I'm pretty sure that Cullen and Trevelyan don't fall in love with each other until after arriving at Skyhold, and while we have voice clips saying that Cullen was smitten with her at first sight, who says anything about him having to acknowledge it? :)
So this is my take on the journey from Haven to Skyhold. It's going to be long, it's going to be painful. But it's going to be rewarding and heartwarming as the cast grows closer to each other, and begin to rely on each other beyond a professional level. Moreso Cullen (and the other advisors) to the rest of the group. The plan right now is to end upon finding Skyhold, but depending on where things go, I may continue it in some shape or form.
This first chapter is mainly expository - it halfway through "In Your Heart Shall Burn". From there on, it will be mostly my own.
Don't forget that I also have a tumblr, where you can find other various bits and pieces of my writing, as well as some deleted scenes if I ever decide to post them. Same handle as here.
Without further ado, enjoy!
...
The Long Walk
Chapter One.
...
She hesitates at the door, one hand on the handle, and she looks like she has something to say. Instead, she turns to him. Her blue eyes are cool, her dark mahogany hair already pulled into its telltale ponytail. Her skin is flushed, her hand already gripping the oak staff - so similar to ones he once damned.
"Good luck," she says. For all he knows, it could be the last time he'll see her again.
Cullen swallows. For a brief second, something like regret bubbles in his stomach - in another life, he would've wanted to get to know her better, to know her more by her name and not as the Herald of Andraste. It's his own fault now, he thinks, and he can't help but to absolve that, if they somehow make it out of here alive, he'll learn her first name.
He rips himself from his thoughts, bringing himself back to reality. The terrified screaming, the cries for mothers, fathers, caregivers, the groans of pain from wounds and burns and other terrors he cannot begin to fathom.
"You will need it more than I," he says solemnly. For a moment her expression softens - one he's seen before, but never personally - and she gives a firm nod, and then the door swings shut behind her.
The first sign of extraneous activity is yelling - loud yelling, at that. It doesn't take any prompting; Cullen's hands reach for his sword and he's already halfway to unsheathing it when he finally makes out what caused the intrusion in the first place. Figures in the distance, walking with a limp. If he was scared, it was quickly overtaken by the coolness of battle, the sudden overwhelming desire to protect the people who'd escaped Haven with him, who'd just managed to get a brief moment of respite after the third child had begun to cry.
He feels sick to his stomach. His hands almost begin to shake, and he briefly wonders if it's because of the situation, their enemies, his friends, or the lack of Lyrium that made him so. But he feels sick and he can't breathe and for a few moments, everything dulls - becomes a heavy fog around him.
It takes another few moments before can make out the words, though - and for it to process that the yelling isn't due to a threat. And then it registers, the two, protruding horns, and the details fall into place. The frillier outline of Dorian's tunic. The shorter yet unmistakingly powerful form of Varric. And of course, The Iron Bull - who, despite all of Cullen's preconceived notions, actually looks worse for wear.
He can see Lady Montilyet already halfway up the camp, and upon another glance, he can see that Lady Nightingale is already at their side. He exchanges a look with Seeker Pentaghast, who rises from her position beside him, and they both hasten their pace to the party.
"- she told us to run -"
"She what?" Cullen says as he pushes his way to them. The three companions turn to him in synchronicity in an almost comedic reaction, if it isn't for the deep gashes in The Iron Bull's arms, the dark purple splotches that were visible even along Dorian's caramel skin, and the way Varric heavily favoured one leg over another.
"The Boss," says The Iron Bull. "She told us to get out - to survive."
Concern flares at the base of his stomach - a quick sweep around tells him that the feeling isn't exclusive to him. It's that same overwhelming feeling - what if they got to her? They were templars, they knew how to torture mages - and he realizes his expression must've soured, as Varric watches him with a keen eye. He speaks first. "I have faith in her, Curly." The look in the dwarf's eyes say it all, the steely onyx only showing the strength of conviction in his words.
For the first twenty minutes or so, the thought is comforting. But then, with every passing moment, with every passing pace, the dread begins to seep in once more. By now, the returning party had gone by the fire, talking in low voices amongst themselves. The newcomer, the Spirit, speaks lowly to Solas, before he's gone - and then he's by the Chancellor's side, one knobby hand on the man's forehead.
Loud, deliberate footsteps pull him from his thoughts, and he halts his pacing as Seeker Pentaghast stops beside him. "We should move."
"But the Herald-" he finds himself saying, but her look - though remorseful - remains resolute.
"We're too exposed here. We should find more shelter," she says. And then she lowers her voice. "I don't think the Herald would want that. She wanted everyone to live."
