Dragon Age: Phoenix Origins

Templars,
Ye must come to our aid, we've a mage living amongst us! Me name is Jo, and I'm the butcher in Honnleath . There's a woman in our village living with her boy - a mage! I've seen the proof with me own eyes.
Now, I ain't no scholar, but I know trouble when I see it. And mark me words, that boy is nothing but trouble. Ye can smell it in the air, feel it in yer bones. Every time his mother comes to me shop, something goes wrong. Last time, all me meat went bad overnight. Good meat, mind ye, not the kind ye'd expect to rot so quickly. That's dark magic, plain and simple.
We can't have that kind of evil lurking in our village, bringing curses and misfortune on honest folk. It's bad enough dealing with the usual troubles of life without some cursed abomination running loose. So, I'm begging ye, Templars, come and take that boy away before he brings doom upon us all.
I don't care how ye do it, just get it done. We can't afford to wait until it's too late.
Jo
***
Dragon 9:22 - Cullen
Cullen was eleven when he saw his first Templar.
It was a bright late spring day when they had come to take one of the children from the village to a Circle. He didn't know the boy well - being older than he - but Honnleath was a small place, where everyone was in each other's business. Standing beside his mother in the market, holding a basket of miscellaneous goods that she was bartering back and forth, he nearly lost his grip on it as the Knights appeared in the village square. There were two of them, almost painful to look at in their glittering silverite armor. Words, rather than full thoughts, floated through his mind:
Mighty.
Righteous.
Dedicated.
Heroic.
It was like watching his imagination come to life after obsessing over stories of Templars since he was younger. The two men clanked as they strode through the throng of people, carefully scanning their faces. They halted briefly to admire the stone golem at the center of the market, unsure of what to make of the statue. When they turned walking up to the stall he and his mother were at, their haggling stopped abruptly and she pushed her fair-haired son back two paces.
"What can I help you with, sers?" The stall owner, Ms. Roache sounded nervous.
"Is this your home?" The man's valiant voice had a rusty edge to it, but his tone was congenial from behind his helmet.
Following the Knight's finger, the woman paled, "Y-yes, it is, ser."
The two Templars looked at each other sharing an unreadable glance before facing back. "You've got a mage in there." Ms. Roache rounded the stall to plead with him, but the Knight held a hand up. His voice was softer this time, "We are not here to hurt them, but you know Chantry law, they must live in the safety of a Circle."
The woman was on her knees sobbing, "Please ser! He's all I have in this world! There must be another way!" A crowd had begun to form at the display. "He's a good boy, he wouldn't hurt anyone!"
"He's a monster!" The butcher had poked his head out the window of his shop next door, his cheeks flushed with anger. "He can't stay, not unless we want to sleep with one eye open!" The redhead and bearded man shook his cleaver at her.
Shaking a fist back at him, Ms. Roache hysterically screamed, "You bastard! I bet it was you who sent word to the Templars! You've always had it out for us!"
"His father was a mage you know?" One of the more irreputable women of the village, one that his mother had always told he and his siblings to stay away from, grasped the tall Knight's polished arm. "Lived as an apostate for years, as I hear it." Surprised by this, the tall Knight turned sharply back to Ms. Roache with a narrowed glare.
"You harlot!" The mother of the mage hollered, and the market suddenly erupted into senseless yelling until it was quelled by a booming voice.
"That's enough! All of you!" The Knight ripped his helmet off in outrage revealing a similar shade of golden hair. His sharp blue eyes snapped to the crowd at their backs, "This is Templar business. By Andraste, if I hear one more insult thrown at either the mage or his mother, I'll give you all something to remember me by." His fist clenched and the metal of his gauntly squealed as if he was actually crushing it. "Now, go about your business and I'll go about mine," he growled. Cullen's mouth parted in awe at the authority that the man possessed to command people in such a way. The word of the Knight was respected, and even Jo, the stubborn butcher, retreated into his shop.
Cullen's mother was frozen, still holding him by his shirt, when the Templar wheeled around and gave her a once-over. Seeing that she was no threat, his demeanor relaxed as she went to explain her lingering presence, "Apologies, ser. T-this is what I was... um, I can come back."
