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Feb 23, 2015

MORE OF THE SHAMEFIC

also known as "under pressure precious things can break"

"A week. But then I expect you to either Harrow her immediately or sign the bloody writ, Irving, or I'll have no choice but to brand her a Maleficar. Considering her connections amongst your apprentices — and the hold she has over one of my own knights — it could well be true."

There was silence, then. Cullen could imagine the First Enchanter bowing his head. Not in true acquiescence — such was not in his nature — but he’d at least ceded the argument.

Cullen let out a sigh, as quietly as he could. He felt as though his head must be spinning. Surely, if he stepped forward, the world would tilt and reel, as it did shortly after his doses of lyrium? But the world stayed put and his vision stayed solid as he forced himself to move more quickly, more loudly to the open door.

“Knight Commander Greagoir,” he said, saluting. Then he gave a nod to the First Enchanter. “First Enchanter Irving.”

The First Enchanter’s eyes were sharp on him, measuring. Calculating. Sens had much the same way of looking out at the world, though the First Enchanter’s expression was always patient and grave with a touch of impassivity. Sens simply wore her face like a professional mask. The eerie similarities between the two, and the way the First Enchanter always seemed to be thinking five steps ahead, had always made Cullen uncomfortable.

Greagoir raised a brow, looking mildly concerned. “Ser Cullen? Are you ill? You’re not scheduled for duty at this hour, that I recall.”

“What?” He felt his face respond with surprise and dismay. Maker, to be so open with his thoughts, on tonight of all nights? “No, no. Simply tired. And no, I’m — I was off duty, ser.”

“Young Garahel has had another nightmare.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes, First Enchanter.”

“And interrupted the sleep of one of my knights. Again.” Greagoir sighed. “Another we may have to transfer.”

Transfer Garahel? Maker’s breath, was Kinloch Hold to send away or destroy every mage he — everything he enjoyed here? Cullen said, quickly, “It wouldn’t stop the problem, ser, just shift it onto another Circle and their Templars. It might even make it worse.”

“The Templars of another Circle are not my responsibility,” Greagoir told him, not unkindly. He was more firm as he added, “You are. And if you’re in armor, why aren’t you carrying your sword?”

How could this man — kind, if grim; fair, if stern; concerned for his men and the mages in his charge — be the one to order Sens rendered Tranquil? Greagoir had always been good to the mages of Kinloch Hold, hadn’t he? Always just?

She must deserve it. And yet this thought was insane. He could not make himself believe it.

“Honestly, ser, I don’t know. I was half sleeping; armor must have seemed more important,” Cullen said. He waited a moment, furrowed his brow and prayed he wasn’t overacting as he asked, “Who else must the Circle transfer?”

Greagoir said, as easily and simply as breathing, “One of the apprentices. No one of great concern to you. You’d best return to your quarters; I’ll not waive morning assembly for you over a child’s nightmare.”

The world seemed unreal as Cullen returned to the Templar quarters. The walls swam before his eyes and he could not shake the feeling that none of this was happening. Had he stepped into some maleficar’s trap and entered the Fade, unwitting and unwilling?

But no, this was no hallucination. What nightmare but reality?

The thought of Sens with the sun brand, bright on her dark skin, made him feel queasy. He imagined the glittering green eyes, hawk-fierce, going dull and unconcerned, and the nausea roiled up from his gut into his throat. She would forever wear her face in the impassive mask he’d spent his days in the Tower trying to see behind.

Gone would be the self-assured apprentice of considerable power and intellect and a startling streak of gentleness. And in her place would stand —

Cullen swallowed bile, bitter and hot, burning his throat like the cravings if he left his ration for late.

Almost worse, Greagoir had lied to him. No one of great concern? How could Greagoir possibly believe that Cullen — that anyone — would be unmoved by the sudden Tranquility of a person they worked closely with?

How could Greagoir suggest sending away a frightened and traumatized child, simply because he was having trouble adjusting?