Cullen sighed. He didn't need to look to see the current state of affairs, the way the innocent citizens of Haven had their heads bowed, how morale seems an all time low. And it's cold, bitingly cold, and he can only thank the Maker that the extra supply of blankets in the Chantry had been retrieved before they'd left Haven all together.
The Seeker is still waiting for confirmation, he realizes, and he swallows, giving one nod to her. Pentaghast rises and gives a low nod in return, and then she's gone, striding to the stationary Nightingale's side. He watches as they exchange low words, and then returns his attention to the fire, to the companions.
Their heads turn in his direction. At least the companions who'd gone into battle have been looked after - the Bull has gauze wrapped around his arm, looking surprisingly frail in comparison to whom it was supposed to be mending; Varric had managed to find a large branch to use as a makeshift cane; Dorian has a rather gooey looking paste slathered on his skin. Cullen swallows - for a moment, he wonders if they resent him for not fighting with the Herald, for not joining with the fighting where he ought. He blames himself, too.
"We're moving," he says.
It's Madame Le Fer who speaks, of all people. "And what of the Herald?"
The silence washes over them, and for once, Cullen doesn't quite know what to say. Is he to convince them of her selflessness, which he's sure they know better than he?
It's within the silence that he notices that the other elf - Sera - is bristling. "Yer planning on running, and leaving her behind?" The indignation in her voice is loud, poignant, and for a moment, Cullen backpedals.
"We can leave fires," says a voice behind him. Cullen doesn't have to turn to know who speaks, but he does so anyways, facing Solas as he speaks. "A trail for her to follow."
"We'd be leaving the mongrels to come after us," says Dorian, his voice hard, completely lacking of any teasing that was usually in the man's tone.
"The wolves won't be out tonight," Solas assures, and there is a certainty in his words that has Cullen wanting to believe them.
"Then we do that," he decides, and he can feel all eight companion's attention back to his. "Begin packing, we leave in twenty."
The activity around him has already swelled. He can hear the groans and protests of the townsfolk being pulled to their feet, the murmurs of thanks as the Chantry sisters distribute small rations of food before they continue their trek. Within minutes, their makeshift resting place is quickly returned on top of the cargo Brontos. The newcomer manages to get the Chancellor on his feet, but the man is pale. He can see the Spirit's face twist with pain, and Cullen decides against questioning him as the straw haired man leads the Chancellor to a mount, helping him on one of the quartermaster's horses. With a flash, the Spirit is at his side - and it takes everything within him not to flinch.
"Happy, if not tired, but happy. He did his duty, and now he can sing."
The newcomer's voice is soft, almost child-like, and if there was anything Templar training had taught Cullen, it's to not question beings of the Fade. Generally, this was to not evoke their rage, but as the boy trods off, it's more because he's at a loss for words than otherwise.
Cullen shakes his head clear of thoughts watching inky-black smoke curl, fading into the night sky. Absentmindedly, he reaches for one of Varric's reject canes and tosses it into the dying fire - even if it sustained the weakening embers for a few moments longer, it would be good enough for him. And then he hears Seeker Pentaghast calling for him, and he gives one last look before he joins the rest of the Inquisition.
The wind is relentless. His face feels frostbitten and he can't even feel his ears, the wind howls and snow pelts his skin. He can faintly hear activity behind him, but all details are lost. They'd begun building the fires near trees in some vain hope to provide shelter against the avalanche, but Cullen doesn't doubt that the fires won't last long. At least beside him, Lady Nightingale walks with similar gusto, several furs drawn tight around her torso to keep away the biting cold.
"There's an alcove for shelter beyond those two peaks," she says, her voice rising with the wind. Cullen had long since stopped questioning where she obtains her information - if anything, the people will be happy for some respite, a chance to rest. The sudden flurry-turned-snowstorm hadn't been anticipated; it only makes Cullen that much more aware that he, all of them, are going into this blind.
They need a leader.
They need her.
Cullen raises a hand, and he swears he hears a collective murmur of relief behind him. A small part of him swells to know that he's at least, done something right, but he can't bear to take a breath until he's settled - until he can check for everyone. Sure enough, as the head of the Inquisition steps over the hilly snow, he can see the alcove that the Spymaster had advised. Surrounded by a wall of stone, the natural divot in the earth was perfectly protected. He gives a quick nod of approval to the Spymaster, who returns the gesture with a wry smile on her face. He doesn't bother asking Lady Montilyet, nor does she appear to object. Instead, he places a hand against their Bronto and they descend into the alcove, resolve renewed.
