Chapter Text
For what had to be the hundredth time, Leliana watched as the Commander slipped away from his map table and wandered toward the edge of camp. It had been nearly a full day and there was still no sign of The Herald. Her best scouts were doing an around the clock watch for her, but the snow and uncertainty of their situation made it difficult. The Commander seemed...anxious about Lady Lavellan. There were leads on more permanent places to take the Inquisition, but Cullen insisted on staying put until The Herald caught up. "She cannot be left to the elements for any longer than absolutely necessary." He was becoming increasingly frustrated with the wait, but more so by the idea that they should think about the possibility that she never left Haven. "One more day. We just… have to give her more time. Alone in a blizzard being chased by a dragon riding lunatic.... She just needs more time."
At first, Leliana believed his concern was the same as hers and the other advisors; there were still so many tears in the fade; so many rifts to close and they very literally could not do it without the small Dalish elf. Without the mark, they were helpless to seal the rifts. But even Cassandra, so sure this woman was sent by The Maker, certain The Herald was touched by divine grace, had begun to think they needed to move on. They still had an entire army to attend to, and out in the unforgiving Frostback peaks, their supplies and morale would not hold out long.
He masked it well. His concern was so business like. But Leliana was more intuitive than the others. Her bard training allowed her to read almost anyone like a book, even the steely former Templar. The shadow cast across his eyes when her possible death was mentioned. The flush that came across his face whenever he saw a scout enter camp, hopeful that this one brought news of The Herald's return. The twitch in his scarred lip when that scout shook his or her head and went to their tent to get some much-needed rest. He was concerned for her, not as The Herald but as a person. Was it guilt? Could he not bear another soldier lost because of Haven? Or something more? Ten years ago, Leliana would have been foaming to know if he had some secret, unrequited feelings for the Dalish mage, against all odds and in the midst of a world under siege from a dark, unbeatable half god tormenting them. But a now cold and cynical Leliana thought only in terms of necessity. She discarded the idea of some forbidden love for the former thought - it stood to reason. Cullen was already torn apart because of the losses at Haven. Leliana herself was as well. He just couldn't accept that they had to lose one more.
The next day, the bundles were being packed and things being accounted for in preparation for their move. All unnecessary tents being taken down, all agents coming back to camp for new orders. Commander Cullen had not been seen all day because he had taken off early to walk the path one last time to their last campground. She must be out there. She found a campsite and could go no further. She is dying and cannot make it to us. She cannot die. She just....can't.
Hours passed and he resigned himself to the fact that he would not find her. He looked forlorn at the cold embers and ash of the temporary fire they had made not so long ago. With a heavy sigh, he began his trek back toward camp as he engulfed himself in planning their next move. Without her, they would need a new plan of action. After some time, when he was not far from the flicker of campfire lights, he heard a sound. Like a whisper on the wind, he thought at first that he had imagined it. "C....Cull....len..." He spun around and squinted through the snow to see that someone was there. A small frame and smaller voice called as he watched the figure collapse into the snow. He ran toward it like a halla on the plains, despite being weighed down by his heavy armor. He came into view of the person, he saw her telltale golden hair; normally in a tight and orderly bun, now matted and disheveled from the wind and wet. Breaking through the tresses were her lithe ears, bright red from exhaustion and the elements. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, not necessarily to summon anyone to him, but to reassure himself as he fell to his knees to collect her fragile frame. "I've found her! It is The Herald!" He tucked her up closely to his body and whispered "Thank The Maker..."
He held her close to warm her small body. He heard footfalls in the distance coming toward him. His voice must have echoed down the ravine to the camp because he was suddenly set upon by Cassandra, Leliana, and Solas. Both women were trying to touch her, trying to feel for themselves that she was alive; Solas set immediately to making sure she stayed that way. As they walked, Cullen could feel the elf’s healing magic radiating through her feeble body. She was so cold. Her pale skin was always so pure and beautiful, but the cold made it look sickly. The bluish hue that showed just how close she was to death unnerved him.
He tore his eyes from her skin and as he laid her on a cot in the healer's tent, he looked at her closed eyes. Pale lashes covered in tiny icicles tried to open to see what was going on around them. Removing a glove, Cullen gently wiped away the ice before it started to melt into her eyes. At the touch, one eye forced its way open and looked into his. The shiny emerald orb was dull and tired but still alive. He spoke to her, hoping she was aware. "Herald, you are safe now. The healers are fetching the materials they need to restore you." She seemed to acknowledge him, but then stared past him and soft words fell from her lips. "I must be dead. For you to be here with me, I've died and ventured Beyond." Her green eye pierced his once more and closed, just as the healers ran back in. "Alright Commander, you will have to leave now. We have a lot of work to do."
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"Commander Cullen, we owe you a great debt. If we had not stayed, we might have never found the Herald." Josephine was standing outside the healer's tent with bated breath hoping for an update. She and the other advisors had been so quick. They wanted to pack up and move. Seeing the Herald's condition threw into sharp relief what they would have lost had they done so. She was barely alive now, she never would have made it farther. Cullen looked at her with concerned but hopeful eyes. "Yes, now that the healers are working on her, she should be awake soon. Once the Herald is ready to proceed, we can move. Has Solas given you any more information about this mountain fortress?" Cullen forced his thoughts to the next task at hand, afraid of his own thoughts were he to dwell on... current events.
