A/N: Hi all, and thanks for checking out my newest story! This is Book 2 of my Devotion Series, and picks up in Kirkwall. It can be read as a stand alone, however, if you'd like to read about Cullen and Solona Amell prior to the tower falling, Book 1, Duty and Devotion, can be found on my profile page. I hope you all enjoy! Rating is subject to change...

-Kyla


Dragon 9:30, Cloudreach 8

Cullen


Despite the lingering winter chill in the air, sweat beaded on Cullen's back. Every spare moment he'd had since moving to Kirkwall, he spent in the practice yard. He paused for a moment and sucked in air, willing the oxygen to help soothe his strained muscles, then whirled back to the practice dummy.

Cross, slash, cross, slash, up, down, left, right, stab…

He went through the dance macabre over and over, desperately trying to lose himself to the rhythm of his sword. Perhaps if he wore himself down enough, tonight the nightmares would leave him.

Having only lived at the Kirkwall Circle for a short while, Cullen had noticed a stark difference between it and its Ferelden cousin. Yes, the tower was as well-organized as any, and his schedule was nearly identical, but it seemed the templars here had cut any and all ties to their past. Such a thing wasn't odd, per se, but there were many members of the Order who maintained contact with their families or kept personal effects from their younger days. Cullen, himself, had a small, wooden box his father had made him which carried a few trinkets from home. The same could be not be said for those he bunked with. The barracks felt significantly empty as a result…almost colder, somehow. His duties around the tower had also revealed some differences, most strikingly in the mages.

At first, his stations had been challenging. Assigned as a guard for a spirit healing class, he'd needed to clench his teeth and hold tightly to his copy of the Chant of Light. To be so close to magic once again, to feel its tendrils sweep through the room, he'd grown more and more uncomfortable. Rigid and distrustful, he'd half-expected the stench of blood magic to overpower him at any moment. When the bell sounded, Cullen had rushed off to the chapel to compose himself once again.

As the days passed, though, and he grew accustomed once more to the magic that permeated the air, he realized that he wasn't in Kinloch Hold any longer. This was not a tower on the precipice of falling into chaos. In fact, the more he settled in, the more time he spent actually observing the apprentices. The differences were astounding.

From his first day at Kinloch Hold, most of the apprentices had been easygoing and boisterous, even. Here, they were incredibly quiet. There was no furtive passing of notes in class or giggling when the enchanter wasn't looking. Meal times were perfunctory, and the noise level was nowhere near the ear-shattering volumes that they often reached in Ferelden. Even walking through the halls was surprising: most of the mages gave the templars a wide berth, often avoiding eye contact at all cost. It was as though they were perpetually afraid that they'd done something wrong.

Most of the templars here didn't think anything of it, and from what they told Cullen, it had been like this for as long as they could remember. In fact, Cullen suspected that some of the templars relished the fear that they inspired in their charges. He'd worried, hearing some of the cruder remarks of the templars when they spoke about how submissive the mages were, but managed to reassure himself. He was certain that despite their words behind closed doors, each and every one was a man of honor.

Cullen stepped back, shaking out his tired arms and rolling his head to ease the tension in his neck.

He wondered whether there had been many escape attempts by the mages here, but dismissed the thought almost immediately. The attitudes of mages and templars alike plainly showed that stunts such as Anders' would not be tolerated here.

Anders.

Cullen gripped the sword tighter and attacked the dummy with renewed vigor. Thinking of the carefree blonde mage took him far too close to the memories that he sought to repress. The little sleep he gained was plagued by the horrible last moments with her… he couldn't bear to let himself sort through that pain during his waking hours, too. It seemed, though, that the more he sought to ignore the anger and anguish that battled within him, the closer they came to spilling over the barriers he put up.

Cross, slash, cross, slash, up, down, left, right, stab…

Despite sticking to a strict schedule of duty, combat training, and prayer, Cullen still saw her everywhere. She was in the flash of gold of a mage's robes and the dark waves of an apprentice's hair. Echoes of her laughter seemed to follow him throughout the stone halls late at night. Worst of all were his duties in the library, though. The only thing he could think of amidst the towers of bookcases, enveloped in their musty scent, was the vision he'd suffered with that sinful doppelganger.

