Tharin intentionally left out future Cullen's confession as he recounted his experience in Redcliffe to the war council. Thankfully, the Altus was too busy getting the amulet to work to have heard anything in the throne room, so he did not contradict or add to the account.
The young man did not know what to make of the confession, and he did not want to spend energy trying to parse its meanings. He had learned of many events that individually could exert a devastating influence on the future of Thedas. He simply could not divert his attention to personal thoughts. For now, he was grateful that Cullen was here at Haven, very much alive and very much free of red lyrium.
Yet the meeting to discuss the strange future quickly veered off its course and devolved into a shouting match between him and the Commander. Tharin's invitation to the rebel mages, or a horde of apostates for some, did not sit well with Cullen. The captive audience, consisting of Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra, and Dorian, tried to mediate, only to be snubbed repeatedly by them both. All they could do was to wait out the storm.
"What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The veil is torn open, probably because of something a misguided mage had done, and now you expect the rebel mages to cooperate just like that?"
Exasperated, Tharin let his exhale settle heavily. His whole body seemed to shrink along with his already deflating mood. He could not believe that Cullen, of all people, would think he'd make an important decision like this willy-nilly. "We need them precisely because we need their magic to close the breach. What would you have me do, conscript them? Enslave them? It's not going to work if we make enemies of them!"
"I know we need them for the Breach, but they could do as much damage as the demons themselves! You were there, Seeker! Why didn't you intervene!"
Called to defend the Commander's position, the Seeker crossed her arms and pursed her lips before speaking curtly, "While I may not completely agree with the decision, I support it. The sole point of the Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid, and that was accomplished."
Sounding almost relieved, Dorian quipped, "The voice of pragmatism speaks! And here I was just starting to enjoy the circular arguments."
Then came from Cullen a snarl that shocked Tharin with its hostility. "No one asked your opinion, Tevinter!"
This was an unacceptable behavior. Tharin let the mantle of leadership take over as he folded his arms and puffed his chest.
"Commander! I must ask you once again to be respectful to every member of the Inner Circle! If you cannot bring yourself to comply with my demand, I must ask you to leave the room. Whatever hang-ups you may have about mages or Tevinters, Dorian aided me in reversing the time magic and gain the allies we needed!"
Though she clearly wanted to stay out of the fight, Cassandra nodded and agreed, "Closing the Breach is all that matters."
Silence fell in the war room. The only sound heard was the chant in the main hall, its sugary words sounding hollow. No one moved a muscle. After a minute – or perhaps mere seconds – Tharin continued with a dark voice. He was no longer the Herald of Andraste or the de facto head of the ragtag group of the faithful called the Inquisition, but an injured and angered beast.
Unrestrained by decorum, camaraderie, affection, or even the boundaries of effective leadership, the words that came out next were pure venom. Cullen had hurt him, and now he was going to pay it back tenfold.
Tharin stared straight ahead at the ochre eyes swimming in fire and breathed poison.
"You told me you've changed, that you no longer harbor unfair prejudices against mages. Yet here you are, expecting the worst from our new allies, thinking all of them are abominations just waiting to torture and kill everyone in the Inquisition.
"Tell me, Commander, do you think mages are people? I am curious to know if you really do think they deserve the same rights as we non-magical folks do. Have you actually thought about how you helped start the senseless bloodshed between mages and templars? Because that is precisely what you did in Kirkwall: oppressing the mages until they had no other choice but to revolt. If this kind of attitude is what they faced while Meredith and you were in charge, I do not blame the Kirkwall mages for blowing up the chantry."
Cassandra, wide-eyed and obviously panicking, tried to speak out, "Ah, Tharin…"
Leliana with her characteristic calm superseded the Seeker and interrupted the Herald, "All right. That's enough. We cannot fight among ourselves like this. I think it's best to take a break and cool our heads, no?"
But Tharin was not finished with his diatribe. With his eyes unwavering and unblinking, he continued, "No, I am not done. I am glad I did not know you when you were in Kirkwall. You would have driven me out of the templars faster than my bullies ever could.
"I am glad Kyr and I were not there with you. You would have made him tranquil for my courting him, just to make yourself feel safer. Well, if the Knight-Captain feels safe it doesn't matter how many mages are rendered into tranquil, does it? They are not even people after all, just sheep to be herded.
"I said, that is enough." Leliana's tone became sharp, though its volume did not modulate higher.
