A Candle in the Darkness (A Dragon Age: Inquisition fanfiction)

Endless Possibilities

28 Harvestmere, 9:41

The Chantry was silent today, as it often was. For a company built upon a love of the Maker and his Bride, and following someone called the Herald of Andraste, they weren't much for individual prayers. Cullen found that ironic, but he often appreciated the ability to pray alone. Maybe others did, too, he thought, and the faithful staggered their visits to be able to speak to Andraste in some amount of privacy. That comforted him a bit, more than his other suspicion, which was that they were all too busy to truly make time for Andraste in their lives. Even he spent less time in the Chantry than had been his habit at one point.

Today he came to the Chantry not to pray for himself, as he had so often before, although Maker knew he still needed Her peace, Her protection from the memories that haunted him and the fears that were his regular companions. But today, with Antonia and her 'boys' still out on their expedition, he came to pray for her, to ask the protection of Andraste for Her Herald.

"'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just,'" he murmured, lighting a candle. It was Antonia exactly—it was what she had done at Haven, putting herself between her people and Corypheus, who was the embodiment of corruption and wickedness. And she had not faltered.

He lit another candle. "'His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities.'" Perhaps this one was for him, after all, because hope and fear mingled were what the Maker's Word had become for him. Once, singing the Chant had filled him with its light; he had believed in what he was doing, in what the Templars and the Chantry were doing. Then there had been the Circle, and after that the Chant had filled him with darkness, with anger and terror and a deep, corrosive need for revenge. And then there had been Kirkwall, and now he questioned the Chant and those who sang it in a way he had never done before.

In questioning, he felt that perhaps he began to fulfill the Maker's Word, the endless possibilities the Chant spoke of. When faith went unquestioned, the possibilities remained limited, by necessity. But part of him still missed those days of pure faith, of certainty.

"'In the absence of light, shadows thrive,'" he whispered. It was true—with the light gone from his heart, the shadows had grown. But in recent months, those shadows had receded. The Inquisition was the light; Antonia was the light.

"'The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world.'" Yes. He gave up on the Chant, letting the words pour forth from him. "Andraste, keep her safe. Guide her blade, and give strength and courage to those who protect her. Make the path smooth beneath her feet. Bring her home safely to those who—who care for her." There was more he wanted to say—he wanted to pour out to Andraste all his hopes and his fears, all his dreams and ideas, all the endless possibilities that had suddenly opened up to him that he had never thought could exist. But the fears were the greatest of all, and they stopped his tongue and chilled his heart and wrapped around him in shadow the way the demons had done ...

Cullen got hastily to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face. He had nearly nodded off here in the Chantry, and as always, unexpected sleep had brought with it the demons of memory that descended whenever he was least prepared.

"Your heart is troubled, child." Mother Giselle stood in the back of the Chantry, watching with kindly eyes. "She knows that without your needing to put it into words. The Maker's Bride knows a great deal about troubled hearts."

"Thank you, Mother."

"I have done nothing."

"You maintain the Chantry for those of us who need it. That is a great deal." He cleared his throat, assuming the commander's mantle again. "Is there anything you or the Chantry require?"

She was smiling—she had seen him retreat, and was not going to chase him. "No. Not at this time. But if there is anything you need, the Chantry and I are here."

Cullen nodded, and he hurried from the room and from the ghosts that lay trapped in the Chant.