"We saved Ferelden, and they're angry. We saved Orlais, and they're angry!"
Rage coils from deep in her stomach where it's been lying hidden and repressed far too long. It spirals upwards, through her chest, into her face, hot and bitter. Rises along with her voice.
"We closed the breach twice. And my own hand wants to kill me!" She loosens her grip on nothing and glares at her palm; blasted, glowing thing that's no longer a part of her.
The advisors' reactions don't help. Josephine's clutching her writing board, smile frozen in place. Leliana remains expressionless, reading her as always, as she does everyone. Those are the only two she wants to look at. Because she needs to release more ire, spit out another load of bile.
A quick inhale, a clench of her fists, an irate slant of her eyes before her palm slams down on the war table.
"Could one thing in thi world just stay fixed!" There it is, shrill and vicious. Then she's out of the room, spinning on her heel so fast she almost trips over her own feet. Her step is fierce, hostile poise daring anyone to get in her way.
The door to the main hall all but crashes open. Heads turn, curious whispers follow her path. She couldn't care any less.
Another wooden thud and she' stumbling up the stairs to her quarters, driven by a sudden eagerness to get out of this ridiculous outfit. Back into one of her old dresses she used to wear before she was the Herald, the Inquisitor, all these things she never wished for.
It's the breezy flutter of the curtains that draws her onto the balcony. Pausing for the first time in what feels like days, she takes in the scenery. Mountains, ancient and majestic; the sky, astonishingly infinite; a gust of wind, harsh and clarity-inducing.
The humbling view has the same calming effect as always. Except today it turns fury into tears, a salty sting blurring her vision. Snowy peaks lose their shape and stubborn teeth dig into her lip trying to stop its tremble.
Part of her wishes the sob she allows to escape would echo across the Frostbacks, tell the world of her unheard suffering.
It's the gasp a moment later that rings louder, along with her startled utterance.
"Cullen?"
She'd neither heard nor sensed him approaching. Not up the stairs, not out to join her. For a man his size and build he's always been remarkably agile, his movements almost feline in their grace.
Now the gentle, considered motion of his arms closing around her waist, his nose stroking her cheek bears an oddly comforting reminiscence to times when everything was cheers and victory.
She permits herself to lean back into him, into the hug, fingers closing over his wrists. They stand looking on, neither certain nor caring how long for.
His armoured torso is hard yet soft with his breaths, his kindness. Her own body weighs a little heavier with each passing minute, but he doesn't budge as she sinks into him ounce by ounce.
Eventually his soft tug at her shoulder beckons her to turn, to face him. She does one but not the other, buries herself in his furs instead. The worn but not quite matted mass of hairs is fuzzy and warm on her skin, a stark opposite to the politics of the past few days.
His scent envelops her, strong and familiar even through the plate and clothes. Soothing, invigorating notes of leather, soap and him caress new life into her senses. For some reason it's the smell that entices her to look up at him at last.
Cullen's voice is one of the most impressive she's ever experienced. She's seen people encouraged, intimidated and intrigued by its colourful, versatile tones; it has brought her laughter, comfort and desperate arousal many times over.
But he doesn't even need to use it. Her tears are dried and forgotten the second her eyes meet his. Their understanding, faithful depths, of a colour somewhere between copper and melted caramel, invite her to drown in them, to let go.
And it's from his snug embrace, within those endlessly loving eyes, that she finds strength.