Haven is under attack and the Herald of Andraste is staying behind to ensure the survival of the others–something Cullen is not happy about. He also knows he cannot stop her from doing it. He tells himself that this worry stems only from the fact that she bares the Mark, and that the Inquisition needs her. He doesn't know her that well. Not really. At one point, he thought that maybe there might have been–that emshe/em might have been–but, no, he mustn't think of that. He mustn't think of the side glances and the shy smiles and the way his adrenaline coursed through his veins when she was around. The thoughts of "might have been's" would surely get them all killed. And so he let her go.
Maker, help him . . .
He let her go.
The Inquisition survived, thanks to her, but at what cost? He saw the dragon–was it an Archdemon? He saw the trebuchet fire, and he saw the avalanche that buried Haven. At their makeshift camp in the mountains, Cullen paces. He was told by Leliana and Josephine that sending a search party for the Herald could prove detrimental as they had no way of knowing if she was even alive. It was an argument that was heard around the camp. Deep down, as a warrior and soldier, Cullen knew they were both right. But as a man … the "might have been's" continued to play out before him; burning him like white hot coals–sending his skin racing and unable to stand still.
Sitting in front of the fire, he stares at the flames. He knows sleep is pointless.
He can only think of her and where she might be.
He gets to his feet.
Seeing his intent, Cassandra and Varric come after him. They, too, want to look for her. Cullen lets his gratitude and relief show–a gratitude and relief that far surpasses that of what an ordinary advisor should display. He knows that it might get some of them talking, but he is also unable to care about what others might be thinking in that moment. She's what matters now. He doesn't wait to hear more from them, just turns and continues making his trek back up the mountain path from which they had come. His heart is beating like a war drum. His skin feels as if it had been struck by lightning. Would he find her? Would she be alive?
Maker, let her be alive.
No one speaks, not even Varric, as they walk. The silence brings him both comfort and trepidation. The snow nearly reaches the top of his boots with each step he takes, and he begins to wonder … even if she had survived Haven, how could she possibly survive the freezing snow? He casts the thought aside with a sharp jerk of his head. He couldn't bear the idea of her being out there cold and alone–it's too painful. Instead, he tucks his chin down as he forges his way forward, the determination to find her stronger than before.
As he comes to the peak of the pass, he sees a shadow in the distance. His heart races. His steps quicken. He tells himself not to get his hopes up–that it could be a wolf, a bear, or something far more sinister. He places a hand on the hilt of his sword to serve as a reminder. But the closer he gets, the more certain he becomes.
He let's out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
It's her! Did he yell that out loud? He had. Could they feel his relief and elation mixed with the anxiety and longing in those two words? He was sure they could feel it surging from his body . . . how could they not? Another thought to be cast aside. He breaks into a run–a feat in the deep snow. Ahead, she falls to her knees and the closer he gets, the better he can see her. His heart plummets. She is exhausted, injured, and frozen. He reaches her first. She looks up at him with those eyes that have haunted him since he first met her, but he is no longer reminded of what might have been. Instead, he see's in them what could still be.
She falls forward, but he is already there to catch her. He removes his coat and wraps it around her small frame, instantly feeling the raw, bone biting chill on his own skin. It's painful, but he ignores it. Instead, he wonders how she could have possibly survived. He could only imagine what she went through to make it this far by herself.
Lifting her easily into his arms, he can't help but blush. How could she possibly fit against him so perfectly? Lucky for him, it's dark—his burning cheeks are easily hidden. The others surround them now. He meets Varric's eyes and in them, see's an understanding. He can also see the story writing itself in the dwarf's head. But what ending would it have? He looks away when Cassandra speaks, but Cullen barely hears her words above the pounding of his own heart. The Herald's head rests against his shoulder and he touches his cheek against her forehead. She's ice cold. He needs to get her back to camp. Back to a healer. He pulls her in tighter against his body, trying desperately to provide her with the warmth that he knows he cannot give her. He moves quickly but carefully now, the others leading him. He tries not to jostle her too much, but the deep snow makes it nearly impossible.
Not that it matters.
What matters . . . is that she is alive.