A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'm gonna take maybe a week off from posting to work on the next few chapters.
...-...
Cullen slowed his steed as he approached the Chantry, not certain what to expect. The mid-afternoon light played across the fields surrounding the lonesome building, making the distant shadows in the treeline all the darker.
A splitting headache skewed his vision, making the bright light harsher than it should have been, making it feel more like an ill omen.
When Finley had left, he had decided that they would catch her on the road. While the inquisitor might have been a Wilds' apostate, Cullen doubted she would stray far from the roads, at least while in the Frostbacks. The snow was still fresh enough that the cold creeped in easily, and Finley had left her coat in the war room. As soon as she hit the edge of the valley, she'd be feeling the effects of the weather, and even without that, running on snow would be a pain. It would make sense to stay near more traveled and compacted areas.
Cullen had ridden into the valley with Cassandra, insistent that he make things right himself. However, between his pains and withdrawal, he'd barely been able to stay on his horse, and Cassandra had finally tried to send him back.
The look in her eyes...
Maker, it was as though she'd given up on him.
No doubt she hadn't wanted the troops to see their commander in such disarray, and Cullen had understood that, truly, but…
But this was his mess, and if anyone was going to clean it up, it was going to be him.
Apparently Finley had made quite the exit, leaping over a few people who had been in her way and dropping over the sides of staircases in the courtyards to cut corners.
Dorian had been one of them, and as soon as he'd seen Finley make a run for the gates, he'd grabbed his gear. He and Bull had been saddling up, along with Warden Blackwall before Cassandra and Cullen had even reached the stables.
They had slowed their pace once they were out of the valley, looking for signs that Finley had been there, but there had been nothing. Cullen had led them to the river briefly, remembering that someone had claimed she was riding along it, but there was no sign that anyone had left that way on a phantom horse or otherwise.
After that, they had picked up their pace. Cullen had tried to keep an eye out for a flare of red hair off the path, but Finley seemed to have truly disappeared into thin air.
Once it was obvious that they wouldn't be catching her along the roads, Cullen had decided to head for the Chantry and wait for her there, while Cassandra did a more thorough sweep around Skyhold.
They'd ridden their horses as hard as they could, swapping them for fresh ones at the two Inquisition outposts they passed. Well, save for Bull's. He'd ended up falling behind, with only the one Beast large enough to support him.
He'd made them promise to bring the inquisitor back in one piece and waved it off when Dorian had suggested he could stay back with him.
Despite having little time to explain what was going on, Cullen found that the others didn't seem to need it, nor did they need prodding to keep moving. Knowing that Finley was in possible danger was enough. Even as the lack of sleep tugged dark circles under their eyes and drooped their shoulders, they kept their focus.
They impressed him.
They'd reached the town, only to find that-being so far on the outskirts of civilization-most of the villagers, despite being Ferelden proud, were not avid Chantry folk. Or at least, the Chantry hadn't been built near the center of town, like in most places Cullen had been to.
When he had asked the villagers about the templars in the area, they'd directed them to a lonesome little building miles out of town-no doubt there was a story behind why it was so far off-and then asked him if he was the company that Sister Anne was expecting.
That had left him puzzled and more than a little suspicious.
The feeling of unease that had curled in his gut at that had been reciprocated by the rest of his party. Once again, they hadn't needed bidding to return to their steeds and ride.
It wasn't until he was able to see the little Chantry that the knot in his gut finally began to loosen. On the ride down, he'd imagined a plethora of scenarios, each worse than the last, including finding red templar camps or rifts or any manner of enemies that couldn't be handled on one's own. Any manner of enemies that could overwhelm a frazzled and panicked inquisitor.
However, there was no sprawling war camp or even signs that anything out of the ordinary had ever happened in so remote a place. It looked so...peaceful.
Perhaps they would be able to rest for a few days before Finley reached them. After all, she'd been on foot.
The thought of rest was both welcome and hated. His body hurt, his withdrawal only made worse by the long, hard rides and the lack of sleep.
And the guilt.
He needed the rest.
But he didn't have a right to it. He had abandoned his role as commander to chase down a woman-granted she was an important woman, but that hadn't been why he'd done it.
He'd known when he insisted on fixing this mistake that it was more personal than he was making it out to be. And after Cole's little revelation, most of Cullen's anger with Finley had subsided.
