Cullen stood at the Chantry door, hand braced against its smooth surface. He was fiercely crushing down all the uncertainties, the misgivings, his faults and flaws, boxing them up, hiding them deep away. In this moment, he was still just Cullen, damaged, flawed, pathetic. As soon as he strode through the door, he would need to transform into Commander Rutherford, head of Divine's army, the man tasked with bringing peace to all of the Thedas. He was not permitted to have qualms. He was not allowed shortcomings. He was confident, decisive, strong, and sure.
It might be a sham. It might be nothing more than play-acting, but it was necessary. Soldiers needed to have complete and utter faith in their leader. The longer, harder he worked at deceiving them with the visage of the perfect Commander Rutherford, he might actually trick himself into believing it too. If he was to become the man he yearned to be, he had to put aside Cullen the weak, Cullen the disappointment, Cullen the woefully lacking. He had to, somehow, become Commander Rutherford in not just actions and deeds, but in his thoughts. Not just in the perceptions of others, but in his own as well.
Eventually, he pushed open the door, blinking painfully at the dazzling morning light after the hours spent in the dim sanctuary. It took only a quick glance at the sun's position to determine it was well past the eighth bell. His futile attempt at absolution had taken considerably longer than he had realized and now he was late for his meeting with his bumbling new assistant.
At the base of the stairs, a large throng was massed around the Chantry board. Through the crowd, Cullen could make out a large placard with the image of Divine Justinia and the word Conclave prominent at its top. He gave an approving nod. Leliana was wasting no time getting the word out about the unprecedented conference. The more the word spread, the easier his task of raising an army would be.
The street that had been empty and silent when he had made his trek to the Chantry was now a bustling hive of activity, people jostling each other as they hurried to their destinations. As he headed back to the inn, he expected to struggle to push his way against the tide. Instead, Cullen found a corridor open, the crowds stepping deferentially aside with appreciative nods. At first, he put the reactions down to the fact that he still wore the armor of a Templar. Amaranthines were well known to be strong supporters of the Order and those who served in it. Yet, the farther he walked, the more surreal the reactions became. He passed a gaggle of giggling young maidens who waved enthusiastically at him. Merchants bowed as he strode by. He noticed a few people studying his face and gasping, almost as if they recognized him, as if they knew of him. Knew of Cullen Rutherford. He heard clusters of people asking, "Is that him?" On more than one occasion, a hand would reach out, touching him respectfully. There were prayers of, "May the Maker guide your steps," and "Andraste, bless and keep you safe."
It was almost a relief when he finally turned onto the street where the lodge was located. Sula, Declyn, Evelyn, and Jim were outside, clustered in front of a message board. Jim was busy hammering a placard of the Divine that Declyn held against the signboard. Evelyn, hair bound yet again in an unflattering bun, stood behind them, her arms laden with scores of long, rolled parchments. He noted, sullenly, that Sula had the dreaded messenger bag full of missives looped over her shoulder.
While Jim and Declyn were busy adding another placard to the signboard, Sula took one of the thick parchments from Evelyn's arm. She unrolled it, taking a moment to study it closely, first tilting her head in one direction and then the other. Holding it out so Evelyn could view it, a sly grin grew as she asked the mage, "What do you think?"
"I suppose it's a good likeness." Her voice was quiet, uncertain.
"That's all you have to say, Evelyn?" Sula mocked. "It's a good likeness? You must have something to say about his appearance."
As perplexing as the conversation was, Cullen was especially mystified by Evelyn's reaction. She began shifting uneasily, her mouth opening and closing without uttering a word. It was clear, even to him, that Evelyn would rather be anywhere than standing under the Templar's teasing gaze.
"Oh come on." A playful tone began coloring Sula's voice. "Half the Circle mages in Kirkwall longed to spend a night, or more, in his bed. Surely, as his Claimed, you've formed an opinion about his looks."
Evelyn paled alarmingly. If the mage's arm hadn't been loaded with rolled up posters, Cullen was certain her scarred hand would have been tightly fisted and hidden in the folds of her clothes - a tendency of hers whenever she was upset. He was about to intervene, to divert Sula from her teasing of the apprehensive mage when Evelyn's next words stopped him short.
The answer was reluctant but, even from where he stood, the mage's words were clear. "Of course Cullen is handsome. Anyone can see that."
