Part II.
Chapter 18.
He paced the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He toyed with the old coin, worrying at the lines of Andraste's silhouette the way he had done as a lad when he was worried about something or missed his family. Before everything had gone so fantastically sideways and luck became less about kissing pretty girls or passing inspection after a long night and more about unrealistic survival. He had barely thought of the thing for probably four years now, yet he always carried it with him, placing it under his pillow every night and returning it to his pocket every morning.
Jamila's words weighed on him. Ashara had never really known love. Not the kind of familial love that had kept his heart warm when the world froze over, nor the romantic love the hope for which had been a flickering candle flame in his darkest nights—especially since they'd become close.
His appreciation for Dorian grew. As he thought more about the mage's actions and words, it became more apparent that it was not out of simple duty to the Inquisition or loyalty to his leader that he'd done so much to save Ashara. The worry in the man's eyes, the determined set to his jaw—Dorian did it all out of love for Ashara. It was the same kind of love that brought Jamila on the treacherous journey down the Amaranthine Ocean and along the rocky coasts of the Waking Sea to Jader to be at her friend's side.
He hoped she knew how much she was loved by her friends.
Yet you dismiss Cassandra and Dorian's words. How is she going to know if you don't tell her, Rutherford?
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling the still damp curls. But how could he tell her? He couldn't just tell her—the Inquisitor of all people—that he loved her. He had to do something to show her he cared for her in a way that went well beyond his role as her commander, trainer, or advisor. And more than just a… a lover. As eager as he was to forward things on that front, he felt something deeper and all-encompassing and she deserved to know—needed to know how precious she was to him.
She was like family—had given him a sense of family, belonging, that he'd never found amongst the Templars.
Mia would love her, too.
He couldn't help but smile.
The whole clan on the docks by the little unnamed lake near the farm… Ashara and Mia whispering to each other and laughing… Branson and his wife and babe—Alaric, was it?—splashing along the edge of the water… Rosalie and this Gwaren man named Brengy Mia had told him about…
Maker… Little Rosalie was betrothed. Curious, rambunctious, little Rosalie with her violently red hair and face full of freckles was a woman now and would be married soon. The last he'd seen her she was missing her front teeth. And now?
Twenty years? Had it really been so long since he'd seen his home?
He pulled the coin out of his pocket and stared wistfully at the reminder of the love that had once surrounded him. Branson had tried not to cry when his big brother left them, swung at him with the wooden practice sword Mia had whittled for Bran to use to train with him. They'd both ended up in the lake, laughing and pretending not to cry, hiding their tears with lake water.
"Cullen?" Ashara's sleepy voice stirred him from those bittersweet memories. "You're back!"
He tucked the coin safely back into his pocket and closed the distance to her bed where she was slowly untangling herself from her nest of blankets.
"I am. Just a few hours ago. Right after you fell asleep, apparently."
She smiled through her waking haze. "I'm glad. I missed you."
"So I heard." He sat down beside her and cupped her cheek.
She breathed a small laugh. "Jamila tell you?"
He nodded and smiled.
"So then where's my kiss?"
"Um. Ha!" He tilted her head back and leaned in to give her what she wanted, letting his lips linger against hers, touching just enough that they could feel the slow grins spreading across one another's faces. He quite liked this bold side of her.
She breathed in deeply before opening her eyes. "How late is it? Have I missed dinner?"
He pulled back enough to let her sit up fully. "It's early enough yet. Should I have someone bring you up a tray?"
"Two?" Her eyes sparkled. "I want to hear about your trip. Cassandra was a bit cryptic beyond, 'We found the Seekers. They are no more.' Did something happen? I mean, something more than just learning the Seekers had been corrupted by Corypheus?"
How to answer that question?
"Let me ask about some dinner and I'll explain. It's… difficult."
He could feel her eyes on him as he crossed the room to alert the guards outside that the Inquisitor was awake and in need of food and more candles—it was likely going to be another long night debriefing from the field.
Her face was still, almost stony as he told the tale. "So… You're telling me that the Templars were being led by a demon while the real Lord Seeker cut a deal with a bunch of cultists to kill off the Seekers because they were useless to Corypheus… Who he wanted to help end the world."
She set aside her glass and stood to begin pacing in front of the mantle.
"I… Well, yes… In so many words." He watched her, unsure of her glibness.
"Is there anything about this that doesn't make the Chantry look like it's responsible for everything that's ever gone wrong here?" She sneered the words.
If she was this agitated now, should he even tell her the rest?
