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He stood in the blowing snow, rooted to the spot next to his tent staring at the entrance flap. The healers had thrown him out so they could work after he'd gritted his teeth through helping them set the bones in her leg, though Solas had the decency to look apologetic about it. Muffled conversation buzzed in the back of his awareness, but he was too exhausted to make sense of it. The sounds seemed less urgent, though, and the pained cries had ceased, which he hoped was a good thing. He shivered, thinking of how cold Lavellan had felt as he carried her in his arms. When he pictured her in his mind’s eye, she towered over everything—larger than life despite her short stature. But she had seemed so small, so fragile, as he raced back through the blizzard to find help in camp. Blue lips. Waxy skin. Labored breaths. Broken bones. Blood seeping from hidden wounds freezing to her clothes.
There was a moment as he trudged through the snow where he'd looked down at her deathly pale face and seen her eyes blazing up at him. The barest breath passed her lips.
“It's you...?”
Then she'd muttered something in elvish, coughed, closed her eyes, and sighed out on empty lungs, and he had nearly screamed his throat raw with panic. By the time Cassandra returned with the horses, he'd nearly resigned himself to the idea that she was gone.
How could I have let this happen?
At first it was a question of duty. He knew what it was to lose a city. He knew! He'd tried to apply lessons learned from the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall! And yet, Haven was still lost on his watch. The Herald had made them pay dearly for it, Maker forgive him, but the village was gone and now she was likely dying on the other side of this thin canvas wall far from country and clan. The Inquisition would die with her, he was certain of that. But there was something else buried under the question. Something he wasn't sure he could articulate, something hidden down where his rational self couldn't access it.
Earlier in the evening—Maker, it hadn't even been a day yet!—they'd shared a bottle of wine between them, sips like second-hand kisses. A tentative peace, a bit of comfort and familiarity had begun to bloom between them with the triumphant closing of the Breach. The strain of their monumental task had finally begun to lift; it was like reaching the surface after a dive into impossibly deep water and expelling a frantically long-held breath. Sweet like new air to suffocating lungs.
She'd made him blush. He'd made her laugh.
Her silly snort-laugh was infectious; the toothy, smart aleck grin lighting up her face. It caused a subtle shift within him, like a plucked string wavering between sharp and flat before settling onto the true pitch of the note. She had wiped a smudge off his face, and the warmth of her fingertips seeped under his skin and made a home there—his cheek burned anew at the memory of it. Her breath tickled his neck and he realized just how tipsy he was, and how closely situated they were. He caught the dance of firelight in her eyes and thought, If I lift my chin just an inch higher...
And then, the bells rang out: a call to arms.
“You'll catch your death out here standing like that.”
Cassandra's voice materialized from nowhere, from everywhere. He realized tears were beginning to freeze his lashes together at the corners of his eyes, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his aching sockets. It made no difference; cold on cold. Were his fingers numb?
A warm hand touched him and he jumped.
“Cullen, where is your surcoat?” Cassandra asked gently.
He gestured to the tent. “They asked for blankets for...” he couldn't find the courage to say her name.
How could I have let this happen?
“Well we have a fire going now, and—”
“You lit a fire?! Are you mad?!” He glanced up at the sky, dreading and expecting the sight of beating black wings.
“Commander, it’s been hours since we last saw that monster’s archdemon flying overhead. They have retreated! Without a fire we risk losing our remaining forces to exposure. I made the decision, and your fellow advisors agreed." She sighed. "Stop punishing yourself and come get warm, Cullen. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“No.”
The way Cassandra's brows lifted told him she was considering some light violence upon his person. Or perhaps she was about to hoist him over her shoulder and sit him directly in the midst of the bonfire itself. “That is... ah, someone should guard the tent, and... and it is my responsibility to protect the Herald—”
“The Herald would not wish to see you lose an extremity to frostbite or freeze to death!” The Seeker sighed again, and he could tell she was giving up on changing his mind. “If I bring you some pine needle tea, will you drink it?”
“Y-yes,” he cleared his throat, “Yes. Thank you.”
“At least stand out of the wind, you lummox. Enough of us have gone to the Maker's side this evening. We cannot afford to lose anyone else. Least of all, you.”
Cullen scoffed but thought it better not to respond.
