Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Most warriors deferred to the blade masters when determining what weight and size of a weapon was suitable for their stature. But not the Herald.

The Seeker had explained with a curl of her lip that the girl, hardly taller than a dwarf, had reached for the first weapon she'd seen in the rubble after the bridge collapse--and it had been a claymore longer than she was tall. If Cullen hadn't known Cassandra well enough, he would have mistaken her tone to be one of distaste or scorn. But he saw the gleam in her eye and knew then that this girl had already won the Seeker over.

Of course, it was an impressive, adrenaline-fueled feat to have wielded such an impossibly large weapon against the demons that day. She had met a great need with a great feat of valor. Now that she had been taken into the ranks of the newly formed Inquisition and sworn to put her Mark to use, a reasonable warrior would have gone to the armory and selected a weapon with appropriate balance and heft.

But not the Herald.

She had stubbornly insisted on holding on to the claymore out of sentimentality. Then, after a few excursions had chipped the edge and bent it in several odd ways, she had insisted on a replacement of the exact size and make. Cullen had overheard the gist of her argument with the smiths all the way from his side of the training yard, and a few days later he spied her sporting a new greatsword.

This was early on, and before she had entirely won the goodwill of Haven's forces. Cullen overheard some of the puns shared between drunken soldiers about the small woman's penchant for a large blade--jokes that the Commander swiftly put an end to. He hoped.

He, likewise, had not yet been won over by the Herald, but such insurrection was insidious and he could not stand for it.

The Herald was not shy about admitting what she did and did not know. Even at the war councils, she unabashedly interrupted when a piece of history, politics, or strategy needed to be unpacked for her. But the only expertise she would not accept was that of her trainers and armorers who insisted she take up a sword and shield more fit for her size--or a polearm, if she insisted on the size.

Cullen did not understand how her mind worked, or her body, for that matter. She had admitted that she had not been martially trained prior to the events at the Conclave, and she trained very little when she was in Haven, yet Varric insisted--and Cassandra corroborated--that their Herald was proficient and capable with her weapon of choice.

"It defies reason," Cassandra had said dryly, "as do most things that surround the Herald."

Chapter Text

One evening, as Cullen left the Chantry and headed back to the training yard, Varric stepped out of a shadow and stopped him.

"Has the Herald spoken to you yet?"

"I just saw her at the table." Cullen shrugged a shoulder behind him, toward the Chantry. "Was there something particular she was to have mentioned?"

Varric seemed almost abashed. "If she hasn't yet, I don't know if she will. She was trying to get to know Cassandra and Leliana, but you know how prickly those two can be."

"Indeed I do," Cullen said. "Lady Montilyet is more the one for chit-chat."

"Yeah, but she's good at it. That's the problem." Varric snorted. "Look, Mount Herald--she's a pragmatic woman. Pretending that she wasn't green wasn't going to help her or the Inquisition, so she didn't hide that. But now she knows that you all know how little she knows. You see?"

Cullen lowered his chin. He had seen. Neither Cassandra nor Leliana were known for their patience as trainers. They preferred to seek out natural talent and hone it--or leave that for underlings to polish. Josephine had stepped down from her lofty social circle to join their Inquisition slum and hid her distaste quite well, but even Cullen, raised as he was as a knight and gentleman, had often sensed her exasperation with his lack of grace or gossip.

Cullen had thought it brave and honorable for the Herald to maintain such humility and openness even before the experts at the war table. He had never judged her for it; he well understood that the strings of fate could pull even the most trained professional into situations they were unprepared for, and the Herald's eagerness and quickness to learn were to her credit. The progress she'd made at the war table was far beyond what he'd expect of any civilian recruit. But then again--he had always worked closely with trainees and recruits.Perhaps that gave him more of a point of reference to be kind.

"I will not rebuff her, if that's your request," Cullen said.

Varric ran a hand across his face and pinched the bridge of his broken nose. "And if you could--"

"This conversation never happened." Cullen winked.

But he was about to have a conversation with his colleagues about the importance of camaraderie.

Chapter Text

The Herald did not approach him. As time went on, Cullen's annoyance at his colleagues grew--though he hoped that he did not show it much. As days, then weeks, passed, Cullen began to consider that perhaps he should reach out to her on his own.

She was distinctly hard to catch. Either she was scouring the Hinterlands, or running errands for the quartermaster, or collecting ores for the blacksmith. Cullen was loathe to interrupt when he did see her across the training field, leading a cart of supplies that would give his soldiers more durable shields and thicker breastplates.

The opportunity arose when he saw a cart led by the blasted bog unicorn--seemingly unmanned. He had been the first to see it as he stared out pensively at the Breach, for the bog unicorn inexplicably was coming up from the frozen lake.

