Author's Notes: Well now... this is a rather strange chapter. It's SFW, yes, though it does have some very minor mentions of a sexual nature. This chapter is more of a flashback or reminiscence of Cullen's time in the Ferelden Circle, as well as Amell's reply to his previous letter.

Sorry this came so late. I went out for a few drinks and edits this while slightly drunk, so apologies if there are many mistakes.

"Your first assignments will be fairly easy... I'll put you with two of the older Apprentices for the moment, to get you used to life here in the Tower, but after some weeks you will be expected to work on a rota. Is this understood?"

"Yes, ser,"

"Good, follow me," the Knight-Commander had barely looked up from the mountain of papers on his desk, shoving one aside as he stepped out from behind it and began walking towards the door. Knight-Commander Greagoir was a tough looking old man; most of his hair was greying, his deep brow seemed to be drawn in a constant frown, and he kept a semi-permanent hold on the pommel of his sword, as though any minute he expected to have to use it.

A lot of the older Templars were paranoid like that. Some said it was the Lyrium, others said it was the lifestyle.

"Every Templar working in a Circle has a number of charges," the man continued, Cullen fell into a respectful step behind him as they descended down a floor, "you will be expected to keep vigilant of every Mage here, but you will be assigned specific charges to watch when not on a rotating shift. We would recommend you do not let your charges know of your other assignments within the Tower and as part of the Chantry, although I know over time it can become obvious to them."

It had taken a good while to ascend the Tower, and now that they were making their way back down again he could really take a moment to appreciate the architecture. There were few windows, the high ceilings were illuminated with chandeliers full of candles – he would have asked himself how on earth they could reach them to light the candles, but then he supposed – Mages as they were. Obviously.

It took a significant amount of effort to stop the nervous trembling in his hands and voice – he didn't want to seem anxious on his first assignment as a fully-fledged Templar, but he had to admit, it was daunting being in a Tower full to bursting with magic, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't rather curious about meeting a Mage. On his way up he'd caught glimpses through doorways and down halls, but nothing else. It was as exciting as it was equally terrifying.

"At any point, without reason or without question, you can be asked to change assignments at a moments notice," the man continued, "it is rare that this happens, but if I find that duties are not being carried out in accordance to the laws here, I will make these changes as I see fit."

The Tower was relatively quiet; the metallic sounds of their armour echoed off the stone walls and marble floors. He'd heard once that Kinloch Hold was cursed – the Avvars and Dwarves built it some centuries ago before they were driven out by the Tevinter Imperium. It was old, and though it certainly showed its age it looked no worse for wear.

"I will introduce you to your first two charges, then you will be escorted to your quarters. I will give you a respite of two days before you are to assume your duties here. I understand that it can be a trying first few weeks to adjust to life here, but with time I trust you will fathom the tasks ahead of you."

"I understand, ser," he said, gaining confidence when his voice did not falter.

"You will be replacing the late Ser Fontaine. He passed some weeks ago from his age."

"Yes, ser. I am... sorry for his passing."

"And I appreciate it," his clipped tone said otherwise, but Cullen didn't dare press, and kept his mouth dutifully shut as he continued, "There was one under his charge who will be assigned to you; usually I will not go out of my way to introduce Templars to their charges unless they are especially young and in need of guidance, but Fontaine was fond of this one, and his death has greatly upset her. I would appreciate if you did not mention Fontaine to her, out of respect."

They stopped outside what he vaguely remembered was the library as one of the other Templars showed him on the way up. The Knight-Commander turned to him, linking his arms behind his back. A tiny part of him felt like shrivelling up and dying underneath his stone-cold gaze.

"Your first assignment will be Apprentice Constance Amell," he said, "Ser Fontaine brought her to the Tower when she was four years old – she's intelligent, quiet, never given any of us a reason to mistrust her. I should hope you won't get any sort of sass or smart comments from her, but I've been surprised by the good ones before. What does worry me is her friendship with another Mage, Apprentice Jowan. The boy is a snake; I tolerate their relationship in the hopes that she will be a good influence on him, but after so many years I am starting to doubt it. Keep an eye on him around her."

He struggled briefly to process all of the information given him – his charge was Mage Amell, who was a decent sort, but Mage Jowan could potentially be a threat or have undue influence over her, their friendship was tolerated but would be monitored, right, got it.

The Knight-Commander pushed the heavy, rounded door open and brought him into the huge, rolling library, full of dusty cases and stacks of books stretching almost to the ceiling. Most of the inhabitants – Mages and a handful of helmed Templars – were completely silent; there was only the scratching of quills and fluttering of pages to fill the empty space.

When they rounded the first row of bookcases to reveal the long table beyond, Cullen would say he wasn't expecting Mage Amell to be at the end, nor was he expecting her to look anything like she did. When Knight-Commander Greagoir told him he would be assigned to two of the "older Apprentices" he was expecting those in their early twenties, not a young girl barely coming into womanhood.

