What to say about this little ficlet, hum? Well, it was eating me alive so I gave up and set it free before it wound up ruining my life – like the game it's spawned from, damn addictive video games. I kept with the series of events but played around with actions and dialog because, well, why not?
Oh Commander Cullen, you're in for a hell of a ride. But we'll see how it goes.
Oh, I own nothing. BioWare is king.
Blame the Herald
Part One
I had to go through hell to prove I'm not insane
Had to meet the devil just to know his name
And that's when my love was burning
Yeah, it's still burning
I keep going to the river to pray
'Cause I need something that can wash all the pain
And at most I'm sleeping all these demons away
But your ghost, the ghost of you
It keeps me awake
Each time that I think you go
I turn around and you're creeping in
And I let you under my skin
'Cause I love living in the sin
Ghost, by Ella Henderson
Cullen wasn't sure what to make of their wayward champion.
He studied her from across the room, settled deeply into his chair, half concealed in shadows in a calculated effort to intentionally make himself less visible. He was content, for once, to observe rather than participate. Cassandra and Leliana were filling the woman in on the most recent events at Haven. Things were going well, better than any of them had dared hope, and the conversation quickly dissolved into slightly less serious matters.
"Where is Josephine?" The Herald asked, eyes sliding around the room as though she expected the woman to appear from behind the curtains. When her eyes inevitably found his, hers slipped quickly and nervously away. He was slightly miffed by her reaction. Cullen often intimidated women, with his titles and back ground, but he suspected their little Champion was unaware of such things. And she was little.
He wasn't sure what he'd imagined, when he'd first heard tale of the Herald of Andraste, but this woman was not it. Maybe someone like Cassandra; yes a woman, but tough and resilient, giving as good as she got. No, their Herald, the current master of their fates and potential savior of the entire world, was damned delicate looking.
From her overall height and size, to the fine features of her face and the precise coif of her auburn hair, she exuded femininity and grace. This made her use of bow and blade all the more alarming when personally witnessed, a conclusion he'd come to after catching sight of her briefly from across the training yard. It unnerved Cullen, surprised him really, and he rather hated surprises. His was a world of control, and so far she seemed a force beyond his will, or anyone else's for that matter. It made her unpredictable, and they could ill afford unpredictability.
Cassandra pulled a face, "She's buried under a mountain of missives. We've begun to make waves…"
The Herald raised one slim brow, "I'm assuming these are not good waves, then?"
Cassandra and Leliana exchanged a glance before the latter said, with some obvious hesitation, "Well, they're not all bad. We've garnered some much needed support and, of course, plenty of descent from expected corners."
"Like the Chantry?" The Herald supplied. Her tone was rather cool and she ducked her head briefly, crossing one leg gracefully over the other. She was dressed simply; in a loose gray shirt with slackened laces that hinted at the swell of full breasts, tight black leather breeches, and knee high boots of fine make. His practiced eyes noted the print of a knife in the boot casually bouncing against one knee, and the vague bulge of daggers at either hip, likely purposefully concealed by the looseness of her shirt. Cullen, a warrior nearly all his life, begrudgingly approved.
Cassandra grunted. Her displeasure was obvious, "Indeed."
"Well, perhaps our work in the Hinterlands will change a few minds at least."
"You mean your work, don't you?" Leliana teased lightly and Cullen was amused by the embarrassed flush that warmed the Herald's cool facade.
"I may be the one trekking through the mud but you lot are the ones with the plans. I'd be worse than lost without you." She said, and Cullen detected a hint of bitterness, as though she begrudged some weakness she saw within herself. It was a sentiment with which he could relate.
Cassandra rested her hand on the Herald's shoulder in a rare show of physical support. "You must have faith in yourself. None of this is possible without you."
Leliana smiled, and it was a touch indulgent. Cullen considered that smile and concluded that both she and Cassandra, who disagreed more often than they agreed these days, both liked their recent addition a great deal more than they let on. He considered this for a moment. Cullen had a great deal of respect for both women, appreciating their varying strengths and accomplishments. Cassandra, in particular, was someone whom he took advice from and had established a moderately close bond with. About as close a bond as he ever allowed himself, anyway. Leliana was somewhat intimidating and he didn't always agree with her methods but, then again, she didn't always agree with his. Perhaps they kept one another in check.