Tharin felt something devastating, a gallimaufry of panic and rectitudinous outrage, rising from the very bottom of his chest but managed to prevail upon it. He desired nothing more than for Cullen to feel what he had felt that morning, when the man ended everything. What he had been feeling since that morning. And for that to happen, he had to maintain some modicum of self-control.
Leliana began to approach the young man, perhaps to physically stop him, but her attempt was blocked by the young man holding up his Anchor hand. Tharin saw the Spymaster silently glare at the hand that hovered inches away from the tip of her nose. He knew she had no recourse. He would handily defeat her if this altercation became physical.
And in any case, the Inquisition required his hand. His Maker-damned Anchor. The woman would not be able to lay a finger on him.
The young man rapidly spat out the last words, more spiteful than anything he had ever said during his time at Haven. "You are the worst kind of hypocrite, Cullen. You tell everyone that you are changed, that you are made anew. But when push comes to shove, you use your old prejudices to dictate your words and actions. I've had enough. I no longer wish to hear what you think of our mage allies."
The deluge of scorching words finally receded and the rapid beats in his heart calmed somewhat. Somehow, the Herald felt light, as though a perdurable encumbrance had been displaced from his back.
Tharin whirled around and marched to the door. With his right hand resting on the door handle, he declared like a potentate he was, "The mages are here to close the Breach, and all of you will treat them like you treat our soldiers. They will go wherever they please, and they will be partnered up with the soldiers when we march to the Temple."
As Tharin swung open the door with all his might and the door banged haphazardly against the stone wall, he was reminded of a memory from Hasmal.
When Tharin was still a templar neophyte, a Nevarran dragon hunter passed through the city, and the Knight-Commander invited her to give a lecture in the Circle. While it was not a practicum, she nevertheless included details that would be useful in real-life encounters. For instance, she pointed out weak points throughout the body that she would focus her attacks on. Most of them were commonsensical: eyes, nostrils, ears, and the groin.
But she finished the lecture by issuing a grave warning about going after something called squama inverso – inverted scale in old Tevene. A squama inverso was a piece of dermis that went against the grain. Every dragon had one on the underside of its neck, and it counted as a weak point.
Yet the hunter told the audience never to go after the squama inverso at the beginning of the battle, but to wait until the dragon was visibly faltering and could no longer breathe whatever element it controlled. Otherwise, hitting the scale would only give the dragon a second wind and make it far stronger and more vicious.
According to the hunter, the pain was enough to drive the dragon mad, but not enough to incapacitate it if it was still in command of the elements. She said she had seen many novice hunters annihilated after carelessly hitting it when their foes were still at their full strength.
Tharin knew he had hit Cullen's squama inverso. Not just once, but over and over again.
It occurred to the young man that he was being craven when he fled before the inevitable pushback. But he couldn't care less. Cullen was crushed and Tharin was triumphant. That was all that mattered.
The door to the war room closed slowly with a loud screech. No one followed the Herald. Silence sat in the chamber weightily. Leaden, it seemed to have bolted everyone to her spot.
Even then, Leliana's brain never ceased moving. She wondered whether the way the Commander ended the relationship had anything to do with the savage quarrel. And then she wondered if there would be any way to reconcile the two men without having to reveal her role in the breakup. Or maybe Tharin deserved to know about her role.
No, the bond between the Herald and the Commander had been broken. Their working relationship would not be fixed simply by informing Tharin of her role in the matter, and it would make him trust her less. Things had to stay the course, so that the Inquisition was not under the threat of complete derailment.
Commander Rutherford began to speak in a quiet voice, but no one doubted the potency of rage that smoldered beneath the deceptive calm.
"I know I cannot defend my actions in Kirkwall. But I did not disclose my past to the Herald so he could berate me in front of all of you. I shan't tolerate it.
"I take it he would rather not have me in the Inquisition, given that my concerns about potential dangers posed by the rebel mages are not welcome. Then so shall it be. After seeing to the operation to close the Breach, I will resign from my post and leave."
Leliana felt a headache come on. Massaging the temples gently, she tried to convince the Commander, "Do not make a decision like this so hastily. Closing the Breach won't solve many of the problems Thedas faces. I fear it will only worsen the infighting."
Cullen looked away with bloodshot eyes.
"I know how devoted you are to our cause. Suppose you do quit and leave your post. Can you honestly say that you will be fine leaving such great responsibility to someone else?"
