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Cullen was numb.
The trek through the hidden passage under Haven had been a blur. The bitter cold of the Frostback Mountains still burned at the skin of his face nearly an hour after setting up camp. The refuge they’d hobbled together in the snowy peaks maintained a tense quiet — save for an intermittent snappy comment from the various workers or dignitaries swept up in the escape. But despite the underlying tension, it seemed all knew to keep quiet. Out of fear of this “Elder One” and his great beast of a dragon, or stragglers of his twisted, corrupted army of templars. Or maybe out of respect for their fallen comrades, their absent Herald. For her sacrifice.
He spotted their spymaster Leliana further in the camp on bended knee in prayer. From this distance, he couldn’t make out her hushed recitations, but she’d amassed a small gathering of fellow devotees. Cassandra anchored a hand onto the woman’s shoulder, her own head bowed along with several soldiers and lay sisters. He dropped his own head in a small prayer of his own, begging the Maker,
Please, let her live.
He had seen much death in his life, and much selflessness, too. But still, the last time his eyes met hers in the chantry would haunt him forever- seeing the resolution in her clear gaze before storming out into the chaos, providing them all a chance to escape. He couldn’t help but feel a keen sense of sympathy knowing that she, unlike his soldiers, had so little choice in her fate. That only months before she was with her clan, a family that would never see their daughter and sister again. He wondered how the Dalish prayed, to whom about which types of matters. He wished he’d had the forethought to ask before. For good measure, Cullen thought to himself,
And if the Dalish gods listen, I pray you help her, too.
Cullen stood from his crouch near a campfire and strode toward the outskirts of their encampment. The sick feeling in his stomach would not allow him to rest for long, so he could certainly be of use guarding their position personally. He reached the outer rim where only the bronto carts stalled and Inquisition soldiers walked the perimeter.
“Orders, Commander?”
A recruit asked, his back straightening at attention. Cullen, dismissed him with a shake of his head, answering, “As you were. Keep an eye out for stragglers.”
“Of course, Commander,” the young man confirmed with a fist to his chest in respect. Cullen circled the entire encampment once, checking in with the men and women dotted along the perimeter. No sign of templars or darkspawn. No signs of survivors.
By the time he meandered back to the open pass through which they first passed into the clearing, he unsurprisingly found Cassandra scoping over the valley. Remnants of a winter storm fizzled over the mountainside, and dread pressed down on his heart.
Avriel wasn’t coming.
He silently took his post near Cassandra who’d taken to climbing up a rocky shelf to survey the storm. When she turned his way, a frown pinched her brows.
“You’re not on first watch,” she pointed out.
His eyes fell to the ground, noticing the reprimanding tone that was more-so pointed at the fact that he’d been absent for the decision to start a watch rotation than having altered her schedule.
“A Commander should be ready before anyone else, surely.”
She huffed and agreed, “Yes he should, shouldn’t he?”
Cullen rubbed his forehead, uninterested in an argument. For all his admiration for Cassandra’s prowess, her approval was hardly his first concern at the moment. He gritted his teeth, turning to continue his rounds. Then—
“I apologize, Cullen. It has been a very long night.”
She’d softened out of her usual harsh severity, and his frustration stalled, understanding all too well what she meant.
“It will be longer still, Seeker.”
He climbed the few feet up to her lookout and took in the discouraging view, asking, “Any sign at all?”
Cassandra sighed, shoulders slumping and answered, “None. Though, how am I to see one tiny woman through all this?”
A humorless laugh escaped him, “How indeed?” They looked on in silence for a few moments, each oddly comforted by their shared worry. Cullen eventually mused,“How could anyone survive that storm?”
“Lavellan is a mage, Cullen. And one of the Dalish. If anyone could—”
“—How could she even make it out of Haven?” Cullen demanded, emotion wrangling the control from his voice, “We shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have let her face him alone.”
A hand covered his shoulder guard, warmth seeping in through the metal, “The Maker would not abandon her,” Cassandra stated fervently.
“We did,” Cullen couldn’t help but answer, regret fresh and immune to logical sense.
“I’m sorry, Cullen. I understand that this is hard for you. But if you truly care for her, you cannot not lose faith,” Cassandra said, and Cullen felt a rush of embarrassment or something like it, feeling exposed under her gaze, “Even if she truly did fall, her sacrifice was for a higher purpose and must embolden us, not destroy us.”
