Chapter Text
It was unfathomable Evelyn would be attracted to any templar, let alone one notorious for serving as the right hand to a knight-commander so cruel and harsh that her actions sparked the mage rebellion.
And he was notorious. He had been the subject of fevered gossip even before he became knight-captain at an absurdly young age under Meredith Stannard. Mages had little capital but information, and some of that exchange included gossip, traveling from one Circle to another like wildfire.
As one of the few survivors of Kinloch, the torture he was subjected to was a matter of speculation throughout the Circles. No one was surprised at the whispers he murdered several apprentices and went on the run.
She didn't know whether he killed the apprentices or not. He disappeared for a time -- some claimed he was sent to Greenfell, where templars of uncertain mind were forgotten -- but she hoped he didn’t kill the apprentices.
Although templars regularly evaded punishment. That she did know.
Then the disaster that was Kirkwall -- the horrific explosion at the chantry, killing thousands, and the ignition of the mage rebellion -- although he was involved in the rebuilding efforts to give grudging credit where it was due. The more cynical mages pointed out Guard Captain Aveline Hendyr was as involved, if not more so, than Ser Rutherford.
She counted it a bad omen when he was introduced as the Commander of the Inquisition. Where Ser Rutherford went, trouble soon followed. She kept her expression blank as they were introduced, but couldn't help the quickening of her pulse or the rush of adrenaline -- fear.
Templars often gave her cause for fear, and this one was a bogeyman among mages.
She tried to control it, but there was a wariness in his eyes that indicated he noticed. Reading templars was a matter of survival in the Circle.
"Lady Trevelyan." He bowed his head ever so slightly -- to be honest, it was more courteous than she expected. His tone was polite and, but for the tightness around his mouth, his expression bland.
"Ser." She was curt, but couldn't help it. She did swallow her grimace. First Enchanter Brenna would be disappointed in her lack of control.
Leliana and Cassandra traded a glance. She hoped her fear and dislike would go unremarked -- Maker knew she was accustomed to hiding her feeling from templars -- but her distaste was too great.
She excused herself as soon as possible. She attended the Conclave at the behest of her parents, who begged her to make peace with her templar cousins, especially after "the incident." Evelyn pushed the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about the screaming and the stench of smoke. Maker knew she dreamed of it often enough.
Now, her cousins likely were as dead as Divine Justinia, and she was little more than a prisoner -- with him as one of her jailers. Perhaps it would have been better if she died in the explosion with all the others. It certainly would have been less complicated.
She walked through the village, nodding when hailed by the villagers. Her expression was neutral, but within the privacy of her thoughts, she was baffled. With the closing of a single rift, she went from pariah to the Herald of Andraste. All she did was reach.
She clenched her marked hand; its unwanted, mysterious magic was alien and frightening. Nothing she studied in the Circle readied her for this, and she feared the mark’s clear connection to the Fade would make her even more susceptible to possession.
She walked through the gates, any further greetings lost under the song of war -- ringing swords and clashing shields -- as the soldiers endlessly drilled. She kept walking, although she knew the soldiers took note. She didn’t doubt they would stop her or send for the Seeker if she attempted to leave. They called her Herald, but she was as much a prisoner as when she wore chains.
Evelyn stopped at the edge of a small pond, nestled at the bottom of the incline and frozen over. She moved to tuck her hands into the sleeves of her robes before she remembered she wasn’t wearing robes, only a tunic and breeches. It was strange, after years wearing a mage’s robes.
Evelyn was sent to the Circle when her powers manifested at ten. The Trevelyans were a large family with a long history of magically gifted children, and she had cousins at various Free Marches Circles.
Those Trevelyans not condemned to the Circle or destined for rule served the Chantry in other ways. The women as sisters -- because who would serve as a templar, if they could rule as a priest? -- with the exception of a few who were strong-willed and desirous of service. The men of her family usually became templars if they weren’t involved with the family’s business interests. Some of her templar cousins were at the Ostwick Circle. The name Trevelyan wasn’t as important as the distinction mage or templar. Even those she was close to in childhood were distant.
Evelyn became a junior enchanter by thirty and was a contender for senior enchanter when the circles disbanded, although her relative youth hurt her cause. She feared and disliked many templars and chafed at the numerous and sometimes ridiculous restrictions the Circle placed on mages, but it was a better life than many.
And now, all this … and to rub salt in a wound, him.
She supposed it wasn’t unusual he reminded her of another templar, but she would prefer he not remind her of that particular templar. She hadn’t thought of Edwyn in many years, although she was reminded of the consequences of mage-templar fraternization often enough.
