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Cullen is on his knees in the Chantry when the message arrives: Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard of Kirkwall is in Greenfell, and wishes to speak with him.
It is cold and quiet, not yet close to dawn. It will be a while before the first of the brothers will wake and flutter into the Chantry, armed with incense, and their enviably unshakable faith in the Maker’s plan; but Cullen is always at prayer at this hour. He can hear the rain -- it is nearly constant at this time of year -- through the shuttered windows. The messenger shifts from foot to foot impatiently, clearly eager to deliver him to the Knight-Commander, and head back to bed.
The tone of the message is polite enough, but Cullen knows a command when he hears one.
She is not the first Knight-Commander to seek him out. He’s paid audience to several high-ranking members of both the Order, and the Chantry. All come to gawk and wheedle for unsavory details of the fall of the Calenhad Circle. He assumes this Meredith is no different.
The candle upon the small altar before Cullen wavers as he whispers the last stanza of Erudition 2:1. The messenger is already halfway out the Chantry, and Cullen follows with a slower, more shuffling gait, his foot having gone entirely to sleep. The pins and needles sensation shooting up his leg is distracting enough that he steps under an open sluice, neatly dousing himself with water.
He swears loudly and crudely enough that the messenger, a skinny-legged novice, turns and shoots him a reprimanding look, before hurrying on, shoulders hunched against the wind. Cullen brushes wet curls off his forehead, and swipes his fingers through the tangle of his beard. He’d stopped shaving after a month of arriving at Greenfell, and had stopped being self-conscious about it a month after that.
Knight-Commander Meredith stands in a small, sheltered alcove near an open courtyard beside the Chantry. There is a pair of orange trees, entangled branches bursting with small, pale blossoms. A statue of Andraste stands beneath the trees, face serene and upturned, as if in contemplation of the heavens. Meredith is in full plate, her silhouette, all sharp, sure lines. Her sword and shield are strapped to her back. And for a moment Cullen aches for the weight of it all. Pressing down, grounding him. The rigid foundation he’d built his life upon.
But that’s all over now.
“Knight-Commander.” His voice cracks a little when he speaks. Dry with disuse.
“Walk with me,” she says, already turning, hands clasped behind her back. Cullen follows, automatically falling into step behind her.
The Knight-Commander is silent for a long while.
And then...
“You asked that the circle at Calenhad be annulled,” she says, by way of preamble.
“I…” Cullen’s steps falter a little, though he hastens to match her steady pace once again. “Yes.”
“I understand the Hero of Ferelden opposed your suggestion.”
“She… wasn’t known as the Hero then,” he corrects, inanely. “But… yes.”
“She was a mage of the Circle, once. Amell, was it?”
Cullen feels his throat tighten. Of all that he’s been made to speak of Kinloch Hold, he’s never been asked to speak of her. Freckles. And brown curls. A wide mouth, always half-curving into a smile. His shoulders shift beneath the thin chantry robes he wears. If there’s anything he wants to think of less than the fall of Kinloch Hold, it is the feel of her hand in his.
A weak, “Yes,” is all he can manage.
“Why did you call for annulment?” Meredith’s voice is flat, and she looks straight ahead. “The Hero had put down the uprising, hadn’t she? The Templars had taken the tower once again. Why seek more death?”
He remembers how raw his throat had been when he’d called -- begged, raged -- for the annulment. They’d taken away his sword, and he recalls the bruises he’d left on his hip, fingers clenching in his soiled robes, reaching for the weapon that wasn’t there. And the look in her eyes. Pity, and worry, and disappointment. He’s still unsure what was harder to bear. He touches his hip now, absently. It is still bare. “It wasn’t death, I sought,” he says, voice ragged. “It was mercy. Duty.”
Meredith inclines her head, but doesn’t look at him. “Explain.”
“What happened in that tower…” He grinds his teeth briefly, biting off the memory before it can take root. “No man… no Mage could witness such chaos and not be affected. To think that such terror could spill beyond the walls of the Circle… it was not a risk to be borne. No matter how distasteful.”
“But it didn’t. The Hero was right.”
“Fortunate.” The word feels like failure, even now. “Not right.”
Meredith nods at him, making eye contact for nearly the first time, and he hates that this is who must meet her straight-backed and clear gaze. This shallow, broken, husk of a man. He knows what he looks like. Unkempt and unseemly. Too thin, too hollow. Eyes yellowed and bloodshot. A stern brow with a near-permanent crease. A patchy, dark brown beard that’s half frizz. His damp curls are long enough that they brush the collar of the Chantry robes he wears.
He’s not a man to believe in ghosts, but that’s what he’s felt like these past months. Fluttering around the halls of the Chantry, wrapped in silence, and misery. Watching a world he no longer belongs to, turn around him.
Meredith is silent. Impassive. This is the part where the other Knight-Commanders would lay the blame for the fall at his feet -- or worse, grant him absolution. Instead her cool, blue eyes hold his gaze. He waits for the Knight-Commander’s next question. But it doesn’t come. The minutes pass, with only the sound of the rain, and steady clank of Meredith’s steel-plated footsteps. The silence grates. “Is there anything else you wished to ask?”
“Naturally.” She makes a soft, amused sound at his impatience. “Why did you choose to join the Order?”
“I…” Cullen blinks, surprised. “I wanted my life to be useful. To dedicate it to a greater purpose. To… protect people from the evils of this world.”
“And do you consider yourself successful in this? In protecting people?”
Cullen comes to a full stop, and looks at Meredith, aghast. “No.” He says, voice tight. “I do not.”
She makes a thoughtful sound. “You are a remarkable Templar.”
A short bark of laughter, as rusty as a protesting hinge. “Knight-Commander Greagoir did not find me so.” Cullen grimaces slightly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice entirely. “Unfit for duty, is what he said.”