Cullen could voice no response, unable to contradict her assumption of his personal feelings toward the Herald, but unwilling to confirm them either. He could only nod, swallowing a lump in his throat.
As they kept their quiet vigil, he let his eyes fall closed against chill wind burning them, and sent another prayer to the Maker— We need her. I need her. Please.
When his eyes once again found the abyss of snow before him, he finally perked up. In the distance, something dark rose over a large stone or pile of snow. It was slow moving and lilting, but alive.
“A Templar?” Cassandra asked urgently, but before Cullen could answer, the far figure was briefly illuminated by a small burst of warm orange light, and in that brief moment it was clear. Her tan leather coat and white-blonde hair visible even from a distance.
“It’s her,” Cullen whispered in shock, then louder to the soldiers nearest by, “It’s the Herald!”
“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed, and the two of them chased down the hillside toward the elf. When they and the few soldiers who’d come running after them neared her, she fell to her knees, unable to properly address them through her exhausted panting. Another burst of orange lit her figure, a small flame spell spilling from her mouth to give life to her freezing fingers.
“Avriel!” Cullen called, pulling his lion fur mantle off of his shoulders, dropping to his own knees to wrap her in its warmth. Her typically keen eyes couldn’t seem to meet his, lids heavy and lashes crusted with snow. Her skin was reddened and sweat hung frozen in tiny droplets clinging to the fine, loose hairs around her face and neck, lips drained of their usual rosiness.
Cassandra asked, “Can you hear us, Lavellen?”
She could only sway and shiver in response, another puff of flame attempting to warm her fingers on a wheezy breath, though the light was dimmer than before.
“She’s out of mana,” Cullen reasoned, gesturing for someone to help lift her from the ground.
“She got to us just in time,” Cassandra exclaimed, “Praise the Maker!”
Before long, the elf was propped between he and Cassandra’s shoulders, the soldiers acting as entourage. He comforted, “Hold on, Avriel. We’ll get you to a healer. You’ll be alright.”
She couldn’t answer. In fact, she could do nothing, feet dragging uselessly through fresh snow. Cullen dipped his head to try and meet her eyes, but they were glassy and unfocused, tears filling them and rolling down her raw skin and onto the snow underfoot.
“Hold a moment,” Cullen commanded, and dragged her up out of the snow and into his arms, her head lolling back over his elbow. Cassandra marched ahead, calling over the wind for a healer, and Cullen made the rest of the journey up through the pass and into camp barely taking his eyes off of her face. Her quiet, labored breath music to his ears and renewing the urgency to his steps.
Crowds of the faithful began to surround them, roused from their rest and meals, held back only by the guards escorting them. Disbelief and awe and excitement and relief buzzed in the hushed exclamations of the onlookers, respectful enough not to shout aloud at the sight.
Soon he was being directed to a tent near the center of the camp, and a familiar voice called out in disbelief, “She’s returned?”
The elven mage Solas stared at the woman still cradled in Cullen’s arms, eyes wide.
“Solas,” Cullen asked, “You can heal, yes? She needs help now.”
Solas regained his composure, features arranging themselves into their typical serene confidence, following along to the cot set up in the designated tent. Warm furs were piled on the cot preemptively by the Mother in attendance, and as soon as Cullen placed her down flat, another was piled on her. Solas began to work his magic with practice precision, barking out orders of his own to close the tent flaps to keep out the cold and to empty the room of unneeded onlookers, which felt pointed to say the least.
“I’d prefer to stay,” Cullen stated, though he had no claim to do so other than watching the color seep back into Avriel’s lips being so soothing his overwrought mind.
“It’s hardly the time for demon summoning, Commander. I shall be fine without supervision,” the elf retorted, less smooth and assured than usual. For the second time that night, no reply came to Cullen, and short of declaring something he was unready to even admit to himself, Cullen had no option but to fold.
He nodded stiffly, acquiescing, “I… Of course, Solas. I apologize. Force of habit,” before taking his leave, savoring his last glimpse of Avriel’s slowly reviving form.
-
“Oh, good evening, Cullen,” came Avriel’s small, raspy voice. She was in much better order now hours later after her entire ordeal. She’d been scarce since that moment of unity in the camp when all the Andrastian faithful sang from the Chant of Light. Judging from the mild look of discomfort she’d had at the display, that was unsurprising. Now she shoveled in spoonfuls of a rich, meaty stew by one of the campfires, bundled snuggly in a blanket and Cullen’s own lion pelt.