She had been an apprentice, still a few years away from her Harrowing. Edwyn had just taken his vows and wasn’t much older. He was handsome, but more importantly, he was warm and, on the surface, at least, kind. He smiled, greeted mages and passed the time of day. He might have had all the personality of a blank wall -- she couldn’t remember, and her judgment was questionable, given the circumstances -- and she would have found him fascinating.
They hadn’t done more than exchange shy smiles and a note or two, but the others knew. Templars always knew.
It was the golden hair, she decided. When Edwyn was on guard duty in the library, she often sat with a book open and untouched in front of her, peeking at him and swooning over how the light fell through the library’s soaring windows and touched his blond hair with gold.
Edwyn was sweet, naive and very young. This man was dangerous, harsh and foreboding. But the light touched their hair in the same way, and she felt … something. Maybe nostalgia. Certainly nothing more. She couldn’t be attracted to this grim man with his scarred face and deep shadows under his eyes. More importantly, she mistrusted the shadows in his eyes.
She didn’t say anything when the Seeker joined her, and Cassandra seemed content to stand beside her and watch the snow dance over the ice.
“You don’t approve of our choice for commander,” Cassandra said after some time.
Evelyn thought about how she should respond for good two minutes before she spoke. “He is well-known, but not well-regarded among my fellow mages. His presence will make recruiting the rebel mages more difficult.”
“Yes.”
They were both quiet for a moment.
“Why?” Evelyn asked.
“The years he spent in Kirkwall after the rebellion,” Cassandra said.
If she chose him because of that, she was mad. He contributed to the rebellion -- he was cleaning up his own mess, and reports out of Kirkwall indicated the city still was unstable.
“He is very young for the position,” Evelyn observed. “Most noncommissioned officers who might serve under him are older.” She had tunics older than the Inquisition’s commander.
“He is nearly thirty,” Cassandra said. “And he wasn’t chosen for his age, but his actions.”
“But why him? He has led no armies, has no connections outside the Templar Order and brings no troops of his own.” Ser Rutherford’s appointment baffled Evelyn.
“Most Holy wanted a man like him -- he has no connections, but neither is he beholden to anyone.”
“A fair point --” but how she hated to admit it! “-- but perhaps Divine Justinia should have chosen someone who actually has seen battle instead of a glorified prison guard?”
Cassandra appeared to give her question careful thought, tilting her head and clicking her tongue. “Commander Cullen understands both mage and templar tactics. The Inquisition was not formed to march on nations, but to quell the mage-templar war. As a mage, you would be most familiar with templars’ Circle duties." Cassandra adroitly side-stepped Evelyn's "prison guards" description. "But their duties are broader than that: They destroy demons --"
"And abominations," Evelyn said.
"Have you ever seen an abomination?"
Evelyn shook her head.
"I pray you never will. Do you know why an abomination is so terrible?”
Evelyn shook her head a second time. She was sure Cassandra would tell her without prompting.
“The mages whose bodies and powers the demons steal are still self-aware. They know their powers are being used for slaughter.”
Evelyn suppressed a shudder. She had heard this, but mages didn’t speak much about abominations.
“Ending their torment is a mercy, but, yes, templars are tasked with destroying abominations, along with guarding and defending chantries and Circles alike, criminal investigations and more."
Evelyn wondered if "more" meant hunting down apostates.
“Also, Cullen assisted Guard Captain Aveline in holding Kirkwall together for years,” Cassandra said. “She doesn’t suffer fools. And there were other considerations. Commander Cullen wants to give himself to a cause that serves the greater good.”
Evelyn could just imagine the nascent Inquisition knew exactly what the “greater good” was and Cassandra wouldn’t appreciate her pointing it out. “Still, he is so young!”
“He was knight-captain in Kirkwall.”
“Under a mad woman,” Evelyn scoffed. “Do you think she chose him, despite his youth and Kinloch, because he was talented beyond his years or because his inexperience and well-known fear of mages made him easier to manipulate and control?”
“Yet he survived and stood against her in the end.”
“His association with the Inquisition will make it almost impossible to negotiate with the rebel mages. And it isn’t as if Ser Rutherford easily could have gone to another Circle. What Knight-Commander would have him after he led an uprising against Ser Stannard? He had nowhere else to go. What sort of loyalty will that buy your fledging Inquisition?”
“Cullen could have ruled Kirkwall if he chose.” Cassandra crossed her arms and looked down the snowy bank. “He managed to shield both mages and templars from Stannard as best he could. He has flaws and faults, but surviving under her rule isn’t one of them.”
“And what about the mages who had to survive under his rule?”
