Work Text:
The Inquisitor pants, chest heaving and arm on fire. The Qun invasion is thwarted, for now. Elle sweeps her hair out of the way and puts her staff on her back. Dorian mimics the movement, though with more energy and flourish, and Bull wipes down his giant battleaxe with an enemy's torn cloak. Cole haunts behind them, as always, listening and waiting.
Halfway up the steps to the next clearing, Elle feels the mark filling with energy, as though the Fade is pouring its vast and endless power into her. A sickly green light bleeds into the waking world, barely contained. The pain-tingles shoot from hand to head and gives her a migraine. Elle grits her teeth, unwilling to relent to its power.
Maker, but she's tired. She fights it for as long as she's able, busying herself by stroking the gold ring on her marked hand. Elle wonders what Cullen would think of this power if he could see her now. Would he still believe it came from the Maker? She used to believe she was the Maker's chosen, that Andraste herself had given her this gift. But after their impromptu excursion into the Fade, her faith was shaken.
Maybe the Maker really has forsaken us.
As if to punish that thought, the mark begins to erupt. The power strains and pushes against her willpower, but she holds it at bay just long enough to shout for her companions to stay back. Dorian moves closer, reaching a hand to assist, but Bull quickly loops an arm around his waist and pulls him out of reach. Cole watches sympathetically from a safe distance. The pain sends her to her knees, forcing her to bow to the most holy, most vile of gifts.
The mark's power bursts, searing all around and within. She shouts through the pain, glancing up to make sure her companions weren't caught in the blaze. Elle feels green fire lapping at her skin, burning and purifying her.
If this is anything close to what Andraste felt, the mark must be very holy indeed.
"What You have created, no one can tear asunder," Elle chants through the pain, attempting to keep her mind off it.
The power abates--for now--and Elle rises to her feet: their infallible Inquisitor. If her companions saw any tears streaming down her face, they're kind enough to ignore it. Even Cole is unusually quiet in the wake of her inner turmoil. She manages a weak smile and leads them to a lone eluvian at the top of a small clearing. No turning back now: she knows what must be done.
There may have been an audience, but Andraste burned alone.
"Well, my companions," Elle begins, too used to the professional way of speaking she's adopted in the last two years. She shakes her head, smiling and corrects herself. "My friends. It appears this is where we part ways."
Bull nods. Elle's made up her mind and he won't insult her by arguing. Elle is one of the few people whose word he trusts implicitly: just Elle and the Chargers. Hell, if she hadn't made the order to save the Chargers, there's a good chance Bull would've been the one mounting the current assault on the Inquisition. Meanwhile, Dorian contends immediately.
"Inquisitor, we've followed you this far. I should think we deserve to see this through to the end!" Dorian feigns his outrage, hurt plain on his face. It's more than curiosity that spurs him on. He vowed to follow her this last time and he will: consequences be damned.
Inquisitor Elle smiles and in that moment, Dorian can see how the southerners can draw parallels to the Maker's bride herself. Her smile is both tired and strong. It is fierce and loving. She smiles in spite of knowing there's most likely a burning stake on the other side of that eluvian.
"Magister Dorian Pavus: the mage who invented time magic. The Tevinter mage who refused to drink from Well of Sorrows. You are my friend." Elle takes a deep breath, attempting to put the next part of her speech lightly. "And if this goes any further south, I need you to be my own Hessarian. The world seems determined to relive Andraste's death and if I have to burn, I accept it. But I need you waiting in the wings to plunge the sword through my chest and end my suffering. Can you do that for me?"
Dorian cringes at the analogy but nods nonetheless. He squares his shoulders, standing straight and extends his hand formally. Elle takes it gratefully, pulling the other mage in for a tight hug. Dorian's throat is tight, but he holds it together. If she can face death with courage, he can afford a little bravery as well.
"Cole," she begins, and the spirit appears to her left. He squats and inspects the mark quietly. She kneels to be at eye-level and lays a hand gently on his shoulder. She smiles fondly, remembering when they first met. The spirit offered help--in her own head, no less--and together they thwarted an Envy demon. Cole smiles, hearing the memories.
If this really is to be her last moments, she makes a small wish: that Cole will help her spirit still, even after death. If Divine Justinia is anything to go by, the Fade is none too kind to spirits of the just. Elle feels that frankly, she's been through too many trials for one lifetime. Once she passes, she wants only to rest.
"Hearing, helping, haunting. I will always be here," the spirit reassures Elle.
