Chapter 36: A Parting Gift From Cullen
Those still gathered on the ramparts turned to see the young Templar lieutenant, clad in travelling leathers and with a full pack slung over his shoulder. In the courtyard below, they could hear the chatter of the stable boys as they readied a lone horse for departure.
"I still remember it. The golden ship that your spirits made," Cullen repeated steadily, his tawny eyes fixing themselves on Flora's face. She stared back at him, astonished by the lack of customary shyness in his stare.
"The one from South Reach," she breathed, recalling a clouded spring evening and a fine mist of drizzle. "Connor's ship."
We stood on the cobblestones in the courtyard, Flora remembered, a lump rising to her throat. Me, Connor Guerrin, this young Templar. I wanted to show Connor that magic could be a… a beautiful thing to possess, rather than just something to be feared.
"It was meant to be a constellation," Cullen said after a moment, not well versed in astrological lore. "Do you remember going up to the tower roof, with the arl's son?"
Arl Eamon stiffened slightly, his ears pricking with interest. Flora nodded, remembering how she had sent her gleaming simulacrum of the Peraquialus on a slow, glimmering ascent; while Connor had tugged her with excited-child haste up the winding tower steps.
We came out on the roof – this Templar behind us, keeping pace – and Connor's face was bright with pleasure and excitement. He wasn't scared of the magic anymore; he was fascinated by it.
"I'll never forget the sight of that golden ship rising into the sky," Cullen said, earnest and – for the span of several heartbeats – unashamed of his own admiration. "It was one of the… one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. The boy couldn't stop talking about it on the journey to the Circle."
Flora inhaled unsteadily, grateful for Alistair's steadying arm about her waist. Cullen continued, the words emerging in a heated rush as though he were spilling his sins in a Chantry confession box.
"Anyway, I wanted to give you… to give you this."
The young officer turned to his pack and reached down, retrieving a roll of parchment sealed with a wax Chantry emblem. Uncomfortably aware of the eyes of Ferelden's most powerful nobility resting on him, Cullen strode across the ramparts and thrust the roll of parchment into a startled Flora's hand.
"I'd like to request that you don't open it right away," he mumbled, retreating quickly towards his travel pack. "Or, at least – not in front of me."
Alistair narrowed his eyes a fraction as Flora blinked, astonished. She clutched the roll of parchment, wondering at its length and weight.
Finian watched the Templar curiously as he went to retrieve pack, sword and shield; one fine russet brow lifting.
"Are you going somewhere, Lieutenant Rutherford?"
Cullen gave a slight nod in response, clearly anxious to remove himself before Flora could break the seal on the parchment.
"I've been posted to Kirkwall, in the Marches," he replied, quietly. "I'm hoping it'll be less… eventful up there."
Without another word, the Templar slung his pack over his shoulder; nearly dropping sword and sigil-marked shield in his haste. Head bowed and gaze set determinedly forwards, Cullen made his way down the steps leading into the lower courtyard.
The moment that the officer's curly blond head disappeared below the ramparts, Finian reached out and snatched the roll of parchment from Flora's hand.
"Wasn't that the Templar who kept mooning over you at South Reach? I bet this is a love letter," he said gleefully, picking at the wax seal as Flora squawked in outrage. "A declaration of undying passion!"
"Undying passion!?" demanded Alistair, nostrils flaring. The king had still not fully recovered from the revelation that Fergus had already turned down a half-dozen proposals for his younger sister's hand. "Let me see!"
"Nonsense," countered Leliana firmly, her eyes focused with predatorial interest on the roll of parchment. "It's far too large for a letter."
Flora, nonplussed, watched her brother break the seal on the wax, unrolling the full dimension of the thin vellum. It was about an arm's length in width, and Finian said nothing as he stared at the parchment's contents.
"What is it?" demanded Leliana, making an impatient gesture. "Show us!"
Wordlessly, Finian turned the parchment so that Flora could see it.
The vellum, made of finest calfskin, was decorated with an illustration scribed in ink-pen. The Templar had replicated near-perfectly the fine-boned structure of Flora's features, her eyes half-closed and her full Cousland mouth part-open. Her hand – accurate down to the bitten fingernails – was raised before her face, oddly graceful. Using the gold ink usually reserved for decorating copies of the Chant, Cullen had illustrated curlicues of light radiating from the outstretched fingertips; coiling effortlessly to the edges of the vellum. Flecks of metallic ink surrounded the portrait like a misting rain, and veins of gold ran through the windswept hair.
Flora had never seen her old abilities depicted in such a way before. In conjunction with her new inability to dream, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never again see how her magic had looked. The Templar's inked drawing had preserved that which Flora had believed would gradually slip into the darker recesses of her memory. Breathless, she reached out to touch the vellum with a fingertip, tracing the metallic outline of the emerging magic.
"How beautiful, ma petite," Leliana murmured, her eyes moving over various painstaking details. "What a kind parting gift."
Squinting down at the uncanny replication of Flora's face – exact down to the curve of the mouth and delicate hollow of the throat – Arl Leonas' eyes narrowed a fraction, and he nudged Fergus in the ribs.
"I'd wager that's not the first time that the Templar has drawn your sister," he muttered in an undertone. "That's a practised hand."
Fergus nodded, keeping his response similarly low.
"Aye, I was thinking the same thing," he replied, grimly. "Still, he's headed off to Kirkwall. The Marcher wind will blow any inappropriate desires out of his head."
Down in the courtyard, Cullen finished loading up the horse with the last of his possessions. He had gathered scant belongings during his decade at the Chantry, and the horse was not especially weighted. After attaching his shield to the saddle, he reached for his sword, which was propped up against a nearby barrel.