Camp, just as similarly, doesn't take as long. Thanks to the new mages, small fires are set up around camp, tents are pitched at breakneck speed. The women and children are attended to first, the last of the bread distributed and the skins and furs carefully wrapped around them. Solas, along with other natives, quickly volunteer to hunt, and for the first time, Cullen feels as if he can breathe.
Breathing is relative, however. The worry still presses down on his chest, the thought that it could've easily been him, out there, attacking innocents take his breath away. Now that he's no longer worrying about dying prematurely via frostbite, he's much more aware of the discomfort and discourse inside of him. Pacing suddenly seems like a fantastic idea again, but he pushes the urge away. He can't be selfish anymore. He has a duty to the people, and perhaps it can help alleviate some of his concerns.
He swings into the medical tent first, where healers bustle about. Many of the makeshift rolls are occupied, but the main one of concern still has the Spirit in question by his side. They're both silent, the Chancellor terrifyingly still, and the Spirit merely stares, eyes downcast.
"Is he alright?" Cullen finds himself asking.
"He is at peace," responds the Spirit, almost matter-of-factly, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.
The Chancellor's breathing seems to slow. It's almost too much to watch, too much to bear, and Cullen steps outside, surprised to hear light footsteps follow.
"If you are to join us, you must have a name," he says, if only to fill the silence in the air.
The spirit hesitates. "Cole. And you - your heart is heavy."
Cullen nearly laughs. He's not sure if it's meant to be a joke or not, but he finds that he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. But Cole's expression is serious, or rather, unchanging.
"Pain - it sings to you, as it sang to them. You resist, why?"
Why indeed, Cullen thinks sourly, but his attention is diverted as he hears more footsteps approach behind him. Lady Nightingale's eyes flash to Cole, then him, but she speaks anyways. "Everyone needs to rest. Josephine and I agree that we should stay until morning."
The Antivan nodded in earnest, the large pelt draped around her shoulders shifting at the movement. "And, that way, if there's anyway the Herald is alive -"
"- she's surprising, surprised -"
"- then maybe your fire plan will work -"
"- cold, and her hand aches, so cold -"
"It wasn't my plan, it was Solas's," Cullen corrects. Lady Montilyet gives a little nod.
" - everything hurt, everything's cold -"
"- Speaking of which, the first hunting party's returned," says Leliana, "and it looks like there's more coming. I think there should be enough food, for now at least."
"- you can't murder snow, how would she murder snow? -"
"The meat should be cooked and distributed right away," Cullen commands.
"- alone, all alone she thinks, and she hurts-"
"Commander!" Lady Montilyet exclaims suddenly, her voice loud Her lips are stretched in a tight line, and Cullen finally realizes that she is quite pale. "Can you kindly tell our Spirit to not speak of the Herald like that - not when she's not with us?"
Her loud words ring in the alcove, the bustling activity suddenly screeching to a halt. All eyes turn to them, and suddenly the Antivan's cheeks flush.
"But she is here," says Cole, no sensitivity to the subject, either, and he says it so calmly, so clearly, that - Maker.
"Gather a party now!" Cullen commands, and the other advisors are already ahead of him. Lady Montilyet hesitates, before unclasping the fur around her own body to gather in her arms. Half a dozen men half jog, half march to him, and it doesn't take an order to have them fall in line behind him.
He bounds ahead of the others, crossing the upward slope with no trouble at all. His heart hammers in his chest, and for the first time, hope really surges within him. Once he finally manages to reach a vantage point, for a brief second, disappointment sends him plunging back down. Why- why a Spirit, didn't his time with the Templars teach him anything about trust, about the Fade, about deceit -
And then he spots it, the tiny flurry of movement. Slowly, but surely, he can see her staggering forward, that same damned Oak staff clutched in her hands, like a walking stick. She's limping, and from her hand emits an odd green glow, but he doesn't think as he calls out to his group, doesn't think as he skids down the mountain.
She looks at him - her glassy, ice blue eyes, round and wide but not with surprise. Just relief, so much relief, and he can almost trace the emotion as it swells on her face, her too-pale cheeks dusting with warmth, a faint smile twitching at white lips. His name, just his name, tumbles from her lips, so relieved, so happy, so warm, that as her body collapses against his, he realizes just how cold she really is.
...
Cullen will be referring to these characters in his narration by their full names and proper titles. That'll change as he warms up to them, though. I'll have to ask you to bear with it for now!
Please let me know what you think. I'd love your feedback. The other companions are new to me, especially Sera. For whatever reason, my quizzies and her never quite got along.