Birds of a Feather
Chapter 7

He thought it might just be easier to lie down and let gravity take care of the rest— who knew going down the stairs could be so difficult? His vision was fuzzy and spotted and excruciatingly bright all at the same time. It was as if he had just stepped out from a very dark cave into the sun—over and over and over again. And it was not helping his headache.

The stairs were deserted, as were the hallways. And except for the corpses and bloodstains (Why couldn't his vision be more blurry?), Cullen was alone; everyone else seemed to have drifted downwards, emerging and congregating after the storm.

- o -

It wasn't right— it was downright dangerous. They shouldn't have let the mages live—not after this. They should have killed them all, right then and there. They should have just drawn their swords and finished what the abominations had already started. They should have eradicated the magi.
And Cullen had tried to tell him this; he really had. But Greagoir hadn't listened; instead, he had sided with the First Enchanter, the mage, and had refused to carry out the Right of Annulment.
He was too trusting, the Knight-Commander— "I believe Irving's word that Uldred is dead and the Tower is safe."
Didn't he realize that Irving himself could be a threat now? That he could be a puppet of a Blood Mage? That he could have a demon lying dormant in wait inside of him? Didn't he realize that the only possible, logical, for-sure solution was to just end it?

Of course he did. But he was willing to take that chance. Instead, he was willing to risk more lives—more Templars—solely on the word of three possibly-demon-possessed mages and their outsider-friends..

It was the first time Cullen ever remembered wanting to punch someone out of sheer anger.

But Greagoir had been clear and Cullen had restrained himself and the argument had ended. And now, seconds later and still fuming, Cullen was being called over by their Quartermaster

And the man was being very, very persistent; insisting that Cullen "just drink this" as he repeatedly shoved what the Templar was just vaguely aware of being a bottle towards him.

Finally, Cullen took it. Just to shut the man up.

The effect was immediate; one swig of the blue liquid and Cullen's senses doubled, his mind cleared, and the scratching and shrieking in his head softened into a melodious kind of singing and faded away.

His anger dispersed, changed instead into a sinking despair.

The Lyrium had been a simultaneous dumping of both hot and cold water at the same time. And while the sensations of one 'bucket' still dripped from his fingers and warmed his toes and head, the other seemed to have settled itself right inside of Cullen's stomach (which— had it not been so empty— might have been emptied right then and there).

He grunted an automatic "Thanks" to the Quartermaster, thrusting the still-filled flask into the man's chest with a little more force than was necessary. Then he pushed himself roughly from the crate he had seated himself on, and made his way back out into the main area, ignoring the other man's attempts to persuade him to go lie down.

- o -

He still felt light-headed and woozy. He was clammy and shaky and, had he been looking in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that his sickly-ness was not just on the inside; his eyes were red and his hands were shaking and his face shined with icy sweat. But his head was clear now and the buzzing had stopped and he needed to know what was going on.

He looked around the corner just as she was turning away from Irving. The words "Redcliffe" and "Arl" and "Fade" passed over his head, but he paid no attention to them—he had other things to worry about.

And as his eyes landed on her, Cullen's mouth tightened and went dry and a new rush of the rage he had felt towards Greagoir resurfaced; directed now towards the mage who had her back turned.

It was tunnel-vision, the way he studied her. Glared at her.

Because she was surrounded by the force of mana; and even though it was just lingering, left over in the aftermath of battles, it wreaked of magic and power and danger. But she didn't— not physically, at least. In fact, she looked downright ghostly. Her motions were slow and there were shadows under her eyes and she was much too pale; and though she tried to hide it, Cullen could tell that she was having trouble staying on her feet.

His first thought was to go steady her. Because she had helped him and freed him and saved the Tower; and shown him kindness and a smile and she had been his friend.

His second thought was that he was being ridiculous; that he should use this moment to his advantage and just strike her down. Because she was a mage, and she was surrounded by whispers of magic. And she had used that magic to destroycountless demons and abominations and Templars; and she was dangerous.

His third thought—well, his third thought was interrupted when another figure, one dressed in armor identical to Cullen's, entered his line of sight and reached out to grasp her shoulder.

