Chapter Text
Her relationship with the Circle remained… complicated.
To be fair, there hadn’t been much time to process… well, anything. The events up to this point were a whirlwind of blood and gore, revelations, transformations, negotiations, and so much hyperstimulation she’d barely had the chance to breathe. Being brought into the Warden fold only to be cast adrift alone with the only other Warden left in Ferelden, them against -- well, the whole bloody country and the Blight was only the beginning. They were meant to negotiate an alliance of all the peoples of the land, and this was meant to be the easy one.
And that wasn’t even getting into the complexities of Zevran and Alistair, who were the most obvious manifestation of some profound issues she needed to resolve that the universe could have sent her.
And so it was that she’d barely had time to ensure she was wearing her own robes, much less unpacked the bloody mess of the Circle.
Though Wynne was always more than willing to let her know how she ought to feel, bless the unsolicited wisdom of her heart .
(Raina had at least determined that should she ever enjoy the privilege of advanced age, she would take up the personal challenge of doling out as much unsolicited advice as Wynne did, no matter how insightful or tone-deaf.)
She hadn’t expected to come back to the tower so soon, and when she did, she definitely hadn’t expected to find the devastating carnage that greeted her.
Whatever the complexities, and gilded cage though it may have been, the Circle of Ferelden had been the closest thing she’d had to a home since being taken from the alienage. Captive she might have been, but she’d made friends here, created bonds here. As they’d made their way through the tower, she had scanned for a particular set of armor, tension in every muscle. There were too many faces she knew among the bodies – some twisted into abominations, others lacerated for the power of their blood, some frozen, burned, or poisoned nearly beyond recognition. Mages, Templars, friends, teachers... the grotesquerie was worse than any nightmare the Fade could have produced.
At least she could thank whatever powers ruled this bloody world that Tomas was in Orlais, dealing in machinations rather than whatever had led to this butchery.
They’d survived the Fade -- drained, bruised, and battered, but poultices, potions, and Wynne had thankfully mitigated the worst of the damage. Neither lyrium nor elfroot would cure the emotional element to the exhaustion, but as always, that would have to wait, because there was more to do.
At least, that had been the theory before she’d caught sight of Cullen bloodied, on his knees, just beyond a forcefield.
He was weaving, seemed barely conscious, but suddenly his eyes opened, and he saw her.
“This trick again? I know what you are. It won’t work! I will stay strong…”
“Cullen,” she said, her voice raw, strained, weary, rather the soothing tone she’d intended. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Only too well,” he replied, his head in his gauntleted hands as he groaned. “How far they must have delved into my thoughts…”
“The boy is exhausted,” Wynne pointed out. “And this cage… I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The senior mage turned to Cullen.
“Rest easy… help is here.”
She desperately wanted to snap at Wynne, but tamped the urge down. Wynne was trying to help. Wynne was trying to do what she couldn’t. She didn’t understand how the aged enchanter could be so bloody thick as to point out the obvious, as not to recognize what an unmitigated disaster this all was -- but she was managing to at least try to offer Cullen some kind of comfort.
He groaned again. The pain in it made her flinch, despite the horrors they’d seen in the past few hours. She wet her lips, looking at his face. He’d been gentle, he’d been kind. She’d finally seen how the Circle and the Chantry had twisted that to their ends, but seeing him now made her fear that whatever he’d seen, whatever they’d done to him, might break it entirely.
She felt sick as absurdly, questions of how long would he have waited to kill her, how much time would she have been given in the harrowing had things not gone well for her popped into the forefront of her mind.
Were they still in the Fade? What hell was this?
It was Alistair and Zevran that grounded her -- was it ironic? Appropriate? Or just a very particular sort of sad? Alistair shifted behind her with the subtle chime of his plate, and Zevran did, too, but she knew that only from her sense of him – he made no sound.
Reminded of their presence, she looked back at Cullen as he spoke again.
“Enough visions! If anything in you is human… kill me now and stop this game! You broke the others, but I will stay strong, for my sake… for theirs…”
There was more than a twinge in her now; though she didn’t flinch, she stepped closer, shaking her head, reaching out unconsciously to touch the field – though she stopped just short of doing so as he continued.
“Sifting through my thoughts… tempting me with the one thing I always wanted, but could never have…”
Her jaw went tight again. Something prickled behind her eyes. She froze, fingers poised to skim the field.
“Using my shame against me… my ill-advised infatuation with her… a mage, of all things…”
Shame. A mage, of all things.
Her teeth were clenched, still, and once again, bile rose in the back of her throat. She closed her eyes, her fingers curling as she unconsciously took a step back. Zevran was at her shoulder and Alistair at her side, both silent, but she felt the feather-light skim of Zevran’s hand at the small of her back, the weight of Alistair's compassionate gaze on her skin.