He was running even before he had called for his right hand. Behind him, one of Leliana's scouts shouted for medics and the Seeker.

The bog unicorn certainly did not like being charged at by large ex-Templars. It turned its rusted, wicked horn down and, with putrid breath frosting the air began a mirrored charge. Cullen had to dive onto the ice to avoid a skewering, and the shrieks of plate armor scraping across the ice joined the monstrosity's wrathful voice.

In the end it took several men to corner the unicorn and cut it free of the cart. It wasted no time in fleeing to the corrall, leaving its cargo for the Knight-Commander to deal with.

And what cargo it was.

The cart was smeared with blood--every surface--and broken armor and fragmented weapons scattered thewthe floor between thebthe bodies. Varric's face was beaten as badly as it had been in Kirkwall; Solas's rags were shredded across the ribs and back, and though the wounds no longer bled freely, they wept, inflamed with infection; and all of them were burned. Severely.

The Herald was clearly the worst off. If Cullen hadn't seen the green flare of the Mark still in her hand, he would have thought she had left for the Golden City. One of the arms of her armor had been melted into one tarnished, mishappen sheathe. From what little he could see of her arm beneath it, the metal had melted into her skin. Some of the rest of her armor was missing, and some of it he recognized lying on the floor of the cart--twisted and shredded like so much paper. Her knee was swollen and blackened by bruising, and where she was not burned, she was various shades of purples and yellows from great blunt trauma. Her hair was unevenly scorched and crusted with dried blood, and her face was smeared with it. Where her face had been unmarred by either markings or scars before, she was now adorned with terrible slashes from one temple down to the opposite jaw.

Cullen processed the horror immediately, clinically. He bellowed for the healers, and he quickly ordered the closest men to help him pull the cart up the icy slope into Haven. "Every second might be the difference!" he roared.

A wheeze, hardly different from the gasps and grunts of his men beside him, alerted him to a stirring in the cart. He did not stop pulling, did not turn to see which of his allies had woke.

"We're getting you home," he grunted over his shoulder. "Hold on!"

Chapter Text

"There was a dragon...and dragonlings." Solas could barely raise his head. "I did what I could... It has been days..."

Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra exchanged worried glances.

"We were caught between too many Templars and rebels... Ran through a cave... Dragon on the other side." The elf wheezed. "She dove in front of me... Off a cliff..."

"Then we have you to thank for Varric and the Herald's lives," Leliana said. "Mother Giselle says that if it were not for your efforts, they would be lost to us."

Solas closed his eyes and did not respond.

"Get your rest," Cullen told the mage. "The Herald is resting easy as well."

Solas exhaled slowly, and the advisors left him.

"You are a horrible liar," Cassandra told Cullen once they were out of earshot of the infirmary tents. "And Solas has an uncanny ability to see through even the best of lies."

"It's not a lie," Cullen protested. "She lives. She has her limbs. Her eyes. She will be well soon."

"She is not out of the gauntlet yet," Leliana murmured.

"How is the propaganda?" Josephine asked her.

"Our people want a hero to believe in," Leliana said, "and one who would jump in front of a dragon to protect her allies? A hero indeed."

"Now wait a minute," Cullen groaned. "Tell me, how is that propaganda? It's true."

"I agree with the sentiment," Cassandra said with a short.

"And that is well and good. Our job is to be the cynical pedants, and yours is to be the inspiration," Leliana said.

"Speaking of," Josephine said delicately. "Cullen...had the Herald spoken to you before she left?"

He narrowed his eyes. "No."

All three women looked away, each expressing their discomfort and guilt in their own ways: Leliana with her hands strained behind her back; Cassandra with her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, head hung low; Josephine with her tablet clutched to her chest, chin resting atop it.

Josephine continued in a low voice, so that her admissions might not be overheard. "We have heard from Scout Harding that...that the Herald had expressed a certain loneliness in Haven. Before you rightfully tell us that this is our doing--we know. But we feel that we cannot approach her with overtures of...deeper care...before we have first apologized to her and repaired her trust in our approval as her colleagues."

"In short, we need to apologize to her and make her confident that we do like her, before we will be able to provide her the comfort she might need," Cassandra said. "But you have not wronged her as we have. We would owe you, and the Inquisition would be better off, if she felt more welcomed around the camp."

"Especially given the extent of her injuries." Leliana raised her eyes to Cullen's briefly. "The healers are uncertain how soon she will be back to her previous capabilities as a warrior. We are concerned for her confidence, if she is incapacitated for long. And that," she said, "is not so inspiring."

Cullen stifled a derisive snort.

