Frozen Memories - 02

(A Dragon Age fan fiction)

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Circle of Magi - Ferelden

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At dawn, Cullen rose slowly, woken by the rampant rapping of Commander Greagoir passing his quarters. However, in truth, Cullen had not slept all evening; he simply stared at a candle, praying that dawn never came. If I never sleep, he thought, I'll never wake and find the risen sun.

Cullen's eyes felt dry; he knew they were likely red and massaged them with his palms.

He shared his quarters with a dozen other Templars in the basement of the Circle Tower. Like the Tower above – comprised of several floors for the different echelons of magi - the basement comprised of four levels: the armory, barracks and bathhouse on one, a Chantry below that, a recreational space for off-duty Templars – to drink, play card games and rest – on the third and below them all, deep in the belly of the earth, the Circle dungeons; cramped, damp, dark cells, sconces for light – for there were no windows – and a chamber filled with brands of lyrium, caskets lined with iron spikes, racks and all manner of cruel instruments for torture.

Each morning, they were woken by the senior Templars and broke their fast in the dining hall, daytime patrols drinking lyrium and donning steel in the armory beforehand. Evening patrols carried daggers in leather sheathes and bottles of lyrium deep in their cloak pockets but no one in recent Circle memory ever recalled having need of them. After breakfast, evening patrols slept for hours more, before being roused again for afternoon practice and supper.

Cullen followed his fellow Templars into the bathhouse, a circular room in the basement below the dining hall. Banners hung from the walls, bearing the blazing sword of the Templars in silver on a field of scarlet. Hearths kept the water coming in from the lake outside warm in dozens of deep, stone tubs. A hazy steam hung in the air, smelling of the herbs and spices that a couple elven Tranquil dropped into the water. Perfumes, oils and soaps were a commodity the Circle could seldom afford; herbs and exotic spices from Orlais, Rivain and the Free Marches kept the dank odours of blood, soil and sweat at bay – although foreigner mages and Templars brought into the Circle oft still complained Fereldens smelled. Dog lords, they called them, not simply because of the great Mabari war hounds many a lord kept in his kennels.

Cullen disrobed, his grey tunic damp with night sweat, and slipped into one of the tubs. A dozen other Templars accompanied him; men covered in coarse hair and faded scars. Like mages, Templars came from everywhere in Thedas, not simply the country of one's birth. Serving the Maker meant going where one was needed, not purely where one was comfortable. Thus, some Templars were accented Antivans, dark-skinned Rivani's or the Game-playing Orlesians, pale as driven snow. Before joining, some Templars were commonfolk, descendants of grand names or mercenaries and thieves, finding redemption for past sins in the Maker's service. A few bore brands on their arms, chests and thighs; former slaves from Tevinter bearing the mark of their former masters. A dozen others had tattoos: dragons, griffons, oak trees and indecipherable symbols mimicking the Dalish tradition.

Cullen half-listened as his brothers discussed dreams and exchanged japes, their voices echoing off the hard, stone walls and melding together – a deep rumble. He leaned back, rinsing the dirt, dust and sweat from his blonde curls and combing the knots out with his long fingers. He closed his eyes, pinched his nose, and let the warm water flow over him, his skin burning. He held his breath, reciting:

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity…

Darkness embraced him; he opened his mouth and bubbles burst forth and he sat up, choking down a mournful scream. A black-haired, caramel-skinned Antivan slapped him on the back, laughing at his foolishness; he coughed up mouthfuls of bath water and brushed damp curls from his eyes. His face was pink-purple and splotchy in places and his eyes suddenly swelled, his vision blurry and burning. He moved away from his companions, getting out of the tub and drying off with a coarse towel before they could his tears. A grown man – a Templar – did not weep.

Cullen dressed in fitted grey breeches made of ram's wool, a chainmail surcoat and a crimson tunic with gold trim and a five-pointed sunburst along the bottom hem, a crimson belt cinched about his slender waist. Carroll, a bleary-eyed man, helped him into his silverite breastplate, gauntlets and greaves. He pulled on straps, and buckled snaps and fixed his pauldrons on his shoulders. Carroll was a dim-witted Templar a few years older than Cullen, left brain-damaged after consuming lyrium in larger quantities than was allowed. Although distilled lyrium did not give Templars their anti-magic powers, it made them more potent and lyrium addiction was a constant risk; but most Templars did not feel its effects for many years. Carroll had somehow consumed much and more and now seemed a child more than a man, easily manipulated and of little use. But he was a brother still and served simply.