Sula turned back to study the message board with a smug expression. In contrast, Cullen was dumbstruck. For a few heartbeats, he was flattered. He couldn't be a complete monster in her eyes if she thought him attractive. It wasn't much but perhaps there was a foundation for them to build a better relationship. His resolution to reach a better understanding with the mage chained to his side seemed not as daunting with her revelation. And it didn't hurt to get a boost to his tattered ego. His spirits lifted and his outlook brightened.
Then his self-esteem crashed as quickly as it had risen. Perhaps it was because she was less guarded in that moment, believing she was unobserved, or perhaps it was that he was getting better at reading Evelyn's mannerisms. The relief on her face was fleeting, but it was enough. It was obvious she hadn't meant what she said, hadn't meant that she found him attractive. She had only said what was necessary, had simply said what was expected of her, had lied to put an end to Sula's prying.
Even if he wanted her to begin thinking him handsome, kind and honorable, how would he ever know she spoke the truth unless he used his contemptible power over her? How would he ever be able to trust what she said? Evelyn would say anything, do anything, to survive. He couldn't blame her. She was in an untenable situation - completely at his mercy, treated terribly by his own hand since the ill-fated moment they met, at risk of being permanently altered should she displease him. Who wouldn't lie, wouldn't pretend to be concerned about their captor's well-being in the same situation? If he ever wanted to gain her trust, if he was ever to get the chance to know the real Evelyn, he would have to stick to his resolution to treat her better, to show that he was concerned for her welfare, to try to help her realize her worth not only in his eyes but in her own as well.
He stepped towards the group, resolved to use this opportunity to start anew with Evelyn. As expected, the wary mage was the first to spot him. To put her at ease, Cullen plastered an odd, watery smile on his face, the muscles already aching from the unfamiliar use. It must have looked as strange as it felt because Evelyn began fidgeting nervously, the rolled posters she held rustling with the movement. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and tongue-tied. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained as he said, "Good morning, Evelyn. Did you sleep ..." His voice trailed off when Jim and Declyn stepped away from the message board.
Like the one at the Chantry, it held a large poster of Divine Justinia. Unlike at the Chantry, there was a second placard. He stood there, slack-jawed, not quite able to process what he was seeing. His shock gave way to mortification which in turn gave way to seething indignation. His nostrils flared, breath coming in short, hot pants, fists tightening ominously. "What is this?" Cullen snarled as he stared at the offending poster.
Sula began giggling which grew to a full belly chortle as he pierced her with a disgruntled glare. Cullen's glower moved on to Declyn who was unsuccessfully trying to hide his grin. Evelyn looked ready to bolt and Jim was simply perplexed.
"It's a recruitment poster," Jim answered, scratching his head at having to explain something so obvious.
Cullen frowned at the offending placard, the memory of Leliana's instructions back in Kirkwall floating in his brain. Just sit there and look pretty. It was disconcerting to have his hazel eyes gazing back at him. The image was ridiculously stylized, with a ray of sunlight creating a halo around his blond locks, a smirk lifting his scarred lip, and a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He unconsciously lifted a hand to run along his chin, noting the necessity to shave at the earliest opportunity. His automatic action only increased Sula and Declyn's mirth, even Jim joined in by grinning in amusement at Cullen's discomfort.
"Take. It. Down," he growled.
"I can't do that, Commander," Jim responded as he came to attention. "Sister Nightingale was quite precise in her instructions. Every town is to be plastered with information fliers about the Conclave and about our efforts to raise an army. Placards of both Most Holy and you are to be hung in every prominent location."
"Sister Nightingale is not here. I am. Take. It. Down."
Jim winced with consternation. "She also said that you are not permitted to counter her order. They must be hung no matter what you say." His gaze dropped anxiously down to Cullen's tightening fists. "Nor what you may threaten."
Before he could blister his subordinate's ears, Sula stepped forward and dropped a chummy arm around his shoulders. "Accept it, Cullen. You're the poster boy of Most Holy's army. Nothing's going to change that. Let it go."
Cullen grumbled under his breath. He was a talented enough tactician to know he'd been outmaneuvered ... for the moment. It would take great thought and planning but he'd exact his revenge on Leliana for this embarrassment. For now, though, there was little he could do. "Fine," he huffed. "Jim, make sure I never see them."