"I mean…" She started pacing. "The Lord Seeker! The Lord Seeker was in a conspiracy with Corypheus?! …Maybe the Seekers planned the Conclave deliberately to help Corypheus. Maybe they started all of this—the whole mage-Templar war, starting in Kirkwall!"
"Well, no, I…" Her words settled like lead in his belly and a familiar pinching behind his eyes.
"And… Doesn't that mean the Templars really were responsible for what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?"
He felt his defenses go up. "That's not—But…" He sighed, willing himself to continue. "There's more."
"More? How can there be more?" She stopped pacing and stared at him, apprehension written across her brow.
"Yes. …Well, Lucius referred to the Seekers as abominations when he was justifying himself to Cassandra. We thought he was being rhetorical, but…."
He watched Ashara's eyes widen.
"Please don't say…"
He nodded, the pain in his head spreading.
"That's… oh, Maker, Cullen…" Her hand slowly came to her mouth as she turned and stared into the middle-distance. "Abominations! We all just thought the little bit of blood magic behind phylacteries was hypocritical but… justified. But making people into abominations without their consent or even knowledge? That's… that's just beyond the pale…"
Blood magic? In phylacteries? What?
He cleared his throat and shifted, watching her anger building. "It is… Seeker recruits are made Tranquil—"
She leaned forward, shock and horror in her wide eyes.
"—and then… 'touched' by a spirit of Faith, reversing the Tranquility for the most part… And that means they've always known that there was a cure…"
"For Tranquility?" she finished for him, tears of disbelief in her eyes.
He nodded.
She gazed at him, utterly aghast.
He steeled himself to finished, dreading her response. "It was this knowledge getting out that led to the rebel mages voting for independence."
"And the Seekers and the Divine were there for that. Did they leak that knowledge to the mages? Does this mean… Fucking—No!—Maferath's balls, Cullen, they did start the whole thing! The fucking Chantry did all of this!" Her voice cracked. Her entire body crackled with tension.
He couldn't follow parts of her thinking, but her conclusion was clear. She wasn't entirely wrong, and he was also justifiably upset with the Chantry. But something about her delivery, or the strange, conspiratorial logic she used to get to the ultimate conclusion, set his teeth on edge. It felt like a blow to his own substance. His head was throbbing now, a withdrawal headache settling in for a long night.
"I… I don't know about all of that, but… In some way, yes. The Seekers were responsible for the final straw leading to the war. But we don't know exactly when Lucius began working with Corypheus, and it seems few, if any, beyond Lucius himself knew all of this…"
"I just—" She scoffed. "I—" She slapped her hand against the mantle. "And they… And they had the nerve to call us heretics—and, and Roderick! Before he… saw the light or whatever… he… he was trying to have me killed. Basically. Trying to send me to Val Royeaux." She looked up in horror, her face pale. "Oh no. Oh, Maker, Cullen, do you think he was working with… No. No, he…"
"Ashara? Love?" He stood slowly, making his way to her side as she began trembling. "Are you… Ashara? Are you alright? Let's get you back to bed?" He eased an arm around her shoulders, slowly turning her to face him.
"I'm sorry, Cull. This is just… It's too much to take in right now. Ever! I think my mind is trying to go in too many directions at once." She leaned into him in an embrace. "I just can't believe it. This is so awful."
He nodded and kissed the top of her head. "I agree…"
"Ugh," she exhaled in disgust, shaking the tension from her frame. "How did Cassandra take that? I guess that explains her recalcitrance when she gave her report… Shit."
"Indeed," he murmured. He still grappled with these new truths himself. There wasn't much left of the Chantry he'd believed in.
Or of the foundations upon which he'd built himself.
What the Chantry hadn't taken from him could fit in an empty lyrium kit.
He couldn't help but wonder if it would let him keep her or if he would have yet another good thing ripped from his grasp.
"How are you taking all of this, Cullen?"
He inhaled slowly, trying to arrange the words in his head. It didn't help that his head hurt enough to make him mildly nauseous.
"Cull?" She stepped back and looked at him, reaching a hand up to his cheek.
He covered her hand with his own and pressed it more firmly to his face, the pressure like an anchor keeping him moored safely to stability.
"It… weighs heavily on me." She waited for him to elucidate but he couldn't continue. "I'd rather not discuss it now. We have… other things to worry about right now." He squeezed her hand then dropped it.
She made a sound of exasperation. "There will always be 'other things', Cullen, but I care about you. I know this can't be easy."
