Haven was celebrating.
Paper lanterns hung from trees and countless shingled roofs, giving warmth to the otherwise frigid holdfast. Drunken mages, fishermen, and soldiers jostled elbows as they danced around roaring bonfires, their robes and boiled leathers swishing against the ground as callous voices raised in celebratory song. Ellaria watched them, a quiet spectre amongst the noisy festivities.
A hundred different smells of roasting meat, bread, stews and sweets filled the already fragrant evening air. Both Dorian and Solas were casting parlour tricks to a ragtag group of motley children, their shrieks of enthralled, raucous laughter infectious. The Herald couldn't help but smile at their antics, silently moving in the background until she spotted the ambassador.
Josephine was daintily eating a scone underneath a blossoming sycamore, her thick, luscious hair intricately braided up into an elaborate bun. She was gaudily dressed as befit a courtier, garbed in a snow-cream gown with trimmed lace and puffed sleeves. She waved cheerily at Ellaria, an invitation in her large doe-brown eyes.
The Herald shook her head. She retreated to the courtyard where it was quiet, feeling strangely heavy. They all acted like a victory, and it was. . . wasn't it? Powdery snowdrifts shone like maidens in the moonlight, the flickering candles softly illuminating the redolent grounds. They were prayers for the departed, hopes for the morrow. No expense had been spared that night, as food was being carted out on silver platters usually reserved for offerings. Tonight, none would go hungry. Tonight, there were no prejudices. Tonight, people could sleep easily in their beds.
Except her. Nightmares haunted her dreams, both waking and otherwise. Alternate realities where Leliana was tortured, where Cullen betrayed her, where the Herald of Andraste failed and everyone died. She had seen her companions become tormented back in Redcliffe, either turning into monstrous beings or mere shadows of their former selves.
Ellaria swallowed. While her advisors were aware of what had happened, only Dorian knew the whole truth. The real truth. She bade him to keep silent, fearful of the consequences should the others find out. A voice inside her head scolded her for being paranoid and deceitful to her superiors, but doubt still gnawed at her whenever possible and prevented her from speaking.
She couldn't even close her eyes without being haunted by the lucid images and it had almost been a week. The pungent stench of smoke still lingered in her nostrils, and she if thought hard enough she could feel Cullen behind her, deftly sliding a dagger into her ribs.
Tell me what you want, my lady. . .
Ellaria whirled around in partial fear, taking a shaky, deep breath as she blinked. She was alone. She always would be. She. . .
The red lyrium. It made her. . . wrong. Dorian—being a mage, she assumed—had natural resistances to it, and so he remained unaffected during their brief time at Redcliffe Castle. But it corrupted her, crawling beneath her skin and making her feel withdrawals. Pain. Silent whispers would call out to her in beckoning, invading her senses as her eyes flashed crimson for the briefest of moments. She hadn't spoken to anyone about the issue, desperately praying that her friend remained silent as well. Ellaria wouldn't be able to stand their stares.
Besides, things were getting better. She hoped.
Much time had passed since recruiting the bloody mages and she still felt ill, unable to escape her dreams and visions. Nothing seemed to help, either. Maybe it was only stress, but she remained unconvinced.
At least she wasn't the only one unhappy. According to Varric, the Commander was polishing his weapons with a puppy-dog face, poring over letters and requisitions. He was preparing for the next battle, she knew. The Inquisition was far from over, though her role had been momentarily fulfilled. The Breach was sealed, and ecstasy was spreading over the village like delirium.
Ellaria briefly wondered what would become of her, tugging at the single glove which clothed her hand and covered the Mark from view. Solas had imbued the grey-coloured fabric with magic, assuring her that it would assuage her aches and spasms.
Perhaps she could slip away, though the prospect wasn't very ideal. Her clan wouldn't accept her, and the Chantry would still want her beheaded despite her best efforts. She would have nowhere to go. A vagabond.
She solemnly sat down on a granite bench, the silver-flecked stone cooling her hands and the backs of her thighs. Millions of stars spattered the velvety sky, the constellations innumerable and wondrous as the air chilled her lungs and stole her breath. Ellaria was unsurprised when Cassandra stepped forth from the darkness, a proud look on the noblewoman's face.
"You did it," the warrior remarked in her native accent, sitting across from the Herald after asking permission. She briefly touched the faded scar on her sun-kissed throat, smiling grimly before she folded her hands in a silent prayer. "Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed." There was a note of finality in her rich voice as she looked at Ellaria warmly. "We've reports of lingering Rifts, and many questions remain." The Seeker gestured at the Herald's arm. "But make no mistake. This was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread, and the Inquisition prospers."
