her lush red lips, to bury himself in her, he had allowed himself to grow soft.

He had thought that perhaps the Chantry, and by extension, the Order, were too strict with the mages. Perhaps they should be allowed more freedoms — to go out into the world, and perhaps even to marry.  He scowls and spits. He had entertained his foolish infatuation and look what it had got him?

Solona had died for his weakness, his fellow Templars had died for his weakness, and he had been left behind to face the consequences. He’s sure the Maker spared his life so that he could spend the rest of his life paying for his sins. Why else would he be the only Templar to survive the horrors of those terrible weeks?

He groans as he gets to his feet and stumbles to where he left his towel and lyrium dose.  Stooping, he picks up the vial and downs its contents in one swallow.

He sits down on the top step and leans back against one of the pillars that make up the covered portico ringing the yard. He closes his eyes as he feels the lyrium go to work on his nerves. First thing in the morning — in a few hours now, he’ll visit the infirmary and speak with the healer about increasing his lyrium dose. More lyrium would help keep the nightmares away and keep him functioning; keep him able to do his job.  It’s all he has left.