A calamitous explosion ripped a hole in the sky. Dark creatures of the Fade are descending on Thedas in unrelenting hordes. The blessed Temple of Sacred Ashes is nothing more than corpses and embers. Most Holy is dead.
They say the Maker has abandoned them. He has finally turned away from the world and left them all to be ravaged by demons and darkspawn and dragged to the Void. They're facing the end days.
Staring into the fire, absently sharpening his blade in smooth, soothing motions, Caelum knows it isn't so. The Maker tests them as he has time and time before. Every trial they are made to face has a purpose and the Maker never fails to grant them the means to endure, survive, and overcome.
But people are timorous and fickle. They are weak of mind and spirit; herds of sheep that live their lives in a sphere of peace and routine where each day begins and ends as the one before it. They recoil and quiver at even the slightest disturbance. Left to their own devices during times of adversity, they inflame each other's hysteria and exacerbate the chaos. This is why they need guardians: the ever vigilant sheepdogs that keep order. Watching. Protecting. Controlling.
Shielding the people, corralling the mages, protecting them from themselves, and acting for the good of the whole is what keeps the masses safe, methodical spheres placid and intact.
Caelum watched their panic erupt when the first waves of demons started pouring through. He watched them heedlessly run in circles, shouting over one another, completely incapable of keeping themselves alive. He could almost hear the collective sigh of relief when the Templars came. They threw themselves at their armored salvation, clinging and pulling at them hysterically, pleading for their protection. They are so afraid of death, yet without firm direction, they mindlessly cower right in its path.
He has always taken his duties seriously. He is a guardian among these sheep. It is an arduous task but one he gives himself to with unyielding conviction and reverence. He looks over the camp around him at the untrained recruits and volunteers and the dependant civilians and knows that he will need to give more of himself than ever before. Not only as a Templar, but also as a man.
The solid thud of heavy boots approaching from behind followed by a quiet, "Captain," pulls him from his thoughts. He turns, standing and sheathing his blade in one fluid motion to face the young recruit that stands before him. Caelum watches silently as the recruit struggles to meet his eyes, noting how he holds the hilt of the sword at his hip in a white knuckle grip, hands shaking slightly and body locked tight, ready to snap at any moment.
He bites back a sign. The people may be right. We may truly be doomed if this is what we have to work with.
"At ease, recruit. You're all coiled up. Too tense. If demons were to run this camp right now you'd only hurt yourself and get in the way," he barks out harshly.
He is forced to hold back another sigh when a deep blush spreads up the boy's neck and his eyes widen as he visibly takes a deep, shuddering breath. The hand at his sword clenching and unclenching in uncertainty, unsure of how to demonstrate the proper grip that the disapproving captain is looking for.
"Uh… oh. Right. My apologies, Captain. I'll be sure to work on it, ser," he stammers out, eyes dropping to the dirt at his feet, his shoulders dropping by a fraction. Practically wilting in the face of Caelum's stabbing criticism.
"You required my attention."
"Oh, yes. Well… ah… you see…" Caelum prays to the Maker for patience as the boy stumbles over his own tongue for several moments before eventually clearing his throat and starting again.
"It's the refugees, ser. They're ornery and fighting amongst each other. The other Templars usually get it sorted, but there's one man that ain't willing to hear nothing they say. It usually takes someone in charge to stamp the heat out of those more crotchety ones and since you're the only captain here…"
Caelum allows the heavy sigh to escape him this time, letting it out deeply as he takes a second to muster up the energy to deal with yet another inevitable headache.
"Yes, I understand. I will handle it. Just point me to him."
"That way, ser. The last two tents on the left end. Just follow the hollerin', you won't miss it."
He gives a sharp nod, "As you were," then suddenly feels a twinge of pity as he watches the boy nearly snap his neck in his haste to stiffly nod back in the same manner.
