Chapter Text
“Knight-Commander, if you will step this way, the Right Hand will see you now.”
Cullen Rutherford follows the clerk deeper into the Grand Cathedral’s inner sanctum. He has never been to the heart of the Chantry’s power in Val Royeaux, and it is difficult for him not to feel the enormity of where he is and what he is about to do.
He has travelled with very little notice, but the Right Hand’s personally delivered invitation had been insistent that he decide soon.
The clerk leads him to a large, open hallway set with guards. There are three doors and the clerk ushers him to the nearest one. Behind it is a large room, one wall of which is entirely a bank of windows. The view, he sees, is the sprawl of the Cathedral grounds and gardens laid out entirely to the eye. The room itself is dominated by a large table which is mostly covered with maps and papers. The wall opposite the bank of windows is filled with books of varying sizes. He glances at them as he walks by and sees mainly military and some religious texts: the library of a particular kind of scholar. The room funnels into a point where there is a large desk and a seating area nestled into its apex.
Behind the desk is the Lady Seeker Cassandra Pehtaghast, Princess of Nevarra, Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine. On Cullen’s entrance, she steps out from behind the desk and meets him halfway. She greets him by clasping her hand to his forearm.
“Knight-Commander, it is good of you to come. Please sit,” she gestures at one of the chairs. “This is your first time in the Grand Cathedral?” she waves out the clerk who retreats out of the room, but out a door that Cullen only now notices, nestled as it is in the wall of bookshelves. He pulls his attention back to the woman sitting across from him.
“Yes, Lady Seeker. My duties have never brought me to Orlais. It is an impressive sight.”
The Seeker’s expression is gruff. “One that will quickly erode if we do not control the rebellion. The situation is quite dire, but the Divine does not give up hope easily nor does she leave things to chance. You are aware I have been seeking the Champion?” He nods. “While Meredith’s actions in Kirkwall may have created the ignition for this conflagration, Kirkwall is still where the Divine believes a solution lies. We will continue to seek the Champion, but she is not all we need.”
She pauses and Cullen thinks what neither of them says into the breach. The Templars have left, have become unstable, because this Divine sought to interfere and did not trust her military arm, her allies. But, he of all people knows that it is not that simple. Kirkwall had not been simple. He dismisses his judgment and looks up at the Seeker as she continues on.
“I do not have to tell you that unchecked, the Templars represent a military might that could overwhelm the Wardens, Celene, and the Mages. We have unleashed them onto the world, and all of Thedas cannot afford for us to fail.”
Cullen rubs his neck and nods his head. This had been all he could think of on the journey here. The situation was grave. With the Circles in chaos, there was more than just the unchecked large force of Templars that were supposed to be watching the Circles at stake. The possibility of the unleashed destruction of Mages, too, would make a Blight enviable; Abominations would be inevitable.
“Lady Seeker, I appreciate the sense of confidence from the Chantry on what we’ve rebuilt in Kirkwall.”
“You took the shards of the order left in Kirkwall and re-forged it; it is remarkable. You’ve saved the Order there and kept them focused, single-handedly helped them to reclaim their purpose. You are far too modest.”
“Thank you. But you are asking for the help of a Templar to begin negotiations, and I cannot.”
“Knight-Commander, we fear that without the guiding influence of someone like yourself, a Templar like yourself, there may be no negotiation with the Templars. You must see that if you don’t, no one can—”
“No, Lady-Seeker. What I mean, — rather, I’m saying, I cannot be a Templar anymore. I am requesting to leave the Order.”
Cassandra stops, her mouth agape, and she sits back in her chair.
“But, why?” she asks.
“My reasons,” Cullen responds quietly, “are my own, but I can no longer be of the Order.”
“Where will you go? How will you leave?” The question of whether or not he will join the rogue Templars hangs in the air.
“I will retire and make my way to Denerim. I have … friends there who can more than likely see me settled in the guard.”
The immediate danger of his defection past, the Seeker pounces: "What you are asking, Knight-Commander, is rarely done. Is this why you came? To ask Most Holy for dispensation for the Lyrium?” Cassandra’s eyes flash.
Cullen is affronted, but not surprised by her question. “No, I will stop taking Lyrium. I will put all of that life aside and start again. I will be one thing or the other; I cannot cling to a half-existence.”
“No, my child, I do not believe you could.”
Cullen is startled by a voice from the door near the desk. Turning to look at the newcomer, he catches the Lady Seeker’s startled face out of the corner of his eye, and his hand goes to his hilt on instinct.
“Most Holy!” He hears Cassandra say in exclamation and he realizes that he is in the presence of Divine Justinia V.
Immediately, Cullen drops to one knee, right fist to his heart, left hand to the ground and head bent in a bow of supplication. Despite everything that has happened, all of his doubts, he finds himself intensely moved by being in the presence of Her Holiness, the holder of the Sunburst Throne.
His eyes to the ground, he sees the hem of her robe approach and stop in front of him. Her hand touches his head and his eyes prickle as she gives him her blessing.
“The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand,” she intones and then she removes her hand and steps back. Cullen does not move, not wanting either woman to see the tears swimming in his eyes. He senses, though, that this woman–this symbol–understands his hesitation and holds the silence for longer than formality would strictly dictate.
