Chapter Text
Who else would I want by my side at the end of the world?
That was the question Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford directed to her. Well, her and the two steadfast Templars at her side one typically dreary and gross day in Kirkwall. The city that cleaved a troubled nation in two.
A quivering tension had existed in Thedas before the Chantry had ignited in the sky, scorching neighbors in an outward radius. But Kirkwall was the match that caused the world to combust as those within Circles turned against one another, their hatred spilling into the streets and bathing them in crimson.
Two weeks. In two weeks, he would abandon the Order he’d sworn his life to, walking away to join the Hands of the Divine in stopping the Mage-Templar war once and for all. That’s what they claimed. Two weeks until he’d leave, and she’d never see him again. Two weeks until her heart would shatter for good.
Somehow, Idalya Mahariel reluctantly was dragged into another war. Great idea, since the last one went so fucking well.
Knight-Captain Rylen was first to agree and shook the future Commander’s hand in wafting enthusiasm. He’d sought every exit out of the City of Chains since his assignment in this shithole. The chronic amorist had found his match in Lilly Hawke. Strawberry locks atop sharp features and an even sharper mind. Two daggers clutched in hand as she disobeyed every rule the Templars followed with a smirk across her cherry-red stained lips.
Rylen became infatuated the moment he spied the Champion’s cousin. Between the crumbling buildings, he’d found heartache that left his heart as dilapidated as the abandoned streets surrounding the former Chantry as the fiery Templar had taken a position as far from Kirkwall, and him, as possible.
That left Idalya and Knight-Captain Barris staring in disbelief at their friend and leader. She could sense Barris’ questions. He was unconvinced why they needed to travel a world away when the citizens of Kirkwall looked to the Order to maintain the tentative balance the city had achieved following the explosion. Where he saw responsibility and duty, Cullen saw reminders of his failure in every face begging for help.
Knight-Commander Cullen had struggled to maintain balance in the city and his soul since standing against Meredith. Her madness had forced his transition to a traitor to assist Marion Hawke and her band of ragtag renegades. He was a lost man watching the foundation of his life crumble away below his feet. Without the structure of the Order, who was he? He’d walk away to discover the answer to that question.
She knew Barris could read her thoughts as she considered the danger awaiting them across the sea. The Hands of the Divine had marched into Kirkwall, kidnapping her boss, Varric Tethras, and interrogated him to locate Hawke’s current location. They spent a week questioning the dwarf when any drunk in the Hanged Man would have told them for two silvers that the Champion was busy playing pretty princess in Starkhaven.
These were the greatest investigators the Divine could have sent?
Now they had chosen Cullen to be their Commander. They were promoting a man whose sanity depended on his lyrium consumption that day. Idalya wasn’t convinced, but it was impossible to deny Cullen anything. His amber eyes pleading with her lavender ones, reminding her of a pair of copper ones she couldn’t say no to.
He’d stepped forward taking her callused hands in his. His heat penetrating through her causing her soul to vibrate at the connection she desperately longed for.
How can I do this without you, my dearest friend?
Barris sighed aloud as she’d sealed their fate. Idalya squeezed Cullen’s hands in defeat. The Knight-Commander pulled her into his plate-lined arms and squeezed her small frame tightly against his breastplate while she avoided Barris’ emerald eyes in guilt. She knew the Ferelden Templar, and her closest friend, would follow her lead without discussion and now she would lead him to the front of a war.
*****
The vomit. Oh, sweet Maker the vomit.
A fortnight later, they departed the Free Marches onto a tiny swaying ship tossed like a child’s toy boat across the hostile waves. Their destination? A far port of Ferelden. It would be her first steps on the red clay dirt of home in almost eight years.
The next two weeks were a dizzying blur of flying vomit, and musky soldiers held within tight confines. It had only taken one mistake for Dal to learn to avoid the stern of a ship filled with Templars because it wasn’t a matter of if, but when, you’d be hit by an errant spray of piss.
Those sea bound weeks left her too much time to contemplate her homecoming while bent over the edge tossing the unsettled contents of her stomach in the ocean.
In her brief flash of life, she’d worn many titles: knife-ear, Grey Warden, Hero, orphan, vagabond, mercenary. Some of those titles would remain until her dying day, scarred onto her skin, others she’d shed when necessary like a weather-torn cloak.
She was a broken girl when she left Ferelden. The Archdemon dead, along with her romance with the future King. His betrayal had stung her heart like an angry wasp, relentless in its unceasing attack. A pain finally alleviated only by placing a sea between her and his decisions.
She spent two years after the Archdemon’s death helping rebuild throughout the country, including the Kinloch circle. While dragging supplies into the ravaged circle she’d met Delrin Barris, a fresh-faced fifteen-year-old Ferelden noble-born Templar recruit.
They’d bonded over being the only two dark-skinned people in a tower filled with creamy complexions, but she knew their friendship would last when he’d merely shrugged at discovering she not just a Grey Warden, but the Hero of Ferelden herself. Delrin treated no different from any of the other builders, even as a woman, elf, and Warden, reconstructing the collapsed walls where she’d watched demons rip Templars and mages to shreds.
