Cullen stood amidst the ruins of the rogue Templar’s camp, encompassed by the debris of war and the pungent odor of death. The bodies of the rogue Knights were dispersed haphazardly across the ashen terrain, their once-gleaming armor now dimmed by the filth and dust of battle. The jagged edges of their weapons glimmered under the bleak light of the flickering campfires as if mocking the futility of their former wielders’ crusade. He was bespattered in blood and dust, his weapon still wet with the crimson essence of his foes.
As he surveyed the wreckage that lay before him, a profound sense of sorrow overtook him. Never in his wildest dreams had he foreseen that he would be compelled to take up arms against the Knights of the Order, but the perfidy of their betrayal had left him with no choice but to engage them in combat. The Seeker had attempted to reason with them, imploring them to heed their solemn oath and unite with the Inquisition to safeguard the people of Thedas. Yet they had remained obstinate, refusing to yield to the call of duty.
A surge of anger welled up within him. The Templars had always been venerated as the most revered and esteemed warriors in the land, yet these renegades had chosen to violate their oath and spurn the principles of the Order. Their downfall stood as a testament to the fragility of honor and loyalty, a mockery of all that the Order had once represented. It rankled Cullen to see such a great legacy marred by their despicable actions. And for what? A fleeting taste of power? A false sense of righteousness?
His grasp upon the hilt of the sword grew firmer as if in a vise, the coarse texture of the leather glove rasping against his skin. "You were supposed to be the peacekeepers, the champions of the just," he muttered in a bitter tone, his voice laden with disappointment.
With a stern countenance, Cassandra approached him, her expression etched with gravity, the battle had taken its toll on her as well. "We did what we had to do," she intoned.
Suddenly, at the edge of his field of vision, he noticed the presence of a bloodied Templar with a shock of red hair, standing in complete silence. The Commander turned abruptly to gain a clearer view, but to his bewilderment, there was no one there. He blinked several times, his mind in disarray, gazing intently at the vacant spot.
"Is everything in order?" inquired the Right Hand.
"Yes, all is well, I merely require some rest," he replied, striving to appear collected. "It has been a long and trying few days."
"It sure was," Cassandra agreed. "The soldiers are prepared to depart. Let us leave this place."
Cullen gave a somber nod of agreement, and with a leaden heart, he guided his men away from the gruesome battlefield.
As they traversed the verdant Hinterlands forest, the Commander could not dispel the impression that he was being surveilled, that an ominous presence lurked in the shadows, poised to strike. He dispatched scouts to scour the surroundings, but they reported nothing out of the ordinary. Was it the effect of lyrium withdrawal finally catching up with him? The first signs had already surfaced; he was perpetually thirsty, fatigued with the slightest exertion, and suffered from throbbing headaches that waxed and waned. Yet, till this moment, he had been able to suppress the symptoms to some extent, concealing them beneath a façade of stoicism. It may have been unwise, but he had hoped to keep his struggle under wraps.
Perhaps all he needed was some rest. If it was the Maker's will, he would spend the night without the burden of nightmares, and his mind and body would be rested enough to clear up his troubling mind.
As the night descended upon them, it brought with it a chill that pierced through the bones. The darkness was thick, and the stars were hidden behind the heavy clouds that hung overhead. Cullen decided that it was time to establish a camp for the night, so the ever-watchful Seeker sent out scouts to explore the surrounding area, searching for a safe and suitable location.
The spotters ventured out and soon returned with the news of a flat area near a small stream. The Commander quickly assessed the site and agreed that it was the appropriate spot. He ordered his troops to set up the camp, starting with the command tent at the center. The soldiers worked diligently, pitching tents in neat rows and marking out designated areas for the guards.
As the encampment began to take shape, torches, and lanterns were strategically placed around the perimeter, casting a flickering glow in the darkness. Fires were kindled in the center, their radiance providing both warmth and light for the soldiers who huddled together in groups, seeking solace from the bitter chill.
Cullen keenly observed the countenances of his men as they gathered around the blazing flames. They had fought valiantly, but the toll of battle was unmistakably evident on their battle-worn bodies.
As his eyes roved over his faithful warriors, a profound sense of pride and gratitude surged within his breast. They may not have been the most skilled or accomplished soldiers, but they were unwaveringly dauntless and fiercely loyal, willing to lay down their lives for the cause. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could depend on them, no matter what perils lay ahead.
