9:29 DRAGON - Kinloch Hold
Cullen pulled on his helmet, having one last glance in the mirror to make sure his armor was polished and clean before he set off to the library.
It was the first break of the day, his favorite, and he wanted to enjoy it away from the boisterous training yard, or Bran's shameless, self-aggrandized storytelling.
At least that's what he told the others, when pressed.
The truth was far simpler.
He only wanted to see her.
If he had timed it right, and he usually did, he'd be reading a book by the time she arrived. It was right after the Grand Enchanter's lecture, and just before the next lesson, and she always, always, made time to come to the library.
He'd read a lot of books since he came to Kinloch Hold, the libraries were vast and contained knowledge on every topic.
He had convinced himself he wasn't being inappropriate, he only spent one break a day here when he could technically spend three. He'd assured his friends, and himself, it was good to be well read when they asked why.
Books were an enjoyment for him, it wasn't exactly a lie.
There was a fascinating section dedicated to the flora and fauna of South Reach he'd been interested in exploring. Whenever he managed to see his family again, he thought going hunting with Branson might be a fun challenge. He was probably old enough to use a hunting bow by now.
The apprentices scuttled out of his way like startled cats as he made a beeline for the western most bookcase. It had the best view of the door Amell entered from, and was across from where she enjoyed reading most.
He scanned the shelf, and found a book on Ferelden rams, flipping it open to the chapter on breeds found wild in the Hinterlands.
He wondered if it would be strange to hunt a nice pelt for her, perhaps he'd just leave it at her bunk in secret. No one needed to know it came from him.
And then he saw the entrance swing open, and a few tired apprentices sauntered into the room. He absentmindedly thumbed through the book as he watched for her, his stomach filled with butterflies and his breath short.
She finally emerged, and thankfully without that greasy Jowan this time.
His heart began to hammer in his chest.
She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, and scrunched up her eyes comically before shaking the exhaustion away. It was… so cute.
Everything she did was.
Speeding toward the usual bookcase, her eyes aimed straight for the third shelf, he knew what she intended to read this time.
A collection of fictions, romantic ones, he had checked before.
It tickled him, considering how studious she presented herself to be.
He felt sweat forming on his brow and was glad he decided to wear his helmet today.
"Rutherford."
"Hmm," he responded dreamily, lost in his watching. She pulled a red leather book off the shelf and sat at her usual small table.
"Cullen Rutherford."
He scratched his chin under his helmet, his brain buzzing with something.
Amell had just opened her book and was chewing on the inside of her thumb, her eyes darting to the Senior Enchanters as if she were nervous they'd see what she was reading. She pulled the book closer, and leaned toward the wall, hiding herself.
He was quite enraptured with the whole scene, what sort of story was it to make her blush so furiously? He made a note of the book's location, he'd have to read it himself later.
He had thumbed to the end of his book on rams and was now simply holding it against his chest, watching her, imagining that she would blush the same for him and…
"RUTHERFORD!"
He spun to the voice, losing his grip on the book and trying clumsily to catch it as it fell, "Maker!" he sputtered, finally catching the book and slamming it to his chest in a panic.
His gaze darted to Amell, but her face was buried deep in her book, none-the-wiser at his scolding.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
Knight-Commander Greagoir stood with his arms crossed, the vein in his temple pounding visibly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," Cullen said pathetically.
"Maker, have you gone deaf boy?" the Knight-Commander said sarcastically.
A few of the mage apprentices next to them chuckled at his expense, but Greagoir's icy glare silenced them immediately.
Cullen burned with shame.
"Good morning, Knight-Commander," said Uldred in his nasally voice, approaching from behind.
"Morning, Uldred," said Greagoir tersely.
"Good morning, Enchanter Uldred," said Cullen.
Uldred smirked at him as he passed by.
"Follow me," said Greagoir.
Cullen clumsily shoved the book back onto the shelf and followed the Knight-Commander out of the library. He was quite certain he hadn't been that obvious, but accidentally ignoring a superior was a huge mistake.
He shouldn't allow himself to be so easily distracted in the future, he promised himself that he would do better next time.
To his surprise, Knight-Commander Greagoir led him straight to First Enchanter Irving's study.
"Ah, good morning Greagoir," said Irving from his chair, his voice even more gravely than usual, "and good morning, Ser Rutherford."
"Good morning, First Enchanter," said Cullen.
Greagoir took a seat across from Irving, and gestured for Cullen to take the seat beside him.
"Are all the measures in place and ready?" asked Irving, closing his ledger and setting it to the side.
"It is on schedule for tomorrow," said Greagoir, "it'll be after Uldred's departure to Ostagar."
Cullen was sweating in his helmet, and trying not to tap his foot incessantly.
"Take that damn thing off," said Greagoir.
Cullen did as he was told, certain his crimson face would give him away.
