Hi, this is my first Dragon Age story! It's intended to be a short look at a touching relationship in the midst of personal turmoil, Cullen and my character Lillian Amell, maybe just a couple of chapters depending on reader interest. Otherwise it could almost be a long story! Review please!
I decided to try and imagine what it would really be like in the Circle Tower, and it didn't turn out that great for either of our protagonists. Its kind of like you're imprisoned in this tower and watched all the time while being told constantly that you're evil because of something that isn't your fault. It didn't sound all that fun, and then when I started writing it turned out a whole lot worse
One big change I made was Jowan-he was pathetic in the game, wet and whiny. He couldn't be a blood mage, it didn't make much sense to me. So I decided to tweak him a bit and he turned out a borderline sociopath. Oh well.. .
Anyway, please enjoy! And don't mind the overlong descriptions. They're an occupational hazard .
Addendum: This was up a long time ago, and was reviewed very kindly by a number of people back then; so thank you to Rocketfish, Squeeze-the-fish and Medieval Fan, if any of you are actually patient enough to ever look back at this. I have actually updated this according to some recommendations made back then. Any thoughts would be most welcome! And thanks to Auranara, Rocketfish and Ryoku Metallium for putting it on favourites.
Kinloch Hold shimmered like a spire of crystal as the fading sunset wreathed the tower in the sombre majesty of its waning golden-red light. Its walls were smooth, impregnable granite, the windows small slits winding their way in sweeping circles up the pitiless sides, and at its crown it tapered towards a thin, spine of stone, precarious, and yet strangely delicate considering the heavy substance that the rest of the Keep embodied, that reared up as if to coax lightning from the clear sky. The Tower was marooned within glassy, deep and dark Lake Calenhad, a spire of stone amidst the waters. The only bridge, once a grand, old construction of marble, had fallen into a state of disrepair unthinkable for its ancient builders, rendering the Tower of the Circle of Magi almost entirely and completely isolated. And yet inhabited still, inhabited by those whose circumstances, whose very nature, demanded this kind of seclusion, at least according to the Chantry; The Circle of Magi…
As night fell, and the Tower stood grim and silent upon the waters, it was easy to see why the place was regarded with such awe and fear by those inhabiting the surrounding areas. It looked spectral, looming and remote, as though it were already half-way in another world. Few gave it more than a single, superstitious glance. Yet if they had, if they had looked closer over shining Lake Calenhad, perhaps they would have seen past its formidable mystique to the flickering light of torches that glimmered within its many windows, to the walled gardens at its feet, trim and well-kept. Perhaps they would have realised, seeing this, that the Tower of the Circle of Magi was not merely fortress, prison or hallowed ground, it was home also. Home to some two hundred or more souls, each one as alike in their dreams, their hopes, their fears, as those who did not dare to even look upon the tower for fear of attracting the evil they believed inhabited it. Alike except for one single, damning fact, that those within the walls of the Tower bore the burden of magic. And those who watched over them, guarded them vigilantly on behalf of the Chantry, the Order of the Templars, were regarded with an awe and dread that might as well have been as remote and fearful as the isolation in which their charges lived. Had any of these superstitious villagers ever considered what it was really like to be mage or, indeed even, a templar, they might have pitied, rather than feared, those imprisoned within the gilded halls of the Tower, in duty or in confinement. For pity was a thing that was rarely found by any who walked within its shadowed precincts.