In a daze, he stripped his armor and laid it on the stand. Everything to its proper place.

And yet, even after he crawled into bed, heavy as his eyelids grew, he could not sleep. The thought of Garahel being torn from the first family he’d likely ever known, once again dragged to a strange place by uncaring hands, haunted him, as did the thought of a young mage who’d done no wrong, not truly, being punished with virtual slavery.

He was twitchy during muster the following morning. Knight Captain Hadley frowned thoughtfully at him as he relayed orders, and Carroll offered a few grains left over from his “latest” dose. Not, of course, that any Templar was capable of such restraint with his Lyrium ration; Carroll had just tacitly admitted to having a source on the side.

Cullen ignored Hadley, as best he could, and declined Carroll’s offer. He wasn’t entirely sure that was wise — even the thought of having it made him want it so badly his blood shook in his veins — but he didn’t dare. Greagoir had no tolerance for lyrium addling.

Carroll’s continued existence was something of a miracle.

After his patrol, he skipped the dining hall and went, instead, to the Chantry. There, he knelt and began to recite the Chant of Light, starting with the very first of it: the Canticle of Andraste. The whole Chant would take weeks, of course, and he’d been taught to recite in a slow, easy-to-follow plainspeak that meant he wouldn’t venture far into Benedictions in a single night.

Still, just saying the words gave him a sense of calm, a sense of quiet, and he was able to let his mind wander. Something must be done. He knew that.

He just couldn’t seem to decide what.

He was on the seventh verse — Those who oppose thee / shall know the wrath of Heaven. Field and forest shall burn / the seas shall rise and devour them — when he realized there was somebody standing behind him. Not a fellow knight, or he'd have heard the creak of leather and the soft chime of mail or plate. Not the initiate, because she would have joined him in recitation.

So, the priest, then?

Cullen kept going until he'd reached a natural stopping place — They shall cry out to their false gods / and know silence — and then asked, without turning or looking up, "Yes, Mother Brigid?"

A man chuckled. It was a low, dry, scraping sound, and though Cullen had never heard it before, he knew it in an instant.

Not the Revered Mother.

"First Enchanter Irving," Cullen said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear armor, so I simply assumed —"

"Your faith does you credit, young knight," the First Enchanter said. "And I suppose one body moving in heavy robes sounds much the same as another."

"Ah…" Cullen didn't know what to say to that. He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling awkward. What did a simple knight say to the First Enchanter of the Circle he guarded? "Thank you?"

The First Enchanter laughed again, a sound that thrummed from deep in his chest. "Although I must admit, it has been some time since I saw a younger Templar kneeling before the Maker, without one of the Vigils to hold."

"I find it peaceful," Cullen said. It was only true. Just truth, and nothing more.

"Do you have reason to seek out peace, now? Does something trouble you?" A pause, careful, and then, there was that calculating look back in his eye. "You are Ser Cullen, yes? Sens speaks highly of you."

Oh, Maker, five words he hadn't known he'd longed to hear. He could feel his face moving, sketching out a portrait of surprise and pleasure. "S-she does? I — I didn't think — I mean I thought, well, it doesn't matter what I thought."

"She says that if our new arrivals must learn to be watched by Templars, you are the best to teach them. Always reminding them that you serve both: not protecting them from outside, or outside from them, but shielding both, and from the truer threat, as well. Reminding them that they dwell still in Andraste's love."

"I doubt Sen — I mean I doubt Apprentice Surana had much kind to say about that."

"She does not share our faith, true, but she would not take it from those who need it. She does not need to believe in Andraste to believe that you are shield and shepherd to those most afraid."

"Shield and shepherd?" Cullen asked, thinking of cold spring nights up in the hills near Honnleath, carrying lambs on his shoulders. "Not shield and sword?"

"To balance those three must be difficult indeed. You have my sympathies, young Templar."