And then there was the fact that he'd lied to her, the same way she'd lied to them. Cassandra had implied it was different, but it felt the same.
And he'd be damned if he'd hold anyone to to a higher standard than himself.
No, he wouldn't be able to rest easy until they'd found Finley, and he'd had a chance to talk to her and tell her…
What, he wasn't sure.
Perhaps the next few days would do him good after all.
He tried to push the thoughts aside and focus on the tasks at hand.
Despite the villagers having told them that the templars had left two months ago, there was no sign that the building had ever been abandoned, and the familiar air of a country Chantry brought back feelings from a time he'd thought long forgotten, of feelling safe and welcome in the Maker's arms.
As he dismounted, he could swear he could see lit candles through the windows.
Perhaps it was Sister Anne's doing. Perhaps she was one of Leliana's spies, who had been contacted about heading off the inquisitor and making certain that no harm was waiting?
Or perhaps Sister Anne worked for Corypheus and was an assassin waiting to win her master's favor when the inquisitor arrived.
He rested his hand on the pommel of his blade as he took quick steps forward and motioned for the others to be ready for anything. When he had one hand on the door handle, a soft noise made him pause. He leaned against the wood, listening.
It sounded like someone was singing.
The Chant?
As his mind went back to Sister Anne, Dorian darted up and jerked open the other door. Even as Cullen scowled at him-not that the mage could see, as he was already leading the charge in-the singing stopped.
Cullen tugged his door open and stopped a step inside of the Chantry.
The candles were lit.
Work and care had been taken in this building's upkeep, or in restoring it after two months of disuse. Perhaps Sister Anne really was from the Chantry. But how had she known to expect them…?
Incense burned at a freshly cleaned statue of Andraste at the far end of the hall.
And there, standing near the statue of Andraste, was an all too familiar figure…
Dressed in a chantry sister's robes, she was speaking softly to a few villagers, though her gaze snapped up to meet his the second he could see her.
The action was all too familiar, and their eyes met, but it was...wrong.
Cullen felt like he was peering into some strange, alternate world.
The villagers nodded and smiled, patted arms and bid Cullen and the others good day as they left, leaving Cullen, Dorian, and Blackwall standing awkwardly in the doorway.
"I was going to come back in a few days."
It was so surely Finley's voice, but the whole scene was...bizarre.
Dorian strode up to her and wrapped her in a tight hug, mumbling something about being worried before abruptlly tilting her one way so that she nearly lost her balance before letting her go. He stepped back and lightly gripped her chin, inspecting her face. "I suppose this is the work of one of your glamors then?"
That was the problem.
Her eyes. They were a plain blue, no hint of that sunburst, that Fade-touch. She looked so completely...normal. It was as though he was peering into some alternate world where her magic had never come in, and she really was just a Chantry sister, tending to the locals and...
He moved forward, barely noticing as he heard the doors close behind him before Warden Blackwall's steps echoed his own.
The warden let out a soft thanks to the Maker.
"Sister Anne?" Dorian asked, crossing his arms.
Finley sighed, shoulders slumping a little as she broke the hug she'd given her fellow mage. "That was an accident. They asked me my name, and I started rambling, said something along the lines of 'sister and' and they decided I was an Anne."
Dorian let out a cackle. "And of course there was no need to correct them?"
"Finley is the inquisitor. I wanted to be nobody for a little while," Finley murmured and shrugged. "And I wanted to be able to talk to people without the whole saving the world bit hanging over every conversation. I thought I could gather information quicker that way." Her gaze moved over their group, and she stopped on Cullen, a flicker of something flashing across her face for an instant.
Fear? Regret?
It was gone too quickly for him to be sure, and he prayed it wasn't fear.
"Please let me be no one, just for a little while longer."
"I understand the want for it, but," Warden Blackwall trailed off, not sure what to say. Finally, he murmured. "A lot of people were worried for you."
Finley looked lost a moment before tugging at her robes as though to make them fit a bit better. "I...this wasn't exactly Inquisition business, so-"
"How did you get here before us?" Cullen interrupted, mind finally beginning to move again, after he managed to get past those unfamiliar eyes. "You didn't take any of the horses from Skyhold, and we took one of the most direct routes...even if yours was straighter, on foot-"
"I caught a ride from a friend. They're very fast when they're in the water."
