Frozen Memories - 01
(A Dragon Age fan fiction)
.
Circle of Magi - Ferelden
.
A chill crept in, cold shadows waning in an ethereal light as the armoured figure passed by. Fingers clad in lobstered, silver steel clasped the hilt of a torch, a blue shimmer of protective magic shrouding the figure's fingers from the flame's heat. He passed, quietly, through darkened hallways lined with elegant tapestries. Each tapestry depicted an ancient battle between Andraste, her Alamarri and elven followers and the evil magisters of Tevinter during the Exalted Marches – history retold in rich cloth and embroidered gold thread from the finest weavers in Orlais. Between each tapestry, carved statues of the heroes of old held silent vigil: Andraste, Brona, Cathaire, Havard, Hessarian the Redeemed, Andraste's friend Justinia, Shartan and Calenhad, the first king of Fereldan The awesome figures stood taller than any man, brandishing real axes, broadswords, shields bearing the Chantry's holy sunburst, and poisoned spears, and clad in enamelled silverite armour from Orzammar. He'd oft seen the Tranquil polishing the enormous gauntlets, greaves and curved pauldrons to an ethereal glimmer.
Cullen Rutherford passed the heroic statues, singing the Chant of Light softly to himself; night shifts were awfully boring. Most nights, he simply walked about, checking in on sleeping mages to ensure none had slipped out to collude in secret or perform magic unsupervised. Breaking curfew had mild or severe consequences, depending on the circumstances. Enchanters enjoyed more leniencies than apprentices; catching an apprentice could result in a flogging, imprisonment for hours in the Circle dungeons, or the execution of the Rite of Tranquility.
Because they did not dream, the Tranquil were exempt from curfew. Ex-mages of serene disposition, they were a disturbing presence, but harmless besides; the Tranquil were hardly more than conscious furniture, shadows moving silently with a certain kind of purpose – a duty more profound than mere slaves.
Earlier, shortly after dinner – blackened bread, potatoes, rabbit stew and a cup of honeyed wine – Cullen descended into the armory for his longsword, Lion's Pride; a gift from his parents after he'd taken his vows. Lion's Pride was a dragonbone sword, broad but light with a blade like glazed wine and a golden guard and carved lion's head pommel. Boiled leather strips were wrapped around the hilt, moulded slightly for a more comfortable fit for his right hand – in his left he held his large iron shield, emblazoned with a flaming sword; the heraldry of the holy Templars.
Cullen joined his fellow Templars in the Circle courtyard. Like many castles, the Circle courtyard had a cobblestone perimeter and a handful of pools; clear ponds lined with polished stones and brimming with coloured fish. Fountains made of stone provided recycled water from the lake on the other side of the Circle walls – brought in through a complex series of pipes. Autumn had arrived in full however; now the pools were all but frozen and the grass was covered in snow. Several stone benches followed the curve of the cobblestone walk, evenly spaced to enjoy the cool shade of overhanging oak trees during hot summer afternoons, and in the center of the yard, a dirt-filled fenced-in region served as the Circle's practice arena. Cullen found four other Templars there – raw recruits who'd just recently traded practice swords for steel. Another senior Templar, Ser Theodore, watched from nearby, arms crossed stiffly. As master-at-arms, Theodore trained most of the new recruits – most oft green men and women. Common folk, nobles, and orphans raised by Chantry sisters. Most recruits – besides those few grizzled soldiers who found purpose in the Maker's service after war – had never seen battle before.
A large man, Ser Theodore was an intimidating sight. A beard hid most of his leathery skin behind black, coarse hair. A deep, faded scar left one eye milky white and his nose one nostril short. Cullen heard that he'd lost the eye in a fight with apostate blood mages and an arcane horror - a demon of pride that had possessed a dead mage. His remaining eye was almost black and hard. Ser Theodore loved the Maker more than anyone else, but hated mages and made the fact known.
"Cullen," growled Ser Theodore behind his beard. "Come show these children how real Templars fight."
Cullen picked up an edgeless steel sword, as Lion's Pride could have torn a brother's arm clean off, or else left a nasty scar. Although heavier, Cullen had trained with similar weapons before; his strikes would be slower, but no less powerful. "Come, the lot of you," he said, and brought his shield up.
"All four?" asked one recruit. "On one?"