Greagoir angrily sniffed, "I've received a complaint from Uldred that you've been spending far too many of your breaks in the apprentice's library.
"Well, I… I mean… I enjoy reading," he stuttered.
"Every day?" asked Greagoir incredulously.
"You wouldn't be the first templar to eye a mage," said Irving, and he gave Greagoir a funny look.
Greagoir rolled his eyes.
"I wasn't… I mean I didn't…" he said, flustered, he was never very good at lying.
"It's not appropriate Mr. Rutherford," said Irving sternly, "I cannot have you threatening the chastity of young Amell—"
"Nor Amell threatening the chastity of young Rutherford," Greagoir snapped back.
"I—I would n-never!" Cullen stuttered, his voice comically high pitched. "I swear it!"
He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.
"Right," said Irving. "What book is it that had you so enraptured in the library just now, I wonder?"
"The Rams of Ferelden," he said pathetically.
"Riveting," said Irving sarcastically.
"Alright, you've had your fun, I'm sure the boy has suffered enough humiliation for today," said Greagoir, slamming Cullen on the back comfortingly. "However, that wasn't the point of this discussion, now was it?"
"Oh, I could go on a bit more, but alas, you're right," said Irving.
Cullen squeezed his helmet hard in his lap, too ashamed to make eye contact with either of them.
Irving breathed in deeply through his nose, intertwining his fingers and resting his elbows on the desk, "Amell's Harrowing is tomorrow, and we have both decided you will strike the killing blow if she does not succeed."
"M-me?!" Cullen exclaimed, his head snapping up.
Irving and Greagoir raised their brows at him, and he paled, trying to act calm.
"I mean, ah, of course," he said.
"You've done well in the past assisting, now it's time for you to strike the killing blow," said Greagoir.
"Only if she fails, Knight-Commander," said Irving.
"Obviously that," retorted Greagoir.
Cullen felt ill, did it have to be him?
How could he do it? How could he…
No.
He wouldn't have to. She was an excellent mage, very talented, he'd seen her lessons, she weaved lightning and fire with more grace than some of the Senior Enchanters.
In his opinion, at least.
She'll be fine.
Steeling himself, he sat straighter, squaring away his nerves as if preparing for battle.
He looked Irving and then Greagoir straight in the eyes.
"As the Maker wills, I will do as I am commanded," he said, his voice strong and clear.
Greagoir smiled proudly, and looked smugly at Irving, "I had no doubt you would."
9:38 DRAGON - Kirkwall
"Block! Block, Senna!" yelled Cullen.
"I'm tryin—" started Senna, but she took a strong hit under the chin and spun twice before hitting the ground.
"Oh shit! Senna!" screamed Paxley, dropping the training shield, "I didn't mean to shove that hard!"
"Maker's breath," breathed Cullen.
Ruvena laughed.
"That's enough for today, and get Senna to the healer, please," he commanded.
The other recruits began shuffling out of the yard, a few hoisting Senna up and dragging her out.
"Poor Senna," said Knight-Captain Ruvena, sharpening her blade under the shade of the Gallows' archway. "You were distracting her, shouting all those commands."
"That's part of the training," said Cullen, yawning and taking a seat far from her to sharpen his sword.
It had been over a year since Anders' attack on Kirkwall, and things were still volatile, but there was some semblance of normalcy on days like this.
Ruvena lifted her blade up, studying it, and seemed satisfied, "Well, I'm done for the day, goodnight, Knight-Captain."
"Night," said Cullen, absorbed in his own sharpening.
The two Knight-Captain's of Kirkwall, it was unheard of, it was ridiculous, but the Templar Order refused to promote him after the mage uprising, for failing to quell it and capture Hawke.
They were more than happy to continue piling on the responsibilities however, and he didn't mind. He didn't serve for titles, he served because he had to, because defending the people of Thedas against dark magic and demons was what he was meant to do, compelled to do.
His relationship with Ruvena had grown professional, and he was thankful. It felt better this way, no distractions, just the work.
Cullen pledged himself to duty, and nothing more.
He tested the edge of his blade carefully, he was tired, the dreams had returned to their normal levels of terror, but on some nights, like the one before, he woke with a lingering fear that just wouldn't leave him.
Sheathing his sword, he'd need more than a soft bed to find sleep tonight, and so he set off for a drink.
Cullen took his drinks at the Hanged Man. It helped him avoid Ruvena, who preferred the tavern in Hightown now.
The free drinks for templars offer had long faded, and so he handed over his three coppers and took his watered down misery with him into the corner by the fire.
Varric had returned, but the conversation with him had been very quick, and pointless.
"Where is Hawke?" he asked.
"Don't know, sorry Curly," the dwarf laughed, exasperated. "I swear, I plan on wringing her neck myself the second she shows up, not telling her best friend where she's run off to! Pah! It's unconscionable!"
