Dragon Age: Phoenix Origins

Dearest Cullen,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know you're busy with your training, and I don't want to distract you from your duties, but I couldn't let this news wait any longer. There's so much I need to tell you, and I hope you'll understand.

I'm getting married, Cullen. It's happening sooner than I ever imagined, but it's the right thing to do. His name is Thomas, and he's the new apprentice to Joe, the butcher in town. I know you haven't met him—he came to Honnleath after you left for the Circle—but he's a good man, Cullen. Kind, hardworking, and he makes me laugh even when I'm feeling overwhelmed. Joe says Thomas has a natural talent for the trade, and he's already saving up to open his own shop one day. He's determined to provide for us, and I believe in him.

There's more I need to tell you, and once again, I hope you'll understand. I'm pregnant, brother. Thomas and I love each other; truly we do, but this wasn't how we planned to start our life together. We've decided to marry quickly to avoid any scandal for the sake of the child and our families. I know it's not ideal, but we're making the best of it. Thomas has been nothing but supportive, and I'm grateful for him every day.

I wish you could be here for the wedding. I keep imagining you standing by my side... But I know you're doing important work, and I'm so proud of you. You've always been the one who knew exactly what you wanted and went after it. I've always admired that about you.

Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine—better than fine. Thomas and I are building a life together, and I'm excited for what's to come. I hope you'll visit us when you can. I'd love for you to meet Thomas properly, and I know he'd like to get to know you too. You're my brother, and that means the world to me.

Take care of yourself, Cullen. I know the path you've chosen isn't an easy one, but I believe in you. You're going to do great things. Just remember to take care of your heart, too. Duty is important, but so is love. Don't forget that.

With all my love,

Mia Rutherford, soon to be Miller

***

Dragon 9:28 (17yrs.)

The cell was small, cold, and silent, save for the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. Cullen knelt on the stone floor, his knees aching beneath the weight of his body and the rough robes of his Vigil. The fabric scratched at his skin like a thorny penance, a reminder of the path he had chosen. Or had the path chosen him? The flickering candle on the ledge above was his only companion, it's light weak, and uncertain, barely illuminating the stone walls that seemed to close in tighter with each passing breath.

He bowed his head and whispered the words of the Chant, his voice thin and strained, almost swallowed by the void around him. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter..." The words trailed off, his mouth dry, his throat tight. Will he not falter? He had thought so. Until now.

The silence of the cell pressed on him, wrapping around him like a noose. He had always believed he would stand firm, like the Templars of legend, unshaken, unbreakable. The day he had left home to pursue this path, and all the days after, he had been so sure. So confident. But now, locked away in the isolation of his Vigil, alone with nothing but his thoughts and the slow, deliberate ticking of time, doubt seeped into the cracks of his certainty, like water through stone.

He was supposed to be preparing, focusing his mind, his spirit, but his thoughts… they wandered. Mia. His sister. She would be married soon, perhaps already, the ceremony unfolding without him. He had known this would happen. He had made peace with it, or so he had thought. It turned out knowing it in the abstract and feeling the weight of it now were two different things. Especially when their union came about the way that it did. Had he been there to keep an eye out for his sister, perhaps her virtue would not have been compromised. No one would've so much as looked at her without his permission, having grown into his current broad form.

Where were their father and Bran when this 'Thomas Miller' from Void-knows-where came sniffing around Mia? Working the farm, of course, because they are down a farmhand while I'm chasing this dream. His family would suffer without him; why didn't he take this into consideration the day Ser Donnelly came to recruit him?

His parents would grow old without him. His siblings would marry, have children, and live lives he would only hear about in letters if he heard at all. And when they passed on to the Maker's side, would he even know? Would he be able to mourn? Or would the duty of the Order demand so much of him that even grief would become a luxury?

He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened. Why now? The thought hammered in his skull, relentless. Why, Maker, do I question this now? Why do I falter? The cell was cold, but he felt the heat of shame crawling over his skin. He had longed for this moment, worked so hard, and pushed himself beyond what he thought he was capable of. He had proven himself time and again. This was supposed to be his triumph. He was to be a protector, a defender of the innocent, a shield against the wicked. He had wanted this.