"I, uh ... I'll do my best, ser." He looked as if he'd swallowed a hornet's nest as he took the rolled posters back from Evelyn.
Cullen took a deep breath, letting the irritation trickle away, readying himself to focus on the work ahead. "Where have you chosen for the recruitment site?"
"It's a grand location I've chosen, Commander." Jim beamed proudly. "The main marketplace will ..."
"No."
Jim looked surprised at Cullen's emphatic refusal. "No? But it's just the sort of spot I was told to look for. Large and centrally located with plenty of foot traffic. The marketplace is ..."
For a second time, he cut off his assistant. "Out of the question. We need a large, open area where we can test the candidates physical prowess, where we can talk with the applicants. We'll need space to set up tables for the signing of contracts. The main market is too noisy and congested. What are your alternative sites?"
"Alternative sites?" Jim mumbled for a bit, his face a touch worried. "I hadn't really considered any other locations but I suppose I could ... that is, maybe ..." Jim looked around helplessly, crestfallen because he had failed to deliver on his first major assignment.
And just as quickly, his irritation returned. Jim was like any other raw recruit, not too unlike himself actually when he had first joined the Order. Enthusiastic, keen, but without a wit of common sense. Like Jim, Cullen had been an inept dolt initially. How many times had Greagoir shaken his head with amusement at his many failed attempts, at all the times he hadn't completely considered an assignment? Eagerness was important but it needed to be honed with practical experience. Jim would learn, just as Cullen had, to have contingency plans, to balance the pros versus cons of any given situation and decide upon the best course of action. He simply needed time, experience, and a firm, but understanding, guiding hand. Unfortunately for his assistant, time was already in short supply and Cullen had more than enough responsibilities bearing down on his shoulders. Jim would simply have to figure it all out for himself.
"Cullen, may I ..." Evelyn soft voice began.
At the same moment, Declyn spoke. "There is ..."
"Not now, Evelyn," Cullen snapped impatiently, the reflexive impulse to lash out at her striking before he realized it. "Whatever it is can wait." He had a lot to accomplish in a short span of time. There were contracts to negotiate, supplies and equipment to purchase, and recruits to sign up. Time was slipping away. The bells began ringing, marking another hour had passed which only increased his frustration levels. A site needed to be selected and it needed to be now. He couldn't afford to squander hours traipsing all over the city looking for an appropriate location, much less whatever inconsequential request the mage might have.
He looked expectedly at Declyn, completely dismissing Evelyn. "You have a suggestion?"
The Templar tore his concerned gaze from the quavering mage. "Yes," he reluctantly responded. "There's a smaller marketplace near where the Jim and the other men are camping. It has an adjacent large field and plenty of space for all our needs."
Cullen nodded with satisfaction. "Very good. Take us there."
"Not just yet," Sula interrupted. The irritation in her voice was hard to miss. "We need to talk," she said with a pointed look at Evelyn.
He could tell by her stormy expression he wasn't going to like what she had to say. As her superior officer, he could pull rank, tell her to keep her personal opinions to herself. But, judging from past experience, it would be pointless to try to put his friend off, not even for the short span of time it would take them to walk to the recruitment site. Sula wasn't the sort to let things go, and, as much as he was loathe to admit, her impressions were usually correct. "Fine," he answered almost sulkily as he moved away from the others. If Sula was going to give him a dressing down he'd rather it be out of the earshot of Declyn, Jim, and Evelyn. When he was satisfied they had a modicum of privacy, he turned towards his friend, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "Have your say quickly so we can get back to what's important."
Sula's flashing eyes let him know he had taken the wrong tack. "Ass! That poor child has been fretting since the moment I fetched her from your room this morning. She's been working up the courage to approach you with a simple request and you snap at her before she could even ask. Are you even capable of being anything but a complete wanker to her?"
Remorse filled him instantly. Not even a quarter of a bell in Evelyn's presence and he had already broken his resolution to treat her better. Sula was correct. He was an ass, a wanker, as well as a whole host of other loathsome traits. In all this time, Evelyn had not once asked for anything, not one single thing. Not even for a hot bath and clean clothes when they had reached Kirkwall. He wanted her to let him know when she wanted something but when she finally tried, he had cut her off.