Cullen dispelled the assumption that four on one was somehow unfair; a seasoned Templar did not require fair odds. He shifted his shoulder slightly. Fading sunlight glimmered off the flaming sword blazoned on his shield and Cullen saw three of the four recruits squint against the glare. He leaped forward, slashing at one recruit's shoulder. Pauldrons protected the arms from direct dismemberment, so Cullen slammed the blunt face of his sword against the curved silverite, the vibrations causing the recruit to drop his sword. As he was shaking the discomfort from his arm, Cullen slammed his shield into the boy's chest, driving him into the dirt, and kicked his sword aside.
"Dead!" said Ser Theodore. In the real world, an enemy would bashed his skull in with a boot, or the edge of his shield.
Cullen raised his shield again as the remaining three boys gathered their wits and attacked him simultaneously. Cullen deflected the first slash with his shield, then brought his sword up and countered with a jab. Lion's Pride would have pierced the boy's heart, cutting into the boiled leather and chainmail beneath his arm like paper. But his practice sword turned off the breastplate, catching between the boy's gauntlet and his shield. Cullen dropped his sword and spun, throwing his own shield up across his back to drive off another blow meant to colour his blonde curls red. He leaped the next recruit's blade; he stumbled and Cullen drove his boot into the back of his knees. If this was anything but practice, Cullen would have snapped the boy's neck. He shoved him into the dirt, face-first, instead.
The last two recruits were attempting to flank him, but Cullen had put the setting sun behind him and he saw their dancing shadows in the twilight before he heard the gravel pop beneath their boots. Cullen dove forwards, listening as the two recruits slammed together behind him. Blood poured from one recruit's nose and he doubled over, clawing his face. The other stood up, shaking the collision off and came at Cullen, driving him back, cutting left, right, left, right. He was fast, but Cullen moved sideways, avoiding each blow, giving ground before he bulled into the recruit and knocked him over. The two men rolled in the dirt, kicking, punching and clawing at each other until Cullen ended up on top, a dirk pressed against the boy's soft throat.
"And dead," said Theodore.
.
A few hours later, every mage and most Templars were asleep, leaving the Circle Tower quiet, still. Cullen had the first floor, where apprentices slept, cramped in chambers cluttered with beds – some stacked atop each other – bookshelves and chests of the apprentices' few possessions. Mages oft could not bring much from home – a few mementos of their families, perhaps – if they ever had homes: a book, locket or other trinket and sometimes – sometimes – a cat, owl, rat or raven.
Chantry officials provided customary robes for the apprentices but staves were distinctive. Elvish and human Tranquil designed personalized staves for their fellow mages and each mage chose her or his own staff based on their abilities after entering the Circle. Although any mage could perform any given magical task, theoretically, mages specialized in particular fields of study like scholars: elements, healing, herbalism, nature, spirits, and occasionally war. As Cullen passed the beds of sleeping apprentices, he counted his charges: five healers, a city elf with a Dalish ironbark staff, and an ambitious nobleman's son with a silversite staff forged into the entangled neck of a dual-headed serpent.
An apprentice was missing: Solona Amell – an elementalist. Cullen frowned, cursing quietly, "By the Maker, Solona…"
Cullen found her in the courtyard garden just off the training arena, building snow towers. A full moon shimmered above, behind delicate grey clouds, making the fresh snow shine silver and hoarfrost painting the naked trees white. A gentle snow fell, frost glittered on the coloured glass windows and a cold wind blew down from the Frostback Mountains in the West, howling mournfully.
Cullen shivered beneath his fennec fur cloak. He stopped and watched Solona work, his hot breath forming plumes of white around his mouth and nose. She was dressed in her lavender night robes and little more. A dusting of snowflakes sparkled like diamonds in her loose ringlets and her small breasts pressed against her loose robes, firm from the cold. Cullen saw Solona make several snowballs, packing them together, smoothing them until they were flawlessly round. She built cubes, cylinders and long rectangles she carved into archways, crenellations and ramparts, towers, turrets and a castle with inner and outer walls. Solona added blades of frosted grass, black dirt and small twigs as barricades, bridges and gates and divided her snow city into pyramid-structured districts with all the best castles on the highest pyramid and hovels on the lowest. She used bark for merchant stands and larger sticks for trees and bits of cloth for banners hanging off bulwarks. Finally, she built large, thick walls around the entire thing, arched gates and enormous figures bound in chains. Bark boats with cloth sails docked outside the city walls an on the far side, Solona built mountains of different sizes.