The tea was hot—the bowl too warm in his hands, the steam comforting on his face—but the sensation quickly faded once he’d drunk it down. Several healers left the tent, their faces serious and tired, their voices hushed. Dorian nodded in his direction as he ducked inside. The situation in the rest of the camp must be dire if the Tevinter was being utilized as a healer. Cullen noticed his own shivering only as an inconvenience to his aching muscles and felt vaguely pleased when it eventually stopped.
After an eternity, Dorian poked his head out of the tent. “Still out here?”
Cullen’s heart leapt in his chest. “Is she—”
“Awake? No. But she’s stable. You can come in now, if you like.”
Cullen’s hips and knees protested as he attempted to turn. He staggered on frozen, unyielding feet before Dorian grasped him by the arms with surprisingly feverish hands.
“Fasta vass, you're a fucking icicle! Are you trying to die of exposure?”
A tingle of warmth spread from Dorian's hands, and even in this desperate moment the dregs of the lyrium in his bones responded with fear to the touch of magic. He flinched away, and the scream of icy stiffness now wrenching his back, his shoulders, his neck, his hamstrings, brought him to the reality of just how cold he actually was. “Oh, M-maker!”
“Get in here, you ridiculous fool!”
Heat swaddled him like a babe in arms as he passed under the flap. There was no fire inside the tent, of course. Just the burn of his smarting skin and the smothering pressure of magic pressing in on him. Mage lights floated overhead spilling dim, pale light onto a dark shape on a cot in the center of the space. Solas and Grand Enchanter Fiona knelt by the bedside of the Herald, looking as exhausted as he felt.
“I... um. Yes? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“We need rest,” Fiona murmured quietly, deep circles under her eyes, “and to see to the other injured and dying in the camp.”
“Will she survive?” He breathed the question, half hoping they wouldn't hear or answer.
“We’ve done all we can,” replied Solas, “The rest is up to her.” The hedge mage stood slowly and stretched his back. “I’ll ask one of the captains to stand guard in your place, Commander. Dorian, send word if we’re needed again.” He offered his arm to Fiona, who took it gratefully and leaned heavily upon it on her way up from the floor.
Panic spiked in Cullen’s gut—they were headed for the exit! “Wha-what am I meant to do? I am no healer!”
“Sit with her. Let her hear your voice,” Fiona answered, “She’s been asking for you.”
Words formed on his tongue, but his chest was too tight for breath. He looked down at the sleeping woman on the cot. Some doubtful voice in his head insisted she was dead, until he caught the rise and fall of her chest through the blankets. Another part of him, usually pushed to the edges of his conscious mind, marveled at her loveliness; the delicate line of her pointed ears, the slope of her nose, the graceful length of her neck. Some of the color had returned to her face, but not nearly enough. Her branching vallaslin was stark on her cheeks. Sweat licked at the fine hairs around her temples despite the shivers chattering her teeth. Her eyes squirmed under their lids. Cullen prayed she wasn’t dreaming, for he could not imagine her dreams held anything but pain and terror at the moment. Something brushed by his arm, but he barely noticed. Should I approach? He wasn’t certain that he would be able to rise again if he sat down.
“You are dripping wet, Commander,” Dorian observed from the other side of the cot, “take that doublet off before you grow a puddle at your feet.”
That caught his attention.
“Pardon?”
“You’re a sodden mess! Thank the Maker you left your mantle in here, or you’d smell even more of wet dog than usual.” Dorian approached, but slowed as he neared. “Commander? Cullen. Look at me, please,” he said gently.
Cullen obeyed, his thoughts fuzzy. The damned mage had the gall to look nearly completely put together. His hair was a mess, but otherwise—
“May I touch you?”
His brows tented in surprise.
“I am concerned that you’ve become hypothermic. Let me look you over.”
That seemed fine. Cullen nodded his assent and braced for... something.
Dorian’s hands were hot on his arms, his brow. To be frank, the room was boiling! His skin felt like it would melt and slough off any second now.
“As I suspected,” the Tevene muttered, “This is your tent, isn't it? You need to get out of those wet things immediately. Do you have a change of clothes?”
“My nightshirt, perhaps? I... I don’t know what they brought for me from... I had no time to pack.”
“All right. I believe Threnn managed to grab extra supplies before we made our hasty retreat. Let’s find out, shall we?” Dorian stuck his head out the tent flap and murmured some words.
“You should not wait, however,” he said, turning back, “Get undressed, please.”