Cullen watched the Herald rise, smooth as a feline, and decided to reserve judgment… for the moment.
Cullen didn't see the Herald again for several weeks.
She'd just returned from further exploits in the Hinterlands. Securing the Inquisition with horses and appeasing aggrieved town's folk, or so the reports indicated. He went in search of her, intent on receiving a full report, as she hadn't appeared at the War Table that afternoon as expected. He was, if he was being honest with himself, a little irritated by her absence.
He found her at the stables, obviously preparing to leave again. Her new mount, of admittedly fine quality, was heavily laden with gear and supplies. Dressed for travel and danger, their Herald made no attempt to conceal her deadliness. In place of an ill-fitting shirt was a bodice of tight leather that emphasized the curve of waist and hip, iron studded gauntlets over slim hands and obsidian plated leg guards that gleamed menacingly in the torch light. Bow and quiver were slung across her back and her wide belt bristled with blades of varying sizes and purpose. She painted a grim picture indeed. But not an all together unattractive one, or so his traitorous mind supplied, but it was a thought he quickly smothered before it could take flame.
"Off again so soon?" He asked, leaning against an empty stall. He smirked as she jumped in alarm. Turning, she frowned at him and Cullen had the impression she wasn't used to people successfully sneaking up on her. Cullen knew how to be silent when necessary. He tried not to feel smug.
The Herald recovered herself quickly, turning her back to him once more as she fussed with straps and buckles. He took quick note of her hair, which had been intricately and tightly braided, knotted at the top of her head in a manner which emphasized the sharpness of her cheek bones. He rather liked the effect, which was more than a little strange. He wasn't exactly in the habit of taking note of a woman's hair.
"We've just received word of a dragon, actually." She said casually, as though commenting on the weather.
Cullen's hands dropped in surprise and he stepped forward. "And you're what, riding off to meet it?"
The Herald snorted lightly, "Not just me. Sheesh. Cassandra, Varric and Solas as well. I know you lot believe I'm basically Andraste's chosen one, but I figured it would be foolish to take on a dragon alone." She began tugging her mount, a lithe beast that was obviously built for speed and agility much like its new master, toward the stable doors. Cullen stared after her for a moment, shocked as much by her response as by what it actually entailed.
"But why on earth would you chase after dragons?" He insisted, his irritation mounting. How he loathed spontaneity. "Don't you think we have more important things to worry about than a dragon?"
The Herald kept walking, forcing Cullen to follow after her like a nagging fish wife. She leapt, graceful as always, into her saddle as soon as they were outside. Cullen noted her three companions waiting for her just up the road, concealed somewhat by the gently falling night. He glared at the heavily armored rider that could only be Cassandra, instantly blaming her for this sudden rashness. He expected the Seeker to know better, damn it.
The Herald grinned down at him, the fading light casting her features into sharp feral angles that made something equally animalistic within his chest growl in response. Maker, did she unnerve him sometimes.
"Don't worry, Commander, you'll have your Herald back in one piece. But we can't just let dragons go around burning down villages and eating the poor peasants. Rather bad for business. We'll be back before you know it." Again, there was a tone of bitterness laced beneath the sarcasm. She felt used, he realized, but by whom, he wondered. Him? All of them?
She pulled her cloak around her and tossed him a playful salute before kicking her horse into an impressive canter. Cullen could do little more than stare after her, briefly entertaining the idea of riding after them just to give them all a piece of his mind. He knew better though, he had far too many responsibilities in Haven to go rampaging across the countryside hunting dragons. A fact which stung more than just a bit in that moment, calling wistfully to the years he'd spent doing almost just that. He watched the little company ride away until the night swallowed them. Feeling oddly like an old weapon left behind, he returned to the keep, deep in thought.
