Cullen in the deafening silence after a battle, running over slippery rocks and clingy peat to get to the Inquisitor. All he can think about is the blast of ice that caught her in the chest and face, and the way she fell like a rag doll.
When he gets to her he rushes to open her shirt and jacket with fumbling hands. Her shirt buttons are slick with blood. He sees her chest, clammy with rain and skin sliced to chilly ribbons. Closes his eyes and pauses. Stops breathing for a second.
And then the moment's over and he's scooping her up, her head lolling worryingly, and he's making a beeline for the mages. Healers. Anybody. They'll fix her— they always do.
(When did he get so anxious?)
When he met her. The tender stillness and the worry are interchangeable, but, that's how things are, in war.
Once upon a time he'd said he'd never love again, and now he is carrying his own heart to safety in his rain-pruned hands.