Cullen balked, and felt the slightest flush of heat in his face. “B-but the Herald—”
“Is unconscious. And wearing precious little clothing herself under all those blankets.”
His stomach fluttered.
“Lands, I’ve made it worse, haven’t I,” Dorian muttered, “I will stand between you to protect your Maker-damned modesty. There’s nothing under those clothes that can shock me.” The mage took up a place between Cullen and the cot and crossed his arms. Stalemate. “I can make it an order if that’s what it takes.”
“N-no, no. I can... I’ll do it.”
Cullen turned his back to Dorian and began to unfasten his arming doublet. It was a sodden mess, and probably twice as heavy as normal with all the water it was holding. Slushy snow clung to the quilted fabric, burning his fingers as he worked on the garment. His shoulders ground painfully as he pulled the sleeves away and tossed the doublet aside. The undertunic was also soaked through, so reluctantly he loosened the ties and stripped it off as well—and immediately felt warmer, damn it. Once the boots and chausses were off and he could get a look at his breeches underneath he knew they needed to go, too. Sodden, dirty, and blood-spattered up to mid-thigh, sweaty from the waist down.
“Andraste’s pyre! Did you make snow birds out there?”
“We are in the middle of a blizzard, Lord Pavus,” he scoffed at the voice behind him, “I apologize for being susceptible to nature.” Still, he didn’t move.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
“My dignity,” Cullen sneered over his shoulder.
“Oh, Heaven’s sake,” Dorian blustered, “Here!” A scratchy woolen blanket appeared at his elbow. “You’ll need one anyway. May as well hide your shame with it. Go on, I promise not to look.”
Heat crept up to the tips of his ears, but he loosened the laces of his breeches and pushed them off, then did the same with his smalls and wrapped the blanket tightly about his waist, securing it with a double knot. He turned to face the mage, who had absolutely lied about not looking, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Happy?”
“Overjoyed,” Dorian snarked.
“Lord Pavus,” called a muffled voice from outside, “You asked for clothing?”
“Mm, well timed!”
Dorian crossed to the tent flap and turned around with a plain linen tunic and a pair of warm woolen trousers in his hands. He handed them over to Cullen, who donned it all with a quickness that made his embarrassment abundantly clear. The trousers were admittedly a bit tight across the backside, but so warm and soft he didn’t really care. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders, standing hunched over and dumbstruck in the entryway of the tent.
“Have a seat,” said Dorian, taking up a spot on the ground near Lavellan on the far side of the cot once again. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Cullen knelt down next to the Herald and did the only thing he could think to do.
He prayed.
Cullen, give me a plan! Anything!
He shut his eyes tight against the memory of a sea of torches, the blood-red glint of corrupted lyrium.
“How can we know You?” he murmured into his hands, “In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, in the empty space where our hearts hunger for a forgotten face?”
There are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche.
The Maker was cruel indeed; putting them in each other's path like this; dangling a dangerous hope over his head, only to sweep it away like an angry child upending a game board. Mocking them both by giving her the means to seal the Breach at the expense of becoming a symbol for a god she didn't even believe in, for an organization he now reviled and regretted ever being part of.
Besides, Lavellan was so... infuriating! Enervating! Haughty, and imperious.
Abrasive. No, rude.
Stubborn to a fault. Unwavering. Fiery.
Fascinating.
Captivating.
“You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me.”
Herald, we’re dying. But we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.
He should have fought harder! He should have stayed. Not abandoned her to face death incarnate on her own. He should have...
“I have faced armies with You as my shield," he whispered on a shaky breath, clasped hands trembling, "and though I bear scars beyond counting, n-nothing can break me except..." he tried to ease the crushing grief in his chest with a slow breath, "except Your absence.”
I should have kissed her. When I had the chance.
When he dreamed of Kinloch, Desire wore Lavellan’s face.
⚶ ⚶ ⚶
Cullen woke with a start, bleary eyes taking in the dimness of the space, with the automatic assumption he was in his command tent in Haven. Except, he was on the floor. In clothing not his own. With a rough blanket he didn’t recognize wrapped around his shoulders. Where was his armor? Where was his longsword? His hips ached from his sleeping position; his whole body ached, really. Worse than normal. And he was...
Cold.
Incredibly cold!
Maker, he was freezing!
The tent had gone cold without a mage to maintain the warming spell, and Dorian dozed against a trunk on the far side of the space. Behind his head—
“No... no time... Comman... duhhn...”