"The fact that you have to ask me," he began, then paused. "As a utility." He paused again, shook his head, and turned. "Work on putting your penitence into action, my ladies."

Chapter Text

It was several days before the war council was briefed on the Herald's health, and that of her companions. Varric was on his feet and Solas was well enough to begin tending his own wounds, but the Herald had only just managed to remain conscious for more than a few minutes.

Cullen assumed that Leliana had eyes on him from that moment forward, waiting for him to follow through with their request. He tried not to think on it as he pursued his duties through the day.

Lonely. He wondered in what context Scout Harding had obtained such insight. The women were close in age--perhaps they had become friendly. Or perhaps Harding had simply overheard something said around the fire, or a moment the Herald had thought private. He wondered which of his colleagues Harding had confided in. It seemed uncharacteristic of the woman to betray a trust... More likely, Leliana had heard through a grapevine...

He found himself contemplating this information with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Morale was important to him--he knew that trust and camaraderie within the tanks fueled inner reserves of strength in desperate situations. He had done his best to support the tavern, to encourage the recruits to share their home traditions without fear of scorn. He paid great care to who he assigned to each training squad, to pair fellow countrymen or recruits from certain backgrounds with one another--to make them feel, as much as possible, part of a community. To feel at home.

And despite his frustrations with the Chancellor, Cullen appreciated the man's devotion to inspiring community among the faithful.

The Herald, of course, had not been part of any of that. She was either a pariah or an idol within Haven, and Cullen knew that his colleagues were right. It did fall to them--as somewhat equals to her--to provide support where they could.

At last, he made his way to the Herald's bedside, stepped past Mother Giselle with a murmur of apology and gratitude.

The Herald was seemingly asleep. Her long hair--what length of it was left--had been braided to one side and away from her face to protect her healing burns.

Cullen knew that talented mages could work miracles, given the time. Yet, soldier as he was, he still was not truly numbed to the horror of missing limbs or severe disfigurement. He stopped, close to the entrance of the tent, hand raised unconsciously to touch his scarred lip as he contemplated the Herald's wounds--and her recovery.

There had been frantic talk about the use of her arm, after they had finally removed the armor fused to her skin. He was glad he had not been there to witness it, and he was relieved now to see that she was at least whole. Her arm was bandaged from her neck to the tips of her fingers where they lay at her side, unmoving. She smelled strongly of burnt skin, and salve.

Cullen went to her other, less damaged side and sat in the folding chair that had been set there. Still she did not stir, outside of the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of her chest.

He clasped his hands between his knees, suddenly self conscious as he watched her sleep. He had rarely seen her unarmored or up close--now he saw truly how slight she was. He could make out the pale dimples of older scars on her skin, saw how long and thick her eyelashes were; they fluttered occasionally as her eyes roved in her sleep.

Cullen bowed his head. He regretted the feeling in his chest, something too close to pity. She was a capable young woman, and headstrong, and willing to step into the role she had been given either by the Maker or more devious hands. But she was young. And she was alone.

He exhaled long and slow. He tried to imagine how he might feel if he had joined the Templars, as young as he had, without the conviction and enthusiasm that had buouyed him even so far away from home. If the path that led him to the sword had not been his choice, would he have missed his family more? Would he have been so headstrong?

...If he had not been so alone after the Circle, would he have fallen into such despair, such bitter anger, in the wake of the tragedies that he had witnessed?

Bent over his hands, he began to pray.

The Herald's breath hitched, and her hand scrabbled for purchase in the sheets beside her. She reached off the bed blindly and found his clasped hands, clutched at his arm. He looked up at her with wary concern and covered her hand with one of his own.

"Herald?" he murmured. "I'll fetch Mother Gi--"

"No," the Herald gasped. "I-I'm fine." Her voice was thick and unstable, and her eyes were squinted at the ceiling, bleary. Moisture ran from the corners of her eyes, clung to her lashes. "'s a dream, not the pain..."

She tried to turn her head ever so slightly to look at him, but her breath hitched again and it was clear that this time, she was in pain.

"I should let you rest," Cullen said quickly, keeping his voice soft as though afraid to frighten her into more pain as one might frighten a desperate halla to leap from a cliff.

Her hand tightened on his arm. He did not move from where he sat.

"Wh...what are...why are you here?" Every breath was laced with pain.

"I..." Why was he here? How could he explain without wielding his pity like a dagger to needle her insecurities, as Varric had warned him? "I heard that you had made progress in your recovery. I wanted to commend your bravery. Your team is alive because of you."

"Oh." She blinked rapidly, and more tears spilled down the side of her face. "No one told me... I'm so glad."

"My Lady, that was a grievous oversight on all our parts, then. I must apologize."