Cullen found Lion's Pride in the armory, as per usual, and sharpened the burgundy edge with a black whetstone; a deadly edge on a deadly sword. He prayed he'd no reason to use it today.

In the dining hall, Cullen forced himself to break his fast on bread, cheese and honeyed milk, but everything made him ill. He looked about the dining hall, scanning the faces of the mages, Templars and Tranquil and saw Solona in the middle with another apprentice mage, Jowan. Perhaps sensing Cullen's gaze, Solona looked up but her face quickly darkened; she was angry still – and Cullen did not blame her.

He'd not seen or spoken with her since that dark night in the Circle courtyard, dusted in snow. But today…

Cullen rose and crossed the dining hall, his breakfast forgotten. He moved passed Solona's table and in the crowded hall, he stumbled. A few mages hid smirks – they could not laugh openly, surrounded by so many swords – and a senior Templar snorted, spitting bread crumbs into the face of the man sitting across from him. A brief silence fell. Solona stared; big blue eyes showing a glimmer of the love she still felt for him. Cullen straightened his skirts and bolted from the hall, humiliated.

He hid in the library, perusing a book on elven mythology but did not comprehend the words. An elderly Tranquil – a grey-skinned woman he'd seen arranging books more oft than not – was busy dusting thick tomes high on a ladder and paid him no notice. A couple apprentice mages glanced his way warily, drawn to Lion's Pride about his waist and quickly abandoned their work pretending to be busy elsewhere.

A few long moments passed before she appeared, eyeing him suspiciously. She was beautiful, dressed elegantly in a ceremonial green robe and a leather bodice embroidered with lavender stones and cloth of gold trim. A belt of gold links cinched her small waist, accentuated by the Circle pendant in the center. Fennec fur lined the heavy hood draped from her shoulders, pinned with a golden Chantry sunburst.

He saw she had his note – a hastily scribed message on discarded parchment; he knew she'd not speak with him otherwise and dropped it at her feet when he'd stumbled.

Cullen stepped forward slightly and seeing that she was not running, drew her against him and kissed her lips softly, once, twice. Solona yielded and opened her mouth, feeling his tongue against her own. Cullen's fingers brushed her breasts lightly, making her shiver beneath her cloak.

"I'm sorry," he said afterwards. Brown ringlets framed her face; he brushed one aside gently. "I did not mean the things I said."

"I'm sorry too. I understand why you…" She turned away so he would not see her tears. "I know we can't ever be lovers. Chantry law forbids it – not between Templars and commonfolk perhaps – were that we were commonfolk…

"And I know we can't even hide it. Marker forbid I ever found myself with child – if that child were born magic…I could not bear it. I know you are doing your duty and I realize how much your faith means to you. Faith is part of who you are; part of what I love about you. I'd no right to expect to be placed above that. And I'm sorry."

She smiled and dried her eyes. "I'd like to be friends…if you'd have me still?"

"Always," Cullen smiled and cupped her face with an armoured hand; it was cold on her skin, but Solona felt the warmth beneath. "I love you and I'll always be here for you." He kissed her softly again, knowing it was like to be the last time. His expression soured suddenly and he stepped back. "I must needs tell you…I never asked for this, but I've been summoned to your Harrowing today. Greagoir has chosen me to...neutralize you - should you fail today."

"And would you?"

Cullen hesitated before responding. Could he tell her the truth? In the end, he said, "I...I serve the Chantry and the Maker, Solona."

A pained expression slipped across her face; she'd clearly not expecting his news. But she smiled. "We all must do our duty, I suppose."

A Harrowing was an apprentice mage's final test. If successful, apprentices could remain simple mages or acquire students and become enchanters – junior or senior and eventually First or Grand in old age, managing their own Towers. But Harrowings were also difficult examinations. Harrowings saw apprentices entering the Fade, physically, and confronting demons of lust, pride and rage. If the apprentice could not defeat the demon, he or she became known as an abomination and served as a living vessel for the demon in the real world. Supervising Templars would be required by Chantry law to destroy the demon in its newly possessed body.

Exemption from Harrowings required apprentices to accept the Rite of Tranquility voluntarily, abandoning their dreams, emotions and magical powers for freedom from demonic possession. A brand of concentrated lyrium was burned onto the apprentice's brow, destroying their connection to the Fade forever and leaving them Tranquil. For some, the eternal freedom from possession made the idea of Tranquility a blessing; but for most, the Rite was a curse – a punishment.