As the thought took root in his mind, an unsettling feeling began to fester within him. Was he truly giving his all to the Inquisition? Could he fulfill his duties to the best of his abilities without resorting to the crutch of lyrium?
During his time as a Templar, he gave his entire being to the Order, sacrificing everything else in the service of its lofty ideals. He shed his blood and sweat in unyielding devotion to its sacred mission. The Inquisition deserved no less, and yet, the idea of resuming lyrium consumption to fortify the chains that bound him to his past was choking his very essence. He longed to be free, to find release from the unrelenting grip of addiction that clutched him mercilessly.
Still, wasn’t his decision to quit lyrium, in pursuit of his desires a selfish one? Was he, once again, putting the lives of others in jeopardy with his actions? The very thought of it made his heart heavy with guilt and remorse. For he knew all too well the devastating consequences that could arise from a single misstep.
As the night grew darker, the Commander cast a final glance over the camp, content that all was in its rightful place, and resolved to withdraw to his tent for the evening.
Once inside, he bent his knee in prayer. His supplications had grown hollow and weak during the long years spent in Kirkwall. Nonetheless, in moments of uncertainty and doubt, he still turned to the Maker. Perhaps out of mere habit, perhaps out of sheer necessity, for he had no one else to whom he could unburden his soul. "Oh, Maker, hear my plea. As I stand here, lost and unsure, grant me the strength and clarity to make the right choices. Help me to trust in your plan and walk with courage in your sight. For I know that with your grace, I can face whatever may come," he prayed softly, his lips barely moving as he beseeched the divine presence for a glimmer of hope and clarity.
As he lay down and felt the cool breath of night against his countenance, he yearned for the sylvan peace and serenity surrounding him to soothe his turbulent thoughts. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension in his body slowly dissipating. The susurrus of rustling leaves and the gentle murmur of a nearby stream filled his ears, lulling him into a blissful slumber.
As the morning sun began to rise, two ravens descended upon the camp. The first bird bore a missive from the Hawke, while the second carried tidings from Corporal Vale. Hawke, known for her candid nature, had scrawled but a few words upon the parchment: ‘We be done with them mages. Back to the village we go, that was a jolly good time!’ Cullen, ever amused by the woman's irreverence, allowed a hearty chuckle to escape his lips. However, the austere Cassandra, found the lack of professionalism to be beneath her discerning tastes. The warrior voiced her dissatisfaction with a disgusted ‘Ugh,’ a single utterance conveying more disapproval than a three-hour-long lecture.
The news that arrived from the Crossroads was not entirely favorable. The Right Hand perused the letters on the paper with a crease marking her brow. "The Herald," she divulged with a tone of deep concern, "was wounded while shielding Mother Giselle from the bandits."
"The region was meant to be under our aegis. How could this have happened? Were our forces waylaid?" The Commander posed the query, seeking an explanation from his companion.
"No," came the swift reply, as the Seeker meticulously scanned the scroll in search of answers, "rest assured, the village remains secure.” With a disapproving shake of her head and a quizzical arch of her eyebrow she continued, “Mother Giselle decided to venture down the King's Highway, east of the Crossroads, knowing that this very region succumbed to the recent encroachment of bandits. Miriam recklessly ignored orders to stay at camp and went off on her own to find Giselle. And, in a twist of fate that surely tickles the whims of the Maker, she ended up saving the Mother from the clutches of an insidious ambush. Although injured, our mage managed to vanquish most of their assailants. Those who still draw breath are presently being interrogated by Vale."
The Commander sighed heavily, frustration etched across his face as he contemplated the behavior of the woman in question. His fingertips sought solace upon the bridge of his nose, in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing headache that accompanied his exasperation. "So she disobeyed authority, disregarded orders, and nearly got herself killed... just another reminder that rebellion always dwells in the hearts of those who are gifted with magic."
His companion, leaning against a fresh wooden post, cast her gaze into the distance lost in contemplation. Slowly, she shook her head, her eyes fixed upon a distant point as she meticulously weighed his words.
