Okay, my dear Readers!

Thank you for all those that have stayed with me to read this! I adore you! I could not give it a truly happy ending, I am sorry. However, I could give you bittersweet.

Enjoy.

I own nothing. Rated M.

OoOoOo

Tensions between the Templars and Mages eased. For a time.

For nearly a decade, the mages remained more contented in their towers, secluded from those that did not possess the taint of magic. How fortunate that time was, but also indescribably fragile.

When the breech had happened, Knight-Commander Cullen had bee horrified as demons pulled from the eerie green depths of the fade.

However, he had been called to action, watching men around him die in droves as the onslaught occurred. He made his way to the right and left hands of the Divine. As he had been instructed to. Cassandra had seen a solution, and Ser Cullen would not leave the world in upheaval. Therefore, he had left the ranks to lend aid in spite of the fiery grip of chaos. He was made the commander of the forces, given his background and slaying of demons.

Saving the world was his newest duty and obligation.

So, it was a sense of astonishment that guided him when he watched Cassandra drag a mere boy off in chains to be questioned. Supposedly, the child had been present when the Divine was slain. How this boy had managed to tumble from the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, was something Ser Cullen had pondered since the moment he had heard about it.

By all accounts, the boy should have died.

When at last, the seeker was content with the answers she received, and the boy had proven true to sealing the first rift; Ser Cullen allowed himself to exchanged a bit of conversation with the lad. A gangly looking youth, with copper hair vaguely reminiscing of his own. Granted the conversation had been amidst the row between agitated mages and the Templars who were no longer considered Templars.

It left them all with a sense of unbalance. A Templar was forever in service to the Chantry and the Divine herself. Yet, within the Inquisition, there was no such thing as a Templar. Only another soldier. Another body for the count to defend against unholy creatures.

The wiry looking scrap of a young man had not impressed the former Knight-Commander. The boy had not even gotten his shoulders yet. The red-haired youth was all knees and elbows. A strong wind could have blown him over.

This was the boy they called 'Herald'? He kept his thoughts to himself, as the others stared at the quiet young man as well. Reserved, as well as quiet. Something twitched in the back of Ser Cullen's mind. A faint sense of familiarity about the hazel eyes that stared back at him, unflinching. Well, the boy had some backbone to him then.

Maker knew they would need all of it. If this child was to lead the whole of the Inquisition. The green mark pulsed and the boy winced. The Commander of the Inquisition narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He would have to prepare the youth for a real fight. He strongly doubted the boy's father had raised him to be any sort of soldier. Or that the lad had endured any sort of physical labors.

"You've made quite an entrance," Ser Cullen commented with a gruff tone to his voice.

The boy looked at him, hazel eyes clashing with amber.

"I see that I have gotten everyone's attention." The youth responded dryly.

A slight smirk wormed its way onto Ser Cullen's face briefly. Before it was smothered beneath a sense of survival that reared to the forefront. Could the boy truly be what helped them defeat the demons?

"That you did," he said with a dismissive look. "What is your name boy?"

"Branson," the youth replied as his red hair glinted in the sunlight.

"Branson?" Ser Cullen repeated. A strong enough name, he supposed. It was the same as his brother's.

The boy nodded tersely. "It is the name I was given..."

"Yes, odd that. Mother's naming their sons." Ser Cullen quipped with a hint of teasing to put the boy at ease for the time being.

Something he said caused the boy to turn his head slightly, shaking it to the negative.

"Not my mother, Ser. The Chantry."

Amber eyes slid to the boy's tightened face.

"Are you an orphan?"

"No, Ser. A mage's son."

"Ah," he said and made a hum in the back of his throat in understanding. That was likely why the pilgrims and villagers avoided the boy. That or the giant green pulsing mark in his hand. Ser Cullen did not have time to worry over some stigma of being a mage's child.

He had one of his own. A son somewhere, likely displaced do to this chaos, and it worried him daily.

He had sent out missives with several of Liliana's most trusted agents to track down where his son might be. He had not received news about his own child for a year now. Even before this mess with the rifts.

