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The Long Walk
Chapter 3
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His hands fist into too-thin sheets, his heart hammers into his chest, and for a few wild moments, his eyes dart around - searching for the voice, the fire, the demon, the temptress who sang maddening songs into his ear with a devil's lute - and the darkness that falls upon him is maddeningly frightening. He recalls the bodies they'd set ablaze the night before, the sound of crying and quiet prayers flush in his ears. He doesn't know where he is - doesn't know what's happened, but he knows he's cold, he's alone, and he's certainly not within four stone Chantry walls that he'd slowly been learning to call home.
The only way Cullen knows it's morning is the faint chirping of birdsong, the quiet lilts punctuating his heavy, nearly panting, breaths.
He barely manages another as he peels the bed sheets off him - even without the extra pelts, he feels as if he's sweated through his underclothes. Surely, they cling to his body even without the sheets as a weight; Cullen shrugs his way out of those, too, and instead replaces them with the neatly folded clothing that lay beside him in preparation. The almost welcome cold is gone too soon, he sips another delicate breath as his armour caresses his skin. Though they aren't warm by any means, he can almost feel the pieces of his chestplate warm accordingly to his body.
He pushes the tent flap aside.
Another blast of cold air hits his face, but it's mostly refreshing rather than repulsive. His inhale is crisp, cool; he allows himself an indulgent few breaths, feeling them travel down his throat, not quite reaching where he'd like, in that pool of aching hunger that isn't for food, but he feels himself calm. The echoing reverb of singing quiets. The image of the demon, of ice blue, blurs in his mind, and he's not sure if it's from the cold, being awake, or sheer willpower, when the picture becomes incomprehensible within the confines of his own mind.
A low hush of voices catches his attention. Though most of the snow has been cleared from the continuous trodding from last night, facets of orange and yellow reflect the slowly rising sun. Unmarred by human settlement, their small alcove soon glows soft shades of warm colours, the birdsong louder now - and under any other circumstance, he may have taken some time to appreciate the tranquility.
Instead, he toes around the other advisor's tents, towards the quietly discussing voices. His eyes stray at the medical tent - and for a brief moment, panic and concern spikes at the base of his stomach at the absent bedroll - until he discerns her Ostwick accent, her voice a part of the texture of the others who were up this early in the morning.
And there she is, back turned to him. Her mahogany hair is already pulled tight into a single ponytail, and her pyjamas from the previous night is replaced with her usual robes. Around her are her other companions - he can see the tresses of Blackwall's hair to her left, Solas's taller figure peeks out on her other side. Of course they'd be awake, Cullen realizes, as they often travelled like this on their own, unlike the rest of his troops - even the other advisors.
It's the Herald's head who turns first as he approaches. "Commander," she greets, her blue eyes already aware, a stark contrast to the warm glow of her face in the morning light.
"Herald," he returns, and turns to greet her companions with a nod. "How are you feeling?"
Her nose wrinkles briefly, as if considering her words. But as she speaks, her voice is confident - unyielding. "Well enough to travel," she responds cordially, but the sentiment doesn't reach her eyes. Instead, they lift to beyond his shoulder. "Cassandra," she greets and she dips her head.
"We should rouse camp," is the Seeker's lower, gruffer voice from behind him. "And begin moving If you're well enough, of course." A shred of concern colours the woman's tone, one that Cullen has only grown too familiar with. The Herald gives another nod before she stretches - her figure elongates as her arms reach skyward, a groan of satisfaction spilling from her lips. Cullen turns away at that.
He only manages to remove two pegs of his tent before other soldiers take over. Cullen steps back with a low murmur of thanks, and takes one sweeping look at the camp. Most of them are awake now. Only a few of the children protest, but everyone else is working: taking down the tents, rolling them tightly, passing them to be mounted onto the druffalo and bronto. A few Chantry Sisters mill about, passing out food rations. Several more, as well as the locals from Haven, are several paces away, paying respects to those who've passed. Madame Le Fer is speaking in a low voice to the First Enchanter, the elven rogue is at least entertaining the ones too young to really do any work. The rest mill around the Herald, along with Leliana and Lady Montilyet. And then the Herald rises from hunching over the map, catching his eye.
"We head north," she says as he approaches. "It's the only logical route through the mountains." For a brief second, Trevelyan turns to Solas, who only gives one, deep nod. And then she turns to him, her blue eyes searching his, as if she's asking for permission.
Something about the thought almost makes Cullen chuckle.
"After you, then," he says lowly. Her eyebrow lifts and he can sense the question on her tongue, but it's Cassandra who interrupts.
"You and Solas should lead the way," says the Seeker, with more finality than him. And then her voice warms. "It's the most logical conclusion."
The Herald's voice remains as flabbergasted as her face betrays. "The most logical conclusion is that one of you lead. Surely, if not the Commander, than you, or our Spymaster, or Josephine."
"It has to be you," the Spymaster says simply. The Herald seems to ponder this, her eyes rolling over from Lady Nightingale, to Seeker Pentaghast, and then to him. She seems to take a deep inhale, her shoulders rising, before she exhales.
"If you're sure…"
"We all are," says Cassandra again, in an almost encouraging way. The Herald looks at her companions, and it's Solas's nod that has her finally releasing her breath.
"Then I thank you for the honour," she says solemnly.