"I don't believe her daring behavior is inherently tied to her being a mage," she replied, her voice calm and measured. "And while I do not endorse her actions, I find myself unable to escape the thought that I, too, may have been tempted down a similar path. My mentors had always lamented my proclivity to act upon instinct rather than measured contemplation. Yet, here I stand, the Right Hand of the Divine. Perhaps it is not always a flaw to follow the dictates of one's heart."
Her words hung in the air, challenging the established notions of discipline and obedience that governed his world. Cullen regarded Cassandra with a mixture of surprise and understanding, realizing that perhaps there was more to his reaction than a mere clash of ideologies.
"You speak the truth," he conceded reluctantly, a begrudging admission escaping his lips. "It was improper of me to assume that her disregard for authority stemmed solely from her being an enchanter." His voice carried a tinge of regret as he acknowledged his own biases. "Nevertheless, we cannot allow such whims to go unchallenged. She proclaims herself the Herald of Andraste, it is her duty to act accordingly." A spark of determination ignited within him as he formulated a plan. "I will compose a missive to the Corporal," he continued, his tone firm. "Order him to reprimand the woman, but not in public, of course. She needs to understand that her actions affect not only her, but the Inquisition as well."
The Seeker nodded in agreement. "Indeed," she murmured, her voice carrying a wistful tinge. "Despite the kinship I perceive, she must reckon with the consequences of her actions. It is a terrifying prospect to consider what might have happened to Thedas had she been lost to the marauders.”
"That’s my other question, how did she emerge victorious against all those men? Leliana's report on her stated that she had never shown any ability for offensive magic." He mused aloud, his countenance troubled.
"She used her mark," the Seeker explained. "Unfortunately, it worsened her condition once again, and Solas is working to stabilize her health."
"This turn of events is hardly unforeseen. Our knowledge of the mysterious marking upon her hand is woefully inadequate, and I pray that the mage's experimentation will not doom us all."
Cassandra appeared taken aback by his lack of faith. "Do you not believe that she is the Herald of Andraste?" she asked incredulously.
“I believe...” he fell into a pensive silence, striving to offer a truthful response, "that she holds a sincere conviction in her divine calling," he eventually replied.
Cassandra surveyed him with a dry smile. "Well, that's something, I suppose," she opined. "If nothing else, you could recognize that her efforts are sincere."
"The path to the Void is laid with good intentions, and I could serve as proof of that," he riposted.
"What do you mean by that?" she quirked an eyebrow, her curiosity having been piqued.
He sighed deeply, his expression strained. "Back when I was serving at the Ferelden Circle, I did what I thought was best, but it ended up blowing up in my face. I had good intentions, but they paved the way for the Tower's collapse. Then there was Kirkwall, where I saw how quickly the good we try to do can turn rotten. Even though the lessons were tough, they made me who I am today. "
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The Seeker listened with a mix of empathy and skepticism. "But is it not preferable to aspire to goodness, even if the outcome is not what we intended?" she queried.
He shook his head. "Maybe in a world where good intentions suffice, but we inhabit a realm of consequences."
She ruminated over his words for a moment. "So you're suggesting that Miriam should refrain from using her mark for fear of unforeseen repercussions?"
Cullen heaved another heavy sigh. "No, of course not. I merely seek to ensure that everyone's fervor for the mage does not blind us to the potential risks."
Cassandra nodded thoughtfully. "You are right. It is a precarious balance to have faith in the Herald and yet remain vigilant against the dangers of magic we do not comprehend." A genuine smile graced her face. "It is comforting to know that the Commander of our forces possesses a composed and rational mind.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "Indeed. Someone must, after all."
Except for the sporadic confrontation with bears, their journey back to the Crossroads transpired without incident.
Cullen's mental state exhibited a slight improvement. Though the Maker had not yet unveiled His divine guidance, at least the disconcerting sensation of an unseen presence trailing him had dissipated. However, his headaches persisted, growing more severe, as did his unquenchable thirst. Cassandra had begun to observe his abnormal frequency of reaching for the water skin, her concerns mounting. Yet he adeptly evaded her probing inquiries, skillfully diverting her apprehensions for the time being.
In due time, he knew he would be compelled to disclose the concealed truth to the Seeker and enlist her aid in quitting his addiction. Yet at the thought of it, fear coiled within him. Fear that she would withhold her endorsement, branding his endeavor as self-serving. Fear that the delicate bond of amity beginning to form between them would fray and rupture under the weight of his revelation.