He rubbed at his neck. "What does she want?"
"I'm not the one you need to ask. You want to know what Evelyn wants, you speak with her." Sula then took the messenger bag she had looped over her shoulder and thrust it at him. "It's past time for you to start taking care of your responsibilities," she snapped as she stalked back to where the others were waiting.
The leather strap felt heavy in his palm, heavier still was the guilt weighing upon him. He couldn't keep his gaze from Evelyn. That she was fearful was obvious enough. The mage kept glancing in his direction then quickly dropping her eyes down to her feet. Her scarred hand had disappeared amongst the folds of her ill-fitting clothes. But there was more than her ever-present fear he detected. Her lips dipped down faintly with ... sadness? Frustration? Disappointment? He couldn't be certain. Her brown eyes were rounded with distress yet it was of a different timbre to her usual anxiety. Whatever was upsetting her went beyond being on a busy street full of strangers or fearing what he might do to her.
"Evelyn, come here," he finally called.
Her steps were heavy and reluctant as she walked the short distance to his side. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. It won't happen again. I ... I..." Her mouth opened and closed several times until she finally stopped, eyes downcast, waiting expectantly for whatever punishment he would dole out.
"Evelyn," he said gently. "What did you want to ask me?"
She shook her head. "It isn't important. I shouldn't have asked."
He could feel his irritation growing but kept a tight leash on it. If they had to stand there all day, he would get Evelyn to make her request. "But you didn't ask. I didn't give you the chance."
She shook her head for a second time, keeping her gaze carefully in the space between their feet. "It isn't important," Evelyn repeated.
"Look at me," he said harshly, perturbed that she wouldn't even look at him when conversing, regretting his tone when her eyes snapped up to gaze directly into his. Cullen carefully modulated his voice, not wanting to issue any more unintentional Commands. "Please tell me what you want." When she continued to be silent, he bit back the sigh that threatened to escape. "We're not leaving this spot until you make your request. I'd prefer you do so willingly rather than be Ordered."
He had to strain to hear her softly spoken words over the din in the street. The request so astonished him that it took a few heartbeats before he could comprehend what she had said. "You want to go to morning service at the Chantry?" At her meek nod, he was struck dumb for the second time that morning by Evelyn. In the Circles, attendance at Chantry services was mandatory. Most of the mages had resented it and did whatever they could to evade it. Few, if any, went beyond lip-service in their expression of devotion to Andraste. In contrast, before him stood a mage that had been terribly mistreated by the Chantry, enslaved by its policies, and it seemed that all she wanted was to attend its service. But was this her true desire? She had lied earlier when she called him handsome because that was what was expected of her. Could it be she was feigning faith merely to appease him in some way?
"You don't have to attend services."
"Oh." A shimmer of tears appeared in her eyes, her mouth dipping down with regret despite her efforts to maintain a neutral expression. "I understand. There are more important things that require your attention. I'm sorry for delaying you. It won't happen again."
He grabbed her wrist when she started to turn away. "Wait. Do you truly want to go to the Chantry?"
She looked up at him, her eyes continuing to fill with unshed tears. "I know you have more pressing matters. It's just ... I haven't been able to go to worship since ... since leaving Ostwick and ..."
"And?" he asked when she stopped speaking.
Her voice was filled with longing, with an intense desire. "I need to repent of my sins, to beg forgiveness for all my failings. I don't know when I'll get another chance."
How could he deny her? Hadn't he sought out the Chantry in the middle of the night, prostrating himself at the base of Andraste's statue for that same purpose? He hadn't found succor from his prayers, had found his devotion lacking but if Evelyn could find some measure of comfort in her faith, he could hardly refuse the request. "Jim," he called out. "Do you know where this location is?"
The scout nodded. "Yes, Commander, but I still think the ..."
"Good. Take us there." Cullen quickly cut him off. "Declyn, you will accompany Evelyn to the Chantry so she may attend morning worship. Join us at the recruitment site afterward."
It was Evelyn's turn to be dumbstruck. "I may go? Truly?"
"Yes, truly. May the Maker find you well within His grace." Even to his own ears, his voice seemed hollow and lacking, his bitterness at no longer being able to feel the euphoria of faith coloring his words, but the mage didn't notice. Her anxiety melted away, the tears shimmering at the edge of her brown eyes disappearing.