He studies the fresh face, not even a shadow of a beard growing despite days at camp with only essential supplies. Large expressive eyes and a splatter of freckles. Baby fat still lingering on his cheeks and long gangly limbs that his body has yet to fully grow into. He is still a boy, only just becoming a young man, but here he is, fighting and protecting his neighbors from the demons that drove them from their homes.
What good has it done to be harsh with him? He's doing what felt right. No different than you when you were his age. What kind of man are you to stand by and wait for him to fail? Regretting his frayed temper, he quickly steps forward to address the boy again.
"What's your name, recruit?"
"Uh, Baris. Ser."
"Baris. Come see me after you finish your final patrol this evening. I'll teach you the proper way to handle that weapon."
Relief radiating from the boy, his eyes shone for the first time in days as his lips spread into a tentative smile, "Of course, Captain! I'll meet with you straight away. Thank you, ser," he prattles before nodding deeply and turning to resume his routines with a noticeable lightness in his stride.
Caelum feels a small spark of warmth spread through his chest. Pessimism comes so easily to him, he sometimes needs those short moments to remind him that the Templar Order isn't only about containing mages. They are there to protect people, to give them security and stability. In times like these, he needs to give them hope. He has never been a people person though. He never had the effortless charm or the natural calming nature that his siblings possess. Thinking about the timid smile and bright eyes on Baris, he vows to at least give it his best try.
"It ain't right that they get extra blankets. We're cold too! They get extra blankets just 'cause they got a kid? To the Void with that rubbish!"
Caelum finds his newly acquired upbeat attitude already collapsing as this abrasive, greasy, druffalo-built man bombards him with complaints. I should have told Baris to piss off and find someone else to deal with this nonsense.
It takes every scrap of his self-control to keep him standing there with a straight face as this insolent man shouts about his petty grievances. I should take everything back and toss him out to sleep with the damn wolves. That'll fix his priorities right up. His sardonic thoughts always manage to drip through no matter how tightly he tries to rein in his temper.
"I tell ya, the way people coddle their brats these days makes me sick. He's half the size of a bloody nug and he needs his own blanket," the man spat, shaking his head in disbelief and scowling intensely at the family a few tents away where a small child with a thick wool blanket draped snugly around his shoulders stood peering at them from behind his mother's legs.
Caelum feels his eye twitch in irritation. I'll bloody your nug in a minute. "I understand your concerns," he speaks as calmly and placidly as he can, slightly raising his palms in what he hopes is a calming gesture, making sure to keep his body relaxed and tone neutral.
"We're all cold and hungry and uncomfortable. Probably a little tired of each other too. I understand. But please, don't make a difficult situation even worse. The chill is biting in these mountains and the children need the extra protection. You and the other adults aren't as vulnerable."
There is a beat of tense silence as they lock in a stare down. Seeing the defiance in the man's eyes, the willingness to keep pushing, Caelum lets his eyes harden. He slides his mouth into a hard line and subtly squares his shoulders; the warning is clear.
The man looks away, growling lowly but remaining blessedly quiet, apparently deciding that it won't be wise to test the captain's patience.
That was fine by Caelum. Seeing the matter ended, he gives a quick nod to the family that had been quietly watching the exchange with bated breath, not daring to interrupt or defend themselves. He offers a small smile to the boy that stood clutching his mother's leg fearfully and the woman protectively keeping him behind her.
She meets his eyes, mouthing a silent thank you, before combing her hand comfortingly through the boys hair and ushering him back into the tent.
Feeling an unexpected burst of satisfaction, Caelum makes his way through the rest of camp, checking in with each of the occupants, talking, mingling, listening, putting their minds at ease. He revels in his newfound position. Every tired smile from weary mothers; every respectful nod from strained fathers; every appreciative pat on the arm from worldly elders; the eager acceptance from young recruits to join his training session with Baris; the deference from his fellow Templars. It all sinks deep into his soul and ignites a part of himself that he long gave up on.
