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He'd been stationed in the chantry at Ostwick for over 3 months and had never once heard her voice, despite the hours a day they'd share the library. He was beginning to think she didn't even know he was there until the day she suddenly appeared at his side staring evenly into his helmet, and he felt like he'd missed a step going up the stairs.
“Excuse me, serah. I need a book from a higher shelf.” No inflection, as even as her countenance.
His fool heart leaped into his throat, and he fought down his anxiety as he followed her between the stacks, easily reaching the book she pointed at. As he handed it to her, she nodded her thanks, and turned to head back toward the table with her work.
Maybe it was the stronger ration of lyrium dulling his nerves, maybe it was impulsiveness born of boredom, maybe he just saw an opportunity – but something made him call after her, uncharacteristically.
“So, you're studying genealogy?”
She didn't turn back. “Don't talk to me.”
“I... Excuse me?”
She continued to walk, and he followed her without thought. “I don't like templars.” she stated, matter-of-factly, and he was suddenly acutely aware of the sword on his chest as she continued with her back to him.
He tried his best to not look offended. “Might I ask why?”
This time she turned, and stared directly at him. “You're all a bunch of idiot zealots who claim to be doing the Makers work, while you do nothing but take us further and further from His light.”
They stared at each other a moment, him dumbstruck and her defiant, and finally his outrage caught up to him. “Excuse me?” He'd said that already, though this time indignant. “Templars protect you. Templars exist to protect you.”
Her face didn't change. “I never asked you to. Am I to thank you?”
He scowled, and she tilted her head up to stare him in the eyes. “Thank you, great Ser Templar, for turning the Chant into a weapon to imprison and rape. On behalf of us all, you've done us a great service.”
She was goading him, and she was succeeding. He felt as if there were bees under his skin. “You stand and accuse from your cozy clerical position, comfortable and safe for your entire life. You have no idea. You have no idea what is out there.” he hissed, and she rolled her eyes.
“I'm ever in your debt. I'd prefer to go back to ignoring you, if I may.”
“Be my guest.” he spat out, and stomped back to his doorway, trying not to call unnecessary attention to himself.
I will do it without thanks, he thought, and tried to calm the beating of his heart. I will do it without appreciation. I will do what is right. She mocked, but he was just. He was righteous.
Shivers raced up his limbs, and he closed his eyes against the feeling, opened them to see the shelves, the walls, the fucking cleric sitting at the table, all clean of blood and viscera and the shrieks of demons. She had no idea. She had no idea. His skin crawled, and he threw himself into his routine, focused on the lyrium in his veins.
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter, he murmured into the dark safety of his helmet. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
The Maker smiled upon his servants, and Cullen knew he needed no thanks.