He held a halting hand out, "Stay, I have no wish to deprive the woman of her income as well as her son today." His words were somber and he nodded to his associate. The other Templar had gone to guard the door of the home during the brief uproar. "Ma'am, this is Ser Randall, he will speak with your son and explain what will happen. You may join them if you wish, but no trouble, mind you. Your son will be leaving with us with or without a goodbye from his mother." The woman sniffled and hurried behind the other Knight into her home. "Randall, I'll stay out here." The edge was back in his voice, making Cullen's blood run cold for a moment, especially when he turned to glare at some of the villagers.
As the respective parties separated, Cullen and his mother found themselves in an uneasy silence beside the Knight. After seeing life had moved on, the blonde Templar peered over at Cullen, seeing him still gawking at him. "Is that your sword? A stick?"
Cullen grasped the thick branch tucked into his belt from the oak tree by their house. He had had a time trying to break it off but managed to after several minutes of hanging and pulling on it. It was the perfect size for him and was thick enough to land a good hit against a groundhog or any of the vermin around the farm. Despite his age, his mother still refused to let him have his own blade, thinking he'd fall on it while playing and skewer himself or one of his siblings.
"Yes, ser."
Looking back to the mage's house with a heavy sigh, the Templar held his hand out signaling to pass it over to him. Handing it over without another word, he looked it over, "I suppose I could work with this." Pulling out a knife and leaning against the stall, he stripped the branch of its bark before shaping the wood into a crude sword. "My father was a blacksmith, so I know the shape of blades intimately." He didn't look up as he spoke, "Why is it boy you don't have a blade of your own?"
He and his mother exchanged a glance, "I'm not allowed. My mother believes I will hurt someone or myself by accident." Her pointed look of agreement came with a nod.
"Well, I'm sure your mother will not be happy that I'm doing this, but it'll teach you some valuable lessons. A boy your age ought to be able to defend his mother properly. Is he your eldest, ma'am?"
"No, but he is my eldest son."
The Knight nodded, still focused on his work, "What's your name boy?"
"Cullen Rutherford, ser."
"Well met, Cullen. Now, this gift comes with lessons in responsibility. The first is to respect the authority of those who give it to you, who will be your mother. You do your duty, such as chores and listening to her orders, then you may keep it, otherwise she'll revoke it. Ask any Templar and they'll tell you about how they had to scrub chamberpots before they wielded a sword. The second, that with power comes responsibility - to do right by the world. It will make you have to choose right from wrong and live with the consequences. Lastly, it's a dedication, as devout as reciting the Chant of Light. You have to practice every day and care for your equipment."
Passing his newly crafted weapon over to him, Cullen went to take it but the Knight still held it firmly. "Yes, ser, I will."
Relinquishing the wooden sword to its owner, the man held his gaze, "I'm Ser Donnelly. I've been assigned to this region for the foreseeable future, so if I come back here, do you think I'll find you still caring for that sword?"
The boy's eyes lit up, "Yes, Ser Donnelly!"
"Good, I'll expect a full report Master Cullen on your good deeds in the service of Andraste." The chiseled features of the man's face stared at him hard, before softening ever so slightly with a wink. When the cottage door opened, any mirth was whisked away. Ser Donnelly stood tall glancing again around him with his hand on the pommel of his sword - his real sword. "It's safe," he spoke in a low voice to Ser Randall. "The cart is down the way, let's be quick about it. Ma'am, we'll see your son safely there. He can send word to you once he's settled in."
Saying their goodbyes, the Rutherfords watch on quietly. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder protectively as if they were going to take him too. More interested with his gift, Cullen placed the sword in his belt and placed his hand on its pommel to rest like Ser Donnelly. It felt so natural as if he had been doing it for years. Still awestruck, Cullen couldn't help but see himself in the Templar armor, made easier by the shared hue of his hair with the Knight.
As they passed, Ser Donnelly turned back, "Duty, Master Cullen. Remember your duty."
And so he did. Every day, without fail, during the quiet hours before dawn, when the world was still draped in shadows, Cullen would slip out of his bed and into the dimly lit barn behind their humble home. With only the soft glow of a lantern to guide him, he would carefully unsheathe his gifted sword, the familiar weight grounding him in purpose. In that sacred solitude, he trained tirelessly, his imagination ablaze with visions of himself clad in the resplendent armor of a Templar, defending the innocent and battling against the sinister forces of darkness that lurked in the shadows. Branson, his younger brother, would soon join him, his eyes alight with excitement as they sparred together in mock battles, their laughter echoing softly in the pre-dawn stillness. Sometimes, they would entice Rosalie, their spirited younger sister, to join them, casting her as the reluctant apostate in their imaginary conflicts. At first, she would grumble about being roused from her slumber, but soon she too would become swept up in the thrill of their make-believe adventures, her scowls melting into smiles as they enacted daring rescues and valiant stands against imagined foes.