He received her report three days later, and discovered that she could sound smug and sarcastic even in writing. Dammed woman was a complete enigma. When Leliana asked what he was smiling about from her seat across his desk, peering up at him ruefully from beneath her lashes as she reviewed her own teetering stack of missives, he glared harshly in response. She made it all the worse by laughing at him.
Cullen blamed the Herald. Since she'd arrived everything had been turned upside down or at least on its side.
Things fell apart so quickly that it left them all reeling.
One moment they'd been celebrating a bright moment of victory and in the next death had come pouring down from the hills like molten lava, deadly and unstoppable. Cullen was a mess of half conceived plans and bitter regrets. He should have done more for their fortifications, found a way to secure more soldiers, he should have done anything and now… he could do nothing but wait for the inevitable. Maker save him, had it really come to this?
The Herald stood near him, leaning heavily against the cold stone wall of the main hall, out of breath with a shallow cut on her temple bleeding sluggishly down her face. She looked defeated. Maker, but she was brave. He could admit it now, in the hour of their doom, without grudge or hesitation. Since the moment they'd met their little Herald had been fighting tooth and nail nearly every moment of every day. Cullen was frankly amazed by her fortitude. And it had all been for nothing.
My fault.
My fault.
Should have seen this coming. This is my fault-
"We have to get these people out of here." She said suddenly, voice hardly more than a horse whisper.
From a distance Cullen had watched her fight with all the ferocity of a cornered lion as she'd cleared the way for his men to utilize the trebuchet, but she seemed small again as she met his gaze. Her eyes were green, he noticed absently. A deep green, like a forest in twilight, and currently hazed with grief and pain.
"There's no way past them," Cullen said stiffly, wishing with all his heart that it wasn't true. He didn't fear death, but he wasn't exactly ready to welcome it with open arms. Not to mention the hundreds of people he'd failed.
He was their Commander, their protector-
"There's a way," the Chantry priest said hoarsely, his battered face insistent. Cullen had nearly forgotten him entirely. "A way through the mountains, few know of it. It's a seldom used pilgrim's path."
The Herald sprung to attention, her eyes sharp and intent. "Could you lead the people through it?"
The priest hesitated briefly before pulling himself together in one of the bravest acts Cullen had seen from the man. Perhaps they had all misjudged him.
"Yes… Inquisitor." His voice was steady and heavy with meaning and regret.
"We're overrun," Cullen protested hollowly, "They'll follow us. Our best hope now is to hit the mountains behind us and at least choose the manner of our own deaths."
The Herald shot him a look and he watched as she came to some sort of decision, her delicate jaw clenching with sudden determination. He'd seen that look before, in the eyes of many good men, and it gave him the chills.
"Commander Cullen, you and the priest lead these people through the pass-"
He opened his mouth to protest but she silenced him with a hard look, "Myself, Cassandra and Varric will remain behind to close it after you."
He shook his head fiercely, "That's suicide and you know it. I won't let you-"
She gripped his shoulder, her slim fingers surprising strong where they met the bared flesh near his neck. "You can't stop me, Commander. Get these people out of here. We'll find you… if we can."
If we live, were the unspoken words in her eyes before she and Varric hurried from the hall. Fury rose - at himself, at the Maker, and at the woman who wasn't just the Herald, but as brave a soul as he'd ever met- and it gave him several moments pause before he did what he'd once done best; he followed orders.
"Come priest, let's get the hell out of here before we're buried alive or before that damn Archdemon manages to eat us all."
And so, they went, fleeing for their lives and leaving behind their one hope for salvation.
When the mountain collapsed behind them with a deafening roar, an ache grew and festered inside Cullen until everything around him seemed washed in grays and blacks. He didn't even feel the cold, or the terror. He felt numb.
He blamed the Herald.
Cullen spotted her first.
She materialized from the chaos of the storm like a miracle, a small, dark smudge of a figure on the closest rise. Even in a storm her fire touched hair was like a beacon in the dark. As he watched, momentarily stunned, the figure stumbled and then fell.
"There!" He bellowed from beneath the shelter of the outcropping. His voice carried and echoed and everyone, despite their weariness and sense of defeat, leapt to their feet.