The longing for camaraderie gnawed at his soul—an ache to relish the sense of brotherhood, to revel in the unity he once shared with the fellow Templars of the Order. The tendrils of connection that were slowly entwining him within the Inquisition had become a beacon of hope, and to lose it all now before it had even begun would be a crushing blow.
The village and the refugee camp, unchanged in their dilapidated state, endured the weeks of the relentless hunt for the rogue Templars and mages. Though conditions had hardly improved, a change in the spirit of the people permeated the very air. There was a palpable sense of hope, an ethereal aura that heralded better days on the horizon.
This time, when their troops entered, they were greeted with an enthusiastic welcome, as if they were legendary heroes emerging triumphant from battle. Barefooted and begrimed children scampered alongside the marching soldiers, their bright eyes peering out from their innocent faces with nothing but admiration.
At this moment, Cullen, too, was transported to the fragments of his past. Memories flickered in his mind's eye, for as a mere boy, he had once pursued the majestic procession of Templars as they strode through the streets of Honnleath. His fervent heart had aspired and yearned to be among them someday, emulating their noble deeds. Oh, the surreal twist of fate as the present unfolded and revealed that now he stood as the embodiment of inspiration, the beacon kindling the flames of aspiration in the new generation.
His musings were interrupted by the stalwart Corporal Vale, who hastened to report on all that had transpired since the last raven had been sent.
Hawke had arrived two days ago from her mission and landed with her people to help rebuild the village Chantry under the auspices of Mother Giselle.
The Mother, having experienced deliverance at the hands of The Herald, dedicated days to recounting the extraordinary tale of her rescue to the throngs of eager listeners. The saga unfolded, revealing how Miriam had pulled her back from the precipice of imminent demise. And then, in a display of divine intervention, the enchanter summoned the indomitable power of the Maker's Bride, laying low the marauding brigands, all the while disregarding her own grievous wound. Such selflessness and valor in the face of adversity forever transformed the perceptions surrounding the once-maligned mage. Her arcane abilities were no longer intertwined with the deranged apostates but were now viewed as a divine benediction, bestowed by the very hands of Andraste herself.
It seemed that under the watchful care of Solas, the enigmatic scholar, Miriam's recovery had been swift, and now her days were devoted to caring for the afflicted. Her healing spells flowed like celestial hymns, mending the broken and bringing comfort to the wounded souls who sought her aid.
Cullen, subjected to an impassioned tirade, felt a slight sense of irritation within him. The fervor emanating from Vale, whose orders the mage had disobeyed, was an unexpected revelation. He should be reprimanding the woman, not praising her. Yet, despite the burgeoning thoughts eager to escape his lips, he restrained himself, recognizing the importance of fostering hope within the hearts of these people. He would not be the one to shatter the fragile illusions that provided solace amidst the harsh realities of their existence.
The Corporal concluded his tale by revealing what little information had been gleaned from the interrogation of the assailants who had attacked Mother Giselle and the Herald. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but Cassandra's instincts had been stirred by what she sensed was a covert ruse at work, and so it was decided that the culprits would remain in the camp until Leliana's people had a chance to 'talk' with them.
As nightfall descended upon them, the Seeker recommended debriefing Hawke in the morning to discuss the outcome of their missions and to determine their next moves. Cullen, in acquiescence with her proposal, thanked the Corporal for his contributions and dispatched him with his men to get some rest.
Yearning for a moment of respite, he ventured towards the humble cabin reserved solely for the commanding echelons of the Inquisition. On arrival, however, he was greeted by a queue of people seeking comfort and aid from The Herald.
He discovered her perched upon a makeshift bench, positioned near the entrance of the hut, with Lysette standing resolute at her side, a somber countenance etched upon her features. A palpable tension lingered in the air, and the Commander couldn't help but surmise that the guard had received a more substantial share of reprimands from the stern Corporal than the audacious mage herself.
The enchanter was cradling an infant in her lap. The child, pallid and emaciated, barely moving within her grasp. Standing nearby, the young one's mother, her face etched with anguish, beseeched the mage with trembling words, "Ah, Lady Herald, me wee babe has refused milk the whole day long. I beg of ya, with your divine gift, bless him with your sacred touch."
