Fic: Fidēlis/Fealty [20-21/?]
Title: Fidēlis/Fealty [20/?]
Rating: M for swearing, bloody situations, and sexing. For real this time, swear
Pairings: Amell/Cullen
Summary: After helping her friend unwittingly break the Chantry's rules, Solona Amell is sent to Ostagar as penitence.
Word Count: 3,093/50,283
In which: Solona is captured!
Chapter Twenty
There is a particular passage in a specific scroll that she has the worst time trying to decipher. She works late into the night, hunched over the text with candles burning to help her read. The light doesn’t help. The breaks she takes, when she paces the library floors and thinks about her lessons the next day, don’t help either.
She’s stuck on a word that will either blow open the ideas that the Chantry has on lyrium trade or will support their view completely and she can’t settle on a translation.
The use of lyrium is one of the worst and most effective forms of magical manipulation known to mankind. The Maker gives us the substance with which to manipulate our power. Only through the continued -
This is where she is stopped. The next words either mean controlled dispersal or they mean that lyrium must be made available, freely.
This text is almost one thousand years old and are the words of a very well-known Chantry chronicler, written in Arcanum of all things. She doesn't know, doesn't care, how it came to be in the library of Kinloch Hold.
The ramifications are unthinkable. With a dated scroll calling for the free dispersal of lyrium the Chantry would have no way to control not only their templars but their hold on the mages within their Circles would also be free to do as they would.
This translation could bring down the whole order of her world and she is giddy with the possibility.
But these words, the double negative of the phrasing is impossible. Her Arcanum is good. But not this good. She needs an expert.
She needs Finn (no longer Flora). Or maybe-
Yes, he'll know. He has to.
She's out the door, scroll clutched tightly, yet carefully, in her hand. It trails behind her gently as she rushes down to the main entrance, and towards the kitchen. She'll fetch some food for him later, but right now she's had a break through and she thinks Anders is the perfect person to tell. He'll understand what the scroll means. He'll be over the moon.
She's grinning widely when she enters his cell area but stops dead in her tracks at the sight before her.
Two templars are laid out. There's no blood; she can still see the steady rise and fall of both chests. This is what she realizes first. Her eyes track to the empty cell. The door stands open and unharmed. There are manacles on the floor, where Anders usually sits and waits for her. He has escaped! Anders! Gone, and without her.
Four other templars are in the room.
One of them is Etic. Scratch that; two of them are Etic and one must be Emic then. She hasn't seen much of her guardian angel's twin brother (no surprise at that discovery). Here and now however two graying blond heads are bent in discussion. The other templars still have their helms on and are trying to revive their fallen brethren.
Her next thought is that she hasn't been spotted yet. She is quick to back up and almost makes it to the door, silent and so stealthy.
She runs her back squarely into an armored chest that blocks her escape and she can't help the groan of dismay that pops out.
“Enchanter Solona.” She groans again, recognizing Greagoir's voice at her ear. Of all the people to accidentally back in to while trying to sneak away from the scene of an escape in the Circle-
The four conscious templars turn and look at her. Etic, at least, looks fairly relieved to see her. “Solona! Thank goodness you're here. We've had a bit of trouble and need some healing. Could you help?” He asks this of her as though she was expected. As though she is welcome. Two sets of eyes stare out at her from helms. Greagoir nudges her forward. Emic has murder in his glare.
She steps towards the two men on the ground. Every ounce of her body is screaming TRAP RUN TRAP ESCAPE and she'd make a run for it if Etic didn't look so hopeful. She has come to love this man as though he were the father she never knew. As though he were the world she is forced to live within. She will do anything he asks.
She kneels next to the two fallen templars. She’s right in her initial guess that they haven’t been harmed physically. She doesn’t know how Anders managed to subdue them but she reaches out to the first one and the cool wash of her healing magic enters the man’s body. She’s brushed up on her healing abilities in the days following her recovery. She’s got diagnosis down to an art and she’s still working on repair.
The body tells her that these two are merely asleep. A simple sleep spell, of course.
But how had Anders managed it? He’d been shackled. And this room-
Her thoughts go wild. This room was supposed to dampen any magical ability and yet she’d been able to easily draw upon the Fade. The wards in here are down. But how?
The men around her come to some sort of strange answer and they snatch her up. The two with helmets on each grab and arm and she’s protesting as they turn her towards Greagoir. She hasn’t seen him this angry since he’d stumbled upon her and Cullen.
“Enchanter Amell.” Oh shit. Greagoir only breaks out the last name in ridiculously serious and grave situations. “You are under arrest for assisting the apostate Anders in his latest escape attempt.” He looks beyond her, at the men restraining her. “Take her up to the fourth floor and throw her in an observation chamber.”
She remembers bars and heavy doors and Under Observation means no light and a padded room. Solona struggles for all she’s worth. “What are you talking about!? I didn’t help him escape. I would never-“
“Be quiet, mage.” The man to her right tightens his grip and the voice is so very cold that she almost doesn’t recognize it. But there’s something in the way he draws out his a, the slight tonal pitch that she’s learned to recognize in accents. It’s a Denerim accent.
She’s staring in horror at the man. The templar. It is Cullen and he doesn’t look down as they make their way out of the room. She doesn’t have the foresight to look back at Etic, to plead with the man to make them see reason. She forgets to struggle.
Her feet drag up every stair step between the dungeons and the observation rooms by the templar quarters. She sees the familiar door up ahead and glances up at Cullen just once more. “Please, don’t do this. I had no idea.”
His voice is cold, still, when he responds. “Your words are useless. You are useless. Cease your pleas.”
She is too stunned to cry when they lock the door of her cage. She’s too broken to lie down and she spends long hours staring through the bars of the door, watching the stone wall outside and wondering what in the Fade has happened.
~!~
“Where is the apostate Anders?” The fist that is slammed down on the table she sits at shakes the wood and creates a terrible racket but Solona is cool in her dismissal at this display of anger. Above her, Emic looms. Etic stands in the corner of this small room and she can see how uncomfortable he is with what’s happening.
“I have no idea.” Her gaze never wavers from Emic’s face. She is not frightened by the overbearing templar.