“Herald?” He turned in his seat to face her and the memories came rushing back. The wine. The bells. The twisted monsters. The dragon! Fire and snow, screams and screeching metal.
He stared down at the still body laid out and huddled under a pile of blankets, recognizing the outward signs of a nightmare; fists balled, tangled in blankets, the sharp exhale of fear, eyes squeezed shut. Couldn't she have even a moment of peace? Fingertips tingled at the urge to soothe her sleep with a gentle touch. His mantled surcoat was still wrapped around her, the fur a warm fringe haloing her head and cradling her neck as she nuzzled into it and whimpered his name.
Let that thing hear you.
He crumbled.
“I'm so sorry! I failed you.”
He dropped his brow down to the wooden edge of the cot and sobbed silently, trembling from the cold and the guilt and the deep, deep loneliness he had worn as a protective shield for so long he couldn't remember ever feeling differently. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He covered his mouth with a hand and bit the meat of his palm lest he wake Dorian, and tried to breathe through the fresh surge of grief.
Something grazed the top of his head.
He paid it no mind.
Warm fingers touched his hair, sinking into his curls and resting against his scalp. He froze, sniffled and lifted his head.
The most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen were staring up at him.
“Am... ame ar din?” she rasped quietly.
He wiped his eyes, not quite embarrassed to be caught crying but wanting to appear strong for her. “You're awake,” he murmured, failing to hide the hint of surprise in his voice.
“Am I,” she asked. She shifted her position and groaned in pain. Cullen sat up on his knees, eyes searching for an obvious hurt, but he didn't know what to do. She gave a pained chuckle. “I am. ...hurts.”
“What hurts?” His hands clasped the side of the cot, white-knuckled.
A hint of a smile. “Everything.”
He couldn't help the little laugh that came out. She was awake! “Do you need anything?”
Lavellan smacked her lips. “Thirsty.”
There was a water skin on a nearby crate. He grabbed it up and uncapped it. “Here. Don't try to lift your head.” He slid one hand under her neck at the base of her skull and tilted her head forward, letting a tiny trickle of water out of the skin with the other. Just enough to moisten her mouth.
“More?”
She shook her head no. He removed his hand and capped the water skin once again.
“I thought I died,” she whispered.
“Well, you tried quite hard to do so, but,” he watched the path of his hand as it toyed with the edge of a blanket, “I am very glad you are still with us.”
“Is it over? Did I kill it?”
His face tightened. “No. That thing—”
“Corypheus.”
Cullen nodded. “It escaped with its Archdemon. But the army of Templars was wiped out. We're safe for now.” He looked up, hoping to convey a cascade of sentiments with the vehemence of his next words. “You've saved us.”
She shook her head weakly, a trickled tear making its way down her cheek. He couldn't bear it! He wiped the tear away with the back of his fingers. “No. Listen to me. You saved us.”
“Cullen... I'm scared.” She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. Her jaw trembled.
“I know,” he soothed, daring to keep his hand upon her cheek to catch her tears, “So am I. But I'm here.”
What did that mean now? They hadn't exactly expressed their feelings towards one another beyond camaraderie and fondness, though that didn't feel quite correct. It occurred to him that she might have been coming onto him rather than his assumption that he had been about to make an utter fool of himself when the attack intervened. Either way, things were different now. They had to be! However Lavellan felt or didn't feel about him must have been dashed to pieces on the rocks of his cowardice. He'd let her stay behind, certain it would be her death though he was. How presumptuous to say I'm here for you now that the danger had passed.
So he added, “We're here for you. And we will deal with this together.”
Some shadow of feeling passed over her face. She winced uncomfortably, and Cullen was certain her next words would be a dismissal. He steeled his heart and waited for the blow to fall. But her face softened as she met his gaze once again, and his heart twisted in his chest. Her eyes pierced him through like starlight on a moonless night.
“Will you hold my hand,” she pleaded softly, “I'm so tired, but I'm... afraid to close my eyes.”
And just like that, the foreboding weighting him down lifted, and a delicate tenderness bloomed in its place. He nodded, blinking away the moisture in the corners of his eyes. “Of course,” he whispered, sliding his hand under the blankets to find hers and give it a squeeze. “Rest. I will watch over you while you sleep, and I'll be here when you wake.”
Her brow lifted, serene at last; she gave his hand a weak answering squeeze that he felt round his heart, and drifted back to sleep.