Replete with ardent eagerness, Miriam swiftly responded, her weariness momentarily eclipsed by resolve, "Fear not, good woman, for with the arcane gift bestowed upon me by the Maker, I shall alleviate the child's affliction." Casting forth her incantation, she summoned radiant light from her palms, but the illumination proved disconcerting to the child, provoking his tender form to emit loud cries. The Herald, undeterred, began to sing a lilting melody in a buoyant timbre, her voice intertwining with her magic:
Little apple tree,
Oh, my apple tree,
In the orchard, in the field,
You're the one for me.
A-ah, little apple,
Red, ripe, and sweet,
A-ah, little apple,
A tasty little treat.
Under the blue sky,
The sun shines down so bright,
And on my little apple tree,
The fruit is just right.
A-ah, little apple,
Red, ripe, and sweet,
A-ah, little apple,
A tasty little treat.
When the cheeky birds come,
To peck at the juicy fruit,
I'll wave them away,
And grab a snack to boot.
A-ah, little apple,
Red, ripe, and sweet,
A-ah, little apple,
A tasty little treat.
In the cheerful embrace of her melodies, the child's plaintive cries began to fade, gradually replaced by murmurs of contentment and serenity.
Cullen stood transfixed, his face awash with astonishment. This melody, it simply could not be! How was she acquainted with it?
The recollection surged forth, unveiling the cherished memory from a time when his world was yet untarnished. It happened only a few fleeting days before he left for Templar training, when the sun-kissed fruit beckoned his family to the field. As fate would have it, his little sister, in the throes of youthful exuberance, stumbled and fell, her knee bearing the sting of a shallow scrape. A melody of joy and tenderness poured from his mother's lips, enveloping little Rosalie and bringing her back from the brink of tears as they gathered the ripe red apples in their orchard.
This song had been inseparable from the fabric of Honnleath, the humble village distinguished solely by its bounty of succulent apples. And yet, this very tune, so intimately entwined with the quaint hamlet, now stirred within the air of the Crossroads, emanating from the lips of a woman who hailed from across the expanse of the Waking Sea.
Cullen's mind teemed with questions, his curiosity beckoning him to unravel the mystery that had unfolded before him. As his gaze remained locked on the Herald, the boundaries of his perception unraveled, and for the first time, he beheld not solely a mage, a conduit of raw and untamed arcane might, but a fellow human being, cloaked in the intricacies of her own story. The report penned by Leliana, once considered by him to be a comprehensive description of Miriam, now appeared inadequate in capturing the essence of the individual before him.
The enchanter concluded her incantation, her healing spell weaving its way through the infant's fragile form, and gently returned the child to the arms of his mother. The baby, once pallid and feeble, now displayed a rosy hue and exuded newfound vitality. Overflowing with gratitude, the woman showered the mage with effusive thanks before hastening away, her steps laden with renewed hope.
Scarcely had she departed when another desperate soul approached the tired Herald, beseeching her aid. The Commander, perceptive to the woman's exhaustion, observed the relentless tide of supplicants who seemed unaware of her weariness.
"Good people, hear my words!" Cullen's voice resounded, commanding attention. "Lady Herald, who has toiled tirelessly to mend the wounded and heal the ailing, requires respite for the night. Let us honor her dedication and grant the woman the rest she deserves." His proclamation invoked an unforeseen sense of comprehension and benevolence among the gathered crowd. Slowly, they began to disperse, creating a respectful distance and affording the mage a moment of peace. As the throng dissipated, leaving Miriam, Lysette and the Commander in solitude, she turned to him with fatigued eyes filled with lingering determination.
"I wish, oh how I wish, that I possessed the power to heal every afflicted soul," she confessed, her voice a mere whisper.
"It is a noble pursuit," he replied, meeting her gaze with empathy. "Yet, you must also recognize the importance of tending to your own well-being.” His countenance shifted, adopting a seriousness as he pressed on, “I expect you not to disregard our efforts to ensure your safety again. By the grace of the Maker, you have survived this ordeal, but your actions had the potential to unravel all that we have worked tirelessly to build. I trust you will learn from your mistake and do better."