If anything, she is slightly annoyed and still very confused. Mostly about Cullen and that dead tone to his voice he’d had the night before.
Emic grabs the collar of her robes and pulls her halfway up. “We know you helped him. The best thing you can do is tell us where he is.” His breath smells awful and she has to break eye contact if only to lean her face away from his. He yanks her back around, still in this uncomfortable half standing position. “It’s going to end badly for the both of you if you don’t start talking.”
Surprisingly she’s still not intimidated. It could be that she’s got the truth on her side, or the fact that Etic stands off to the side. Emic can’t do a thing to her. “Where’s your proof? I’ve done nothing and I know less than that.”
“You knew the wards were down in the dungeon when you used your magic. That is guilt, right there.”
Solona scoffs. “I wasn’t thinking about it. I was shocked to discover that there was a roomful of templars instead of one sassy mage when I entered. Distracted, I believe the proper term is.”
“Why were you there at all? That area is off limits to mages.”
She opens her mouth to shoot back a scathing retort but stops herself. She had needed a second opinion. On a very controversial piece of information. That could destroy this man’s entire existence.
“I-“ she swallows and takes a deep breath, hoping her lie will be sufficient. “I was hoping he could explain a translation on a healing spell. I found a scroll he had doodled on years ago but I didn’t really understand it.”
For the first time she notices the scroll Emic had tucked into his waistband. He pulls the paper free and brandishes in her face as though it was the terribly incriminating piece of evidence he needs. “This scroll? Right here? The one that has nothing to do with healing?”
She’s wondering who blew her secret and explained the scroll’s contents when the door behind Emic opens. Her eyes round. Cullen, with Greagoir hot on his heels, enters the room. Emic lets go of her robe and she stumbles backwards into the chair. Her rear impacts with a thump and a skitter. She fights to keep her balance.
Despite the smallness of the room she is unable to hear what is whispered between all four templars when Greagoir motions Etic and Emic to him. They glance at her a few times and at the end of the Knight Commander’s instruction it is Etic who looks angry and Emic who looks smug.
Etic gives her a look. Hold on. No matter what.
Come back! she thinks. Don’t abandon me!
She is left alone in the room with Cullen. Her heart seizes in her chest when he comes to sit on the other side of the table from her. He is without his helmet and his hands fold neatly on the wood as he looks her over. She’s probably a sad sight. Her robe is in disarray from the rough handling of Emic and her hair is a mess; she hadn’t slept the night before and knows there are sure to be bags under her eyes. Confinement does this to people, she knows. Creates hollow and smudged versions of normally well put together individuals.
For a brief moment she wonders what other changes Cullen might find on her face over the months they’ve been away from each other. Does he see the horrors of Ostagar in the way she frowns all the time, ever so slightly? Or perhaps he’s seen the scratches on her palms; her long healed war wounds will never fade completely.
She is unnerved by his silence and breaks it if only to break his stern overview. “How are you feeling?”
She gets no response. In truth she’s not sure she wants one. Whatever the templars, whatever Greagoir, has done to Cullen in the months since she’s seen him it has apparently destroyed any emotion he might have held. Not once does his face shift from anything other than impartial.
Even when he begins the questions.
It lasts for hours she imagines. Why was she in the dungeons? Why was she in contact with Anders in the first place? Why was she carrying a scroll that should have been in the First Enchanter’s personal library? Why did she need to ask Anders about that scroll?
And above all, where was the apostate Anders?
She finds herself answering everything truthfully; Cullen does this to her even as he is slowly becoming a stranger right in front of her. She spills the truth about the scroll and admits that she’s been sneaking Anders food for his entire stay in the cell. She even mentions that the scroll had bested her and she needed to ask for help.
At this point his face screws up in disbelief. “You had to ask for help? You are, Enchanter Amell, one of the smartest mages in the Tower. Why would you need another’s help, especially for something as benign as a translation?”
She explains the nature of the scroll again and her desire to decipher it perfectly. While she talks his face falls back to blank and she thinks about his words. He calls her smart. He still thinks of her. Maybe the man that she is still, pretty much, head over heels in love with is inside this shell of a templar. Somewhere.
He is not satisfied with her answers. Where is Anders?
He repeats his question. And again.
Where?
“I DON’T know! I swear Cullen. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. I brought him food and talked with him but he never mentioned anything about an escape.” She grabs at his hand, hoping to make her point.
He recoils. Half from her touch and, she realizes with dismay, from the use of his name. He stands so quickly the chair falls away behind him. “WHERE. IS. ANDERS?!”
This is the moment that she understands what’s happened to Cullen. This is where she sees that any small shred of affection or hope that he’s harbored since his entrapment at Uldred’s hands has been wiped clean.
He sneers down at her.
The face of the man that she loves looks at her as though she is the worst scum on the face of Thedas. And she cries. She can’t stop the tears. She can’t be strong and resist this. Not anymore. All hope. All hope is true and well lost. “Oh, Cullen. I am so sorry.” For both of us. Hiccups swallow anything else she might hope to say.
The templar sets the chair upright and turns. He bangs on the door three times, in quick succession. When the metal creaks open he slips through and she watches her heart walk away.
Chapter Twenty One
a/n: Ahhh, this story is winding down to an end but fear not, there are at least a few more chapters and then back to the awesome angsty that is Cullen/Amell when she arrives in Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion. That story is looking to be about ten chapters long and then . . . who knows. My story arch will be finished but perhaps there will be others. Somewhere. Thank you, everyone who has left kind words and helpful hints on this story. It is good to receive feedback!
It is strange to be a prisoner. Not just a kept mage but a legitimate and well ridiculed prisoner in the Circle Tower. They set her up in the cell Anders used to occupy. The metal is new and shiny and she is suffocating when they shove her through the room.
Once more her abilities are dulled and gone, lost at the edge of a thought. She sees two guards at all times and she thinks there’s a few more that stand out of sight. Just to the outside. Watching.
Cullen is never one of these guards.
She’s glad, really. Really really glad on a level that frightens her. Her smart and shy young man has been destroyed and the man that stands in his place is a very poor substitute for the real thing.
