AN: A short, one shot story about the awkwardness of young love, made even more awkward when you are tasked with killing the one you love.
This tale had its inspiration in Cmessaz's Cullen mod, allowing a female mage a bit more interaction with Cullen if she wishes to pursue a flirtation with the tortured templar.
My thanks go also to Cadsuane who is, as always, a pleasure to work with, for being my beta.
Disclaimer: All rights to Dragon Age, its characters and properties belong to Bioware, not I.
The One Exception
The top floor of the tower was called the Harrowing Chamber. The room was kept cool to preserve the basin of lyrium in the center that the mages used for their purposes in here. Despite this, sweat was gathering along the small of Cullen's back as he waited nervously. He hadn't eaten anything that evening at supper for fear he would toss it all back up here in the chamber and that would have really given his fellow templars something to joke about.
He had never participated in a Harrowing before. Well, he had attended Harrowings, just not been the man selected to kill the abomination and he swallowed nervously. This was quite different than just observing. He hoped it would be pretty evident if the ritual went awry, or perhaps the Knight-Commander would give him a signal if it wasn't visually apparent. He wasn't even sure why the Knight-Commander had chosen him for this duty.
Still, he served the Maker and he would do as he was commanded.
That resolve faltered when she walked up the steps into the chamber. His throat went dry and his heart raced to see her. Pale face glowing in the moonlight, dark red hair falling in disarray around her shoulders, tucked behind delicate pointed ears. Her large eyes seemed to reflect the light almost like a cat's. Neria looked so small and vulnerable, and completely surprised to be in this chamber. Of course, she would be. She had been wakened and dragged here by the templars in the middle of the night. The only other mage present in the room was her mentor, Irving, the First Enchanter himself.
Maker's breath, why had he been summoned for this task? Why did it have to be her? How was he to face killing the woman he loved?
"Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him," intoned Greagoir from the Chant of Light.
Cullen heard the words, but he couldn't stop staring at her face, looking for any sign of emotion flickering there. Was she nervous? Afraid? Excited? He found himself wanting to comfort her and had to hold himself in check.
"This is why the Harrowing exists, child," said Irving.
Of course, it is. She must go into the Fade, confront and defeat a demon and prove she had the will to resist to be a fully realized mage. Cullen wasn't certain just what the Fade was like for mages who went in aware, but it seemed a very frightening place with demons waiting to pounce and devour mage's spirits and possess their bodies.
"The apprentice must go through this test alone, First Enchanter," Greagoir said. His arm stretched toward the center of the room where the lyrium waited for her. "You are ready."
She blinked and faced the font with the glowing blue liquid within. Her hand passed over the lyrium and then she crumpled to the floor.
Cullen's hand went to his blade, but Bran, the templar standing next to him, put his hand on the younger man's arm with a slight shake of his head. Relieved it hadn't come to that, yet, Cullen watched the face of the young apprentice for any signs of possession.
Irving straightened her limbs and made her more comfortable on the stone floor while they all waited to see what would happen. Would she defeat her demon?
How would he know? How would he feel if he had to end it for her? Why had Greagoir insisted he be the one for this task? He had no stomach for it, though it was his duty. He would hunt apostates and kill abominations, but it was as the Maker commanded and he would do it with a heavy heart. It was not something he looked forward to, and certainly not something he wanted to do to her.
This was the mage he loved lying there now. His heart slammed beneath his armor so hard he felt sure they could all hear it.
It was a feeling that had grown into something stronger ever since they had met three years ago when he'd stopped that older templar from…well he didn't want to think of what Garrett liked to do to the young apprentices in the tower. Maker's breath, she'd been only thirteen then. After that he had set himself up as her protector. He tried to be unobtrusive, but as the years passed he couldn't hide his feelings, not from her.
She was always polite and kind to him. Perhaps she was simply trying to be nice, but perhaps she returned his feelings. If she felt more for him than that, she had never voiced it. It wasn't like there was anything they could do to act on those feelings anyway. She was a mage and he a templar. It was his duty to oppose her and all she was. It had been enough for him to admire her from afar and, more recently as she came into womanly curves, dream of her at night.
But she was the mage he loved and he couldn't bear to see her suffer. He would end it quickly for her if it came to that, but, Maker, he hoped it wouldn't.
He shifted his weight on nervous feet and looked down at her face, and then to Irving and Greagoir watching her. Irving seemed confident—at least Cullen hoped her mentor was confident. That could only be a good sign. Greagoir's visage was stern, but neutral as always. He was like the stone of the tower, as much a part of the Circle as the gray walls.
How much longer would this Harrowing take anyway? he wondered anxiously. As the minutes ticked by he grew more and more worried. Then he realized that it hadn't been long enough for her to have done much and took a deep breath to settle himself.
How would he feel if he did have to kill her? Would he actually be able to make the blow? And afterward, when he had the rest of his life to lament the loss of her in it, would he become as bitter and lonely as Templar Drass?
He shook his head, trying to clear that image from his mind's eye.