"Thank you, Cole," she whispers and squeezes his shoulder affectionately before standing.
The Inquisitor--their Inquisitor--walks through the eluvian. Elle pauses for just a moment to turn and give her friends a reassuring smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. The glass of the mirror parts like water before immediately solidifying behind her.
Bull suppresses the urge to shiver. He knows how strange the mirrors feel while traversing them and he's a little ashamed at how grateful he is to avoid going through again. He glances over to his companions and notices Cole looking at him sideways: the spirit sensing the shift in his emotions. The shame nearly knocks the wind out of him. Cole nods reassuringly and holds his tongue, for once.
"This is a trap." Dorian examines the eluvian, his hands restless as they explore the mirror. His speech gains momentum and by the end, he's practically shouting. "We just let the Inquisition's most powerful ally gallumph through a portal to Maker-knows-where as if it were a stroll through the woods."
After two years in Tevinter, it doesn't take much for Dorian to slip into his native tongue. The mage dissolves into colorful Tevene filled with spit and fire that The Iron Bull only recognizes from years of traveling with Krem. Bull nods his head gravely, a cadence of his own curses streaming through his head. It would be too easy to ambush Elle at the other end of the portal. He busies himself by listing the ways it could go wrong one by one. Cole perks up a little, listening.
"A sword swinging. Wards erupting like gaatlok as she steps. The razor wire wound tight, like nerves, both left raw and bloody--"
"Enough of that," Bull mutters, looking embarrassed: old habits still resurfacing under stress no matter how many years ago he was declared Tal'Vashoth. Dorian sneaks a concerned look at his lover, watching his large hands clench and let go. Satisfied that he's under control, the mage goes back to his own coping mechanism in the lack of proper alcohol: magical study.
Dorian runs his hands over the eluvian frame. The comforting tingle of his own magic crackles and pops when it meets the ancient wards woven into the metal. It feels strangely familiar, as all ancient elvhen magic has felt and it makes his blood boil. Once again, Tevinter's history of conquest makes itself known. His country had docked the ears off elvhen art and artifacts ages ago. Why shouldn’t they have stolen the elves' arcane knowledge as well?
Dorian huffs. Unable to learn anything more from the mirror, he leans against the glass--unyielding to anyone but the Inquisitor--in hopes that no one will notice how nervous he is. Though, from how Cole seems to perk up whenever a particularly dark thought tugs at his mind, that seems unlikely.
___
Their wait spans half an hour before anything happens. All at once, the unyielding glass compromises like liquid and sends Dorian falling through with a shout. Sprawled on the ground, Dorian curses loud enough for Bull and Cole to hear on the other side. Glancing up, he enters just as Solas is exiting through a far eluvian, the Inquisitor crumpling to the ground in a heap.
"I am truly sorry, my friend," Solas says, tone regretful. He begins to walk through the eluvian, sparing a backwards glace. He notices Dorian, but offers no explanations. He pauses for a moment, thinking it over before speaking. "Dorian, you should hurry. I put her to sleep to ease the pain. It was…not as easy as I had hoped."
"Solas! What have you done?" Dorian shouts, scrambling to his feet. He slides to his knees when he reaches the Inquisitor, noticing with panic her state of unconsciousness and the ever-growing pool of blood beneath her.
"Get back here and fix this, traitor!" Dorian shouts, cradling Elle's head in his lap, wishing desperately that he had invested more time in extensive healing spells. He does what he can, sending blue tendrils down her shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding. Solas cringes at the label and passes through the eluvian.
Dorian's magic flares dangerously high: purple and black tendrils surrounding him in necromatic energy. Focusing with his father's ring, he sends a wave of death towards the eluvian. It meets the mirror and disperses into harmless smoke.
"She was your friend!" The mage shouts knowing Solas can hear, wherever he may be. "We trusted you, damn it all!" Dorian continues to shout until Bull places a hand on his shoulder. Dorian looks up with glassy eyes at Bull.
"She knew, didn't she? She knew this would happen, and so did we and we let her anyway. Amatus, I--"
"Hush, kadan," Bull says gently, looking over Elle's wounds. "Can you help her?"
"Not until she's dead," Dorian scoffs, almost disgusted with himself. "I'm a necromancer, not a healer. My knowledge of healing spells is not nearly sufficient for what she needs."
