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Dorian never wanted to go through anything like the fall of Haven again. He had a sneaking suspicion he might have to, and he wasn't sure he could bear it.
For all the threat, and worry, Haven had become something almost magical. An enchanted place surely? Where mercenaries, Tevinter mages, apostates, templars, circle mages and Qunari spies lived and worked together. He could close his eyes and remember the crisp winter air, sunshine sparkling on frost and ice. Powdery snow that Trevelyan loved to play in like a child. Warm cocoa cradled in his hands, the unexpected gift of seeing the dour commander smile when he'd offered to share his morning cup. The intriguing, stimulating conversations with Solas.
It had of course been terribly rustic, it frequently smelt of wet dog, courtly graces were non-existent and these southern barbarians didn't have the faintest idea how to play the political game. He'd been shunned, an object of suspicion or curiosity. So very alone and far from home.
It had been the most restful time he'd ever spent.
All those people, forging new and unexpected friendships, alliances, even romances. There had been a feeling of excitement amidst the fear, of building towards something, of being part of something.
All gone, buried under rock and snow.
The escape had been the stuff of nightmares, worse still knowing they'd left people behind. The awful freezing trek through the snow. And then, the frozen misery. Still, quiet; as everyone tried to take in the loss of all their hopes.
Dorian sat, exhausted. He’d walked with a group of apprentices, scared, young, and close to tears. Three of them were barely conscious after closing the breach and then fighting in the waves of templars attacks. His last few vials of lyrium had gone to keep them on their feet, his own mana flickering low as he tried to buffer the worst of the wind and snow from them. They’d made it into camp and been taken off by one of the lay sisters.
Dorian now sat by one of the fires they’d started, too tired to move. Looking at the ragged camp around him, he was quite frankly astounded that they’d managed so much. Josephine and Cullen between them had not only pulled their forces and associated hangers on out of Haven they’d managed to bring with them supplies, tents and essential equipment. It wasn’t much, Dorian had witnessed Cullen forcibly jetosining bales and sacks of personal possessions as people marched past, insisting that each refugee took only a small bag of their own so they could carry fuel, food or other more vital items; but it would keep them alive.
Josephine had kept it all in her head, somehow, the number of people, the amount of food they’d need, how much they could carry. Leliana had coordinated the scouts, pushing ahead, seeking the safest path. Blackwall, The Bull, and some of the templars made an odd grouping as they followed the scouts, carving a path through snow for weaker and lighter people to follow.
They'd made camp some 3 miles out of Haven. Too close, some muttered, but in the dark, in a snowstorm it had taken them over 3 hrs to get this far. It was past midnight, and many of the warriors were already half carrying the young, the old and the sick.
Dorian dragged himself to his feet and found himself a bedroll. There were just enough tents and shelters for everyone to cram into. The usual divisions mattered little on this night. He saw a mage kneeling with hands outstretched, heating water for a man still wearing templar armour to soak feet one step away from frostbite. A pious revered brother sat by the bedside of one of Leliana's scouts, a tattooed former carta smuggler with a mouth as foul as her kills, holding her hands and murmuring reassurance.
He was freezing, the only thing he wanted to do more than collapse into sleep was to find a drink. Except… he could see Cullen and Cassandra talking outside, Varric and Solas nearby. He groaned, wrapped himself in a blanket and went out.
“No-one could have survived that” Cullen was saying. His voice tore at Dorian, it was aching, almost pleading.
“I hate to say it but Curly is right” Varric said, tone as sombre as Dorian had ever heard it. "Nothing’s coming out of that alive."
“There may be others, Cullen.” Cassandra shook her head angrily, brushed aside her hair and the blood trickling down her face.
Varric passed her a rag that might have once been a handkerchief and Solas frowned. All three of them were battered, bleeding. They’d been amongst the last out of Haven. Their faces when they came, without Trevelyan, had sent horror rippling through the huddled mass. If not for Cullen Dorian thought they might still all have been there, frozen in that moment of loss. But he’d driven them on, with the flat of his sword blade in some cases, arguing, chivvying, forcing them to march to safety.
Now the Commander looked hollow, as if that driving force had left him, poured out into the people he’d saved. “We cannot risk,”
“We must.” That was.. Solas? Dorian blinked. Maybe, if Solas thought it possible…..
“Cassandra is right, there could be other survivors, Scouts and fighters who were outside the walls, you will need every man and woman you have.”
Oh so Solas didn’t think there was a chance, he was just thinking of finding others. But no that wasn't right, since when did Solas care about the general people of the inquisition? Dorian pushed down the flicker of hope, Trevelyan couldn’t have survived, it wasn’t possible. But if there were others, no-one should be lost in this blizzard.
