As a child, the Chant of Light had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever known. Its words drifted across his heart, touching him lightly with peace and joy. The Mother in Honnleath possessed a honeyed voice that spoke the meaning behind the sounds. She filled in the empty spaces around him with a certainty and surety which could never be shaken. When they went to the Chantry, he sat in wonder while his siblings fidgeted and squabbled. Before he slept he whispered prayers solemnly, and always before he slipped away remembered the verse he needed.

From the Fade I crafted you,

And to the Fade you shall return

Each night in dreams

That you may always remember me.

In such a way he never feared his dreams, and he always hoped to meet the Maker in them.

His sister, practical and business-like, had asked their father what use the Chant was. When he'd answered that it sustained their souls, she'd waved him away impatiently. She'd wanted to know how it could be used to affect the world outside a person, not inside. If it were a good tool, it could change what was real, she'd said. Otherwise it was just words.

Cullen hadn't understood the question. Why not ask what use was a rainbow, or a smile? The inside of a person was as real of a place as anywhere else, and the Fade was unreal in a way that was even more beautiful. But as he grew older, and learned more of the world, he saw how few people shared his belief. The world demanded actions, not thoughts. It needed protection, not peace. He grew dissatisfied with the honeyed words the Mother spoke and longed for something tangible to trust. He needed to see.

As if in answer to his prayer, the Templars came. An escaped mage, an apostate, hid himself in an old building on the estate, and they marshalled their forces to recapture him. Cullen trailed along behind, with his father, and they tolerated his presence as long as he stayed quiet. The mage was desperate and reached for blood magic to keep himself free. Cullen watched breathlessly as their voices raised the words of the Chant, not honeyed and sweet but rough and controlling, and the mage bent to their will. He bent to the Maker's will, and Cullen knew the words had power after all. The Chant had a use beyond beauty, and it could protect the world.

After that he followed the Templars whenever he could find them. He tried to learn how they did it, but his own attempts never seemed right. They lacked the power the men and women had inside their voices. He was determined to find it in himself. Eventually the Knight-Commander took pity on him, the fierce boy who muttered next to them and waved his practice sword, and they recommended to his parents that he join the Order. He begged them to accept, and they did. Eventually. The day he left home held no fear or sadness, only faith. The Chant comforted him. It would soon help him comfort the world.

He was thirteen years old.

Training was hard. He grew disillusioned with the other boys, ones who'd been volunteered against their will or joined because they lacked other options. Very few believed as he did, and his gravity was only seen as an advantage by his instructors, not his peers. He clung tightly to his memories of the full Templars, noble and powerful. Cullen did make some friends, first through like minds and then through excellence, but he took his studies seriously and had little patience for the jokes of his bunkmates. His knowledge of the Chant deepened, and he learned the darker parts of the truth. The Mother had steered towards the more pleasant sections, but he found out that many of the passages were condemnations, discussions of how humanity had failed. His resolve only strengthened. He had not been called to fail.

Weapons training was new and rewarding. They learned the techniques to guard against mages, both mentally and physically. He learned how to hold the shield to angle spells and protect bystanders. He learned which slashes worked on which demons. The teachers showed them how to tell when a mage was merely frustrated or truly dangerous. Mages weren't their enemy, they were told again and again. They were partners who held dangerous tools. They needed protection from themselves just as the world needed protection from them. Templars had a duty to stand between. Cullen understood.

At eighteen he was ordained and received his first philter of lyrium. The coolness trickled through him instantly. He felt it spread to every corner of his body, as though he'd drank from an icy stream on an empty stomach. The chill made him shiver, but when he spoke the words of a spell he'd memorized, the power had been there, delightful and strong. His voice roughened and deepened in response to the feeling. Cullen the Templar was grown.

When he stepped into the Circle, it all blew apart. A woman waited for him, a mage in training named Solona. He lost himself as soon as they spoke. Before her, there'd been a few girls. He knew he was handsome, in an absent kind of way, and there were girl trainees who'd admired him. While they drifted to him because of his looks, they drifted away just as quickly because of his dedication. He never cared for them as much as his calling, and they had plenty of other choices. But not now. She was his Andraste, and all he wanted was to worship her and set her at his side.

He'd failed before he'd even begun.