"Sorry, boss," Bull starts. He gently tugs a bit of Elle's cape out from under her and tears off a thick length, then rips it in half. He wraps one end around the damaged arm and the other around a stick, twisting until it's tight above her elbow. He quickly loops another one closer to the wound, thankful that the damn mark is gone along with most of her hand.
"Mage marked by the Maker. Swinging, swooping attacks: she will never wield a staff again," Cole recites.
Bull cringes, embarrassed that his first thought was her ability to fight after this. He gently picks up the Inquisitor, her body so small in his giant frame. Elle's injured arm spills from Bull's grasp, all raw meat and missing pieces. Cole appears and brushes hair out of her face tenderly.
"Mangled, marred, married. Maker… What will Cullen think?" Cole continues. Dorian holds a hand to his own mouth, as if he was the one speaking aloud.
"Solace first, then Pride. The wolf takes another victim. I am sorry, my friend--"
"Enough, Cole," Dorian snaps, unwilling to hear hollow apologies whispered through a third party. "We can get her to the eluvian at the Winter Palace. Make sure the healers are ready for her."
Cole--more spirit than human with every passing day--blinks out of the clearing and into Leliana's makeshift base of operations. He sees no one, but knows there are at least three sets of eyes watching him.
"Inquisitor is mauled, needs mending. Healers, hurry!" Cole speaks as clearly as he can into the empty air, waiting a moment to hear the agents scurrying out of sight. One to the Nightingale, one to the healers, the other…slipping through the glass, passing whispers to the wolf--
The trail severs: a closed door cutting Cole out. Not his business, not now. He slips out of sight and reappears in the middle of the Winter Palace's courtyard.
Cole finds Commander Cullen training his new mabari. Muscles tense with suspense, the fabric of his fitted jacket stressing at the seams. His proud smile towards his mabari is too tight with anxiety. His soul, though… His soul is stretching out in bright, wispy tendrils; searching for a sign of its other half desperately.
The mabari notices Cole immediately, licking his nose and sneezing at the residual magic from the spirit's appearance in the air. Cullen notices next, rising to his feet with his sword arm going for a weapon he isn't allowed to carry within the walls of the Winter Palace. It drops and clenches to his side. His mouth makes to form her name, but Cole beats him to it.
"Elle. She's home, harmed, hurt…Hurry! She needs you." Cole stays visible a moment longer to make sure the message was received.
Thoughts catching up to body, Cullen's face ages before the spirit's eyes. His mouth slackens in surprise for a moment before clenching shut: emotion and panic tamped down obediently. Cole watches the ex-Templar's expression grow tight, eyebrows sorrowful, nose flared. Cullen is terrified, but ready to weather the storm.
But then Cole watches the man's soul carefully: the image superimposed over reality. It lashes out in anger, regret…and anguish. The bright halo of faith around his spirit flickers a moment before returning, muted. What was once too-bright and highly polished is now as dull as scorched metal. An echo of a pained shout fights its way through the Fade to cause a ringing just this side of painful in Cullen's ears.
'How can she be hurt if I prayed so dutifully to keep her safe?' It wails. 'Where is the Maker, if not with her?'
Cole reaches out, not to the man but to the soul, and begins knitting the worn edges together with truth.
'Dedication, desire. She chose this life: rescuing everyone, and you. You have a chance to save her back.'
Cullen takes a shaky breath to steady his senses, which usually go haywire around magic and spirits. He's never at ease when this boy is around him, but a sense of calm touches him gently. It's a drop of water on a forest fire, but somehow it quells the panic sufficiently enough for him to speak.
"Where?" Cullen's voice is hoarse to his own ears and the one word is all he can manage.
"West wing dining hall," Cole informs him before blinking away.
Cullen wastes no time. Clicking his tongue, he summons the mabari to his side, a little proud at how quickly the beasts obeys. He moves with a purpose usually only seen on a battlefield. His shoulders square and his demeanor demands the crowd to part, his eyes fierce and single-minded. Even the usual aristocrats who titter on about his looks part his way with small gasps and eyes lowered in submission.
The Commander's soldiers--knowing nothing--stare questioningly after their commander: their murmur of confusion blending in with the constant gossip of the Winter Palace.
The Nightingale's spies--knowing everything--look on in silent pity.
Ascending the main steps, Cullen's dress shoes squeak and slip on the wet marble. Looking down in annoyance, he finds a small, but persistent trail of wine leading from a storage hall. Scoffing in distaste, he moves to continue when the smell hits him. His heart stops, wrenching in agony.