He gave the mage one final look before falling in line behind Jim. Sula slid up to walk beside him, a smug smirk on her lips. "You're still a wanker but maybe not a complete one. It was fun watching the two of you struggling to hold a conversation. Evelyn is as socially inept as you."
Cullen grunted sourly but otherwise ignored her.
When they reached the proposed site, he was pleasantly surprised. The marketplace was mostly composed of armorers, blacksmiths, and bowyers. There were also a few merchants specializing in travel provisions and goods. Most of the needed supplies and equipment could be purchased here which would save him having to trudge all over town. The adjacent field was spacious, perfect for testing the physical aptitude of the applicants. All in all, Cullen couldn't have been more pleased with the location.
Jim's fellow scouts started setting up trestle tables under some of the shade trees and the curious were already beginning to assemble. Interspersed within the crowd, Cullen spotted a few youths who likely wanted to inquire about signing up but lacked the bravery to be the first to step forward.
"Shall we give them a show?" Sula asked. "Nothing like a sword fight to stir the imagination and get this lot fired up."
"Sure. I can use the exercise and a demonstration couldn't hurt the cause." They moved to an open area, drawing their swords and readying their shields. His body dropped into fighting stance naturally. Cullen had many doubts and fears but none of them extended to his prowess on the field of battle. They began circling each other, following the carefully choreographed routine they had developed over the years.
The crowd thickened, captivated as the two expert swordsmen met weapon with shield, moving in a complicated dance of lunges, strikes, and counterstrikes. Cullen felt alive as he had not for months. The weight of the sword in his palm, the strain of muscles raising the shield, the burn in his lungs, the rapid dance of his feet, the sweat starting to form on his brow. Sula moved to her right, preparing to lunge with her sword before moving to bash him with her shield. He was already setting up his countermove. Step into the strike. Knock the sword from her hand. Meet the shield with his own. Then repeatedly bash at her until she stumbled, ending with his sword pointing at her neck.
That was the plan. That was the routine. He stepped into the strike, swatting away her sword. Her shield came towards him. He readied himself, bracing his body, beginning to raise his shield to meet hers. Only ... from the edge of his field of vision, he caught sight of Evelyn returning, anguished and crying. Beside her strode Declyn, his face clouded with fury. In his distraction, Cullen failed to stop Sula's shield. It smashed into his side, knocking him to the ground.
He wheezed painfully as he regained his footing. Sula was instantly at his side, demanding to know if he was hurt. Ignoring her, he focused his attention fully on the distressed mage and fuming Templar. Before he had even reached them, he was loudly demanding, "What happened?"
Evelyn grew even more distraught, shirking back as if fearing he would strike her. She looked helplessly towards Declyn, unwilling or unable to speak.
The Templar had no such trouble. Agitated, he burst out, "The guards at the Chantry refused us entry. Said no Maker-cursed mage, even accompanied by a Templar, would be allowed in to corrupt the faithful or befoul the sacredness of the sanctuary."
"Leave us," he said to Declyn. Cullen was furious. Not with his Templar but with the Chantry. They would deny entry to a true Andrastian, a woman who merely wished to practice her faith, all because she was a mage? Evelyn watched him, trembling with fear, believing, most likely, she was the cause of his fury. His rage cooled somewhat. "Are you alright?"
She nodded, tears still flowing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was forbidden. I wouldn't have asked permission to go if I had known."
Her words only flamed his outrage. The Chantry was supposed to embrace peasant and noble alike, the faithful and the wayward, Templar and, yes, even mage. She, who tried to seek succor in its walls, should never have been denied and certainly should not believe it was prohibited to her. Evelyn had asked to go and he would see it done. "I will take you to evening services."
"But the guards said ..."
"I don't care what they said," he answered harshly. "You will go to evening service."
With her timid nod, the conversation ended. He settled Evelyn against an old stone wall and spent the rest of the day focusing on the work at hand. Cullen stood for several hours being arduously measured for his new armor. The bundle of thin ropes, each with a series of precisely tied off knots, was handed off to Jim who assured him it would be sent on to Haven at the earliest opportunity. He perused the merchants wares, spoke with a few likely candidates, and grumbled when another overstuffed messenger bag was handed off to him. The bells passed quickly and soon the sky was beginning to blossom with the oranges and reds of the setting sun.