Solona burns through hours just thinking about what sort of life the two of them would have had if they’d been fortunate enough not to become mages and templars. How many happy, fat children would they have by now? What sort of scholar would she be and what would Cullen look like covered in dirt and sweat but still smiling sweetly for her when he returned from the field?
She shelves these day dreams only when she has visitors.
They are few. Irving, initially. He questions her ad nausea as well. She thinks he’s sure that she had no part in the escape. In a show of the true place of power in this Tower he is unable to secure her freedom.
Etic is at her door daily. Unlike others he’s actually allowed inside the cell and where before he was her watcher he is now her quasi-maid. It’s Etic that changes her sheets and brings her fresh garments and holds up a blanket so she can change with a scrap of privacy. It is Etic who brings her food and tells her that he’s looking for the person who really sprang Anders and when he does that he’ll be able to set her free.
She wonders at his dedication. As his charge, she wants for nothing other than her freedom.
Petra comes by after the first few days. She asks if Solona would like to see the kids; if it would cheer Solona up Petra would fetch them right at that moment. “Absolutely not. Tell them I’m sick. I’ll see them soon at any rate.”
When she is alone save for the guards around her she materializes each of these wishes for her life and lays them out in her mind.
The first is always that kiss. That moment in the library that was so cruelly interrupted by Greagoir. She always imagines that they found a bed somewhere. Perhaps the one she’d had for those few short days right before Ostagar. Her own room and a templar of her own too.
In her dreams he’s always slim yet extremely well-muscled. Lithe, she thinks. He knows that she’s extremely ticklish behind her knees and she melts when he presses kisses behind her ear. She shivers in these moments and curls in tighter on herself. In her cell she floats away from the reality of her captivity.
She finds him in the halls during a particularly vivid encounter. She’s fresh from bed; she needs a little late night reading material. She’s slipping into the darkened library when his grip around her upper arms and he pulls her close. At her back his body is solid; his arms slide to her front and she is wrapped in his embrace.
Always he bends and whispers little nothings into her ear. I missed you. I love you.
I’m going to take you away.
His hands dip lower and press. She turns her face to his; her lips brush the edge of his jaw and her mouth opens with a gasp. His fingers are nubile as they part the folds of her robe. She feels the warmth of his touch and arches into it. It has been so long she thinks.
On her cold and unwelcoming mattress she brushes over herself. She is fully clothed and miserable yet these thoughts keep her warm during the long nights. She rolls over, her back to her guards, and falls back into her thoughts.
They are in her room. Her real and proper room on the third floor. There is a door and she is pressed against it; one of his legs rests heavily between hers. Her hands are pinned above her head and she pushes up against him.
Cullen is devious with his mouth. He starts behind her ear, picking up where they left off in the hall. Those lips she’s spent years dreaming about trail to the place where her neck meets her shoulder and she feels him nibbling there. A tongue is swirled across that delicate skin.
The pressure on her core shifts and she is suddenly filled with the most delicious sensation. It is wet and slick; it’s slightly uncomfortable actually yet she knows that this is right. She is dripping with the want of him. And he should know. She rocks her hips forward, her own thigh pushing against his already forming erection.
Cullen gasps. The sound sends shivers down her body; the hair of her arms is standing on end when she takes advantage of his momentary distraction. Her wrist turns over and she snags his arm. Grabs hold and pulls it down. Down her body and back to the place where he’d been so eager to explore earlier in this fantasy.
She wears no robes now. Nothing to part and delve within. Simply her skin against the cloth of his breeches.
When he slips a finger inside of her, meeting no resistance, she screams his name and holds tight.
They are on the bed and he is braced over her. Strong arms frame her peripheral view and his smile brackets the world above her. Her legs are wrapped tight around his waist. When he pushes inside of her his eyes widen and she feels the stretch that is Cullen. Her body accepts this new fullness and she has to throw her head back. Her throat is bared; she is at the mercy of his mouth once more.
Cullen begins to move.
She curls in tighter on herself. Hands clenched fast between her thighs she tries as hard as she can not to cry. She starts to shake from the effort.
When she gives up and sprawls on her back the guards don’t even look at her. They ignore her tears and her sorrow. They’ll tell stories in the morning: that crazy broken mage is diddling herself and then crying about it. Maybe she’s sad her lover left her behind; it was awfully mean of Anders to just ditch her here.
Wasn’t it?
~!~
By the end of the fourth month in the dungeon she’s learned all of her jailors’ names and their favorite songs. The songs thing was pretty hit or miss; she sang everything she knew and when they complained she sang even louder. When they enjoyed a tune and sometimes hummed along quietly she muddled the words and the melodies making them unenjoyably. Her little revolt behind bars; musical warfare.
She finds out that Cullen has left the Tower and this is when the dreams stop, abruptly. She hears from a guard who heard from the cook who overheard Greagoir that Cullen has been shipped off to Denerim. For training. The gossiping templar sneers and makes a fancy hand gesture that Solona imagines is the male symbol for touching oneself.
The both of them look back at her after that and laugh. Her face burns and she tries to slide down within her clothing. If she could get her head into her robes she could disappear.
There isn’t enough fabric in Thedas that could disguise her embarrassment though and the men know it. There’s a long discussion that follows about the sorts of training templars could get up to in the Capital. Most of it she can tune out but when one chortles about the games that are played at a brothel (The Templar and the Apostate) she starts singing. She sings at the top of her lungs and changes all the words and a song about a long lost love becomes the tale of a murderous mage who escapes her cage and torments those who kept her locked up.
She’s never been a good singer.
The men yell back and throw things and finally a guard from the front door hears the racket and comes to investigate. It is just her luck that it happens to be Ser Etic and as soon as she sees him she shuts her mouth and sits down.
He takes one look at the pair of them, still jeering, and her defiant gesture before waving the others out the door. “Go guard the entrance for a bit. You’re disturbing the prisoner.”
“Oi! She’s disturbing us more with that racket!” Etic sticks a finger under this one’s nose and repeats his command. He outranks them; they beat a hasty retreat and she comes to sit by the door. He opens it and she wants to jump at him. He’d hug her and tell her everything would be all right.
But she knows now that it won’t be. It’ll never be okay again.
Etic has spent all of the days she’s been locked up telling her everything would be okay, in the end. She’d believed him.