The level of his devotion to a mage scared him, and he spent the days reciting verses to himself. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, he prayed, and he felt better for a time, until he saw her in a corridor or heard her laugh across a hall. She spent much of her time in the library and he found himself wandering into it more often than he needed, hoping for that shock across his skin when her eyes brushed over him. The nights brought a different sort of agony. He whispered her name to himself in the dark and pressed his flaming cheeks against the coolness of the pillow. The Fade brought no comfort anymore, and he no longer wished to meet the Maker in his dreams, clothed as he was in failure. He dreamed of leaving the Circle with her, taking her to his family and living happily as his parents did. He dreamed of them in another place, a place with fewer rules and barriers. He dreamed of her in his bed, and those were the worst of all because those were the dreams demons loved.

He wondered sometimes if she knew what she was doing to him. He wondered if she did it on purpose. His embarrassment made him recede even further into himself than he had in training, and his speech was awkward and a little hesitant with everyone. She never seemed to notice and spoke to him warmly on the few times they talked. Like a friend. Like a lover. He hoped it. He feared it. Was she trying to manipulate him? He couldn't believe it of her, someone so perfect, and yet he heard the stories from his brethren about mages who'd tried to use affection to buy dangerous favors. Still, some of them kept up casual affairs with their favorite mages, an open secret, and Cullen was so tempted. His heart hardened and softened in all the wrong ways. He knew he was terribly vulnerable. He couldn't let anyone see.

They chose him to oversee her Harrowing. She was so beautiful when she entered the room, like a woman from another world. He held the blade in his hand while she thrashed in the Fade, facing whatever demon came to her. Was it a Desire demon who wore his face? He wore his helm, and she couldn't know he stood there, and yet there'd been something on her face that made him wonder. He wondered about her all of the time. What would he do if she failed? Would he be able to strike the blow? Or would he betray his vows, betray his calling, and try to keep her alive at any cost, even with a demon inside of her? The Maker hadn't abandoned Andraste. Andraste had never shown herself worthy of being abandoned.

Around and around he went, sweating inside his armor. When she opened her eyes and they were clear and blue and hers, he'd never been so relieved. Hope bubbled up in his heart as she blinked at him, still hidden behind his mask. Her gaze drifted across his heart and brought the same peace and joy he'd felt in the Chantry so long ago. The Maker was kind. Perhaps they could have love, even if it was not quite free.

He bragged about her Harrowing to those who asked, and she seemed to know he had. They spoke more often, her beautifully, him awkwardly, and one night in a darkened corner of the library he kissed her. He was shy and hesitant, and her lips were ghosts against his own, but the memory sent him to sleep happy for many nights. His love was a desperate fire inside of him that was only banked when she smiled.

Then came Solona's betrayal. She tried to escape with an apprentice, a blood mage. Jowan. She was taken into confinement, and the whole story was kept confidential, but he heard bits and pieces from his fellow Templars. They'd wanted to marry. The Knight-Commander thought she might be pregnant. They'd destroyed their phylacteries, but he'd abandoned her when they were caught. Jowan was gone with no hope of being found, and she was left to face it. Cullen heard all and none. It must have all been a shadow, a trick she'd played. But if so, why hadn't she used him to help her? He prayed to the Maker for guidance, but there was no answer, only confusion and anger and a still-burning love.

When she was released from confinement, she was hard and sad, no longer the teasing beauty she'd been. There were marks on her that he tried not to think about. She no longer trusted Templars. Including him. He still whispered her name into the darkness, but the dreams weren't gentle, and the demons were closer.

The Blight came. The mages rebelled. Solona joined their ranks, giving herself over to blood magic and a demon that twisted its power into her. While they slaughtered his fellows, she kept him alive. He tried to resist, to cut her down, but the demon still wore her face, and it was seared too deeply into his heart for him to fight as he should against an abomination. She placed him in a glowing prison, nullified his power, and he watched people die in front of him. He watched her kill them. The demon taunted him with his desire for her, with hers for him before the Templars had beaten it out of her. Her body made passionate love to other mages while he sat in agony, and she implored him to give in to the pleasure she offered.

He was strong on the first day. And the second. But he weakened as time went on, wanting death. Wanting death at her hands. He'd thought she was his partner, but the truth was he was her slave. Even as a demon, a killer, he loved her. His head grew heavy, the Chant grew weaker, and he knew that the Maker truly had abandoned him. Cullen's love was human weakness. He'd turned away from His will. What had been golden turned black, he thought, and he craved an ending.

Wardens entered the room just as he broke, begging for her touch, and they killed her even as triumph lit her face.

He went to Kirkwall. Nightmares traveled with him. Each night they visited him, until the formerly comforting Fade was nothing but an open wound across his mind. Lyrium made it better. He could control the dreams with enough of it, and he took as much as he was able. The Order was very generous with its supply, a silent apology for the things he'd endured. And for the fact that the Wardens had let the mages who remained in that Circle live. He sensed the Order's frustration with the decision, even with wartime needs, and their anger perversely soothed him. The Maker may have turned his back on His imperfect child, but they never would. The Templars were steadfast and loyal.