In a place, there was about halfway up the tower's lofty heights, a small candle flame burned amidst the darkness of a blank, dead window. The candle, a simple wax one, was set upon a table, which was, like everything else in the Tower, an ornate and magnificently crafted piece, but cold and lifeless in its splendour. And its flame fell upon the extent of a single room, a library to be precise, with looming shelves towering to the high ceilings all stacked thick with hundreds of precious volumes, the extent of the Circle's gathered knowledge over its long history. In the flickering shadows at twilight there was something deeply unsettling about the Circle Tower's high, vaulted ceilings, its cavernous hallways, the row after row of books all stacked in great reams of volumes, a weight of knowledge that seemed to press in upon the very air. And it seemed to press in too upon the young woman who sat there in the centre of this vast place at a similarly ornate chair before the elaborate table. The candle was set just next to where her head was bent over an open book, a stream of raven-dark hair rippling in the flickering light down over the rough pages…How old she was, it was hard to say. As if in contrast to the grandeur of the Tower around her, she wore simple, somewhat shapeless robes, linen, grey and uncured with a rough feel to them. With her narrow shoulders and thin hips, the dress seemed to dwarf her, as though she were swallowed up in the swathes of material. But the colour of the robes did somewhat soften the whiteness of her almost translucent flesh, clearly naturally pale, but also drained of all life by her long years within these walls. Her features, bent over the book and deep in concentration, were a puzzle, somewhat severe at first glance, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, rather hollow cheeks, but the austerity of her face was lightened somewhat though by the very cast of her cheekbones, as light and delicate as a dove. Nonetheless it would have been difficult to call her beautiful exactly, she was not as striking as that. There were places though, were a subtler kind of loveliness could have gleamed through, had it been allowed. Such as in her eyes, which were large and lucent, framed by long, dark eyelashes, deep blue and gentle as the waters of Lake Calenhad at twilight, but downcast now. Her hair too, could have been the envy of any Orlesian lady, thick, dark and sleek, like the mane of a pony, yet it was combed back behind her ears severely so that its true radiance was left dimmed and disguised. She was a mage and her name was Lillian Amell. In truth she was nearly 18 years old, though she looked younger. And she was not in fact, alone, though it looked like it for a moment. Mages were never alone, they couldn't be trusted to be alone. From the shadows under the torchlight, she was observed, closely with the hard austere gaze of one sworn to a duty that was a grim necessity. It was a gaze that, no matter though it had been trained upon her for all of 15 years, she still could not get used to bearing upon her shoulders. It was the gaze of a Templar, a man in silk and steel plate, anonymous behind a grim helmet, a watcher, a guardian, and should it come to it, an executioner.
Lillian murmured something briefly, a prayer in fact, then bent her head back over the book once again. Even a student with First Enchanter Irving's trust, dutiful in her attendance of Chantry and class alike, could not be trusted with magic. All mages were watched, at all times, for at any moment the demons of the Fade waited to tempt them into sin and blood magic. Unlike many in the Tower, Lillian had always been sensitive to the Templars' lonely vigils, and she wondered now if the man who was watching her wished she would hurry up and finish so he could move out of the library and return to his fellows. She'd been here most of the day, after all, leafing through the oldest and most revered tomes in an attempt to quiet her mind, for she knew that the time was coming when she would face the most feared of the Circle's tests, the Harrowing and her graduation to a full mage of the Circle. It would be any day now, Enchanter Sweeney had let slip that much. But she knew from experience that if she went over and asked the Templar whether it was bothering him that she kept him up like this he would simply reply that it was his duty to watch over her, and leave it at that. Or perhaps there was a chance he might know her. Lillian was aware that some of the Templars, the less austere and reserved ones did know of her, perhaps on account of her childish attempts to befriend them years back, perhaps because she attended Chantry almost as regularly as they did, perhaps because she always reserved a polite greeting for every Templar, and nearly always thanked them for their thankless vigilance over her. True, the lack of privacy was disquieting at times, but Lillian had learned through her life in this Tower to find some small comfort in the Templars' watchfulness. It was to keep her safe. So long as she was within these walls and under the Templars' eyes, she would always be safe.
