Summary: The world knows of Alistair, Zevran, Leliana, and Morrigan. But what of those who came before...?

Disclaimer: Repeat after me: I own zilch.

Queen's Quornor: You know, I forgot exactly how uncomfortable Cullen is when you try to talk to him after the Harrowing. It's easy to tell how much he's grown when you compare that little flight of his to his clear discomfort when discussing the Blooming Rose in DA2, but so easy to forget what made him grow so fast. I don't really care that much for the templar POV, but I do like Cullen. He's not such a bad guy, and I have to admire a man that devoted to his beliefs yet still willing to bend the rules a little for the greater good. He stood up to Meredith to protect the Champion; how could I not respect that? I also think that he will heal, given time and removal from the Ferelden Circle. He obviously suffered PTSD, but it is possible to recover from the trauma. It would simply take time.

Cullen

I've always liked a man in armor.

I hardly remember anything about my family, but I do remember that my father was a mercenary. He is the subject of my only recollections about life before the Tower: I recall flinging myself into his arms when he strode into the house, my small body making his armor ring dully with the impact, and him lifting me high in the air with a joyous laugh. If I close my eyes, I can see my little hands helping him polish his armor while Mother fixes supper and my brother tugs at his shirt, begging for stories of his travels.

Father would sometimes let me don his breastplate, even though we both knew it was too heavy for me. We would all laugh at my ridiculous appearance and he would ruffle my hair when I said I wanted to be just like him.

Were it not for my magic, I would have inherited Father's armor.

I was very young when my gift showed itself. My father distracted me from my predicament by comparing his suit to those of the templars, and I remember I was delighted with the flaming sword embossed on their breastplates. The templars laughed when I asked if I could wear their armor. I didn't understand what was happening, why Father and those men were letting me come with them on that trip. I didn't fathom why Mother was crying at our departure.

I didn't understand until they put me on the boat, and my father collapsed on the shore when his head in his hands.

Life in the Circle was not easy. I missed my family, but there was so much to do, to learn, that my pain quickly faded. I was a joy to the mages, and both a nuisance and a source of mirth to the templars. Some of them hated how I would watch them, not realizing that I was more interested in the play of the light across their armor than what they were doing.

As I grew, the attraction became less about the armor and more about them men wearing it. I had several interested fellows among the other apprentices, particularly Jowan and, before he passed his Harrowing, Anders, but they didn't hold my interest. The slender forms draped in cloth just weren't as appealing as the muscle-heavy bodies needed to support so much metal. I remember how I would sometimes sneak to the templars' training area, watching with wide eyes and racing heart while they stripped their shirts for hand-to-hand and wrestling practice, or donned padded suits to spar with wooden weapons. I couldn't help fantasizing about them, despite knowing a relationship was forbidden. Perhaps that only deepened the appeal.

There was one I admired above all the others. Cullen was not the most handsome - although he certainly wasn't deficient in that regard! - but he was sweet, and intelligent. He was the templar most likely to render aid if an accident occurred. I sometimes stayed up late in the library, preferring to study without the distraction of nervous apprentices practicing and summoning in the other room, and their mentors admonishing them for their fear. Cullen was usually assigned to watch me during these candlelit sessions, and we sometimes engaged in conversation when I needed a break. He was an honorable man, devoted to his faith; I admired that even though I didn't agree with some of his beliefs. He would speak of his life in Denerim as a young lad and I would counter with what little I remembered of my early years. We discussed theology, the virtues and downfalls of magic versus swordplay, the role of the arcane arts outside the Tower, and the world I knew only from my studies and faint memories. There was sometimes more laughter than anybody could have anticipated, considering our respective roles.

He became the reason I rejected the advances of men such as Jowan and Anders. I dreamt of what it might be like to kiss him, to peel away that alluring armor and press my body against his. Cullen became the source of my need for frequent trips to the privy when I had no need to use a basin, the reason for many restless nights. He would have flushed as red as his ceremonial sash if he knew the sort of thoughts I entertained concerning him. I knew it could never be, and yet I yearned for it with every fiber of my being.

The night before my Harrowing, it almost came to a head. I was studying a book of demonology when he came to occupy the chair opposite mine. Every now and then, when I transferred my gaze to the top of a page, I would catch a glimpse of naked longing of his face.

He wanted me.

Eventually the candlestick required a fresh taper; I preferred to use only one candle at a time, despite knowing that the Tower had plenty to spare. He accompanied me to the stockroom, and a part of me would not have been surprised if he had forced me up against a wall and ravished my mouth. I knew he wouldn't, but I dearly wished he would. With the glances he kept flashing me, I think he was honestly tempted.

The candle was retrieved and we returned to the library without incident. But as we entered the room where I had been studying, the guttering stub occupying the candlestick finally died, leaving us in sudden darkness.