Ellaria smiled. Cassandra was a good woman, fiercely loyal almost to a fault. Her mahogany hair shone in the twilight as she shifted against the wind, the scent of exotic spices wafting from her figure. She was content. Happy. Her purpose would go unabated, dressed in decorative armour with a rippling cloak and satin hood.
"You know how many were involved," Ellaria said, staring at her feet resolutely. "Luck put me in the centre."
Cassandra frowned, wrinkling her nose. "A strange kind of luck," she observed drily. Her tone betrayed her as feeling slighted, as if the whole ordeal being accepted for anything beyond Andraste's mercy an insult. The Seeker was nothing if not firm in her beliefs. "I'm not sure if we need more or less."
She heaved a sigh, clambering to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth. Her boots clicked noisily on the courtyard. It was a habit Ellaria recognised, one the warrior did when she was thinking about an important matter. Cassandra turned to face her, a lobstered gauntlet clasped over the pommel of her sword. "You're right," she admitted. "This was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory." She gestured up to the bruised-looking sky, her expression troubled. "With the Breach finally closed, that alliance will need new focus."
The clanging of bells startled the both of them, thrushes bursting from the surrounding thickets in alarm and squawking in protest. Ellaria scrambled to her feet, panicked yells greeting her pointed ears. She walked quickly into the yard, the surrounding mountains aglow with hundreds of thousands of burning lights. The breath left her mouth in a rush, stunned.
"What the—we must get to the gates!" Cassandra demanded, looming behind her ominously.
Ellaria started to sprint without further instruction, dashing heedlessly past Threnn and the baker's boy who had tear tracks running down his pudgy face, a stale loaf clutched in his tiny hands like it was a weapon. She collided violently against the Commander's chest while around turning a sharp corner, and would have toppled over had Cullen not steadied her with a firm grasp.
"What's going on?" she panted, her hand twitching eagerly. Ellaria didn't need to look to know that it was glowing. The tingling feeling preceding such events consumed her arm possessively in powerful throbs of anticipation.
They had not spoken much since that. . . night, nor her foolish impulse. And she certainly wasn't planning to without good reason. It wouldn't happen again, she decided. He knew too much. Even if her feelings held depth and were reciprocated, their lives weren't theirs to live. They had duty. Honour. And he certainly wouldn't sully his reputation with a knife-ear.
He was still amiable, of course, but avoided her whenever she tried to apologise, speaking hastily about obligations and walking off. Siding with the mages put distance between them, and despite that evening and his manners he was upset with her, she thought.
"Cullen?!" Cassandra shoved between them, accosting the Commander with a stare that would have made lesser men wet their breeches.
Cullen ran a hand through his hair, barking angrily at his soldiers to arm themselves. "One sentry reports a massive force, that bulk over there." He gestured at the cliffs vaguely, ignoring Cassandra's contemptuous snort.
"Under what banner?" Josephine asked, an alarmed look on her face as she joined them. Crumbs were still stuck in the folds of her corset, falling loose with every quickened step. "Armies need a leader."
"None." The Commander replied. "There's none."
"None?" Cassandra's lip curled in disdain. "How is that possible?" she asked hotly.
Cullen frowned, opening his mouth to reply with a retort. He was cut off by an urgent pounding on the weathered gates, a raspy voice yelling at them from the other side. "I can't come in unless you open!" They sounded pleading, desperate.
Ellaria slipped past them and their brewing argument, starting hastily down the steps towards the giant doors. "Open them," she ordered to a tired-looking scout.
The man obeyed, nonplussed as he passed on the command. Ellaria ignored her name being called, staring at the gates with a grim look painting her visage. They could bicker all they wanted. She knew what was coming, and dread coiled in her stomach at the thought.
Creators, but she prayed that she was wrong.
The gates groaned in complaint, creaking open slowly. Frightened smallfolk flooded through the entrance, a young boy following them as he carefully stepped over a fresh corpse. A queer metal hat was perched on tufts of his blond hair, his eyes colourless and worried.
"He's come!" The stranger shouted fervently, shoving through the forces to reach Ellaria. He clasped her hand, drawing her out into the training yards. "I came to warn you. To help. People are coming to hurt you." Blood spattered his pale complexion and sunken-in cheekbones, his filthy clothing soaked with a grimy mixture of water and sweat. "You. . . probably already know." His eyes widened as if in shock, his mouth suddenly agape.
"What is this?" Cullen asked sharply, glaring at the stranger. The boy dropped his clammy grip on Ellaria's hand, making a motion of peace. The Commander's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What's going on?"
"The Templars are coming to kill you," the boy stated tonelessly. He gave a pointed look at Ellaria, his mouth twisting into a frown.