"Lillian" The voice, her name, spoken amidst the dust and silence, floated in the air a moment before she looked up to meet its cold threat, as always it posed a sneering mockery to the desperate need for safety that pursued her always outside of the warmth of the Chantry. Jowan…O Maker, hear my cry… Slowly she looked up from her book and offered a weary smile to her friend and her most feared tormentor in the Circle Tower. Guide me through the blackest night. Jowan was a tall, thin young man, two years older than Lillian, and in presence and confidence he entirely overshadowed her. Many thought him handsome, she knew, and the splendid blue silk robes favoured by many of their apprentice classmates suited him perhaps best of all of them. His long hair was darker even than her own and swept down to his neck in a shimmering gloss, his eyes were so light blue as to be almost colourless, his flesh was pale too but it suited him, imparting a kind of refined elegance to the angularity of his face. And yet the source of his magnetism was not as easily definable as all that…something burned cold behind those eyes, something that both enthralled and repelled Lillian. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. "Studying again?" Slowly with the soft tread of a lynx he stepped over to her table, laid a hand casually upon the pages of the book before her, and yet even that merest of motions sent a shudder down Lillian's spine. There was something so…sensual about the elegance of Jowan's calculated ease, and yet dangerous too…like a dagger sheathed in silk. She was not sure what she feared more.
"It's nothing…" She swallowed, moistening her throat which had suddenly dried, and she moved to close the book once again. Maybe she could escape him this time. The Chantry was still open, and initiates were always on watch over Andraste's Eternal Flame there. Perhaps she could plead a prior engagement, a private class with Sweeney, or one of the other enchanters. Make me to rest in the warmest places. But she could never deceive Jowan, without raising a finger he softly wrenched the truth from her. Her own weakness, perhaps…but she found him so very hard to resist.
"Let me see" He caught her arm effortlessly, so casually, but there was nothing casual about the way his merest touch sent a cold fire down Lillian's arm right to the darkest corners of her soul. It was that she feared most about Jowan, not merely his own wickedness, of which she grew more and more certain each time she repented before Andraste's Flame, but that he was the one temptation she could never refuse. O Creator, see me kneel. Every time she gave in she knew she was more culpable in his wickedness, but she could never find the strength to evade him. For I walk only where You have bid me. Jowan glanced briefly over the page before him, his cool gaze sweeping the cramped text in an elegant hand, the sweeping diagrams, all the things that gave so much solace to Lillian under his eyes seemed to transfigure into worthless scribbling, the mindless, powerless ramblings of the long-dead, as he had always dismissed them. "The Four Schools; A Treatise by First Enchanter Josephus…" He said softly "Lillian, aren't we all rather beyond this by now?" Stand only in places You have blessed.
"Well, yes…" Lillian whispered, looking back down with an obscure, but undeniable sense of shame at the text "I was just…cross-referencing…" Josephus' summary of the magical schools was one of the more basic texts in the Tower. Sing only the words You place in my throat. But Lillian had always found new insights hidden inside it, things she found difficult to explain to others, especially Jowan. Josephus wrote in a style she found obscurely comforting, a paternal, grandfatherly way, and she enjoyed imagining as she read what he, one of the links in the Circle's long chain of First Enchanters had been like. In many ways she was closer to these long-dead enchanters than most of her fellows. But how could she explain that to Jowan? She still hungered for his approval.
"You're lying to me, Lillian" Jowan smiled softly, as though he found that deeply amusing "Don't try to tell me that Irving's favourite pupil, the finest mage in our generation at the Circle, finds time to cross-reference Josephus?" He gave a mocking laugh, Lillian smiled weakly. The way he put it, it sounded ridiculous, she sounded ridiculous. She never took her talents for granted, but Jowan, who was nothing more than mediocre at the subtle magic in which Lillian excelled, could still effortlessly belittle everything she had achieved. And she always, always found she believed him. "Spirit, Creation, Primal and Entropy…four fine schools of magic our friend Josephus lists" Jowan reeled them off "And, or so he says, most of us may only be gifted in one of these, the Primal perhaps, but Lillian, dear Lillian, proves differently, isn't that right? For she, superb as she is, straddles the subtler arts of Spirit and Creation alike, the pinnacle of her classes in each." He raised his hands, nodding briefly to Lillian as though to round off a theatrical performance "Lillian, you are living proof that Josephus' scribbling is worthless"
"The First Enchanter suggested there were special cases…" Lillian shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Magic shouldn't be mocked, least of all by those burdened with its infinitely corruptible power. So the Blessed Andraste had spoken, and the Circle had been founded upon Her wisdom, And She was with them still, through Her Chantry. So long as the Circle obeyed the Chantry, their power could still be used for good. But as soon as they forgot how awful their burden was, and the terrible price it had already torn from Thedas, they would stray once more into sin and pride. Yet she dared not speak of such things to Jowan, for fear that he would mock the holy mysteries also. She'd never seen him at Chantry…how could he be so brazen?