He barreled forward into the heavy snow drifts like a valiant knight in gleaming armor, or perhaps more like an angry, irrational bull. Either way, Solas surpassed him in mere moments, practically floating across the snow.
"Elves," Cassandra muttered darkly under her breath as she helped him carve a path forward. The wind was like daggers against his face and neck, but his chest burned with an emotion he'd not felt in many years.
Hope.
He blamed the Herald.
By the time they reached her, Solas had her on her back and Cullen could all but taste the magic pulsing from his outstretched hands. Cullen's hatred of mages and magic might not run quite as deep as it once had, but it still made him damn uncomfortable at times. Though, he admitted, if it would keep their idiot of a Herald alive, he'd probably open the Fade himself to do it. He was far too cold and tired to consider the implications of such sudden and fierce devotion, but his logical mind filed it away for later dissection.
"She's alive, but we must get her warm." Solas cried over the howl of icy gales.
Cullen was made useful by sweeping the prone figure into his arms. There wasn't time to study her fully but a cursory glance showed him a pale, reddened face, bruised and battered but not too bad off. She was not heavy, and he managed to cradle most of her weight with one arm looped across her back, and used his other to press her face against his neck. Cassandra whipped off her cloak and threw it over them. Cullen all but shuddered with relief when he recognized the heated puff of the Herald's breath against his frozen skin.
Andraste preserve him, she had survived.
He could scarcely believe it, even with her weight in his arms. He was ashamed to admit that he had thought her gone forever the moment she'd left the hall. It was less a reaction to her capabilities and more a testament to how little faith he had in fate, or in his own pitiful luck.
Their healers took command as soon as they were out of the storm, and he was once again rendered useless. He and Cassandra were all but shoved out of the healer's tent and made to do the one thing he truly hated; wait.
Tempers were short and their happiness at the Herald's appearance didn't last long in the face of everything that had happened, and everything they didn't know. Consumed by their combined failures, he, Cassandra and Leliana were soon at each others throats, bickering and cursing at one another. He honestly couldn't recall, even moments later, what he'd been trying to say. But it didn't matter, because then the singing started. It began softly, wobbling slightly as Mother Giselle sang with age but no small talent, and swiftly grew until that fire the Herald had started in his chest burned to life once more.
He'd never sung outside of the required hymnals of his order, an order which he had long forsaken, but he took up the tune now with a fervor he hardly knew himself capable of. Damn him, but he believed in this Inquisition, in their cause, in their Herald. No living person ever expects to witness a miracle, and he found it very very disconcerting with one now staring him in the face.
She emerged from the tent behind the Chantry Mother, battered, but strangely aglow. Like the rising dawn within the song that built around them like cresting waves.
Their people came forward, singing and united. He'd rarely seen anything like it; people bolstered and steadfast even in the wake of near utter defeat was the stuff of Varric's tales and distant legends rather than the bitter truth of reality. But here, in this forsaken hovel, legends were made real. Cullen realized then that he may have underestimated the powerful symbol their Herald presented; perhaps they all had. It was his turn to be intimidated as their people took to a knee, ducking their heads to their seemingly impervious savior. He glanced at Cassandra and their eyes met and the decision was heavy between them for a moment before they each gave the slightest nod and knelt. If they wanted their Herald to lead them, to save them, it was time they let her.
He lifted his head and she caught his gaze with a startled and humbled look of her own. It was as though a lifetime of loss and failure passed before him and was then swept away, leaving him renewed.
Maker help him, but he blamed the Herald.
The Herald had never seen snow, which was quickly apparent to Cullen. She was very much a fish out of water.
"I grew up in the South, where it was warm. I used to dream about seeing snow." She said wistfully, huddled atop her mount in his heaviest cloak with only wisps of her hair, the glint of her eyes, and a slim red nose visible. Cullen had often been teased for his resilience to the cold, and in the dazzling afternoon sunlight, he felt quite refreshed. He was in surprisingly fine spirits despite their rather dire circumstances.