She dropped her hand from his arm and let it hang freely over the side of the bed. "Thanks."

A silence fell between them, and as it stretched onward, Cullen began to fidget with his gloves.

"I realize I do not know you well at all," he admitted, "but personally, the few times I have been confined to bed rest nearly drove me mad. So... I also wanted to offer my company, as unexciting as I might be, should you want for it."

"The mighty lion, brought down to bed rest?" the Herald said softly, but the teasing note in her voice was strong. "Forgive me if I'm likewise unexciting in this state."

"Ah, well." He reached back to scratch his fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "I have been so unlucky as to face some formidable foes in my career thus far. I think your luck might be nearly as bad as mine."

"Nearly," the Herald said dryly. "I... Thank you. I would very much appreciate your company." She licked her dried and cracked lips. "And...could you also keep me informed on matters of the Inquisition? When you have the time. I don't..." She sucked in a breath as she turned her head painfully toward him. "Don't think I'll be able to read any reports myself."

"Of course, Lady Hera--"

"Stahhp," she moaned. "I knew a Harold. I hate that." She seemed to catch herself and raised her hand to grab at him--but the sudden movement caused her to whimper in pain. Her fingers dug into his sleeve. "My name. Cullen. My name."

Chapter Text

Cullen ducked under the overhanging lip of the tent and entered to find the Herald seated almost upright. Her arm was still bandaged tightly, and it lay still and heavy in her lap, but her face was animated. Solas was seated in the chair beside her bed, his staff propped up a few feet away.

"How would you stop them?" Solas asked her, his voice pitched low and dripping skepticism.

The Herald's eyes slid to Cullen, where he waited at the door, then back to Solas.

"However I had to."

Solas was silent in the wake of the Herald's heavy promise. His jaw tightened as though he were chewing on her words, and he did not look at Cullen but rather held the Herald's gaze steadily, searching. At last, he dipped his chin in a short nod.

"Thank you, Herald," he said. "For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach."

The Herald's lip curled, twisting the scars on her healing face. "Solas."

"Ixchel," he replied, and if Cullen didn't know better he would have thought Solas were teasing the Herald.

Solas's gaze washed across Cullen's face with hardly a change of his stony expression, and then the mage left. Cullen had gotten accustomed to mages passing him with such looks--or worse. He let it roll off of him as best be could and stepped further into the tent.

The Herald raised her uninjured hand toward Cullen and made a grabbing motion. "Reports?"

"Leliana says the dragon was almost worth the trouble," he said, taking the seat Solas had just vacated. "I don't pretend to understand them, but the rumors she's fed about the incident have spread like wildfire in just three weeks. I believe she's got them on the third page you have. First page is the to-do list from before you left. I imagined you might like to do the honors." He held out a stick of charcoal, and she placed the papers in her lap, stick poised.

He was a little disappointed when she did not provide commentary on her accomplishments. He had heard some curious anecdotes from Varric about their time in the Hinterlands over the past two months or so: ancient curses and lost Avvar legends, ruined villas and a castle, and more than their fair share of bears. Of course, he had read some of the Herald's own reports, but they were concise and dry as though she were distilling only what she thought each of her advisors wished to know.

A part of Cullen--the part that enjoyed a chapter or two of Hard in Hightown every now and then--wanted to know more.

The Herald continued to cross items off of their list, and at last, she began to shuffle through the rest of the papers in the stack. "The watch towers are finished already? That was fast."

"And Master Dennet has agreed to join us here as soon as he is able. He sent a beautiful mount ahead with Cassandra for you."

She looked up to give him a brief, lopsided smile. The scars left by dragonlings claws still pulled at one corner of her mouth, probably a little painfully. It did nothing to dampen the gratitude clearly in her face before she went back to reading the reports.

"Thank you for making sure Hyndel's potion reached his mother," she said. "I hope it helps her this winter."

"I'm sure it will."

The young woman's smile faded as she reached the next dispatch. Her hands tightened reflexively, and she hissed down at her injured arm with chagrin. "I need to address the Chantry leadership," she said. "How beautiful is that horse? Pretty enough to distract from a Dalish bastard with this savage vallaslin?" She gestured at her mutilated face.

Cullen took a sharp breath. "W-well... It's not a horse, per say."

She glanced at him sidelong, her brow slanted bitterly, and he cursed himself. Why had that been his first response?

"Ixchel, no matter who you might be or what you might look like, the Chantry would have a problem with the Inquisition." He ran a hand up the back of his neck, fluffing his hair, then smoothed it back. "If they won't respect the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, they wouldn't respect any bare-faced human in your position."

A small quirk of her lips told him that he had avoided the most precipitous fall in her mood, and he breathed a heavy sigh.