Cullen saw Solona channel magic from the Fade into her snow city, pouring water into the aqueducts, lakes and rivers she'd built into the mountain passes. Her magic kept the water flowing freely rather than freezing in the cold. Cullen gripped his sword tightly – a habit – and his boots crunched snow as he came forward.
"Good night, Cullen." Solona glanced up and smiled sweetly. Cullen knew she'd felt him watching but didn't seem to care that he'd seen her performing magic.
"It's late," he said, feeling his cheeks flush. He hoped he sounded as firm as he intended.
"I see that." She smoothed the top of one tower with her open palm. "Do you like my city?"
Cullen moved around the city walls, admiring the archways and parapets and banners flapping in the breeze. His armor clinked together as he moved, echoing in the empty yard. "It's lovely, Solona."
"Come, have a closer look." The mage reached for her sentry's arm and brought him down gently into the cool snow beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. Cullen felt the chill in his knees, and his robes left scarlet stains in the fresh snow; blood red. A channel of magic moved about him, orange tendrils creeping in between chainmail and leather and lobstered steel. He felt surprisingly warm and droplets fell from his armour as flakes melted. In the flaming light of the torches, Cullen's eyes became curious amber pools and he looked at her for excuse or explanation. She simply smiled again and gave his arm a fond squeeze.
Cullen's face grew hot, though he could not pull away from her. He liked being close, feeling her magic envelope him like a lover's tender embrace. "Forgive me, Solona, but…" Cullen started.
"It's Kirkwall." Among the largest city-state of the Free Marches, Kirkwall was once the center of the Imperium's slave trade. A magister named Emerius founded the City of Chains during the Imperium's rule, supplying massive quantities of jet stone for Minrathous temples. After bloody revolts sometime around 25: Ancient, Emerius' city became known as Kirkwall and eventually suffered the occupation of Qunari raiders for four years before Chevalier Michel Lafille, of Orlais, liberated its people and became the city's first Viscount. In the early years of the Blessed Age – before Orlais conquered Ferelden – Kirkwall rebelled against her occupants once again, and became a free-governing state, beside cities Kaiten, Ostwick, Starkhaven and Tantervile in the Free Marches.
She fingered one of the banners hanging from the battlements of the largest tower. "Here's Hightown; the Chantry's here near Viscount's Keep. There's a brothel here, called the Blooming Rose. The city walls are impregnable from the east, north and west, and most people feel pretty safe since the commonfolk live down here in Lowtown and can only access Hightown by scaling these narrow stairs. Any archer worth his piss could have a shaft through a commoner's eye before he reached the top.
"My parents once owned an estate here in Hightown. The Amells are a highly respected family – one of the wealthiest in Kirkwall, truly. Before Mother bore me, her uncle, Aristide, held the greatest influence over the city; many nobles believed he'd become the next viscount after Perrin Threnhold attempted to expel the Templars. But my birth changed everything... Had my abilities come from my father or mother? Did it even matter? My family's reputation was destroyed; if one child could be born magic, then so too could others."
She licked snowflakes from her lips and for a moment, he imagined kissing her. She was a beautiful mage, and Cullen fancied her, but fornicating with a mage…It was against Chantry law.
"Every Firstfall, my parents bought me and my siblings elaborate masks from Orlais for Satinalia. I loved dressing up for the ball; my favourite mask was…was…" She sighed. "Cullen I can't even begin to describe how lovely it was." In Orlais, nobles wore beautiful masks passed down from parents to children, specifically designed in animalistic or fantastic motifs. A lord's bannermen household, knights and other vassals wore more simplistic adaptations of the lord's mask – a sign of subordination. Commonfolk wore gaudy or otherwise plain masks of iron or painted plaster.
Closing her eyes, Solona pictured her mask vividly: a full mask of porcelain crafted into a bird-like visage with an amethyst beak edged in crisscrossing gold latticework like thin, twisting vines. Amethyst dust glittered on its lips and emeralds sparkled along its brow, cheeks and chin midst enamelled gold metalwork. A crown of large, lavender peacock feathers framed it like a lion's mane.
"I've not seen Kirkwall in years, but every winter, I remember Satinalia – and how all the city's nobles would gather to dance and feast as snow fell outside."
Cullen noticed that as Solona spoke, her voice grew soft and her eyes sparkled like sad sapphires. Circle mages could not leave the Tower unless granted special permission in times of war – and only then if they were Enchanters. Once the war concluded, the mages were expected to return to their Towers lest they be branded apostates. Because of the Amell family status, her parents could not hide their children's magical abilities. Each of Solona's brothers and sisters were given to a Circle Tower in Thedas. Chantry law prevented families from having relationships and correspondence between Circles – except between Enchanters of the College of Magi – was difficult in the best circumstances. Solona had not spoken with her parents or siblings since being sent to Ferelden. She missed them.
