"So, she's supposed to...what? Walk in and let them chain her up? Because someone already did that once, and look how it turned out."
I glance over my shoulder at Varric, frowning. The dwarf rolls his eyes at Mother Giselle, yet backs off, hands raised, to wander the crowds amongst the crossroads. When I nod to Cassandra, she wordlessly follows, leaving the Mother and I alone.
"Forgive them." I request. "These lands have been rough, and we only arrived yesterday."
"These are trying times for all." Mother Giselle acquiesces, gesturing to a low stone wall in offering. I decline, and she kneels to aid a refugee on a cot. "The Chantry will speak to you in Val Royeaux, Herald. How they receive you is up to the Maker. In the interest of smoothing things over, I will join you in Haven once my task here is complete."
I nod. "Thank you, Mother Giselle. Your assistance is valued. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to before leaving this region."
"Maker go with you, Herald."
"And you, Mother."
The Crossroads proper is bustling, perhaps with more activity than these few huts and this dirt road is used to seeing. Carts of goods and belongings line the ditches, families huddled around fires, and Inquisition soldiers mingle amongst them, protecting what little they can. Reinforcements are obviously lacking, and sorely.
The path here wasn't long, but Mage and Templar bodies littered our wake, leaving us tired, worn, and it wasn't even midday yet.
"What now, Lavellan?" Varric asks once I've joined Cassandra, Solas and him on the road.
I take in a deep breath, looking past him at the surrounding hills. Stronghold ruins sat just beyond a rise, and I had it on good authority that a Templar base lay within. The Mages were further up the path, past the farms and dug in at Witchwood. Until the warring parties were dealt with, innocent refugees were left pinned here, struggling against the cold and wildlife.
I tie back my hair with a string of leather, pointing up the way. "That road leads to the farms. Master Dennet is within, and he has our horses. But until this battlefield is cleared, no one is going anywhere, and these refugees will continue to suffer."
"May we assume you have a plan?" Solas asks, leaning on his staff.
"Stick around long enough, Solas, and you'll soon learn that I always do." I grin, unsheathing Brother and Sister. "Cassandra, how do you feel about knocking on a few front doors?"
She offers a small smile. "At your word, Herald."
Our party returns to camp hours past sunset, beaten and bruised, but victorious in our conquests. The Templar stronghold had been brutal, but a mix of stealth and distractions proved more useful than tramping about like gruffalo within the enemy camp and ruins.
Witchwood had been the true challenge.
Terrified mages, some half-crazy with blood magic and some innocent yet too scared to do anything other than fight, all now litter the cavern where we found them. Women and children were spared, but the men fought savagely, fire spouting from their eyes, the undead rising at all angles until we were surrounded. Demons broke their leashes and grew feral. It was a frenzy-no longer about clearing a battlefield, but about simple survival from one minute into the next. Panic thickened the air as the mages quickly realized the enemy was not just those who had stormed their refuge, but the spirits they had fought to bind previously. Rage demons tore apart any in their path; shades lingered and pounced upon abandoned children; corpses shambled towards targets until they were brought down in a flurry of fire, or daggers, or even arrows.
But the moments after were the worst. A lingering silence fell; for once, even Varric didn't have words. The bodies around us-men, women, children-were mostly innocent mages, driven mad by a guilty few. None of them deserved a sullied, cavernous grave like the one they were given.
Wisely, no one spoke until we reached camp.
"Herald." A scout nods in recognition. "Commander Cullen arrived at dusk with forces to aid the refugees."
A bitter laugh spills from my lips. "How generous of him." I seethe as Solas and Varric limp past, into the circle of tents. Cassandra lingers at my side, though the Seeker had taken a nasty burn to the arm in Witchwood.
"Where is Commander Cullen?" She asks for me, sounding just as bitter and only a bit more weary.
The scout gestures in the vague direction of the requisition table, hidden behind a tent and a roaring fire. Voices trail past, and a soldier suddenly scurries across camp and into the firelight, disappearing not a moment later with a gathering of scrolls in her arms. Her retreat gives us our direction.
As we walk onwards, I attempt to calm my shaking nerves, particularly because I have no interest in shouting needlessly at the Commander. For all I know, he is a good man, if a little sheltered by the Chantry. Having learned none of his merits myself, I have had to go by what Cassandra and Josephine pass on whenever the topic arises.
He is an ex-templar, and an avid strategist. Calm, cool, confident, and yet shy when discussing anything too personal. Smarter than most, well schooled, a devout Andrastian, and-Josephine giggled when she said this-"Tolerable to look at, as it is."
Rounding the corner of a tent and finding the Commander learning over a map of the area, I have to agree with the Diplomat: Cullen is handsome. Well-kept blond hair is cut short, leaving a strong jaw and gold-brown eyes open for the world to see, only shaded by a bit of stubble that peters out around a scarred upper lip. In the firelight, his chest plate shines as he turns to face the Seeker and I.
"Commander." Cassandra nods. "We had not heard you were to join us."
"The situation here was more dire than we originally anticipated." He explains, glancing to me when I say nothing. "Are...both of you alright?"
I scoff. Cassandra nudges me.
It is understandable why he might ask. Looking at Cassandra, her hair is mussed, dirt clinging to her armor and face, stray smears of blood still painted over her leathers and blade. She clings to her wounded arm, eyes squinted but head not bowed beneath the pain. The only safe assumption is that I must appear similar, although I traded a burn for a shallow cut across my thigh in the earlier battle.
Ignoring his inquiry, I cross my arms over my chest. "Pray tell, Commander, what exactly your forces hope to accomplish here in the Hinterlands."
"Word has been gathered regarding a stronghold of either faction hidden further within this area. With some luck," Commander Cullen glances down at the map. "We may uncover them."
"You're a few hours too late, Commander." Cassandra tells him. "I'm afraid your men might be resigned to clean-up duty."
In spite of my mental pleading for her to remain, the Seeker spins on her heel and tramps off. In vain, I hope the stubborn woman will at least find a healer for her arm. Her absence leaves the Commander and I alone, bathed in an unsure silence until he clears his throat and speaks.
"May I assume your injuries are from clearing the strongholds?"
"You may." I nod before offering a small smile. "There is still plenty for your forces to do here, fear not. The help is appreciated, if not by Seeker Cassandra, then by the men and women on the Crossroads."
He shakes his head, running a hand over his tired face. The dancing light catches his scar, making it appear harsher than it had before. "I can only apologize for not arriving sooner, it seems."
"You are here now, and the soldiers can still do good." I repeat. "Mages and Templars may still linger in the area. They should provide sufficient practice for your recruits. But, if you'll excuse me, I have a wound I need tended."
Without waiting for a response, I begin to turn and take my leave.
"Herald."
My feet pause. "Yes, Commander?"
"I can only imagine what you faced today." The sincerity with which these words are spoken-as if he knows, as if he has witnessed horrors such as these before- causes me to cant my head over my shoulder, raising a brow. He appears tall, serious and honest, in the firelight. "Never mind what the chantry may whisper in the shadows; you are stronger than any expected."
And suddenly I find myself considering that perhaps the Commander understands, for I am not broken; only weary. My will has not snapped; only bent. My path has not stopped; only paused. For I seek no escape, nor will I until the Breach is closed and Thedas is set back on her feet.
Perhaps Cullen sees this, and knows exactly what strength a moment of weakness takes, no matter how small it may be.
There is no proper response to this unspoken connection, but I find one in a whispered 'thank-you' as I limp off, feeling nowhere near as formidable as whatever the Commander sees.