"Cassandra's got a much prettier..." She gestured at her face again and chuckled. "Well, this is who you've all chosen. Or Andraste. Or whomever." The young Herald sighed again and settled back into her pillows. "If not a horse, what did Dennet send us?"

"He sent you a hart."

Chapter Text

All things considered, maybe Cullen shouldn't have been surprised that the two young elves didn't get along well.

Sera showed up in Haven ahead of even Leliana's scouts, and she took up seemingly permanent residence in the tavern without a proper explanation of why she had come to the Inquisition. When the scout arrived to tell Cullen and Josephine of the Herald's experience in Val Royeaux, she was also surprised by the elf's sudden appearance at Haven. And when at last the Herald returned with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric, she responded to Josephine's inquiry with a look that quelled all further inquiries.

Cullen knew Ixchel usually retired to her room immediately upon returning from a long journey, so he was not expecting her to show up at the training grounds only a few hours later. She was still covered in a layer of dirt from the road, and she stalked toward him with a bit of a limp from the saddle. Her arm had not been fully healed when she left, and she still held it close to her body, careful not to jostle it--which made her gait all the more lopsided.

"What am I supposed to do about Sera?" she asked dourly.

Cullen's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, and he crossed his arms. "What about her?"

Ixchel rolled her neck testily. "Sera's contacts tipped us off to an ambush, and she had the chance to take their weapons from the guards--but instead, she took their trousers." She threw up her hands. "She could have taken their weapons, Cullen!"

Cullen cocked his head, and Ixchel's eyes narrowed.

"You think it's funny, too!"

He chuckled. "Well, objectively, it is."

A small smile quirked the Herald's lips, despite herself. "I don't like someone who'd toy with my life like that. And my friends' lives." She sighed. "I don't want to bring her with me. She'll kill Solas for being so 'elfy,' or Cassandra might kill her. Even Varric doesn't think she's that funny. But if I leave her here."

She ended her sentence abruptly and examined him with a shrewd gaze. "You have sisters, right? One of them has to be a troublemaker."

"I am afraid that I left the house before gaining too much experience in that department," Cullen said. "But I wouldn't worry, Ixchel. If she decides to set bees loose in the Chantry, I'm sure our good Chancellor will know what to do about her."

The Herald blanched at the thought.

Cullen uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. "Truly, do not let this worry you. If she causes trouble, trust Lady Nightingale, Lady Montilyet, and I to take care of it. We will tend to the Inquisition's morale--you already have enough on your plate out there in the field."

Ixchel's shoulders drooped. "Varric's concerned about more red lyrium surface deposits in the Hinterlands. I'll be headed back out there in the morning." She scuffed her boot in the trampled slush beneath them and dropped her gaze from his. "While we're there, I'm going to meet with the mages. Just to hear their offer. I was thinking we could send a raven to the Templars at Therinfal to meet with them soon after."

Cullen could not help the reflex to bare his teeth. "They will certainly hear of your meeting with the mages and take that as a decision in and of itself, Ixchel."

She winced, but when she spoke, her voice did not waver. "Then they'll hear it from me. I'll send the raven before I leave, and they'll just have to trust that I will keep my mind open until I've spoken to both parties. But I'm not going to just not stop in Redcliffe on my way to eastern Ferelden." She dug her heel into the mud. "Why should we close any doors before we've opened them?"

"The mages always want the same thing," he retorted. "You can already guess what their demands are."

"And the Templars will want something other than a return to status quo, perhaps with reparations from the mages?" She looked back at him sharply. "I'm not interested in their bargains, Commander. I am going to them to make them interested in our bargain."

He was surprised at the intensity in her gaze and the canny intent behind her words. He recognized then that she was not only a quick study in the arts of war and politics--she was a quick study of her advisors, as well. "As you say, Herald," he admitted slowly. "I'm merely concerned that neither the mages nor the Templars are particularly focused on the Breach. It may be necessary to cater to their squabbles to change that."

"The more I work with seasoned adults, the more I realize the world is full of children," she spat vehemently, and then she wilted again. "Sorry, Cullen. That's not about you or the others... I just hated everyone in Val Royeaux.,,"

He snorted. "I completely understand. I find that a trek across the Ferelden wilderness is usually the best way to wash the Orlesian sleeze off one's skin."

As she allowed a small laugh to escape her, Cullen found himself reaching out to clasp her unharmed shoulder. "If you are to set out so soon, be sure to get your rest, Herald."

She looked at the gauntlet on her shoulder, then up at him. The freshly healed scars on her face softened with the smile she gave him. "After the meeting," she agreed. "Speaking of which. War table in half an hour?"

"Of course, my lady."