"I'm sorry," Cullen said, feeling like he should say something but not knowing what.
Cullen's family had been common folk, from Honnleath in southwestern Ferelden. His siblings – a brother and a couple sisters – were all older and would eventually inherit what few lands and titles his parents possessed, becoming ladies and lords and knights in service to Ferelden's king. After Cullen begged the local Templars, they approached his parents about his joining the Order and they accepted, sending Cullen off shortly after his name-day. A few senior Templars advised him against joining so young but Cullen desired nothing else – he loved the Chantry, and the Maker, more than lands, titles or women.
"Aye, but have you ever had a lover, boy? Ever kissed a beautiful girl?" one Templar asked. "Ever felt a fair maiden's skin against yours?" Cullen had been thirteen when he left home – almost a man grown, in many respects. But he'd been ever shy around girls and blushed at profane speech. He once saw whores loitering near the gallows in Honnleath; old, ugly wenches dressed in rags. "A copper for a blow," she'd slurred. Cullen's face had flushed like ripe tomatoes and made the whore cackle, her mouth filled with broken, rotted teeth.
Chantry law didn't forbid marriage or relations, but discouraged them and contact with family was all but impossible, for they lived outside the Circle and Templars could seldom leave their charges. Faith, honour and loyalty mattered above all else and, as it was oft said, the bane of honour – the death of duty – was love.
So Cullen ignored the female mages brought into the Circle – mostly children themselves – and barely corresponded with his own family. He received a few letters occasionally, but rarely responded, much to his sister, Mia's, resentment. Before the Circle, his life consisted of education – Chantry law, history, magic and the Fade – meditation and training in monastic refuges. A calling for many, serving the Chantry lent little time to attend balls, entertain or fall in love.
"I'm not so lonely," Solona said softly, "now that I'm with you."
Cullen had been in the dining hall the morning Solona came into the Circle for the first time and had not noticed her, small as she was. A child, frightened and weary, her Templar escorts brought her in in iron tethers marked with lyrium runes to dispel her magic. Solona was cold and covered in dirt from her travels, and fresh tears carved lines down her cheeks. Ferelden was a cold, damp country known for its rainy summers and bitter cold winters. In the Circle's dining hall – a ball-vaulted chamber on the first floor large enough for half a hundred benches - there were a dozen hearths built into the curved walls, giving off a comforting heat made more so by the dozens of bodies crammed onto the benches. Mages in their coloured robes sat at benches in the middle, encompassed on all sides by fearsome-looking Templars. Few noticed the child come in – a few mages and a couple of the newer Templars but even they forgot her soon enough.
After being introduced to a group of older mages sitting at a long table high on a dais – among them First Enchanter Irving, the Circle's highest authority – a drowsy-looking Tranquil led Solona and a couple female Templars down into the basement bathes. She stripped the child down, hardly noticing the child's tears, and scrubbed the dirt from her skin with a brazen cloth. Scrubbing her raw, the Tranquil dressed her in blue robes embroidered with cerulean flowers and a belt of chain-linked gold, a Circle pendant hanging in the center. Her robes were heavier than anything she'd worn in Kirkwall, lined with fennec fur for more warmth.
Circle life consisted of magical practice and theory. In the afternoons, enchanters taught the apprentices history and magic and oft retold of the dangers of blood magic and demonic possession by referencing the blood mages of old Tevinter, who'd entered the Black City, corrupting it and creating the Blights. Chantry lore said the blood magisters became Darkspawn, particularly the Archdemons that lead the Blights that ravage Thedas every few hundred years. Because of mages, the doors to Heaven were closed forever.
After dinner, enchanters trained apprentice mages in large halls, students taking turns casting elemental and healing spells, supervised by groups of Templars.
A few months after arriving, Cullen found Solona weeping. A few apprentices complained that they could not sleep; most shouted at her. A handful threw books, jars, staves and discarded robes. Once, one particularly angry apprentice set her sheets afire but claimed, during questioning, that a candle had fallen over. He'd spent a day in the Circle dungeons.
"Do not fear me, Solona; I'll not harm you," he'd said when he'd stopped beside her bed. Cullen had not been much older, yet in that moment he felt himself a man, wise beyond his years.