Cullen was the only one who knew how poorly he repaid their faith. He'd broken, given in to desire in the beginning and the end, and he guarded that secret fiercely inside himself. He needed to serve, and they wouldn't let him if they knew his weakness. They would help him if they learned, he was sure, but it wouldn't be the same as belonging.

In Kirkwall there were other women, dozens of women. The Circle was his holy place, the place where he undertook his sacred task, and he never sated himself there as so many others did. He slaked his need with elven prostitutes who sold themselves freely. No mages, no humans, no one who would remind him of Solona in any of her forms. He was kind with the one ladies he chose, even tender. They were under his protection. They weren't the enemy. He was, and the only person he ever punished in the bedroom was himself.

The Chantry held no comfort for him anymore. The building was grand but hollow inside, and the words they spoke no longer touched his heart. He sat inside when he could, begging for the empty places around him to be filled with new certainty, but he was alone now. He had to make his own purpose, and he didn't know where to start. He looked at the city around him and saw unrest and unease. He knew about those things. Perhaps he could solve them for others even if he couldn't for himself.

So while his need for the women, and his need for lyrium, never abated, some of his anger at mages did. The ones in the Gallows were decent, and none of them ever tried to capture and betray him as she had. Not all mages were the same. He remembered his earliest training, that mages were under his protection, and he gentled in his task. He had a duty to both the world and to them. Daytime became softer, and soon only the nights were the instruments of his torture.

Knight-Commander Meredith didn't agree with his purpose. She became paranoid and harsh as the years went on. Cullen wondered if there was a mage she burned for, if she'd fallen into the same trap he hadn't been able to escape, but his efforts to subtly ask met with nothing. She seemed to have no desires at all beyond the destruction of blood magic. He followed her in spirit, but his head questioned her methods constantly. With the questions came doubts that shook him to his core. Was she worthy of following? If she wasn't, was any of the Order worthy?

He screwed his eyes shut against those thoughts whenever they came. He would not turn aside again. His loyalty would be complete. The Order shaped the world into a better place, and he was part of it. He served.

An apostate mage, a Champion with untouchable social status, blew his world apart again. Not with desire, this time. He was past such things with mages. But she showed him what blind loyalty might cost and what discarding it might gain. Her friend destroyed the Chantry, a holy building for all it was empty to Cullen, and she executed him without hesitation. She stood with the Templars against her fellow mages as they fell to blood magic, then turned again when the Knight-Commander revealed herself to be corrupt. The Champion always took the best path in front of her, no matter who it served, and he envied her ease with the choices that paralyzed him.

The Order crumbled around him, an ideal now tarnished by Meredith's failures as well as his own. He'd known he could be flawed, but he'd thought himself the exception. If he wasn't the only weak point, then what was the use of the Templars? They wielded too much power to make so many errors in judgment. He decided, in that moment, to serve the Champion, to follow Hawke, and it gave him peace. She was good and worthy for all she was a mage. There would be no more mistakes.

He remained a Templar in name but in truth became Hawke's vassal. He loved again, not with the fervent need of youth but with the calm nobility of age. She wasn't wanted in his bed. There were other women for that, ones who asked for nothing more than coin and satisfaction. But his heart was no less deeply touched, and for three years he was content. He had a purpose and a leader who demanded everything he had to give. When he doubted their path, she was there to show him that he had no reason to. Kirkwall healed under their partnership.

Then she left without warning and never returned, and the void threatened to swallow him whole. He stopped taking lyrium, gave up his final ties to the Templars, and sat beside the ruins of the old Chantry. He had no prayers left to give, no worth left to offer. Maybe this would be the end.

A Seeker named Cassandra found him there. She planned to renounce her vows as well, to form a new Inquisition to unite the world once more, to do good for both the mages and the Templars. Cassandra spoke passionately about the Maker and their own failings to live up to His desires for humanity. He no longer believed the world could be healed, but he saw in her eyes a kinship to his own disillusionment. When she offered him the role of its eventual Commander, he accepted.

The Conclave was destroyed before the Inquisition could be formed. Cullen felt no deep loss this time at the passing of a cause. He'd had enough of causes, and he threw his energy into the fight instead. The Breach threatened the world, and while he knew now he could never save it, he could cut down whatever monsters he reached. Perhaps it would be enough.