"Ah, so you are a special case then, dear Lillian" Jowan ran a hand over the table, alighting briefly upon the pages of Josephus' work, there was more than one meaning to so simple a gesture, to his words also. "Trust Irving to say so." Lillian frowned briefly, nor did Jowan respect the authority of the First Enchanter and her mentor, Irving. The only teacher he seemed to have any kind of regard for was Enchanter Uldred, who had always seemed deeply unpleasant to Lillian, obsequious to his favourites but disdainful of those with lesser ability. Why, there were whispers that he was a member of the Libertarian Fraternity, founded to break the Circle from the Chantry, as if such a thing could even be imagined. She, for one, was deeply thankful that Uldred had left the Tower last week along with a few of the other Enchanters, to fight in the South. But without him around Jowan and Uldred's other favourites, a group of young apprentices and mages well prepared to push the boundaries, were even more insufferable than usual. And First Enchanter Irving, normally anxious to maintain the balance in the Tower, did little to curb them now. "Come now, Lillian, you only read Josephus when you're worried about something" Jowan grinned, flaunting his easy knowledge of her, when she still found him so impossible to understand or predict. "Maybe that Templar you like so much. I heard he's in trouble with Gregoir…"
"Cullen?" Lillian's gaze snapped back to Jowan's cold, mocking eyes "In trouble with the Knight-Commander, why?" Jowan always seemed to have a finger on the pulse of the Tower, knowing every dark secret, all the gossip circulating amongst apprentices and enchanters alike. But when was he telling the truth, and when was he just trying to scare her, she hardly knew. And Cullen was, as Jowan was well aware, one of Lillian's sorest weaknesses.
"Maybe old Gregoir finally got wise to the fact that Cullen rather likes watching the female apprentices" Jowan folded his arms, looking very self-satisfied. But under that, as always when he spoke of Cullen, there was an iron-cold hatred that Lillian scarcely understood but feared to the depths of her heart. "Maybe a couple of girls complained that he switches watches just to be there when they're all asleep. Maybe his soul's in danger…who knows?" Lillian knew instantly that Jowan was lying. Cullen was her best friend amongst the Templars, and she knew he'd never be so light with his vows. He was devoted to the Maker, and to his duty. And he was Knight Commander Gregoir's finest protégé, some of the other Templars thought that Cullen was being lined up to be Gregoir's replacement. Jowan was just being spiteful, as he always was with Cullen. It was like he hated her having anything to do with anything that wasn't him, even though she was always second in his priorities, and there were rumours that he'd…well…been with a number of the other female apprentices. There'd even been an initiate, someone had said, but that was surely a lie. Initiates were vowed just like Templars to chastity, and those few present in the Tower were separated from the mages at all times.
"Jowan, stop it" She said quickly, it was only when she thought of Cullen that she found the strength to stand up to Jowan. Cullen was everything she wasn't, strong, brave, courageous and faithful to his vows and Maker. "Cullen has nothing to do with this, okay?"