Now he watches her for a moment before making his way to her side. There is no furniture in the cell and he sits on the ground next to her. She swears she can hear his joints creak even over the clank of his armor. “They told you about Cullen, didn’t they?”
She doesn’t face him. Her eyes are fixed on the small point of light, the only window, far on the other side of the room. It is the only source of bearings she has when it comes to day and night. It has counted out the mornings, noons, and nights for her for weeks. Months. Years it seems. She stares it down, hoping it would hold more meaning.
“He left a few weeks ago. Greagoir is sending him to train as a mage hunter at his request.” This is surprising. She processes for a moment and blinks away the curiosity. Cullen, her Cullen, is dead.
“The end is near for the war. Either the Wardens will raise their army or we’ll all be gone. Dead or hiding out farther North. The Knight Commander wants Cullen as far away from the fighting as possible.” Here he pauses at length. She holds her breath and waits for the next words. “I have no idea why, not really, but I imagine he feels bad for the lad.”
And now Etic is the one that reaches out and pulls close. He is sitting next to her yet when his arm comes around her shoulders he tugs and she sprawls over his lap. There is nothing sexual about this embrace and she winds her arms around his neck. His armor is cold against her face.
“He hasn’t been right. Not since Greagoir finished- “
“Finished what?” Her eyes are stuck on Etic’s face now.
His own are sad as he looks down and shakes his head. “Never you mind. Just know that he’ll be safe, wherever he ends up. And so will you. I promise.”
It is the last time she allows anyone to instill any sort of comfort into her soul for a very long while.
~!~
It is a stroke of luck and a thoughtlessly (auspiciously) big mouth that finally sets her free.
She has been in this cell for almost six months by the time one of the original guards, the ones that had been found asleep the night of Anders’ escape, lets it slip to a friend that he might have accidentally dropped his keys by the cell.
When the heavy door of her cage swings open this is what Greagoir tells her. As he loosens the shackles that have scarred the skin of her wrists he lets her know that he’s not sorry. He was doing his job.
She lost the will to fight back weeks ago and she doesn’t even have the desire to feel angry about her treatment.
He doesn’t even have the audacity to escort her out of the dungeons. He turns back to his men, lecturing and thanking them for their extended duty and she’s left to stare at his back. Dumfounded.
It is Petra who collects her. Petra tuts over the state of her robes; why hadn’t Solona allowed Petra to bring some fresh clothing? Solona only shrugs and allows the other woman to lead her up and away. Out. They pass by the door to the kitchen and the scent of freshly baked bread pulls her attention to her surroundings. The wards on the walls had kept most sound and smells out. Only the most pungent stews and loudest yelling have penetrated the dungeon.
Solona hasn’t actually smelled fresh food in months.
“I . . . I need something to eat.” Petra nods and waits, patiently, as Solona creeps into the kitchen and snags a cooling loaf of bread before the cooks and the baker can spy her. She’s fast, still. Fast and stealthy. Even after her extended captivity.
She thinks it is desperation that makes her this way.
Despair has created within her this burning desire to disappear into the stones of the tower. So many times she had tried, locked in that cell and alone. To just melt away would have made her happier than she could have ever imagined.
The staircase up to the main floor is empty as is the entryway. There are no guards. From somewhere deeper into the Tower comes a giggle. She stops in her tracks and grips her bread tight to her chest. She hasn’t even taken a bite yet. She doesn’t want to lose it. Doesn’t want to share it-
“The kids missed you.” Petra sounds hopeful. Her voice has retained that magical whimsy Solona remembers.
She wants to be happy that someone noted her absence. The sunlight streaming in through the tall windows in the apprentice quarter seizes a part of her long forgotten and she knows at that moment what she needs.
Air.
She needs to get out.
Her feet fly across the stones of the Tower floor. She passes familiar faces. Etic, maybe Emic she can’t really tell, raises a hand as she rushes past and she twists away from that metal grip. Away. Past, she moves to the only door a mage in this place can use freely to leave the building.
The courtyard explodes in front of her in color and light and smells and air. The breeze off the lake kicks her hair up and around her face. She squints; this is intense. Far too intense. She half-turns to go back inside yet stops herself. Forces herself to turn around and walk farther into the greenery.
She’d weathered the worst of the winter and the beginning of the summer in solitary. The world around her is fresh and new.
Taking the path closest to her she winds her way down to a bench she remembers from before. She has actually memorized this little section of the gardens. Her feet kick out into the small clearing when she sits and she pushes off her shoes at her heels. The shoes are dirty and the grass feels so good beneath her feet. Across this small island of green stands an old apple tree. It is mostly past its days of producing significant quantities of fruit yet it blooms beautifully in front of her now.
The white and pink blossoms are picked up by another gust of wind and she is showered in petals.
This is the bench where Irving gave his decree that she would go to Ostagar and fight to save the world. It has been less than a year and yet feels as though she has lived four lifetimes between that moment and this one.
The weight of the knowledge hangs on her; it pulls her limbs towards the ground. She is at a loss; there is no clear direction for her to journey and it is maddening. For a woman used to finding an issue, making a plan, and then following through to the solution this feels so wrong.
Months in containment have not dimmed this need to know. It hasn’t taken away her lust for learning.
It has simply created a being that wonders but does not feel the motivation to ask. Why?
She just wants to know why.
There is a flash of red behind the tree. Pure red. The sort that Solona can only glimpse in fires. She stands and watches as this shock of red bounces its way behind the hedge just past the apple tree. The splotch stops for a moment, disappears, and then reappears. Solona steps closer. The red moves again, another ten or fifteen feet, and then disappears once more. It returns on the move. Solona follows on a parallel path; she is intrigued for the first time in what feels like forever.
As the hedge slowly becomes shorter towards the entrance to the Tower, Solona stops dead in her tracks. Of course. Not a splotch. But a child with bright red hair. The child continues on its way and as the upper torso is revealed she is shocked and dumfounded for the second time that day.
The child catches sight of her and turns fully. Already smiling the child, girl (woman?) opens her mouth and Solona knows words are coming out but she doesn’t understand.