Time spent rebuilding kept her distracted from her growing sense of emptiness until the projects ended. Leaving the only rebuilding to remain in the minds of those who’d experienced the Blight. There was no chance of mending the broken pieces of the life she’d left behind.
Two final missions. Two missions in Ferelden then she’d never return. There'd be no point.
One mission spanned months of research and tracking, but six tedious months later, she arrived at the front gates of Denerim castle with a bottle in hand for their King and some choice parting words. Two hours later, Alistair hadn’t found the nerve to show his face, so she’d left the vial behind with a parchment she’d clumsily scribbled with an angry hand.
Asshole-
Here’s your fucking cure.
-Dal
It was a simple note, but she thought it represented her emotions that day.
With the help of a former friend, she’d created a cure for the joining. A cure for the Blight running through her and the King’s veins. She hadn’t tested the formula before delivering it, but no news of his demise had traveled across the land. The last time her curiosity got the best of her, she learned in annoyance, of the birth of King’s twins and the near death of the Queen in delivering them, as he finally secured his descents as heirs to the throne of Ferelden.
Idalya’s vial remained hidden amongst her few belongings. The plan had been to drink her vial as soon as she delivered Alistair’s. What more did this life offer her? But as she’d held the carved glass to her lips, she’d hesitated before recorking the container with haste. Who was Idalya Mahariel if not a Warden?
She’d been a child surviving in an alienage when Duncan discovered her and barely a woman when the moniker the Hero of Ferelden was draped over her shoulders, a mantle she could not remove. A weight affixed to her ankle she would drag for eternity.
It was Knight-Commander Gregoire that informed her of the influx of Ferelden refugees into Kirkwall, a former slaving colony in the Free Marches. She loathed Orlesians, so traveling West was out of the question, but maybe North was the path to her salvation. A sea between the King and the memory of his betrayal when she was at her weakest. She confronted that pain as she helped a friend through the most difficult moment of her life before she packed the last of her belongings silently to leave Ferelden for the last time.
Arriving in Kirkwall, she found a city at its breaking point. A Knight-Commander with a tight fist around all operations, aggressive groups of mages pushing back against the tyranny, and starving refugees from the Blight begging at the gates to be let in. Unlike others who argued at the gates demanding entrance, Idalya took any work available, even if she would have never approved before.
She stole, threatened, and manipulated, to have coin in her pockets while she watched others waste away before her eyes. It wasn’t a proud time, but she drew the line at murder, but knew for every assassination job she refused, that there would be another who wouldn’t.
She first met Marion Hawke in her mercenary years. The woman who’d later be known as the Champion was a force to be reckoned with in her youth. A complicated beauty with glowing cerulean eyes, hastily cut ink-colored hair and the voice of the Maker itself flowing from her throat as she’d sing drunken hymns through the dingy streets of Kirkwall.
Marion’s companion Varric Tethras had an eye for recognizing talent when he saw it. He offered Idalya a job her first month in Kirkwall and she continued to be his consistent problem solver over the years. She wasn’t certain where Varric’s funds originated. It was none of her business. Varric never asked more than she was willing to do; he paid upfront and for any unexpected costs that occurred as she cleaned up behind Marion and her chosen family.
One inebriated night at the Hanged Man she was arguing over proper broadsword grip techniques with Fenris when the aura of the tavern changed. She watched as Marion’s hand tightened over Ander’s thigh before the mage stood and exited toward the back with the Champion close behind. Idalya could smell the swirling and heady scent of lyrium before she saw the Templar enter.
Isabella’s eyes focused behind her at a moving figure at the bar before nodding to Fenris and the elf rose without question and followed the path Marion and Anders had taken.
“What’s happening?” Idalya’s fingertips trailed over the handle of the dagger hidden in the lining of her cloak. Her hood covered her face as she scanned with her sensitive ears.
“Just the Knight-Captain here to drown his sorrows again,” Isabella spoke ambivalently and shot back the remainder of her spiced rum. A shadow fell over her deeply tanned skin as a man with heavy footsteps approached from behind.
“Hawke didn’t have to leave just because I wanted a drink.” They sneered.
Isabella scoffed. “She really did.”
It took Idalya off guard as she heard the polished Ferelden accent. Many immigrants into Kirkwall had been displaced multiple times through Ferelden. The Blight was nearly successful because of Ferelden still rebuilding from its war with Orlais. It had taken years for the land to recover only to be tainted and soiled as the darkspawn slaughtered their way across the countryside.
Shaking off the blighted memories, Dal upturned her head to gaze at the man standing over them. The candelabra above caused his toe-headed curls to glow gently in the light, but it was the man’s face that made her pause. The face was no longer young by any measure, but she had no doubts it was a face she remembered.
“Cullen?”
The Templar’s body went rigid at her voice, his brows raised as her lavender eyes peered out of her hood.
“It’s you.” Shock filled his voice, yet she sensed a hint of anger and suspicion at her presence.
“This just got infinitely more interesting.” Isabella reached across the table and stole the remainder of Dal’s ale as she watched the scene unravel.