"Right, of course" Jowan glanced coldly at her, but in the next moment's brief, taut silence he seemed to decide to let go, which was a relief. Jowan had never made a secret of his dislike of the Templars in general, and Cullen in particular. Privately Lillian sometimes wondered if he and his friends idolised the freedom and power the Tevinter Magisters had so abused rather than fearing the consequences of their hubris. The only one she'd ever revealed her suspicions to Cullen, but he'd assured her that the Templars were keeping a close eye on them. Yet there were places even the Templars couldn't find, things they didn't see…Lillian knew that far too well… "Then what is it, Lillian?" Jowan continued, and his usual cold charm was dented by a sudden annoyance "You're even more uptight than usual"
"It's…" Lillian considered a moment, but she knew that Jowan was in no mood for further delay. He could…hurt her, not in ways that she could tell to Irving, or Cullen or the Revered Mother. Not in places the bruises ever showed. "Enchanter Sweeny let slip that…my Harrowing is being organised." She answered quickly "Its going to be any night now…"
"Your Harrowing?" Jowan looked momentarily and unusually shocked, his pale eyes narrowing "They can't be…?"
"Jowan, I was eighteen at Harvest" Lillian shook her head "It's already later than most, and you're…" She didn't finish, Jowan was older than her, nearly two years older. Uldred's support or no, he wasn't being offered the chance to undergo the Harrowing, not now, not in the near future. The ritual was utterly secret, but it was the only way an apprentice could ever hope to become a fully fledged mage of the Circle. Some never returned from their Harrowing, and others, those deemed too dangerous or too weak by the Templars, were never given the chance. There were alternatives, of course, but none of them were anything she could imagine Jowan choosing.
"Of course" Jowan stepped back, and the habit of cool self-control settled easily enough over him once again. But Lillian knew him better than that, however she might have wished otherwise, and she saw that he was strained almost to breaking. "You're afraid you might not come back then, Lillian?"
"It happened…to Marius and Alina" Lillian's eyes closed for a moment, and she saw the faces of the apprentices the Circle had lost over the last six months float before her gaze. She hadn't known either very well, but…it all felt so wrong, one day they were there with their friends, smiling and laughing while Lillian floated invisibly in the background, the next their beds were empty and the enchanters never spoke of them again. Many apprentices learnt to do the same. Lillian, though, had never forgotten the long line of apprentices, some of whom she had never even learnt the names of, who had vanished during the darkest hours of the night, escorted from their beds by the Templars. It was a part of life in the Circle, knowing that any night you could be the next. But it didn't make it any easier, or ease the thought that her own Harrowing was within touching distance. Intellectually Lillian understood the necessity also, and understood the hard choice the Templars had to make, mages were dangerous, any one of them could be the gateway that a demon used to enter Thedas. If they died now, it was better than them loosing an abomination that would slaughter innocents. There was no choice, it had to be done. But still… "I don't know if I'm ready…" She admitted softly to Jowan. The irony of such a confession was not lost on her, but still…everyone needed someone to confide in.
"It doesn't matter if you're ready or not" Jowan shook his head bitterly "The Templars will come anyway, that's what they do…"
"It's what they have to do" Lillian answered. "What we have to do" If Irving and Gregoir and Cullen, and even the Divine in Val Royeux, believed the Harrowing was necessary, she could not question it.
"So the Chantry says" Jowan replied, then he glanced quickly at Lillian "You know you're not going to fail, right?" Jowan rarely showed her any kind of feeling, and what filled his voice now was closest, most likely, to a kind of self-pity. But still, it was something, and Lillian's feelings, always deeply vulnerable to him, moved in response. "Wynne, Sweeney, even Irving…they all say you're the best apprentice in this generation"
"That's just words, Jowan…" It was rare for Lillian to feel stronger that Jowan, but she did momentarily now "The Harrowing, that's real…what if I fail?"