Standing not twenty feet from her, at Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, is a dwarf. In this dwarf’s hand is a bundle of wild elfroot/
Rating: M for swearing, bloody situations, and sexing. For real this time, swear
Pairings: Amell/Cullen
Summary: After helping her friend unwittingly break the Chantry's rules, Solona Amell is sent to Ostagar as penitence.
Word Count: 3,093/50,283
In which: Solona is captured!
Chapter Twenty
There is a particular passage in a specific scroll that she has the worst time trying to decipher. She works late into the night, hunched over the text with candles burning to help her read. The light doesn’t help. The breaks she takes, when she paces the library floors and thinks about her lessons the next day, don’t help either.
She’s stuck on a word that will either blow open the ideas that the Chantry has on lyrium trade or will support their view completely and she can’t settle on a translation.
The use of lyrium is one of the worst and most effective forms of magical manipulation known to mankind. The Maker gives us the substance with which to manipulate our power. Only through the continued -
This is where she is stopped. The next words either mean controlled dispersal or they mean that lyrium must be made available, freely.
This text is almost one thousand years old and are the words of a very well-known Chantry chronicler, written in Arcanum of all things. She doesn't know, doesn't care, how it came to be in the library of Kinloch Hold.
The ramifications are unthinkable. With a dated scroll calling for the free dispersal of lyrium the Chantry would have no way to control not only their templars but their hold on the mages within their Circles would also be free to do as they would.
This translation could bring down the whole order of her world and she is giddy with the possibility.
But these words, the double negative of the phrasing is impossible. Her Arcanum is good. But not this good. She needs an expert.
She needs Finn (no longer Flora). Or maybe-
Yes, he'll know. He has to.
She's out the door, scroll clutched tightly, yet carefully, in her hand. It trails behind her gently as she rushes down to the main entrance, and towards the kitchen. She'll fetch some food for him later, but right now she's had a break through and she thinks Anders is the perfect person to tell. He'll understand what the scroll means. He'll be over the moon.
She's grinning widely when she enters his cell area but stops dead in her tracks at the sight before her.
Two templars are laid out. There's no blood; she can still see the steady rise and fall of both chests. This is what she realizes first. Her eyes track to the empty cell. The door stands open and unharmed. There are manacles on the floor, where Anders usually sits and waits for her. He has escaped! Anders! Gone, and without her.
Four other templars are in the room.
One of them is Etic. Scratch that; two of them are Etic and one must be Emic then. She hasn't seen much of her guardian angel's twin brother (no surprise at that discovery). Here and now however two graying blond heads are bent in discussion. The other templars still have their helms on and are trying to revive their fallen brethren.
Her next thought is that she hasn't been spotted yet. She is quick to back up and almost makes it to the door, silent and so stealthy.
She runs her back squarely into an armored chest that blocks her escape and she can't help the groan of dismay that pops out.
“Enchanter Solona.” She groans again, recognizing Greagoir's voice at her ear. Of all the people to accidentally back in to while trying to sneak away from the scene of an escape in the Circle-
The four conscious templars turn and look at her. Etic, at least, looks fairly relieved to see her. “Solona! Thank goodness you're here. We've had a bit of trouble and need some healing. Could you help?” He asks this of her as though she was expected. As though she is welcome. Two sets of eyes stare out at her from helms. Greagoir nudges her forward. Emic has murder in his glare.
She steps towards the two men on the ground. Every ounce of her body is screaming TRAP RUN TRAP ESCAPE and she'd make a run for it if Etic didn't look so hopeful. She has come to love this man as though he were the father she never knew. As though he were the world she is forced to live within. She will do anything he asks.
She kneels next to the two fallen templars. She’s right in her initial guess that they haven’t been harmed physically. She doesn’t know how Anders managed to subdue them but she reaches out to the first one and the cool wash of her healing magic enters the man’s body. She’s brushed up on her healing abilities in the days following her recovery. She’s got diagnosis down to an art and she’s still working on repair.
The body tells her that these two are merely asleep. A simple sleep spell, of course.
But how had Anders managed it? He’d been shackled. And this room-
Her thoughts go wild. This room was supposed to dampen any magical ability and yet she’d been able to easily draw upon the Fade. The wards in here are down. But how?
The men around her come to some sort of strange answer and they snatch her up. The two with helmets on each grab and arm and she’s protesting as they turn her towards Greagoir. She hasn’t seen him this angry since he’d stumbled upon her and Cullen.
“Enchanter Amell.” Oh shit. Greagoir only breaks out the last name in ridiculously serious and grave situations. “You are under arrest for assisting the apostate Anders in his latest escape attempt.” He looks beyond her, at the men restraining her. “Take her up to the fourth floor and throw her in an observation chamber.”
She remembers bars and heavy doors and Under Observation means no light and a padded room. Solona struggles for all she’s worth. “What are you talking about!? I didn’t help him escape. I would never-“
“Be quiet, mage.” The man to her right tightens his grip and the voice is so very cold that she almost doesn’t recognize it. But there’s something in the way he draws out his a, the slight tonal pitch that she’s learned to recognize in accents. It’s a Denerim accent.
She’s staring in horror at the man. The templar. It is Cullen and he doesn’t look down as they make their way out of the room. She doesn’t have the foresight to look back at Etic, to plead with the man to make them see reason. She forgets to struggle.
Her feet drag up every stair step between the dungeons and the observation rooms by the templar quarters. She sees the familiar door up ahead and glances up at Cullen just once more. “Please, don’t do this. I had no idea.”
His voice is cold, still, when he responds. “Your words are useless. You are useless. Cease your pleas.”
She is too stunned to cry when they lock the door of her cage. She’s too broken to lie down and she spends long hours staring through the bars of the door, watching the stone wall outside and wondering what in the Fade has happened.
~!~
“Where is the apostate Anders?” The fist that is slammed down on the table she sits at shakes the wood and creates a terrible racket but Solona is cool in her dismissal at this display of anger. Above her, Emic looms. Etic stands in the corner of this small room and she can see how uncomfortable he is with what’s happening.
“I have no idea.” Her gaze never wavers from Emic’s face. She is not frightened by the overbearing templar.
If anything, she is slightly annoyed and still very confused. Mostly about Cullen and that dead tone to his voice he’d had the night before.