He strolled over to where Evelyn sat, holding out a hand to assist her up. "Are you ready?"
She nodded dutifully but he could tell she was uncertain. As with Cullen's trek from the Chantry that morning, the people in the lane gladly parted to let the man clad in Templar armor pass. There were expressions of gratitude, smiles and good humor abounded. The sentiment of appreciation for the Templar ran high. The mood changed, however, once individuals began noticing the red-rune marked metal band around Evelyn's neck. The smiles turned to glares. Gratitude morphed to hatred and alarm. Mothers, who had been excitedly pointing out the Templar to their children, began clutching them close to their sides, scurrying fearfully away. There were curses and scowls, and more than a few spiteful grins. Angry mutterings filled the air. "Filthy apostate," and "Defier of the Chantry," were uttered a number of times. One particularly bold woman shouted, "You should have been killed rather than chained, demon's whore."
Through it all, Evelyn seemed oblivious to the scorn thrown her way. She kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her expression unconcerned. There wasn't even a sign of the general nervousness that overtook her when faced with a large number of strangers. The only indication of her discomfort Cullen could detect was the subtle flexing of her scarred hand. Resting his hand significantly on the pommel of his sword, he moved closer to her, answering each glare from the crowd with one of his own. With hostility towards mages running so high, he made a quick decision that at no time would Evelyn be unaccompanied while they remained inside Amaranthine's walls.
Since learning Evelyn had been turned away that morning, he had kept his indignation carefully contained. When he started leading her through the streets, he released the reins on his temper, encouraging it to smolder and grow. The crowd's reaction had further kindled his storm of outrage. He was now prepared for a fight, itching for one actually. So he was rather disappointed when, instead of the hoped for confrontation, the guards standing to either side of the Chantry entrance took one look at his resolute face and meekly ushered in the pious Claimed and her livid Templar.
The sanctuary was bathed in the glow of candlelight. The heavy cloying scent of burning incense choking the air. Some parishioners were already seated along the long benches. Others congregated in small groups, conversing quietly amongst themselves. Cullen felt a pang standing at the back of the great hall. His barrenness of faith continued, the ice-cold tundra of emptiness remained.
Evelyn was hovering beside him, waiting to follow him into the sanctuary. "Go on. I'll remain here." He would see that the mage found what she sought within the hallowed hall but he would not participate in a farce of devotion. She hesitated a moment, casting a quick glance at her scarred hand. She then took a nearly imperceptible steadying breath before walking slowly up the aisle. As was her tendency, Evelyn surprised him once again. Instead of selecting a row near the back of the chamber, she walked steadily forward, choosing a bench near the front of the hall. She appeared unaware of the scathing looks thrown her way or the scurrying of worshippers away from the pew she chose.
From where he stood, Cullen could see Evelyn's look of intense longing as she beheld the statue of Andraste. Had he had the same expression last night when he implored to feel Her grace? Would Evelyn leave the Chantry as disappointed and empty as he had? He sincerely hoped that would not be the case. The mage had little in her life, enslaved by a beast of a man because of the laws of the religion she was dedicated to, hated and mistrusted through no fault of her own by the general populace. She, at least, had her faith to sustain her.
Evelyn knelt on the floor in front of the bench, hands folded in supplication, head bowed in reverence. She remained there, caught up in her prayers until the bells chimed the start of the service. As she settled back on her seat, a procession of Sisters, Mothers, and the Grand Cleric began filling the dais. Evelyn sat with perfect posture, back ramrod straight, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Cullen noted she was careful to keep her mutilated hand from view.
While the Grand Cleric was assisted to her throne-like chair, a woman, marked by her mantle as the Senior Mother, stepped towards the podium on which sat a massive tome of the Chant of Light. "May the Maker embrace you today and forever."
The audience, including Evelyn, completed the ritual, chanting "Blessed be the Maker and His Bride."
"Hear now the word of the Maker. Today's reading is from Canticle of Exaltations."