"And now?" He prompted, trying, and failing, to hide his amusement.
The Herald huffed and pouted, clearly miserable. She'd spent most of the morning at the head of the column with Solas, leading the way and doing her best to keep morale high, which she was surprisingly good at.
Their Herald was of humble birth, a fact which often slipped his mind. She made it easy to forget with her bearing and mannerisms, not to mention the powerful mark burning on her hand, but it was readily apparent when one looked. She was the youngest daughter of respectable, but simple farmers that had once held a modest patch of land not far from the Hinterlands, and as such possessed an ability that he, Cassandra, and Leliana likely took for granted; she knew how to talk to people. She understood their people on a level he'd long lost sight of. His duty was to ensure their soldiers knew how to fight, how to defend, and how to follow orders. He wasn't accustomed to considering the happiness of the common folk. Their Herald, despite the weight of the world on her shoulders, seemed eager to take on every little thing along the way. It was baffling. He'd never met anyone, man or woman, quite like her.
She took her turn at every duty without complaint, she heard the voice of everyone who came to her, and she dealt with all matters wearing a cloak of understanding and compassion. But there was more to it than that. She had a lively sense of humor and a mischievous glow about her that was at once endearing and infuriating. In one moment she was a pillar of respectability, courage and grace, everything they could have hoped for in a leader, and in the next she was howling with laughter beside Verric and Blackwall, downing a flagon of ale around the camp fire and exchanging vulgar jokes. Time and experience had taught Cullen that things which appeared too good to be true usually were. But he was having a damn hard time finding fault with her.
Though he suspected that her kindness would eventually be taken painfully advantage of, he couldn't bring himself to think less of her for it. The world had been in a serious drought of goodness and kindness recently. However, he knew somewhere deep in his gut that, one day, probably much too soon, something would take that goodness from her. Steal the kindness from her eyes and heart, and it cut at him. Their world was not a forgiving one, and if she intended to follow their path to the end, it might prove to be a bitter one indeed. War had a high price, and few had the stomach to pay it.
The Herald pulled him from his brooding.
"I might like it better beside a warm fire in a nice cozy cottage somewhere," she admitted and it was as close to a complaint he'd ever heard from her.
Cullen surprised himself with a laugh. He wouldn't have considered himself cheerless, but he wasn't exactly prone to fits of mirth, especially in front of his men. Several of whom turned to him in surprise, something akin to delight coloring their faces. Briefly embarrassed with himself, he caught the bright flash of her smile, and a moment later she tossed back the hood of his cloak. Cullen found himself staring.
Her hair was coming loose from its typically flawless bindings. She obviously hadn't had time to rework the intricacy of the braids since her return. It was longer than he'd expected, fluttering like tendrils of fire across her face, neck and chest. One particular strand curled invitingly along the nape of her slender neck and Cullen swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. He looked away, perturbed with himself.
"May I ask you a question, Herald?" He asked with more formality than he may have intended as he attempted to smoother his sudden unease.
She smirked, silently laughing in a way that got under his skin, as if she understood exactly what he was doing. She'd been spending too much time with Leliana. "Certainly, Commander." She was teasing him. He fought for indifference but it was damned hard.
"Where did you learn archery? You're quite proficient," he complimented with the same tone he might have used on one of his men during combat training. He was understating her skills by quite a bit. In truth, he'd never seen her rival.
A brief flash of something darkened her face before she spoke. Grief? Shame? Regret? He wasn't sure.
"My father taught me, he was the best archer in the Hinterlands." Her tone was faintly clipped, and her smile was forced. He shifted awkwardly in his saddle.
"Can I ask how it… happened, his ah, death that is?" Cullen cursed himself for asking, it was hardly his business. Maker knew he had things he kept to himself, friends and family lost that he'd rather not speak of.
She gave him a look, filled with what was certainly grief this time, but she had no tears. Cullen gathered that she wasn't prone to crying, and as someone who'd also lost too much and too often, he understood. She gave him a sad smile, understanding passing silently between them, before looking away. "An ambush of Darkspawn. My two elder brothers as well."