"Be careful Solona," Cullen said desperately. "Do not make me kill you."

"Cullen, don't worry." Smiling, Solona brushed her finger down his cheek. "I've no plans to die today."

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Afternoon sunlight came in through coloured glass windows with floral latticework, dancing on the tiled floor in rainbows. Flames flickered in sconces on the columns holding up a barrel-vaulted ceiling of ornate Andrastian carvings. Between each column stood a bowl of glowing lyrium, as much for the apprentice mages as for the supervising Templars. Cullen stood between Greagoir, Irving and Ser Theodore, fingering his longsword nervously. A fourth rookie Templar escorted Solona into the Harrowing chamber, his face hidden behind a helmet of sculpted silverite.

Greagoir and Irving took turns explaining how the Harrowing worked and what would happen if Solona failed in her task. Cullen felt her gaze on him, a flash of nervousness – only briefly, so the others would not notice. He nodded once, risking a small smile of reassurance. Cullen felt ill. His muscles tightened almost painfully beneath his armour, augmented by lyrium. And his fingertips tingled with dispelling magic; Cullen gripped his sword to keep them from trembling. Deep in his breast, his heart tittered.

As Greagoir and Irving settled back between Cullen, Ser Theodore and the rookie Templar, the Harrowing officially began. Her first task required Solona to display the magic she'd been perfecting since joining the Circle. Demonic possession was not the only risk to befall mages; many children discovered their magical powers accidentally, after burning farmsteads, freezing crops in summer and occasionally, killing someone. Controlling one's powers ensured future accidents never occurred within (or without) Circle walls.

Gripping her staff tightly, Solona started by channeling magic from the Fade; the blue crystal on the end of her staff began glowing. Irving presented her with a bird, crippled after crashing into the window a day passed. She cupped the bird in her palm and closed her eyes; her lips moved silently and glittering green light formed on the bird's broken wing, binding bone beneath feather. Afterwards, the bird chirped and darted into the latticework, singing sweetly – as if it had never been injured.

Every mage needed healing magic, but Solona was an elementalist; her powers resided in nature – earth, fire, ice, lightening, the wind. A chest of black dirt lay at her feet. She felt the buried seeds within and channeled magic around them. At first, nothing happened; soon, the seeds split, sprouting roots thin as hairs. Only Solona knew that they had spouted inside the chest – she could see them in the back of her mind, stretching and twisting in the confines of the chest. A flower grew from the black dirt, growing larger, thicker. A branch budded from one side, then another, then another. Beneath, the chest creaked and warped and finally broke, dirt and roots spilling onto the floor. The tree continued growing, guided by her magic. Branches reached like the crooked fingers of a crone for the ceiling. The chamber dimmed as leaves blossomed, shrouding the firelight on the walls. At last, oranges sprang from little white flowers, ripening and falling onto the floor with a sickening squish.

Fingers numbing, her magic formed icy roots that moved with a purpose, like malicious worms eating her tree from the inside out. Frost killed the blossoms, changing fruit into fragile stones that shattered upon hitting the floor. Leaved withered. Her tree was dead in moments; a grey, sickly thing.

Arms raised, a gust of icy wind from Solona's staff extinguished the flames on the walls, leaving them all in darkness. Fire flowered in Solona's hand, hovering just above her skin and bathing her face in orange light. She did not feel the flame's heat burning her skin. A ball fired into each sconce reignited the kindling – grass, leaves and twigs – and brought light back into the chamber.

Irving nodded solemnly. The first part of the Harrowing was over; Solona must needs enter the Fade now and face her demons. The confidence Cullen had seen in those beautiful, blue eyes faded; fear formed in its place.

Approaching one of the fonts scattered about the chamber, she brushed her fingers over the glowing lyrium. A clap of light – like lightning – sprang from the font; for some time, Cullen squinted, blinded. Moments passed; the bright light faded. He blinked several times and saw Solona sway. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, leaving only the whites and she fell still in trance. Cullen prayed for her – Maker, grant her the strength to endure this trial.

An hour passed. Daylight waned and shadows crawled like monsters across the tiles. Cullen's fingers rapped the hilt of Lion's Pride. He reminded himself that time did not pass in the Fade the same way as it did in the real world. An hour in the real world could pass as but a minute in the Fade – or the other way around. But eventually, Greagoir and the senior Templars would decide that enough time had passed and presume Solona had failed. She would be killed.