The next summer, another mage came into their magic from their village, followed shortly by the arrival of Ser Donnelly. Cullen had not heard until too late that Templars were seen and he rushed through the market, wooden sword on his side, down the path to the travelers' road. The Maker had smiled on him that day, for getting ready to leave was the Templar himself staring the young man down having startled them.
"Well, well, I was wondering if I'd see you before I left, Master Cullen." The Knight relaxed the grip, moving his hand to the pommel.
"You... you remember me?" He struck the dumbfounded look from his face and stood up straight, to mirror the stance of the Knight. "I mean, yes, it is I, Ser Donnelly."
"I never forget a face. And have you kept your word?" The tall blonde Knight crossed his arms with an eyebrow raised.
"I have! I practice every day and have given my mother no reason to take the sword from me." He lied, though it was only one time. He had hit Branson with it in anger a few times after ruining his game of soldiers in the yard one day. Cullen had found acorns and sticker balls from the Sweet Gum trees to use as soldiers and was in the midst of a pitched battle when Bran kicked it all to oblivion. In anger, Cullen reflexively took a swing, cracking him across the back. Naturally, once his younger brother ran to his mother crying that he was hit by the sword, she took it away for a week, though not before suffering his own whack from it in punishment.
"Is that so? Well, I'm glad to hear it! Come, give me your best!" He drew his sword and the two engaged in a quick spar as the other Templar finished loading the wagon. After settling on a match draw, Ser Donnelly gave him an appraising look, "It's been quite a long time since I was last here and to be honest, I'm surprised you held fast in your duty. That is a rare and coveted trait. Tell me, Cullen, where do you see yourself in five years?"
"My father owns the farm and mill here, and one day it will be mine."
"Is that what you want?"
Pursing his lips in a pouty frown, he knew he should say yes. "No." The Knight simply raised an eyebrow in question. "Not since I've met you."
He nodded, taking a step closer and giving him a stern look, "It wasn't my intention to recruit, but the Order does ask me to report on any youngins who show potential. I believe you may just have the potential." Cullen's eyes lit up at his praise. "The problem is, you may be too old. We start physically training recruits by eight years of age. And you are...?"
"Twelve, ser." His disappointment was plastered on his face and imbued in his words.
With a heavy sigh of his own Donnelly thought hard, shifting his weight in the heavy armor. "Look at me, Cullen," the younger blonde obeyed, "if it's what you want, I can ask my superiors to make an exception for you. Make no mistake though, your training will be harder than the other recruits. Some were given to the Order at birth, and they are expected to be the scions of Andraste's Knights; the very best and likely officers having only known the Order as their only family. Have you any formal education? Training of any kind that could recommend you?"
Still crestfallen, he replied, "Only farm work, ser, but I can read the Chant of Light well enough."
"I suppose if you're to be damned, make it doubly damned." Donnelly chuckled then ran a gloved hand down his face. "Well, first things first, I need to clear it with the Knight-Commander. No sense fretting if he's just going to say no, but I'll make a good case, you can count on that." The Knight gave him a confident smile easing some of the shame away from his shortcomings. "I'm going to ask once more because I'm going to go through a lot of trouble for this: Do you want to join the sacred order of Andraste's Knights? You'd be leaving your family forever to give your life to protecting mages and normal folk alike from magic. This is not something you can quit."
"I'm sure, more than sure!" The strength in his tone was almost unrecognizable.
"Alright Cullen, I hope I don't let you down."
"You won't, ser, and neither will I."
Ser Donnelly chuckled to himself before walking back to the wagon. Hoping up onto the driver's seat, he called back as he steered it around, "Til next time, Master Cullen! Do me a favor and grow another foot, you'll be easier to sell if I can boast of you coming from strong Ferelden breeding!"
