Chapter Text
When Cullen was a lad, he was in love with Nancy the butcher's daughter, and he always thought that he'd win her one day by doing something dashing and impressive, like rescuing her from pirates or maybe single-handedly slaying a dragon. As a young Templar, moonstruck by an apprentice with a charming smile, he pictured himself sending little flowers and love notes and small treasures, a sweet, rose-tinted forbidden liaison. (Not that he ever did any of those things - it would have been inappropriate - but he thought about doing them. Quite extensively.) His dreams were all very romantic, and noble, and they involved very little blood, even when decapitating the theoretical pirates.
When he finally does meet the love of his life, reality does not live up to the romance of his imaginings.
Cassandra's message does not tell them why they're charging to the Temple, only that it must be done. Must is underlined twice, the point of the pen nearly ripped through the parchment. Cullen hasn't seen hide nor hair of the Lady Seeker since he led their forces into the valley to try and stem the tide of demons, but the angular, spiky writing is unmistakably hers. He only hopes that whatever madcap plan she's cooked up will bear fruit, because he's not sure they'll have enough troops left to push back down into the valley if this doesn't work.
They make it all the way to the last ridge before their luck runs out, and a rift tears open right above their heads. Three men go down under the initial tide of shades that spill out, but the rest get their shields up in time, thank the Maker. Even so, they're scattered from their tight shield wall, and the shades mill about mindlessly between them, slashing with their great claws.
One of the larger ones gets Cullen pinned between it and the crumbling remains of the wall, and two straight days of fighting have left him too exhausted to fend off the thing's attacks for long. Maker preserve me, he prays, his injured shoulder screaming as he takes another blow against his battered shield, take me into your hands and deliver me from evil…
This demon seems marginally more intelligent than its comrades, and a moment later it manages to hook a claw over the edge of his shield, tearing it away from his hand with one almighty yank. Gritting his teeth against the eye-watering shift and grind of a broken finger, Cullen brings up his sword and grips it with both hands, ready to defend himself as best as possible and knowing still that he's going to die here, in the mud, while the world ends around him. His death at the hands of demons wasn't thwarted after all, it seems; merely delayed some years. And everything he's worked for, everything he's tried to become, it will all come to nothing.
And then there is a hissing noise, like water on a hot griddle, and the shade erupts into flames. Cullen gives an undignified shout of alarm and scrambles backwards, but the thing gives a panicked flail of its spindly limbs and then something bright strikes it from behind and it collapses into a flurry of ash. Standing over the place it used to be is a woman with short dark hair and lyrium-blue eyes, holding a spear intended for a much taller individual with the easy martial grace of Marcher chevalier. Except that no chevalier can make their weapon glow at one end, which means she must be-
"Hello!" says the mage, her face split on a grin. It pulls at the fresh cut across the bridge of her nose, and she wipes away the sluggish trickle of blood with the back of her hand. "Looked like you could use a hand."
"...well met," Cullen manages, then gets his sword up just in time to thrust over her shoulder and through the chest of a shade about to wrap its paws around her head. "And thank you."
The mage whirls and disintegrates the flailing shade with a sharp gesture, then grins back over her shoulder at him. "Thank you, serrah," she says, and then she's gone, ducking away from another blow and coming up on the far side of the demon's body. As the fight continues, he doesn't see her again, but once or twice he hears that alarming hiss and flames erupt from a demon in his path, so he knows she can't be far.
The reinforcements keep them from extinction, but the demons keep coming. Cullen stabs, sunders, and beheads so many shades he starts to feel like his whole body is just a machine to move his sword point, that his whole world is just steel, and mud, and the endless sickening green glow of the rift above him…
...until, abruptly, it's gone.
He stands there for a moment, the realization that the demons are gone only sinking in when no more present themselves for his blade. He looks around, almost in shock, and sees the mage who rescued him earlier standing next to the Lady Seeker. The relief he feels is near enough to sink him to his knees.
"Lady Cassandra!" he calls, sheathing his sword and crossing to her. "You managed to close the Rift. Well done."
"Do not thank me, Commander," she replies. Her voice is worn thin from its usual brisk energy, but her tone is jubilant with victory. "This was the prisoner's doing."
"It is?" Cullen looks back at the mage, who leans on her makeshift staff and doesn't meet his gaze. "Lady Seeker, are you sure this is… wise?"
It's as close to criticism as he can voice in front of his soldiers, but Cassandra either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "Solas tells me that if she can close the first, greatest rift, then the Breach will seal as well," she informs him. "We have to get to the Temple."
"Preferably before another one of those opens up on top of us," the mage says, drawing his attention back to her. This time, she meets his eyes almost defiantly.