"Just 'ah'?" Branson questioned with some amount of bite to his tone.

Good. The boy would need some spirit in him.

"You are a mage's boy. What more should I say to you?"

"Are you not even curious of my lineage?"

"Not particularly." Ser Cullen commented offhandedly.

"I'm from Ferelden," Branson mentioned quietly.

"My family is from there," the man replied as his gaze moved over the dispersing crowd of people. He would do well to ensure that no fighting occurred between the factions tonight.

The conversation between them died quickly. Ser Cullen had no wish to discuss his family with the boy, and the boy had nothing else to say.

OoOoOo

Ser Cullen would not learn the boy's name until three days later. When he did, he was plagued by whether he was being punished or blessed by the Maker. For, who else would have been granted such a chance as this?

"Inquisitor!" A voice boomed from across the way.

The former Knight-Commander looked upward, noting his ally. The boy continued to watch the mountains. The lad had taken a shine to Ser Cullen, and they had a chance to speak briefly once or twice more about the encroaching and unavoidable war. Though Ser Cullen prayed at length for the best possible outcome, he also was wise enough to expect the worst.

Though such things were not prudent to tell the boy. He was, after all, the one that might save them. Taking the wind out of his sails would do nothing but harm.

Ser Cullen might have been content to leave well enough alone and allow Cassandra to chastise the 'Inquisitor', were it not for what she said next.

"Amell!" Cassandra called out with authority shining in her words.

Finally, the boy looked up. The red hair glinted once more, seeming to glow a bit in the afternoon light.

Ser Cullen stilled, his amber gaze stared at the boy sharply. His skin prickled at the name he had not heard for years.

No, it was not possible. Then again, it was not entirely impossible either. The need to know boiled under his veins.

"Amell?" He questioned in a hoarse voice. His Amber eyes trailed over the boy's face with a tenderness that had been reserved once for someone else.

The boy looked up with those familiar hazel eyes.

"Yes, Ser. Branson Amell."

An uncommon name, in Ferelden. A boy raised by the chantry. A mage's son.

A mage's son.

"Mage Amell?"

A look of confusion stole across the boy's features. "Son of a Mage Amell, yes."

There could be no mistaking it.

Ser Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition, appeared as if he were made of living stone. He made no move to speak again, and his gaze watched at the boy hurried over to Cassandra's side.

The boy was named Branson. Something which caused the former Knight-Commander to smile at the irony of it. The child had been given the same name as Cullen's brother. He found it rather serendipitous.

He stayed as living stone, until the pair disappeared down the way, and then he allowed his shaking hands to clasp together as he slid to his knees.

He said countless prayers to the Maker, in thanks, for the life and safety of Brandon Amell. The boy that did not know that one of his advisors, was his father.

OoOoOo

It was Branson who brought the thing back with him.

A spirit, it said. Found from the fade as it saved Branson from the tricks of envy. Though he doubted if the creature had actually 'saved' anyone. He had heard the tale, demanded to hear several times -checking the first telling to the last-, that the thing had called out to Branson, and physically blocked the envy demon from harming the lad. It was the only time since and until now, that Branson had ever seen the creature furious. Though Branson had landed the killing blow on the envy demon, it was the 'sprit' that protected his son most fiercely in the illusion.

Demon. Ser Cullen called it. Especially when it would not allow him a moment's peace. It sat on the walls of the keep, always watching the people below. It's voice was as unsettling as it was soothing. The way it blinked about, too quickly to be seen. One moment it was next to someone, whispering in their ear, and the next it was across the keep.

The Templar in him did not trust it. Loathed it so deeply, that it caused him great pain in his chest.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to call the thing to him. Akin to a beacon in never-ending darkness.

The spirit blinked toward him, those strange an wholly familiar eyes bothered Cullen deeply. It was made worse by knowing that the spirit knew. It's strange and large hat tipped upward. The plain and simple 'clothing' that adorned it rippled as if it were real in front of his amber gaze.