Closing his eyes, Cullen drew in a slow breath as Dorian laughed and told her to keep her secrets. That she was already deflecting from the truth was...
He tried not to think of it.
"You need to come back," Cullen said, voice even and unintentionally detached.
"I'm just waiting for Solas," Finley replied, floundering for what to do a moment before taking Dorian's bag and motioning for them to follow her over to a small side room. Cullen knew what it would be before he even saw it. Most Ferelden Chantries followed a similar structural build-humble, but useful. This room had two rows of small cots, eight total in the room, not that Cullen could imagine that many people ever being here.
The Revered Mother would have private chambers for her and any templars or sisters on the other side of the building.
"You all look like you could use some rest," Finley said, giving them a small smile. "When you wake up, I can get you something to eat. There's some fresh bread and cheese from town. I told them not to bring me anything, but they were excited to have someone from the Chantry back." She paused before adding, "I can take care of your...horses, too."
At that, Dorian and Warden Blackwall both let out tired laughs, turning on their heels and heading back out to make sure their steeds hadn't wandered off. Cullen followed behind Finley mechanically.
She led them to a small stable that could barely be called such. There were but two stalls, though Warden Blackwall, ever the handyman, was quick to find a few odds and ends to make a makeshift third one for his own steed.
As they headed back toward the main building, Finley paused, matching Cullen's weary gait as the other two moved ahead. "I'm sorry. I-"
Cullen's brow pinched together as he looked down at her, his mind a little muddled from the pain and lack of sleep. Whatever she was about to say cut off as she abruptly reached out to steady him.
Even as he tried to argue that he was fine, she called the others, and Warden Blackwall dropped back to Cullen's other side to help him walk. He assured them they didn't need to help him, but had to admit that the world had gotten...foggy, very abruptly. His head kept snapping up as though he'd fallen asleep walking with them, but his mind was too clouded to feel foolish.
Making it to the Chantry, out of his gear, and into bed was little more than a bleary dream, but the next time he was fully aware of where he was, he was sitting up in bed, trying to steady his breathing after one of his usual nightmares.
He was gripped with terror as he looked around at the unfamiliar place, though Dorian's snoring was what finally caught his attention and pulled him back to the present. The sound was repetitive and relaxed and it assuaged his fears that there might be demons lurking in the shadows. His terrors faded and he realized slowly where he was.
In the little Chantry in the middle of nowhere, with Dorian, Blackwall...and Finley.
Even with the moons' light coming in through two windows near the center of the room, the room was swaddled in shadows, and he had to feel his way to the door, nearly tripping on someone's boots. Warden Blackwall's, from the feel of it. That or his own.
As soon as he opened the door to the main chamber, however, he found the candles were still lit.
Finley sat on the front pew, still in that Chantry robe. She was staring up at the statue of Andraste as he came out, her hair falling down to her shoulders, surprisingly neat.
He couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps he was still dreaming.
He pulled the door almost closed behind him, not wanting to make too much noise, and stood there, watching her, not sure what to do, what to say.
Maker, he'd come all the way out here, all the way after her, only to get tongue-tied now?
"When I was a girl, Ser Caudry would set me on his shoulders so that I could help clean Andraste." Her voice was faint, but somehow carried in the silence. "It was important to keep the dust off her, and I liked to help."
Cullen hesitated before moving and sitting down beside her. He struggled for something to say. Anything.
Nothing came to mind, aside from a steady drum of a headache behind his eyes.
"After we were done, we'd say part of the Chant, and then it was time for bed." She looked down at her hands, where they lay limp in her lap. Her marked hand was gloved to hide the magic's glow. "This was my first home."
"It's nice." The words fell awkwardly off his tongue, and he instantly felt foolish.
"It really was."
Silence settled over them. His head throbbed, and he could feel the bile rising up in his throat, but he tried to swallow it down and focus on the present, on something to say, on her.
As he peered at Finley, already thinking to apologize, she nodded to herself, again looking up at Andraste. "I thought that was her. Andraste." She motioned to the statue. "Really her. They said the mages had hurt her, too, so I thought...while my mages-my parents...while they had bled me for their magic, her mages had turned her to stone. I wanted to keep her safe and clean until we could save her from the curse."