Meredith’s lips turn up. “Greagoir and I have a long history of disagreeing. It is why I am here.” She stops walking, and turns to face him with one easy, purposeful movement, hands clasped behind her back. “I have no need for Templars in shiny armor who can recite their vows, but know little of this world, and how swiftly it can fall to cruelty and terror. You, Knight-Lieutenant, have a singular understanding of the dangers we Templars face, and the true cost of our vows. You are wasted here.”
He frowns, not understanding.
Meredith tilts her head, and the golden band around her forehead catches the light. “Knight-Lieutenant Cullen, I wish you to resume your duties, in Kirkwall, under my command.”
Cullen feel his heart race at her words, and nearly trips over his feet. “I… Knight-Commander Greagoir’s reservations were not entirely unfounded. There have been… incidents.”
“Yes. Night terrors. Memory gaps. Unreasonable mistrust of Mages. If such a thing is even possible. Unexpected rages.” She peers at Cullen critically, taking in the plain, half-sodden robes, and the rigid lines of his posture. “And this is Greagoir’s idea of how to help you.” She gestures vaguely to the garden around them. To the orange trees, and the statue of Andraste. To the quiet beauty of the place.
“I expect he thought Greenfell would bring me peace.”
"Has it?” She asks sharply.
Cullen shakes his head, teeth clenched.
Meredith’s blue eyes narrow. “You’ve a right to be angry. To be hurt. But a tool put away, merely goes to rust. It doesn’t sharpen itself.” She sighs. “How much damage do you suppose one mage, one abomination can do?” She raises her brows at him, lest he think the question rhetorical.
Cullen silently gnashes his teeth. There is a moment when a mage turns, when he is equal parts man, and monster. When the darkness has flooded his soul, but the humanity hasn't left his eyes. A moment where you understand how utterly you have failed.
He’s certain the sound of failure, is the sound of screams dissolving into monstrosity.
“They can take down an entire Circle.” He says hoarsely.
“My sister was a mage.” Meredith says quietly, nodding in agreement. “Elodie. Younger than me by two years, but you’d never know it. Everyone used to think we were twins, so alike were we. Save for the magic.”
The wistful tone of her voice changes, suddenly flat. And it is all too easy for Cullen to imagine a pair of girls with long blonde hair, running through the grass hand in hand. Laughing. Unaware of the shadow creeping towards them.
“She was eleven, and the gentlest person I have ever known. Laughter was easy for her. Kindness... even easier. The night the demon took her, twisted her, we fell asleep holding hands.” They’ve done a full turn around the garden now, and come to stop again at the place where the first began: under the orange trees, next to the statue of Andraste. Meredith's expression is deeply focused as she stands before it, pondering the face of the Maker’s bride. “She killed my parents first. That was a mercy, of sorts.”
Cullen opens his mouth, then closes it again, apology clamped tightly between his teeth. He knows how valueless I’m sorry can be, and he thinks this Meredith would appreciate neither his interruption, nor his clumsy sympathy.
The Knight-Commander raises her hand, and gently brushes away the small petals dusting Andraste’s shoulders. The metal tips of her gauntlets scrape along the stone. “The Templars arrived four days later and granted and end to whatever was left of my sister. By then, she’d raged through three separate villages. The devastation was… staggering.” Meredith’s expression is focused, but flat. An old tale. An old wound. “Do you know what it was that turned her, Knight-Lieutenant?”
Cullen can’t find his voice fast enough, so he merely shakes his head.
“It was not rage. Or envy. Or sloth. Or desire. Not even fear. The answer is far simpler.” She turns back to face him, posture tight, hands clenched behind her back. “It was magic. Nothing more. She was just an open door to the creatures of the fade. And untrained as she was, she stood no chance.
And my sister, that kind-hearted girl who could barely lift a bucket of water, killed seventy. Nearly killed seventy-one.” The Knight-Commander flexes her hand, as if feeling the strain and itch of healing flesh.
Cullen’s shoulder gives a sympathetic twang, and he rubs it, absently.
Meredith is still pondering the statue, her gaze intense but detached. Watching her, Cullen feels a strange sense of peace descend over him, the first he’s felt since leaving Kinloch Hold. For all that she speaks of loss and destruction, she is clear and sharp as a blade. Her shoulders straight. Her gaze unsullied.
It is possible then. To come face to face with an abomination’s wrath, to have it touch you, and not sully your soul. To find purpose beyond terror and regret.
To carry on.
He feels tears sting his eyes and steps out into the rain, face upturned to mask them.
“Peace,” she says quietly, interrupting his thoughts. “Is the Order’s true purpose. It cannot be given. Or found. Only forged.” She pulls the sword from her hip. The sound of it rings in the stillness. A heartrendingly familiar sshkk!
His fingers twitch at his side.
“Peace, Knight-Lieutenant, is hard won,” she says. The blade in her hand turns, glittering as it catches the light. “It is brutal. It demands blood, and sacrifice. Work. Hours and hours of it. Standing over the fire, hammering the ill-fitting pieces back into alignment. But then, all at once…”
She passes him the sword, and Cullen takes a deep shuddering breath that sounds too much like a sob, as the blessed weight of it pulls at his arm. His fist tightens upon the pommel, and the he raises the blade into a ready position, on instinct alone.
“...unbreakable,” Meredith whispers.
The rain masks the tears that flow down his face, unchecked. But the ragged, tearing sounds of his breath cannot be disguised. He weeps in the garden. Templar steel in his hand. His new Knight-Commander at his side. A flood of hope rushes through him. Hope. More intoxicating than lyrium. More soothing than the feel of the Chantry floor beneath his knees.
“We leave at dawn,” She reaches out to touch him, the scratch of her gauntlets against his shoulder. “Knight-Captain.”