Almost certain that he was really saying something else, Cullen said, quietly, "Being any of the three is easy enough. I was taught to it. It's harder to know which to be, and when. When it's best to be sword — or shepherd."

"I take it that is why you sought refuge in the Chant, rather than taking your meal with your fellows, tonight? I am glad you have such solace, for these choices, I am sorry to say, do not grow any easier as you grow older."

"Do you… have any advice, for such choices?"

The First Enchanter gave him a slow smile, half lost in his beard. "Only to listen. What does your faith tell you, Ser Cullen? Must you choose violence and death? Will you protect something? Or will you guide your flock and keep them safe from harm? Not even I can answer those questions for you — you must decide all of this."

"Who is my flock?" Cullen asked, quieter, because they were indeed having two conversations at once.

"I cannot answer that."

Cullen almost asked again, but he knew that the First Enchanter wouldn't answer. And the First Enchanter was right: he needed to decide who his flock was for himself. The world at large? The Circle to which he had been assigned? Or… something smaller? Something to which he belonged, and belonged also to him?

"No," Cullen said. "I suppose you can't. But I thank you for your advice, First Enchanter."

The First Enchanter only nodded, grave. "And I thank you for listening to an old man's ramblings." His voice went a touch dry as he added, "Perhaps you will join me for a chess match tonight?"

Cullen let his own mouth curl as he said, "Perhaps."

Cullen half expected there to be no chess game, when he worked up the courage to enter the First Enchanter's office later that night. But Irving waved him to a table with a board set up. There was a basket of rolls, still warm from the kitchen, their outsides flaky and their insides soft, and a plate of cheese.

At Cullen's expression of surprise, Irving said only, "Consider it an act of enlightened self-interest. It wouldn't do for one of our staunch guardians to fall over in all that armor after he skipped too many meals."

Cullen, seating himself and taking the black pieces, asked, "Guardian, not shepherd?"

That drew a laugh from the First Enchanter. He, too, seated himself. He didn't even consider Cullen, just moved one of his pawns forward in the standard Chain Lightning opening, clearly going for the Scholar's Mate.

Some part of Cullen balked at being so plainly underestimated. Rather than draw it out, he used his first move to neutralize the threat to the space near his king. The First Enchanter raised an eyebrow in response, and the game began in earnest.

They reached the middlegame in their own time, trading a few comments about strategy, but not at all addressing the conversation underneath the one they'd had in the Chantry.

At length, Cullen slid a mage a few spaces — close enough to be a threat, but not to a piece the First Enchanter would have to immediately move to defend — and said, "You already know I overheard what the Knight Commander plans for Apprentice Surana."

The First Enchanter actually smiled at him, and the beard didn't even cover any of it. "You looked like a man experiencing the Earthquake spell for the first time in his life." He moved a knight, not taking the mage. Still, with that knight so near, using it would be costly.

Which, honestly, was exactly what Cullen had expected, so he moved his chantry.

"That conversation in the Chantry," he said, and had to quirk a small smile. His fingers were still on the piece; he took them off, slow and careful. "You're urging me to action, but there's nothing I can do. Ser Greagoir is the Knight Commander here, not me. I'm not even senior enough to guard the outer door."

Irving raised an eyebrow, but asked only, "Would you, if you could?" He struck out with his knight and took Cullen's chantry.

"You place yourself in check," Cullen said, softly.

Irving looked down at the board, then back up to Cullen. His eyes were just a touch too wide, the surprise feigned. "It would seem I do," he said, sober and grave as he always was, as if this wasn't about just a chess game. He reached out — Cullen thought, at first, he was reaching for his pieces, to right the board — but instead he gripped Cullen's upper arm.

"Would you do something, if you could?" Irving's grasp was so tight, Cullen could feel it through the plates covering his arm.

Blessed are the peacekeepers, Cullen thought. Champions of the just. And what was this, but a grave injustice, harm done where none was needed, a bright life snuffed out before its time, for no reason other than fear?