He remembered being astounded by the floating open texts, hanging in the air like they were suspended by threads, obscuring the girl slightly from view. She was surrounded by books, scrolls, diagrams, dusty tomes open to reveal pages of sigils and lettering in languages he didn't understand, even though most Templars were fairly well educated and he was confident enough in his own intelligence.

At the time, it truly hit him how hard Mages worked at their craft; how their study was so essential to their training, and how complex and difficult it was.

The Knight-Commander cleared his throat loudly and the girl looked up over the lip of one of the floating books. They lowered to the table as if guided by invisible hands, and he could see her eyes narrow suspiciously at them from across the table.

"Apprentice Amell, a word, if you please," Greagoir annunciated; some of the Mages glanced back at him; his commanding tone obviously unnerving them a little. The girl dropped her quill and rose from her chair, not so much as walking towards them as hovering. It was fascinating to watch.

This is a real Mage, was his first thought, and he supposed whatever preconceptions and boyish fantasies of what magic and Mages were, she filled a lot of them quite neatly. Constance Amell didn't seem human to him, just this other-worldly being on a plane of existence that he couldn't comprehend, and her young age didn't help either, nor did her whitish-grey hair that he noticed was probably an Amell trait when he met Leandra Amell some years later. Though she was powerful and probably incredibly dangerous, she was small and rounded and young; a child by any other standards had he not just seen her control the gravity of books like it was nothing.

"Apprentice Amell, this is Fontaine's replacement; Ser Cullen," the man gestured to him and then added to her, much to Cullen's recoil; "I expect you to treat him with the same level of respect as you did Ser Fontaine. Is that clear?"

"How do you do," the girl courtesied, dipping her knee and gently tugging the sides of her robes outwards. He'd felt a surge of heat fly up to his cheeks at that; he was no noble and she probably had more power in her little finger than he did in his whole body; it didn't feel right for her to courtesy to him, not one bit.

At the mention of Fontaine however, he could see her grow sullen, her all-too-deep blue eyes developing a thick film of water, her pale cheeks flushing with hurt, splotchy patches of red.

"... Return to your studies," Greagoir said to her, and she flashed her eyes up to him one last time before making her way back to her desk.

"She's a decent sort, that girl," the Knight-Commander said, as he guided him out of the library, "hopefully she won't be any trouble for you. First Enchanter Irving coddles her entirely too much for my liking, however... Your next charge will be Apprentice Niall – a nice enough boy, but very unfocused and far too interested in fraternity politics."

After that, Cullen fell easily into the routine of Circle life. He usually had up to six charges, with Niall and Constance being his top priority, although he occasionally worked outside of the Circle and in the lands around Lake Calenhad, dealing with bandits or investigating rumours of ungoverned magic. It would be over a year before he would witness his first Harrowing, and since it went smoothly enough, the Knight-Commander made a point of assigning him to more and more as time went on.

He said that Cullen's presence seemed to calm the Mages; probably because he didn't speak to them like they were idiots, criminals, or that they were likely to burst into flame at the first available opportunity. At the time, he'd felt the Circle and occasionally other Templars were too hard on the Mages there. He never wore his helm unless out in the surrounding lands, and was always polite and mild-mannered when speaking with his charges and the other Templars.

That wasn't to say he didn't follow orders, he was just careful about how he handled certain situations, and he always had a soft, boyish heart.

When he started noticing his budding infatuation with Constance Amell was when things at the Circle started getting difficult for him. The way she excelled in her classes and casually used magic about the Tower was enough to garner moderate interest from him, and watching her filling out into something more mature as time went on awoke something in him that he thought he stamped down on before taking his vows.

He told himself that it would never happen, as if that somehow justified how he was feeling, as if it justified the nights spent aching at the thought of her kiss or the feel of her hips in his hands.

As if it justified the way his eyes would focus on her no matter where she was; a class, the library, the dining hall – how he managed to watch his other charges was a mystery.

It was not right to develop such feelings for a Mage, but even with that in his thoughts, there were so many times that he caught himself staring, blushing, smiling at her, and knew he was getting in far too deep.

The other Templars noticed. Knight-Commander Greagoir noticed.

Attending Harrowings of other Mages was fine, but it was considered a little cruel and undignified to attend the Harrowing of an appointed charge for a number of reasons. Some Templars wouldn't want to see them cut down, other Templars wanted to see it entirely too much. It left a bad taste in the mouth either way.

When he was called to the Knight-Commander's office one late evening, shortly before the fall of the Circle, he knew somewhere deep down that he was in trouble for his youthful emotions.

"She's too young, Greagoir-" he heard First-Enchanter Irving's croaking old voice from beyond the door. He pushed it open gently so as not to disturb them, but entered regardless; it would not do to keep the Commander waiting.

"You cannot keep putting this off, Irving. Each day she grows more powerful – what would you have me do? Just keep it on good faith that she can resist the demons without witnessing it first-hand?" The Knight-Commander's voice was harsh and loud. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence to see them argue, they argued all the time, but it was somehow different that evening. Irving looked lost and upset, and Greagoir looked ready to kill.