Despite the bitter twinge that had colored the end of their conversation, Cullen found himself watch her limp back toward the town gates with a fond smile of his own.

Chapter Text

"Sweet Maker, can both of you please shut up?!"

--

"So I wasn't chosen by Andraste? This was all by chance, a ricochet in a scuffle?"

--

"Where's Hawke?"

--

"Cullen thought you'd like to deal with him yourself."

The Inquisitor picked up a dented helmet from the ramparts and smashed it even further on the wall. She imagined that it was the Magister's head.

She had reached Skyhold before the main host, and the citadel's cold silence made her restless. She wasn't sure which, if any, of her companions had tried to chase her down--she had ignored all of them as she and her mount fled the Wastes. She hadn't paid close attention to whether they kept her trail, but it was just as likely that they had lost her. She had hardly had her wits about her as she fled.

She flew across the continent, alone, and very quickly lost herself in the constant motion. There was no time to reflect when she was her only hunter, only watchman, only medic. Her thoughts were linear and constant: elfroot dawnstone blood lotus ram bear dragonlings--an eye-to-brain stream of pertinent information and that alone.

Only now, as she stalked into Skyhold and beat a poor discarded helmet into a ball of mishapen steel, did she even begin to interrogate herself.

She had told Stroud that she didn't care what stories her people told about her--she was just glad that they, her people, had survived. She had wasted so much of her precious time clearing the battlements so that Cullen's ladders could find safe landing. If she had been able to reach that damn Magister sooner, could she have saved that Warden, stopped the carnage, before the Archdemon arrived? Would she have ever had to pull them into the Fade? Would she have had to leave Hawke behind?

She didn't understand the Champion of Kirkwall. She didn't understand the strange powers at play in his life--or hers. That's why she'd liked him from the start. God-meddled, the both of them. But she did understand his sacrifice.

It was right.

Giving the Wardens a chance to fight the Calling, fight Corypheus, and atone for their order's sins--that was right, too. But she had seen the shattered look in Cassandra's eyes, and the utter demolition streaked across Varric's face.

"The two of them should have been damned to the Fade together," she snarled, and flung the former helmet off the cliff in front of her. She had come close to punching both Stroud and Hawke in the face, as they argued pointlessly in the Fade. "Live out their days bickering like a married couple. Tragedies all around." But if that had been the case, the tragedies would not have lain upon her shoulders.

Why had they left it up to her? Hadn't she been proved to be a straw man, a propped-up figurehead for a faith she didn't even follow? A girl who had never asked for such dread responsibility, ill-equipped to lead a war? They had learned, alongside her, that everything about her path to the Inquisition had been a fluke. 

So why had both of the men, so much older than her, looked to her to make that dreadful decision?

Why hadn't she damned Stroud in the aftermath of it all? No one had liked her decision to enlist the Wardens. What happened to keeping your enemies closest? What happened to Andraste's mercy?

(She wasn't Andraste's Herald. That's what happened.)

Someone should be punished for forcing her hand like that.

She had seen all of their worst fears in Nightmare's graveyard. They had wallowed in dreadful memories of the unknown, the precipice--the fear of these impossible, evil choices that good people sometimes had to make. 

And still they had looked to her to choose for them.

The Inquisitor progressed through Skyhold more quietly. She made her way to the roofs and crept toward the small shrine in the gardens. It was possible that some soul might be out praying for the safe return of their love from the Western assault at Adamant, but she was relieved to find that was not the case at this hour.

She slipped into the shrine and immediately felt a sense of calm fill her with the first breath of incense and candle smoke. Andrastian or not, she appreciated the atmosphere in the shrine.

She had grown up among watchful statues, and their sightless eyes and strong, immovable arms gave her comfort even if the particular entities they represented did not.

The little Chantry room was ablaze with warmth from the hundreds of votive candles lit by those left behind at Skyhold. The Inquisitor stared pensively over them, counting, wondering what the final losses would add to. How many lights had been quenched at Adamant? Would they darken the room? Or had she managed to spare enough to keep the soul of the Inquisition alive? Did she care, if her inner circle turned their backs on her for the decisions she had made along the way?

Chapter Text

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, though no new chill had fallen upon the room. She felt it in her bones every time Solas turned his placid eyes on her. She thought perhaps that it was because of how steeped he was in the Fade, and how her arm by now was probably more present in the Fade than in the waking world.

She was relieved that he was the one who had found her, but at the same time she was also incredibly ashamed.