“Do you have knowledge of abuses he has committed?” Cassandra asked. “If you do, then tell me. I don’t wish to be blindsided.”
Evelyn bit back her frustration. She didn’t have even rumors to convince Cassandra. “It was well known Kirkwall’s templars abused their charges. He may not have committed any crimes himself, but they all happened under his watch.”
“And Stannard hid things from him. Things are not as we planned, but we must make do with what we have.”
It wasn’t even an excuse. Either the knight-captain was a fool or a monster, and their chances weren’t good with either. But Evelyn knew she didn’t have a choice. She didn’t have any choices. “Must you also make do with a prisoner?”
“You are no longer our prisoner.” Cassandra hesitated. “I was wrong about you. I wanted finding Most Holy’s killer to be easy. I believe the Maker placed us on this path -- including you and Commander Cullen. Most Holy saw something worthy in him. She believed in second chances.”
Divine Justinia’s poor choices resulted in the First Enchanters and Lord Seeker Lambert’s templars engaging in out-and-out battle in the White Spire. She presided over a Conclave that saw the upper two-thirds of the Chantry leadership wiped off the map. Her endorsement wasn’t comforting.
“We need your help,” Cassandra said. “No one else is capable of closing the rifts.”
The Fade allowed demons into the world and endangered mages -- especially neophytes -- everywhere; not helping wasn’t an option. “I will do whatever I can to see this through,” Evelyn said.
Including enduring the knight-captain.
For now.
##
There was much to do, few people to do it and little time to get it done. Cullen was up before dawn and usually didn't stumble back to his bedroll until long after dark fell. His exhaustion cast a strange, melancholic pall over his thoughts.
The nightmares didn’t help.
He didn’t want his soldiers to hear him thrashing and crying out in his sleep through the thin tent walls, so he took his bedroll into the wooded area outside the village and slept there. He didn’t like small, enclosed spaces since Kinloch Hold anyway.
The nightmares tormented him, but they were as familiar as the lullabies his mother sang him in Honnleath, before his wish to see the wider world was granted.
Desire always used Warden-Commander Solona Amell's face to torment him.
Two weeks ago, he woke up gasping and trembling, the Herald's face fresh in his mind. Since then, the Herald appeared in his dreams three more times. It was disconcerting, especially when his duties required him to speak to her the following morning. It was difficult when he dreamed she said and did such filthy and horrifying things to him, pain and shameful pleasure so intertwined he could no longer separate them.
She disliked him. It wasn't overt; she was polite, but she never sought him out as she did Cassandra, Leliana or Josephine. At first, he thought she simply preferred their company, but he could no longer deny she went out of her way to avoid him.
Cullen could have dealt with her polite dislike -- when he was Kirkwall’s knight-captain, there were more than a few templars who disliked him, in part because of his rapid promotions at such a young age -- if his feelings were neutral or even dislike in return, but he was completely infatuated with her.
In meetings, he caught himself admiring her profile or listening to the lilt of her voice without considering her words. He thought such boyish besottedness was ripped out by the root in Kinloch. He was unsure whether his passion began with the nightmare or the new twist in the nightmare began with his fascination.
Cullen considered taking lyrium again. It didn't stop the nightmares, but it muted them. In the end, he put the vials away.
For now.
##
Evelyn stalked through the camp. She concentrated on breathing evenly and keeping her expression placid. She should have known it would come to this, and quickly, too.
She didn’t need to read the letter again, she had it memorized. She didn’t doubt Ser Rutherford meant it as a dressing down. Phrases like “properly represent the Inquisition” and “you are an agent, not an ambassador” came to mind. She didn’t want to be an agent. She was a captive, charged with the crime of living when everyone else died. Then they changed their minds and decided she was their savior -- again, while she was unconscious.
Maker only knew where she would be now if they didn’t need her to close the Breach.
She spotted Ser Rutherford overseeing the drills. Always overseeing the drills; the man never seemed to do anything else, but he had time to write her tersely worded letters about making promises on the Inquisition’s behalf.
Evelyn stood at his elbow, waiting for him to speak, but he only watched the tide of soldiers ebb back and forth. She stewed, becoming more irritated by the minute. He didn’t look at her, and Evelyn was half-convinced it was some masterstroke of strategy to enrage her. Either that, or the man was oblivious.
“Ser Rutherford?”
“Yes?” He didn’t so much as twitch or look at her. He knew she was there the entire time.
“I’d like to discuss your note. Your instructions.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a problem with me, Ser Rutherford?”