A woman had stepped out of the Fade at the Temple, though he paid her little mind. She was an enemy to interrogate, or she was a tool to use. Either way Cassandra was the one to determine. His sword arm was his focus, and he fought with single-minded determination even when the Seeker and the woman danced through the battle. Some power inside of the woman, a power even their elven apostate couldn't explain, partially sealed the Breach, and for that he was glad. Fewer demons to fight. More time to prepare for the next round.

They formed the Inquisition after all, and he accepted it with the same lack of emotion. The Herald, as they titled her, became an ever-present face at their War Table. She shouldered the title nobly but hesitantly. He didn't ask, but she seemed uncomfortable with the idea of divinity, even without needing to embody it. He could relate. Her attitude was one of resignation rather than enthusiasm, and in her reluctance they found the voice the Inquisition needed. They found themselves deferring more and more to her choices, not because she was the most qualified but because she was the most real.

Cassandra commented dryly in one of the few sessions without her that it was ironic the first woman touched with holiness to walk the earth since Andraste was so normal. He silently agreed. She had none of the ethereal nature of Solona, none of the ruthless power of the Warden, none of the burning fire of Hawke. They'd been bigger than the world around them and pressed their shapes into it through their will. Evelyn was a quiet woman, a rogue in the shadows who went unseen. The mark she bore gave her limitless power, but she took only what was needed for the task at hand, then placed it gently back into their hands. Leliana, their spymaster, seemed just as taken aback as him. Neither of them were used to such selfless trust.

The Herald trained with the troops as an equal, never accepting extra challenges or accolades. At first he was irritated at the distraction she caused, then annoyed that she didn't care about his irritation. She slipped in and out of the training yards like a ghost, and after a time he and the recruits stopped noticing her presence. When she stopped to speak with him one day, he was surprised to see her there at all. Running through the list of operations he was running for the Inquisition, he waited for whatever questions she had about the forces they commanded. Instead she asked about his past, and he answered without thinking.

He kept to dry recitations of the facts, things that were a matter of public record about himself or the Order. He'd seen her speaking to others in the camp, gauging them, and thought she might be looking for his weaknesses, evaluating his fitness to lead. He may not have much worth, but he had enough for this, and he didn't want it to be taken away. But she never pushed for anything deeper, never asked for anything more than he gave. Her questions were numerous but not personal, and eventually he relaxed. She was just curious, not judging. She accepted him without qualms, and he marveled again at the trust she had in people she barely knew.

Though come to think of it, a large section of the world trusted her, and they knew her not at all.

Her trips into Thedas became more frequent, and he chafed at the decisions she made. Recruiting new allies was well and good, and making peace with those they could was always useful, but she helped everyone she found, regardless of her time or resources. She ran herself ragged to meet the needs of anyone who asked. There were other people who could do the things she did. His people could help. But she never asked, and eventually he stopped offering. She seemed to crave the busyness, the work with her own hands.

They continued to talk in the yard when she was there, watching the recruits train against the tactics of all the potential enemies he could think of. One day she made an off-hand mention of trouble sleeping and he winced, thinking she knew of his own struggles. But her eyes were focused elsewhere, and he knew she spoke of herself. He understood then why she worked herself to exhaustion, just as he did. He wished he had comfort to give, but his sleep was no better for being sorely needed.

She allied with the mages against his advice, and he wondered if it was a test of his resolve. She gave them free reign of the camp, a partnership through her endless trust, and he itched with the need for lyrium to counter them. He spoke spells under his breath and there was no soft thunder, no thrum of power in his words. He couldn't protect the world from them. He couldn't protect them from themselves. His uselessness ate at him, but he didn't let anyone see. If Evelyn was testing him, he would show her his strength. He only had to hold on a short while, until the Breach was closed. After that, the work of command could be shifted to another. He could leave.

The night before they would attempt to close it, she found him in his Chantry room. He kept it tidy, a remnant of his training, but he felt embarrassed anyway as she looked it over. Did it show too much of him and his past? If so, she made no comment on it. Her eyes were lined with exhaustion, and he wanted to ask her when she'd last slept. Instead he pulled out a chair and made her sit, waiting for her to tell him what she needed him to do.

When she spoke in low tones, it wasn't to ask favors or issue commands. She opened herself up to him completely and talked only of herself for the first time since he'd met her. Only the weaknesses in her soul that she carried, the mistakes she knew she was making, the terror she felt at knowing how much rested on her. She flexed her hand gently, the glow casting shadows around the room.

He heard in her voice how little she wanted it to be part of her, despite the fact that it might save the world. He understood all too well the way the self's wants got in the way of the world's needs. If only he could tell her that this was a weakness he shared, one that he'd given in to before. His own failure was how he knew she wouldn't. Even in the depths of the despair she carried, she talked of sealing the Breach as a destiny, not a choice. He might not have been so brave.