Could he live with himself if he stayed silent, if he did nothing? If he made no effort at all to save a woman he very well might love?

"If I could," he said as he lifted Irving's knight from the board, "I would, yes." He held it out in offering, and asked, "Why don't you Harrow her?"

Irving's answering chuckle, as he let go Cullen's arm and accepted his knight, was bitter. "The two of you stand at vastly different places in your lives. You, I think, are at the cusp of something real and good. But Sens… Cullen, she dances on the edge of something dark, something very dark indeed."

"Malefaction?" He asked, because he had to, because it was, horribly, a logical conclusion. He counted himself lucky never to have seen its power, but by all accounts, it would make of Sens a force the Templars of the Tower would be hard pressed to stand against. If she knew of Greagoir's plan for her, she might be considering it as her only means of escape.

"No," Irving said, voice sword-sharp and eyes alight with anger. "No one has yet proved Jowan is a Maleficar, nor is Sens likely to give the Chantry the satisfaction of being right. But this place is a death sentence for her. Do you know her favorite place in the Tower?"

What did it say about him, a Templar, that he could answer that? "The north window on the third floor." And why did it matter?

"And why does Greagoir try to keep mages away from windows on the third floor?"

"Because they open, and the fall will kill —" Oh. Oh, Maker, was Irving suggesting…? "But she would never do that. Surely…"

"She is losing hope," Irving said, blunt. "Even if I Harrow her, she won't endure long, any longer than a wild animal kept in a cage."

Matters moved very quickly after that. It all boiled down to three facts: they needed a way out of the Tower. They needed a way not to be found, once they'd left. And they needed a place to go, once they were out. There were other details — such as how they would get to wherever they were going — but those were his principal concerns.

With Irving, he took care of how they might be followed. It was a simple matter, to enter the Phylactery Chamber with the First Enchanter's help; he'd been called to carry apprentice or mage phylacteries, before, and Irving was allowed a key, since it was useless to him without a Templar at his side.

"These," Irving said, retrieving two vials of blood.

"Those?"

Irving raised an eyebrow. "Surely you didn't plan to take Apprentice Surana, but leave Garahel?"

He hadn't, but he hadn't expected Irving to think through to that. He'd expected to have to ask. Foolish of him to underestimate the First Enchanter.

Even a pace away, Cullen could feel the magic preserving the blood, keeping it fresh, keeping it from drying or going sour. He stretched out a hand, and with a thought, smote the spells. The buzzing on the back of his tongue didn't vanish — he was surrounded by too much magic for that — but it did lessen.

Irving set the vials back where they belonged, and then they both turned and walked from the Chamber.

"Have you given any thought as to how you will leave the Tower?"

"The supply entrance," Cullen said. It would surely be a simple matter to have a boat waiting for them there — the lyrium dealers managed it, in spite of both Knight Commander Greagoir's and Knight Captain Hadley's crack downs, and they spent half their time out of their minds. A word and half his lyrium ration to Carroll, some coin for the smuggler, and it'd be done.

Irving gave a dry chuckle. "Very cloak-and-dagger."

"Is that a bad thing? I doubt the Knight Commander will simply allow us to walk out the front door."

"Ah, but why wouldn't he let an apprentice soon to be Harrowed venture out onto the island, if she were accompanied by a Templar who must surely be invested in making sure she returns to the Tower?" A pause. "The Knight Commander need not know that the Templar is accompanying two mages. Garahel is small; easily concealed beneath a heavy cloak."

"Isn't that one of the old tests to see if an apprentice was eligible to be Harrowed?" If Cullen recalled correctly, it was intended to show the Templars that an apprentice could be trusted. So many apprentices had failed, however, that the test had fallen out of use.

Irving's mouth curved for a fleeting moment.

It was ingenious, really. Kester would answer a summons across the water. And, if Sens were accompanied by a Templar, he would take her across without questioning it.

There was only one problem with that plan.