From her chair, the Grand Cleric was scanning the audience. She may have been aged but her dark eyes were still sharp, spotting Cullen where he stood in the shadows of the great hall. "Hold." Rising carefully, she stood tall and unbent, her frame gaunt and almost skeletal. "I will lead the service today." The Grand Cleric approached the podium, her hand resting on the great book. "We have an honored visitor with us." She bowed deeply towards him, the other Chantry folk following suit. The worshippers rose as well, respectfully bowing as well. Evelyn began to rise, to join in with the others. At the decisive shake of his head, she stayed put, gnawing worriedly on her bottom lip.
"Blessed be, esteemed Templar. The Maker truly sanctifies this service by sending you to join us in our praise of Him."
Cullen neither acknowledged the praise of the Grand Cleric nor the reverence of the parishioners, choosing instead to continue looking at Evelyn, acting as if he had heard none of it.
The Grand Cleric took it in stride, nodding with deference before opening the heavy tome. "Today's reading will be from the Canticle of Benedictions. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written."
Cullen wracked his memory to recall the name of the Grand Cleric. She'd served in Amaranthine for decades, first as a Mother and then promoted to Grand Cleric shortly before Dorothea had ascended the Sunburst Throne to become Divine Justinia. Laylen, he remembered her name suddenly. Known to be a staunch champion of Templars and the Order, and a sycophant of the Knight-Vigilant. Rumored to have been one of the main voices in support of instituting the policy of Claiming.
"We must, my friends, pray for the Templars daily. We must pay homage to them with our every action, with our every thought. It is because of them we can grow our crops, sell our goods, raise our children, and live our lives in peace and prosperity. We owe everything to them. Blessed are they who partake of the solemn vow to stand against the darkness, to stand against the corruption, to stand for the people of Thedas, to stand for you and me." Grand Cleric Laylen's voice was strong and rousing, the effects of her words rippling through the audience. "Where would we be without our noble protectors? They who answer the Maker's call to defend the innocent face dangers untold are deserving of our praise and support. They are the standards to which we should work to aspire."
Cullen felt unsettled. Evelyn had wanted to find comfort within the Chantry walls, instead she would have to endure a sermon about the virtues of her jailors, of the merit and respectability of the man who had enslaved her. But the Grand Cleric was not content with merely preaching her praise of the Order. Her tone quickly changed from respectful to intolerant.
"And why do our righteous guardians need risk their lives daily to protect us? Without them, without their dedication, without their sacrifices, we would be awash with the foul, evil taint of magic, at the mercy of Maker-cursed mages. We need only look to history to reveal their deceitful, corrupting nature. Mages sought to become gods themselves by breaching the very gates of the Golden City. Their reckless use of magic blackened it. They became darkspawn and thus brought about the first Blight. They ordered Andraste be burned at the stake. They celebrated her impending death. They enslave and enthrall innocents. They practice blood magic. They consort with demons."
He continued to stare at Evelyn during the Grand Cleric's sermon. Her face was serene, captivated even, despite the harsh vilification being spoken. The mage's lips had begun moving in silent prayer or perhaps she was reciting the Chant. He really couldn't discern exactly what she was mouthing. He wanted to shake his head. Solona Amell would never have stood for this. The Grey Warden would have shouted down Laylen, countering every one of the Grand Cleric's statements with one of her own about the virtues of magic, the sacrifices mages have made for the good of Thedas. He nearly snorted at the thought of Marian Hawke attending a service. She held the Chantry in as much disdain as it held for her. Likely, the impetuous mage would have started a dice game on its very steps or had an impromptu concert of ribald tavern tunes, complete with an overfilled tankard in her hand, rather than sully herself by entering the hallowed hall.
"Mages are not like you and me. They are conniving, always devious. Remember the lesson from Transfigurations. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no peace in this world or beyond. All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker. Mages cannot resist their depraved ways. They are incapable of refraining from their desire to possess us, control us, enslave us with their demonic powers."
Grand Cleric Laylen shook her head angrily. "By their very nature, they are foul and corrupt to the core. Nothing will change that. There is only one solution. There is only one way to keep good and innocent people protected. Mages must be kept away from us, kept isolated and guarded behind strong encircling stone walls so they may do no harm. They are not like us and should not live amongst us. Only when every mage is separated from us can decent folk be safe. Yet the Chantry is merciful. Instead of killing these monstrosities as perhaps they should, the Chantry gifted them the Circles."