Emic grabs the collar of her robes and pulls her halfway up. “We know you helped him. The best thing you can do is tell us where he is.” His breath smells awful and she has to break eye contact if only to lean her face away from his. He yanks her back around, still in this uncomfortable half standing position. “It’s going to end badly for the both of you if you don’t start talking.”
Surprisingly she’s still not intimidated. It could be that she’s got the truth on her side, or the fact that Etic stands off to the side. Emic can’t do a thing to her. “Where’s your proof? I’ve done nothing and I know less than that.”
“You knew the wards were down in the dungeon when you used your magic. That is guilt, right there.”
Solona scoffs. “I wasn’t thinking about it. I was shocked to discover that there was a roomful of templars instead of one sassy mage when I entered. Distracted, I believe the proper term is.”
“Why were you there at all? That area is off limits to mages.”
She opens her mouth to shoot back a scathing retort but stops herself. She had needed a second opinion. On a very controversial piece of information. That could destroy this man’s entire existence.
“I-“ she swallows and takes a deep breath, hoping her lie will be sufficient. “I was hoping he could explain a translation on a healing spell. I found a scroll he had doodled on years ago but I didn’t really understand it.”
For the first time she notices the scroll Emic had tucked into his waistband. He pulls the paper free and brandishes in her face as though it was the terribly incriminating piece of evidence he needs. “This scroll? Right here? The one that has nothing to do with healing?”
She’s wondering who blew her secret and explained the scroll’s contents when the door behind Emic opens. Her eyes round. Cullen, with Greagoir hot on his heels, enters the room. Emic lets go of her robe and she stumbles backwards into the chair. Her rear impacts with a thump and a skitter. She fights to keep her balance.
Despite the smallness of the room she is unable to hear what is whispered between all four templars when Greagoir motions Etic and Emic to him. They glance at her a few times and at the end of the Knight Commander’s instruction it is Etic who looks angry and Emic who looks smug.
Etic gives her a look. Hold on. No matter what.
Come back! she thinks. Don’t abandon me!
She is left alone in the room with Cullen. Her heart seizes in her chest when he comes to sit on the other side of the table from her. He is without his helmet and his hands fold neatly on the wood as he looks her over. She’s probably a sad sight. Her robe is in disarray from the rough handling of Emic and her hair is a mess; she hadn’t slept the night before and knows there are sure to be bags under her eyes. Confinement does this to people, she knows. Creates hollow and smudged versions of normally well put together individuals.
For a brief moment she wonders what other changes Cullen might find on her face over the months they’ve been away from each other. Does he see the horrors of Ostagar in the way she frowns all the time, ever so slightly? Or perhaps he’s seen the scratches on her palms; her long healed war wounds will never fade completely.
She is unnerved by his silence and breaks it if only to break his stern overview. “How are you feeling?”
She gets no response. In truth she’s not sure she wants one. Whatever the templars, whatever Greagoir, has done to Cullen in the months since she’s seen him it has apparently destroyed any emotion he might have held. Not once does his face shift from anything other than impartial.
Even when he begins the questions.
It lasts for hours she imagines. Why was she in the dungeons? Why was she in contact with Anders in the first place? Why was she carrying a scroll that should have been in the First Enchanter’s personal library? Why did she need to ask Anders about that scroll?
And above all, where was the apostate Anders?
She finds herself answering everything truthfully; Cullen does this to her even as he is slowly becoming a stranger right in front of her. She spills the truth about the scroll and admits that she’s been sneaking Anders food for his entire stay in the cell. She even mentions that the scroll had bested her and she needed to ask for help.
At this point his face screws up in disbelief. “You had to ask for help? You are, Enchanter Amell, one of the smartest mages in the Tower. Why would you need another’s help, especially for something as benign as a translation?”
She explains the nature of the scroll again and her desire to decipher it perfectly. While she talks his face falls back to blank and she thinks about his words. He calls her smart. He still thinks of her. Maybe the man that she is still, pretty much, head over heels in love with is inside this shell of a templar. Somewhere.
He is not satisfied with her answers. Where is Anders?
He repeats his question. And again.
Where?
“I DON’T know! I swear Cullen. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. I brought him food and talked with him but he never mentioned anything about an escape.” She grabs at his hand, hoping to make her point.
He recoils. Half from her touch and, she realizes with dismay, from the use of his name. He stands so quickly the chair falls away behind him. “WHERE. IS. ANDERS?!”
This is the moment that she understands what’s happened to Cullen. This is where she sees that any small shred of affection or hope that he’s harbored since his entrapment at Uldred’s hands has been wiped clean.
He sneers down at her.
The face of the man that she loves looks at her as though she is the worst scum on the face of Thedas. And she cries. She can’t stop the tears. She can’t be strong and resist this. Not anymore. All hope. All hope is true and well lost. “Oh, Cullen. I am so sorry.” For both of us. Hiccups swallow anything else she might hope to say.
The templar sets the chair upright and turns. He bangs on the door three times, in quick succession. When the metal creaks open he slips through and she watches her heart walk away.
Chapter Twenty One
a/n: Ahhh, this story is winding down to an end but fear not, there are at least a few more chapters and then back to the awesome angsty that is Cullen/Amell when she arrives in Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion. That story is looking to be about ten chapters long and then . . . who knows. My story arch will be finished but perhaps there will be others. Somewhere. Thank you, everyone who has left kind words and helpful hints on this story. It is good to receive feedback!
It is strange to be a prisoner. Not just a kept mage but a legitimate and well ridiculed prisoner in the Circle Tower. They set her up in the cell Anders used to occupy. The metal is new and shiny and she is suffocating when they shove her through the room.
Once more her abilities are dulled and gone, lost at the edge of a thought. She sees two guards at all times and she thinks there’s a few more that stand out of sight. Just to the outside. Watching.
Cullen is never one of these guards.
She’s glad, really. Really really glad on a level that frightens her. Her smart and shy young man has been destroyed and the man that stands in his place is a very poor substitute for the real thing.
Solona burns through hours just thinking about what sort of life the two of them would have had if they’d been fortunate enough not to become mages and templars. How many happy, fat children would they have by now? What sort of scholar would she be and what would Cullen look like covered in dirt and sweat but still smiling sweetly for her when he returned from the field?