If Cullen hadn't seen her casting with his own eyes he wouldn't have believed her a mage: her sturdy, muscled frame is clearly the result of years of martial training, and the blotchy, freckled tan spread unevenly across her cheeks speaks to a life lived in the sun. And unlike any mage he's ever met, her face is marked by an old and nasty-looking scar, a long horizontal slash that starts at the hinge of her jaw and swoops down nearly to her chin. It shifts unevenly with her nervous frown, making her face look a little lopsided.
So. This is her. This is the woman that most likely opened the Breach, murdered the Divine, the entire Conclave, and any hope of peace, and fell out of the Fade only to wake with not a memory of word or deed. And she's standing here in the mud, surrounded by demon corpses and clearly waiting for him to strike at her for knowing it. Though she just saved his life, Cullen's more than a little tempted.
Why is it always mages, he thinks despairingly.
"I hope they're right about you," he says instead. "We've lost a lot of people getting you here."
She rubs the back of her neck, the other hand still fidgety around her makeshift staff. "Maker, you're not the only one hoping that," she says on an exhausted breath. "We'll lose a lot more people, otherwise."
It can't be easy to have such a weight riding on her shoulders. But still. If she did this, if she's responsible for all this pain and death and grief...
"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" Cullen says gruffly, and turns away.
The mage has to be carried back to Haven on a litter, as no amount of magic or shouting (Varric tries) can rouse her. Privately, Cullen thinks that that has just as much to do with the enormous demon she killed before closing the Rift as it does with the Rift itself, but Solas is all a-twitter again, so she's winkled to one of the infirmary buildings as fast as they can get her there. She lies so still on the bed that Cullen wonders how she could still live, but their apothecary forces a tonic down her throat and says, grumpily, that she merely needs rest, before shooing them all out of the room.
Cullen jerks his head towards the upper walk, and Cassandra follows without pause. They walk in silence until they're far enough to be well out of earshot from any curious villagers, and finally Cullen says, "She did it."
"She did," Cassandra says. There's exhaustion in her voice, but something else, too. Something that might almost be hope. "I have never seen the like. If all mages had her force of will, I think abominations would be a thing of the past."
His eyebrows crawl up his forehead. "That's practically fawning, for you."
"Yes. Well."
He's heard the rumors going around camp already: the Herald of Andraste, delivered by the hands of the Maker himself in their hour of need. So quick does hate turn to devotion, equally slavish. Cullen isn't convinced - and he wouldn't have thought Cassandra would be, either. "When I saw you last, you were convinced she'd caused the explosion."
Cassandra shifts her shoulders, something that might be a shrug in a less controlled woman. "You were not at the temple. You did not hear."
"Sister Leliana told me." He finds a bench and brushes off the snow, taking a seat. He took a bad blow to the thigh in the skirmish and doesn't want to remain on his feet any longer than necessary, but Cassandra leans against a nearby tree, arms crossed over her chest. "Was it truly Justinia's voice?"
"Yes."
No hesitation there. "You're sure?"
"It is not something I would mistake," she said repressively. "I admit that I know less of the workings of the Fade than some, but it was no phantasm, called to taunt me. We all heard it, and Leliana is as certain as I. Lady Trevelyan may not remember, but the Rift held the echoes of the moment that sent her into it. The one who opened it sacrificed our Divine, and the woman I took for her killer almost died trying to save her."
"Even if she was innocent of that particular crime, it doesn't mean that one of her compatriots isn't guilty," he argues, mostly to see what she'll say.
"True," she says immediately. "We still have much to learn. I had Leliana check up on her while she… slept, before." Cullen's surprise must show on his face, because Cassandra arches her eyebrows, almost playfully. "Commander, you wound me if you think I would not do my due diligence while she was in my custody."
"Fair enough." Diligence might as well be one of her endless middle names. "What did you learn? She was there as a member of the rebellion, correct?"
"Yes. Not one of the speakers - though we know little more."
'Little more' was not the same as 'nothing.' "So what do we know?"
"Captain Evelyn Trevelyan of the Markham Irregulars," Cassandra recites, with the tones of someone used to giving oral reports. "Youngest daughter of the Bann of Ostwick, sent to the Circle at the age of eight. Twenty-six years old, junior Enchanter in good standing. Apprenticed under a former Knight Enchanter named William Costeau. Passed her Harrowing at eighteen. Served for six years under Duke Idris of Markham until the revolt at White Spire, when she left the Marches and wasn't seen again until the Conclave." Cassandra sighs. "It is not much, I know."
"Not much?" Maker, it's been scarcely a day. "Does Leliana have such reports on all the members of the rebellion?"
"The politically-connected ones, at least," Cassandra says, with a ghost of a smile. "Captain Trevelyan was apparently a fixture of her mother's Firstday balls."
Captain, is it? Well, Knight-Enchanters are supposed to be trained to command. He wouldn't know; he's never met one, himself. Meredith would never have stood for someone like that in her Circle. "None of that marks her as innocent," he says, instead.