Another half hour passed before the apprentice finally moved. She shifted slightly, blinking. But the blue glow in her eyes remained. Cullen shivered suddenly. He was cold - colder than he should've been inside - and noticed plumes forming over his nose as he breathed. He looked about; frost slithered across the windows, and snow was falling indoors. The other Templars noticed too. Something was wrong.

Fissures of lyrium spidered down her face like cracks in glass. She started laughing quietly, deep in the back of her throat. The voice crawling from her throat was not the soft, sweet voice Cullen knew and loved, but something darker, deep and rough – like stones grinding together. Maker, no…Solona!

"Cullen!" Greagoir shouted.

Cullen's eyes burned, but he gnashed his teeth together and drew Lion's Pride. The abomination in Solona's skin turned and grinned – but the grin looked grotesque somehow. The abomination fired ice spears at him, but he raised his shield and each spear crashed into the burning sword on the front, making deep dents in solid steel and chipping the crimson paint.

Greagoir, Ser Theodre and the rookie Templar flanked her, each glowing with dispelling magic. The abomination summoned a mighty tempest and knocked the other Templars back before they could dispel her magic. Cullen hid behind his shield as much for protection from the wind as from her power. He slipped on the icy tiles as he crept forwards in the direction he still thought she stood. Frost made his lashes stick together as he blinked; ice coated his beard, making it white as a bear's fur. Cullen's face had gone numb, his lips were blue, cracked and bleeding; he could taste the blood on his tongue. But finally he saw her, just a blurry, grey silhouette at first, then a beautiful monstrosity.

"Cullen, don't worry. I've no plans to die today."

Fight, Solona. Cullen thought bitterly. Do not make me kill you. Fight this!

But deep inside, he knew. The woman he loved was already gone. He'd never again feel her lips on his or sit with her in the courtyard, making cities in the midnight snow.

Cullen dropped his shield and dispelled the abominations magic with a blast of blue-hued energy. She stumbled, her magic cut off for just a moment; dispel spells did not last long but enough for Cullen. He sprang forward – Maker, forgive me… - and drew her against him, as he'd done earlier in the library; this time, as he held her, his lips never found hers; his fingers never brushed her breast. Instead, Lion's Pride devoured it. She coughed, covering his cheeks in blood and spittle. The blue glow faded from her eyes. The sleet and snow and fierce winds died, leaving the chamber cold and desolate as the Frostback Mountains in winter.

He cradled her in his lap like a child.

"Cullen…?" She trembled and he held her hand tightly. Whatever demon had possessed her was gone now, for its path into the real world had severed. Blood seeped onto the Templar's tunic, leaving scarlet smears. A cry fluttered over her lips; she was in pain. "Cullen!" Help me... said the glimmer in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry…" he said. Solona closed her eyes; he felt the life slip from her like seeds in the wind. Cullen did not cry for her – not now; perhaps tonight, when no one could see his tears. Cullen cupped her face gently and smiled:

"Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's Right Hand and be Forgiven.

"And know that I loved you," he said.

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After the failed Harrowing, the Tranquil brought her body down into the basement, cleaned her and dressed her in funeral robes and laid her out upon a dais in the Circle's Chantry, a large chamber housing enough pews for the Circle's devout and a cgolden icon of Andraste at one end, her arms lifted up in reverence. A bowl of sacred flames lay at her feet; the Tranquil kept the flames lit day and night, adding fragrant oils and kindling every hour or so. Embroidered tapestries bearing the Chantry sunburst in gold on russet, Circle heraldry and flaming sword of the Templars in silver on scarlet hung on the walls. A casket made of polished rosewood lay on the floor near Andraste's flames. Inside the casket, Solona's body lay, fingers laced loosely atop her breast.

Earlier, the Tranquil dressed her in her loveliest robes – a cream dress embroidered in gold and ivory pearls around her bosom, flowing, misty sleeves of pale silk and a heavy, white wolf pelt she'd brought from Kirkwall; the Amell family heraldry embellished on the back in black. A braid of chestnut crowned her brow, cloth of gold strands woven amidst brown curls. She looked oddly beautiful, Cullen thought.

He insisted on spending the entire evening holding vigil by her side. A human Tranquil named Owain brought him his supper – ale, beef stew, cheese and a heel of blackened bread – but he did not eat; eventually rats started chewing on the bread and cheese. Protective spells kept spirits from possessing Solona's body – changing her into an evil, powerful Reverent. But Cullen kept watch even still. She's suffered enough, he thought.