Cullen swore. "Templars?" he asked, incredulous. His honey-brown eyes turned brooding and dark, hostility in his smouldering gaze. He jabbed a hand at the mountains in anger. "Is this the Order's response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?" His suave voice became dangerous, a biting edge to it. "If your word is true, then the Templars easily outnumber us tenfold."
Ellaria felt guilt well up inside her at his blunt words. She had chosen the mages against his advice, seeking them out of her own accord and pity. Now it looked like they were on the losing side. Again. Because of me.
The boy made an odd half-bow, stepping nimbly to the side. "The Red Templars went to the Elder One," he insisted stubbornly. "You know him?" He lightly touched Ellaria's chest in an intimate gesture, ignoring the Commander's furthering scowl. "He knows you. You took his mages." The stranger gave a lopsided grin. "He's very angry that you took his mages."
Ellaria took a deep breath, forcing her hands to unclench as a slight catch betrayed her voice. "Commander?" she inquired coolly, a war horn shaking the air with its brassy proclamation. "Can you give me a plan?"
Cullen look at her, worry creasing his brow. "Haven is no fortress," he admitted, uneasiness marring his handsome face. "If we are to withstand this monster we must control the battle." He glanced at her appraisingly, his expression quickly morphing into something unreadable. "Go. Help them. Start avalanches down the mountains with our catapults. Bury every last one of them."
The Herald nodded, her face dour. "I'll go alone," she announced, her face tightening.
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head. His voice brooked no argument. "Take Cassandra and Varric." Cullen turned to accost the stranger as Ellaria retrieved her weapons, running out past the smithy. The stables were already aflame; horses and mules alike were screaming and kicking at their stalls as the whites of their eyes flashed with fear. Refugees were everywhere, fleeing in circles and shouting madly in a trampling stampede.
They weren't prepared for this.
The first catapult was overrun with templar knights. The lightly-armoured Inquisition soldiers were long since dead, their sightless eyes gazing up at the torn sky. Ellaria nocked an arrow to her longbow, shooting a man square in the throat. He toppled over in a lifeless heap, blood spurting out of his nose. The feeling of victory was quickly subdued when another took his place, a sere burgundy glowing in his veins and giving his face an unnatural glow.
Creators.
"Red lyrium!" Varric tossed a grenade consisting of pitch and wildfire, taking cover behind a barrel of rotten fish for protection and giving an ugly grimace. "It's changed them!"
"By the Maker," Cassandra said angrily, a fresh cut on her temple. The woman was in a self-righteous fury. She swung her shortsword this way and that, ducking and weaving with an agility most envied. Abruptly, the warrior slammed her shield into an archer, snapping his spine in half as she started to recite the Chant of Light.
Lyrium. Ellaria stilled, the unheard song singing to her sweetly. Time seemed to slow, and it took all her strength to focus. Sweat dripped down her forehead. The breath left her mouth in a rush when a behemoth stomped into view a hundred yards away, crushing two farmers into a fine pulp of blood and viscera and spraying the air with a fine red mist.
It was at least ten yards tall, shards of jagged lyrium encasing the former templar's skeletal limbs like a living, breathing nightmare. It roared to the heavens, a formidable shadow forming next to it. "Varric!" Ellaria shouted hoarsely, breaking from her trance. "Can you start the catapult?"
The dwarf grunted in response, loading his crossbow. "Can you keep them off my back?"
Ellaria made a noise of agreement, grabbing an enemy's arrow and throwing into the eye of a banshee like a knife. Everything escaped her as she mindlessly fought, moving to the second catapult and then the third. She leapt swiftly over pallets of flaming wood and sidestepped chunks of falling debris. Her bow was gone—lost somewhere amidst the chaos so that she forced to rely upon her twin daggers. Then the lyrium grotesquerie from earlier attacked them, summoning ghouls and a fright of beasts.
Varric had retreated for the church, leaving only her and Cassandra. There's no end to them, Ellaria thought desperately, falling to the ground when a earth-shattering wail pierced the sky. Alarm surged through her when she caught the sight of tattered wings.
"Andraste!" Cassandra scrambled away from a smouldering pile of rubble. "It's a dragon. They have a dragon." As if in agreement, the wyrm dove overhead, smashing its spiked tail into a cluster of trees and screaming fire.
Ellaria's eyes widened. "Fenedhis." It was like the one she dreamt of in dreams. The one who commandeered her sleepless nights with unsurpassed terror. It was the same, she was certain. And it terrified her.
