My Warden (COMPLETED)

Rebellion

Shame lodged in his stomach like a satiated serpent while a woman in white clucked her tongue and over bandaged his arm. A sleep spell; of all things it was a Maker cursed sleep spell that took him down. Sure, he was grossly out of practice, was distracted by that amateur swordsman - often the most dangerous to take on - and had enough alcohol left in his system to amplify the spell through his veins, but he should have shaken it off. It was what templars did. Disoriented, Cullen woke shielded behind a hastily tossed up curtain. Judging by the stack of crates overstuffed with plucked feathers for his medical bed he'd guess he was near the butchers, an upholsters, or a particularly strange Orlesian fashion house.

"Hold still, Commander," the woman fussed, winding even more of a never ending roll of linen around his arm. It was futile, the cut barely a scratch. All it needed was a splash of alcohol to clean the wound and one or two stitches. He'd done worse by hand after Haven fell when they were short on everything. But he wasn't just anyone now, and people with fancy titles got the best medical treatment whether they asked for it or not.

Cullen's free hand draped down off his lap to skim over Honor's head. Apparently, she'd stood guard over his body all but shoving aside anyone who'd dare to hurt him. In truth, Cullen was surprised he didn't wake to her sloe eyes shoved in his face as Honor perched upon his chest. For being a great war hound, she seemed to be under the impression her true calling was as a lap dog.

"All right," the healer snipped off the end of her linen. Cullen was grateful that was over, his arm was padded enough it could probably take a mabari bite without feeling anything. Pushing her scissors into an apron pocket, she smiled, "I think one more roll should do it."

"NO!" he cried, then dropped his voice, "no, it's quite all right. I'm good. Thank you."

"Hm," the woman pursed her lips. Despite having the constitution of an elderly woman she looked at most fifty, her face only puckered around the eyes and mouth. "You were out for awhile there. Can you feel any damage done to your brain?" She knocked a finger against his skull as if flicking a fly. Instinctively, Cullen snagged her hand in his, earning him a glower. More of that shame kicked up in his gut, and he slowly lowered her fingers away from him as he sat up.

"If there was any, how would I know?" he said sliding his feet to the floor. Someone took the time to yank his boots off while he was under.

"Word is there were blood mages about," the woman said while fishing some other tincture out of her apron, "Did you feel any of them poking around in your mind?"

Trying to not flinch, Cullen didn't ruminate upon her words. This was not the place nor the person he'd want to remember his traumatic past with. Instead, he rolled an eye over to her jostling a bottle free of her apron, "That has no effect."

"Nonsense. Elder Jessup's Legendary Tonic," she read off the label as if he couldn't see it in its magnificent sized font stretching around the amber glass. "It'll cure any blood mage taint right out of you."

He'd heard that bandied about before, in particular during and after the blight. In that case, that magical elixir was supposed to cure anyone of the darkspawn taint. After Kirkwall fell, it transformed overnight into the only way to free yourself from a blood mage's control. And when that wasn't your greatest concern it also acted as a baldness and impotence cure. The most versatile potion in all of thedas. Cullen would often load crates of the damn things into the trebuchets to calibrate them. Lies did no one any good, certainly not against blight or blood mages.

Shoving aside her offered hand as gently as a breeze, Cullen smiled, "There were no blood mages in attendance." The woman looked about to argue, so certain she was with her information, when he threw down his cards, "I was a templar, after all. I know a blood mage when I see one."