Another year passed without seeing Ser Donnelly, as no others from Honnleath showed signs of magic. Becoming more and more discouraged, at thirteen his father was readying to give Cullen more responsibility around the farm. Despite it all, he had kept his side of the bargain and felt accomplished and worthy of his gifted sword. The wood was stained, dented, and chipped in places, but having tried sanding them out, he found peace of mind in the task. Yet, Cullen contemplated leaving it in his bedroom, as his father saw it as a hindrance, but it didn't feel right to do so. Clinging to his dream by a thread, he kept wearing it.
"Cullen, I don't think he's coming back. I'm sorry, son, but things are as they should be." Even his father harbored some sympathy for him after moping for weeks. "The Maker works in mysterious ways, and while things didn't go how you wanted, it doesn't mean it won't all work out in the end. You still have a future here with us." Though his words were meant as comfort, Cullen couldn't help but think Andraste saw him unfit for Her service.
His parents hadn't been the most receptive to his wish to become a Templar. For one, they tried to scare him by telling him stories of the harm lyrium could do to a non-mage. Memory loss, addiction, and nightmares, among other horrid side effects, were always slipped casually into stories and conversations. While weary of what its usage could do to him, part of him hated more the idea of being maimed or dying meaninglessly on the farm. At least if either would happen to him while in the Templar Order, it'd be in the service of Andraste. It was a more honorable fate, than being simply the week's gossip amongst Honnleath.
The biggest inconvenience to his father's grand plan was that it left him short one Rutherford to work the farm. Not only that but as the eldest son, he was poised to inherit the whole business one day. Though still young, Cullen had a prolific work ethic and dedication to his family obligations. Even Ser Donnelly had seen and commented on it. Yet, even with his future secure in Honnleath, he couldn't help the incessant nagging feeling that he was meant for something more. His mother was always commenting on how much he resembled his father the more he grew, but part of Cullen resented the fact that it only validated his condemnation of the family business.
One warm summer day, Cullen made the walk up to the large oak tree; the parent of his wooden sword. Unsheathing it, he held it in his hands as if it were a dying animal; in a sense, it was the death of his Templar dream. He could no longer hold on to the hope of Ser Donnelly's return, for the more time that passed, the more painful carrying the symbol of his aspiration became. Gazing out across the fields and homestead, reality began to settle into his mind.
This land would be his; he would live the rest of his days in this one place; doing the same thing day in and day out; he would have a family of his own here and pass it on to his children; he'd marry some boring village girl; and live the rest of his life regretting it all.
Carrying the sword over to the base of the tree, he posed hovering the blade a few feet from the ground, ready to bury the point in the earth. With it, he'd resign his desire to be a Templar. He'd entertain the dream no more. Squeezing his eyes shut tight and gritting his teeth in one last defiant attempt to hold on to his hope, he was about to plunge it deep into the dirt when a voice called to him from the house.
"Cul! Some Templar is here to see you!" Mia called up to him. Freezing in place, his breathing quickened and a smile began to spread on his face.
Racing to the house, scaring the whole bloody chicken coop as he dashed through them, he skipped the two steps up the porch and barged inside. Startling his mother and earning a harsh look from his father, Cullen stood panting on the threshold.
"Hello, Cullen. My, you took my parting words seriously, you've grown into quite a young man."
He tried to hide his excitement but it was hard, and he felt his eyes would pop from their sockets. "Good to see you, Ser Donnelly!" He wondered for a moment if he'd notice the drop in his voice as well.
"Sit, Cullen," the stern command came from his father who sighed with a forlorn displeasure. "It seems, son, the Maker has seen fit to grant you your wish after all." He turned to their guest, "Since he was about eight, he's been saying he wanted to be a Knight. Up until your arrival, it was just a passing daydream." Cullen's heart leaped at his phrasing and hope began to swell in his chest. Despite having sat, he was still breathing out of his grinning mouth.
Donnelly was relaxed, but Cullen could see his excitement at his reaction just barely hidden beneath this facade. "Cullen, I have here a Writ of Conscription into the Templar Order should you feel you are willing and able to uphold the Order's sacred duty. Keep in mind, to become a full Knight you will be given lyrium. For mages, it's fortifying and refreshing, no different than drinking water; for non-mages its long-term use is detrimental, yet it gives us our abilities. It is a sacrifice we gladly pay in the service of the people of Thedas, to keep them safe from magic." He paused, staring at him with his steel blue eyes, judging if the gravity of his words was being considered seriously. At the mention of lyrium, Cullen's smile had faded. "You also have a duty to mages. They don't have it easy, as you saw two years ago when we first met. Our abilities help them learn to control their powers so they can live as normal of lives as possible in the Circle. Demons and maleficar threaten to take their souls for evil, yet it is the Templar Order who is their first line of defense. It is our holy calling, and only the best and purest of heart are considered worthy of knighthood."
