The sounds of steel and people dying echoed across the Frostback Mountains. Unnatural green light shone from the breach down on the valley where Cullen and his men were making their stand, the spill of demons from the rift seemingly endless.
Another demon spellcaster burst from the ground, hissing as it rounded on a nearby solider. Cullen could feel the air tense as the creature's fire magic gathered, feel it in his very blood shouting a warning to him. But his reserves were almost out; terrible panic flared in his chest as his holy smite sputtered and died in his hands. Cursing, Cullen quickly decapitated an advancing shade before groping inside his pack for yet another lyrium bottle.
The blue slipped down his throat and he was the one on fire now, punching out his smite with terrible force, the demon spellcaster shrieking with fury as it's power was stripped away. The solider – Cullen recognised him as Luke now he saw his face, a good man, thank the Maker he still lives, please stay alive I can't bear to the thought of telling yet another family – let out a strangled yell as he charged forward and caved in the fiend's jaw with his shield.
Panting, Cullen whipped round for the next onslaught, trying to ignore the painful pressure in his veins. The sign of too much lyrium, but what was he to do about it? The beasts kept on coming and his people, try as he might, kept on dying. No matter how much lyrium he consumed the magic pulsing from the rift seemed utterly alien to him, beyond any magic he had ever encountered. Pain filled the air, but it wasn't just coming from the death around him – the tear in the sky was so charged with wrongness, Cullen couldn't see how it could ever be healed.
Hope was trickling away from him as one by one the soldiers around him fell. Where was this woman who had apparently stepped out of the fade? What could one person do against all this madness, anyway? The more the demons raged and the sky spread further apart, the more the idea of any kind of saviour seemed futile, childish even.
He had already pledged Cassandra his support if things were to go badly at the Conclave, but Maker... who could have foreseen this? He had felt as though Andraste herself had been guiding him, gently nudging him away from Kirkwall and the Templars, towards real change that he knew somehow had to happen. But someone had beaten them to it, and now the Divine was dead.
And they were all going to follow her.
Just as the thought tickled the last stretches of Cullen's limits, a cry came from across the battlefield behind him. He sensed two powerful sources of magic before he turned; a band of four fighters charged into the fray, filling those still standing with renewed hope and vigour. Cullen barely had time to notice Lady Cassandra before he saw a female mage hot on her heels. Her face was ablaze with fury as she threw herself into the thick of the battle, recklessly putting herself in front of Luke (his far superior armour none withstanding). What is she wearing, a padded jumper? Cullen gritted his teeth and willed the terror bearing down on him to just hurry up and die already, so he can go save another trigger-happy fledgling mage.
Then he saw her practised handling of her staff, felt the power coming off her (what in Andraste's name was that?) and then saw the green light splitting across her left palm. Realisation jolted; this woman has just stepped out of the fade, and lived.
The terror took advantage of Cullen's distraction by sweeping his feet out from under him. He cursed as he bit his tongue, head smacking against the frozen ground. Keep it together. He tried to marshal his last vestiges of stamina and regain his footing, but the creature pounced on him and prepared to bite.
He heard a shout of anger and felt the spell coming, felt the prisoner use her electric bolt to shock her target and felt as it jumped into every nearby enemy. He saw the terror's hideous face spasm, giving him the pause he needed to finish off the foul creature with his dagger. The bone-deep relief he felt at having a mage join the fray was strong, loathe though he was to admit it, even to himself. He got to his feet and swung his greatsword at the next foe. And the next, trying to keep his eyes from the mage with the glowing hand.
It seemed to glow more viciously as she became more enraged, a righteous kind of anger swimming across the battle, reassuring Cullen that she was far from abomination-bait. For now, at least.
Suddenly the fight was turning, the elf mage was shouting for her to seal it, and quickly – Cullen almost stupidly shouted out "seal what?" before the prisoner thrust her left hand into the green horror that was the rift. A yell died in Cullen's throat as the air itself shifted, the diseased pockets shuddering and collapsing into the centre, the rift itself screaming in agony. Then she frowned in concentration and twisted, somehow pulling her hand free with an almighty BANG.
Cullen was almost thrown off his feet as the air rushed in then suddenly out again, filling the air with cool, clear breathable space for the first time in hours. The rift was sealed, mended, clean again. He stared agog at the prisoner; she had just healed the sky, there was no other word for it – though it paled in comparison to what he just witnessed. That was healing, akin to the uncomfortable task of breaking a bone in order to set it properly, or purging a wound so it can knit together cleanly. But on a monumental scale. How had she done that?
Cullen had never seen such a visual representation of how magic felt to him before. Or maybe he was losing his mind. That was more likely. But the astonished expressions on everyone else's faces led him to think it wasn't just he who witnessed that … that spectacle.
The prisoner braced her hands against her knees, panting. Cullen barely noticed the last few wraiths whimper and disappear. That much magical power near him, beyond scope or any kind of prior context, was making his fingers itch for his lyrium pack. You have to be ready you have to be better you know how powerful they can be - he couldn't take his eyes off her hand, still glowing slightly. The lyrium screamed at him inside his veins, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Cullen shook aside his thoughts and tried to catch his breath. He surveyed the scene; so many dead bodies littered the floor… when had so many people died? Luke was alive, at least; leaning on his sword and giving him a bewildered sort of smile. A few others of his had made it, and the four who had just joined: Cassandra, the dwarf captive/informant she had mentioned; an elf who must be the other mage he had first sensed and, of course, the prisoner.
He did a quick self-check: his blood thumped and a headache was blossoming at the base of his skull, but he was alive. No major injuries, even – but he was beginning to pay for the amount of lyrium he had taken. He sheathed his sword to hide his shaking hands, the magic in the air only adding to his skittishness. Willing the pressure in his blood to abate, he found he could not look at the prisoner suddenly, for fear of the anger and grief all tumbling out. So much death, so many died screaming in the snow, and for what? The bloodlust inside him was turning stale; helpless fury was taking its place, begging for some kind of outlet as the sky raged above.
So he ignored the prisoner with the miraculous (terrifying) hand and thanked Lady Cassandra instead.
"Do not congratulate me Commander, this is the prisoners doing." she replied, rather pointedly. That surprised him. The last time he saw her, Cassandra seethed at the mere mention of the prisoner. He wasn't completely blind, he saw what the mage had just done, but couldn't Cassandra feel the power emanating off this one woman? Couldn't she feel the danger? Moreover, couldn't she see the sky breaking above and the bodies heaped on the ground at their feet?
"Is it?" he snapped and rounded on the mage, eyes boring into hers, her magical presence stinging him anew. "I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here."
She sighed a little ruefully, giving him an odd look. "They're not the only ones hoping that." She sounded raw, and possibly even more exhausted than he.
"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" Cullen said, his voice bitter to his own ears. But she was no longer looking at him, but across to the nightmarish breach of reality that she was somehow suppose to fix. Cullen gathered his thoughts enough to give her decent directions across the ruins of the Temple, feeling all the more hopeless as he did so. He paused before adding: "Maker watch over you, for all our sakes."
Her eyes snapped back to his and softened slightly. She nodded and hitched her staff up her back; the determination in her face was something to behold. Then the moment was broken and they were off, Lady Cassandra giving him a conspiratorial look as she passed.
Cullen watched them leave, conflicting thoughts raging around his brain. Even through the fear, grief and exhaustion (not to mention the excess lyrium still tearing through him) the truth of what he had just witnessed finally forced the last of Cullen's of prejudices aside. For the first time since the Divine died, his faith kindled within him once more.
The image of their silhouettes against the fade-bled sky was something Cullen never forgot.