The mage remained quiet for a moment as she absorbed Cullen's words. "I strive to be worthy of my title, yet my mortal limitations confine me within their grasp. But fear not, I shall heed your guidance." she conceded, her voice carrying a tinge of surrender.
As she slowly rose to her feet, poised to enter the cabin, a question about the song lingered on Cullen's tongue, ready to escape his lips. Before he could utter a word, a resonant voice boomed from behind, shaking the air with its presence. "Here ye be! Ahoy, me matey. I be hopin' life treats ye well." Startled, he turned to behold the approach of none other than the Champion of Kirkwall, accompanied by Fenris and the Right Hand.
A smile of salutation emerged upon the Commander’s lips as he greeted them, "Good to see you, Hawke. And Fenris."
The elf, ever stoic and brooding, simply nodded in response.
The attention of the Champion swiftly shifted to Miriam, her eyes filled with intrigue. "I've heard the whispers sailin' through the village, spreadin' tales o' yer wondrous powers. So, how about ye work yer magic and perform the miracle of re-growin' me missing tit?"
Cassandra, with an air of detachment, entered the cabin, declaring, "I shall not partake in this conversation. See you all tomorrow."
The mage, taken aback by the audacious request, stuttered in response, "I must confess that the realm of my abilities is incapable of restoring severed limbs, or... ahem... other bodily appendages that may have gone astray. I am powerless to assist you in this matter."
Hawke let out a disappointed sigh, her words laden with frustration. "What good be yer bloated, fancy title if ye can't muster the skill to grow back a measly tit?" She continued, turning her gaze to Fenris. "I be tellin' ye, matey! Besides closin' them cursed rifts, this wench be nothin' but a useless piece o' driftwood in the sea."
The elf, with a remorseful glance towards Miriam, ushered Hawke inside, silently shaking his head.
Perplexity painted across her features, the Herald confessed, "To speak with candor, after all the tales about her heroic exploits, the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall does not quite conform to the image I had conceived in my mind."
Cullen, his smile lingering, responded reassuringly, "Believe me, you are not alone in that sentiment. But give it time, and you may find that she grows on you."
With a gesture, he invited Miriam and Lysette to enter the cabin. Inquiring about the Honnleath song was going to have to wait.
The morning assembly drew to a close, and the decision was made to return to the Haven. Freed from the clutches of the deranged apostates and renegade Templars, the region could finally breathe a sigh of relief and begin the arduous process of recovery. Corporal Vale, displaying unwavering dedication, pledged to remain in the vicinity until the restoration was complete, ensuring that the displaced refugees found solace and sanctuary within its boundaries. Moreover, the strategic position of the village, nestled amidst the convergence of various trading routes, rendered it an opportune location for a permanent Inquisition presence.
It was decided that both Hawke and Fenris should extend their stay, using their skills to clear out the remaining bandit threat and restore the uninterrupted flow of trade through the area.
Mother Giselle, however, chose to accompany the Herald on her journey back to Haven. She boldly proclaimed that the followers of the Chantry should from now on be free to follow their consciences, and in her case this compelled her to work for the restoration of peace, not only within the confines of the Chantry, but also in the wider world.
She also expressed her desire to assist Leliana in finding those of her brethren who would dare to entertain doubt, thus potentially changing the perception of the Herald of Andraste and her mission.
As the hour approached for their departure from the Crossroads, an undeniable pall of melancholy descended upon the scene. The humble villagers and refugees, whose lives had intertwined with the presence of the Herald of Andraste, gathered together in a bittersweet display of farewell. Tears shimmered in their eyes, etching a testament of gratitude and yearning upon their weathered faces. The woman with the mark had transcended the realm of mere symbol, evolving into a wellspring of solace and an unwavering bastion of strength.
Cullen watched as the enchanter stood among the villagers, her voice filled with fervent devotion as she eased their fears. The Herald assured them that while they carried the burning flames of Andraste with them, her departure did not mark the end of their shared journey, but rather an auspicious genesis.
In this poignant moment, embraces were exchanged, tears were shed, and solemn promises were pledged to preserve the fortitude each had witnessed in the other. The inhabitants of the Crossroads, though swathed in sorrow at the Herald's parting, possessed an acute understanding of the gravity inherent in her mission and the path she was destined to tread.
Finally, after tender and lingering goodbyes, their party ventured forth upon the road that would lead them back to Haven.