Thank you dear reviewers.

I am sorry about the spelling and grammatical errors. I did use spell check, but please stay with me on this. Thank you all for reading.

This author does not condone force, rape, coercion, slavery, ect. I own nothing and gain no money from this.

Enjoy.

OoOoOo

A hound could not serve two masters.

Ser Cullen had known this since he was a small child. Having heard the proverb from his father many times over, until his mind had accepted the saying as absolute truth. In a sense, it very much was. He was an instrument of the Maker's will on Thedas, in whatever capacity the Chantry chose him to serve as.

His amber eyes stared nearly dispassionately at the corpse of a woman that had once been so very vibrant. The room smelt of stale blood. It had dried and cracked long ago, and the crimson color had turned a dull brownish color. It stained the floor, and marked the armor he wore. The holy symbol of the Templar sword, Andraste's might, was bathed in the flaking blood of an innocent.

As innocent as an mage could ever have been called.

The raw feeling of loss was prominent in his chest. An unexplainable surge of grief. For ... a mage.

He bit the inside of his cheek, showing no other emotion, even as his hands fisted at his side. The motion caught the gaze of the only creation mage left in the Circle of Magi of Ferelden. It carried a sense of finality, when the Knight-Commander thought of it-grimly.

She was, indeed, the last one trained. Solona had carried a large part of the burden, which would now fall upon Moyra's shoulders. Ser Cullen paid no heed to that fact, only that his gaze had dropped to the unmoving body.

With quite determination, Ser Cullen moved forward. His hands pulled gently at Solona's prone figure, the husk that had been left behind when the soul was gone. Though he knew she was no longer present, he lifted her gently and with the greatest of care.

HIs arms held her close to his chest, and for a single moment, he thought she weighed almost nothing. Too fragile and frail for the likes of the Circle tower, though the idea was nearly blasphemous. He swallowed a traitorous lump in this throat, though his face was a stoic mask of unmoving flesh.

With a tenderness that he'd never allowed himself to express outside of their carnal unions, Ser Cullen laid her upon an infirmary bed, uncaring of the possibility of on lookers. For several heartbeats, his eyes merely wandered over her figure. Until, at last, they were caught by the bit of embroidery at her wrist. A symbol every Templar knew by heart.

It had marked her as a creation mage.

With nimble fingers he reached for the knife that had cut the cord that had connected mother to son. The fabric ripped from the sharpness of the blade. It was akin to a shout in the silence, as he cut a strip of embroidered cloth away from her robe.

Though his expression never changed, the Knight-Commander set the blade down, and wrapped the newly-made strip around his gauntlet. He managed to knot the now-ribbon with one hand and his teeth on the other end.

He turned away from Solona, and gazed upon the sleeping infant that was left behind from their union.

Moyra wept as she handed the babe to its Sire. The Knight-Commander accepted the child, allowing one small hand to grab at his finger, marveling at the eyes that were so similar to his mother's. It was as if his chest had been run through with a lance, hearing the slight gurgle from the boy.

However, he was a man bound by his obligations. Above all, the Chantry and the Divine came first.

Always.

Yet, he was a man of his word. He kept his vows and one of them was to his son. He was bound by a promise made to the mage whose body was to be prepared for last rites.

OoOoOo

Solona was buried in a shady patch near the Chantry in her home village. The same one she had not seen since she was a young girl. Her mother was notified and asked to attend, however the Matron Amell declined. The siblings of Mage Amell, likewise, were indisposed or so they claimed.

At the time, he'd been furious at their refusal to even seen her laid to rest. However, he understood the shame brought about by the title of mage-hood. It was unsurprising that they had declined. As a Templar, he should not have even considered besmirching his reputation to attend something so insignificant as a mage's burial.

Knight-Commander Cullen, paid for her burial and all rites associated with it.

The only ones to mourn her, was her son from the arms of his Sire. Hardened amber eyes watched as they placed the last of the dirt. No one noticed that his fingers twitched, as if he longed to reach out and stop what was occurring. However, such a foolish notion would have been in vain. Mage Amell, was dead.

The dead did not return.