“No, Lady Trevelyan.” He crossed his hands over the pommel of his sword. “But you must be mindful of the promises you make on behalf of the Inquisition. I know your position within the Inquisition is … undefined, but it would reflect badly on us if we were unable or unwilling to keep a promise you made. They wouldn’t understand you don’t speak on behalf of the Inquisition.”
“I wasn’t aware I was to report to you, ser.”
He crossed his arms. “I had guessed that, not having seen a single report from you.”
Evelyn ground her teeth. “Please excuse, ser. Perhaps you could bestir yourself and get one of the many I’ve written for Leliana and Josephine.”
“And Cassandra,” he added. “But not me.”
“If I should need your input on something, I’ll write a report.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “But, truly, ser, I wouldn’t hold my breath. Cassandra provides me with plenty of military insight. You needn’t bother with any more instructions.”
He shifted, looming over her. “If you observe troop strength, movement or any activity that needs addressed through our forces, then I need to know. I lead the troops, not Cassandra, Lady Trevelyan, despite your dislike. Cassandra could have done so if she wished, but she recruited me.”
"You have a control problem, Ser Rutherford." She was having trouble with her control. Her palm itched with the need to slap him.
"Perhaps you see it so well because you have a problem with it yourself, Lady Trevelyan." The scarred corner of his mouth twitched. The tic happened more frequently the longer they were in one another's company.
She smiled her sweetest, iciest smile. "I don't take your meaning." She clenched her fist, hidden among the folds of her long coat, to keep from reddening his cheek.
"You have a temper, and more politely you speak to me, the closer you are to losing it."
She counted her breaths. "I am always in control, ser. Anything else would invite possession. But we were speaking of you and your irrational need to exercise control over everyone around you. It is a problem."
"The only person who has a problem with it is you. Perhaps I should ask you the same: Do you have a problem with me?"
"Of course not," she said, every word dripping with venomous politeness.
He sighed. "You are a liar, lady."
She had to get away before she raked her nails down his cheek and gave him a new scar. Confronting him was a bad idea. “As you say, Ser Rutherford.”
“Commander.”
“Pardon?” She raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
“My Inquisition title is commander.” He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Herald.”
“And mine is enchanter, as you very well know. Do you think to command me?” She did not pull away, because he likely expected her to do so. His grip was firm, but not uncomfortable, and his larger hands dwarfed hers. She didn't react outwardly, but she was furious; how dare he touch her without permission!
“I lead the forces of the Inquisition.”
“Am I not an Inquisition agent?” She tilted her head. She wished arguing with him wasn’t quite so bracing. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be an Inquisition agent -- or she had a choice.
“You are the Herald.”
“I am Enchanter Evelyn. Again, I ask: Do you think to command me? I am an Inquisition agent.”
“I don't think anyone does command you. Or can.” He released her.
She was oddly disappointed. She turned on her heel and marched away, now angry with herself as well as him.
##
The headaches were bad, but they were only pain. Cullen could endure pain. Pain was as familiar as an old friend, its peaks and valleys known and charted. Pain could not surprise him. Pain was bad, but bearable.
The shaking and fevers were worse, because when his hands spasmed or his face was flushed and sweating, his soldiers knew. They averted their eyes and pretended not to see, but they knew. It shamed him and reminded him he was an addict. No matter what he did, no matter how long he went without lyrium, he never would forget the rush rolling through his veins or how powerful and invincible it made him feel. Part of him would never stop yearning for that power.
It was a weakness deliberately instilled in him and all templars by those who took advantage of their naivety, desire for service and ignorance. He would never forgive them -- or himself for falling for it.
The pain was bad, the fevers and shaking worse, but the hallucinations were worst of all. It was difficult when he had company and he struggled to keep his attention where it should be, but even more when he was alone and there were no distractions from the horrors his mind dredged up. He began to doubt his sanity.
Perhaps he never left Kinloch Hold, and his entire life as a templar, except a few brief months, was a demon-spawned nightmare. Kirkwall was a Void-damned place. Perhaps the Inquisition and his attempts extricate himself from lyrium’s clutching grasp were cruel dreams, a prelude to having it all pulled out from under him.
He fixed his gaze past the monsters and madmen who capered and cavorted through his waking nightmares and told himself over and over it was nothing, the Inquisition and his life were reality. He dug his fingers into the edge of his desk and recited the chant as shield and shelter against insanity.
Sometimes, he doubted.
##
Evelyn was irritated, but it wasn’t surprising since she needed to deal with Ser Rutherford. His mere presence was mildly irritating at best, and his views on templars infuriating at worst. The prospect of requesting a favor from him was daunting enough, but she looked for him unsuccessfully all day.