"Do not fear the Circle, either. The Chantry says that magic must serve mankind, not rule him. We are corrupted creatures made of blood and flesh. How many men have honour and loyalty and how many claim such before casting it all aside for greed and lust? How many men are brave – but only if there is nothing to fear? Magic can do great things – can cure the ailing and heal the wounded. But magic can do great evil too and people are desperate and weak. How long can good mages deny temptation – especially in this cruel world? A demon may offer power and that can sound all well and good in a moment of weakness but demons never give more than they can take.
"Being here in the Circle…it's not easy leaving behind family and freedom, I know. I left my family too and I miss them. But duty requires sacrifice. Is it not the duty of mages to serve? To Protect those who need them? And how can mages protect others if they cannot protect themselves?"
Cullen's kindness comforted her and Solona soon found herself falling in love with her protector. Other mages said that Templars were like wolves around a flock of sheep. But Solona thought of them as shepherds keeping the real wolves at bay.
Cullen's face felt hotter than ever. He looked away, embarrassed. "Don't say such things."
"Cullen…?"
"Chantry law…" he started. "Chantry law states…"
Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages… But even as Cullen reminded himself of that, his lips found hers, swallowing those thoughts. He kissed her once, softly, then twice, then trice. Solona started trembling but did not pull away. Her arms slipped beneath his cloak, drawing him in and Cullen draped his fur-lined mantle over her shoulders against the chill. She tasted of sweet wine and her skin smelled like Royal Elfroot. He placed an armoured hand on Solona's breast.
"Cullen," she whispered between kisses. "I love you."
He pulled back slightly, and parted his lips but could not say the words. "I..."
"It's okay." She traced his lips with her thumb and kissed him sweetly. The mage gently pushed him into the fluffy snow and climbed into his lap. He lifted her robes and caressed her milky thigh as he kissed her over and over. She was not wearing any smallclothes underneath. Cullen groaned, feeling his body responding as she slid her hips against his scarlet skirts. Solona started tugging at his breeches, loosening the belts, buckles and laces and grabbed his manhood though his smallclothes. And he nearly allowed her to guide him inside her, knowing that he needed this: he loved her too.
He thought of the senior Templars that once warned against joining so young. He'd not believed them then.
But Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages...
"No! Solona, stop. Stop!" He pushed her off his lap. Solona's beautiful brows came together, confused, and her blue eyes grew shiny. "I thought…"
"Chantry law states – "
"Chantry law has no restrictions against love or sex," came her bitter reply. She smoothed her robed about her and rose swiftly, angered that he was hiding his weakness behind Chantry law. He was afraid; craven in love but not in war. All because she was a mage and Chantry law claimed mages were dangerous. "Mages meet in secret all the time. And Templars too. I've seen them."
"Do not speak of other mages or Templars. I do not love you and I apologize if I mislead you."
His words cut deep. He did not mean them, truly. "Cullen, don't…please don't say such things. I know better than that. I love you and I know, deep in your heart you love me too."
Cullen kept his temper. "I'm so sorry, but I do not. Now go. It's late and I'll not find you about passed curfew ever again; is that understood?"
"Cullen – "
Cullen's eyes grew hard. "Is that understood?"
Cullen's hand came to rest upon his lion's head pommel; if intentional, Solona did not know. Never had he given her reason to be frightened of him but his dark eyes and hard tone left little room to debate. He loved the Chantry more than he loved her; inside she knew she could not fault him for that.
"Good night, ser." Solona spun on one heel, stalking back into the Circle Tower.
After she'd gone, he started trembling – angry, frightened, sad. He stared at her city of snow, her Kirkwall; her home. He roared, his screams echoing off the cool, smooth stone of the courtyard walls, and crushed the castles. He crushed Hightown, levelled Lowtown and kicked the chains from the city walls. Banners fluttered away in the wind. He knocked the heads off the enormous figures flanking Kirkwall's gatehouse, he stomped on Viscount's Keep, razing the high ramparts and pointed spires, and he destroyed the Vimmark Mountains north of the city in a flurry of white. Her magic lakes, rivers and streams burst over their banks like bubbles, freezing into clear ice.
I must remain strong, Cullen thought, breathless. Chantry law states Templars cannot love mages. Maker, forgive me; I cannot love her and be true and if I cannot be true…I'm nothing.
.
/Frozen Memories – 01
Disclaimer: Amell, Cullen and all Dragon Age-related characters are property of BioWare and EA Games.