Candles cast long shadows on the floor and spilled wax congealed on the floor, marking the passing time. At dawn, Greagoir brought him a heel of bread and a cup of honeyed milk. "Cullen; eat," he said. But Cullen didn't seem to hear him.

"O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat." he prayed, hoping the senior Templar would grow impatient and go. But Greagoir remained.

"Cullen, I sympathize with you," he said solemnly.

"My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your Endless Pride."

"I know – I understand – your despair."

"My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your Grace. Touch me with fire, that I might be cleansed." Could he? he wondered. Even if he knew of Cullen's feelings for Solona, Greagoir had never slain the only person he loved in this world. Greagoir couldn't understand Cullen's despair even if he tried. "Tell me I have sung to Your Approval."

"Cullen!" Greagoir snapped; the candles shivered.

Cullen dropped his clasped hands and rose slowly. "Forgive me, Ser. I've never…I've killed men before – bandits, mostly. A couple malificar, once. But Circle mages…I never thought…"

Greagoir nodded. "Circle mages seldom give us reason to do them any harm. Chantry Law forbids forming relationships with mages, though it's not uncommon for mages and Templars to grow – for lack of a better word – fond of one another. But killing mages is not our duty; protecting them from themselves – and countless others from them – is. Killing is sometimes necessary, t'is true. But remember, Cullen, that you are a champion of the Maker; all that we – that you – do is His Will."

Andraste's face looked upwards, but Cullen searched the contours of her visage for guidance. He'd prayed all day and night and found no solace from her or from the Maker. But perhaps…perhaps he was blaming himself unnecessarily. Andraste's human husband, Maferath, betrayed her for power. Tevinter burned her because they feared her - feared losing their power. Solona betrayed me, Cullen thought, curling his fingers into firsts. I only did the Maker's Will. But she accepted the demon's power and became a monster - she made me do it!

Bowing slightly, Cullen nodded and crossed his arms in the traditional Chantry salute. "Forgive me, Ser, for troubling you. I've not been myself as late. But my vigil has left me renewed. Andraste's flames have cleansed me and I am reborn – better, stronger, than before." Maker, harden my heart, that I may never again falter in my tasks. Harden my heart, that I may never again know love…

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A day later, they cremated Solona's body in the Circle courtyard on a pyre made of frosted kindling. A gentle snow started around midday, dancing in a soft wind, and continued falling now, covering Solona's face in a glittering icy mask. As customary, every mage, Templar and Tranquil attended, covered in capes and cloaks and heavy pelts. He knew each of the attending mages by name: Abernath and Anders – a cynical mage who'd attempted escape from the Circle Tower six times – and his close friend Karl. Cera, Eadric, an anxious little mage named Florian, Godwin, Ines the botanist, Leorah, Niall, Petra, apprentices Keili, Kinnon and Jowan, a blind mage called Sweeny, Torrin, Uldred and a grey-haired older woman named Wynne. Furry little creatures huddled together for warmth encircled on all sides by Templars. Cullen, dressed in armour, crimson robes and a cloak lined with grey wolf fur, stiflingly warm, drew his hood up. As a born Ferelden, he fared the chill far better than the Antivans, Marchers, Orlesians and Rivaini – the northerners knew nothing of the cold.

Chantry sisters from the mainland stood a dais behind her pyre, reciting Canticles from the Chant of Light: Andraste, Benedictions, Transfigurations and Trials. Andrastian mages joined the sisters and Templars in singing hymns like Andraste's Ashes, Eyes of the Maker, Heaven's Light and The Dawn Will Come.

Enchanter Irving said some final words as Circle leader and placed a flaming torch at Solona's feet. In moments, the fire lapping at the frosted logs ignited; ashes and snow dancing together in the grey sky. Cullen's nose crinkled; her burning flesh smelt awful, despite the oils and spices the Tranquil applied earlier. He stared as the flames licked at his beloved's blue-grey corpse. Her skin blistered and crackled and fell off the bones like leaves in the wind. But Cullen did not close his eyes or turn away. He couldn't.

Darkness fell; logs popped, sparks spiraled into the air and eventually, all that remained of Solona were ashes, gathered into a chest bearing the Amell family heraldry. She would be returned to her parents in Kirkwall, and buried in a cemetery for noble men and women. Cullen finally closed his eyes, said one prayer and followed his brethren inside for supper.

The Ferelden night was cold, dark and long, but soon the dawn would come; it always did.

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/Frozen Memories – 02

Disclaimer: Amell, Cullen and all Dragon Age-related characters are property of BioWare and EA Games.