Cullen looked up at the statue as well, imagining what it might be like to think it a literal person, trapped and silent, waiting for someone to save her.
It felt so...lonely.
"I decided I would save her," Finley said, a dry laugh following. "I was going to be a templar, and save her and everyone else from the monsters, the same way I'd been saved." She looked down at her hands, at her marked hand, and curled it into a fist. "I think it's obvious how that turned out."
"I'm glad you weren't a templar," Cullen said before he could stop himself. He felt like he was bumbling along on a thin rope, with everything he wanted to say too far from his reach. Looking down at his feet, he kept talking. "I'm glad they could never leash you."
"There is that."
He dared a glance at her to see that she was watching him now with those blue eyes. She looked so incredibly tired. Not from a long trip or a few days without sleep. This was a weariness that seeped in deeper than that, all that way into one's core.
It looked like defeat.
She stood up abruptly and walked toward the room opposite where the others rested. When she reached the doorway, she motioned for him to follow. Again, he moved mechanically, stopping in the doorway to find her standing beside a long table that had different books scattered across it. He recognized most of them as Chantry logs and reports, though there was some loose leaf paper that looked more like spellcraft at the far end.
"This is where my magic came in." Finley drummed her knuckles once against the table. "My templars would go out sometimes, to patrol, but they always came back safe and well. For three years, I learned it was okay for them to disappear for a day or so, because they would always come back."
"And then one of them was hurt," Cullen interrupted, remembering what she'd told him of her magic on the way to Skyhold.
Maker, but he was doing well, wasn't he? The pain throbbed behind his eyes, and he tried to ignore it. Nausea swept through him like a cold wind, and he steeled himself against it. He wouldn't let himself fall apart, not now, especially when Finley was talking to him. Really, truly, talking.
To him. This is what he had wanted for so long. Not even because the Inquisition needed it. He'd wanted her to confide in him, to trust him.
He couldn't falter now that it was finally happening, even if...
It had been hounding him the whole trip, the nausea-and it was another reason that he'd been so adamant about coming. As he was, the army would be in better hands with Cassandra. This would be time for her to look over what Ser Barris had done versus what he could do. It would be time for her to make the same conclusions he'd come to.
He wasn't fit to lead an army.
As he swallowed, Finley stepped away from the table, moving back to stand next to him. "Ser Ross and Ser Neill carried Ser Caudry in. There was blood everywhere, and Mother Genevieve was sobbing that he was going to die." Her eyes moved over the table as though she could see the man lying there even now. "I didn't want him to. Heroes weren't supposed...they weren't supposed to die."
"If you don't want to talk-" It felt contradictory to say, but the pain in her voice was palpable, and he couldn't bear it.
"That was the problem with me, was it not? That I don't talk enough about my past?" There was a bitterness in her voice, though when he looked at her, she looked more hurt than angry. "I healed him, but there was blood everywhere, and I got some on my hands. Mother Genevieve started screaming about blood magic, and when I looked at Ser Caudry-"
Her voice caught a moment, and she fell silent.
They stood there, in the quiet darkness, and even with the door open behind him, Cullen felt trapped. He wanted to insist that she didn't need to go into such detail, that simple names of who they needed to look into would be fine.
"Have you ever looked into someone's eyes as they stopped loving you?"
The question was quiet, almost lost behind the hammering in his head. Before he could ask if she'd really said what he thought, she was talking again, her voice distant, detached.
"They'd figured that with my history, my exposure to blood magic as a child, the Circle would never...be safe. They worried that fear of what could be would lead to ostracization or tranquility, if I wasn't simply put to the sword to be safe. They'd always said they would take me to the Avvar if I came into magic." She shrugged. "It's one thing to theorize about something that might never be. To imagine being daring and taking a forbidden path. It's another to actually go back on everything you've been taught your whole life."
Finley was staring at the table again, expression blank.
"But they didn't take you to the Circle."
Finley didn't respond for a moment before moving over to the table and sitting down. She ran her fingers over the nearest log, tracing the letters with her finger. "Ser Caudry was the best man I ever knew. He slew my mother and brought me home. He was patient with me through my night terrors and told me stories of a world that was so much...more than anything I'd ever known. Ser Ross and Ser Neill were suspicious of me at first. Mother Genevieve, too. Maybe Ser Caudry was too, but he never showed it. He'd show me around the Chantry, and let me help with carrying little things. He'd talk to me like I wasn't the broken little creature that they'd found in the woods." Her hand slipped away from the journal. "The others came to treat me the same, but he was the first. Ser Caudry was the best man in the world."