He reels. Not wine, blood. Her blood, he can feel it in his bones. While it's not a lot, she's never been hurt this seriously before. She would never risk causing a scene such as bleeding across the Winter Palace if she could help it.
Cullen's eyes are led by the trail, ending in a larger pile at the palace gates where the party was most likely questioned before entering. The sun hits the small puddle and sends a bright reflection back to his eyes. His body already knows what it is as his mind struggles to put the pieces together. Cullen tastes bile and the acid eats away at the back of his throat. He examines closer, torn between realization and horror. A small mound of flesh lies in the middle of the puddle and on it: a gold wedding band.
All at once, he's back in the Circle, being endlessly tortured by abominations that wear the skin of his charges like ill-fitting coats. The Templar armor burns a ring around his neck and the heat makes him gasp for fresh air. His brothers are long dead but they're still screaming in his ears and it's almost enough to drown out the laughter. 'Too late, little Templar. Much too late--' Tears sizzle out nearly as fast as they're shed: the magic-fueled inferno too hot to allow their existence. The cage that imprisons him crackles and boils the blood at his feet.
'Elle has felled many demons in her crusade against the Breach,' Cullen rationalizes proudly, trying to pull himself from the memory. 'She would not fall to lesser demons, as I had.
'You promised to love me the rest of your days,' it taunts, voice twisting. Cullen feels his stomach drop. Her delicate voice he so recently heard reciting vows to him distorts. The usual brightness drains from it until it sounds like a dry husk. His throat burns as it's choked by ash and fear.
The mabari whines at his side and the sound is enough to ground the commander, for now. He places a shaking hand on the beast's massive head and allows himself a single moment to compose himself. His thumb brushes the gold band around his own wedding ring while placing Elle's bloody one in his pocket and he takes a deep, shaky breath.
Cullen follows the blood-splashed marble, knowing it will lead him truer than any directions the palace guards could offer him.
Inside the palace, the blood trail persists through the hallways, seeping into expensive carpets, and staining the rags of the servants who were already dispatched to clean it. Cullen can tell he's getting closer as the metallic tang of blood surrounds him and he begins to hear low, urgent voices. His legs move on their own, walking faster until Commander and mabari are sprinting towards the sounds.
___
Thankfully, the party meets no resistance as they traverse the eluvians. Bull carries Elle through mirror after mirror with Dorian sprinting ahead to lead them through the correct path. A few times they were lost, only to have Cole suddenly appear to guide them before vanishing again.
"Damn it all, I could have sworn this was the correct one!" Dorian curses, lost again in the maze. Across the gap, Cole appears in a cloud of smoke and quickly carves symbols next to the correct mirrors. He marks three before appearing before Dorian and Bull.
"Through here, then left," Cole tells the mage urgently. He's about to disappear again when Dorian grabs his arm.
"Why do you keep leaving? If you know the way, should lead us there!" Dorian explains, exasperated and out of breath.
"I promised to help," Cole explains vaguely. "The Inquisitor isn't bright anymore. I can't find her as easily."
Cole disappears as usual, leaving Bull and Dorian with more questions than answers. The pair make their way to the entry point and burst through the final eluvian, startling the guards on the other side. They go to draw their swords and stop short, gaping at the injured Inquisitor in Bull's arms. The Iron Bull stands to his full height, towering over the guards dangerously.
"You will not say a word of this to anyone," Bull orders. The guards look unsure and nod hesitantly. Bull looks at them, skeptical.
"Cole?" The qunari calls to the open air, confusing the guards.
Cole appears dutifully, startling the men into drawing their swords. With a wave of his hand, their expressions blank. Swords are re-sheathed and they stand ready at their post, staring at nothing.
"Good job. Do that to everyone who sees us walk into the palace, alright kid?" Cole nods, following behind Bull and Dorian as they create a path to the gated entrance. The spirit appears and disappears in puffs of smoke and little whispered words of 'forget'.
Bull reaches the top of the stairs and shifts Elle's weight carefully to get a better grip on her. Blood splashes the polished marble as a bit of Elle's blown-out hand falls to the ground, unnoticed. They sprint through the halls, following Leliana's agents as they point the way.
Their journey ends at the west dining hall where agents and healers have cleared the long varnished table and covered it in sheets. Healers stand by: one already crackling with magic while others carry buckets of hot water and bandages. The few agents that followed the group inside disperse, leaving only one for Leliana's personal use. The Nightingale herself steps away from the cold fireplace and makes her presence known.