The Commander refused to look back at her as she stared. Sounding completely defeated, he said, "You heard the Herald. My bigoted opinions and I are no longer welcome in the Inquisition. I am not worthy of the great cause. Thus, I shall take them and go."
Leliana put more pressure on her temples as the headache intensified. Holy Maker, had she ever needed a drink this badly? "You may change your mind. Let us keep your plan a secret from the Herald. I am sure everyone agrees."
With knitted brows, Cullen turned and glowered at the Spymaster. "No, Sister. You are wrong. I won't change my mind, and the Herald must be informed. Keeping my resignation secret will do nobody good."
Men. Why couldn't they be more rational? Leliana let her hands drop to her sides, sighed delicately, and shook her head. "Suit yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you."
In the evening after the disastrous debriefing in the war room, Tharin was at the training ground whacking the practice dummies with every move he had in store. When his tunic was soaked and pasted to his torso and every muscle in his body screamed for rest, Cullen stopped by and informed Tharin of his decision to step down from the commandership.
With an undignified sneer in his face, Tharin barked, "Sounds like a capital idea." He could see the pain and disappointment replace the anger that bled out of Cullen's face.
Things broken could not be mended. His relationship with Cullen was irretrievably broken.
And even if the pieces were put together, the result would not be the same as what it was before. If this truism was not clear to Tharin before, it was now.
At last, he could stop hoping. It was a relief.
Many days passed with both men not uttering a word to each other. The others had to be thankful that the regular war council meeting was not scheduled until the week after. For a while, anyway, they could focus on their own spheres of influence, whether it be in diplomacy or in covert operations or in training recruits, and push out of their minds the ongoing dispute between the Herald and the Commander.
Yet time did not stop and neither did the schedule change on them.
At Josephine's behest, the Herald and the advisors gathered at the tavern. Ever the dedicated diplomat, she was hoping that the publicness of the venue would encourage everyone to maintain civility. Her plan worked, but neither man addressed the other through the entire meeting. Eventually, Cullen excused himself.
He went to sit at the bar, trying not to look too sullen while he watched Tharin, Leliana, and Josephine having a hushed conversation at the corner table by the window. They were discussing the appearance of the Elder One, the Venatori, the possible assassination of Empress Celene, and the future that should never be allowed to come to pass, all the while he was excluded. His exile was self-imposed, but he nonetheless felt like a mabari peering through the window at his humans. The beer tasted bitterer and sourer than he'd remembered.
Once, in another lifetime, it was the Herald and he, no one else, sitting there. They shared drinks, food, and deeply personal anecdotes. In another lifetime before he ruined everything. Just another regret in a life filled with regrets.
Preoccupied with moping, he heard neither the door swinging open nor a man ambling up to him. He only turned when he heard someone clear his throat. It was Dorian.
"Fancy running into you here, Commander. I didn't peg you as much of a drinker."
"I am not. We are just holding the council here."
"Ah, rather an unconventional choice of venue, I'd say. But then why aren't you huddled with the rest of them over there?"
"Because they are talking about Orlesian court intrigues, the subject on which I have nothing to contribute. So I'm sitting this one out."
The mage hummed and stroked his mustache. With levity in his voice, he added, "I bet you still have a lot to say."
Cullen quickly sipped more of his beer before answering. "I do, but I excused myself. I didn't want to incur the Herald's wrath again."
Dorian clicked his tongue. Whether in disapproval or in glee, the Commander could not tell. The man pointed to a stool next to Cullen. "Mind if I sit here?"
"The seat's open, isn't it?" he grumbled.
"Well, well, ruggedly handsome and friendly. I cannot fathom why you aren't more popular with the gentle ladies of Haven." Cullen ignored the comment altogether, but it did not discourage the mage. "I kid. There are no gentle ladies at Haven. I imagine you'd have to leave these Maker-forsaken mountains to find one of those."
After taking the seat, the mustachioed man continued to speak breezily. "I wonder what fantastical plans they will come up with next. Perhaps breeding nugs that can fly and breathe fire. Those will come in handy, I am sure. A cute pet the Inquisition could sell for profit that could also be turned into a vicious weapon when needed."
The man was insufferable. "Master Pavus… As much as I appreciate a talented conversationalist such as yourself, I fear I will not make a good companion to you this evening."
"Might as well. I do enjoy listening to myself talk. I have a dulcet voice and I find my wit incredibly well-received by my ears."