With a gasp, she sat up, eyes wide. Cullen drew his blade, his heart sinking. He'd never seen a Harrowing go this quickly before. Oh, Maker, this was it. She had failed! This was what it felt like to be dying, Cullen thought. Surely the blow he had to strike would kill him as much as her. Then she placed a hand to her forehead and shivered in the cold, her breath forming mist as it exited her mouth.
"Oh, Maker, that was horrid," she murmured. "And I have the worst headache."
"That will pass, Neria. Otherwise, how do you feel?" asked Irving, shaking his head at Cullen.
"Different," she said.
She sounded different, too. Not in an 'I'm a possessed abomination' way, but in a more confident, mature manner. Only sixteen and already a fully harrowed mage. And so quickly done. Now that it was over, Cullen felt immense relief and a curious sense of pride in her for finishing her Harrowing so efficiently. Time had seemed to drag because it was him to whom they were looking to make the blow, but in reality very little time had actually passed compared to others he had attended.
Oh, Maker! He didn't have to kill her. He wanted to shout with joy at the relief he felt.
He helped her down the stairs and back to her bunk in the apprentice dormitory. Greagoir had explained it was the final step to ensure the demon wasn't lurking there waiting for an unguarded moment, but it was a formality only. All of them could see she had passed with remarkably little difficulty.
She was sweating and trembling as she leaned against him, her legs wobbly beneath her. He wanted to put out a hand to steady her, but wasn't sure of the protocol. She was so tiny and vulnerable and he decided to let her hold onto his arm. Surely Greagoir wouldn't protest over that much physical support for her when she was so depleted.
Down in the dormitories, a few of the apprentices were already awake as dawn was coming in through the windows. He was aware of eyes staring as they walked past. They always stared—it was as if the walls themselves had eyes. He always felt self conscious in his armor, as if he was intruding in their private world by being what he was.
Allowing her to lead him to her bunk, she sat heavily and wearily on the small bed while he squatted down in front of her. A hesitant smile on her face was answered by his awkward grin, and then she slipped between the sheets and closed her eyes.
Reaching over to pull the counterpane across her more carefully, he was aware of someone approaching behind him.
"What happened to her? She wasn't here when we…. It was a Harrowing, wasn't it?" asked the female apprentice.
Cullen nodded. "It was the quickest, cleanest Harrowing I've ever seen."
The apprentice watched him curiously, but he didn't elaborate. He had wanted to be near her for a bit, just to make sure she was going to be all right, but it was probably unwise. The tower was a small world all its own and people talked.
He rose and exited the room.
Upstairs in his bunk, he removed his armor and sword and lay stretched out. For a few hours he could sleep, and he knew he would sleep well. It was done. She was going to be all right.
Closing his eyes, he saw her face before him again, not frightened and sweating as she had been tonight, but as she was in his dreams. Confident and beautiful, her skin almost a luminous blue in the cold light of the tower, but it was her eyes that captured him and drew him in. Large and catlike, they were a muddled hazel that could be brown or green depending on the light.
Perhaps he would dream of her again, vague dreams of a life unlived—a farm, a family, of loving her. Dreams that were more want and desire than experience. Cullen had never touched her, never touched any woman, as intimately as he did his dream-Neria.
He'd heard the older templars talking about the young women in the tower, but it was talk that Greagoir quickly squelched. But not before his fertile imagination had a chance to conjure his own images.
With a sigh, he drifted into a few hours sleep.
Later that day he was standing his post outside the mage's quarters. It actually wasn't his post—he had switched with another templar because he knew she would be coming in soon and he had to see her again to make sure she was truly all right.
She came up the hall, carrying a few of her personal things and Cullen opened the door for her. She flashed one of her brilliant smiles at him and thanked him, ducking her eyes shyly. He watched her place her things on her bunk then come back out to stand in front of him.
She had never really spoken to him before. Oh, Maker what was he going to say?
"Oh, um, h-hello." he stammered.
Inwardly, he cringed. Smooth, Cullen, really smooth, he admonished himself.
"Hello, Cullen."
"I...uh, am glad to see your Harrowing went smoothly. Th-They picked me as the templar to strike the killing blow if...if you became an abomination."
Oh, Maker, he sounded like an idiot. Just how do toes taste, Cullen?
"I-It's nothing personal—I swear! I...uh, I'm just glad you're all right. You know."
"I knew I wouldn't fail," she said. "But I am glad you were there."
"You've always been so confident...or so I hear. Um..." Then it struck him what she had said. "You…you were?"
She nodded. "I knew if I turned, you wouldn't let me suffer and would end it quickly. You're the only templar in the tower I trust. I am sorry if my requesting you caused you distress."
"You…it was you?" he was astonished.
She smiled so sweetly then turned to glance down the hall.
"I really shouldn't distract you from your duties."
"Oh, you're not distracting. I mean, you are, but...well you're not. I mean, you can talk to me anytime if you want." He saw two templars come down the hall as well and frowned. "Uh...uh, yes. Maybe we can talk another time."
"I'd like that."
He watched her as she moved down the hall and paused before the First Enchanter's door. Then she was out of sight as she stepped in. Elated, and caught in the passionate blush of young love, he smiled. It was wrong to feel this happy, he was sure, but he couldn't help it. She was going to live—they had all the time in the world now, here in the tower.