“Would you rise, Ser Knight, and sit with me?” she asks.
He does so, sitting after she settles herself in the chair across from him. “Cassandra told me we would have a visit from you today. This is your first time in the Grand Cathedral, I think? You will need to walk the pilgrim’s way before you go. It is a necessary and expected chore. But,” she smiles at him and pauses, her eyes glittering speculatively, “I think you should also make time to visit the lower chapel in the Southeast wing. It is not on the normal route, and it is peaceful; the statue of Andraste there is particularly fine. I believe it comes from Ferelden, with stone from Orzammar, a remarkable specimen of the faith.”
Cullen nods, not quite able to take in that the Divine is giving him tour advice.
“So, Cassandra,” the Divine looks over to her Right Hand, her eyes soft and bright with intelligence, “what is your report of our Knight-Commander?”
“He is declining the offer to be our parley agent, Most Holy. He says he will no longer be a Templar.”
“Oh, yes? Hmmm, grave indeed. And have you tried to talk him around, Cassandra?”
“Most Holy, no,” Cassandra blusters, caught out, “we had just been discussing it.” Cassandra straightens slightly, “but he will no longer be able to approach the Templars as one of them if he leaves the Order. I believe the Knight-Commander’s decision to decline your offer is the best for all.”
“You believe, Cassandra, or you think?”
“Mother?” Cassandra asks, confusedly.
“Forgive me, Cassandra,” the Divine smiles at the other woman indulgently, “my Left Hand has been whispering and I know more than you realize. You will stop taking the Lyrium, Knight-Commander?” The Divine turns and focuses her formidable attention on him.
He is startled by her question, but of course she must have overheard him from the doorway as she came in. “Yes, Divine,” he says meekly, inclining his head, “I no longer want the life of a Templar.”
“Because you feel you need to atone?”
Cullen’s head shoots up and he looks at the Divine in confusion and wonder. “How do you? … I – I do,” he blurts out, and then sits in silence. He has spoken of this feeling to no one except … realization blooms on his face.
“Yes, my child, I am afraid your confessor is rather a loyal man. He sought to ease difficulties for me and undoubtedly hoped to garner favors.” She reaches out and pats his hand, “Please do not worry; he has been reprimanded.” The Divine lifts the same hand toward the doorway she came from. “While her reputation frequently precedes her, I believe you may already know my Left Hand.”
Leliana, Nightingale of the Orlesian court, a Lay Sister of The Chantry, companion to the Hero of Ferelden, veteran of the Fifth Blight, and Left Hand to Divine Justinia V saunters into the chamber to stand next to the Divine. “Knight-Commander, you are looking well,” Leliana says, inclining her head.
“Leliana,” the Divine asks, “would you and Cassandra go through to my office and wait for me there?”
“Of course, Most Holy,” and both women quickly leave the room, the door shutting Cullen and the Divine in the silence.
The Divine studies him, as if she is trying to discern some archaic and difficult text.
“The Chantry has failed you, Cullen. We did not protect you after Kinloch. We did not shelter you the way Andraste tells us we should have done. I say this so that you may understand that I know we have failed you and that you owe us nothing. Regardless, though, I must ask you to meet this duty and to provide us your guidance, your steadfastness, your belief.”
Cullen struggles to master his emotion, and finally cannot. His head drops to his hands. He begins to weep. The Divine begins to chant:
Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light.
I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.
Who knows me as you do?
You have been there since my first breath.
You have seen me when no other would recognize my face
You composed the cadence of my heart.
The Divine pauses, Cullen’s weeping subsides.
“What is next, my son?”
Cullen haltingly begins, his voice raw from his emotion.
Through blinding mist, I climb
A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base
Endlessly far beneath my feet
The Maker is the rock to which I cling.
He meets her gaze, pleading in his eyes as he continues the Chant:
I cannot see the path
Perhaps there is only abyss.
He stops, unable to carry on. The Divine reaches out her hand to him, and he moves to kneel before her, his head bowed. The Divine picks up the Chant again.
Trembling, I step forward,
In darkness enveloped.
Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
Cullen begins to recite with her in unison.
For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.
I am not alone. Even
As I stumble on the path
With my eyes closed, yet I see
The Light is here.
Draw your last breath, my friends
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Cullen’s voice breaks and he sees before him the faces of Templars and Mages, alike, tortured by Abominations. Friends, people he lived with side-by-side, cut down by his own hand. He feels the Divine’s hands move from the crown of his head. Her splayed fingers shift to gently lift his vision. She looks at his tear-stained face and quietly invokes the finish of the song:
“Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”
The tension is overwhelming. The Divine moves her hand over his head in a familiar sign of benediction and places her hand on his shoulders. Eventually, she interrupts the silence:
“Your love for the Maker, I think, will be with you all your days. Your faith …” she trails off. “Well, it would not be faith if we did not test it.” She smiles genuinely at him, enveloping him in her love and light. “Come, there is a wash basin there. Refresh yourself and then lead me into my office. Cassandra should be in quite a pique by now.”