Sliding the long blade carefully into its travel scabbard, Cullen took a deep breath of damp Revanloch evening air. The Templar knew it could be the last time that he would ever stand within the crumbling walls of the old monastery. Yet Cullen felt no sorrow at the prospect – Ferelden held an excess of vexing memories, of both torture and temptation in equal measure. There was a considerable part of the young man which hoped that Kirkwall would prove to be a place that he could call home; where he could both serve the Maker and sleep easy in his bed.
"Lieutenant Rutherford?"
The officer turned around and startled; if he had been holding something in his hands, he would have dropped it. Flora was standing on the cobbles, slightly flush in the face from the exertion of scuttling across the ramparts and down the steps. She stared up at him, wide-eyed and solemn, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to stop herself from lunging forward.
"Thank you for the picture," she said after a moment, impulsively. "Sorry for opening it. My brother is bad at following instructions; not like me."
Cullen dropped his stare to the cobbles, self-consciousness flooding his cheeks with a rush of pink.
"It's… it's fine," he muttered to his boots. "You're welcome."
Despite the veil of dusk settling over Revanloch like a shroud, torchlight illuminated the young man's flushed face. Abandoning caution to the wind, Flora stepped forwards. Relatively confident that Cullen would not reject her – nobody had ever recoiled from one of her earnestly offered embraces – she stretched her arms towards him.
Sure enough, after a moment of fleeting indecision, the Templar accepted her hug; at first rigid, and then relaxing in small increments. He patted her awkwardly and rather forcefully between the shoulder-blades, as though trying to dislodge some stuck food.
"Good luck in Kirkwall," Flora mumbled into his shoulder, before withdrawing in the hope that she had not embarrassed him too extensively. The Templar summoned stoicism to his face to disguise any careless fragment of emergent emotion; nodding tightly as he made to mount the saddle.
Flora stepped back, shielding her eyes against the torchlight as Cullen nudged the horse's flank gently with his knee. With a final, gruff nod in her direction, he turned his mount's head towards Revanloch's main gate.
This doesn't feel like a forever-parting, Flora wondered, watching his silhouette diminish as he rode away. I can't explain why.
I don't regret anything, the young Templar thought defiantly to himself as the horse picked its way over the cobbles.
Once Cullen's horse had disappeared into the shadows, the others joined Flora in the courtyard. The stable boys moved quietly about them, leading their horses out from the stables. By this time, the moon had risen full and plump; a swollen white peach casting a watery hue over Revanloch's damp cobbles.
Flora watched her friends and companions prepare to mount up, talking softly amongst themselves. Eamon was murmuring to Finian about the need to re-open Amaranthine's port for trade; while Wynne and Irving exchanged wry smiles at the suspicious glances they were receiving from the Templar guards. The courtyard quickly became crowded as retainers clad in Guerrin, Cousland, Bryland and Theirin livery emerged from the servants' hall, ready to escort their noble charges back to the city.
Flora stood to one side, watching the preparations to depart. A light, misting drizzle had begun to fall and she tucked the roll of parchment into her tunic to protect it.
Eamon clambered up onto his horse, rubbing at a sore knee with a grimace before sliding his boot into the stirrup. The arl of Redcliffe glanced around for his retainers, one eyebrow rising as he saw Alistair standing motionless on the cobbles. The king's horse was waiting patiently, head held still by a dutiful young stableboy.
"Alistair?"
"I'm not coming back to the palace, uncle," replied Alistair, low and steady.
Flora blinked across at him, clutching the folds of her tunic shut over the roll of parchment.
"I'll be there for the guild meeting tomorrow," the king continued, his gaze not leaving his mistress' face. "But I'm staying with Flo tonight."
Alistair rounded the back of the horse, coming to a halt on the cobblestones just before Flora. Flora wondered at the seriousness of his expression, pressing her cheek reflexively into his palm as he cupped the side of her face. Staring up at him, she saw her own miserable confession from earlier writ plain across his features.
Every night, I'm on my own in the darkness. I see nothing, I hear nothing. I don't dream. I'm alone, properly alone.
Flora's best friend gazed back down at her through the misting drizzle, hazel irises bruised with concern. His thumb traced the high bone of her cheek, and the affectionate gesture brought incongruous tears to Flora's own eyes.
"I'm sorry that I sent you away after the Blight ended," he said after a moment, the regret running raw in his voice. "I should have been there with you, Lo. I'm such an idiot."
Flora shook her head silently, a protest rising to her lips. Yet Alistair had already turned away, his eyes boring into her two Templar guards standing unobtrusively to one side.
"Your presence won't be required tonight."
Eyes lighting like candles, Zevran leaned across the space between the saddles and whispered in Finian's ear, his expression gleeful. Finian grimaced and looked as though he wanted to elbow the elf in the ribs; neither requiring nor desiring Zevran to enunciate Alistair's intentions more explicitly.
"That's my little sister," he retorted indignantly, sole remaining eye wide and accusatory. "I don't need to hear you say it out loud."
OOC Author Note: So Cullen being good at drawing is ENTIRELY headcanon, lol! Though I think it's not too outlandish, since Templars spend all their time observing and people-watching; I imagine he would be quite good at picking up on facial details. Anyway, I thought this would be a nice way to say farewell to Cullen – though good luck finding peace and quiet in Kirkwall, hahaha… I imagine the image he drew to look a little like a black and white version of my profile picture.
Replying to reviews in the reviews, thank you! Oh, and also in case it's not obvious, smut ahoy in the next chapter, lol.