"At least you're being given the chance" Jowan muttered darkly. At once the moment was done, so suddenly that Lillian wondered briefly if she had even seen anything at all. Jowan wasn't the type to show weakness, least of all to her. "So…you're going to be a mage soon, Lillian?" He looked up to her again, cool and predatory "You'll move up the Tower, get your own dormitory and everything?" Lillian paused, nodded slowly, unsure of what Jowan's intentions, and his point, was. It was true, mages were lodged privately… "I'll miss our little talks" Jowan said softly. Lillian tensed, her fingers tightening upon Josephus' treatise…she felt a surge of exhausted anguish, was that how he put it, what happened between them every night he was not engaged with some other woman? But it was true, she glanced away…if she succeeded in the Harrowing, it would come to an end. Jowan wouldn't be able to reach her, touch her, in the mage's quarters. Could she even dare to hope things might change?
"Yes" Lillian answered at last, glancing back at him. Her bond to Jowan was a sick, diseased thing…born out of her desperation and his thirst to control and degrade some weak thing, take out his own imprisonment on her, to force the control none of them had over their own lives on something he could dominate utterly. She was like an animal to him, worse than that, some crawling wretched creature he could kick again and again knowing that she would always come back to his feet whenever he needed to feel masterful over something. Her own behaviour sickened her, she knew it would sicken Cullen, the Revered Mother, First Enchanter Irving too, if they knew. But she didn't have the strength to break free. She was afraid of him, knew he could make her life Hell if she tried to fight him, and more than that…in some deep and dark part of herself she allowed it all to happen because it felt like all she had. Yet maybe with floors of the Tower between them she could finally escape him, and more than that, escape her own weakness and the longing for him that she couldn't rip out.
"What we have, Lillian, its different, isn't it?" Jowan gazed down at her, daring her to voice her thoughts. He often said that, as if to stop her asking why she got only his perfunctory night time visits and none of the sleek compliments and charming gifts he charmed other women with. He dumped them all soon enough, only her he kept coming back to. "I think you and I understand each other, don't you?" Now he was mocking her, she decided, but in fact it was hard to say how he intended her to take the remark. To be sure she perhaps alone in the Tower, except maybe for Cullen, understood that Jowan's charm was as hollow as the loving words he sometimes murmured in her ear, when she could tell he hardly knew it was her beneath him. That he was cruel, and vicious, and his hatred for the bounds of the Circle went far beyond what most mages would dare to express, and, deep within all that, she knew that he did not believe in the Maker. And he knew her too, knew her more than anyone else, even Cullen, because unlike Cullen he knew the depth of her slavish weakness and he knew her secret sins. He knew how to make her feel worthless, keep her under his thumb. Knowing that she stayed silent, watching him slowly step up to her chair. "We don't have much time left, do we?" His voice went soft, rumbling hungrily.
"Jowan, not now" Lillian shook her head, refused, like she did every other night. It wouldn't last she knew with sickened certainty. "Not tonight…"
"Why not?" Jowan's hand alighted upon her shoulder, his touch was cold as ice even through the rough linen of her gown "I think we both need it…" No, you need this, Lillian thought desolately as she sank back into her chair beneath the soft seductive sin of his touch tracing the curve of her shoulder. You need this to tell yourself that, though I am to have my Harrowing and you are not, that you are better than me still. The only way you know how…
"Jowan" She raised an arm, brushed his hand away "No" Courage, Irving had told her once that courage was the key to the Harrowing, she had to have courage like Cullen did.
"Lillian" Jowan lowered his head closer to her, so that his hoarse breaths stirred the strands of her dark hair against her cheeks. She felt the lust in his eyes, it was foul and evil. And yet, oh Maker, she wanted it as well, wanted his touch on her obliterating the thoughts of the Harrowing to come and the constant thoughts of sin and guilt that plagued her heart, and, by the Divines, she wanted him too. She desired Jowan, that was the darkest secret of all, the one she scarcely admitted to herself except now, when he was so close that she burned with the fire of it, so that lies were impossible. "You're not going to say no to me, are you?"