She was ashamed that he had found her in the shem idol's shrine. She was ashamed that she had run from everyone. She was strangely ashamed of how terribly their foray into the Fade had gone. She felt as though it was a reflection of her and her insides: ugly, full of fear, empty of all that was meant to be familiar to this dreamy, scholarly Fade mage elf. A disappointment. Her lack of connection to her ancient culture--a disappointment. Her lack of connection to *any* culture--a disappointment. Her clumsy connection to the Fade--a disappointment. Her attempts to make up for all the ways in which his steely eyes found her lacking--a disappointment of its own.

But no matter what she thought his eyes said, his words were always clear and calm and caring. She imagined that was what a Keeper was meant to be like, but she had never had a Keeper. Instead, her trust had been broken so many times by the waking world that she found it difficult to believe words. It was easier to guess at what was unsaid and react preemptively, safely.

Very difficult, even dangerous, to do so in a war.

She had thought perhaps that by comporting herself with suspicion and caution she might insulate her from the malice humans directed at elves and the Templars directed at all things magical and mysterious. She had thought that questioning her advisors' motives would protect her from making a swift judgement unprepared for the consequences. But it turned out that time and time again, her advisors' intentions were pure. Time and time again, she had to relent and trust their advice.

And time and time again, Solas had looked at her with those opaque eyes and called her da'len in the warmest tones.

She took a steadying breath and stood to face him, and she met those mirrored eyes.

But like eluvians of late, she found them suddenly open to her. In them was the barest glimmer of transparency--and warmth, and grief, lay behind their lenses.

"There is one thing the Chantry has that the Dalish don't," she murmured by way of an explanation. An explanation for why he had found her there, of all places. Of why she was so distraught. Of why she was doomed. "True martyrs. We lost any legends of people sacrificing everything for the greater good of the people. If there ever were any such heroes. The Dalish hide from each other and from the world..." She blinks at Solas in a brave attempt to clear the burning from her eyes, but the tears are in her throat. "I'm called a Herald of a woman who was burned at the stake for trying to help her people. I'm beginning to feel like that's going to be where they'll put me at the end of all of this."

The grief in his eyes was more apparent now. He remained as a statue on the threshold of the chantry. It was still dark out, and dressed as he was in his dark tunic, he seemed like a spirit--only half-there. She approached, and she saw a flash of red across his midsection; he was holding a dark fur in his arms, and it had obscured the fabric he'd wrapped around him to pad his belts. He had moved, raised his arms and the pelt, ever so slightly, and for a split second he seemed like he was about to reach for her--but then he allowed her enough room to pass back out into the garden. The red sash reminded her too much of spilled innards, and she blanched as she fled the Chantry.

He followed behind her, and his footsteps fell softly in the grass like the loping steps of a wolf in the Graves.

"All your travels in the Fade... You've watched so many legends play out, preserved in the spirits of both sides. And you wake into this world again and you find only ruined empires and dust." She clenched her fists, and pain lanced up her forearms. Perhaps she had beaten them against that helm with too much vigor. "No one's tales...no one's memories... Nothing lasts."

She could not avoid the statues of Andraste, and she had no one to blame but herself. She had put them there, because so many of her followers found comfort in them. She had wanted to alleviate their suffering when she could, and it seemed like such a simple gesture.

But it had robbed her of a space for her own solace.

"I can alleviate some of the suffering in this world, while I'm here. But the world will not be better for me being here. And I will not be better off for having been here."

She heaved a shuddering sigh.

"And one way or another I'll be dead at the end."

Chapter Text

Solas followed her silently in the wake of her grim prophecy. She wasn't sure where she was going, but her feet led her through the eerily silent great hall and up to the throne that had been carved for her by some Ferelden artisans she'd saved on the road.

The Herald looked up at the howling wolves and at the stained glass windows behind them. How many different cultures had she tried to represent here in this gathering space? So many months in to their occupation of Skyhold and she still didn't know if the amalgamation of all their diverse iconographies had been interpreted by her Inquisiton forces as a gesture of solidarity or an insult. And she still didn't know particularly where she was represented in all of it herself.

Was it the gold and finery of Orlais in the furniture? The Ferelden wolves and women stationed like watchers all around the citadel? Was it the sturdy Dwarven construction of the doors and the banner crowns? The gentle chimes of the Dalish wind signals attached to the banners themselves? The thick Avvar furs that lined the floors and the covered the beds? The Chantry garden? The mage's tower with all its books? The training yard she'd built for her soldiers and scouts? The tavern filled with music and laughter and voices representing more diverse crowds than had ever been gathered in one place before?

She felt no connection to any of it, except for the thread of Corypheus and Apocalypse and Desperation that united them all.

Ixchel put her head in her hands and sank to a crouch in front of her throne and tried to keep her breaths even. She was swiftly losing that battle as her brain took her back to that moment: falling off the ramparts at Adamant, the ground hurtling toward her and her friends, and she had been so afraid and desperate that she had ripped the fabric of the very world open to save them.