If the mage knew he was an unwelcome guest in Cullen's personal space, he gave no indication. Dorian swiveled around and ordered a pint from Flissa. When he got the stein, he gulped a mouthful and made a comically exaggerated face that signaled revulsion.
Dorian might be insufferable, but he made up by being doubly suave. It was impossible to not like him.
In truth, Cullen wanted to like him. The mage could pick up the pieces of Tharin and make the young man whole again. He could replace the bitter memories Cullen was leaving behind. He could be everything for Tharin that Cullen was not. He certainly appeared to be a courageous man, going against the current and trying to right the wrong in his homeland. A diametric opposite of this old former templar.
The Commander set down his stein and turned to look at Dorian. He felt his brow crease with nerves, but he knew this had to be done.
"I–I must apologize for my atrocious behavior during the last week's meeting. Please, don't let my foolish words taint your impression of the Inquisition."
Dorian's gray eyes were not unkind. He patted Cullen's shoulder and intoned lightly, "Ah, pay no mind. I assumed you were having a bad day. Besides, I've heard much worse."
"Regardless, the way I spoke to you was reprehensible. If there is anything I could do to–"
Now the mage was rapping his back cheerily. "Oh, you sweet man. You are taking things way too seriously. But, if you insist on making it up to me, just listen to my drivel. I've yet to make a friend other than the Herald, and I could use at least one more.
"It does get tiring when people stare and point every time one goes out for a constitutional. At least have the courage to hurl the insults directly to my face, if you get my meaning? It's a crying shame when those people must have worked so hard on them with their tiny brains."
Cullen chuckled, though warily. He had seen many mages ostracized and bullied during his templar days, and he did not want to make light of the fact that Dorian was indeed treated differently by many at Haven purely because of his background. It came as a surprise to him that there was no reported incident of the mage experiencing physical harassment at the hands of more brutish templars among the Inquisition ranks.
But would the mage even tell him if it were to actually happen? To Dorian, he must have appeared no different from any other tyrannical templars. The ones who let the power go to their heads. He had already been regretting his outburst, but now he positively loathed himself for it.
Dorian thought Cullen looked like a puppy trying to look sorry for tearing up a rug. It was quite endearing actually, if one were into that sort of thing.
After Dorian sipped delicately from his stein and made a face again, he nodded toward Tharin. "What do you make of our boy there?"
"Pardon?"
"I meant, what are your thoughts on him? Couldn't help but notice you've been staring at him the entire time. And I suppose I'd like to make sure I'm on the winning side. I balk at the idea of being forced to join the Venatori. To start with, their awful hoods don't exactly measure up to my fine sartorial taste."
The Commander flinched and spoke cagily, "I couldn't say. I'd thought he… Ah well, it doesn't matter. I will be gone soon enough."
"He's a bit… different from what one would expect from a southern templar, isn't he? Though I suspect that has something to do with his unusual family history. I've met the publican who owned his mother back in the day. Horribly temperamental and greedy too. Makes perfect sense he'd sell off his slave.
"Pompous bluebloods of Tevinter find it terribly ill-bred to trade off house slaves. They are like family, the kind of family who do all the chores while one lounges around and eats peeled grapes. Peeled beforehand by their nimble slave fingers, by the by."
Dorian could see his words were putting Cullen in a foul mood, but nevertheless kept going. After all, how would one be able to test one's limit without pushing the envelope first? He'd always intended to do this with everyone in the Inner Circle and thought he might as well start with the Commander.
"You know, I find it quite fascinating that the southerners do not seem to care half as much about the Herald's descent as us Tevinters do. The man is a Trevelyan and half-elven! That is an odd combination if I ever saw one.
"I can't imagine the clan would have been very happy to see an elven seductress snatch up their progeny. If this were Minrathous, she would have been made to disappear and her son would not be the Herald of anything, let alone a member of the nobility or a templar."
The mage flashed a toothy grin. Cullen responded by growling menacingly, "Master Pavus, I understand you come from a land with different customs. Nonetheless, here in the south, the fact that the Herald has elven blood counts as a positive. And I would thank you to never again denigrate his mother or his heritage."
Dorian simply smoothed his mustache. He did enjoy causing trouble, perhaps excessively so. Father always counted that as his least favorite quality, until the day he found out about his heir's other, more scandalous proclivities. "Really? Because if I'm not mistaken you southerners turn your noses at alienages like we do at elven slaves."
