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She could still smell the smoke and ash, the stench of charred skin and burnt hair clinging to her like a second set of robes. Another brief stop so she could turn around and look—she was unable to look over her shoulder—revealed the still smoldering remains of Haven higher atop the mountainside, the darkening sky awash with the light of crumbling embers. Anger burned in her breast like a smoldering coal and she cursed Corypheus’ name as she turned and continued to trudge through the snow.
Not for the first time, Brænna wished she had donned something warmer, something more appropriate than the robes she had hastily pulled on over her tunic and pants. The wind bit through the light, damp material, sending chills through her slender frame and making a mess of her hair. She could not even push the strands from her eyes, as she was unable to lift her right arm without excruciating pain—thanks to being thrown against her own trebuchet, and her broken left wrist—a truly ironic wound, considering her elvhen heritage and supposed agility—hurt far too much to constantly shove her hair from her face, so she resorted to occasionally tilting her head, though this sent blinding pain arcing up and down her neck, or, far more preferable, spitting the offending strands from her mouth.
“Should’ve cut it short again,” she muttered, continuing her weary march through the snow.
Should’ve done a lot of things, she thought peevishly, and winced as she mis-stepped, nearly falling and sending a jolt to every broken bone and growing bruise. Should’ve moved faster. Should’ve saved one of those lyium potions. Should’ve expected this attack from Corypheus. Should’ve tried harder to save—
Brænna cut herself off with a slow breath, forcing one foot in front of the other, forcing away the sound of panicked shouts and agonizing screams as Haven burned and fell to pieces around her and she could not work fast enough and her lungs were burning and her skin felt as though it were blistering and—
“Should’ve told Keeper Deshanna to go to the Conclave herself,” she mumbled. “Should’ve told Cassandra and the Nightingale to find someone else. Should’ve asked the Commander to leave behind his stupid, ridiculous mantle so at the least I wouldn’t freeze to death.”
Pausing, she peered ahead into the gathering gloom, trying to see what had caught her attention. The wind shifted and the snow blew in a different direction and she saw it: the remains of a campfire beneath the cover of some trees.
She quickened her pace, ignoring the sharp pain in her side as her ribs—cracked or bruised, who could tell—protested. Falling to her knees, she reached out with her right hand and closed her fingers around the coals, finding them just as cold as the snow beneath her.
With a curse, she flung the coals aside, grunting as a fresh wave of pain bloomed in her shoulder and spread to her fingertips. She dared to probe her collarbone with her left hand, her brow furrowing as she felt the obvious break in her clavicle, fingertips dancing over the odd lump beneath her skin. Another curse left her lips and she forced herself to her feet, swaying for a moment before she continued off into the storm.
As dusk deepened, she felt the first pang of fear. She had been walking for miles now, with no trace of the others, and she could feel her strength being leeched away with each step and each minute spent in the cold.
Haven was nothing more than tiny pinpricks of light and tall, twisting trails of smoke the next time she turned to look behind her. Night was almost upon her, the first of the stars glimmering between a thin layer of clouds. The howl of a wolf, and not the first she had heard, echoed atop the mountains as she turned and continued on.
The wind and a fresh layer of snow quickly covered the meandering trail she made, her steps slowing more and more as time went on. She blinked slowly, ducking her head as a gust of wind buffeted her, blowing snowflakes and small pieces of ice against her face. Her whole body ached, her lungs burned with each inhale, and her legs trembled as the ground beneath her began to rise upward in a steady incline. But she pushed herself to keep moving, pressing her arms to her sides as close as she could, ignoring the pain in an effort to conserve as much heat as possible.
Her head drooped, her hair falling over her eyes once more, and she would have missed the next campfire if she had not stumbled and fallen into the snow. Grunting softly as a fresh wave of pain shot up her left arm as she tried to catch herself—her right arm did not respond—she looked up and gasped.
“Embers?” she murmured, crawling forward as best she could. Unheeding of the pain in her wrist, she reached out and closed her fingers in the remaining coals, a broken sob leaving her cracked lips. “Recent,” she said, the word a prayer of thanksgiving.
Looking around, she finally noticed the large rocks surrounding the temporary campsite, sheltering the small, tamped-out fire. As the wind howled around her, muddling the howling of the wolves, she huddled against the closest rock, nearly sitting in what remained of the fire, drawing as much heat from the embers as she could. Every ounce of her screamed for rest, just a moment of rest, and she could feel her resolve fading.
I’m running out of strength, she finally admitted to herself, hiding her stiff fingers within the cuffs of her sleeves. Perhaps, if I sleep, Solas will find me in my dreams again, she thought with a chuckle, her spirits lifted for a moment as she remembered all their talks. He was by far, the most interesting man she had ever met in all her short years.
Brænna jerked upright with a gasp, fear tracing cold fingers down her spine as she realized she had almost fallen asleep. Using the rock as a brace, she forced herself back to her feet, disregarding the brittle pain and cold, and continued walking once more. Another wolf howled, sounding nearer now, and for some reason, she took comfort in the sound.
By now, she was breathing heavily, her teeth chattering so hard it made her jaw ache, but she continued up the mountain, each step slower than the last. The light was completely gone now, the night a dark shroud of grey that seemed to close in on her. The snow was deeper here, nearly up to her knees. Each mournful wolf cry seemed to come sooner, sounded closer, and for some reason, this bolstered her, gave her the strength to continue.
At last her path led downward and between two natural rock walls, the wind fading as she came between them. In the distance, she could see what appeared to be campfires, but she was so tired, so weary, she assumed it was merely a hallucination, a kind trick that her brain had fabricated.
“There! It’s her!” Cullen’s voice echoed strangely as she fell to her knees. The snow felt oh-so-lovely on her burning cheek and forehead, but before she could fully appreciate the chill against her fevered and swollen skin, strong hands were pulling her up.
“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra said somewhere above her.
Brænna tried to speak, shivering and clutching at a familiar fur mantle, but her strength was gone and she sank gratefully into the darkness as she was lifted up and borne away, slipping into dreams to the joyful yipping of wolves.