She shelves these day dreams only when she has visitors.
They are few. Irving, initially. He questions her ad nausea as well. She thinks he’s sure that she had no part in the escape. In a show of the true place of power in this Tower he is unable to secure her freedom.
Etic is at her door daily. Unlike others he’s actually allowed inside the cell and where before he was her watcher he is now her quasi-maid. It’s Etic that changes her sheets and brings her fresh garments and holds up a blanket so she can change with a scrap of privacy. It is Etic who brings her food and tells her that he’s looking for the person who really sprang Anders and when he does that he’ll be able to set her free.
She wonders at his dedication. As his charge, she wants for nothing other than her freedom.
Petra comes by after the first few days. She asks if Solona would like to see the kids; if it would cheer Solona up Petra would fetch them right at that moment. “Absolutely not. Tell them I’m sick. I’ll see them soon at any rate.”
When she is alone save for the guards around her she materializes each of these wishes for her life and lays them out in her mind.
The first is always that kiss. That moment in the library that was so cruelly interrupted by Greagoir. She always imagines that they found a bed somewhere. Perhaps the one she’d had for those few short days right before Ostagar. Her own room and a templar of her own too.
In her dreams he’s always slim yet extremely well-muscled. Lithe, she thinks. He knows that she’s extremely ticklish behind her knees and she melts when he presses kisses behind her ear. She shivers in these moments and curls in tighter on herself. In her cell she floats away from the reality of her captivity.
She finds him in the halls during a particularly vivid encounter. She’s fresh from bed; she needs a little late night reading material. She’s slipping into the darkened library when his grip around her upper arms and he pulls her close. At her back his body is solid; his arms slide to her front and she is wrapped in his embrace.
Always he bends and whispers little nothings into her ear. I missed you. I love you.
I’m going to take you away.
His hands dip lower and press. She turns her face to his; her lips brush the edge of his jaw and her mouth opens with a gasp. His fingers are nubile as they part the folds of her robe. She feels the warmth of his touch and arches into it. It has been so long she thinks.
On her cold and unwelcoming mattress she brushes over herself. She is fully clothed and miserable yet these thoughts keep her warm during the long nights. She rolls over, her back to her guards, and falls back into her thoughts.
They are in her room. Her real and proper room on the third floor. There is a door and she is pressed against it; one of his legs rests heavily between hers. Her hands are pinned above her head and she pushes up against him.
Cullen is devious with his mouth. He starts behind her ear, picking up where they left off in the hall. Those lips she’s spent years dreaming about trail to the place where her neck meets her shoulder and she feels him nibbling there. A tongue is swirled across that delicate skin.
The pressure on her core shifts and she is suddenly filled with the most delicious sensation. It is wet and slick; it’s slightly uncomfortable actually yet she knows that this is right. She is dripping with the want of him. And he should know. She rocks her hips forward, her own thigh pushing against his already forming erection.
Cullen gasps. The sound sends shivers down her body; the hair of her arms is standing on end when she takes advantage of his momentary distraction. Her wrist turns over and she snags his arm. Grabs hold and pulls it down. Down her body and back to the place where he’d been so eager to explore earlier in this fantasy.
She wears no robes now. Nothing to part and delve within. Simply her skin against the cloth of his breeches.
When he slips a finger inside of her, meeting no resistance, she screams his name and holds tight.
They are on the bed and he is braced over her. Strong arms frame her peripheral view and his smile brackets the world above her. Her legs are wrapped tight around his waist. When he pushes inside of her his eyes widen and she feels the stretch that is Cullen. Her body accepts this new fullness and she has to throw her head back. Her throat is bared; she is at the mercy of his mouth once more.
Cullen begins to move.
She curls in tighter on herself. Hands clenched fast between her thighs she tries as hard as she can not to cry. She starts to shake from the effort.
When she gives up and sprawls on her back the guards don’t even look at her. They ignore her tears and her sorrow. They’ll tell stories in the morning: that crazy broken mage is diddling herself and then crying about it. Maybe she’s sad her lover left her behind; it was awfully mean of Anders to just ditch her here.
Wasn’t it?
~!~
By the end of the fourth month in the dungeon she’s learned all of her jailors’ names and their favorite songs. The songs thing was pretty hit or miss; she sang everything she knew and when they complained she sang even louder. When they enjoyed a tune and sometimes hummed along quietly she muddled the words and the melodies making them unenjoyably. Her little revolt behind bars; musical warfare.
She finds out that Cullen has left the Tower and this is when the dreams stop, abruptly. She hears from a guard who heard from the cook who overheard Greagoir that Cullen has been shipped off to Denerim. For training. The gossiping templar sneers and makes a fancy hand gesture that Solona imagines is the male symbol for touching oneself.
The both of them look back at her after that and laugh. Her face burns and she tries to slide down within her clothing. If she could get her head into her robes she could disappear.
There isn’t enough fabric in Thedas that could disguise her embarrassment though and the men know it. There’s a long discussion that follows about the sorts of training templars could get up to in the Capital. Most of it she can tune out but when one chortles about the games that are played at a brothel (The Templar and the Apostate) she starts singing. She sings at the top of her lungs and changes all the words and a song about a long lost love becomes the tale of a murderous mage who escapes her cage and torments those who kept her locked up.
She’s never been a good singer.
The men yell back and throw things and finally a guard from the front door hears the racket and comes to investigate. It is just her luck that it happens to be Ser Etic and as soon as she sees him she shuts her mouth and sits down.
He takes one look at the pair of them, still jeering, and her defiant gesture before waving the others out the door. “Go guard the entrance for a bit. You’re disturbing the prisoner.”
“Oi! She’s disturbing us more with that racket!” Etic sticks a finger under this one’s nose and repeats his command. He outranks them; they beat a hasty retreat and she comes to sit by the door. He opens it and she wants to jump at him. He’d hug her and tell her everything would be all right.
But she knows now that it won’t be. It’ll never be okay again.
Etic has spent all of the days she’s been locked up telling her everything would be okay, in the end. She’d believed him.
