I'm incredibly sorry to anyone who was waiting for a chapter of my other story, but this idea has been eating at me, forcing me to work on it. I don't know when I'm updating HHv.2, because I haven't figured out the details for the next chapter myself. The title for this may change as it progresses as I'm struggling with finding the perfect title. Oh, why was naming things so much easier when I was younger and more stupid?

Disclaimer: I don't own the original Dragon Age storylines, nor have I created the setting in which this story takes place. I'm only borrowing the characters whose roles have been adjusted to suit my needs. I'm making no profit on this, nor do I plan to.

"Ack!" Cullen cried out as he was knocked backwards onto the stone platform erected in the tower's basement. It was here the Templars of the tower did their training, sparring, and general rough housing. Tonight was no different after their charges had gone to bed. Of course, there were two Templars who always missed out on part of the fun, seeing as they guarded the sleeping mages and prevented them from ever stepping foot outside Ferelden's Circle of Magi. Even though they were relieved of their duty after a few hours, whoever got stuck with first watch always felt as if they were missing a big event for the drinking always took place right after the mages were forced to their beds. Although even they wished they could join in on the nightly scuffles, placing bets on their favorites and betting against those who tormented them. Thus, bets were taken right as sunset approached.

Cullen, a mere teenaged recruit, was always bet against even though he had always been perceived as strong and clever. He was not fond of mages and was hardly afraid to let them know it. Since he'd taken his first draught of lyrium less than a year ago, he'd felt stronger than any man or mage. Still, though, he was scrawnier than many fully grown Templars.

Lyrium, widely regarded as magic in its pure form, was the Templar Order's greatest weapon against mages. Once a Templar consumes it, he becomes able to counteract spells cast by mages. Fires become quenched, lightning shrivels, connections to the Fade- taken away. While many recruits often require three bottles of lyrium a day to keep up their talents- as well as keep away haunting memories- Cullen required only one. He took it at night, before these fights, as a way to become strongest.

Semi-Flashback

It was the Templars in the Chantry at his hometown village of Honnleath who'd first taught him the thrilling art of swordplay. As a child, he'd dreamt of adventuring Thedas, protecting the land against the scourge of magic, and maybe rescuing a damsel or two. It was in Honnleath where he'd met Ser Thrask, who at the time was hunting apostates, rogue mages. Ser Thrask inspired Cullen to become like him and the Templars he idolized in the Chantry. Thrask had brought Cullen along to Kinloch Hold, Ferelden's Circle of Magi, and expanded upon Cullen's training. After five years of dutiful training, Cullen's dream was realized. He underwent the Vigil and received his first taste of lyrium. Although it was his first, it tasted familiar to him and felt like an old friend greeting him home, and warmed him as though a fire were kindled in his veins. (A/N: Can anyone see where this is headed yet?)

From then on, Thrask- who had become Knight Captain during Cullen's training- taught Cullen special skills unique to Templars. Spell Purge, which had the power to dispel hostile magic. Blessed Blades, which increased his damage output for a short period of time. These two talents were Cullen's favorites. Spell Purge because of the befuddled look on mages' faces when their spells fizzle. Blessed Blades because of the incredible burst of strength emanating from his gut.

He'd yet to master the strongest technique he'd witnessed as a child, the Wrath of Heaven. To him, it appeared as if the Maker Himself was reaching down and banishing demons in His Chosen's hour of need. While Cullen could not yet summon the Maker's hand, he'd been working on something else he was eager to try. Cullen did not know this Templar talent's proper name, but he called it "Force Push."

He'd first done it after his Vigil and drinking his first vial of lyrium. He was wandering the forest near his village, thinking of how to say goodbye to his siblings before leaving with Thrask to go to Kinloch Hold on Lake Calanhad. He had just made it to the outskirts of the village of Crestwood, near the docks, when he heard howling. The pack roaming near the village was rabid after feeding on the Blight-stricken corpses that had piled up in mass graves. As the wolves snaked out of the brush, intending to surround the 18 year old recruit, Cullen glimpsed glowing eyes and missing clumps of fur. Apparently, the wolves had encountered darkspawn as well as consuming the Taint.

Seeing the wolves inch closer, and being without a weapon, Cullen looked around and saw a rounded ledge about a meter away and below it- he was sure- was the lake. Not giving it a second thought, he began sprinting for the ledge. The wolves, as he had guessed it, were fast and organized, but not thinking or looking beyond their next meal. As Cullen and the wolves neared the ledge, the wolves began racing in front of him and blocked his path. Of course, however, this is what the young Templar intended. The wolves had, indeed, blocked his path but had also unknowingly placed themselves at the edge overlooking the lake. With a strangled and mildly terrified cry, Cullen performed his "Force Push" talent for the first time. His mind, he thought, had surely been strengthened by the Maker to create a physical force pushing the wolves over the cliff.

When he'd returned home, he found Thrask settling down for dinner with Cullen's family. Cullen, eager to report what he'd just accomplished, immediately shared his experience with his family and the respected Knight. Thrask had been incredibly proud of him, but admitted he'd never heard of a move like Force Push. He had reasoned it to be the aftereffects of the lyrium Cullen had taken earlier that day. Later, Cullen felt this to be true because he hadn't been able to summon another Force Push since.

End the Sort-of Flashback

(Sorry the flashback's not so clear)

Lately, however, he'd been trying to do his unique skill again. He thought it to be the best possible way to knock his rival, Ser Samson, straight on his arse. So in the late hours of the night and early hours of the morn, he'd taken to surrounding himself with furniture from the basement and attempting to knock it back with just the force of his mind. Last night, he finally succeeded. He had managed to send the tables and armchairs flying. Of course, it hadn't occurred to him that in succeeding, he'd also made a mess. In the end, he had brushed it off and decided to blame it on the mages come morn. They hadn't been happy about that, and tonight, had unnecessarily bribed Samson to give him an extra hard thrashing during their duel. While the mages were unable to witness it, they would be happy enough to see Cullen's pretty face bruised and bloody when they awoke.