She did not turn away from Cullen.
“I am so tired of these cruel jokes… these tricks… these…”
“This is no trick,” she said finally, her voice low, tight. “We’re here to help.”
He found his strength then. He stood again, spoke forcefully, moving forward as though he would come through the forcefield for her. She took another half-step back. She felt the heat of Zevran’s body behind her; she heard the slide of Alistair’s sword being pulled from its sheath, the subtle ring of his armor as he did.
“Silence... I'll not listen to anything you say. Now begone!”
His eyes slammed shut. There was a beat, and when he opened them, she shook her head as he looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Still here? But that's always worked before. I close my eyes, but you are still here when I open them.”
“I'm real, and I'm here to help you,” she replied, watching him. His body shook, his gaze was half-mad, but he stood nonetheless, shaking his head.
“Don't blame me for being cautious. The voices... the images... so real...” Then he interrupted himself, his eyes wild, then narrow. “Why have you returned to the tower? How did you survive?”
“Greagoir told me what happened; I knew I had to help,” she explained with as much calm as she could manage. There was no choice but to hold it together as an almost desperate fervor entered his expression, his tone.
“Good... kill Uldred. Kill them all for what they've done. They caged us like animals... looked for ways to break us. I'm the only one left... They turned some into... monsters. And... there was nothing I could do.”
“Cullen,” she said softly – too softly for him to hear. There was an ache in her whisper that she couldn’t suppress, and she hated it, hated this, even hated him a little, for making her feel all this. She wet her lips.
Louder, more clearly, she asked, “Where are Irving and the other mages?”
Cullen looked at her sharply, confused.
“What others? What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Irving and the other mages who fought Uldred,” Wynne repeated. “Where are they?”
Cullen seemed to swallow.
“They are in the Harrowing Chamber. The sounds coming out from there... oh, Maker...”
His voice broke again. She looked away, now grateful for Wynne’s initiative in directing the conversation.
“We must hurry,” Wynne said to her, urgency in her voice. “They are in grave danger; I am sure of it.”
She nodded. Of course they were; clearly they were. It seemed there was little enough that could be done for Cullen for the moment, at least – he interrupted her thoughts.
“You can't save them. You don't know what they've become,” he insisted.
“I’m a mage, too, Cullen,” she said quietly, finally looking at him again.
“But you haven't been up there. You haven't been under their influence,” he said, desperation curling into his voice again. “They've been surrounded b-by blood mages whose wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts!”
She recoiled, and both Zevran and Alistair made space for her to take a step back. Alistair then spoke quietly, just to her.
“His hatred of mages is so intense... the memory of his friends' deaths is still fresh in his mind.”
She nodded, a knot in her throat. It wasn’t Cullen’s fault, truly, it wasn’t. Whatever he’d said, or done, or would have done before, in this moment, this wasn’t him.
“You have to end it, now, before it's too late,” he demanded, looking through her more than at her. Meeting his eyes again, she shook her head. She should have just lied. What difference would it have made?
Later, she wouldn’t know what had compelled her. The desire to prove she had a moral compass? The refusal to bow to the system even one more time? Some awful, shameful part of her that wanted him to know that she would truly protect her people as he hadn’t -- as he never had?
“I want to save everyone who can possibly be saved,” she told him evenly.
“Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk? To ensure this horror is ended... to guarantee that no abominations or blood mages live, you must kill everyone up there.”
The grief that he would say it so plainly, that he would say it at all, swelled in her throat, smothering her voice. After a moment of quiet, of letting his words sink into her skin, she shook her head.
“I'd rather spare maleficarum than risk harming an innocent,” she told him.
“Thank you,” Wynne said quietly. “I knew you would make a rational decision.”
“Rational? How is this rational? Do you understand the danger?” Cullen demanded, his tone rising .
“I know full well the dangers of magic,” Wynne replied, “but killing innocents because they might be maleficara is not justice. I know you are angry— “
“You know nothing! I am thinking about the future of the Circle. Of Ferelden.”
Raina shook her head again, her eyes on Cullen, unwavering, her fists clenched at her sides.
“I do not want the blood of innocents on my hands.”
“I am just willing to see the painful truth, which you are content to ignore,” he snarled. There was a beat of silence where she only watched him.
“But what can I do? As you can see, I am in no position to directly influence your actions, though I would love to deal with the mages myself,” he said bitterly.
Something in his tone made her swallow, made her tempted to take another step back from him. He needed – he needed something. He needed help. But there was none that she could give while Uldred yet lived.
“Stay safe, Cullen,” she said quietly. “It will be over soon.”
“No one ever listens, not until it's far too late. Maker turn his gaze on you. I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all,” he said, all scorn and resignation.
She looked at him for a long moment, then left him.