Somehow, that instant transition from muted illumination to pitch blackness was enough for my usually-sure footing to fail me. I tripped on the hem of my robe, and Cullen caught me against his chest.

In that moment, so much could have happened. I could feel the hammer of his heart through his armor, against my fingertips. I heard the gasp as he registered that I was in his arms, pressed against him in the dark. I even heard him swallow, hard. Maker, all I wanted was for him to lower his head, for his lips to find mine at last.

But he was an honorable man. He found the will to help me regain my feet and move away. When I lit the candle with a snap of my fingers, Cullen was halfway across the room, his expression guarded and his hands behind his back.

I never regretted being a mage any more than I did when I saw him standing like that in the flickering light of the tiny flame.

We did not speak for the remainder of that night. I think we were both afraid of what might be said.

When I was taken to the Harrowing Chamber and saw him standing behind Greagoir, my heart broke for him. I had a fair idea of why he was there after Irving explained my test, and I thought it nothing less than cruel that, of all the templars available, Greagoir had chosen him as the one to take my life in the event of my failure.

I wanted to reassure him. I wanted to say good-bye. My tongue itched to say how much I cared for him.

But I couldn't stand to besmirch his honor.

When I awoke after the Harrowing, I could not help being a little disappointed that Jowan, my best friend, was at my side and not him. I knew he would never approach me under such circumstances, yet I was unable to forestall my innocent hope.

So I found him myself, and accepted his stammered apology when he said how much he regretted being chosen as my executioner the previous night. He was so flustered, and when I tried to broach the subject of my stumble in the library he gave me a transparent excuse and fled, blushing.

I wish there had been some way to speak with him in private; we needed to discuss the bond growing between us. Were it not for Jowan and that faithless harlot, perhaps Cullen and I could have come to some kind of understanding, if only as friends.

I hate that woman. She ruined Jowan's life, and she forced me away from Cullen. But if there is one person I despise more than Lily, it is Uldred. I never liked him in the first place, and when I realized the extent of his evil I swore vengeance. Yet my rage knew no bounds when I saw the torment inflicted upon my valiant templar. I felt sick, knowing that he had been tortured with visions of me, that his attraction had been used in such a horrific way.

Uldred paid for his evil. But the effect on Cullen was not so easily remedied.

He rejected me, refused to accept that not all mages were of Uldred's ilk. I attempted to soothe him, and he turned on me with the rage of a maddened beast. Had we been alone, I am certain he would have run me through. I doubt he would have regretted it, even after regaining his senses.

I ran from him that time. I refused to let him see my tears.

Alistair found me outside the tower. He held me while I wept, listened as I told him what Cullen had meant to me. In the weeks following the tower's liberation, I often spent my nights in camp sitting with my fellow Warden, quietly recounting moments spent in Cullen's company. He always listened and comforted me when the pain was too great to bear.

My guilt was complete when I found myself pressed to Alistair's side one night, sore from an act I had always envisioned sharing with Cullen.

In time, I came to care for Alistair. But it wasn't enough. So I arranged for him to wed the queen, and threw myself into rebuilding our order after the archdemon was slain. Even then, I was tormented with visions of my wounded templar. I tried to lose myself in an affair with Anders, and it only made me ashamed. Nothing could make me put my love aside and focus on my own life.

That is why I am here, in Kirkwall. Mages are despised and hunted, thanks to an insane Knight-Commander and a fanatical runaway Warden, but I had to take this chance. This issue is tearing me apart; I must do this even if my efforts only end in my heart splitting in twain upon a templar's sword.

Nobody pays me any heed as I follow the directions given me by a contact within the Gallows. I've traced this path so many times in my filthy little lodging that I don't need to see the scorched marble, the doors hanging askew. A mage in clean robes would be stopped, but a small woman in worn leathers attracts little attention when mercenaries are commonplace. With no viscount, no chantry, no guard-captain, and so many of the Templar Order dead the city has had to rely on hired bands to bolster the remaining guardsmen. I am just another newcomer in a sea of foreigners, another person meeting with the only man willing to take the reins of leadership in this desperate time.

I am before his door, and my hand lifts to rap too quickly for my mind to stall it. My pulse leaps at his command to enter. The barrier swings away, and I am suddenly standing before him. He seems older than in my memory, worn with care and vigilance. His eyes widen and he stands; I cannot help trembling.

Then my sight blurs as he opens to me and I am once again in his arms, my name whispered into my hair with the sort of reverence I've only heard him utter for the Maker.

There is no rejection this time. The only ache I feel is from the pressure of his embrace, and my breasts smashing against the holy relief adorning his armor.

Alone, so far removed from duty and innocence, we are healed.