So, here he was, on his arse trying to recover from a particularly hard Shield Bash. He was seeing stars as he struggled to his feet. Cullen was sure he had a black eye and he could taste the blood escaping from a gash on his lip. Samson charged him again, but Cullen put up a Shield Wall, blocking his rival's blade. Samson, feeling frustrated and angry, let out a war cry and erupted in a charging bull and knocked the unsuspecting Cullen on his arse once more.

Samson let out a victory laugh at seeing his rival on the floor, "Haha! What'sa matter, Cullen? Mummy Thrask not training you lately?" After the taunt left Ser Samson's lips, Thrask and his good friend, First Enchanter Irving, walked into the chamber to see what the racket was.

Irving, Thrask at his side, sidled up to Knight Commander Greagoir and said, "Greagoir, can you please tell your recruits to keep it down? The apprentices are just a floor above and are trying to sleep."

Greagoir, however, was a big supporter of these nightly sparring matches, firmly believing them to be toughening up and hardening the weak. Throwing his protégé, Samson, a delighted yell when he heard Cullen's ribs crack, briefly glanced at Irving, saying, "Oh, lighten up, Irving. These boys are just getting started. Tell the apprentices to ignore it."

Greagoir ignored Irving's mumbled, "That's quite impossible," in favor of cheering for Samson again. Thrask had yet to say anything, grimacing when he saw Cullen clutch his side from his placed on the floor. This was the boy he'd taken under his wing when he was just 13. Granted, the boy had grown considerably; he was still just 18. The Samson boy had a good 8 years on him and was far more well-built and muscular than Cullen. And if this battle progressed, Thrask was worried Samson would become desperate and use the Wrath of Heaven on the young blond.

And sure enough, Thrask's worries were well founded. Just as Cullen was fighting to pull himself up with his sword, Samson held up his own and started gathering light. The audience's cheers were deafening now. Thrask knew he had to stop this fight before it went too far. As Thrask pushed his way forward, disgruntled mages began pouring into the already full chamber, grumbling about sleep. It seemed the Templars guarding them had abandoned their post.

Cullen, holding himself up by his sword, recognized the skill Samson was performing. It had been years since he'd seen Thrask perform it, yet he remembered the magnificent light that the Maker had given His faithful Templars to use. But, at this, Cullen smirked, knowing he had his own Maker-given power. He'd noticed the mages gathering in the entrance to the hall and decided this was his moment. He'd show those blasphemous mages what the Maker's Chosen could do. So, with a resounding yell that shook the rafters, Cullen sent out a blast of force, throwing back Samson and Thrask, who'd just reached the edge of the sparring stage. Samson was completely unprepared for this type of attack and was thrown off the platform, toppling several other Templars as he fell.

The entire room had gone silent. The mages gathered instantly recognized the power that had sent a wave of lingering magic over the crowd. Several Templars, even, having witnessed this power before, began stepping away from their friend and fellow Templar, Cullen. Thrask's face went ashen as he regained his footing from the powerful blast. And Cullen, still panting from the force he exerted, began looking around the room with a smile. A smile that gradually faded as he saw his horror-stricken comrades, the ashen-faced Thrask, and the smug mages. First Enchanter Irving seemed to be gloating, too, but Cullen couldn't imagine why. While Cullen was always respectful towards the old man, he knew Irving was aware that he was far less than respectful to his charges.

Finally, after glancing around the room at unfathomable expressions, Cullen gathered the courage to break the tension in the still silent room. "What?" he asked no one in particular. He didn't care who answered; he just wanted someone to explain why they were all acting so strange (A/N: Guessed it yet?). In his mind, the mages shouldn't be happy about his victory over Samson, but his friends definitely should.

It wasn't either of these factions that answered, though. "Sorcery!" cried Samson, "That was sorcery! Filthy, bloody sorcery!"

Cullen was strongly confused now. That wasn't magic, surely. "No, it wasn't," he reasoned, "It's a Templar talent, right Thrask?"

Thrask, however, hadn't recovered from his pale complexion, the terrible coldness in his face was seeping into his gut, preventing him from speaking.

This coldness was now settling in Cullen's gut, too, at his mentor's silence. Instead, the First Enchanter responded, stepping beside Thrask and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder while he spoke to his friend's protégé, "No, my boy," he began softly, "What you called a 'talent' is a spell mages use. It's called Mind Blast."

Cullen balked at this. "What? No, you're wrong. I don't know what it's called, admittedly, but it's definitely not magic. Right, Ser Thrask?" Cullen implored his teacher to answer. When the Knight Captain hesitated, though, a queasy feeling took place in Cullen's already uncomfortable stomach.

At last, Thrask answered, but it was not the response Cullen was praying for, "What you did was indeed magic. I don't understand how I could've missed this, how this could've happened, but-"

"Just what are you saying, Ser?" Cullen asked, but truthfully, he was afraid of the answer.

Thrask merely stuttered at his question when Irving squeezed his shoulder before stepping towards the boy, regaining his smug stature. He gazed at Cullen with a pitying look and slowly said, "It seems, dear boy, that you are a mage."

Cullen looked around one last time before a cold sweat broke out over his body. This couldn't be real, could it? He begged the Maker Himself to say it isn't so. With one last tearful look towards his mentor, the coldness seeping its way into Cullen's gut took over.

He fainted.