Immediately, Cullen's feelings of worry turned to alarm. What was this man— this Templar— doing? Why was so close to a mage? And he wasn't even pretending to guard himself! In fact, he was doing just the opposite. The man was looking at her with concern, with worry—as if she were the one who was about to get turned into a pile of ashes.

It was in how the other man moved— Cullen could tell. He was oblivious. It was as if, to this man, she were nothing more than a harmless sparrow with a broken wing or ruffled feathers; instead of the overgrown, multi-taloned, magic-wielding bird of prey that he (now) knew all magic-wielders were.

Was it because she was a Grey Warden? Did he think she was safe because of that? That he could trust her? Did he think that, just because she had left the Tower and joined the Order, she was no longer a danger? No longer a mage?

Was this Templar really that naïve?

Cullen gritted his teeth and made to move forward, to get that Templar out of harm's way. But something stopped him.

It wasn't a physical (or magical) force, like the one he had previously been contained in. No, this time, his path forward had been stopped not by what he felt, but what he saw.

Because she had turned, and she was now facing towards him— and towards the Templar. And— instead of reducing the man to a burnt little Templar-crisp like Cullen had expected her to— she had placed her own hand on top of the man's, and she smiled.

And it was a tired, sad, half-smile, but it was a smile none-the-less. And it was directed towards the Templar in front of her.

And then, while Cullen was still trying to figure that out, something else happened— and Cullen had to wonder, for a moment, whether or not he had really been freed from the mages' illusion.

She was leaning into him. In the middle of the Tower and the wreckage and the still-wet pools of blood, Solana, the mage, was leaning into this man—armor and all.

And, even though the man was facing the other way, Cullen knew how he wore the Templar armor and where, just from his height, the symbol on his chestplate would be. And she had her hand pressed right up against it.

Fury and dread and confusion and loss sprung up inside him all at once. She should be allowed to touch that—their Maker-given icon that the Templars knew so well. He shouldn't be letting her touch that; he should know better. He should take her hand and shove her away right now before she defiled it any more. Because what happening right now? It went against every singleTemplar-principle that existed. And Cullen knew this.

So why, even through his indignity and his anger, did he feel a strange prick of something or other up inside his chest? Why, suddenly, did he want to run over there and rip the two apart for an entirely different reason? And why, suddenly, as Cullen felt his grip tighten around the hilt of his sword, did he think that the mage might not be the number-one threat to that man's safety?

But then the two separated. And he figured the man had said something, because she was nodding and motioning to two of the women to follow her as she collected herself and looked around.

And Cullen had half a mind to just run up to her there and… And do something.

But what?

He didn't know. The thought teetered on the edge of his brain for a moment, uncertain and only half-formed, before it tipped over the side and fell into oblivion.

So instead, he turned around and with a tired grunt, made his way back to the cluster of Templars that had begun to form around the Knight-Commander. And as he went, he looked over his shoulder just once; and he thought he saw her looking back, too. But then the man in Templar-armor (who, Cullen now realized, was the same man who had been with her when she had found him in the circle-prison) was standing at the door, looking worried and urgent as he motioned for her to hurry up, and Wynne and the archer-girl had come around and fallen in-step behind her, obscuring her from view, and she had turned again and started to walk, back through the Tower doors.

X.x.X

The ride back was long and cold, and uncomfortable in more ways than one.

Four people had been hard enough to fit on the little boat, but five? Amell found herself peering over the edge more than a few times to check that the water level was still a good distance away from the top of the boat. But they all managed to squeeze in somehow; though she and Leliana were practically sitting on top of one another.

But it wasn't the cramped-ness the bothered her so—it was the silence (o rather, what would have been silence, had it not been for Carroll's incessant chattering). Because Alistair's mind was with Eamon and Connor and Teagan (who they had left back at Redcliffe), Wynne's mind was still back on the shore of the Tower with Irving and the others, and her mind was split between the two; running back and forth between a dread-filled Alistair, and a still-shaking Cullen.

And as the oar creaked and a bit of frigid lake-water was splashed into the boat, Amell cast a quick, half-hearted glance around at her sullen party. Leliana was the only one who saw.

And the bard pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. And her eyes shone with that special Leliana-brand of concern that she had, as she gave her friend a small, encouraging smile, along with a quick hand-squeeze.

Amell returned the smile and the squeeze, suddenly very glad that she had accepted the woman's offer to join them in their travels.