Whiteout

Edit: apologies for the lack of breaks and stuffed up formatting :(

When the geas finally unravelled, they were all gasping for breath. Dorian leaned against a tree, sucking in great gulps of air until his head swam but he fought back the nausea. He'd sooner kiss Cassandra than throw up in front of her.

Sera managed to ask as her breathing eased, "Was that Coryfisheus?". He shook his head, still too breathless to speak.

It had been such a beautifully crafted geas too: the descent into blind panic delicately balanced by the suggestion that they follow the trail left by the fleeing townsfolk. He never knew that he could run that fast.

"I am going to strangle that...mage brat!" The white lines around Cassandra's mouth that marked the transition from general annoyance to outright rage were being displayed in their full glory.

Dorian managed to straighten up without fainting. "Of course, that's assuming she survives that. It sounded like a sizeable avalanche."

Cassandra stilled at that. Dorian took advantage of the pause to check that his moustache's curls hadn't wilted from the sweat beading on his lip. He was more worried than he cared to admit, but the destruction of magical devices like the Anchor tended to cause massive explosions, and thus her survival thus far seemed probable.

Cassandra sighed. "We should move on. We will not be able to return to Haven through that passage. Let's find Cullen and the others."

Dorian struck a small light on his staff as he hurried to catch up with Cassandra. The sky was dark with heavy clouds; there would be snow in the air tonight.

He had a feeling that she would have called it a storm in a teacup without a trace of irony. And it was in many ways, assuming Thedas was the teacup in question.

The thought lingered vaguely at the back of his mind as he directed them to set up camp under scant cover of the ridge. More than a few had died along the way, and he wondered if she would find those grim signs of their passage.

Of course, that was assuming she was alive.

Something twisted in his gut, and he thought of the quizzical look on her face just hours before, as she looked out over the festivities. "The Breach is closed," she had said, "but I feel like I'm waiting for the punchline."

His hand went to the vial of lyrium in his pocket. "Maker's breath," he muttered.

It was sometimes hard to tell one pain from another. And perhaps this would just be a different form of withdrawal.

It was really fucking cold.

Lady Trevelyan, recently of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, still more recently Herald of Andraste, symbol of the Inquisition, bit back another expletive. The Trevelyans were an old family and had the stiff upper lips that decorum demanded. Evelyn, however, moved to the Circle at age six, and was no stranger to near death experiences. She had learned the vocabulary suited to such situations, and hard sharp syllables that meant something rude were merely an efficient method of communication where required; for instance, if an apprentice was about to level the tower with an explosion.

The world was wind and swirling snow. She clutched at her staff and planted it deep with every step, all the while regretting that it was not an igneous staff to warm her fingers. Fingerless gloves to let her trace magic deftly now seemed like a terrible idea, and it had been hours since she could feel her fingers. They had burned with the cold before going numb, and she was not sure she could let go of the staff.

She sighed, and her breath froze into the already icy scarf around her face. The Conclave should have been mainly about yawning subtly and having a nice warm drink while trying to stay awake. She had been persuaded to attend to represent Ostwick with the expectation that they would have no say in what was to come.

Regretting her lack of survival skills in a blizzard was not part of the plan.

White snow and dark sky. She could feel the Fade strongly here, where there was only cold and the rush of wind. Intangible shapes, sounds just past the edge of hearing-

Symbols and concepts were what mattered in the Fade. So they had just seen the Herald die and their homes destroyed. What would their nightmares hold tonight?

She smiled then, bright and grim. Time and place were worthless in the Fade, but she would figure it out. She had to.

She had to survive because of the thrice-damned Anchor in her hand. Nevertheless, if she lost her hand to frostbite, all of this was probably pointless and she should have just curled up in the snow to die. She was given to understand that hypothermia was not a horrible way to go.

It would be a nice Winter's End present for that blighted monster.

She sighed again and trudged on, mildly annoyed yet entertained by the thought, with the Frostback Mountains as the only ones listening to the occasional muttered "Shite!".

He wasn't even sure at what point they had started shouting. Eventually he lost interest and sank back into his seat.

If he hadn't objected so violently when Leliana had suggested that they obtain her phylactery-

Do you want her to feel coerced into staying with us? She might take it as a threat. It is not our right to have that power over her.

He would have been able to find her, even in the whiteout. He would have had take lyrium to use the phylactery, but to save her-

It didn't matter. They didn't have it.

It occurred to him that the wind had stopped drowning out the sound of their voices.

"I'm going to look for her." Before the others could object, he slipped out of the tent. They could continue the argument later. Such things kept well in this climate.

"There she is! Thank the Maker!"

There was so much snow clinging to her that she was barely visible in the darkness, and he ran to her as best he could, sinking into the fresh powder.

Snow crusted her eyelashes, and he peeled away the scarf wrapped around her face, frozen with the dampness from her short rapid breaths. "Cullen," she said as he put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. It was a greeting, a statement of fact, a call answered.

She waited quietly until he dismissed the messengers. He cleared his throat awkwardly as she came closer.

What did one say in such circumstances? I'm sorry I left you to die in Haven? (even though I was following orders.) I'm glad you're alive ? (There was never a more beautiful sight than you in the snow)

He had tried to get it out the last time they had spoken, and she had tripped over her words too, the usual irreverence falling away as she said "I'm glad you made it out." All he had managed then was a promise that it would never happen again.

She asks for an update and he replies distractedly. She raises an eyebrow until the question trips out, "How did you find us? The blizzard covered our tracks. No one would have found us in that whiteout."

Her lips twitch, an almost smile that she smothers quickly. "What do you think?"

"The Maker must have led you to us."

"I suppose that's approximately true." She grinned. "And if I said it was by magic?"

"Then thank the Maker that you are a mage."

The devilish glint was back in her dark eyes. "That's not something I hear much."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Commander, the armoury report as you said, sir. Now, sir. Yes, sir, that's what you said, sir. Sir."

"I'll speak to you later, Cullen."

"I'll be here, should you require me," he says, and he means it.