Now he watches her for a moment before making his way to her side. There is no furniture in the cell and he sits on the ground next to her. She swears she can hear his joints creak even over the clank of his armor. “They told you about Cullen, didn’t they?”
She doesn’t face him. Her eyes are fixed on the small point of light, the only window, far on the other side of the room. It is the only source of bearings she has when it comes to day and night. It has counted out the mornings, noons, and nights for her for weeks. Months. Years it seems. She stares it down, hoping it would hold more meaning.
“He left a few weeks ago. Greagoir is sending him to train as a mage hunter at his request.” This is surprising. She processes for a moment and blinks away the curiosity. Cullen, her Cullen, is dead.
“The end is near for the war. Either the Wardens will raise their army or we’ll all be gone. Dead or hiding out farther North. The Knight Commander wants Cullen as far away from the fighting as possible.” Here he pauses at length. She holds her breath and waits for the next words. “I have no idea why, not really, but I imagine he feels bad for the lad.”
And now Etic is the one that reaches out and pulls close. He is sitting next to her yet when his arm comes around her shoulders he tugs and she sprawls over his lap. There is nothing sexual about this embrace and she winds her arms around his neck. His armor is cold against her face.
“He hasn’t been right. Not since Greagoir finished- “
“Finished what?” Her eyes are stuck on Etic’s face now.
His own are sad as he looks down and shakes his head. “Never you mind. Just know that he’ll be safe, wherever he ends up. And so will you. I promise.”
It is the last time she allows anyone to instill any sort of comfort into her soul for a very long while.
~!~
It is a stroke of luck and a thoughtlessly (auspiciously) big mouth that finally sets her free.
She has been in this cell for almost six months by the time one of the original guards, the ones that had been found asleep the night of Anders’ escape, lets it slip to a friend that he might have accidentally dropped his keys by the cell.
When the heavy door of her cage swings open this is what Greagoir tells her. As he loosens the shackles that have scarred the skin of her wrists he lets her know that he’s not sorry. He was doing his job.
She lost the will to fight back weeks ago and she doesn’t even have the desire to feel angry about her treatment.
He doesn’t even have the audacity to escort her out of the dungeons. He turns back to his men, lecturing and thanking them for their extended duty and she’s left to stare at his back. Dumfounded.
It is Petra who collects her. Petra tuts over the state of her robes; why hadn’t Solona allowed Petra to bring some fresh clothing? Solona only shrugs and allows the other woman to lead her up and away. Out. They pass by the door to the kitchen and the scent of freshly baked bread pulls her attention to her surroundings. The wards on the walls had kept most sound and smells out. Only the most pungent stews and loudest yelling have penetrated the dungeon.
Solona hasn’t actually smelled fresh food in months.
“I . . . I need something to eat.” Petra nods and waits, patiently, as Solona creeps into the kitchen and snags a cooling loaf of bread before the cooks and the baker can spy her. She’s fast, still. Fast and stealthy. Even after her extended captivity.
She thinks it is desperation that makes her this way.
Despair has created within her this burning desire to disappear into the stones of the tower. So many times she had tried, locked in that cell and alone. To just melt away would have made her happier than she could have ever imagined.
The staircase up to the main floor is empty as is the entryway. There are no guards. From somewhere deeper into the Tower comes a giggle. She stops in her tracks and grips her bread tight to her chest. She hasn’t even taken a bite yet. She doesn’t want to lose it. Doesn’t want to share it-
“The kids missed you.” Petra sounds hopeful. Her voice has retained that magical whimsy Solona remembers.
She wants to be happy that someone noted her absence. The sunlight streaming in through the tall windows in the apprentice quarter seizes a part of her long forgotten and she knows at that moment what she needs.
Air.
She needs to get out.
Her feet fly across the stones of the Tower floor. She passes familiar faces. Etic, maybe Emic she can’t really tell, raises a hand as she rushes past and she twists away from that metal grip. Away. Past, she moves to the only door a mage in this place can use freely to leave the building.
The courtyard explodes in front of her in color and light and smells and air. The breeze off the lake kicks her hair up and around her face. She squints; this is intense. Far too intense. She half-turns to go back inside yet stops herself. Forces herself to turn around and walk farther into the greenery.
She’d weathered the worst of the winter and the beginning of the summer in solitary. The world around her is fresh and new.
Taking the path closest to her she winds her way down to a bench she remembers from before. She has actually memorized this little section of the gardens. Her feet kick out into the small clearing when she sits and she pushes off her shoes at her heels. The shoes are dirty and the grass feels so good beneath her feet. Across this small island of green stands an old apple tree. It is mostly past its days of producing significant quantities of fruit yet it blooms beautifully in front of her now.
The white and pink blossoms are picked up by another gust of wind and she is showered in petals.
This is the bench where Irving gave his decree that she would go to Ostagar and fight to save the world. It has been less than a year and yet feels as though she has lived four lifetimes between that moment and this one.
The weight of the knowledge hangs on her; it pulls her limbs towards the ground. She is at a loss; there is no clear direction for her to journey and it is maddening. For a woman used to finding an issue, making a plan, and then following through to the solution this feels so wrong.
Months in containment have not dimmed this need to know. It hasn’t taken away her lust for learning.
It has simply created a being that wonders but does not feel the motivation to ask. Why?
She just wants to know why.
There is a flash of red behind the tree. Pure red. The sort that Solona can only glimpse in fires. She stands and watches as this shock of red bounces its way behind the hedge just past the apple tree. The splotch stops for a moment, disappears, and then reappears. Solona steps closer. The red moves again, another ten or fifteen feet, and then disappears once more. It returns on the move. Solona follows on a parallel path; she is intrigued for the first time in what feels like forever.
As the hedge slowly becomes shorter towards the entrance to the Tower, Solona stops dead in her tracks. Of course. Not a splotch. But a child with bright red hair. The child continues on its way and as the upper torso is revealed she is shocked and dumfounded for the second time that day.
The child catches sight of her and turns fully. Already smiling the child, girl (woman?) opens her mouth and Solona knows words are coming out but she doesn’t understand.
Standing not twenty feet from her, at Kinloch Hold, Circle of Magi, is a dwarf. In this dwarf’s hand is a bundle of wild elfroot/