"Tell me why I shouldn't arrest you now?" asked Cullen.
"Because I helped save Kirkwall from your insane Knight-Commander, and because you promised me immunity," the dwarf quickly pulled out the letter, and upon reading closely, he had indeed stamped an indefinite agreement of immunity.
"That sneaky bastard," Cullen muttered to himself, and chuckled at being outplayed. He had long given up on Hawke. He'd just have to bring order to Kirkwall himself.
He took a swig of the ale, and stared into the roaring fire. Tethras' voice drifted down from the upstairs along with boisterous laughter, reminding him of better days with old friends long gone.
He chuckled to himself, remembering Beval's laughter. He sometimes laughed so hard his drink would shoot out of his nose and all down his armor, at the most unfunny jokes too.
"Knight-Captain," came a small voice behind him, and he turned to face a small boy.
"Yes?"
"My mama is sick, can you help?" the boy said, and held out a cup.
Who lets their child wander into a tavern in the dead of night?
He felt pity, and dropped the last of his coppers into the boy's cup.
"Thank you!" the boy squeaked, and scurried to the next person.
Cullen sighed, feeling terrible about moping about a few nightmares when there were people starving and struggling to survive.
He finished his ale, and headed back to the Gallows. The walk through Lowtown's streets had remained relatively quiet after the Guard and Hawke cleared out the worst of the gangs, but it was far from safe.
Cullen passed a group of people, whispering, and one of them was oddly familiar.
He walked a few more steps, his senses dulled by the ale, when his breath suddenly caught in his throat and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Him!
He spun on his heel and stormed over to the group, he saw black hair and grasped the man by the shoulder, yanking him around to face him.
"Knight-Captain!" the man exclaimed.
Not him!
"Oh," said Cullen, "I'm sorry… I mistook you for someone."
He let the man go, and rushed back to the Gallows.
You idiot, seeing things now?
He stormed straight to his quarters, ripping off his armor, and falling into the bed.
He was being ridiculous, perhaps the ale was stronger than he thought, what madness possessed him to think he'd seen Jowan? He groaned, and pulled a pillow over his head.
Would he never be free of the reminders?
The familiar scent of rose soap mixed with the sweat she worked up after her lessons teased his nose. He knew she must be on the other side of the book case. She had to be.
He pulled a book out quietly, and he could see her through the narrow space between the bindings. She chewed the inside of her thumb, focused intently on the book she held open with one hand.
Sneaking in reading between lessons, addicted to her words… it was one of the many reasons he loved her, and his heart fluttered.
Their eyes met, for just a moment, and then she burned red and crammed her book back, blocking him out.
A sadness washed over him, he needed to see her for just a moment longer, and unthinkingly his feet carried him around the bookcase.
"Amell," he said. "Good m-morning!"
She stood facing him, illuminated by the mid-morning sun streaming in from the high windows, her hair was in a messy pile on her head and her hands clasped together below her waist, like the stone carvings of Andraste in the chapel.
He'd never seen a woman like her before, not that he'd seen many, and he felt dizzy.
"Good morning Cullen," she said, smiling back.
Cullen.
He would replay the sweet sound of her voice, saying his name, over and over in his mind.
And when he'd forget what it sounded like, he'd come up with an excuse to hear her say it again.
Like right now.
Idiot, Rutherford.
"I, uh, heard you've been practicing fire spells," he said.
"Yes," she said, and she awkwardly scratched at her elbow, "same as always!"
"Right, of course!" he responded, laughing lightly.
They stood, silently facing one another for a moment.
"Oh, well then, uh, good luck, with that," he finished, another awkward, small laugh escaping his lips.
"Thank you!" she said, "I've got lessons now, got to run," she smiled and quickly rushed past him.
A fog of disappointment settled upon him, and he watched her leave, wishing he'd said something less stupid, something that could have kept her there just a moment more.
He turned to the bookshelf, finding the one she'd been holding.
Still warm, from her hands. He flipped it over to read the title.
Uldred's Treatise on the Binding of a Templar.
His stomach went sour, and he flipped the book open.
Images, so many bloody drawings of his friends, of the walls covered in flesh filled sacs, bloody piles of offal, and her face at the center of it all.
He dropped the book, feeling bile rise into his throat.
"Not real, this is not real," he started whispering to himself, turning to flee.
But she was there.
"Hi Cullen," it said. Mimicking her voice, wearing her skin like an ill-fitted glove.
"Leave me, demon!" he yelled, reaching to draw his sword, but it was gone.
He fell to his knees, praying for the Maker's strength, and guidance and then it laughed at him.
Like it always did.
"The Maker can't help you, stupid boy!"
"LEAVE ME!"
Cullen's eyes flew open, his body drenched in sweat and warm from the morning light.
