Note: I originally was going to post oneshots related to Lilian from the Feathers story as part of What Really Happened, but apparently Cullen has a story to tell. So the focus of this will become Cullen (in the Feathers universe).
Thank you to anyone who reviewed/favorited/followed!
I owe Drakontion a great deal of appreciation for helping me smooth this one out.
The Knight-Captain's Dilemma
Cullen felt no less filthy than he had before bathing. Scouring his hair and skin had managed to rid him of most of the unholy stench lingering from the fight with the demons, but it did nothing to rid him of the mire seeping into his soul.
Surely every person in the Gallows could see his guilt, the stain of his wretched agreement with that vile excuse for a dwarf. How could he, Knight-Captain Cullen, protect two apostates? How could he even consider it? He knew what they did, knew how their wicked fingers could snake into anyone's mind.
Demons were always a temptation to a mage, no matter now strong, and yet...and yet, he could see her still, her bright eyes glittering with loathing as she threw demons around like so much chaff. They held no interest for her, no power she desired; they were beneath her, unworthy of her fear, and Anders, of all people, seemed infused with the same fury. Cullen had always thought the blond healer foolish and undisciplined, trouble for the sake of trouble, but there he was, blasting the fiends into oblivion. It was a fine thought, mages fighting demons rather than succumbing to them.
So much of what the damned dwarf said made sense, but Cullen refused to let the threat of him running his mouth dictate duty. As Knight-Captain, his duty was to...tell his superiors the truth? ensure that all mages were brought into the Circle? protect the city, the people, the mages and his men from unholy threats? Sweet Andraste, what did they do to confuse me so?
He felt eyes on him as he marched across the courtyard, certain his thoughts were painted on his face. As if all the demons of the Fade were on his heels, he fled the Gallows, unable to face anyone there. What if they knew his doubts? Would his subordinates lose faith in him? How could he even begin to lead them?
Across the water on the far dock from the Gallows, he looked around, blinking. Where did he intend to go? Cullen was not a man to drown himself in the drink at the Hanged Man or any of the other unsightly sinks in Lowtown, nor did the temptations of the Blooming Rose offer the least bit of solace. You can't run from your duty, Cullen. Are you really such a coward? The city's inhabitants gave him wide berth as he stalked through the narrow streets, and eventually, he found himself on the wider avenues of Hightown as the sun dipped below the horizon. Go back, write your report to the Knight-Commander, and let her be the judge.
An evening breeze swept through the city, cooling his face and bringing him the strange mingled scent of the Hightown flowers and the Lowtown foundries. Without him realizing it, his feet had carried him to the Chantry, and for a long moment he stared at the tall edifice. Thank you, sweet Bride of the Maker. At least some part of him still possessed sense.
The hush of the Chantry buzzed in his ears, and he suddenly felt loud and oafish, his armor painfully noisy in the silence. Still there was something calming about the gentle scent of incense and the soft flicker of candles, and they wrapped around him like a mother's arms. Surely there were no demons here, only peace and faith. Faith. What of your own faith, Cullen? Can you kneel in the shadow of Andraste without doubt?
His whispering thoughts and the openness of the main floor sent him fleeing to one of the higher balconies where he knelt in a small alcove and tried to light a candle as he overlooked the statue of Andraste. His hands shook, the flame faltering twice before it managed to take, and he winced. Was he incapable of even so simple an act of faith?
Cullen pressed his forehead against his clasped hands and breathed in the silence, letting it wash over him and through him. Andraste, guide me. Show me my duty. But no soft words came, no swift epiphany revealing his way through the mire, and he squeezed his eyes tighter. Memories swept through him, the templar able still to feel the breath of the demon on his neck, the scent of her, his own want, the need to give in to temptation. I will not break! Still, the remembered vision loomed for an instant more before a sudden fist of earth sent it tumbling, and he saw the pigtailed mage glaring at where it had been. His head shook slightly, and the images mercifully shattered but left him shivering.
The air shifted around him, and he felt someone slip to their knees beside him, but he kept his head bowed. No, please ... I can't...
"I hope I am not disturbing, Ser Cullen," the Grand Cleric's gentle voice eased over his ears, and his thoughts froze. "But you seem troubled, child."
Slowly, he lifted his head, not to meet her kind eyes but to stare into the flame in front of him as he nodded slowly. If he looked at her, he was certain she would see every shred of filth in his soul, every little doubt that ate away at his mind, all the visions that lingered...and the fear. He could not bear anyone seeing into his soul again, least of all Her Grace. What if it could tarnish her too?
His lips parted to speak, but he found no words. Embarrassment brought color to his cheeks, and his arm twitched beneath a light touch from her. He clenched his jaw to steady himself. "Take your time, my son. It can be difficult to put one's worries into words."