The Commander's hand tightened its grip on the stein handle. "I shall speak for myself and my soldiers. We do not care whether our comrades are elven, dwarven, human, or whatever else. What matters is that they are fighting with us and they are willing to shoulder their fair share in battle.
"The same goes for the Herald. The differences in our opinions notwithstanding, I recognize he has done a tremendous job in bringing the Inquisition to where it is now. In fact, the Herald's being born to a freed elven mother has been a boon. He is compassionate because he understands what it's like to be an outsider. Not many people in his position would let compassion guide their actions."
An exhale marked the end of this rather drab speech, which was followed by an equally drab lament. "I just wish we could part on good terms. I've come to cherish his friendship… but I presume I can no longer lay claim to that."
Now Dorian had to ask, just what was Tharin to the Commander? He fell silent, trying to divine some clue from the words spoken.
When Dorian did not sass him with a witty comeback, Cullen's face became flushed and he scratched the back of his neck. The Altus noted it as the Commander's tell. So obvious, this man. If left to his own devices he would not survive a day in Tevinter, two days at most in Orlais.
The Commander spoke in a subdued voice, "Forgive me, you must think me terribly self-righteous, especially after that outburst in the war room. I just believe… the Herald is someone who's earned our respect and I would rather you didn't make offhanded comments about him."
Dorian pretended to be incensed before letting his lips curve upward slyly. "Commander, if we are to be friends, you should let go of the preconceived notion that I, a magister's heir, am a shallow, judgmental dogmatist. While I do find the Herald's descent interesting, I could not care less, and I certainly didn't mean to be disrespectful. If he defeats the Elder One, I will gladly kiss one by one all the toes on his half-elven feet."
Cullen merely grinned. But he looked pensive, not amused. His gaze returned to Tharin, like a compass needle pointing north.
The Commander was a serious man. Dorian never doubted that. But his being so protective of someone, that was a first.
It did not take too long for Dorian to put two and two together. And when he did, he was almost disappointed in himself for not seeing it sooner. In retrospect, it could not have been more obvious if it were written on the Commander's forehead. The overwrought interactions between Tharin and Cullen of the future that would no longer come to pass, the exceptionally personal attacks in the war council, the strangely overformal attitude the Commander exhibited whenever he was in the young man's presence, and now this.
Commander Cullen Rutherford, a six-foot brick outhouse of a man, had feelings for the Herald of Andraste, who was also a man.
"Well, aren't you full of surprises," muttered the Altus as he brought the stein to his mouth. The Commander tilted his head questioningly but did not inquire further. His eyes quickly returned to the young man.
As if to prove Cullen wrong, the mages integrated into the extant structure of the Inquisition rapidly and without much of a hitch. It was partly due to the fact that they all knew they had nowhere else to go and partly due to Grand Enchanter Fiona's ability to influence them.
Tharin's first impression of the woman was underwhelming to say the least. She did not seem like the charismatic type, as she was forced to grovel before Gereon Alexius and King Alistair. But whatever method Fiona relied on, she showed a genuine aptitude when it came to managing public opinions.
Predictably, there were more than a few kerfuffles between the rebel mages and templar soldiers, but either Cassandra, Cullen, or Tharin was there to intervene swiftly each time. The Herald was grateful that the Commander was at least grudgingly facilitating the process instead of actively sabotaging it, though he always knew he could count on Cullen when it came to the great cause.
After all, the Inquisition was the Commander's first love. A love that partially contributed to his throwing away what they had started and stomping on Tharin's heart, but a real love nevertheless.
The pain washed over the young man periodically like waves. The feelings he had held for Cullen were addictive like lyrium and consequently there were withdrawal symptoms he had not anticipated. Sometimes ale helped. Sometimes hacking up practice dummies helped. Sometimes adventuring helped. Mostly, all he could do was wait for it to subside on its own. The waves come and go, and the pain came and went.
Yet in the far corner of his head was the inevitable recognition that he had hurt Cullen, enough for the man to decide to leave the Inquisition, his newfound home. It was an iceberg, only the tip of which touched upon the pain of the breakup. Underneath the waves lurked the resultant self-hatred even time would not be able to wash away. And it was irreversible. Cruel words were said, and they could not be taken back just by his wishing fervently.
