"Cullen?"
He looked down at the Herald. Her head was nestled against his torso as he carried her back to camp. She kept flitting in and out of sleep, every time staring up at him, eyes wide and frightened.
"It's alright. We will get you warm soon," he told her. She blinked at him, many questions crossing her face. In another moment, she went lax against him. He focused on walking as quickly and as gently as he was able.
Thankfully he and others only had to follow their path back, so that he did not have to carry her and trudge through the snow. He would take that as a comfort.
Maker-this time a prayer and not an outburst-guide me. Her weight was not inconsequential, but this was a burden he did not mind bearing.
He had left her. He could still scarce believe it himself, despite living in the hell of the past four days. At the time, all he thought of was strategy, what hurdles he had at his disposal, which soldiers he could spare.
Cassandra climbed the hill before him, with each step she inched farther ahead. She turned, and when she did not see him close behind her, paused to wait. Solas stayed next Cullen, the elf's steps light and silent, but steady. The mage was keeping an eye on the Mark, which glowed faintly where it rested against the Herald's torso.
"It has not spread. In fact, it is unchanged," Solas remarked.
"That is a relief," Cassandra sighed, waiting for them to crest the final hill before their careful descent into the valley that was-for the moment-home. Cullen was eager to get his charge into the healer's tent, to see her rid of her frozen armor, wrapped in warm blankets, and filled with healing magic.
What would he say if-when-she woke. "Herald, I saved your followers, but left you to die. Sorry about that. Can I get you anything?"
The thought was a bitter one, sour and coarse like lyrium, but offering no comfort.
She had been more than willing to go, he reminded himself. Her escape was an afterthought to them both in those quick moments in the chantry. What shamed Cullen, though, was that even if she had not volunteered, he would have asked, even so.
As she slept in his arms, chilled and limp and broken, he wished with all he was that he had gone instead. Then perhaps all of this could have been avoided.
"Cullen?"
Her voice again. Her hand with the Mark now pressed against his chest. "Are we safe? Can he find us?"
It almost hurt to look at her, to give her comfort when anything he could say would be sorely inadequate. "We are, thanks to you. The Elder One has not pursued us."
Her eyes were not as bleary now, and he wanted to think her lips a little less blue.
"You're warm," she said. "I've been so cold...your arms...you...thank you."
It would not have hurt more if she'd used a dagger to slice his skin. Thanking him? For this?
"We are almost there," Solas announced, and Cullen spotted the fires and the tents, could even smell the smoke welcoming them back. He walked more quickly now. She'd fallen into slumber again, apparently unmoved by the clamor as they drew closer to their destination.
It seemed that Cullen had barely stepped foot into the camp before the Tevinter and Flissa were ushering him into a tent. As gently as he could, Cullen lowered her onto the nearest cot.
When she left his arms, her eyes fluttered open and met his gaze.
He should take her hand, caress her cheek or her hair, somehow let her know he was sorry. That he would not leave her like that again. That he would see that she was safe.
But Solas was next to Cullen by then, gracefully easing his way between Cullen and the cot to kneel next to her.
"We will handle it from here, Commander."
"Right," Cullen nodded, and took his leave.