Cullen moved away from the door, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder, though her next words stopped him.
"He was the one who banished my monsters, and he was the one who led the templars after Ser Neill and me."
Even the screaming in his veins seemed to fall to silence as he stared at her. She looked so small, so...lost.
"Ser Neill was the only one to stick to the plan. He said Ser Ross was staying to make sure Ser Caudry would get better, but...I don't know. He said a lot of things to try to make me feel safe in the end. He told me the others would have come if they could, that they loved me and that this was for the best. I knew he was lying. I'd seen the look in Ser Caudry's eyes when I healed him, before I passed out."
"Finley-"
"When they caught up, Ser Neill tried to talk to them. Tried to tell them that I wouldn't hurt anyone and to just let us go. They said I'd already corrupted a templar. Ser Neill drew his sword and told me to run, but I just stood there because I didn't know what I'd do without him. I didn't know where I was supposed to go. And I'd seen Ser Caudry with the others, with our hunters, so I couldn't…" A shudder ran through her. "Ser Neill always fought with a shield, but he'd been in such a hurry to get me out of the Chantry, in such a hurry because he realized Ser Caudry had sent for the Circle templars, that he left his behind. If he'd had his shield, maybe…"
Cullen's throat was dry and his veins felt like they were filled with lead. He didn't want to know what came next.
The reports had said there had been a dragon. Let there have been a dragon. It could have swooped down and given her a chance to run or-
"Even if I'd seen Ser Caudry coming up behind me, I wouldn't have expected…" Finley stared down at the journal, at the words written there, and then abruptly shoved the book away. "When he ran me through, I must have made a noise, because Ser Neill looked back at me. That's when they slit his throat. The next thing I knew, I was waking up beside a fellow apostate's campfire." She finally looked up at him, expression so...blank. "Flemeth's fire. She-"
Without thinking, Cullen turned away and stumbled out of the room and toward the main doors. The bile that was building up inside of him, combined with his growing horror and fears was too much. The lack of sleep, the fire in his veins, everything about the present was too much.
He had to get away from that story, this place, the truth of it all that gnawed at his gut.
Before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, retching.
He wanted to go back and argue, to insist that what she said couldn't be true. The templar order couldn't have been that…
But he already knew it was.
Maker, but he'd seen his fellow templars cast out for passing notes from mages to lovers. If he'd known a templar who tried to take a mage child away from the Circles...he would have assumed demons at work. He would have hunted the man down the same as the others and-
He threw up again.
He could see the terrified children in Kinloch Hold, the terrified mages in Kirkwall. And for the first time he didn't doubt that in those scenarios, he'd been the monster, not demons, not them.
When he was a boy, the templars had been heroes. They'd protected the innocent, be it regular people from malicious magic or mages from the people around them who feared them wrongly because of rumors.
What made him even sicker was that he still couldn't let go of the need, the comfort of the thought of the Order, of what it should be, protection from dark magics. It so obviously victimized the people it should have protected, right along with the people within its ranks.
Maker forgive him, forgive them all, but the Order did not do His work. And Cullen had been one of the many cogs in the machine, turning it further and further from the Maker's grace.
He'd known for a while, not that he'd ever been able to look at it. The thought would come creeping up on him, but he'd always buried it away, unable to look at the monster he'd been. But since Adamant, he hadn't been able to shake the notion.
He wanted to atone for what he'd done. He'd told more than a few people, and yet how could he when he couldn't even face what he'd done? What he'd been complicit in?
Even as he bitterly thought that he likely wasn't much different from Ser Caudry, he remembered something Finley had said in Haven.
That he'd reminded her of one of the best people she'd known.
His stomach lurched again, though there was nothing left in it. Instead, he dry heaved, fingers digging into the grass and dirt, throat burning. When he'd finished, he barely managed to move away from his sick before crumpling against the ground, trying to catch his breath.
The pain in his head hammered wildly, and it seemed every muscle in his body ached from both the ride and the longing. That miserable longing... He could barely catch his breath as fire burned through his veins, a promise that he could forget it all if he just...took it.