"You… expect me to go with them?" He knew it made sense. They would need him. Some part of him even wanted to go, as well. He couldn't even call himself entirely surprised; he'd been preparing for it from the moment he'd told the First Enchanter would do something, if he could. Still, it was different to openly contemplate leaving the Tower. Different, to admit aloud that he planned to abandon the duty he'd sworn himself to.

Irving gave him a placid look. "You didn't truly expect otherwise."

After a moment, Cullen sighed, and said, "No, I didn't."

There were, of course, other matters to arrange, and Cullen did so as best he could on his soonest leave. Templars were permitted a day a week to travel to the Calenhad Docks or two days a week, stacked, to visit Redcliffe, so he traded days with Rickon, a Templar not known for having much to do in the outside world.

It came to pass that four days before Sens would either be Harrowed or — more likely — executed, First Enchanter Irving obtained permission for her to leave the Tower, in a pre-Harrowing exam.

Cullen almost wished he could have been a shadow in the room for that particular conversation between the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander. As it was, he only found out because Knight Captain Hadley passed along a new order: in a week's time, he was to take Apprentice Surana to the edge of the island and back, and report on her behavior to the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter upon their return.

The intervening week passed by in both a blur of underhanded activity and an agonizing crawl. Cullen thought his intentions had been discovered at least once a day, and at least once a day, he held a secret meeting with the First Enchanter while trying to avoid the scrutiny of the Knight Commander and his Captain.

On the sixth night, the night before this pre-Harrowing, he slipped down the Infirmary. It was one of the few parts of the Tower that never slept, so he simply tapped on the door and then entered.

One of the healers looked up. At the sight of a Templar, even if he was down to a linen shirt and trousers, the young mage's eyes widened. He looked about him, as if desperate for some other healer to deal with him.

Cullen wasn't particularly practiced in deceiving people. In fact, no small part of him hated even the thought of it. So rather than lie when he approached the healer, he said, "I'm not here on anything official. I simply seek a sleeping draught for a young child."

The healer, still terror stricken, shook his head and pointed wordlessly to a white-haired woman in red and gold robes.

Cullen approached her and repeated his question, with a touch more grace. A Senior Enchanter would be experienced enough to mark his face, to identify him and perhaps comment to the Knight Commander.

But she knew all about Garahel's troubles sleeping nights, and had most likely heard of the difficulties it caused Sens. The Senior Enchanter gave him a small vial of a white liquid that reminded him vaguely of milk.

"Only half of this a night, mind," she said, softly. "Or he'll sleep well into the next day, and be drowsy even when he wakes."

The vial felt tiny and fragile in his hands. Cullen looked at her, and couldn't keep the earnest concern from his voice. "But his sleep will be dreamless?"

She nodded gravely. "Yes." She paused, wary, and then asked, "You do not believe his night terrors to be the work of demons?"

What? Cullen took a moment to stare blankly. His mind tried to encompass the question, but the sheer madness of the idea made all logic he possessed balk and shy away.

"He's four years old," Cullen said, and hoped his voice didn't sound half as uncomprehending as he felt.

"And you are a Templar, if labels have any bearing on my question or your answer," the Senior Enchanter said.

Ouch. The dig was subtle, but he still saw it. Cullen resolved to ignore it, saying instead, "I believe him to be a traumatized child still adjusting to a major change in his life. Nor do I see how a young mage just barely walking — and who has demonstrated few signs of ability — would be of any real interest to a demon."

The Senior Enchanter gave him a beatific smile, as if he had passed some sort of test. "Go, then. Off with you, and tend your charge."

Cullen went, glad to be gone from the Infirmary. It was a necessary part of the Tower, of course. He did not begrudge it its place. And yet he'd heard stories of why certain parties — almost all of them beautiful young apprentices, rarely older than fifteen or sixteen — were sent there at odd hours. There was least one girl a year, or so the rumors said, and yet the First Enchanter had never demanded a Seeker sent to the Tower.

