AUTHOR NOTE— At long last, my sequel for A Dangerous Thing. Title may change, just as a heads up.
THE FORBIDDEN PROLOGUE
The torrential downpour had left him cold, confused, and promptly seeking shelter in the Chantry as he came upon it. Two towering doors creaked anciently at his entrance, an intruding draft leaving candles without a flame. Knight-Captain Cullen walked precariously towards the first terrace—distracted—his thoughts carrying him past someone who was already here. He didn't notice—couldn't notice—the night's mirage of rain and mist had played games with him his entire shift, leaving him deep in thought. It started at the gallows. Across the courtyard, through the storm's first drizzle, was a familiar silhouette that could not exist—not in Kirkwall, not in this life. Cullen stepped into the candlelight, welcoming their warmth, however weak it may be. He was tired, beyond exhausted with the new recruits he was assigned, and the rain was merely taking advantage of that. It was nothing.
Cullen mentally shook away any lingering thoughts and began pulling his leather gloves off, fingers numb from being soaked to the bone. He noticed then, a shadow moving from the corner of his eye, another seeking shelter from this dreadful rain. "Chapel is closed tonight," he authoritatively spoke, mindless to the patron and rubbing his hands together. "Any peace you wish to make with the Maker can wait until tomorrow," he finished, voice heavy with sovereignty.
"I'm afraid I can't slip into the fade tonight."
A coldness crawled up the templar's neck, deft and hair-raising like a spider. Suddenly the Chantry was shrinking, the elaborate decor poor in comparison to Kirkwall's lavish tapestries and effigies of Andraste. Pews, worn and creaky, sprung before him. Cullen's palm warmed from the burning torch he abruptly carried towards the front of the chamber. Someone still remained in the Chantry, doused in shadow as he rounded the first pew. "Excuse me! The Chantry is closed!" he bellowed, outmatched by a rumble of thunder. Silence met him. Frustrating silence. "I said, the Chantry is closed—"
"I—I'm sorry Ser." A young man cowered under the templar's shadow. "I'm afraid I can't see through the rain tonight, I've gotten all mixed around...haven't been in Kirkwall long Ser," the man stammered, eyes pleading for him to accept his excuse.
He was in the Chantry again—Kirkwall's Chantry.
Cullen abruptly noticed his fist tangled in the man's collar and recoiled, recollecting himself. "Very well," glancing down, he took notice to the strangling grip he had on his sword. "I expect you to quickly find your way home once the rain has let up, understood."
The refugees gaze had wandered to the templar's sword as well. "Yes of course, thank you very much Ser!" The Knight-Captain acknowledged the stranger with a nod and left hastily for the door.
In a moment of weakness, Cullen allowed thoughts of her to command him, and his weariness summoned old long forgotten memories. The templar was no stranger to these illusions, but it had been a while since he had visited this one. He had long suppressed any memories of her, locked away and never to be disturbed again. The rain and the cold had made his mind weak, but devoted practice and training had made him stronger than his previous life. Knight-Commander Meredith taught him to be a better templar since his arrival, a better man. Allowing the rain and the mist to play tricks with his mind was beneath him. He wouldn't allow her to cloud his judgement ever again.
He reached the door, a flare of lightning passed through the growing crack in the door, and stopped him in his tracks. There was a clatter of thunder and lightning again, illuminating someone who sought to enter.
Blood red tresses. A peak of scarred skin. Parted ruby lips. Dark blue eyes. All so foreign to Cullen, yet so familiar, and standing before him.
"Ah, shit—" she turned heel and immediately began the parade down the Chapel steps.
Instinct took over and Cullen followed after her, "Stop!"
She ignored him, taking two steps at a time and quickly gaining distance.
He jumped the last gathering of steps, soaking his boots to the knee, grip back on the hilt of his blade. "Stop right there mage!" he called through the rain.
The world suddenly felt very still and timeless, with Cullen waiting for her to turn and face him. All the while wondering—praying—it was another illusion. She turned, streaks of her red hair clung to the curve of her face, over white scars. The Knight-Captain froze. His sword-hand trembled. It was her. And her face was contorted in an expression he had never seen before—not on his Astrid. The fearful and gentle woman he knew was not standing before him any longer. She faced him fully and marched towards him, stopping herself. "Mage!?" she scowled, snickering before turning back to continue her escape.
"The Order dictates!" Knight-Captain Cullen regained himself, matching her scowl and drawing his sword.
Cullen saw her flinch.
"You draw your sword on me?" Astrid cried, as her head twitched and her body crippled over, clutching at her head.
Signs Cullen knew too well. A part of him, he thought long gone, drew the Knight-Captain to approach her. Wondering why she was grunting in agony and barely keeping her footing. "You're a mage," he repeated, "and The Order dictates—"
Astrid recoiled from his outstretched hand, "Do. Not. Touch. Me."
The Knight-Captain drew back himself, careful of the sudden sword that glittered at his throat as lightning tore through the sky again.
"I knew you would be a changed man after everything you—we've endured, by coming here. But I did not think you would be a different man."
It was his turn to scoff, "And you an apostate." Cullen reflected her sword away and kept it raised, angled at her, "Don't force my hand."
"Do not force mine," Astrid repeated and raised her blade again, pushing the point into the guard at his neck. "Believe it or not—templar—it was not my choice."
He had only seen her wield a blade once, back at the Circle and against a blood mage. Then, she was a damaged mage on the brink of madness, barely able to balance herself holding a sword with two hands. Now Astrid was as balanced as an Orlesian dancer, grip strong and confident. However, turmoil still stirred behind the mage's eyes. She was just as changed as he, and she had the scars to prove it. The face he once watched longingly from a distance had long sinewy marks along her left cheek, now white and smooth from healing. They matched the ones he knew she had on her hands.
She stiffened when he moved, "Don't—"
Cullen yanked on her wrist, pulling her closer, but her sword away. Astrid fought him as much as she could, knuckles white as she pushed against his strong grip. She was twitching again, head swaying from side to side as she avoided his gaze. The templar touched her face. His calloused thumb brushing over the ridge of her scarring, feeling the heat of her skin seep into his cold fingers. At last he forced her to look at him, "Why did you come here Astrid, to Kirkwall of all places?" She refused to meet his eyes again. "Why?" he bellowed, "You know the the Commander's reputation here—"
Suddenly the mage had head-butted him and threw the templar away from her. He clattered to the ground and noticed relief cross her face, but only briefly. Her brows furrowed together and a hand touched her chin, wiping blood away. Astrid stumbled back and glanced at Cullen one last time. She replaced her sword into a leather scabbard at her waist and turned to disappear.
"Wait! Astrid. Wait—" The Knight-Captain scattered to his feet, but she was but a faint shadow through the rain.
He looked at his sword and saw red.
Cullen held his blade in the rain until the blood was gone and then found himself just standing there, watching the direction she had left in. The templar in him wanted to pursue the apostate—Astrid—bring her to the Gallows, to the Knight-Commander. However, what little remained of his former self could not condemn her to this 'prison'. The Templars here were different, even more corrupt. He would not chance having her at the mercy of their hands—or his. Their past was dangerous here. Being in Kirkwall, he has seen the punishments for such a dangerous relationship; witnessed it first hand on several occasions. If he wasn't careful, it could be Astrid and him.
"Why..." he whispered, "Why are you here?"