I can do this, he praises himself lightly as he makes his way back to his spot by the fire. I can be what they need. Throwing himself down heavily, thrilled to be off his feet, he leans comfortably into the fire letting it warm his face. But it is his sister's voice in his head that warms him more than any fire could. Mia, ever the mother hen fussing over her sibling, was always screeching about them sitting too close to the pit. One sneeze and you'll end up with your eyebrows burned right off! He and Cullen would share a conspiratorial glance before leaning in simultaneously and driving Mia mad. They would both earn a heavy thump on the head for it, but there was no pain, only love, laughter, and contentment. He smiles to himself fondly, welcoming the nostalgia.
She would be so proud of me today. His smile slips from his face and he stares longingly into the fire. They all would.
Honnleath was a charming place for a rambunctious group of five siblings to grow up. They would run through the village greeting friendly faces every morning, snagging treats and asking to rub their horses and play with their dogs. There were frequent trips to the modest stream that was just deep enough for splashing and playing, where their father taught them to fish and together they spent an entire day catching and releasing the little fish that followed the flow of the water.
Sparse forest hosted boisterous rounds of hide-and-seek, and trees that grew thickly with strong, sprawling branches were perfect for climbing. He would rest high at the top where the limbs tangle together and look out over the village, watching the smoke billow out of chimneys, neighbors in the fields tending to horses and druffalo, frail nugs drinking cautiously from the stream, birds adjacent to him hopping branch to branch. He'd feel invincible.
He remembers endless summer afternoons spent racing his brothers up and down the tallest trees. He always had a fervent competitive streak and playing with his brothers would ignite it like nothing else.
Branson, only a year his senior, didn't have the same drive to compete. He was docile by nature and preferred to watch and support. It usually took the combined efforts of Caelum and Cullen to cajole Branson into running amok in the wilderness with them, but his heart wouldn't let him compete. He was always content with letting his brothers take the victories and watching for the smiles on their faces.
Cullen was the opposite in a lot of ways. The eldest Rutherford boy, he was four years older than Caelum and never allowed the age gap to be an excuse to go easy on him. Racing across the cobblestone path through the village, rowdy wrestling bouts in the fields, scaling the towering trees in the forest, Caelum always came second. He'd push himself until his lungs screamed for respite when he would finally reach the edge of the village. The skin on his knees and elbows would be raw from digging harshly into the dry grass of the fields. His fingers cracked and bled from clawing at rugged bark. Still, he would lose. It was a spark of annoyance that grew into burning vexation the longer it continued, fueled even more so by Cullen's affable smile and complacent shrug in the face of his victories.
The youngest of them, little Rosalie would beg incessantly to join her brothers on their reckless escapades. She was barely old enough to walk before she was toddling after them, tugging on their coats and insisting that they bring her along. Branson always indulged her, taking her hand and carefully guiding her along with them to learn to climb trees and chase nugs. They would all receive a scolding from their mother when she would inevitably return home with ripped clothes and tangled hair.
As the eldest, Mia acted as a second mother to them. Running the farm was a laborious task. Tending to the animals, collecting eggs, shearing sheep, milking goats, planting and pulling crops; even with the children shouldering their share of morning chores, the work kept their mother and father occupied until the setting sun signaled dinner time. Mia carried the responsibility of nannying her siblings. The degree of gratitude that Caelum held for Mia was immeasurable. When he would be defeated once again in their petty games and the failure would linger inside of him like a taint, Mia was always there to pull him to her chest, fighting his feigned protests, and run her fingers through his hair, loosening his curls and earnestly telling him that he was good enough. Caelum dreamed of the day that he'd be able to believe her.
He found solace in the hills of Honnleath. The undulant mounds encircled the village serenely; rising, dipping, and swaying. He would trek up the steepest hill and lay out on his back, grounded by the strength of the earth beneath him, letting the thick, soft grass tickle his neck, staring up at the sky, feeling so close to the clouds. He'd witness the hills infallibly support an endless torrent of life and energy, the way Mia supported that same spirited energy that his siblings had in abundance, and be smitten by the harmony of it all.