"I…have, Jowan" Lillian couldn't look at him. She knew if she looked at him she would be lost. Cullen, think of Cullen and of the good clean piety of their friendship. If Cullen knew what she did with Jowan he would hate her, it had to stop now, after so many years of pointless vows and abject failures and hopeless begging for absolution. Her eyes fell once again on the Templar standing there in the shadows, a silent sentry to what was happening. What he was seeing, what he must think he was seeing, a coquettish, teasing young woman saying no to her lover just to play games with him, he must have seen it a hundred times before in the feverish atmosphere of the Circle, where teenage assignations were two a penny. And he wasn't going to stop this, no doubt he thought they were both equally guilty and sinful. She could make him if she could only try, if she only screamed or cried out, if she only resisted, fought harder…but how could she resist when she was burning with him, his touch sent a fever through her mind that burned through her denials. Jowan had exacted such a price for his friendship over the years since that first night when she was barely twelve and he fourteen, but that price…to know that she was something to someone, to feel for a moment the sweetness of lying in someone's' arms and the dark pleasure that his touch brought her …sometimes it almost seemed worth it.
"Don't do this, Lillian" She felt Jowan's hand run through her hair, sending it fluttering from the severe cut to which it was normally confined, she heard, and felt him, inhale deeply as though to drink in the scent of her. She gasped, hoarse and sharp, her head falling back against the chair. "Not now. You want this, as much as I do, don't pretend you don't." He lowered his head next to hers, and she knew that he'd seen where her gaze had fallen before. "The Templars don't give a damn about us" He muttered "We're all abominations to them, doesn't matter who we are, what we do, having magic is enough to damn us all in their eyes. And…" His mouth was so close to her ear, that she could feel his breath, feel the warmth of him. "Your Cullen, he thinks exactly the same. He'll never love you…he can't. You'll never be more than a mage to him."
"Jowan…" Lillian gripped the sides of her chair, his words were like torture. How he knew her, and this, to take the thought of Cullen, that had been giving her the strength to try and resist the sinful offer, and turn it to another shame, speak to her darkest doubts and her deepest secret hopes about her innocent relationship with the Templar.
"Accept what you are Lillian, you are a mage" Jowan muttered, a whisper as soft and sinful as the voice of Dumat the Old God that had tempted the Magisters to breach Heaven "The Chantry will see you shackled and damned, Andraste will never hear you, the Maker doesn't care. But we can turn that into a strength, if you'll let me. You're powerful, more powerful than I am, let me help you…"
"Jowan!" Jowan leapt back, relinquishing his hold over her, and she fell back against the seat of the chair the moment they both heard the voice raised in wrath, a familiar voice. Cullen…Lillian barely managed to raise her head, feeling shock and shame and horror clasp her at the throat. But she would have known Cullen before she looked up into his blazing eyes, as she'd always known him even when he had his helmet on, the visor closed, a barrier she alone could cross. She'd have known him anywhere. It was the way he carried himself, his build beneath the bulky, ornate shining steel armour of the Templars, something so simple as the way he gripped the sword at his belt with gauntleted fingers shaking with rage. Cullen…she looked up into his face, surprised momentarily that he was not wearing his helmet, but helplessly nonetheless drawn to him. Cullen wasn't handsome like Jowan, somewhat battered like a soldier older than he was, but his hair, cut short and ruffled from where he ran his hand through it when he was worried, was a beautiful red-gold, like the burning sunset upon Lake Calenhand. He shaved close, but he always managed to miss the stubble, that same reddish colour, around his lips. Lillian had, in the long talks they'd shared while he was on duty, decided that she liked that he did. His eyes were brown, a deep brown, they too were older than the rest of his face, the eyes of a scholar in the features of a warrior, except now, when he was angrier than she had ever seen, and they burned as the gaze of a twenty year-old young man, even one sworn to religious work, only could. What had he seen, Lillian thought with panic, what had he thought he'd seen? When had he entered the library? Why? "Get away from her, Jowan" Cullen growled. He hadn't looked at Lillian yet, all his ire, his burning fury, was bent toward the suddenly sullen Jowan.