Hadn't he?

A low tremor of doubt ran through him. His whole life had been spent pursuing this dream—his dream. Yet now, as he stood on the threshold of becoming a Templar, of fulfilling everything he had set out to achieve, the ground beneath his feet felt suddenly unstable, as though the very foundations of his faith were shifting beneath him. Had it been worth it? Would it be worth it to give up so much, to turn away from everything and everyone he had known, for this?

The candle flickered, the shadows around him twisting and shifting like phantoms.

Maker, give me clarity!

He forced the words of the Chant from his lips again, grasping at them like a drowning man reaching for a helping hand. His voice steadied, and slowly—painfully—the doubts receded.

For now.

By the second day, the hunger gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting. His stomach twisted in on itself, a hollow ache that would not abate. His head felt light and his thoughts scattered, slipping through his grasp like sand through open fingers. He needed to focus, to pray—to anchor himself in the words of the Canticle of Trials. But the verses blurred together, their meaning unraveling before him. He mouthed the sacred lines, yet they felt empty, weightless.

Instead, his mind drifted, drawn irresistibly toward Evelyn.

He clenched his jaw, trying to push her away, but it was no use. She had always lingered in the back of his thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome, a presence he could not deny. She was his friend—his only true friend in the Circle. Or something more? His ill-advised lust. His inappropriate infatuation. Could he even call himself her friend while dreaming of lying with her?

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so could banish the images that came unbidden—her laughter, light as summer rain; the way her eyes burned bright as she cast her magic; the way her fingers had brushed against his when he handed her his lucky coin.

His throat tightened.

She had promised to treasure it. A meaningless trinket for anyone but him, yet she had held it as though it were something precious. He had known, with a certainty that cut through all doubt, that no matter what happened, she would keep it safe.

Could it be that she felt something for him as well?

The thought sent a terrible longing curling through his chest, warm and aching, dangerous and forbidden.

Stop it! His fingers dug into his thighs, nails biting into the rough fabric of his robes. You are a disgrace of a Knight for thinking this during your Vigil! A disgrace, disgrace!

He forced his gaze to the candle, now half-burned, its wax pooling like molten gold at its base. He watched the flame tremble, its fragile light barely holding against the darkness.

"Andraste, give me grace," he whispered, his voice hoarse with shame. "Maker, cleanse me of this weakness."

By the third day, Cullen was utterly spent. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, his body and mind pushed beyond their limits. The candle that had once cast flickering light against the cold stone walls had burned down to nothing, leaving his cell shrouded in darkness. He sat slumped against the wall, his prayers no longer spoken aloud but reduced to silent, desperate pleas.

Maker, guide me. Show me the path I am meant to follow.

The silence stretched, as usual offering no answer—until, at last, something within him shifted. It was not a voice, not a vision, but a quiet certainty that settled over him like a long-awaited dawn. The hunger, the thirst, the gnawing doubts—they receded, fading into insignificance.

He thought of Mia again, of the joy in her letter. She was starting a new chapter of her life, and he was doing the same. He had always known this path would require sacrifices, and now he understood what that truly meant. He couldn't be there for Mia's wedding, just as he couldn't let himself be distracted by his feelings for Evelyn. His duty was to the Order, to the Maker, and to the dream he had worked so hard to achieve. He thought of Evelyn one last time, the memory of her smile seared into his mind like a lingering ember. She had always understood him better than anyone. And just as duty drove him, it drove her. Were their roles reversed, she would not hesitate. She would not falter.

Neither could he.

The heavy creak of the door shattered the stillness. Cullen blinked against the sudden flood of light, his vision blurring. Slowly, he pushed himself up, legs trembling beneath him, stiff from days of stillness.

In the doorway stood the Knight-Captain, his expression unreadable. "Your Vigil is complete, recruit. Come, it is time to take your vows and drink of lyrium."

