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One raven after another flying into Haven is scarcely cause for concern; reports from Leliana and her scouts arrive at all hours, and leave the same way. But this—multiple ravens, a full unkindness of them, bearing messages and approaching together in a frenetic storm cloud of wings—
Cullen’s witnessed myriad sights, so many improbable, impossible things. He’s never seen this, and foreboding claws his throat.
They land on tents and buildings, on heads and helmets. In the distance, Solas holds his staff aloft and a raven perches on the focusing crystal. Nearby, one settles on Cassandra’s shoulder as she extends her arm for another blow on a training dummy, and she nearly drops her sword in surprise.
“What can possibly be so important—” she growls, when the bird pecks at her. It doesn’t stop until she takes the rolled parchment from its leg and opens it.
She reads it.
Reads it again, eyes frantically scanning whatever words are written there.
She pales, and looks up into Cullen’s expectant stare, and rasps, “Maker save us.”
Time freezes, for just a moment. Stunned stillness like all of Haven is holding its collective breath, and then...
Madness.
Clamor rises in the air and settles like a choking fall: The Herald is dead. The Herald has fallen.
Cullen doesn’t need to see the proof for himself.
He already knows.
There’s raised voices, wailing and screaming and shouted prayers, in their blood the Maker's will is written—
A roar rises from the grounds around him except his throat tears and his lips peel back in a snarl and it’s his roar, his voice: “Inquisition! To arms!”
He turns on his heel and tears into his tent like a man possessed (and he is, he is, Despair icing his chest and Rage burning in his gut, Fear crawling through his mind); he flings open his personal chest and shoves everything away besides the little wooden box containing his last philter.
What were the last words he ever spoke to her? What did he say?
Why didn’t I tell her?
He grabs the thing and tears the lid clean off its hinges, closing his hand around the draught.
Meaningless, foolish, waste, I should have stopped you, Maker how could you take her, Herald forgive me Herah Herah—
He tips his head back and drinks every drop.
The lyrium crackles in his throat and strength surges in his limbs; he roars again and violently hurls the box across his tent, throws the empty vial to the unforgiving ground and shatters it beneath his boot.
He breaks, and breaks, until he ceases to be man and becomes metal and blades and blood that does not weep.