Cullen had worked for this his whole life. The white halls of the Grand Chantry echoed with music, the names of each recruit ringing out and mixing proudly with the voices of the choir. The air was thick with incense, holy and sanctified; above him, Andraste towered, the statue’s golden hands raised in supplication to the Maker on behalf of His people, and before him, held by a chantry Mother and flanked by real life Seekers, was the cup. His first drink of lyrium. His transformation, a realization of his boyhood dreams. People from Honnleath rarely got to achieve their dreams like this. He looked up at Andraste as he waited, thanking her for this chance.
Alistair barely knew who these people were, besides the legends, but he knew that they were better than the alternative. Or, that had seemed the case until now. The winds of the Hinterlands whipped around the small group, the sky dark and bleak, untouched by stars. Outwards, the coarse, hilly grasslands seemed to stretch on forever, as though their band were the only people left in Ferelden. Nowhere to turn. Below him, at his feet, lay the bodies of his fellow recruits - the ones who had not survived their Joining. Soon, it would be his turn. Was this why they’d sent him…? Duncan, a man he had trusted and loved until about ten minutes ago, stood gravely before him, the cup in his hands. Alistair thought he’d left the templars to escape all this. Looking up into the empty sky, he wondered whether this was it: a pointless end to an unwanted, thrown-away life. He’d pray, but everyone knew the Maker wasn’t listening.
The young templar stole a glance towards the gathered families, all here to watch their children or siblings take their vows. He spied his parents, brother and sisters, easy to spot by their simple clothes compared to the lords and ladies on every side of them. Stealing his chance when he didn’t think the clerics were watching, he shot them a toothy grin. His sister waved back, then pointed naggingly towards the stage - eyes forward. Smirking, he obeyed.
Alistair looked desperately about him, searching for a single sane face amongst the small crowd. This was like some sort of nightmare - the kind where everyone goes absolutely mental, and you’re the only one left with any sense. Another recruit keeled over, frothing at the mouth, black veins running over them. A Warden stepped forwards, checked their pulse, shook their head, and stepped back again.
“Are you all insane?! You can’t do this!” How far could he run? Far enough to get behind one of these rises before they shot him down? No… He’d die without honour or dignity, which would prove everyone in his life disappointingly right about him. Death with dignity, then. He tried to keep the tears of betrayal from his eyes.
“Rutherford, Cullen Stanton, of House… - apologies. Of Honnleath”
Cullen took a shaking breath and stood up straight, ignoring the sniggers from his fellows at the cleric’s mistake. He didn’t care. In a few minutes, he would be Ser Cullen, the same as any of them. But he didn’t want this for status - he wanted this for the same reason Templars enthralled him as a child. He remembered them passing through his village, with their gleaming swords and grand armour, but unlike the armies of Redcliff, they had been kind. Polite, courteous. They treated the people he grew up with like they mattered. That was a Knight. He wanted to be a part of it. He wanted to be good. He stepped forwards, feeling like he had lightning under his feet. This was it.
“Fitz-Guerrin, Alistair.”
Great, Alistair thought sullenly. Called to the gallows, and they couldn’t even get his name right. Not that he wanted to be a Theirin in his final moments, so being his uncle’s bastard was as good as anything else, even if it was the lie that got him abandoned out here in the first place.
He stepped forwards, feeling like he had a ball and chain on each foot. He might as well, for all the choice he had. He eyed the man who’d refused to drink - stabbed through, by Duncan’s own blade. He made a final appeal to the once kindly-seeming Orlesian. “You know, you could have put this in the pamphlet! What if we don’t drink? Can we just become, sort of…Grey-ish Wardens? Off-white Wardens, the Cleaners of Pans?”
Cullen approached the chalice, standing as tall as he could. This was his proudest moment. The bullying, the taunting barnyard impersonations, the extra hours, the mortification of learning how to read correctly whilst his classmates were learning Ancient Tevine - it had all led here. He bowed his head respectfully as he stepped towards the cup, receiving the Mother’s blessing. Her words washed over him, bathing him in the love of Andraste, emboldening him with the will of the Maker -
“Be still, Alistair. Have courage. This is your chance to make something meaningful of your life. Your chance at purpose. To belong to something. You want that, don’t you?”
Alistair looked from the corpses around him to the man speaking so gently, so much more kindly than he was used to being spoken to. He was wondering whether kind tones were overrated, suddenly. And yet…Duncan was right. What else was he? What else would he be? The world’s angriest, most reluctant templar? An unwanted, unwelcome heir stuffed in a cupboard just in case he was needed some day? Or this?
In two disparate parts of Ferelden, the wind beating against chantry walls and barren hills, two templar recruits spoke the vows they were fed, line by line. Cullen’s voice rang out, young and proud in the grand hall, his hopes and earnest swallowed up and unfelt by its great size. One more templar. Out in the Hinterlands, Alistair’s words were whipped from his mouth and muffled by the battling storm, as unkind to him as it had been to his father and grandmother before him, not that they had anything to do with him now. Swallowing back anticipation in one, fear in the other, both Ferelden classmates took the cup that was offered to them, closed their eyes, and drank.
Alistair cried out in pain, the chalice falling from his hands. He collapsed, the venom seizing him. His vision turned black - he could feel something in him dying.
Cullen sighed, a light coursing gently through his veins, strengthening him as it lit him from within. He was reborn, something new. What he was meant to be.
Beyond the two boys, two mentors looked on, knowing the truth of what was in these cups, of what it would do to those who served. There was no peaceful exit for either of them, no walking away, no kind end to this life. But, duty demanded it. If those before had suffered it, then this generation must, as well. What were lives in comparison to the greater good?