"It's not," he snapped. "And I'd rather not discuss it now. Besides, it's not something you'd understand."
She jerked, taken aback by his sharp tone and sharper words. "Oh. Okay…" Clouds crossed her face as she seemed to visibly shrink.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not like… Maker's breath, I'm sorry…"
Well done, Rutherford.
But how could she understand what he was going through? It was more than a crisis of faith. The betrayal he felt was more real than just the revelation of Chantry hypocrisy.
"N-no, I… It's okay. I get it. You don't have to… Um… I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you're not… comfortable with." She backed away, fidgeting, and returned to her bed as he watched helplessly.
"Ashara, I'm sorry. It's… it's something I need to take some time to understand myself before I'm comfortable sharing. Even with you." He softened his gaze and followed after her.
"Of course." She offered him a weak smile. "I don't want to push you. I mean it. I'm hear when you're ready… If you want to talk about it some time."
The hackles she'd raised with her earlier remarks began to relax. He could feel the unwinding in his chest, his breathing growing deeper, though the headache showed no signs of dissipating. "Thank you, my lady."
Her smile grew a little warmer. "Anything else to report?"
"No." He closed his eyes and massaged his neck, hoping to loosen the pain.
"Are you alright, Cull?"
"It's nothing. A bit of a headache is all. I'll be fine in the morning. If you'll…" He gestured toward the door.
"Oh! Um. Of course. I'll see you in the morning?"
"Yes, yes," he responded.
He knew she was watching him in confusion as he hurried away, but he had to get back to his tower before the sweating and shaking started. With luck, he wouldn't be sick.
He wasn't a lucky man.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It had been so long since his last episode. Why now?
He thought he knew why. All the talk about the Chantry's corruption… It took him back there in some small way. Though his mind remained clear, the physical memory of his role within the Chantry—the heavy armor to protect him against evil magic; the intensive training to prepare him for hunting, guarding, killing mages; the lyrium to… give him abilities strong enough to counter magic…?
No. Lyrium to control him. To hook him, make him an unquestioning pawn in a dangerous game of oppression and power.
He let out a primal scream of frustration and slammed his fists into the bed.
What did he know that was true? What had he learned that wasn't a carefully constructed lie—a fairy tale told to a naïve boy?
What evils had he himself wrought in the name of that Chantry? Would he have done those things on his own, driven solely by that innocent, childhood drive to protect those in need?
He mourned the death of that boy, the one who'd so admired the knights at the village Chantry. His friends had scoffed at him when he'd declared his intentions of becoming one of those beacons of righteous strength—how could an adolescent farmer's boy acquire skills those trained from birth struggled to master?—but Mia had lent him her full support, and her formidable presence that scared the other children into helping him learn how to wield a sword. She loved him fiercely, helped him achieve his dream of becoming a Templar, and for what?
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, focusing on the bursts of color behind his eyelids, forcing himself to center and return to the present. What use was this self-pity? Yes, he had let himself become a tool of the Chantry, had shed blood and broken lives. But he left. He chose to leave, to seek out a way to fulfill his goal of protecting—and to atone for the sins he'd committed in the name of the Maker and in the haze of lyrium.
His muscles seized again at the thought of the glowing poison.
The power he felt under its spell… The intense connection to something much larger than himself… Larger, even, than the Chantry and the reach of the Maker.
But what was the Maker's reach when He'd turned His back on them all?
Enough, Rutherford! He inhaled slowly, exhaled out the pensive angst. Not now. There is a job to be done, and you won't find answers like this, only more questions than can be dreamt of in all your philosophy.
There was work to be done. And he would do it. That was the easy part. The waiting…
How must Ashara feel? Waiting… Healing and wondering… Unable to help—
Oh.
She must feel the way he had for months now—stuck in a tower, unable to contribute to the effort. She must be going mad herself. He knew she was easily imprisoned by her own mind, her own self-loathing.
Oh, Ashara… Love…
He fingered the coin in his pocket, searching his mind for some way to help her—and himself—escape that crushing prison of self-torment. He could actually do something, take her mind from those thoughts, make her feel as loved as she was. Or try to at least.
Honnleath—or what was left of it after the Blight and the war—wasn't far. With the repairs and improvements the Inquisition had made to the roads from Skyhold, they could be on the Imperial Highway within a day and half ride… maybe two days with her still so weak… And then maybe another day to…
The lake.
His little refuge as a child. It must still be there. The Blight couldn't destroy an entire lake.
A smile replaced his stony grimace as he stared at the old coin.