“We can set beacons.” He said, shuffling over to them, "Send a mage with any search parties, they can lay glyphs to mark the path, keep the worst of the storm at bay.”
Solas turned and looked at him, was that a glimmer of approval?
“Darling, you are dead on your feet,” Vivienne said coolly behind him, “It is, however, a good idea. Let those mages who have not wearied themselves with the closing of the breach or fighting play their part now.”
Cullen flatly refused to order any of his soldiers out. Dorian would have hated him for it, except he could see the way it tore at the man, see his face when fully half of them volunteered anyway, the fear of losing yet more men and women.
Cassandra refused most of them, she took only the strongest, and Dorian soon realised, those with no ties, no families to care for in the camp. Three groups went out in the end. Two set to scout the closer path for any that had fallen behind. Vivienne went with one group. They'd agreed on small patrols, 3 or 4 people, one mage per group. Dorian tried to volunteer himself for the second group only to find Bulls heavy hand on his shoulder and another mage taking his place. “Stay down, sparkler.” Bull rumbled, “You’ve done your share.” Dorian wanted to protest, but his body was aching, and his mana was dangerously low. He couldn’t go back into the tent however, so he sat, Bull at his side, an oddly silent, but reassuring presence.
Cassandra and Cullen, faces set, had left as the third group, with Solas striding next to them, urging them on. They'd been back once already with two Scouts that had fallen behind. Dorian shivered and didn’t complain when Bull shifted closer. It was bitterly cold, the campsite must be sheltered because Dorian could still hear wind howling although it no longer pushed icy fingers under the blanket.
“Damn,” Bull muttered quietly next to him.
“What?” Dorian said sharply
Bull cocked his head, “Wolves.”
“Wolves don't…” Dorian trailed off. Normal wolves don't attack people, but he’d seen his share of abnormal wolves, and even the usual kind might decide a lone wounded human or elf was worth the risk. The chill in his spine worsened, wouldn’t go, no matter how much hot tea he poured into himself. The howling was still there, distant, as if it circled round Haven, hunting.
.........................
The first two search parties had come back for the last time. They’d brought in 5 people, and a bundle of wood and supplies that had been dropped on the trek. Only Cassandra, Cullen and Solas were still out. Dorian peered through the snow, there were distant figures, gradually resolving. His stomach twisted to see them alone this time. Then he saw how Cullen walked, stumbling, cloak slung round him, oddly bulky. Dorian blinked snow out of his eyes. Cullen was……….. he was carrying something.
Dorian forgot everything else and skidded across the snow. He managed to come to a stop before he gave himself away entirely. Still close enough to see.
Trevelyan was limp, unmoving, white and cold, even the mark quiescent on his hand. Then Bull was there, taking Trevelyan's still body from Cullen.
"Carry him to the tent." Solas ordered.
"Is he alive?" Cullen croaked. He looked half dead himself, almost worse than Trevelyan, drawn, red eyed, hands blue with cold.
"Barely" Solas said curtly, leading Bull into the command tent they'd already set up.
Cullen sagged, almost falling, and Dorian thought better of him than he ever had. The man had carried Trevelyan back, unknowing if he were dead or alive, and at some cost to himself.
He ignored the part of him that wanted to follow Solas and instead turned to Cullen. "Here commander." He said, stripping his own fur lined gloves off. A gift, or a payment, from an eager scout, but valued only for their warmth.
Cullen looked at him blankly and Dorian took his hands in his own, icy cold. He tried to draw on mana to warm them but it spluttered and died, making him shiver. He covered it with fussing, drawing the gloves on over Cullens hands, the man swaying, not seeming aware of what was happening. He glanced over and saw Cassandra, she nodded at him tiredly. “Get Cullen to a tent” she slurred, exhaustion in her voice. “He feels the cold, don’t let him go out again.”
In the healers tent Dorian found a passing lay sister and demanded warm water and hot food. She snapped back at him to wait his turn but catching sight of Cullen over his shoulder she visibly flinched and then whirled to get supplies. Dorian waved away the fussing, tended to Cullen himself. He watched his long graceful fingers, easing the commanders roughened hands into the warm water. Chafing them gently, bringing back warmth. Focused on the simple tasks, drying Cullen's hands when the commander still seemed unable to move them himself. Levering the man onto a cot where he fell almost instantly asleep, considered trying to remove the breastplate, surely sleeping in cold metal couldn’t be comfortable? But Dorian knew his own strength was fading so he piled a second blanket onto him and then left.
He walked to his tent, not looking towards the command tent, focusing only on making his body move. He wouldn't think about it, Trevelyan was there, Solas was with him, There was nothing more anyone could do.
He curled up on his bedroll, and lay, staring into darkness.