“Good evening, my Lady Herald,” Cullen said formally, “How are you feeling?”
She smiled ruefully, “Like I’d very much like not to be the Lady Herald for an hour or two.”
“Of course,” he muttered, “I—I apologize—”
“Cullen, you’re fine,” she smiled, and her lips were a healthy pink, which Cullen couldn’t help but notice, “‘Avriel’ is fine between friends.” She scooted over a few inches on the log she sat upon, “Join me, if you wish. I understand I have you to thank for my timely rescue.”
Cullen chuckled shyly, “Not only I.” He settled stiffly next to her, warmed more by her presence than the fire, “By your own incredible determination did you claw through a mountain storm to find us.”
“My Keeper always did call me stubborn,” she smiled, “In any case, I’m grateful regardless. Though, I truthfully don’t remember making it to the camp at all.”
“That hardly surprises me,” Cullen said quietly, recalling her utterly vacant expression, “You’d been out in that storm far too long. Your return was a miracle. Truly,” Cullen breathed, awe seeping into his weary voice. Divine providence was an understatement. That she could survive an encounter with the Elder One, his dragon, a devastating avalanche, and the bitterly cold trek up a mountain in a blizzard was utterly unthinkable. To be wreathed in a flame of her own as she trudged over the mountain to safety- it was prophetic. He let himself relax for the first time the whole night for just a moment as he gazed upon her revitalized face, at those keen eyes… which seemed all at once to close him out.
She commented lightly, “If you like.”
Cullen blinked, overtired and frazzled, asking urgently, “Have I misspoken, my lady?”
Avriel gave him a sad, conciliatory smile, and it did nothing to comfort him. “No, Cullen. You haven’t.”
The crackle of firewood stung in the silence. But Cullen, as usual, was at a loss for words. Moments later, he suddenly asked,
“Which elven god would you pray to for protection?”
Avriel halts, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth.
“I’d invoke Mythal’s blessing,” she answered bemusedly, “Why?”
“I… I was simply curious,” he answered shyly. She gave him a dissecting look, making him squirm. She seemed to find nothing of clarity however, and finished her bowl with mild confusion on her features. Cullen cursed himself internally, suddenly very sore at himself for never bothering to learn how to speak to women.
Avriel soon stood, tugging the blankets around her shoulders, saying, “You should get some rest, Commander. We both should. After all, it’s nearly morning already.”
Cullen deflated, wanting to soak in more time with her, even if it was filled with awkward silence and stilted conversation, his dry, tired eyes be damned.
However, he simply agreed and nodded in reluctant agreement, “Of course.”
Then he watched as her fingers slipped over the dark fur of the mantle, and she exclaimed, “Oh, right! I’d forgotten to return this. I thought it had seemed familiar.”
She began to maneuver the fur off of her shoulders only to be stilled by Cullen’s own hand. He blushed at his own impulsiveness, but managed to smooth the fur back down over her shoulder, his fingers grazing hers for a brief, thrilling moment, noting how warm and alive she felt to the touch, “You need it more, my l—,” he interrupted himself with a small cough, correcting, “-Avriel.”
A small, hesitant smile quirked the woman’s lips. “Are you quite certain?”
“I insist,” he answered, ignoring the chill upon his exposed neck, and something softened in Avriel’s countenance.
“Very well, Commander. I’ll take good care of it in the meantime,” she answered, fingers gripping it tighter around her shoulders. Cullen’s heart fluttered at how it seemed to smother her with his warmth and protection, “Goodnight, Cullen.”
He nodded slowly, nearly a bow, answering, “Sleep well, Avriel.”
As she shuffled off to her toasty tent, Cullen looked on dumbly. The reality of her return still feeling too surreal to believe. But she was alive and safe. Fed and warm and beloved by her legion of faithful.
“Leliana has her scouts in the field, Cullen. You should sleep while you can,” came the voice of Cassandra sounding tired but pleased, emerging from the moonlight and into the glow of the dwindling fire. Cullen smiled despite his being caught staring after the Herald, and ignored the inquisitive look in Cassandra’s eyes. “She will be safe in the camp, Commander.”
Cullen’s ears turned pink. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yes, I believe the Herald is well protected for the moment.”
“And warm,” Cassandra added knowingly, “You may wish to track down a blanket or two, Commander, as you seem to have misplaced your furs.”
Cullen rolled his eyes, and rare and welcome laugh escaped the woman. But he supposed he didn’t mind being the but of the joke just this once.