Months had passed since Uldred's rebellion nearly destroyed the Fereldan Circle. For most the memory was still as fresh as ever, and Sister Shelley was no exception. Often she glanced at the restored pews as she tended to her duties. For every seat filled, she counted two that should have been, or would have been had tragedy not intervened. They were in the Maker's hands, she told herself. She had no place to question His decisions. There were two in particular she missed the most - but they had not gone with Him.
On the days when nostalgia struck hardest, she thought she saw them. Entering separately, yet always sitting suspiciously close. The young apprentice—a girl she had come to love as a niece—would look at him with a wicked little smile, her eyes saying far more than words could express in so holy a place. The Templar, ever subtle in his affections, would simply grin and nod. Sometimes, he would sit behind her and pretend to pray, or perhaps he truly did. Regardless of his intentions, he would always lean forward against the back of her pew and trace his gauntleted fingers over her neck. An inappropriate gesture in such a place between such people, to be sure. Yet she couldn't ignore the sweetness of it, and so she had never said a word.
She had lost Jeanne, the apprentice, to the Wardens , and the Templar to the rebellion. She had tended to his recovery and knew he yet lived, but the poor boy had suffered greatly. He was in Greenfell now, at the knight-commander's orders, and she hoped it would do him well. He had been so mired in his suffering and his grief. Distance, perhaps, would finally ease the pain.
"It is in the Maker's hands now," Greagoir had said. "With any luck, the fresh air will help to even him out."
Even him out. As though he was a blade to be tempered. She had thought the commander better than to use such language to describe one so damaged by horrors. But he could not have known the extent of the boy's illness. He had spent most of his days penning reports and requests for assistance, a task that still went unfinished. Only the surviving sisters and the few spirit healers that had tended to the wounded had been so keenly aware of the cost of the senior enchanter's madness.
The clop of leather soles against the corridor's stone floor roused Shelley from her thoughts. Assuming the boots belonged to a survivor coming to worship, she approached the doorway. Instead, the rare sight of a Templar's off-duty tunic greeted her. A few moments went by—long enough for the man to pass her—before she realized who it was.
"Ser Cullen!" she whispered harshly, hurrying after him. So much time had passed since she last saw him, she had begun to think he wouldn't return at all.
He paused, seeming reluctant at first to turn around. He did so slowly before greeting her with a soft nod. "Sister Shelley."
Poor boy, she thought as she observed him. The rebellion had aged him considerably. The hazel eyes that had once been so bright were marred by hopelessness and the dark circles of exhaustion. His hair, once a charming light brown, had been bleached by the sun. It was nice to know he saw the sun once in a while, at the very least.
"Maker be praised you still walk among us. It's been a long few months, dear," she said, her voice a mix of strain and relief. Despite her feelings, she offered him a smile.
He attempted to offer the same smile in return, but it fell into a forced, weak grin. He barely looked at her at all, preferring the sight of the walls or the floor. She knew he wanted to be polite, but his mind seemed preoccupied. "The longest of my life, Sister. Maker willing, I will be able to resume my duties soon." Like his offered smile, the attempted optimism failed him.
"He sometimes has plans we could not hope to fathom. But I have the utmost confidence in you." Shelley's words were followed by a brief pause and a frown. She wondered just how ignorant they had kept him of the outside world, how much he knew about Jeanne since she had left the tower for the second time. Encouraging the relationship was against her better judgment, and against everything she had been taught. Nonetheless, he deserved to know.
She leaned in toward the boy and spoke quietly, trying her best to be mindful of his space. "There's been news, Ser. The Grey Wardens have been declared traitors, but two yet live—apparently they were last seen near the Frostback Mountains." She paused again to give him a pointed gaze. "She is still alive, and doing well enough, last I'd heard."
The news brought a pained, yet relieved expression to Cullen's face. He swallowed thickly, seeming to fight the glassy look that came to his eyes. "Thank the Maker." Without thought, he raised his hand to touch something just beneath his clavicle under the fabric of his tunic. The sister knew immediately it was Jeanne's ring of study; how could it be anything else, when she had kept it safe for him while he recovered from his wounds.
"It took a while to convince her things would be all right here," she said, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "She might not have left at all if duty hadn't taken her."
Noticing his hand drop back down, she continued. "She was very adamant about leaving something. I'm sure it would give her no small satisfaction to see you keeping it close."
The Templar immediately shook his head. "She cannot see me like this. I am not as I was." He paused, seeming to think better of the words he might have planned. "I suspect she isn't either."
Shelley sighed softly, knowing better than to press the issue with him in such a state. "Even so, Ser. What's important is the recovery—for you and for us all." Tentatively, she raised her hand and gave his arm a gentle pat. He recoiled at first from the touch, but accepted it. "Maker willing, she'll stop this Blight and let us live to see it through."
He nodded, for the first time showing complete confidence. "She will."
The sound of a suited Templar walking the corridor interrupted their conversation. Soon, a voice accompanied. "Come on, Cullen. The knight-commander is asking after you. You'll have time to talk to everyone later."
Cullen nodded over his shoulder and bowed his head toward Shelley. "Maker watch over you, Sister."
She returned the gesture as she watched him leave with the other man. "And you as well, Ser Cullen."
Shelley stood there long after the door to the upper stairwell was closed. With a deep sigh, she returned to the chapel and lit a candle for both Jeanne and her Templar.