Lithe fingers running through his hair, full hair cascading down her back, Kinloch Hold's library shimmering in the background…

Cullen snarled and attacked the dummy with renewed vigor. He needed something to push the conflicting images of Solona out of his head. It was always one way or the other: she was either the vision of false perfection that he'd woken up to, or the reality of her dangling from the ceiling by bleeding wrists, staring out at him with lifeless eyes.

Maker, why can't I just remember her as she was before everything fell apart?

With a groan of frustration, Cullen slashed at the dummy a few more times before dropping the sword. His arms shook from the lengthy practice, and he flopped down onto the nearest bench, wiping his brow with a coarse towel.

"Ser Cullen?"

His gaze snapped up to the young templar recruit who had just sidled into the practice yard. From the wide-eyed gaze she had plastered on her face, Cullen wagered that she'd just witnessed his outburst. Of course, the anger on his face probably wasn't helping the situation, either. He took a deep breath and smoothed his expression before replying. "Yes, recruit. What is it?"

"I—er—I'm sorry to bother you, ser. It's just, the knight-commander wishes to see you," the girl muttered. Her eyes darted rapidly between Cullen and the training dummy that now had sizeable gouges taken out of it.

"Did she say when?"

"Right away, ser."

Cullen sighed. He'd hoped that he might be able to sneak in a bath. He didn't relish slipping back into his armor after this kind of exercise. Still, it wouldn't do for him to risk running late to a meeting with the knight-commander. "Very well. I'll head there immediately."

The girl scurried off, and Cullen hastily toweled himself off before donning his armor. He raked a hand through his short curls, grimacing at the cooled sweat his fingers pressed to his scalp. After replacing the practice sword on the rack, he set off at a quick march toward the templar offices in the upper levels of the tower.


Cullen rapped on the door at the end of the hall in the templar quarters. Anxiety pooled in his stomach like a lump of ice. He hadn't been here long, and although he was sure that he hadn't missed anything from his schedule or strayed from duties, he'd heard that Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard was notoriously strict with her templars and the mages alike.

"Enter."

At the muffled voice from within the room, Cullen opened the door and entered the study. The room was largely bare except for a half-full bookcase and a large, oaken desk. The few papers that were on the desk were meticulously organized, their edges aligned with one another perfectly. A number of quills sat in a uniform row, and the knight-commander idly straightened one as she stood to greet him.

"Excellent. Thank you for coming so quickly," she said, and picked up the top piece of vellum on her desk. "You arrived at Kirkwall just recently, correct?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen replied, standing at ease in front of the desk. He tensed under her appraisal. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, only a few shades lighter than the lyrium swirling in vials on the bookshelf, and Cullen suspected they could see right into his very thoughts.

She stared only a moment longer, then returned her attention to the paper. "'Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford,' formerly of the Ferelden circle of magi, or so your dossier reports."

Cullen nodded in agreement.

"You were there, were you not, during the fall of the tower?" Meredith asked, her tone unreadable.

"I was, Knight-Commander." Cullen thanked the Maker that his voice remained steady. He prayed now that she didn't press him for more information. He wasn't certain he was ready to recall the horrors of those weeks yet again.

"So, you have seen your share of the atrocities that magic can call forth," she mused. "Frankly, Ser Cullen, I am quite surprised that Greagoir requested your reassignment to Kirkwall."

Cullen's heart sank. He'd begun to settle into a daily routine—if the Kirkwall Order thought him unstable, he feared where they would send him next, or if they would discharge him as Neria had worried.

"I say," Meredith continued, "that his loss is my gain."

Cullen's eyes shot to the blonde commander. There was a slight softening to the line of her lips that might have been her version of a smile.

"I will be honest with you, Ser Cullen: I need more good men here. Men who understand the dangers of magic, who have experienced it for themselves." She set the vellum down and began to pace. "There are too many templars who have been coddled in their training—taught that the mages are more in control than they really are. It leaves them vulnerable, and far too trusting in my opinion."

Cullen thought of his friends from Kinloch Hold, most of them now dead. Perhaps Meredith was right… had they been more suspecting, perhaps his friends wouldn't have suffered such horrid fates. His heart stuttered.