He groaned, covering his eyes.
A memory, a real one, but turned into a nightmare.
He'd stopped taking his lyrium, as an experiment.
Stupid, so stupid.
It was just a few days in, and the nightmares were so much worse.
He rushed to the bathroom, hands shaking, muscles weak and sore, and he fished a prepared philter from the cabinet.
He downed it desperately, like a hungry pig.
The pain in his limbs slowly abated, and he felt less raw.
He angrily threw the empty philter into the basin, wanting to crush it into a thousand pieces.
If only he'd known what it meant to be a templar.
The Order was his life, and he was proud of that… once. He'd begun to have doubts, wondering if they were really doing all they could to contain the turmoil roiling across Thedas. Tensions were only increasing, more and more fights between templars and mages bursting into outright clashes at the other Circles. The rebellion in Kirkwall had frightened the templars, and their response had been to come down even harder on the mages.
As if that would help! He'd seen what happened when Meredith had done the same, and to say the Order's response to the situation was disheartening was an understatement.
The loyalist mages in Kirkwall had begun to openly voice their disdain for the way things were going, and he was trying his best not to squash the little freedoms they had left, despite what the bitter, tortured voice in his heart screamed at him to do in the dark.
It wasn't getting any better, and the Templar Order seemed perfectly content doubling down on cruelty to maintain the status quo.
It was becoming harder and harder to serve, when once he had felt compelled to.
But, with all that said, what had really prompted his stupid little experiment was a templar named Ser Ryan.
He had retired, a decade too late, according to Ruvena.
The man had suddenly failed to recall his own name in the middle of the party, confused why everyone was giving him congratulations and gifts as they sent him away with honors.
Cullen felt sick for a week after.
That was his fate, the fate of all templars, the last gift lyrium bestowed upon them all.
He shoved the fear down, and started his day feeling foul, as usual.
Training, reviewing performances, checking the lyrium stores and running issues by the Senior Enchanters. They wanted a First Enchanter chosen soon, he did too.
He found himself in Kirkwall's modest library, driven by his need for quiet, or nostalgia, or an urge to cleanse the horrible nightmare from his mind.
Staring at a shelf filled with recreational novels, offered as a meager pastime for the mages, he pulled a red book off the shelf and flipped it over in his hand.
"The Mage's Lover," he read aloud to himself, and shoved it back, disturbed.
"Knight-Captain Cullen," said Paxley, and he saluted him before holding out a small letter, "met a courier all turned around outside, said it was very urgent, for the Knight-Captain."
"Thank you Paxley," said Cullen, and he took the letter to his office.
Cullen poured himself a glass of water, still overly thirsty from his stupid experiment, and opened the letter:
"No major changes, Teyrn seems his normal self. Overheard elven ambassador call Lady Shayna by Kena—"
Cullen sucked in a bit of water too quickly and started coughing uncontrollably, his head throbbing each time, but he could not look away from the letter:
"—a possible pet name. No signs of magic or enchantment yet. All safe.
In Loyalty to the Maker,
C."
Who was C.? His mind ran wild. Ruvena assured him everything was fine in regards to the situation in Highever.
So why spy on him?
He read the letter again.
Kena.
Heart pumping, his ears rushing with blood, he couldn't fathom what it was he was reading.
Kena.
Her name written in ink, black ink, real ink. Not a dream. Not a nightmare.
Feels like a nightmare.
He exhaled, his body finally remembering to breath.
Lady Shayna Amell was called Kena, as a pet name? It made no sense.
He remembered the conversation with Ruvena, after her return from Highever. She'd been compliant, oddly kind, asking about his dreams.
No, asking about Kena Amell.
The fire in Denerim, the fire in the phylactery storage, he suddenly remembered the warning from so long ago.
Kena was supposed to be dead, killed at Aeonar, her body ash and gone. He'd made peace with that, at least he thought he did.
He read the letter again, body itching with adrenaline. Real. Not just in his head, not a faded memory.
But no one escaped Aeonar, it couldn't possibly be her. He was getting ahead of himself. There was no proof, and he was riling himself up for nothing.
Except, it wasn't nothing, no matter how badly he wanted it to be. What other explanation could explain this… coincidence. Were there two Kena Amells with magic? He'd only ever met one Kena in his life, and it was just far too…
"Kena," he said the name aloud, his heart battering against his ribcage, staring, unblinking, until the words went blurry.
He made her real with the name spoken aloud.
Closing his eyes, he saw her, happy, then afraid, and finally dragged away.
Her voice, Cullen, fresh in his mind from the nightmare, and then he saw the demon wearing her face, and he felt as much fear as he did longing.
Squeezing the letter tight in his shaking hand, biting the inside of his cheek hard to quell the incoherent thoughts, his world was blurring, and he tasted blood.
Amell.