During spring the hills would transform into rolling fields of vibrant bluebells, orchids, and daffodils. Everything the sun's rays touched glistened wetly from the spring showers. The orchestra of birds recently returned home, filled the air. Bees and butterflies bounced through the breeze, greedily taking in the spoils of the fresh flowers. Rams would crowd the hill, grazing on the banquet laid out by spring while their young offspring clumsily pranced up and down the valleys on shaky legs. Reflecting on the memories of him and his siblings dashing through Honnleath vivaciously looking for new adventures, Caelum would sit quietly on the hills, enjoying all of the life that spring birthed.
Autumn always slammed into Honnleath and the hills would be abruptly thrashed by a riot of colors. Golden leaves twisted through the air, dancing and twirling with the gentle wind before meeting the ground. He loved walking through the hills in autumn, hearing the crunch of leaves under each step, watching throngs of birds migrating to faraway places and small woodland animals scuttering around foraging, preparing for winter. The fallen leaves would gather in the gorge, creating a river of scarlet, gold, and violet. His siblings would usually join him during autumn to roll down into the dense piles, their laughter echoing loudly through the decorated hills.
He would burst out the door on the mornings of fresh snowfall in winter to where the hills slumbered under a glittering white blanket. He found a small satisfaction in being the first to leave a mark on the pure landscape. Making his way gracelessly to the crest of the tallest hill, slipping and sliding the whole way, he would sprawl out on his back and watch the snow float listlessly from the sea of dark, low hanging clouds above him. He would fall asleep out there with the snow gently cascading around him and awake to see the white hills unblemished once again, his tracks thoroughly erased by the fresh coat, and he would be at peace. It wasn't the isolation that he sought. Rather, it was the silence of winter. Everything muffled and quiet. No dazzling colors or sprightly commotion. No losing. No failing. Only resting. A respite alone with the hills, it was the purest calm he could find. He savored it.
As a child, Caelum didn't quite understand Cullen's obsession with the Templars. He had only just reached his fifth year when Cullen, already eight, began watching the village Templars with ardent fascination. Cullen seized any moment that the Templars would spare, swinging wooden swords around and bashing hay-filled enemies with makeshift shields, while Caelum sulked on the sidelines and huffed about being left out.
"These are not games, Cal. These are essential Templar fighting techniques," Cullen declared solemnly, "it's too hard for you."
So Caelum watched, zealously snatching every crumb of knowledge that he could reach and archiving it deeply into his mind.
He observed the way the Templars would adjust Cullen's stance: Stance determines speed, control, and stamina. Feet wide, in line with shoulders, knees bent slightly. Leading foot forward. Relaxed, light, springy.
He listened to them explain control: Fingers loose around the hilt, wrist relaxed. Don't wave the arm. Short measured movements from elbow and shoulder. Move the blades center of gravity, not the entire blade.
He studied them as they demonstrated guarding, attacking, and defending: Keep elbows close, sword out, tip up. Guard the torso. Horizontal cut, vertical cut, thrust. Find the pattern. Know when to block, when to sweep, when to counter, when to withdraw.
He became increasingly entranced by their skill. They moved with such ease and confidence, every motion flowing seamlessly into the next. They spoke with unquestionable authority and held themselves with palpable assertiveness. Caelum was in awe. He endeavored to be just like them.
Sneaking away to find seclusion in the forest with a swiped practice sword, he would work through everything that he took away from Cullen's training. Swinging aggressively at tree trunks and bushes, blocking attacks from invisible foes and twisting away from imagined magic, he practiced all of the forms the Templars used. Hearing their biting comments in his mind reprimanding every stumble and mistake, he pushed himself beyond his limits, until he was sick from exhaustion, and those scornful voices in his head fell silent.