Maybe she would still be alive.

"This lesson is one that I strive to make abundantly clear to all of the templars under me. Mages are not like us, as you well know. The power they wield requires a tight leash—for their safety and for ours. Vigilance is everything, Ser Cullen." Meredith stepped closer to him and cocked her head to the side. "What are your thoughts, Templar?"

Cullen swallowed hard. He wasn't sure what he believed anymore. In his hours of captivity, he'd been convinced that magic in every form was a poison that needed to be extracted, but once free from the tainted barrier of blood magic, Neria's words had softened him, if only slightly. One thing was certain, though. "I, too, believe that the mages must be watched closely. Even some who have passed their Harrowing are not immune to the temptations of demons."

Meredith nodded in approval, her eyes locked on him. "Well said, Ser Cullen. That is something that our members—even some older than you—would do well to remember." She walked back to her desk and straightened the already perfect papers. "I've received several reports of you and the other recruits who arrived late last month. Everything I have read seems very positive, so far… you have been punctual to your duties, the initiates say that you have been at every evening prayer service, and in your free time it seems that you take to the practice yard." She cast an appraising gaze over his tousled hair and dusty boots. "In fact, I wager that is exactly where you came from when I summoned you?"

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen said. "I apologize for my appearance."

Meredith waved a dismissing hand at him. "That matters little to me. As long as your armor is functional, and your sword arm ready, that is the most important thing."

Cullen sagged in relief.

"One last thing before you take your leave," she said. "I am in need of a new knight-captain. William died on a tracking mission only a few weeks ago. The apostates he hunted ambushed him and his men. I'll be watching your progress over the next months, Ser Cullen. Don't let me down. You may leave."

Cullen saluted and walked out of the office, his head a little higher.

Finally, here is someone who understands. The mages here might be more subdued than at Kinloch Hold, but perhaps that will keep them safe.

He entered his chambers and shut the door behind him. Thankfully, Ser Samson was not around, so Cullen could bathe in peace. Before he shucked his armor, he glanced at the little box on the lower shelf by his bed. He sat down and pulled the box onto his lap, running his finger over the smooth carvings as he'd done a hundred times before. He opened it with shaking hands.

There was the stack of letters from home, the bottom ones yellowed with age. He glanced at them, guilt rising uncomfortably within him. He hadn't replied to the last letter they'd sent him, asking how his first weeks at Kinloch Hold had been. Now, he realized with renewed pain, there was a chance he'd never see them again. Darkspawn roamed Ferelden. Honnleath, though out of the way, was still south—the reported area that the monsters had appeared from.

Even as a child, Cullen had been more distant with his family than other boys his age. He'd obsessed over the templars, had followed them around every day, begging to be taught. When they tired of humoring him, he'd borrowed books on templar lore and history from the chantry and gone to sit outside and soak in the words and the sun. He wondered if his favorite spot was still there: a bizarre statue made of stone with multicolored crystals embedded within. The creature's face was fierce, but Cullen had loved it. Many of the other villagers had shied away, shaking their heads at him, thinking the carvings to be intimidating. He'd rested against the statue for hours at a time, reading and imagining glorious battles. A faint smile cracked his lips as he recalled his sister's annoyance whenever their father sent her for him.

Sweet Andraste, if they're still alive, I promise I'll try to keep in contact with them more frequently.

He shifted the letters aside. Underneath it was a stone chess piece that his sister had given him when he left home upon being accepted into the Templar Order. His fingers traced the smooth contours of the rampant horse.

A knight for a knight.

He remembered her words like yesterday. Maker, if he didn't contact them soon, she'd probably kill him.

With the knight tucked back into its niche, Cullen ran his fingers over the only other object in the box: Solona's bracelet. He sat and stared at the silver band for a long time, fighting against the emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. Abruptly, he shut the lid of the box and stood. He moved to place the box back on the shelf, but paused.

The knight-commander is right: vigilance and duty are my only priorities now.

He felt underneath the bed until he found what he was looking for: a loose floorboard. He lifted it up, coughing at the dust that billowed around him, and stuffed the box out of sight. Any distractions held the potential for disaster—he'd learned that lesson well at Kinloch Hold.

His duty was to the Maker—to the templars.