He had heard tales from Branson about the creature. Cullen had attempted to give it a wide berth.

"It has her face. Maker. Her face!," The spirit rambled as it continued to watch Cullen.

"Enough," He said gruffly, a tone of finality in his voice. His deepest thoughts revealed out in the open, just like a gashing wound.

"She smells of parchment, elfroot, and magic. Soft magic. She moves with grace, elegance. The touch of her. Like home. It is like home when she's in my arms. However, Templars do not love mages. So this feeling. It must be wrong."

"Stop this!" He growled lowly.

"I have to whip her. The Chantry is clear. I shall punish her this way, so as to spare her a fate far worse. It is all I can do to protect her."

"Stay away!"

"Safe. I'll keep her safe, I swore to myself... but I couldn't. Bleeding, crying out to me. 'Cullen' she says. The only time she's ever said my name, and it is to plead for the life of our son. Her sweet lips tremble in fear. I want to hold her, but it is not permitted. The Revered Mother will harm her, if she survives. Maker, please let her live."

"Get out of my head!" He roared, making a swipe for the spirit.

It moved, blinking across to the other end of the room. It's wide eyes bored into Cullen once more, leaving him feeling exposed as his heart ached.

"Her song. The magic that is so loud I can hardly hear. It is beautiful. She falls. Exhaustion? Yet I see blood. So much blood. Too much, and it is everywhere. She doesn't move. She has died? No. She stares at me with empty eyes. Those beautiful eyes. The babe is dead. But then... he is alive. Alive, her son. My son. Branson."

"I said Enough!" the shaken man shouted, striding forward to the Spirit.

It did not move this time. Pale hands dropped to the Spirit's side. A spirit that was all too strangely like a person. But.. no. No! It was all tricks and lies. Demon's words and whispers.

"Why do you torment me?" Ser Cullen asked, gripping the spirit's arms.

"I loved her. I still love her. Mother to the Inquisitor. I can never tell him. Branson must never known. She died. For our son. My beloved. My..."

The Spirit stilled, its eyes glowed brighter and its lips parted in surprise. The large hat seemed ridiculous given the situation. However, Ser Cullen was focused on keeping it from uttering the name that was enshrined within his heart.

"Do not say it." He whispered, with desperation.

"Solona. My Solona."

Amber eyes closed against the fresh wave of pain that blossomed in his chest.

"Solona?" The spirit questioned with a hitch in its voice, "But.. that is my name."

The Maker was punishing him, Cullen felt it could be no other way. To bring back a creature from the fade... that bore not only his love's name, but her face as well.

What Branson had brought back with him, was the perfect imitation of his mother. And, it killed a little part of Ser Cullen ever time he saw her.

OoOoOo

It continued to haunt him. The Spirit that called itself Solona. It was all too much to bare. Often he would seek the creature out to start an argument with it.

Sometimes without reason, perhaps it was some sick and twisted form of being near her again. Yet, he grasped and held onto the chance at the same time he attempted to disengage himself from the supposed 'spirit'.

Branson, his dear child, had mentioned something Solona had commented to the Inquisitor.

"That is what you said, isn't it?" The former Knight-Commander demanded with a harshness to his words. "Cullen is softer?"

"Softer, yes." Solona said with confusion on her face. "Familiar, yet not. As if it was from long ago, that you and I knew each other. I sense it in you and in the Inquisitor. I... cannot help but-"

"Maker, why?"

"You are... hurting. I... I want to stop it if I can."

"No," Ser Cullen denied adamantly, "Your help is to twist the mind. You will not take away the memories of her!"

"Not the memories," the spirit said gently. "Those I will leave. However, let me ease the pain."

Lost amber eyes glared at the thing that wore Solona's face. If it was truly her, then he was likely damned for never intervening when he should have. If he had been there, when she went into labor. If he had argued with the Revered mother to see reason, and brought a healer from Antiva-

She might not...

"She might not have died."

"Get out of my head," The Templar hissed angrily.

