Divine Victoria is the one who carries him back. Cassandra, gold armor glinting like a pyre, has the Herald of Andraste slung limp across her shoulders. Sweat pours down her face and blood pours down her side, her chest, down Lavellan.
Lavellan looks dead already. Maker help her, his skin has gone from it's usual light brown to nearly white. His left forearm is gone, the mark with it.
Harding had come because Leliana sent for her, said in that delicate way of hers that the Inquisitor could use a friend. They were his friends, she wasn't sure what she was. They were seeing each other now. They'd been seeing each other for a while.
Iron Bull moves to take him, and for a moment the Divine bristles. A reflex. Then she carefully eases her burden into the qunari's arms, only saying hoarsely "Be careful. Don't let the others see."
Harding hurries toward Cassandra first, something she judges herself for later when she has time to think, and immediately demands, "What happened?" in a voice that sounds panicked in her own ears. But Iron Bull is carrying the Inquisitor away, and she can't let him go.
So she forsakes her answer, turns, and follows instead.
Harding wasn't there when Lavellan first tried to close the Rift. Under an ocean of stars in the Hissing Wastes, side by side before a fire, he'd told her quietly that if there was any miracle involved it came from Solas. He would not have survived otherwise. Then the Inquisitor smiled, like he was making a joke at his own expense, and told her he's really not very brave. The nightmares were horrible but waking up was worse. His body had been ready to die. It felt like he was branded, like he was burning down to his bones. He'd rather not cut it that close in the future. She'd leaned into his shoulder and simply answered, "Please don't," which did make him laugh.
She'd asked him if he was worried it could happen again, when he went back a second time. "Of course," he'd answered, "I was terrified." She watched his face for a few moments, then. He looked tired but almost peaceful as he said it. He was watching the flames instead of her.
"But you still closed the rift," she murmured.
Lavellan shut his eyes and nodded, gently. "It had to happen. No one else could do it. Or any of this, for that matter. So I have to."
"You really don't, you know," she'd replied, and felt him shiver against her cheek. Lean muscle, light bones. He was more fast than fragile but in that moment she wasn't sure. "You can walk away."
He lifted his lids slightly to look sideways at her. The smile he wore then seemed more wry, less uncomfortable. "And leave you all to be eaten alive by demons and magisters? I can do no such thing."
That earned a chuckle. "And magisters? You really think Corypheus would do it?"
Lavellan raised his eyebrows, as if he was astonished it hadn't occurred to her sooner. "He is a darkspawn, Lace. He has needs."
She'd laughed for a long time, and sooner rather than later he joined her. After they'd gotten it out of their systems, she told him, "You're so full of shit, Inquisitor. Now I really can't help noticing how heroic you are. Corypheus the cannibal." She'd tsked, and he groaned like he'd made a terrible mistake. It had been tempting to kiss him then, even if just on the cheek.
She hadn't been brave enough.
The Exalted Council remains stalled for several days. The Orlesian and Ferelden representatives never fail to show up outside his door at least every few hours. "We need an answer, Nightingale," says Arl Teagan. "I understand this has been a trial, but-"
"He isn't awake," says Leliana, coldly. Harding knows there is history between them, that during her days with the Hero of Ferelden she'd helped save his mind and his life. Hardly ancient history. "He might not survive at all."
The arl looks almost helpless, pleading, like he isn't certain what words to use. "I understand that. But we have responsibilities to too many people. With or without him, a consensus must be reached." He pauses. Harding finds herself recognizing less and less of the noble she remembers from childhood. "I'm truly sorry. That's just the way it is."
Leliana sighs, and something in her demeanor appears to soften. "Be patient, Teagan. I promise, we will tell you one way or another."
Lavellan does not stir. The stump that remains of his left arm is tightly bandaged. Less gory than before but far from healed. His breathing is no longer shallow, but the gray tinge hasn't left his face.
Harding holds his unresponsive right hand, moving her thumb back and forth.
"Come on," she whispers, "you can do this…"
She hears him before she notices his eyes are open. It is not a romantic moment.
"Water," he croaks, and for a moment she is paralyzed. Disbelieving. Then she gets the glass at his bedside table, moves it to his lips. It's a hasty, sloppy gesture and a little spills out onto his nightshirt. Lavellan leans in and drinks greedily. She can see his back trembling with the effort to stay upright.
When he finishes he is gasping, unfocused. She takes him into her arms anyway, shifts so his weight is on her instead of himself. Her mouth presses into the crook of his neck and her vision is saturated, blurry. After a few moments, she feels his right arm delicately move across her spine, latch onto her shoulder to hang there.
Neither of them speaks for a long time.
"Thank you," he breathes at last. "I… I'm glad you're here."
She helps him change into his uniform. He's barely steady enough to walk, his remaining fingers clumsy. It is Harding who ties the sash at his waist, who buttons his coat, who rolls the sleeve up to something more dignified. He lies back and does his best to make it easier for her to slip his boots on, holds onto her as they walk to the audience chamber.
"I don't know how stable I'll look," he says lightly, watching the floor. One foot in front of the other. "If this is going to work I need to make a good case."
"If they give you any trouble," she replies, just as lightly, "I'll kick their asses."
She has to step away when they reach the doors. He'll need to put all of his energy into standing alone, walking alone, convincing them of his competence. There is sweat rolling down the back of his neck, beading on his forehead, but he manages to stand tall.
She inches up on her toes to kiss him. It's quick and careful, not enough to throw him off-balance. Just enough to let him know she means it.
"You've got this, Lavellan. Take no prisoners."