She told him more details of the future she'd seen and all of the people who'd never been. He wanted to ask, as he always did, if she'd seen him there. He wanted to know if he'd been able to overcome himself and be what was needed. She never mentioned him. He wondered in shame if his base disloyalty had betrayed itself to her there. Eventually she ran out of words, though not out of pain, and he could do nothing but study her in silence. They were all afraid. They all depended on her. Nothing he said could change it. The quiet stretched between them for a long time while they went down their own dark roads.

And yet she smiled when she rose to leave, and at that he couldn't hold back his curiosity any longer. When he asked her why, she said plainly that he was the only person who never minimized threats. His honesty didn't make her worries smaller, but it soothed her all the same by making them valid. The only thing worse than the fear, she said, was wondering if she was jumping at the wrong shadows.

Then honesty, real honesty, ran through him against his will, and he told her that he understood how it was to feel too small for the duties you held. Even when they were given by your own choice, they could crush a person beneath their weight. He took her hand and tried to explain how little like him she was, how good she would be, and how equal she was to the things that she faced. He did a poor job. The words came out fumbling and uncertain, but she didn't complain.

Her eyes looked less tired when she left, and she promised to sleep. For the first time since Ferelden's Circle he said his prayers when he laid in his own bed, but this time they were for Evelyn, that she would be granted the faith in herself that he'd lost along the way.

The Breach had been sealed quickly, and Haven had celebrated uproariously. He'd tried to join in, but there was no place for laughter in his heart anymore. Evelyn did better, but he wasn't surprised when she slid in to his dark corner behind the tavern and leaned against the wall. He lived inside her silence, in the weariness only he knew, and when she left without a word he felt a spark of joy inside of him. She understood him. She would never give false comfort, but she would give him what he needed. As she did for everyone else. Somehow he would repay her.

Then the Templars came, his own past rising up to destroy the last good thing in the world. Corypheus led with a dragon, and there was nothing to be done. At last it was the end, and only now did he know how little he wanted it. He wanted to stay in the world with her, not because she demanded it of him, but because she never would. But when she announced she would sacrifice herself to let them live, he could do nothing but let her. She needed his honesty to keep her brave. There was no other choice.

At the Chantry door, he finally understood love. It wasn't sparking lightning under the skin, burning with heat. Not whispers in the dark, spinning desires that would never be. Not a desperate loyalty, borne of fear of the darkness inside. It was a warmth that spread around a man so slowly he couldn't remember being cold. It was strength and honor. It was trust and truth. It was curiosity and kindness. It was that little bit of joy in the heart that was all the brighter when it was about to be lost.

She'd looked him full in the face when he paused, unwilling to let go. There was no pleading, no manipulation. Just duty. Just the knowledge of what needed to be done. She wouldn't abandon the hard path to make her life simpler, no matter how much she wanted to survive. He hoped she saw the same in him. She deserved that much. His faith in her would keep her safe. If he showed her any doubt… his soul cried out against it. She couldn't fall. He would believe.

The people of Haven grew weary, marching through the endless snow, but he told them there was a place to rest. Ahead, he said, when they asked where. They listened to his voice, strong and commanding. He wouldn't fall. They would believe.

He prayed as he trudged through the drifts. The empty space around him filled with memories of her. She was the certainty he craved. She'd slipped silently into his heart like a ghost, and she never took anything more than she needed. He would give her more. He would give her everything, if she would have it. When she found him again.

This was where faith lived, in snowbanks whose only escape was the one seen steadfastly in the mind. Hope was a pair of determined eyes looking into his without flinching. The Maker's divine promise echoed in every beat of Cullen's stubborn heart. Children, I have taken my bride so you should never be alone. What you need will always be, through your faith and her grace. Beautiful words, drifting over him like the flakes swirling in the air.

When the call came that the Evelyn struggled towards them in the storm, he didn't turn, though those around him began to run back. He moved forward steadily to where he knew their rest waited, gripped by the first peace he'd known since he'd entered the Circle so long ago. His belief didn't need sight. She would be with him soon, a beginning instead of an end. The Maker cared for His children.

A/N: I usually don't have any notes on my one-shots, since they're usually just experiments in character or form, but I've never tried to write anything quite so internal as this, and I'm not sure if it worked as I intended. Cullen is such a quiet character that I wanted to try something without any dialogue, but I don't know if it got across the sense of his internalization and isolation quite like I wanted. Any thoughts on that, or comments about anything, would be appreciated if you have them. Thanks!