When Mia enlisted all of them to support Cullen's ambitions and help him train, Caelum privately relished in the opportunity to test his skills. He enthusiastically matched Cullen's footwork and worked hard to strike and deflect Cullen's hits properly. Although Cullen's size, strength, and hands-on training was ultimately more than Caelum could compete with, he felt pride in himself. He didn't feel the familiar sting of failure as Cullen stood over him with a hand held out to pull him up from the grass.
It continued that way for years until Rosalie followed him into the woods one day. He was running through the usual sets, incorporating Cullen's latest lessons into his routines, not noticing Rosie until she bounded up to him yapping breathlessly about wanting to whack the tree too. A knot twisted in his stomach at the sight of her. He knew he would never be able to sneak the training sword back to the Templar supplies and get home unnoticed with his exuberant little sister with him, so he steeled his resolve and escorted her back home, the wooden sword held openly in his grip.
Upon seeing them, Cullen pulled the sword from his hand, shaking his head disapprovingly and leveling him with a dour stare.
Caelum tried to defend himself. He explained how he paid attention to all of the techniques and tips that the Templars revealed, how he had been learning to train himself, working furiously to keep up with Cullen's training, pointing out how adeptly he handled himself when they would all help him practice.
Cullen dismissed all of it with a sigh. Caelum held back a cry of frustration as Cullen condescendingly lectured him, "You can't take these things and play with them like they're toys. This stuff isn't meant for you and if you keep messing around with it you're going to end up getting hurt. I know you see me with the Templars and it looks like fun, but it's not. It isn't the game that you think it is. It's hard work and commitment and will likely end up saving someone's life one day. I know it's hard for you to understand but…"
Caelum let the words wash over him, feeling insignificant and inferior. This isn't meant for you. It wasn't meant for him, that life. That life of being powerful, valiant, and worthy wasn't meant for him. It was meant for someone like Cullen. He was the baby brother who was expected to stay quiet and live out a quiet life in this quiet little village.
He refused to let the lack of faith thwart him though. Caelum absently nodded at him, letting Cullen belittle his progress without protest, and let it fuel his efforts even more. His confidence in himself had grown during those years. He knew what he was capable of and he assured himself that one day the rest of them would know it too.
He vigorously continued his private training, going as far as he could on his own until eventually, a few short months before Cullen left home behind for official Templar training, Caelum pointedly pushed past Cullen and approached the Templars, demanding that they teach him as well. Looking the Knight-Lieutenant straight in the eye, he made his case as confidently as a precocious nine year old could manage. He was older than Cullen when he began training. He, along, with his siblings, had been faithfully helping Cullen practice since he began. He had been passionately undergoing his own training for four long years. He knew of the time, effort and sacrifice it required. He could be just as good as Cullen. He could be better than Cullen.
They laughed at him. Cackling boorishly and smacking him on the back, mocking him, "Oi, ya want to be like big brother. Yeah? Ain't that a precious thing."
He felt his face heat up. His morale fractured painfully, each laugh a razor-sharp dagger through his chest. He wanted to fight, to make them see in him what they saw in Cullen. But he was staggered by their crushing derision. Unable to speak, unable to move, he stood there trembling with shame and fury, eyes brimming with angry, unshed tears.
The humiliation twisted into blistering resentment when Cullen came forward with that damned smile on his face and ruffled his hair, chuckling lightly and shooing him away. "Alright, alright. Enough of that. I've told you already, Cal. This is serious. It's not meant for you. I'm sure Branson and Rosie found something fun. Why don't you join them?" He was sent away without a second thought.
Laughable. The thought of him being more than just Cullen's little brother was laughable. Rage bubbled within him. That patch of darkness that housed years of anger, failure, bitterness, and discontent grew into a solid mass of contempt.
Caelum stopped going to Cullen's lessons, stopped participating in his practices with their brothers and sisters, had long since stopped asking for their old games of climbing trees or chasing nugs. If Cullen noticed the rift growing larger between them, he didn't comment on it. Cullen's time was wholly dedicated to the joining the Templar Order; Caelum was done losing.
Any remaining closeness that they shared faded quietly into obscurity.