"Tell me what happened," Leliana commands.
"Solas," Dorian spits like a curse, moving to assist the healers. Leliana nods, turning to Bull for a more detailed report.
"Looks like the anchor was ripped from her hand. Bits are still there, but she was bleeding pretty steadily. There's two tourniquets: one above her elbow and one below, where the wounds stop. She also may have been put in a magical sleep," Bull reports clinically, refusing to allow emotion to seep into his voice. Is he pissed at that knife-eared bastard? Sure. Does he want a chance to tear his weak arms off? Absolutely. But that won't help her now, so he puts a lid on it.
Bull gently places the Inquisitor on the table and is glad to see her bleeding stopped and the tourniquets weren't loosened. He's grateful no one gasped or fainted when her wound was uncovered. Knowing Leliana, she probably gathered the most battle-hardened medics she could. Always thinking twelve steps ahead. If she were Qun, she would've dismantled the Ben-Hassrath just to run it herself.
The healers get to work quickly, debating while they cleanse the wound about how much of her arm they could save. The Inquisitor's hand is half-gone with ragged skin and burns crawling all the way up her elbow. Blackened and torn, the decision is made. One medic pops the lowest tourniquet while the other uses a piece of charcoal to mark above her elbow, just under the second tourniquet. When a third healer brings out a saw, Dorian and Bull grimace.
With two medics holding her down in case she wakens, one dedicated to constant healing magic, and one with a saw, the medics get to work. The smell of old blood is replaced with new as flesh gives way to metal. Dorian stands close enough to help, if they need him. Their work is far from silent: tense words and orders for tools fill the smaller dining hall until there's a constant lull of voices.
"Cullen should be here," Bull says from his post at the door. His arms are crossed, still sticky with the Inquisitor's blood. He wasn't offered a rag and wouldn't accept one anyway. The healers have enough on their minds.
"No one should be here except the healers, let alone lovers," Leliana tells them seriously. She turns to her agent in the shadowy back corner of the room and orders, "Keep everyone away from this room and don't let word reach Cullen yet."
"That's his wife bleeding on the table," Dorian asserts from the table. "Cullen has every bloody right to be here. More than we do, surely." Cole appears next to Dorian, nodding emphatically.
"Yes, I think so too. Don't worry," Cole tells the room, startling the healers who aren't used to his sudden appearances. "I fetched him for you."
At that, the door bursts open, Cullen panting and looking wild-eyed around the room. Bull catches the door, preventing it from slamming in his face. The qunari looks unfazed and had heard the commander coming from halfway across the palace. Bull holds the door, looking smugly at Leliana, but saying nothing. Shortly after, a mabari enters and sniffs the air curiously before sitting obediently next to Bull.
"Where--?" Cullen almost misses her, the red tablecloth blending with the rest of the color scheme. The once-white sheet is splashed with gore and he sees her discarded, ravaged arm on the floor. The room sways, but he catches himself. The smell of blood is inescapable and he unsteadily makes his way to the table.
"For the love of…Commander, you cannot be in here," Leliana tells him seriously. She crosses the room in a few strides and places a hand on the commander's arm. "She needs to be stable before anyone is allowed near her."
"Oh, I disagree, Spymaster. I have every right to be in this room," Cullen shouts, anger rising over terror. He wrenches his arm out of her grasp. "I had to find out through a spirit that my wife was injured and as Commander, I am allowed to do whatever I please!"
The room freezes over at his commanding tone, unsure if Leliana will take the abuse or if things will get physical. The mabari growls low in warning. The Iron Bull wouldn't mind watching it play out. Although, he would rather not add "knocked-your-husband-unconscious" to the list of explanations he would be giving Elle when she woke up without an arm. Dorian, meanwhile, is far too close to the two, should they start fighting. He's also feeling a particularly uncomfortable urge to tell the feared and respected Seneschal of the Inquisition 'I bloody told you so'.
Leliana looks as though she will fight him on this--physically if she must--but seems to relent with difficulty. She steps out of the way and sits in a nearby chair, head in her hand. She calls her agent to her and murmurs orders to keep as many people away from here as possible.
"Cole, what in Maker's name possessed you to bring him here?" Leliana asks, enervated.
"The anchor is gone, she needs a new one," the spirit glances at Cullen. "The anchor was too bright. She can't find home without one."
"Wait." Cullen makes to step towards the table, but Cole's words stop him. "What do you mean, 'she can't find home'?"