Cullen stepped forward, emerging from the dim confines of the cell, and sunlight spilled across his face. Its warmth felt unfamiliar, almost startling, after three days shrouded in darkness. As he followed the Knight-Captain toward the Chapel, a quiet steel had settled in his spine. He had made his choice. No matter the cost, he would see it through.

The Chapel was ablaze with candlelight, their golden glow devouring the heavy air with sharp and cloying incense. It burned Cullen's nostrils, but he breathed it in deeply, letting it fill his lungs. It was part of the ritual, part of the purification. The brazier at the feet of the statue of Andraste burned a furious crimson, unnaturally bright, the heat rolling through the chamber like a living thing.

The gathered Templars stood in solemn formation, their armor gleaming, their eyes fixed upon him. Cullen moved to the center of the chamber, his breath steady despite the weight of their stares. Two Templars approached, their hands firm yet reverent as they stripped him of the simple robe of the Vigil, leaving him in nothing but breeches rolled high to expose his skin. He felt vulnerable beneath their scrutiny, yet there was no shame—only purpose.

Brother Devon's voice echoed through the chamber, deep and resonant, as he began to recite the Chant of Light. He paced slowly around Cullen, swinging the censer in wide, deliberate arcs. The metallic clink of the chains provided a rhythmic counterpoint to his chanting, each note and movement weaving together in a solemn, almost hypnotic cadence.

The Templars encircled him, each movement precise and ritualistic. Several stepped forward, carrying vials of lyrium and long, thin needles. The liquid pulsed, cold and blue, alive with the Maker's fire. Without hesitation, the first needle touched his skin, scratching the first link of a chain upon his flesh.

The sensation was ice at first—sharp and numbing, a cold that stole his breath. But as the chains were drawn, link by link, fire followed. The pain lanced through him, searing and unrelenting, as if molten iron had been poured into his veins. Cullen clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out. He would not falter.

Yet, intertwined with the pain was something else—a surge of power, raw and intoxicating. It coursed through his frame, making his heart pound and his senses sharpen. He felt stronger, invincible, but also angrier as if a storm had been unleashed within him.

The Templars worked in silence, etching sacred chains across his arms, his legs, and his chest—binding him to his duty, to his brothers, to the Maker's will. The weight of them pressed down upon him, though they were no more than blood and lyrium upon his skin. But it was a burden he accepted without hesitation, even as his breath grew ragged and his vision blurred at the edges.

Brother Devon's voice rose, the Chant now fervent, insistent. The sacred words filled Cullen's ears, his bones, his very soul. The final link was scratched into his chest, the chains converging in a great knot above his heart.

The Templars stepped back, and the Knight-Captain approached, chalice in hand. The liquid within shimmered with the same cerulean light as the lyrium now burned into his skin.

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter," the Knight-Captain intoned, his voice solemn.

Cullen lifted his head, the response rising from within him, unwavering. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written."

The Knight-Captain held the chalice forward. "Vow before the Maker that you will be a shield against dangers of magic, protector of the innocent."

Cullen inhaled deeply. "I vow it before the Maker, who watches and judges."

"Vow before His Bride that you will be a sword that pierces the darkness, the slayer of the foul and the wicked."

"I vow it before Andraste, who burned so that we may live free."

"Vow before your brothers of the Order that you will stand with them until the Maker comes to us again or it is time for you to cross the Veil."

"I vow it before my brothers, until my last breath is spent."

The Knight-Captain nodded, his expression grim. "Then drink, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, and may your path be righteous, your will unbroken, and your soul a beacon against the shadow."

Cullen took the chalice, the metal cold against his trembling hands. He raised it to his lips and drank deep.

The lyrium was bitter and metallic, racing through his body in an instant. His vision swam, the world tilting and spinning around him. The Chant of Light swelled, the voices of the Templars joining Brother Devon's in a maddening crescendo. He felt as though he were being pulled apart and remade, his body and mind reshaped by the power of the lyrium.

Suddenly, the pain, the power, the anger—it all coalesced into a single, blinding moment of clarity. He was a Knight now, bound by blood and lyrium to the Templar Order, to the fight against the darkness. And as the world slowly faded into black, Cullen knew that he would never be the same again.