"None of it marks her as guilty, either." Cassandra twines her hands together in front of her, staring sightlessly down at the town. "The vision we saw at the Temple. It was... compelling."
Not having witnessed it himself, he will simply have to take her word for it. Luckily, Cassandra's word is good. "So you truly believe that she was innocent in the creation of the Breach?"
"I do," Cassandra says firmly. "I will not presume to defend the other members of the rebellion, but her? Yes." She pauses. Drums her fingers restlessly against her thigh. "Even before the Temple…"
Cullen waits, used to her pauses by now, the way she sometimes needs time to let words catch up to the decisions she makes in less than a breath. "She has spirit," she says, finally. "She remembered nothing of what had happened - stood there with all the town viewing her with hate - and yet she came willingly. Even knowing that attempting to close the Breach might very well kill her. When we were attacked by demons, she did not try to run, but instead turned her magic to my defense. She is an... honorable woman."
Cassandra prizes honor above even devotion. From here, there is no higher compliment.
"All right," Cullen says after a moment. "I suppose I have to believe you, then. But Maker! The Herald of Andraste?" He shakes his head. "Do you believe that, as well?"
Cassandra is silent for a long moment, until he finds himself backpedaling. The strange forced intimacy that comes from her observance and support of his withdrawal does not mean that he can take liberties with her personal thoughts. "Forgive me, I should not have overstepped-"
"No, it is a fair question," she says quietly. She spreads her gloved hands. "Lady Trevelyan remembers nothing, save a vague impression of a faceless woman. Those who saw her emerge from the Rift also saw this woman. The veil between the Fade is split asunder and demons cross freely, and yet here is one given the power to close them, who survived the impossible and woke to save us when everything that everyone knows says that she should have died. Do I believe that she's a Herald from the Maker's Bride herself? I do not know. But it is hard to deny that she is exactly what we needed, at exactly the moment we needed her." She looks over at him, her gray eyes are filled with wonder. "I find I cannot help but believe that it must have been the work of the Maker. One way or another."
"I will take that under consideration," he says quietly. They both fall silent a moment, and then he clears his throat. "Do you know when she will wake?"
"Soon, I hope," she says briskly, eager to leave the previous subject behind as he. "The Breach is still in the sky, though it has been stabilized. And Chancellor Roderick-"
"Don't speak to me of that yapping old cur," Cullen growls. "If I have to hear him speak of his authority one more time-"
"You and I both, Commander," Cassandra sighs. She straightens away from the tree, and stretches her neck one way and then the other, as he has seen her do before battle. "We shall simply have to manage him. Perhaps Lady Trevelyan will have something to say that will quiet his fears when she wakes."
"And perhaps the moon is made of green cheese," Cullen returns. "Nothing will silence that man."
"Perhaps you are right." Cassandra waits politely while he leverages himself back to his feet - cursing his bad leg, and trying not to think about how little such a hurt would affect him with lyrium in his blood - and then falls into step with him as they head back down the path. "We will simply have to manage, Commander. If we truly intend to pursue this path, the Chancellor will be the least of our worries."
"Do you doubt that this is the right thing to do?"
"No," Cassandra says firmly. "Before her death, the Divine organized the Inquisition. She knew that this would be necessary. I doubt she could have imagined these circumstances, but the need is only greater now than before. This is the only course left to us."
"As it happens, I agree." Cullen offers her a small smile, and while she doesn't return it, her eyes grow a little warmer. "I am with this till the end. Wherever it leads."
"I would never question your loyalty, Commander," she says, and then peers up at him with a distant frown and adds, "Nor your capabilities."
It's as if she's peered into the depths of his soul and seen the doubts that flourish in the small, dusty corners. He's been free of the lyrium for more than half a year, now, and for the most part, he's found the worst of the withdrawals to be behind him. But times like these are trying to the sturdiest hearts, and Cullen even on his better days is quite far from that - closer instead to a clay pot, patched together far too many times and full of naught but worries. On the field, he had time for nothing but survival; with the Breach at least temporarily stabilized, the doubts have been creeping back in.
Cassandra, of course, refuses to believe that he is capable of anything less than the utterly impossible. He has learned, by now, to believe in that even when other faiths seem past his grasp. Blasphemous, perhaps. But reassuring for all of that.
"I... thank you," he says, and at her short nod they part ways at the village gates.
Cullen finds himself pausing there for a moment, just letting it sink in. They've been gathering these forces for some months now, the Inquisition always the goal as they all knew that the Conclave would fail, but still. To see it like this, to see all these people moving around, busy with purpose and murmured prayers on everyone's lips… it's awe-inspiring. Concerning that it's centered around a mage of unknown affiliation, of course, but he's followed worse for far less cause. Cassandra trusts her, and Cullen has done well to follow the Seeker's lead before. Until she wakes, they'll just have to make do.