"Fated, faded. She's asleep, but dreaming. I tried leading but she can't see me well enough to follow. She needs someone brighter but quiet. Lionheart, lion's head. A coin and a kiss at her neck," Cole moves closer to Cullen, much to his unease. Cole lays a hand over his breast pocket and feels the ring beneath. "This will do."
Cullen brings out the ring: bloody and covered in bits of her, but still shining. Just hours ago, he had slipped it on her delicate finger as they were wed and now… Cullen glances at the table, still unsure of the extent of her injuries. Cole closes the Commander's hand over the ring.
"Not yet. She'll wake and she's not done mending," Cole explains, glancing at the healers. "Soon."
Cullen nods and places the ring back in her pocket. He steels himself, standing upright and rigid with tension as he approaches the table. The healers are still working, but he manages a small spot near Elle's head. He pets her hair away from her face, alarmed at how pale she looks.
The gore looks macabre and out of place in the Winter Palace dining hall and Cullen does his best to avoid eye contact with the arm on the floor. Luckily, he arrived after the amputation and the healers were just about finished stitching her back up. He refuses to look away, determined to watch every cut and stitch.
If she must endure this, so must he.
The medics work around him, unwilling to disturb the distressed commander. The final stitch in place, they wrap clean bandages around the wound and clean as much blood from her skin as they can. The mage-healer's power is all but spent, but she manages one last healing spell over the Inquisitor before she swoons. Soon after, the healers all leave the room with as many soiled bandages as they can carry.
The saw remains, forgotten in the low light and covered in her drying blood. Cullen's throat constricts when he looks at it, so he gingerly nudges it as far away from Elle as possible without getting up and leaving her. His foot nudges the arm as he does so and his stomach heaves. Years of rough battles and Templar discipline keeps his body under control. Cullen quickly retracts his foot from the appendage.
Leliana stands, finally able to relax now that the Inquisitor is stable. She thinks better of saying anything to Cullen, knowing he'll need more time to balance his emotions. In spite of their mutual religious beliefs, Leliana knows that neither of them will apologize with words. She gathers an abandoned, blood-splashed sheet and gently picks up the Inquisitor's discarded arm. As she slips away, Bull gives a respectful nod. She tries to smile but ends up looking drained. Leliana makes her exit, the door closing silently behind her.
The healers out of the way, Cullen moves closer to Elle and pulls up a chair on the side of her wound. He gently pets her shoulder, glad that most of the blood is drying and the smell is dissipating. Examining her face, he sees no pain, no suffering. If her hair wasn't tacky with blood and dirt, she could be sleeping peacefully next to him in her bed.
"Tell me," Cullen says roughly. It was supposed to be assertive, but comes out pleading.
Bull had already given his sterile report to Leliana, so he nods to his lover to fill in the Commander. Dorian steps toward Cullen, then falters. No one likes to relay bad news, after all, especially to loved ones. Cullen waits, becoming more uneasy the more Dorian stalls. The mage steels himself by knowing that Elle trusted him with her life. This is the least he can do for her.
"The anchor," Dorian begins hesitantly, unsure of how much Cullen has been told. "You know it's been getting worse, at least."
"Yes," Cullen nods sadly. "Before she left, she was briefing us--her advisors--and it had flared up. She knew there wasn't much time left." He moves to hold her hand, forgetting for a moment that it isn't there. His face looks so weary as his hand clenches where hers should be, tight enough to hear the seams stress on his gloves.
"Her control over it disintegrated," Dorian informs him gravely. "The deeper we went into the eluvians, the more often and more powerful the flare ups became-"
"She used it to her advantage until the end," Bull cuts in, wanting Cullen to know the side of her he rarely got to see stuck behind a desk. "She figured out how to direct it and used the energy overflow to attack."
Cullen's smile is broken as he remembers Haven and the powerful magic she slung at the incoming army of red Templars. He recalls the march to the Temple of Mythal and the rare, fleeting moment he was able to fight side-by-side with her.
"Yes, but it was more than that," Dorian chides, more than willing to explain the magical theory. "The anchor seemed to be opening small rifts every time it detonated. Elle found a way to transport us to the Fade for an instant. It was just enough time for us to avoid being damaged by the anchor."
Cullen relives the attack on Haven in his mind. Elle was willing to bury herself in an avalanche to buy the civilians enough time to escape. He marched away, knowing for certain that this beautiful, powerful mage he believed could save them all…was dead. He can still feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots when he sprinted to her, collapsed in the snow but somehow, miraculously, alive.