A plaintive wail of distress cut through the silence, as Ser Cullen shifted the precious burden to another.

He placed his son in the care of a lower ranking Chantry initiate, who said nothing as the Knight-Commander dropped to his knees to pray for the soul of a mage.

His eyes closed, and he knelt in the soft earth. It was warm, and nearly seemed welcoming. Part of him, lost beneath the Chantry's training, briefly considered that such a place was quiet and peaceful. A worthy place for her to rest.

The image flashed across his mind, of the first time he'd seen Mage Amell. In a secluded and restricted section of the Tower, speaking to Ser Otto. He remembered how it felt to see her, the disgust and irritation. Yet, mixed in with those proper regards toward her, had been curiosity and something else entirely. Whatever it had been, was the force behind him watching her through those years where she was studying to pass her harrowing.

He collected his son, and gave a single kiss to the mop of red curls that crowned his head. No words were spoken. The time for farewell was swift approaching. A Templar could not raise a mage's child. The boy, unnamed, was the property of the Chantry. Providence dictated that the boy was to be raised in his Father's profession.

A future soldier for the light.

Today, however, as his dam lay underneath the dirt, Ser Cullen kept him close and prayed to the Maker for strength.

The boy was later taken to be raised by the Chantry, and the Revered Mother herself. The way in which the child had entered the realm of the living was of some heated debate and so the child was to be kept close and watched even more closely. The Knight-Commander objected to him being kept in seclusion. The babe had given no indication of being a Demon, nor wayward spirit.

His words proved true, days later, as the babe was surrounded by the remaining Mages of the Circle, to sense for magical traces or demonic taint. Ser Cullen was kept from the room, lest he be forced to watch the child be slain. Had he proven dangerous.

The Templar never wavered from his position, nor did he attempt to go against what the Revered Mother decreed.

A hound could not serve two masters, and Ser Cullen served the Chantry above all else. When the heavy oak door opened again, the mages exited first, and amber eyes searched their faces for any hints as to the outcome.

Gentle cries, the mewling for sustenance, nearly weakened him at the knees. However, he would never allow any emotion toward the child to be known. It was something with showed weakness, a fleeting thing that had been nearly trained out of him as he served the Chantry.

Alive. His son was alive.

The boy was purely human. A marvel even among the mages, and Templar alike. He watched as the Revered Mother held the babe close, and took the child with her. It was the last time Ser Cullen would ever seen his son.

Ser Cullen carried on in his duties. Unable to think outside of the monotony that allowed him to grieve. His efforts were rewarded by a promotion and the summons that he would in a year's time, be the commanding the Templers at Kirkwall. It was also rumored that the decision was made partly due to his behavior during the death of Mage Amell, it was considered in the best interests of the order to place him in a new Circle.

He was moved to the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall, a place that seemed even more confining to the magic born than Ferelden. He marveled at how the former Knight-Commander had kept things in line. No mage dared budge out of place. Yet, it was not to be kept as a refuge for Ser Cullen. Kirkwall was a place of treachery and deceit, where he would encounter trials far more disheartening in the future.

No Templar, out of respect and also a keen sense of duty, made mention of the scrap of green mage robe that was kept tied around the Knight-Commander's wrist. The symbol for the school of creation was embroidered on it with golden thread, all of which was tucked firmly under his gauntlet. Even the magic-born that caught sight of it, peeking quietly from the gaps in the armor, said so much as a word about it.

There was an instinctual understanding. Every mage understood loss and suffering.

OoOoOo

Months later, Petra gave birth to a healthy baby girl. A child that was not connected to the Knight-Commander in any way. The First Enchanter openly wept at the sight of the child, with features so much like her sire. A sire that she still loathed from the bottom of her heart. The man whose cruelty, though not legendary, would never leave her haunted memories.

Petra named the girl after the friend she had lost. She bore the name Keili Solona.

Something which was partly sentimental and partly to dig at Ser Carroll, who was permitted back within the tower walls, as Ser Cullen was reassigned. The day they passed each other in the cold stone hall, as the Knight-Commander started toward the heavy reinforced main doors, the tension between them was palatable.