But the intensity of this self-hatred made it impossible for Tharin to directly confront what he had done. So, the stalemate continued aimlessly for weeks. No one dared to bring up the quarrel between the Herald and the Commander, and both men kept their conversations short and perfunctory. Professionalism was a dam that held back the raw emotions. In the reservoir of clogged emotions, Tharin felt his soul fester, but the arrangement would hold until Cullen was gone.
The Herald refused to sign off on the mission to close the Breach in a blatant attempt to delay the inevitable. He wasn't delusional. He was aware that Leliana knew, Josephine knew, Cassandra knew, and Cullen definitely knew what was going on. After stalling for just shy of a week, he had to concede that the Inquisition was ready, and its army marched to the Temple of Sacred Ashes the next day.
The mission proved to be anticlimactic, as it should have been if it was going according to the plan. Months of preparation, weeks of strategizing, and days of careful execution had paid off.
Hundreds of warriors and mages easily secured the surrounding area and with a flick of Tharin's wrist, the Breach was gone. All it left was a hauntingly beautiful scar in the heavens, reminding everyone in Thedas that the Inquisition meant business.
A grand feast was held in honor of returning heroes, fastidiously organized by none other than Lady Josephine Montilyet, party planner extraordinaire. That night there were no divisions: humans and elves, mages and templars, all singing and dancing and drinking, celebrating the fact that they survived one of the most cataclysmic events of their lifetimes. Conspicuously absent among the joyous crowd, however, were the Herald, the Commander, and the Seeker.
Cullen exited the apothecary after checking on soldiers and mages who had been injured from the blast of magical energy that the Breach emitted. There were no casualties, and no one was seriously injured, thank the Maker. Just bruises, scuffs, and some dislocated joints. As far as military operations go, it was a resounding success. It was his final mission and it truly could not have gone better. He felt content, at least about this.
He surveyed the courtyard and found Tharin and Cassandra chatting in front of the chantry. He fixed his gaze on the hero, confident and strong, trying to memorize how he looked at the moment of triumph. It would be a memento he would take to… wherever he was going next. He took a deep breath and approached the two tall figures.
"Since the Breach is closed, I must tender my resignation as Commander of the Inquisition's forces. I will discuss with Seeker Pentaghast, and she will give you a list of potential replacements. Of course, I shall contribute financially however much needed to get a new Commander."
Tharin exhaled deeply and the Commander suddenly noticed how worn-down he looked.
"Cullen… Can we please not do this? Not tonight, surely."
Cassandra joined the conversation promptly. "Yes, Commander. I do not think this is the time or the place to talk of leaving. Why don't you just enjoy the festivities? I am sure your soldiers would appreciate seeing you there."
When Cullen did not reply, the woman continued somewhat angrily, "What about all the work we still have? We've reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain. The Inquisition's forces will be called again. Don't you at least want to see through the handover, to make sure there are no disruptions?"
"No, Seeker. I've found that… I cannot stay where my opinions are not valued, and my intentions are questioned." He knew he was letting everyone down but knowing Tharin no longer accepted him was unbearable. It was the coward's way out, yet he had to go.
Cullen turned to Tharin but refused to meet his eyes. "You will find my letter of resignation on the war table. I wish you the best, your worship. Whatever comes after my departure… please heed the advice of Seeker Pentaghast. She is the best of us."
As if to signal an end to his monologue, he heard a watch guard shout. Next, the bells all over the town were tolling. Haven was being invaded.
Cullen sprang to immediate action. With his muscles taut and his face grim, he yelled, "Forces approaching! To arms!"
The Commander ran to the gate and found a strange boy with skin so pale that he seemed to be almost translucent. When Tharin arrived, he tried to draw near, only to be blocked by a guard. The Herald waved her away and the boy began to speak in a whispery voice.
"I'm Cole. I came to warn you. To help. The templars are coming to hurt you."
Cullen raged. "The templars? Is this the Order's response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?"
The boy did not wince or change his tone. "The Red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you. You took his mages. He's very angry you took his mages." He then pointed to the mountains. "There."
On a bluff overlooking Haven stood the Elder One and a man the former Knight-Commander thought he would never again see.
"Samson…!"
Death had come a-knocking.
End Notes:
Well, this reckoning was long overdue. Like two chapters overdue.
At least we had Dorian's inner thoughts to entertain and sustain us through the angst. I hope you enjoyed them. I certainly did.
Next up, survival and revival?
Follow me, isk4649, on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new, WIP Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan.
Your thoughts, feedback, and critiques are always welcome! Thank you for reading!