“What are you doing here? And with them?”
Idalya grimaced at his accusing tone. “These are my friends.” At least, most of them.
The last time she’d seen the Templar he’d been raving mad. Screaming and raking his nails against the walls that all mages within Kinloch had been corrupted, abominations running wild through the tower. She had ignored his rantings and shown the terrified man kindness.
That kindness had not stayed with him.
The Templar blew hot air out his nose like an irritated bull before he’d stomped away to take a seat at the bar, the other patrons vacating the surrounding seats until he was once again alone.
Cullen’s icy reception melted away over the following months, relying on her for advice and favors he wouldn’t dare ask of Marion and her cohorts. Idalya found him a troubled man, constantly questioning his role in life and analyzing the duties he’d sworn his life too. Before she understood what had happened, she’d fallen head over heels for the Templar. She had taken any mission he’d given, hoping that someday she’d return, and he’d see her as more than a friend in his saddened amber eyes.
Kirkwall had been full of disappointment for all of them.
As Meredith’s mental state deteriorated, Cullen had pushed her, Barris, and Rylen away, determined to keep them safe from the woman’s outbursts and from his own troubling path. It was Rylen who informed her of the Knight-Commander tripling Cullen’s lyrium dose so that his eyes maintained a bluish tint all hours of the day. A conscience was a pesky distraction that Meredith didn’t have time for, so she’d attempted to stamp it out of Cullen and erase his feelings at the same time.
Without the help of his friends, she would have succeeded.
Idalya’d felt pride watching the Knight-Captain, and paramour of her heart, stand between Meredith and Marion at their final battle. He’d fought bravely as he’d committed treason and took down the corrupted woman. He hadn’t wanted the mantle of Knight-Commander after the battle, but every Templar looked at him with awe and refused to follow any leader but Cullen.
So, they placed a broken traitor in charge of the Kirkwall Order tasked with reuniting a city fractured in two. Within weeks, Cullen had stopped sleeping, stopped eating and focused on nothing but work. The beginnings of the Mage-Templar war had destroyed lyrium supply lines across Thedas and the Templars were starving.
Barris and Rylen cut their doses to ensure Cullen’s intake wouldn’t reduce too quickly. Rylen had never heard of a Templar surviving after coming down off the number of doses Meredith had been forcing on their new Knight-Commander. But if Cullen was struggling, he showed no sign to those now relying on him for leadership.
Months of work after the Chantry explosion, the Hands of the Divine had rolled into the city, not only with job offers but with crates of lyrium draughts with the promise of more awaiting across the sea. Cullen practically salivated over the piles of pulsing blue vials.
It was no surprise all the Templars had jumped at the chance to join.
And here she was weeks later, vomiting a final mouthful of bile into the roaring sea below.
“Fuuuuck.” Idalya slinked down the wall of the boat, as her legs buckled beneath. Her brown skin now a pale gray as she slowly died from dehydration. She was being dramatic but imaged this is what death felt like.
“You look like shit.” She hadn’t heard Cullen approach, but shouldn’t be surprised that this is when the man would find her after days of his absence inside while planning with the Hands.
Leliana, her former companion, had tried to approach, but Idalya saw immediately in her eyes how much the woman had hardened. The auburn-haired girl who’d followed her through Ferelden had eyes full of joy, and a motivation to save the world. The only thing Dal could find inside now was death and the desire to burn all those who’d oppose her to the ground. The decade had not been a kind one to the bard.
“Good, because I feel like shit. I’d hate to give someone the wrong impression.” She groaned as the ship lurched over a crashing wave.
The former Knight-Commander chuckled as he knelt at her side. His Templar armor was gone and he wore a simple tunic and breeches until the Chantry would outfit him on land. He looked smaller, more human, without his metal cage.
He pressed a tiny wooden bowl into her hand. “I saved some broth for you. You need to eat Dal if you will survive until we hit land.”
She rolled her eyes but lifted the bowl to her lips since she couldn’t say no to him. The wood of the bowl made a hollow chime as it reached her chattering teeth. The contents barely constituted a broth and tasted more like diluted root vegetable water. At the first attempt to swallow, her gag reflex revolted, and the liquid sprayed out of her mouth just missing Cullen who grimaced at her grossness.
The horrors never ceased.
“Keep trying, Dal. We’ll hit land in three days then we’ll get a real meal into you.” His gloved hand pushed the tangled bush of her white hair from her face. She closed her eyes, resting her head in the strength of his hand. The warmth through the leather calmed the chills running through her spine and she sighed as her body relaxed, even if briefly as the crashing waves of the ocean disappeared in his proximity.
“That’s my girl.” He whispered as the Warden drifted off.
She didn’t need food; she needed nothing but him. These weeks she’d remained alone on board as Barris had held her hair back to allow her some dignity in her unending illness. At least until his own stomach couldn’t handle her constant retching, and he’d run to the other side of the ship, with an onyx hand pressed tightly against his mouth.
If seasickness was the worst part of following Cullen across the world, this will all have been worth it.
How was she supposed to know that in a week the sky would explode?