She reaches for him, the spirit that Ser Cullen cannot help but flinch away from. He stalks off into the night, and seeks solace in deep prayer. His only respite. The Spirit still shies away from the holy symbol of Andraste.

OoOoOo

"You watch me," the Spirit said with a soft smile. "You know that I walk into darkness over and over. I sense the worry from you. Always. Now I understand why."

"You understand nothing," Ser Cullen replies, feeling his walls crack in the wake of Solona's smile. She never smiled at him very often in the Tower. She was always saddened or afraid, something he secretly hated.

A sensation rippled through him.

"I will ease your pain." Solona promised with kindness in her gaze. "I will make the hurt disappear."

Ser Cullen made a choked sound in the back of his throat.

"Why would you do this?" He asked, as her fingers slowly touched the side of his cheek. Her touch was strange, and unsettling at the same time that it brought comfort. A wave of compassion washed over him.

"Because I have remembered." The Spirit said with finality.

"Remembered?"

"Once, when I was mortal, I loved you as well."

Shock and an unnatural dullness flashed across Ser Cullen's gaze as the Spirit removed the keen sense of longing and grief that felt rooted to the man's very soul. A slight clouding of silver energy surrounded the pair.

She laid a gentle kiss at his temple, as memories flooded her mind. It was... difficult... outside of the fade. Strange and the world did not shape to her commands any longer. However, she recalled why she had first followed the Inquisitor back.

Why she had guided him through the demon's deception, and how she had seen the young man through the rift. Which pulled the fade and pushed more of it out than could exist in the realm of the living. The bright speck of life energy that had seemed so very familiar.

One that a young mage in a Circle tower had died for.

She remembered. For she had once been that mage. Blood spilling on the floor, desperation and love so strong that it beckoned through the reaches of the fade. So strong that she had sacrificed her very life for it. The chance that one small and fragile being could live. Live, and be held by his sire. The words the mage had never told him aloud, that might have eased the suffering before her now.

Perhaps, but perhaps not. Fate was... tricky.

The spirit could sense that the hurt had left Ser Cullen and she smiled.

He was keeping his promise, to protect their son. She had watched him. Guiding Branson, and keeping him from those that would do him harm. Especially in the Empresses' court. Solona had not enjoyed it there. A million hurts and harsh words. All too loud for her to block out.

Yet, good had come from her passing. A chance for her to protect their son, by the Maker's grace, had been given to her.

The whispers she had given to the Revered Mother had benefited the Circle of Magi. Which had thrived enough in Ferelden to help keep the demons at bay. She would keep her focus trained on Cassandra, who stood every possibility of becoming the next Divine. Solona would not permit another mage to share the suffering she had been forced to endure.

Change. She would strive for even greater possibilities for the magic-born.

However, at this moment, she would ease the hurt that called to her day and night.

"Forget," Solona whispered as Ser Cullen's dazed expression deepened momentarily. "No more sorrow. No more pain."

OoOoOo

Ser Cullen, rouses to his consciousness in a darkened room. The lingering scents of parchment, elf root, and magic waft in the air.

Absently, his fingers run over the frayed and worn cloth tied around his wrist. Years ago it had been green. It sported numerous attempts at repairing what had been torn or lost threads for the embroidery. Touching it reassures him. It gives him faith somehow that even the taint of the Tower was not enough to destroy everything a person was. And, he remembers his love.

The image of her that flickers in the depths of his thoughts whenever he looks upon their child. The all too few fond memories of the time of peace between them and how she had shown courage beyond even most Templar's measure. He remembers and in his heart, Mage Amell had hung the very moon next to the Maker's side. And, Ser Cullen realizes that it was truly acceptable for a Templar to love a Mage.

Tragic, though it may have been.

OoOoOo

The lives on the line, the struggle so large in measure that it defied the very idea of comprehension, had come and passed.