Hushed conversations swirl around Cullen, most of which indiscernible - and even if it weren't, he'd feel guilty for eavesdropping. Several paces ahead of him, the Herald and her companions sit on horses, thankfully still being well treated and fed by the Quartermaster. He can see her swishing mahogany hair, every bump causing it to swing back and fro. She, too, is engaged in quiet conversation, mostly to Solas beside her, but occasionally twisting to speak to Dorian or Bull as well. With nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him, his hand twists on the grip of his sword, concentrating on the steadiness of his feet. He swallows and pushes himself ahead by several paces, putting more distance between him and the rest, between him and the mages, between the singing that was so different from the monotonous flush of sentient voices.
Cullen's not sure how long they've been walking, but he's sure it's been several hours by the time she twists her horse to a stop. Thankfully, too, for the swell of voices had melted away, then come back in the form of grumbles. Hunger. Tiredness. The call of nature, as well - and he's beginning to feel it too before his feet snag to a stop.
Immediately, he turns and selects several men to hunt, assigning others to setting temporary shelter and to begin building fires. And then he ducks aside, intending to relieve himself before he's needed again.
He's barely slipped his trousers back on before Cole appears before him - and he barely manages to swallow a swear. "They are concerned," says the spirit. "The people, they wonder why you aren't leading."
Cullen hesitates.
He's not sure what to say - what to justify. It just makes sense to him - because she's the Herald, she's their saviour, and he's just a commander. Because he's not fit to lead, not in his current state, maybe not ever - because he doesn't want to lead.
Because being with the mages makes his blood boil with craving, shame.
He shakes his head. It doesn't seem as if Cole is looking for an answer either, but the Spirit walks with him as they return to the clearing. The smell of cooking meat suddenly floods his nose, enticing his stomach. The Herald and her companions are already eating, still speaking in hushed, quiet voices. He takes his portion of meat and looks for the other advisors instead.
They're not far off, but neither seem in the mood for talking. The eating happens quickly, quietly, and he for a brief second, he can hear a child complain - and then the hush of another. The camp plunges into silence for several heartbeats more.
And then the Herald stands in silent command. The companions follow soon after, and Cullen doesn't hesitate as he does the same.
The Herald doesn't stop them until the sun threatens to sink below the sky. This time, it's completely silent. Despite the cold, the biting air that nips viciously at his nose, Cullen can't help but to feel too warm. His cheeks are warm and his pelts seem too heavy, his limbs sag and for a moment, he toys with the idea of simply lying down. A couple volunteers follow Bull, Sera, and Blackwall into the wilderness, otherwise the rest of the company all but collapse on the frosted ground before them.
The murmur is more discernable now, more from the townsfolk than the inquisition. While Cullen can't hear, he can easily read it in their body language; their vague hostility, questioning, curiosity.
Her ice blue eyes catch his attention - but the Herald isn't watching him. she merely follows his gaze. Her lips pull into a bit of a frown.
As much as he's used to reading Mages, she's just as used to reading Templars, Cullen supposes.
But if she's offended, she says nothing, she only leans over to murmur something into Madame Le Fer's ears, before she straightens with still a quirk in her lip. Half of him wonders what the conversation is, but his attention is suddenly is pulled away as he sees some soldiers approach him. Immediately after dismissing them, a somewhat braver - if not frailer- looking lady approaches. Judging by her clothing, the inquisition pelts that adorned her shoulders, and the lack of muscle, she must be one of the townsfolk. For a brief moment, her chocolate eyes flit to the Herald, but then they settle on his, with an almost startling amount of conviction.
"Commander, is there a spare fur?"
Her face is pale with no healthy glow to rouse her cheeks. She seems to shake, too, trembling under her own, thin-looking pelt. But there are no spare pelts, no extra furs - they'd been passed around before, and Cullen glances at the smaller animals the camp had eaten.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "There are none to spare. However, if the hunting goes well tomorrow, we may be able to clean one."
For a long, dismal moment, Cullen thought the woman's expression might warm. Instead, it remains tight, if not a touched frightened, but she merely bows her head. Her eyes flicker back to the Herald, and then they drop to her feet instead. And then she's off - and he can see her unsteady step, disappointment weighing down her shoulders.
It's the steady realization that the townsfolk don't see the Herald similarly that gnaws at his throat. Sure, the Inquisition understand her as the Herald, but to the townsfolk, she's just another one who was at the Conclave. He's the Commander - and with the Chancellor passed away, they were looking at him, relying on him.
He watches the woman settle back down, two younger children coming to her. She speaks to them in low voices, and then - he can't help but to stare - she undoes the fur around her neck, carefully draping it around her children. She gives them each a kiss, and then he tears his eyes away.
Instead, they meet the Herald's. She blinks once, her mahogany hair still pulled back into its usual updo. Hollowly, Cullen feels the urge to go to her side - but his fist clenches and he nods instead. She blinks once more, before returning the gesture shallowly, her eyes lingering just a moment longer before she turns to speak to her companions again.
The night wears on, and soon the fires are extinguished. Cullen's only vaguely aware that the night grows colder. Before he realizes it, he's looking at the townsfolk again, huddled around each other, their thin shawls of warmth barely staying on their shoulders. It doesn't take much longer for the rest of the Inquisition to call it a day, and soon they return to their tents. He himself had just returned to his own, and upon returning the quiet nod of goodnight to the Herald, he slips inside.
His heart pounds and his head feels light, and this time, when he sleeps, the hollow husk of the freezing townswoman joins the growing list of horrors in his dreams.