Those were not the thoughts he wanted in his mind when he made his way to the crèche, so he did his best to think of other things.

The Templars did not have guard posts inside the bedrooms, so once he ducked past the knight on patrol, he was entirely unsupervised. He gently shook Garahel awake and tried to ignore the feeling of guilt at disturbing what had been, for once, a peaceful night.

He directed the boy to the privy closet and, once he'd returned, uncapped the vial.

"Drink this, Gar," he said. "I need you to drink all of it."

Garahel blinked up at him sleepily. "What is it, Ser Cullen?" He'd barely spoken before he was yawning, one of his frequent too-big-for-his-skin yawns that stretched his mouth.

"Just something to make sure you don't have any bad dreams tonight," Cullen replied.

Garahel obediently took the draught and drank it all. His mouth didn't even twist at the taste, so it was either easy on the tongue or he'd drunk it too fast to notice. Cullen tucked him in again, pressing the covers tight around the boy, and smoothed the blond curls back from his head.

Against all odds, he had the Rutherford nose, and his apple cheeks reminded Cullen of his younger brother at that age.

There was a Templar standing outside the door to the crèche when he left.

"Gave the boy a sleeping draught," Cullen said, forcing his voice to be flat, uncaring. Kincaid, he knew, cared little for their charges. Cullen had never been sure why he'd chosen to become a Templar. Perhaps his path had been chosen for him.

Kincaid arched a brow. "You mean I might pass a shift without the brat screaming like he's being murdered? Praise the Maker. Stop by the north-most window on your way back to the barracks, hey? Surana wanted to discuss the boy with you, and Andraste preserve us if the Circle spitfire doesn't get her way."

"I'll do that," Cullen said, and headed for the upstairs.

He found Sens by the north window on the third floor. There was a torch nearby, and its flickering orange glow cast her alternately in light and shadow. Starlight dusted her skin through the glass window, turned her into some sort of night-time spirit. She had unpinned her hair, and it fell down her back like spilled ink.

When she turned to look at him, he saw that the lack of light had caused her eyes to glow once more, making the grass-green color stand out even more. Even through the glow, they seemed to burn with some emotion Cullen couldn't name.

Maker, he hadn't seen her look this alive in a year or more. How had he not seen what was missing from her?

"Cullen," she whispered. "The First Enchanter says I'm to leave the Tower tomorrow?"

This was the first time he'd ever heard her make an effort to be quiet. She didn't make a habit of raising her voice, but she usually spoke so tonelessly that her soft volume seemed more happenstance than intentional act.

At the same volume, Cullen replied, "And not return. Has the First Enchanter told you of the plan?" Cullen couldn't bring himself to call it the First Enchanter's alone, but nor could he call it his own.

"Yes," she said. "I'm to stop in the crèche tomorrow and hide Garahel in my cloak, then meet you at the Outer Door."

Cullen nodded. "Good. You can do this without being seen?"

Sens arched an eyebrow for a moment before her face returned to its usual mask, save the scorching green gaze. "I can." Her voice was steely, as if Cullen had offended her with his doubt, and she turned back to the window, peering out at the dim shapes of the sky north of the tower.

"Then you had better rest," he said, gentle as he thought she might accept. "We've a long way to go tomorrow."

Sens looked over her shoulder at him, her look cool, before she said, "As you say."

She brushed past him to leave the window behind, close enough that he could catch the scent of her hair or perhaps her skin. It was sweet, faintly floral. He wondered, as she paused near him, if she wore perfume of some kind.

He was too lost in that curiosity to deflect when she leaned into him, stretching up onto the tips of her toes to press her lips against his cheek. Her lips were soft against his skin, and the smell of her was stronger in his nose.

Then she was gone, in a whirl of green and bronze robes and black hair.

Cullen wasn't such a fool as to press his hand to his cheek, where her mouth had been, but he did stare after her in a daze for a time.

#fragment #shamefic

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