Their gazes met, warred, and narrowed at each other. To both men, the one they beheld was the scum of the realm, for different reasons entirely. Ser Cullen's face was a frightful sight, for his gaze carried the weight of his unexpressed disgust for the likes of one who sullied the good deeds of Templars across the globe.

Ser Carroll, upon hearing of the object of his obsession's demise and on the day of his daughter's birth, hung himself with the rope used to tie boats to the docks of Lake Calenhad. It was remarked upon that it was strange to have happened at a time when Ser Brann was supposed to have been on duty nearby. The matter was quickly forgotten, and spoken about no longer by order of the new Knight-Commander whom had no wish to have problems so early on in his time at the Tower.

However, Ser Carroll was buried with full honors to a Templar of his station. His daughter was sent to the same chantry that housed the child Amell. The offspring were given the names of their magical parents to keep track of the bloodlines. It also provided greater ease for the Chantry to keep track of those that expressed the talent their dams were cursed with.

It was the place where the children of mages were kept in relative solitude from the rest of the world as their tender minds were filled with deep seeded devotion to the Chantry. To break the wills of those that might rebel later on. The lay-sisters watched over the babes with care, though they were consistently wary that one of the angelic faces could easily become a twisted mass of corrupted demon flesh.

The sisters were the guiding force to instruct the offspring on serving the Maker, and the Devine. Loyalty and absolute dedication were all that could be accepted. Many children, as they grew, did not even consider that there was any other course of to life.

It also came to the attention of the acting Mother that The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall inquired after the Amell boy on a yearly basis.

Which was all he was permitted to do. Though, he did bend the regulations upon several occasions and send generous 'donations' when he was informed that his son had outgrown his clothing or when 'the Amell child' had developed a nasty cough during a winter storm.

It had not surprised the holy mother, when a creation mage from Kirkwall showed up at the Chantry, with a mutinous look on their face, demanding to see the sick 'Amell'. The holy mother permitted the action, as the Kirkwall-ian mage also brought potions to restock the dwindling supplies for the infirmary.

The cursed ilk did so often tend to the bastard offspring of other mages, though the Ferelden circle was much closer. The Holy mother was willing to turn a blind eye. For this one occasion.

When the lad turned seven, the Revered Mother had died, but not before she instituted new regulations allowing for the mages to chose their partners. Provided that the birth rate of the Tower increased. It was met with a great deal of backlash and resistance. Members of the court had cried out that it would only bring downfall upon them all. However, in time, it had proved to be the opposite. The number of Tranquil dipped to nearly zero and the mages of the tower blossomed even in their confinement.

Those that were higher ranking in the order, said nothing of the change in the atmosphere or to the new Devine, for fear of reprisal.

The Templars that had been stationed at the Circle of Magi of Ferelden were exchanged with new men that would abide by the rules set forth by the Chantry on behest of the Revered Mother. Her death was met with people openly crying in the streets. Opulence and ornate symbols of the faith on every square inch of her body that was covered, and mountains of floors with perfumed incense.

A far cry from Mage Amell's.

Ser Cullen had donned the traditional armor at such an event. His face was an impassive mask.

His son was sent to another Revered Mother, one named Dorothea. Ser Cullen had been greatly displeased to learn she was from Orlais. Unfortunately, he lost track of the boy thereafter, as he was unable to learn which Chantry housed him. The Knight-Commander continued to make the efforts to locate him.

Yet, the whispers of war on the horizon made the task much harder.

However, the treaty of peace had held firmly at the threat of recruiting mages from Antiva with the influence that gold so often purchased. The worry Mage Amell had carried everyday of sending the few remaining mages to an early grave had never come to pass. They were guided with a far more kind hand then they had been before.

He often wondered if Solona knew what her death had accomplished. He placed his faith in the Maker that she was at peace. Watching over their son from wherever Mages were at the Maker's side. The Chant of light was not entirely clear on that part.

Ser Cullen would never know, but he often wondered, what was one to do when the sacred was torn from your life? He pondered if he had offended the Silent Maker with his deep affection for a mage long dead. The Templar wanted to know, what he had done so horridly wrong, that the Maker kept him alive to suffer without the only woman he'd ever...loved.