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. It struck him for the first time how little they truly knew of her. She spent so much time speaking to each of them about their own lives and troubles, that it made them all forget to ask after hers in turn. Cullen wondered if she did so intentionally.
The Herald shook her head, bemused. "It's alright Commander, we've all lost someone. We've all got our set of sob stories, mine aren't particularly worthy of note. "
Cullen opened his mouth to say something, not at all sure what, exactly, when Solas appeared at her left drawing her attention immediately. Cullen felt a strange sense of simultaneous relief and irritation at the elf's arrival, as though an important moment had been lost.
"Herald, you're needed at the front," Solas said, his tone calm but even Cullen caught the hint of excitement creeping in at the edges. He urged his mount closer to hear.
The Herald's face lit and she dipped over the side of her mount and whispered, "Are we there? Are we close?"
Solas couldn't quite contain his smile as he said, "Yes, as soon as we crest that rise ahead, we should be able to see it."
Beaming, suddenly fresh with excitement, the Herald tossed Cullen her reigns and slipped from the saddle, landing at Solas's side with an impressive puff of flurries. She was off with a quick 'Commander!' shot over her shoulder in parting.
Cullen stared at the reigns in his hand in disbelief for a moment before muttering a belated 'Herald,' absently under his breath. The woman would never cease to surprise him.
"Irisel," Leliana said suddenly from beside him, seated on her gray stallion with all the poise of a raven on a branch.
"Excuse me?" He tugged the Herald's mount closer to his own and wrapped the reigns dutifully around his saddle horn. He should have just handed them off to the nearest soldier, but with Leliana watching, he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Besides, some strange new voice in him whispered, the Herald would have to come back for her horse eventually, right?
"That's her name." Leliana continued, the picture of innocence with a knowing little smile curling at the edges of her lips. "Not 'Herald, or 'My Lady'."
Cullen glared and flushed for reasons he couldn't quite name but didn't appreciate. "I know that, thank you," he shot back.
Leliana shrugged, the same smug smile plastered on her face. Cullen had the urge to knock it loose; maybe just a quick nudge off her saddle into the snow would do the trick.
"My apologies, I thought you may have forgotten."
"She is the Herald. It's a sign of respect."
"Or is it a means for you to keep her at distance?" Leliana countered with her Maker-damned intuition. It was incredibly annoying.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. You and Cassandra are determined to make her our leader-"
"And you don't agree?"
Cullen was caught slightly off guard, despite the conversation being an old one. Mostly because he found that, despite his natural stubbornness, his stance had changed. It was another type of miracle all on its own. He wasn't exactly known for changing his mind.
"Damn." He said, somewhat awed.
Leliana's grin had morphed itself into a self satisfied mask of triumph. He really wanted to push her into the snow. Hard.
"Soon you'll get to call her by a fun new title and you can continue avoiding her given name like it's a ward against caring for her."
"Oh?" He spat, seriously annoyed and blushing hotly. Maker save him, he hoped no one was watching or listening to this little exchange. Varric chose that moment to snort loudly behind them. No such luck. "And what's that?"
"Inquisitor, obviously." She said, pleased with herself, and he knew that she too was laughing at him.
When had he become so damn funny?
She kicked her horse ahead, obviously feeling she'd won the battle, if not the war, and left him in a cloud of snow. Ahead Cullen caught sight of the subject of their discussion, battling exuberantly, if not clumsily, with the snow as she and Solas pushed ahead of the line. He'd never seen her so graceless, so carefree. It was strangely endearing, once again kindling that new fire in his breast.
"Maker's breath," he sighed, defeated.
"Don't worry," Varric said, idling up beside him, flask in hand. "We're all a little in love with her."
Cullen could only bring himself to grunt in response, Varric at least had the decency to laugh at him out right. The dwarf passed him his flask and Cullen took a long, long swallow.
He blamed the Inquisitor.
To be continued...
AN: Thoughts, anyone? How badly did I fuck this up? Feel free to let me know so I can ignore you. Just kidding! Maybe...