A grateful smile touched his lips, and he glanced at her hesitantly, trying to ignore uncertainty pooling in his stomach. "You are kind, Your Grace."
"I am concerned," she countered lightly, her smile inviting him to speak, "and willing to help any troubled son of the Maker, Knight-Captain."
His eyes returned to the flame as if it held answers from Andraste herself, and for several long moments, silence reigned between them. There was no expectation in that quiet, simply a moment between two who had learned to exist in it for years. The twisting in his stomach and chest slowed and finally allowed him a small breath as the Grand Cleric waited patiently. She too watched the flame, and he wondered if she divined any wisdom from it. Perhaps Andraste can still speak to her.
He exhaled slowly, letting his chest deflate before he managed a whisper. "Can a wrong ever be the right thing to do? Can it ever serve duty better?" Maker, help me, am I honestly considering this?
Her head tilted as she studied him. "The right path is rarely clear, child, and duty can often be clouded. What is this wrong?"
Cullen pressed his lips together, still unable to look at her. The candle was a useful focus. "A lie, or rather..." he drew a deep breath, "an omission, but it amounts to the same."
Elthina nodded thoughtfully. "Is this lie self-serving?"
"No," he answered without hesitation. "Not at all, but I fear it is not just a lie." His tongue nervously wet his lips. "It...I find myself with duty on two sides, and I must pick one."
The Grand Cleric made a considering sound, and she settled back on her heels. Cullen felt her intense eyes weighing him, and it brought heat to his ears. "Tell me, Knight-Captain, what is the primary duty of a templar?"
He felt a boy again, awkward and ignorant, but he forced himself to focus on the fluttering light of the candle. "To protect all the Maker's children, Your Grace," he murmured.
"Indeed, and have you any other duty above that?"
Cullen weighed his answer carefully, his gauntlets creaking as his hands flexed. "No, but..."
"But?"
"But there are varying..." his voice faltered. "interpretations of that duty."
"That there are, my son," Elthina answered sympathetically. "And decisions are not without consequences, even if they are made for all the correct reasons. But remember that you are a shield against evil, child, one who fights for those who cannot."
He nodded slowly, but she caught the furrow still resting on his brow and reached up to smooth it, her cool touch calm enough that this time he didn't flinch. It was a concerned mother's affection.
"Just as you might take a wound in battle to protect the Maker's children, so too must your soul take a wound at times to keep them safe. Better you than them, Knight-Captain, for you, like I, have sworn to serve. We must make sacrifices."
Cullen lost himself in the flame, her words dancing with the fire in his mind. His very soul to protect his charges. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak again, only to realize he was alone once more with no fingers resting in gentle benediction on his skin.
Back at the Gallows, he bent over his desk in his small room, his quill loud as it scratched out his report. The first draft included every detail he knew of Wilmod's transformation and a precise accounting of just how Cullen had survived it, including the apostate mages who had rescued him. It even included the dwarf's offer. No doubt the Knight-Commander would order them hunted down, and some of his men would die in the process. There would be even fewer to search out the demons, and the mages' help would be out of reach. More demons would infect his men, and ... he shuddered at the thought, not realizing how hard he was clenching his quill between his fingers until it suddenly snapped.
You are a shield against evil.
Snarling, he pitched the report and the quill into the fire and watched as the page blackened and curled with the heat of the fire. His teeth gritted, and he slumped in his seat, his face in his hands. His fingers buried in his hair, and he tried not to see the damned woman hurling demons to the ground. He could not respect a mage.
We must make sacrifices.
Forcing himself to move, the Knight-Captain took out a fresh piece of paper and new quill. Sharpening it, however, with shaking hands proved dangerous, and he paced about his room until he managed some measure of calm. This was to stop demons. Whatever else he must do, demons could not be allowed to infiltrate his templars, and if that required the service of apostate mages, then so be it.
The right path is rarely clear.
Grimly, Cullen recorded Wilmod's attack, noting he suspected blood magic had influenced the lad who had never been fully committed to the Order. His account continued to relay that he was regretfully forced to slay the recruit when the boy would not stand down. On Keran's disappearance, he simply added that he had acquired the help of some Lowtown mercenaries to speak to the staff at the Blooming Rose since they were not forthcoming with him.
It all sounded so simple, and none of it was precisely untrue, but the omissions niggled at him. Could he really put his name to this? Andraste, guide me. He should scratch it all out, tell the whole story, then beg for penance from one of the sisters for this. But he didn't; Cullen just stared at the report.
Andraste, forgive me.
He signed it.
He would use this mage to sniff out the demons for him. And he would watch. She might not be in the tower, but he could find her, he could keep eyes on her. When the moment came, when she slipped into the embrace of a demon as mages inevitably did, he would end her himself. That was his duty.