His father's hard amber eyes carried the weight of this decision in them. It would not only affect him but the whole family. "Son, I trust in the Maker's guidance, is this what He has planned for you? To be taken from us?" His appeal was impactful, pulling at Cullen's love of his kin, but something in his core held fast against it.
"I'll ask only once," the Knight took a deep breath, "Are you prepared to leave this life behind in service of the Maker and Thedas? I'm afraid in your case, time is not on your side to delay in making a decision."
Cullen looked to his parents, both seemingly knowing what his choice was going to be before he said it. His reply was nothing but reflexive, coming straight from his heart, "I had years to think it over. I'm ready. I know the risks; I know what will be expected of me. I don't care that I'll be the oldest, for I'll work anyone under the table."
"Hand over your sword," Cullen paused, blinking a few times slowly surrendering it to him as if it was made of glass. After receiving it, it was promptly thrown into the fireplace. Reaching out as if to save it from the flames, he froze and looked at the Knight incredulously. "You're trading your wood sword for a metal one." Cullen ignored the pained expressions on his parents' faces. "We leave in the morning. Pack only clothing, for the Maker will provide you with all else."
The hours leading up to dawn passed for him in a blur, moments slipping away almost imperceptibly. Anxiety and excitement coursed through him, intertwining with a twinge of guilt as he witnessed his mother's tears and the pallor of his father's somber face. Despite the heaviness of the house, his siblings were brimming with joy. Mia was happy to indulge Cullen's excited prattling over one last game of chess, simply listening and savoring her last hours with him. Bran was particularly thrilled, eager to boast about his brother's new status as a Templar to his friends. Meanwhile, Rosalie, too young to grasp the full weight of the situation, clung to the simple joy of having her brother's dream come true.
Finally, the time had come for him to leave. Cullen gave his mother a tight hug as she wept, her sobs wracking her body. "Don't cry, Mother," he murmured softly. "I'll write often, I promise."
She reluctantly let him go, her hands lingering on his arms for a moment longer. "Be safe, my boy," she managed to say through her tears.
He turned to his father, who offered a brief, stiff hug, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Take care of yourself, son," he said, his voice strained with emotion he was trying hard to conceal.
Cullen nodded in acknowledgment. "I will, Father."
Next, he embraced Bran. His brother's grin was wide, a mix of pride and excitement lighting up his face. "You're going to be a great Knight, I am sure!"
"I'll make you proud, I promise," he replied, a smile tugging at his lips.
Rosalie was next. Cullen lifted her into a tight hug, her feet dangling off the ground as she giggled. "Be good, Ros," he said, setting her down gently. He ruffled her hair, eliciting a laugh that was a sweet melody amidst the bittersweet moment.
"I will, Cul," she giggled. "Come back soon!"
After the embrace with Rosalie, Cullen turned to his older sister, who enveloped him in a tight hug. "You take care of yourself out there, little brother," she said softly, her voice tinged with both concern and affection. "And don't get too good at chess. I'm sure you'll want a rematch after last night's loss."
He chuckled, feeling a sense of warmth amidst the sadness. "Count on it," he replied, returning her hug just as fiercely. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," Mia said, pulling back to look at him with a grin. "But don't worry, I'll keep Bran and Rosalie in line while you're gone."
Cullen smiled, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. "I do not doubt that," he said, giving her one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "Take care of them all, okay?"
"I will," Mia assured him, her smile softening.
Holding back his own tears, Cullen turned to leave. As he was about to close the door behind him, his brother called out to him. "Wait!" Bran rushed over, pressing something into his hand. "For luck, when you really need it."
Cullen opened his palm to find a simple coin, probably something Bran had randomly in his pocket. "Oh, but I can't–" He stopped himself. The affection in his siblings' eyes was enough that he slipped the coin into his pocket, despite being told he could only pack clothing. Such a normal and mundane thing as a coin could go unnoticed. Yet, it was anything but that. "Thank you, I'll keep it with me always," he whispered, the gesture touching him deeply. Giving his family one last, lingering look, he tried to burn the image into his memory, remembering every small detail. With a final, determined breath, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. His new life was about to begin.