Now, as a frail old man, Ser Cullen the most decorated Templar in the order -for service and bravery-, lies dying in his bed. A fate that most would gladly exchange theirs for. He has seen his time in battle. He has made the fields run red with blood before, fighting monsters and wicked creatures. He has made calls in judgment that give him reason to think that perhaps the Chantry , only very rarely, had been wrong.

And, he thinks, though his thoughts are heavily muddled, of the pair of Hazel eyes that followed him his whole life through. Since the day that Branson, his beloved son, brought her forth from the fade. Branson, who had gone on to live and fall in love. With a woman that held Ser Cullen's utmost approval and had served beside Branson on the battle field. In some strange circumstances, though not by his own doing, Ser Cullen has been able to watch his son grow and live. To enjoy a life that no Mage nor Templar could call themselves quite so blessed as to have. Ser Cullen reflects fondly upon his grandchildren, and the two that have gone to the Circle of Magi were doing well, last he had known.

For affection and care had called the strings of his heart to be plucked once more. Mired in patriarchal pride for those that shared his bloodline. The only ones to do so, though they knew naught of the prestigious Templar that lurked in the higher echelons of the Chantry. The one that shielded them from the worst of what was now a much better situation.

In them, he sees the wealth of possibility that his duty had blinded him too prior. Though, he still upholds his vows and responsibilities. For, someone must and it is a fact that has never changed, no matter the passage of time.

As it has often been before, and is now -upon the crisp linens of his deathbed- he reflects upon the woman that he loved. Who was also gifted with a talent for creation magic.

He remembers Solona.

Though they parted ways long ago. Hadn't they? Things are far more difficult to recall, as the sweet melody of the afterlife beckons him. The song grows stronger with each passing day, and Ser Cullen finds himself ready for it. As he has been ready for every battle and anytime his sword has been called upon. However, this time there is nothing to fight and no one to protect. Not anymore.

Many eyes watch him carefully as he shudders for a labored breath. The time is drawing nigh, and deep within his old bones, he senses it. Templars and some friends of years gone by, hover by his bedside speaking of adventures and memories of long ago. When the world had held on by a mere thread, and been saved by the likes of Hawke. And, his beloved Branson.

Decades have passed so quickly, that Ser Cullen can scarcely believe all that has changed.

The light beckons to him, the swirls of thoughts began to cease at the large intake of his final gasp. A shudder racks his frame, and the coldness seeps in even more. Dark and quiet, the world becomes. His brethren gathered around him, watch with dry eyes in honor of his continued service under the Devine. Their armor glints under the torchlight as his body stills, mouth parted and eyes dimming. The life leaving his empty shell now in the physical world.

Ser Cullen, however, is no longer within his frail body.

He feels in his prime once more. As the world shifts and twists around him. Darkness all around, but it gives way to the whispers of things he has never heard before. Strange swirling thoughts and ideas that take semi-form. As if the world bends to his conscious thought, but it is not so. He twists around, to the sound of light laughter and a the radiating presence of comfort that ebbs into the space around him.

Like a beckon, bright and hope-filled, joy crashes over him to be combined with sheer wonder. The very woman that has occupied his heart and mind for decades upon decades, stands before him. The spirit he had shied away from, raged against, and finally forgiven; smiles at him. The familiar hazel eyes and sweet features are there to nearly be devoured under his longing gaze.

"Am I dead?" Cullen asks, the first thought that solidifies in his being.

She nods then, looking slightly saddened but it is eclipsed by the happiness that seems to emanate from her.

"Yes."

Strangely, he feels that he already knew as much, but a wry grin twists at his lips and his amber gaze locks with hers, as it did so very long ago in a dismal tower that was a prison to her.

"What happens now?"

"Now," she says with a smile so serene and sincere that it nearly undoes him. "It is time for us to go home."

He reaches for her, his hand finally able to truly touch her after a lifetime parted. Their fingers intertwine, and she gazes at him the way he had always looked at her. Finally, he understands the depth of what she felt for him in return, in a single touch of two spirits. Uninhibited by mortal bodies.

"I shall follow you anywhere." He says, and the Chantry hound he had been falls away. His duty was served and with dignity.