Captain Trevelyan sleeps for three straight days. On the second day, Adan manages to get her semi-conscious enough to get half a bowl of broth down her throat, but she collapses again immediately after, and Adan reports that she likely won't remember it. That she woke up at all is a good sign, he tells them, but even Cullen can tell how worried he is - as is Solas, whose best attempts at healing spells seem to have no effect. They both worry that the exertion of closing the first Rift was too much, that whatever magic put the mark on her hand and ate at her with every growth of the Breach took too much of her to heal. They worry that she'll not wake up at all.
Considering the circumstances, he can actually understand why people mutter the word miracle when he sees her striding through town, hale and healthy once more.
Speaking objectively, she doesn't cut a particularly impressive figure. She doesn't have any of Cassandra's imposing presence, nor Josephine's classic beauty - though Cullen supposes she's pretty enough, in a severe, overbred sort of way. Her clothes are hardly richer than the refugees, still ripped and stained with the fruits of her battle, and there's a hitch in her stride from some injury she's trying to ignore. She doesn't look the least bit heroic at all, in point of fact; she mostly just looks tired, and nervous, and a bit overwhelmed by all of the attention.
And yet, when she passes him, Cullen can understand the awed whispers of the villagers. Maybe it's because she's supposedly Andraste's Herald… though he doesn't share that belief, nor even Cassandra's more abstract faith. She's mortal enough; Cullen's seen that for himself. Perhaps it's the force of personality that he knows is contained in her short, stocky body, the strength of will to close the Rift as it killed her. Or maybe it's just because she saved his life.
Whatever it is, he finds himself straightening to attention when she passes, just like all the others. Somehow his movement is the one in all the crowd that catches her attention - maybe she just has a mage's well-honed instinct for men in armor - and she glances over to where he's standing in front of the half-unloaded supply wagon. There's a blink of surprise, and then her strained expression melts into something that might be mistaken for a smile. She waves, a shy wiggle of fingers.
Cullen's waving back before he realizes that the gesture might well have been meant for Varric, standing beside him. They've fought together, after all, and he's all too familiar with Varric's ability to make friends in the most unlikely of places. But before mortification has a chance to set in, he's rewarded for his momentary impulse when her shy wave gets a little bolder, and her tiny smile widens into a breathtaking grin. Cullen recognizes it well: it's the same one she gave him on the battlefield, after she killed the demon at his throat.
And then the moment breaks, and she turns and continues her trek to the Chantry doors.
Cullen lets out a slow breath, interrupted into a huff when Varric bursts into laughter beside him. "You find her amusing?"
His repressive glare rolls off Varric's shoulders like water from a duck. "Oh no," Varric says, still chortling. "Not even a little bit."
"Then why are you laughing?"
"It's just... doesn't she remind you of someone?"
Cullen frowns at him. "None I can think of."
"Really? Black hair, blue eyes, big magic stick, bad habit of throwing herself into trouble at the first opportunity?" Varric rolls his eyes at Cullen's lack of comprehension. "Oh, come on. If she was challenging someone to single combat, would it jog your memory?"
"You mean Hawke?" Cullen looks doubtfully at her receding figure. "They're not that… similar," he says, but even to his own ears he sounds unsure.
"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that." Varric shakes his head. "But mark my words, Curly: that one's going to be trouble."
Cullen would chide the dwarf for disrespect if he thought it would do any good. Instead he settles for giving him a flat look. "You mean to say that a mage being lauded as the Herald of Andraste might cause some disturbance in the world order? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"You're one sarcastic bastard, I ever tell you that?" Varric, not surprisingly, doesn't give him a chance to answer. "Besides, that's not what I'm talking about. Did you see that grin? End of the world, weird shit breaking out everywhere, funky magic shit on her hand... and she can still grin like that. I've only ever met one person with that reaction to near-death experiences, and let me tell you, life was not peaceful around her either."
Put like that, he can kind of see Varric's point. "Hawke was not a… quiet woman," he says, in grave understatement. "I know nothing about Captain Trevelyan except that she closed the Breach. There is no way yet to tell if she will be the same."
"You'd better hope not," Varric advises. "Women like that make life interesting for everyone around them, sure, but there's interesting and then there's interesting. Seems to me like you lot have enough problems."
"Even Hawke can't be to blame for that much chaos. According to your book, she was adjacent at best."
"That is what I wrote, yes," Varric says slowly, but shakes his head. "Still makes a body wonder." He turns and grabs another sack of grain, stretching up on his toes to pull it out of the wagon. "Let's just say that I wish you the very best of luck with that, Commander. And I hope that whatever trouble she gets you into? I'll be very, very far away."