"Please, Chantry-boy, don't strain yourself on her account" Jowan sneered. He was angry too, furious even, but where Cullen's anger blazed hot, Jowan's burned cold. "Getting into her bed is far easier than that…" In a flash of steel and a movement so swift that Lillian barely caught it happening, reeling as she was from Cullen's sudden appearance, and Jowan's foul words, Cullen's sword was suddenly out and in his hand, the point inches from Jowan's head. Even Jowan flinched…
"Get out of here Jowan" Cullen ordered, his whole body shaking with rage, but his sword was still held straight and still, long training had clearly made it so. "Or I will strike you down and save the Knight-Commander the effort of the Rite" Jowan's fist tightened slowly at his side, Lillian felt the tension palpably rise in the air, as she sat there, frozen in terror. It was impossible that Jowan was even considering attacking Cullen…but…
"I would never dream of standing in the way of the Templars" Jowan stepped back slowly, he'd been humiliated, and he knew it, but he had no choice. Even if he was insane enough to strike Cullen, the Templars were trained to fight the magic of the fiercest maleficars and apostates. No apprentice could take them on and win. "She is all yours, Cullen." He sneered nonetheless, as he slipped back, in a swirl of blue robes "Lillian likes it rough, if you're man enough to try" Then he was gone, and Lillian collapsed back into the chair, she felt hot tears burn in her eyes, as she raised trembling hands to her cheeks. Oh Maker…
"Lillian…" She heard the hiss of steel against leather as Cullen sheathed his sword once again, and stepped up to where she sat. She couldn't look at him, though, not after what Jowan had said, not after what he'd seen. Slowly he bent his knees and crouched down next to her chair. "Are you alright?" He said nervously, as though he was afraid she would shatter "He didn't hurt you?" She raised her head, and looked at him through the mist of tears…he was suddenly utterly unlike the fearsome holy warrior who had just faced down Jowan, now he looked young and unsure, as he always did around her, as though he wasn't sure exactly what to make of her, of her tears and smiles alike.
"No" She managed to say, almost choking on the word. Was it possible he didn't believe Jowan's words, that he thought her too pure to be so involved with him? That he had seen her as an unwilling victim…rather than the all-too culpable sinner she was, drenched in her vile desire for Jowan? Oh Maker what sweet, sweet folly…
"I swear Lillian…" Cullen vowed, his voice trembling suddenly, with anger or with the nervous devotion with which he had always approached her, she could not tell which, perhaps both… "If he ever touches you again I'll kill him. I promise…"
"Cullen…" Lillian breathed, Maker forgive her if such a thing ever came to pass. Cullen was good, too good for her…why was he spending his anger like this upon a mage in his care? It wasn't right…it shouldn't be done, and yet her disobedient heart welcomed it nonetheless.
"Lillian…" Cullen reached forward, and she started with shock as his gauntleted hand suddenly took her own upon the arm of the chair in an embrace of cold steel. She started. He'd never, ever, touched her…never, not all these years since she, a fifteen year-old desperately trying to listen at Chantry, had met the gaze of a nervous novice Templar across the altar. He'd looked away right away, but…all through the service somehow their eyes kept meeting, until she'd had the urge to smile, to laugh, in the midst of holy service. She always wished she had met him first, before Jowan, then maybe he could know all of her and she wouldn't have to hide so much from him. She felt a strong longing to touch his cheek tenderly, brush her fingers across the stubble above his upper lip to see if it was soft or rough, and she knew in her soul that she'd always wanted more than friendship from him, though she'd always pretended otherwise. And so had he, until now, until he'd touched her hand. But this, this wasn't really touching, for the steel gauntlet stood between them, but somehow she could still feel him, could feel the pulse in his veins, the heat of his skin, Cullen… "I'm here, because…" He swallowed nervously "It's time, Lillian. I have to escort you upstairs. It's time for…your Harrowing"