Quartermaster Threnn told her there weren’t enough blankets for Inquisition soldiers, let alone refugees, but Evelyn convinced Josephine to obtain some through her diplomatic channels. Josephine assured her it would require only a small favor on the Inquisition’s part, but would result in increased goodwill among the common folk who made up the bulk of their forces and workers.
All Evelyn needed to do was convince Ser Rutherford to have his soldiers distribute them. Josephine and she agreed it would be best for those wearing Inquisition heraldry to pass out the blankets.
Since Evelyn and Ser Rutherford last argued, she avoided him, so it would be awkward to ask him for a favor. She only spoke with him at war council meetings -- she wished she could send just her hand, since that was all they wanted -- and he remained annoyingly supportive of recruiting the templars.
And handsome; that bothered her. The suffering he inflicted, directly or indirectly, wasn’t reflected in his appearance. It was a childish idea that cruelty should show in a person’s face. It bothered her she found him so attractive and her pulse quickened over a man who defended the Circle system.
After Edwyn was sent to another Circle -- punished, really -- she avoided romantic entanglements with templars. She never understood the deviancy of those mages who pursed templars. Templars were mages’ jailers -- and executioners, in some cases. Templars stood ever-ready to execute any mage they believed to be maleficar, and she shuddered at the innate coldness of someone who took a lover they might kill. She couldn’t imagine sharing her heart with someone willing to put a blade through it.
Yet, there was something about Ser Rutherford, and she wondered at her own perversity. Perhaps she thrilled at the idea of bringing a notorious mage-hater to heel. She would prefer he made no appearances in her fantasies, but her mind wandered where it would at night. It disturbed and disgusted her, yet excited her as well. Her confusion meant she stayed well away from him.
And now she needed a favor.
She expected to find him at the training grounds, but he wasn’t there the first or second time she looked. A third time wasn’t a charm, and he couldn’t be found in the chantry, either. She ran out of ideas.
She finally found him by chance, leaving the field hospital as she delivered another batch of elfroot. He didn’t speak to her or even acknowledge her.
“Ser Rutherford.”
He turned at the sound of his name, and he was more pale and haggard than usual. There were fine lines around his eyes and a grim set to his mouth that made him look a decade older. His shoulders were slumped.
She stopped in her tracks, unsure. “Ser Rutherford.” Perhaps he was tired enough to give her what she wanted so she would go away.
“Lady Trevelyan.” Even his voice was wrung out.
“I would ask a favor of you.”
“I apologize, lady, but I am all out of favors at the moment.” He turned away.
Everything about him made her angry -- it was safer and more familiar that way -- but his casual dismissal made her seethe. She swallowed her anger. She couldn’t afford it when asking for his help. “But I’ve been searching for you all day.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said, curt.
“We’re all busy, ser. I only need a few minutes of your time.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Is it urgent?”
“I can’t speak to what you find urgent.”
“If you’re dithering this much, it can wait until tomorrow. I’ve pressing duties to attend.”
She bristled. “You’re not the only one with duties.”
He stalked through camp, head down, and she had to jog to keep up. It was undignified.
“Ser Rutherford, if it pleases you!”
He stopped, and she was three steps past him before she realized.
“Lady Trevelyan, I have letters of condolence to write, and I’m sure whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.” He walked away.
She crossed her arms, realized her body language betrayed her frustration, uncrossed them and decided to drop off the herbs as planned.
The sisters wrapped a body for burial as she entered the tent.
Evelyn bowed her head in respect.
An older sister accepted the herbs, and two soldiers came into the tent to retrieve the body for burning. This close to the Breach, they didn’t dare leave bodies unattended, lest they be possessed.
“Who are they preparing for burning?” she asked the sister quietly.
“Aeron.” The sister bowed her head. “His friends will sing the Chant for him.”
The two men lifted the stretcher and carried the body out without a word. Another sister trailed behind them, hands clasped in prayer, singing the Canticle of Transfigurations.
“I am sorry.” Evelyn felt helpless to adequately express condolences. These sisters saved so many, yet saw so much death.
“Thank you, Herald.” The sister squeezed Evelyn’s hands. “It is good to know the Inquisition is in the hands of people like yourself and Commander Cullen.”
“I just saw Ser Rutherford leaving … ” She couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“Yes, he stayed with Aeron until the end. The boy was Ferelden, far from home and missing his family … the Commander helped ease his mind at the end.”
Evelyn was speechless.
The sister turned and picked up a bowl. "Look at me, gossiping when I have work to do. Good evening, Lady Herald."
"Good evening, sister." Evelyn left the field hospital, trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle that was Ser Rutherford.