He didn't know how long he was like that before he realized that someone was rubbing circles on his back. As he reached up to rub his mouth clean with the back of his hand, it came away with snot and tears as well, and he realized that he'd been crying.
Slowly, so painfully slowly, he managed to sit up, still struggling to rein in his breathing.
A cup of water appeared in his vision, and he took it, gulping down the contents and then slumping down. His back hit something, and he looked up, bewildered to find the Chantry wall behind him.
At least he'd made it out of the building, even if it hadn't been very far.
Turning toward whoever had been sitting with him, he froze when he saw Finley sitting there, offering him a rag. He took it and buried his face in it, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head against them.
Then, abruptly, he remembered what Cole had said before he'd left the marker on the map. Something about the light in eyes going out and...
Looking up at her, he reached out and gripped her hand, a terror curling in him. "You're not a monster. I don't think-" His throat was raw and caught his voice as he tried to say more.
Finley blinked, surprise in those eerie eyes-how strange that he was more unsettled by the lack of that ethereal fire now. Then she patted his hand. "I'm well aware of what I am and am not, Commander Rutherford. It's everyone else that keeps getting confused about it."
"I'm not," he said, instantly. "I didn't think you were a monster, not ever. I thought you-I thought Cole was going to kill you. I-"
Memories of Kinloch Hold, of Reese Amell and so many other mages and templars alike who had given their trust to the wrong people bubbled up in his mind, overwhelming him.
"Andraste's flaming tits, but what did you do to the poor man?" Dorian's voice interrupted.
Anger curling in him, he looked up and glared at the mage, who was standing in the Chantry's doorway, looking down at them. However, before he could say anything, magic curled at Dorian's fingertips.
Finley reached out and caught his wrist, and Dorian stopped, puzzled.
"He doesn't like magic cast on him."
Dorian stood there a moment, looking from her to him and back before finally pulling his hand free and crossing his arms. "What, you just want to suffer?"
I deserve it.
The words caught in his throat, and instead he simply glared at Dorian before looking at Finley, dread curling in him. He needed her to know.
Ser Caudry had seen her magic and decided she was something wicked. She'd stopped being the little girl he'd protected and become part of the dangers in the world.
Cullen had never thought that. He needed her to know.
"You don't look very well, commander," Finley murmured, reaching out and putting the back of her hand against his forehead. She looked up at Dorian. "I have some healing tonics back in the left room, in the corner. If you could?"
As Dorian nodded, he turned away, shaking his head. "A spell would fix things much faster than any tonic."
Finley ignored him, instead inspecting Cullen, feeling his wrists for his pulse and lifting his chin, turning his head this way and that. He tried to wave her off, and she frowned. "Commander, you don't look well at all. I thought...it was just the ride, but this is more." She mulled it over a moment before whispering, "This is the withdrawal?"
"I'm fi-" he stopped himself, looking away. There was concern on her features, despite everything, and he couldn't meet that worried gaze. He didn't deserve sympathy. "It will pass."
"Unlikely, if you keep pushing yourself so hard," Finley murmured. "I've seen people fall to the common cold because they wouldn't give themselves a moment's rest. I was going to wait until Solas got here to head back, anyway, but now I think I'd like to make sure you get some rest as well."
"How can you stand to be here?"
Finley blinked, surprised. Then, a gentleness swept over her features, and she looked around. "I had three years here where I was safe and loved. Three years of being cared for, wanted. It's more than some people get in a lifetime." She shrugged. "A bad end doesn't take all that away."
Cullen stared at her, at an utter loss for words. How many times did he begrudge his time in the Order, all of it, because of the bad? How could she separate it? How could she…?
How many others had the Order damned because of fear and precautions?
He thought of the times he'd slain mages who had been fleeing, who would rather fight to the death than allow themselves to be taken back to the Circle.
How many of them had been good people who could have lived on their own? How many of them had deserved more than the miserable fate they'd been dealt?
A little voice in the back of his mind whispered, all of them.
He threw up again.
A shudder passed through him as he felt her hand on his, squeezing it in reassurance as she murmured something about him being alright with rest.
He didn't deserve this.
But it seemed, more and more and more, that no one got what they deserved, did they?