Her heart raced even now, and it choked her. Pain continued to lace up her arms from her doubtlessly bruised and bloody knuckles. Her broken fingernails dug into her skin and her breaths came sharp, shallow, through her nose.

She felt even more wretched when Solas knelt with her. When he put his arms around her, she felt her soul leave her body entirely; the space it vacated was swiftly filled with mortification and self-deprecating anger.

She tried so hard to be a leader. She tried so hard to be taken seriously, and to walk a line of kindness and inclusion, and to be seen as a stalwart, steady rock for her people. But she was glad again that Solas was the one to see her masks cast aside in this moment, for he had always known the truth, hadn't he?

She was just a green da'len fighting an unwinnable battle: kindness against cruelty and honesty against deception and hope against cynicism. Her youth and her ideals and her heart were always going to be bitter casualties along the way.

And now, stripped of each, she leaned into Solas's embrace and cried.

When at last her tears ran dry and her sobs became quiet breaths, she felt a vice ease from around her heart. She still carried a weight upon her shoulders and a sorrow in her breast, but she would perhaps never be free of them: the shadows of her responsibilities and actions as Inquisitor would stretch long into her old age. But she had mourned her lot in life in a way that she had not allowed herself before. Ixchel the orphan, the refugee, was dead. No longer would Ixchel the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, carry her around like a dead limb.

She wiped her eyes and leaned back from Solas. She had fully collapsed into him, sprawled across the stonework in front of her throne. His sleeve was soaked from her tears, and her hair was tangled and damp and clung to her cold cheeks, but she met his looking-glass eyes and tried not to look abashed. He did not look quite so polished, either. Though he wore deep black, the dust of the road covered his clothes. His hair was growing in slightly--a dark shadow across his head. A new scar had been added to his brow. 

Her efforts to appear composed were thwarted when her voice would not push past the lump in her throat, and she cleared it with a rough cough. "I'm glad you're here," she rasped.

He offered her a thin smile and took one of her bruised hands without dropping her gaze. "As am I," he admitted in a low voice that was nearly as ragged as her own. "Through my journeys, I have seen enough leaders in the wake of both their triumphs and their defeats. I know that none of it is without sacrifice and regret. Even victory is a heavy burden for a leader of conscience and heart." Healing magic swept between her fingers and smoothed across her knuckles. Then, the magic sank into the muscles of her forearms and began to ease the tension there. Still, Solas held her eyes with his own. "There are few of those, even in the record of the Fade, Ixchel."

She returned his wan smile.

"If I could tell you stories of martyrs and heroes to give you strength, I would. It is not only that I cannot. I do not believe you need it." He paused again. "Were you like this before the Anchor? Has it affected you? Changed your mind, your morals, your...spirit?"

Her voice, when she spoke, was a whisper. "It changed my path," she replied. "It has put me in positions to exercise the values I already had and solidify them. I'm just trying to do what's right." 

"I know... You show a wisdom I have not seen since...since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. There is a subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected." He laced their fingers together, and suddenly she found the sight of their joined hands to be equally the most fascinating and concerning sight in her recollection. She focused on them, the feeling of his thumb brushing across her skin in slow, comforting strokes. "If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours...have I misjudged them?"

"The Dalish did not raise me," she corrected. A gleam entered his eye, almost disapproving. She tightened her grip on his hand because she sensed he was withdrawing mentally, and she could not bear for him to withdraw physically, too. She needed him to understand. She had only just understood it herself.

She did not have a place in Orlais, or Ferelden, or with the Dalish, or with the Dwarves, or with the Avvar. Neither the mages nor the Templars, the Chantry or the Qun or among the ranks of the Magisters--none of them could claim her, nor she them.

"It was the world that raised me, Solas. Its cruelty and its coldness. And this is what the world produced." She thumped a set of their joined hands against her chest. "I refuse to let it fester. I refuse." She looked up at him with tears once again shining in her eyes. "It's all I can do, for as long or as short as I'm here. I don't know any other way to be."

The cold look on his face softened again, and he dipped his head in a nod. The set of his mouth was somber, but he resumed the comforting stroke of his thumb against the back of her hand, laced their fingers tighter. "Perhaps this wicked world is worth something, then," he murmured, "if it has indeed made you."

A wave of exhaustion hit Ixchel all at once. His open expression added a meaning to his words that she had not previously considered, had not even entertained the thought of considering. She blinked at him slowly and felt herself sway at their impact. Her lips parted to speak but her voice failed her when his lashes flickered and he looked down at her mouth ever so briefly.

"I'm glad you're here," she said again, softly, and lowered her gaze.