"Near the end, she couldn't control it. It burned everything. She wouldn't let us near her," Bull tells Cullen gravely, remembering her screams from the center of the small explosions: a hurricane of green flames eager to devour. He glances at Dorian, uncertain of how he would feel if his lover were caught in some inescapable spell. Pissed. Scared. Helpless.
Cullen had watched from a nearby battlement as Elle dove through a portal directly into the Fade. The anxiety and fear of expecting an abomination to return--if she ever did. Then elation as Elle tumbled out of another rift and tearfully berated the Wardens while mourning the death of a great man. Cullen wouldn't have cared if the dragon had taken every Warden at Adamant, so long as she lived. But she survived. She survived, thank the Maker.
"Elle went through an eluvian and didn't allow us to follow," Dorian begins again, shaking in resentment. "She knew he'd be on the other side. She knew Solas-"
"Solas?" Cullen asks dangerously. His head turns sharply to Dorian, his face twisting from exhaustion to rage. "He's behind this?"
Even Bull flinches when Cullen throws an expensive, ornate chair across the dining hall. It splinters and leaves a dent as it hits the wall. The mabari growls, unsure of who is causing the pain to Cullen but more than willing to fight it. The outburst consumes what little energy he has left. The drained Commander sags into his chair once more: head in his hands, fingers pulling at his own hair.
"How?" Cullen's voice is muffled by his hands, but it distinctly cracks. Dorian shuffles uncomfortably, unwilling to admit that he doesn't know.
"We don't know," Bull speaks up and Dorian looks deeply relieved. "Dorian saw her hit the ground and Solas left through another eluvian. From what we can gather, he ripped the anchor from her hand and put her to sleep. With his constant interest in the anchor and his mysterious disappearance after Corypheus went down, it's safe to assume this was his goal from the start."
Cullen hears the explanation and it falls short. Elle formed a deep bond with all of her companions, but the mages were special to her. They used to spend hours training together and comparing notes. Magical theory and inventive magics, dreaming and walking through the Fade… Dorian and Solas understood things about Elle's power that Cullen never could. Though Cullen was also busy with his own work, he oftentimes found himself jealous of the endless hours they got to spend with her.
Setting his own emotions aside, he tries to imagine how Elle feels right now. Solas was her friend, and he deceived her. The pain from her wound might be less intense than the betrayal of a close friend. Elle has always been a beacon of strength for everyone she meets, but Cullen knows he needs to be strong for her this time.
Cole makes himself known next to Cullen, laying a gentle hand on the Commander's shoulder. Cullen flinches slightly, looking up at the spirit.
"It's close. She reaches across but can't see. You must be bright for her," Cole tells Cullen.
Cullen takes the ring from his breast pocket, polishing it on the hem of his jacket. He slides it onto Elle's right hand ring finger with a small prayer to himself. Maker, let this work. He steps back, expecting a miracle.
"Now what?" Cullen asks softly.
"We wait for her to find it," he explains. The spirit vanishes while Dorian and Bull slip out of the room to give him privacy, leaving the Commander alone with his Inquisitor
___
Hours pass and night falls. While Cullen can't bring himself to sleep, he is assaulted by dark thoughts. What if she never wakes up? Will she be lost in the Fade forever? Worse still, what happens if she does wake up? The mabari sleeps on his feet, warming them in place of the dark, unlit fireplace.
Elle's brow furrows and she brings a hand up to rub at her eyes, but can't. She stares into the empty space above her and realizes her arm ends too soon. She stares where she knows her hand should be, but isn't. The smell of blood assaults her senses and she's back in the eluvian, pleading with her friend to spare the world.
'It's gone,' she thinks. Her eyes tear up with emotion stuck between sorrow and relief.
Cullen sits up immediately, his face haggard from staying awake all night. Warm hands brush away her tears as she quietly sobs. Cullen's eyes tear up as well, unable to bear seeing her so broken. He hides it well by setting his forehead against hers until they can't cry anymore.
"He's a god." Elle's whisper is raspy. "Solas is one of the Evanuris. The Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel."
Cullen thought he couldn't be surprised by anything, anymore. Maker, how naïve he has been.
"The Veil is his creation," she continues toneless. "He put it up to imprison the Evanuris. Solas…he thinks it was a mistake. He wants to take it down. I've been assured the event will destroy the world. I tried to stop him…" She stops herself, shaking her head.