"Or is it that you're looking to pawn her off to the Wardens before she can go through her rite?" Greagoir accused, folding his arms. Irving boiled.

"How dare you suggest such a thing," the First-Enchanter said indignantly, "I only have her best interests at heart. She is too young and I will stand by that fact. You know how soft she is, and yet you want to throw her in front of a demon-"

"As an alternative to what, exactly? Let her simply carry on until she becomes possessed in her sleep? Powerful as she is, she will attract their attention sooner or later, if she hasn't already, and I will not have abominations running rampant in this tower. You speak of her kindness and youth, but have you considered what that would look like if she were to become possessed?"

Cullen knew who they were talking about without even saying her name, and the bottom fell out of his stomach entirely. For the first time, he was faced with the reality of her mortality, and it terrified him.

Irving relented after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I see there is no dissuading you," he exhaled, "do what you must, then, and it will be her blood on your hands if she fails."

Knight-Commander Greagoir ignored the comment though his face grew cold and stony. He never enjoyed seeing the Mages fail their Harrowings, not even the ones he despised, and Constance was sweet and gentle and kind to everyone in the Tower. Her death was the last thing he wanted, regardless of Irving's poisonous words.

"Cullen, tell Ser Borin to rouse Apprentice Amell and then meet me in the Harrowing chamber. She will go through her Harrowing tonight," he looked pointedly at Irving, "and that will be the end of it."

There was no reason for the Knight-Commander to call Cullen all the way from the first floor just to give him a message for Borin – it was Greagoir's way of telling him that he was very much aware of his feelings and he was not approving of them. Cullen saluted and left, his ashen face betraying the tight set of his jaw and shoulders.

It was a long trek to the Templar's quarters. His mind was blank and filled with cotton – he wanted to feel something other than the bleakness of what awaited him when he considered his life without Mage Amell in it, but nothing came. It was terribly unfair that Greagoir sought to teach him such a lesson, and as he chewed on his trembling lower lip he cursed the man to the deepest pits of the Fade for expecting him to accept such punishment.

In a rare moment of insubordination, Cullen genuinely thought abut disobeying the command. He thought about bypassing Borin all together, going down to the Apprentice quarters and asking Mage Amell if she wanted to run away with him, go as far away from the Tower and the Chantry as they could. It was the first time he had ever really considered something so audacious and different, and it kicked a gleeful excitement into his veins-

But he didn't dare take the risk. Cullen did as he was told. He told Borin to wake Mage Amell, and then he made his shaken, terrified way up the the Harrowing chamber.

Greagoir placed a hand on his shoulder, his could feel the tight grip even under the plate there; "If she is to fail, you are to administer the killing blow," he said, glaring at him, seething at him, and he honestly thought he was going to vomit at the command. It was too much to ask, entirely too much, yet he unsheathed his sword all the same, quaking underneath his armour.

The man's lips thinned to a determined line, and he could feel him glaring burning holes into the back of Cullen's skull for the whole ordeal.

When Mage Amell entered the chamber, rubbing sleep from her puffy eyes and dragging a shaking hand through her tousled hair, he had never wanted to embrace her so much. He would have fought every single one of them, he probably would have died on Greagoir's sword, just to try and get her out of there-

But there was something sure and confident in her face, and that calmed him somehow – not in an arrogant, cocksure way, just... confident.

She was ready. To face the demon. To face death.

It was the fastest, cleanest Harrowing he'd ever witnessed. He held his sword to her throat and prayed and prayed she would survive, and then she opened those unfathomable eyes, clear and uncontrolled and whispered the word Valour, before fainting into Borin's arms. Everyone in the Harrowing chamber breathed a sigh of relief.

Not a single person suspected that she would help that fool Jowan destroy his phylactery the next day.

Nor would they suspect her to be conscripted swiftly into the Grey Wardens.

Cullen,

It would be my hope, though I am sure it is not, that you would not dwell any longer on what you said when I left the Tower.

Ten years is a very long time to hold on to old pains and regrets. When I found you atop the Tower, I had fought my way through men and women I once held in such high regard, battled a demon in the Fade for a fellow Mage only to witness his spirit become trapped as his body died in our world. When I found you, I saw the hallway covered in gore and heard your despair at the death of your fellow Templars and at no point did I ever hold you accountable for what you said.

We had both been through so much, you even more-so at Uldred's hands, we were both exhausted and angry and I am sure I said some less-than-kind things to you as well. I was lucky that I had escaped his revolt, but you had to endure what must have been a horrifying ordeal, and I understood that when I left the Tower that day.

Yes, I was upset, and I was angry and it hurt to see someone I once trusted turn against me and those I cared about, but I understood the reasoning behind it, and I know by what you have told me that this is no longer the case.

So I would ask you to put these things behind you. If it is forgiveness you seek, I forgave you a very long time ago.

- Constance

Author's Notes: Thanks for reading!