Why would Evelyn contentedly endure such condemnation? Why did she continue to sit there being maligned with every word? Amell wouldn't have. Nor would Hawke. As ever Evelyn perplexed Cullen and he found his almost constant frustration with her growing. He wanted to grab her, shake her, demand to know why she didn't speak up, why she didn't try to defend herself. But it wasn't in her nature. Evelyn wouldn't squeak unless Ordered. She wouldn't move even her smallest finger in defiance or defense. She was the epitome of the what the Chantry thought a perfect mage should be: meek and submissive and completely broken. Just as the Chantry wanted her. Just as the Order wanted her.
Shock ran through him. Just as he was supposed to want her. In the eyes of the Circles, in the eyes of the Order, in the eyes of the Chantry, Hawke and Amell were appalling mages. They were proud, confident, independent, and strong-willed ... and he loved them for it. Evelyn was the perfect meek, submissive mage and he felt nothing but contempt for her. Evelyn tried everything she could to please him and in return he snarled like a wild mabari. She cringed and he struck. She mewled. He barked. Her fear of him made him feel like a monster which in turn made him become the monster she feared. But why?
Why should she provoke such emotions in him? Why would this innocent, fragile, passive mage rouse the ravening beast within him? As a Templar, it was expected that he would help produce mages like Evelyn. It had been his duty to break mages, to trod them down under his stern heel, to force them to conform to the Order's conventions. Yet it was the very mages he was supposed to despise, supposed to hate, supposed to distrust that he had come to admire, to respect, to value, and even to love in his own way. Solona and Marion hadn't conformed to the expectations of the Chantry. They had challenged it. They were fiercely proud of their magic and the good they could do with it. They suffered no fools, refusing to acknowledge any who condemned them for their magical gifts.
And with that, all the pieces snapped into place. He didn't despise Evelyn. He reviled himself. He didn't dislike the woman she was. He hated the man he had become. He had been directing his self-loathing onto the poor Claimed mage instead of where it belonged, firmly pointed inward. Every time he looked at her, he saw what he was supposed to have done, what he was supposed to have worked towards. He was supposed to have helped produce mages like Evelyn and not mages of Solona and Marian's temperment. He hadn't joined the Order to break mages, but to encourage, nurture, and protect them. Evelyn was merely the embodiment of his years of deception and he had abused her because of it.
The Grand Cleric's gaze turned malevolent as she turned to stare down at the lone mage sitting isolated in the pews. "There are, however, mages who are not content to be coddled and enjoy the luxurious, easy life given them in the Circles, where they do not need labor daily to put food on the table and a roof over their head. There are mages who continue to defy the Chantry, who continue to defy the Order, who decide they do not want the pampering and protection the Circles offer them. And for that defiance, they get their just rewards. It is the Maker's will. It is Andraste's will. It is the will of the Chantry. It is the will of the Order and it is the will of the people. These apostates, these maleficar," she sneered, "should lose their freedom, should lose their will, should lose even their personhood. Noble is the Templar who Claims an apostate." Her gaze became respectful as it returned to rest on Cullen. "It is my hope, as it is the Maker's will, that you punish daily your Claimed for her defiance, for her insolence, for her apostasy."
Evelyn was mostly a mystery to him but he knew she was no apostate and certainly no maleficar. She likely fled Ostwick from fear rather than defiance. Evelyn was meek and docile, undeserving of the hate thrown her way. She would never stand against the vileness of Laylen. The same could not be said of him.
Cullen's boots clanged loudly against the marble flooring as he strode up the aisle, stopping just behind where the mage sat. His glare was insolent, his posture defiant. "Come Evelyn! I'll not permit you to endure this druffalo shit any longer."
Cullen ignored the gasps of outrage, and the one or two sniggers, as he led the mage away from the hostile environment. He paused at the door, not quite finished with his confrontation with the Grand Cleric. "It would do you good to remember that you owe much to mages. It was a mage that stopped the Blight. And it was that same mage who saved this city from the darkspawn, sacrificing the lives of a good number of her noble companions in the effort. If Amell had asked me, I would have told her to let the cesspit that is Amaranthine be left to the taint instead."
He yanked opened the door, signaling Evelyn to proceed him, enjoying the booming echo of the door as he slammed it behind him.