"Maker of the World, forgive them," she chants, unsure of whether she's asking for forgiveness for the world or…Elle changes the canticle enough to include Solas. "He has lived too long in shadow without Your Light to guide him."
"A shadow of his own making," Cullen assures her. "'Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.' Solas made his choice, though it's admirable that you defend him."
Elle sighs sadly, lifting her right hand to her face. The stares at the ring on her finger and softly smiles.
"It led me home, you know. The Fade… It's marvelous when it wants to be, Cullen. It can show you things that have been long forgotten to time: courageous battles, joyous parades. It was harder to dream before the anchor. After I gained that power, I could dream and not even notice that I was. It wasn't plagued with demons begging for pacts, it was…beautiful."
Elle thinks back to her Harrowing and how difficult it was to see the Fade as anything but terrifying. Fondly remembering the few times she's dreamed since obtaining the anchor, she smiles. She notices Cullen's pained expression, the one he always gets when she tells stories about the Fade. She sighs.
"But this time… I couldn't find my way back. The Crossroads is its own little dimension inside the Fade and I'm not sure if anyone has attempted to dream inside of it. Without the anchor, the Fade went back to how it was: frightening and wrong." Elle shudders, remembering the darkness.
"I don't really remember, but…I think some spirits tried helping me. There was a great golden bird with two names, but neither of us could remember what they were. There was a nug or a rabbit with floppy ears that tried to lead me, but he was too small and it was too dark to follow him. He came back with a giant dog that nudged me in the right direction. I kept walking until I saw this bright light. It was familiar and warm and quiet…and then I was here."
Elle holds up her hand and Cullen grasps it tight, unwilling to let her go anytime soon. He presses it against his forehead, uncertain of what he should say. The silence allows bleak thoughts to rampage through her mind. Her eyes clench shut, frustration evident.
"First, one of the original magisters who broke into the Golden City. Now, my friend: the Dread Wolf himself," Elle scoffs darkly before sighing. "How much of the Pantheon must I fight before I can rest? When am I allowed happiness?"
'Guide me through the blackest nights… Make me to rest in the warmest places,' she pleads. "I am so tired."
Something inside Cullen breaks. His anger, sadness, faith, and love all crash together. He pulls Elle's face toward him, his expression determined.
"Right now."
"What?"
"You heard me. Ancient magic, Solas, the end of the world… That is no longer your duty," Cullen tells her seriously. He presses her hand to the side of his face, closing his eyes. "After the Exalted Council, you and I are taking a long vacation. Mia has been harping me for years about meeting you, and now that we're married, it's only right that you meet your new in-laws."
"But…the Inquisition--"
"Will disband. Our time has come to an end, Elle. Better to let it die with dignity before it turns sour like the Wardens, Seekers, and Templars before us," Cullen implores. He's willing her to understand that he can't risk losing her again.
Elle retracts her hand and thinks a moment. True, she was already deliberating on disbanding the Inquisition, but it feels so sudden, so final. She can't go back to her life before, in the Circle, and with her arm missing, she certainly can't return to being the Inquisitor.
"Alright," Elle relents, feeling the tension drain from both of them. "We'll go."
Cullen sags in relief. He keeps his tone light and attempts to keep Elle's mind off of the world's problems. He tells stories about his siblings for hours, even ones she's already heard. His steady tone calms her nerves and she lets herself be swept up by his tales.
Later, once Cullen falls asleep in his chair, Elle wonders idly if Andraste would have known when to quit. Then suddenly, she realizes that burning was all Andraste had ever wanted. Andraste had prayed to be touched by fire and to sit at the Maker's side. But Elle doesn't want that. She wants warm nights with Cullen, her home filled with children. She wants an end to the wave of death and misfortune that has followed her since she stupid enough to touch that damned anchor.
Her faith may have faltered, but she has done everything that has been asked of her. When her talent made itself known, she meekly joined Ostwick Circle. When the world needed a herald, she closed the tear in the sky. When the Inquisition needed a leader, she guided them to victory, scorned corruption, and brought the Templars and Wardens under her wing for protection and guidance.
Herald, Inquisitor, noble, mage, wife, friend; she will be the sum of these titles until the day she dies. From here on out, Elle is driven to carve out a life on her own terms, with her own choices. Determined, she prays silently for a peaceful life, the safety of her husband, and the soul of her friend.
'Now her hand is raised
A sword to pierce the sun
With iron shield she defends the faithful
Let chaos be undone.'