They walked together toward their makeshift 'war room' area and looked at their map. "No, unfortunately. He claims this castle is somewhere in the Frostbacks, lost to time and forgotten. He said once the Herald arrived, we could all make the journey together." Josephine sighed, and looked toward where Leliana was standing. She was speaking with Mother Giselle about the Herald's return. "Leliana is not happy about it. She wanted to send scouts ahead but according to Solas, 'the journey should only be attempted by all'." Cassandra walked up and interjected, "Though, at this point he may be correct. Our supplies are dwindling, we may not be able to send a scouting party either way."
"That's why we should have sent one when it was first suggested. Now we could be stumbling into darkspawn or Maker knows what else. Then we won't just be out of food - we'll be dead." Leliana approached as they began to discuss their next move. "What if this mountain palace is not even real? Then we will all die for sure!" Cullen attempted to calm the situation but before he could get a word out, Cassandra began throwing verbal daggers at the Spymaster. Here we go again. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to be pulled into the fray. He stared dismissively at the map of Fereldan in front of him, his thoughts wandering across the camp to a small, cold elf who was being revived.
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She was remarkable in a way he had not anticipated. A simple bystander to world events was dragged into them. Never once did she falter. Never once did she try to say that it was not her fight. She jumped in full with all of them, even after she received a chastising letter from one of her clan members, a hahren she called him, telling her to remove herself from the shemlen fight.
The Lavellan clan had long been one of the few elven groups who did not actively hate humans. The Keeper had the heart of a younger mage and was more open minded than some of the elders were prepared for. Her urging is what sent the Herald to the Conclave to begin with. Many older members of the clan thought they should leave well enough alone. Trading with the humans was one thing but going out of the way to engage them put many of the clan off. But Da'Nyal agreed with her mentor; isolation would not help them while the Templar/Mage war was raging.
Her impassioned words were sent back on the wings of a raven, telling this hahren, a man called Cyrel that the world was at stake, and that if this shemlen fight did not prevail, he would not be around to spout his racist propaganda anyway. There were a few elven words he did not know in the missive but based on the content, he assumed they were curses. She felt guilty about it, even asking him to proofread it, make sure it wasn't too harsh. "He's just so insufferable! He has been the same way ever since anyone in the clan can remember. Humans are not evil simply because they are born with round ears! The elves are just as racist as humans! More so even!" She slammed her hands into the war table, jarring the pieces and causing several to fall over. He tightened his expression so he would not smile. Such rage coming from such a small, delicate...
Do not laugh. Do not laugh at her. He put the letter down next to her hand and tried to form an answer. "You know him better than I. However, I believe if you feel this strongly about your cause, you should let him know. And if these were the words you felt you should write, then I would not change them." She smiled at him, grabbed the note, and flitted away. He could feel his heart beat faster as that playful smile crossed her face. Once her back was turned, he felt his face break into a smile of his own.
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"CULLEN!" A female voice pulled him out of his reverie. Cassandra was staring him down, fire in her eyes. "If you are finished daydreaming, perhaps you could do your job and help plan out our strategy!" That's it, no more Commander Nice Guy. "Plan strategy?! Is that what you hens call all of this bickering?!" The fight was on, full force, all four of them screaming and hurling insults at one another. This continued longer than anyone in the Inquisition camp could fathom, but no one got any sleep because of it.
Meanwhile, in the healers’ tent, they were working feverishly to warm the Herald. Dorian, Vivienne and Solas all looked on, waiting to replenish a mage with lyrium or take over in case one could not continue. After it had been a few hours, her cheerful pale pink color had finally returned and the wounds she sustained were all but completely healed. Miraculously, aside from the near brush with hypothermia and some deep bruises, there did not seem anything seriously wrong with her. The lead healer looked to the three mages standing there and sighed, not discouragingly, however you could tell she was exhausted. "We have done all we can. Now it's just up to her to wake up." As she opened the tent flap to leave, Mother Giselle entered and regarded the mages. "How does the Herald fare?" After Solas updated her, he and the other mages left her to watch over the small elf. As she settled in, the voices of the advisors cascaded across the camp. Giselle smiled as she bowed her head to pray. So headstrong, so certain. Ah, to be young again. A voice startled her, and she looked up to see two bright green orbs looking at her. "They've been at it for a while...." The Herald spoke coherently for the first time since being back at camp. Mother Giselle smiled, "Thanks to you, they have that chance."
The Mother spoke with the elf of faith and belief. Even after her miraculous return, the Herald was concerned, doubtful even. But when The Mother began to sing, and all the camp joined in, she no longer questioned. The advisors stopped fighting and she watched as Leliana lent her beautiful soprano tones to the chant. Even Cullen, steadfast and strong, lifted his baritone roar to The Maker. The words didn't matter. As The Herald watched, she saw the resolve, she felt the intense love and devotion to the Maker reverberate through the camp. That's how they would succeed; that is how they would win. Her eyes drifted through the crowd and locked onto a pair of amber ones crowned by golden waves. Those eyes looked back at hers and for a moment a light smile crossed his face. Then the orbs were gone, and she thought she saw a slight blush as they turned away.