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Part II: The Lion

Hi I'm fine, you are saying nothing but you tongue is getting blacker all the time,

It is a measurable feeling, seven on a scale from dead to breathing.

(The Dresden Dolls, Necessary Evil, Yes Virginia)

"Solas informs me this shall be our last night on the road."

The Herald of Andraste was not one for pointless greetings. Cullen had been too deep in thought to hear him approach through the camp. Unable to sleep and wanting to be useful he'd dismissed a shivering Fernando, a Corporal of the fifth regiment from the sunnier planes of Antiva, and taken his lonely post for himself.

"The men will be glad to hear it," he grunted, cupping his gloved hands close to the brazier. "It has been a difficult journey."

"Indeed."

The two men stood in the silence of the snow, the occasional mutterings from the camp behind but otherwise all was still. Cullen's thoughts drifted to the man who would be their leader. He knew little of Maxwell Trevelyan, the youngest child of a Marcher noble line. A man destined to shape the world with the strength of his sword arm and the power of his name.

"How are you feeling?"

Cullen blinked. Certain he'd misheard. When he snuck a glance to his left the Herald was gazing into the distance, as stoic as the stony rocks he observed. "Haven was difficult."

You wouldn't have thought it so by the flat tone of his voice. Cullen hesitated, unsure of how to take such a confession. "It was for all of us."

It hit Cullen for the first time that the man they named Herald of Andraste, the man who would lead the Inquisition, the man who had been so quick to throw himself into the face of certain death, was just that, a man. Since being freed Maxwell Trevelyan had been more of a statue; cold, stubborn, unwavering, stone-like in his beliefs.

"How do you do it, Cullen?" the man whispered, something cracking in his voice.

"What do you mean?" he asked, taken aback at the use of his name.

"Cassandra told me a little of your past," the Herald muttered. "You were Knight Captain when Kirkwall fell."

It was not a question but the pause seemed to demand an answer. "I was."

"You must have seen the worst of what magic can do."

Cullen sighed. "I did." Some nights he could still smell the blood, the smoke, the corruption.

"And yet," the Herald turned to face him with that penetrating gaze that bored right to the soul. "You risked your life to save a mage?" It didn't sound like a reprimand. He sounded curious. "Why?"

"Once, I would not have," he said. "After Kirkwall...well. It made me realise things are never as black and white as we'd like them to be."

"Your meaning?"

Cullen reached for his neck. It was not an easy thing to discuss at the best of times, let alone with a man as compassionate as a hurricane. "The Order was at fault as much as the mages."

The Herald grunted. "It was not the Templars that blew up the Chantry..."

"Anders was a sick man," Cullen shook his head and lowered his voice. "Had the Chantry been a place he could turn to, rather a place that he ran from, we could have spotted the danger sooner."

"You would have us care for them?" the Herald asked, incredulity seeping into his words. "Despite everything they've done..."

"I know it is no easy thing to forgive," Cullen muttered. "But this war cannot continue, it has taken the lives of too many innocents."

"So you would give into the demands of these...agents of terror. Give them freedom?" the Herald's voice was gaining angry ground.

"You misunderstand," Cullen was quick to placate him. "I agree that the Circles must be restored. It is the relationship between templars and mages that needs to change."

"Vivienne seems to think the Chantry did fine work..."

"Excuse my saying so, Herald, but Vivienne has lived most her life in the comfort of the Orlesian court," Cullen couldn't keep the disdain from his voice. "She was hardly on the front line of the dispute."

"You truly dislike nobles...don't you?" Maker was he...smiling. In the flickering half-light it was a bizarre sight, like some leering mask fastened to a face made for frowns.

"I do not mean to offend..."

"Oh, Maker, no," the Herald waved a massive hand over his concerns. "The majority of us are insufferable prigs, prancing around like they're born to rule without ever having the stomach to do so."

"It was like that in the Order," Cullen muttered, wondering at the glimmers of kinship he found with such a man. "So often I'd see people promoted for blood rather than merit."

"You did well then, to climb such a ladder,"

Cullen hesitated, curling and straightening his toes inside his boots to stop the cold. "I..don't see it like that." He blew into his hands. "I was the only Templar to survive Kinloch Hold." The bitterness was plain in his words. "That is why I was sent to Kirkwall. It is why I was promoted."

"On merit," Maxwell said. "For your achievements."

Cullen didn't think it a thing to be proud of, surviving when countless others had died. It was a weight he would carry with him until the end of his days, he was sure. He said nothing. Staring into the cloudless melancholy night, trying not to think on the past and finding himself irrevocably drawn in, like a moth to a flame.

"The thing we spoke about at Haven," the Herald said, as softly as such a voice could be.

"It is under control," Cullen snapped a little too quickly. "I am fine."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "As you say."