"Herald!" Cassandra gripped her arm tightly. "We've secured the last catapult. We must set it off." The fighting seemed to lull for the moment as Ellaria stared back at her dazedly, flames reflecting her amethyst eyes. Frustrated, she shook the elf vigorously like a twig. "Listen to me!" she snapped. "We can fix it if—"
"No time," Ellaria mumbled weakly. "It makes no difference." A horn sounded out, the noise coiling up into the sulphurous air as clouds swallowed the disturbance. The heat flushed her cheeks as she coughed. "We need to report back."
Cassandra made a noise of both disgust and anger, nodding curtly after a long pause. The woman understood, but she hated the decision. Ellaria didn't care. There just simply wasn't enough time to repair the final catapult, and if they didn't leave now they would become overwhelmed. There was no time to bicker and argue.
They took off for the gates, and relief surged through Ellaria when she saw that the Commander was waiting for them on the steps. Cassandra dashed ahead in an adrenaline-fuelled sprint, the Herald mere feet behind her when something latched onto her boot. She yelped, crashing to the ground and kicking uncontrollably as a lyrium-crazed templar slashed at her, snarling in hatred.
A shortsword suddenly decapitated its hand. Cullen grabbed her roughly by the scruff of her jacket and flung her inside the smoking ruins of Haven. He closed the gates hurriedly, commanding everyone to fall back into the chapel.
Ellaria blinked, her head ringing in a high-pitched tone. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth as she slowly dragged herself upright, following the flood of refugees. The Commander pulled her aside, soot and ash smudging his face and becoming entangled in his golden hair. "There are still some smallfolk trapped," he explained tersely. "That dragon—whatever reprieve you gave us is gone."
Ellaria nodded, shaking her head to dispel the wooziness she felt. "I can help," she stated shakily, leaning against him as someone screamed.
His ironlike grasp tightened on her hand, fingers interlacing with her own until he held her in a bruising grip. "No. Lead them to the church. If I'm not there in ten minutes, lock the doors. Don't open them," he added shortly, dismissing her with a sharp nod.
Her violet eyes softened. She left to do his bidding, scooping a red-faced toddler into her arms. Ellaria drowned out the feeble cries, pulling open the church's doors. Varric rushed out to meet her, guiding the others inside. There was a tear in his ruffled shirt and he bore a bloodied lip, but otherwise he looked fine. The sight was greatly comforting, and she had to hold back the sudden urge to cry.
"Herald." He tugged at her elbow. "What's going on?" he asked urgently, lowering his voice.
"The Commander is doing something out there—helping smallfolk. If he's not here in ten minutes' time we close the doors. Permanently." Ellaria frowned, blinking hurriedly. "His own orders."
Varric chuckled humourlessly. How he even managed to do so was a mystery considering their predicament. He gently took the child clinging to her breast, sauntering away with the stolid, peculiar gait dwarves were known for. His caramel-coloured hair shone in the candlelight like tongues of flame, bouncing back and forth as he distracted the bairn.
Pained moans, cries of the bereft, and sobs assaulted her sensitive ears as she walked amongst the fluted marble pillars that held the chapel's ceiling aloft. A mob of children were clinging to a frustrated Dorian in a secluded alcove, demanding where their parents were and becoming angry when he provided no feasible answers.
Ellaria tugged at her ratted hair, flakes of dark-red blood fluttering to the ground. She forced herself to breathe, the occasional rumbles and screams reminding her where she was. The rafters would shake, untold layers of dust drifting down to cake everything in a grimy surface.
The chantry was a darkened labyrinth. The building felt morbidly warm to her, and the grand, austere architecture stuck out amidst the daub-and-wattle buildings surrounding it like a sore thumb. Threadbare rugs and stale rushes padded the endless, snaking corridors. Burnished sconces hung from the dingy nitre-covered walls, flickering weakly as erected statues of Andraste revealed themselves when she passed.
Torchlight streamed through the windows, bathing the pulpit and latticed cloisters in a frenzied rainbow. Smoke-stained rafters made everything echo, turning sounds into a melding cacophony of whispers and pleads.
The air smelled of earthen spices and peat moss, chanters repeating their prayers as they tended to the wounded and sickly. The Chant burned her thoughts, inescapable as she stumbled into an abandoned storage room filled with musty water skeins and neglected candlesticks.
Creators preserve me. She knocked over a discarded picture of Kirkwall, the rotted frame crumbling beneath her fingertips. The painting looked expensive despite its current state, once vibrant colours now faded and bleeding into the torn and filthy canvas.
Muffled yelling startled her. She followed the noise, coughing at the cloying incense used for vespers. Consolation flooded her when she caught sight of the solar, replaced by confusion when the noises grew louder.
"This man was found. I found him. He's dying." Ellaria spun on her heels, surprise marking her dirtied features as she saw the young stranger with Chancellor Roderick. The boy was washing the older man's face with something akin to tenderness, his cracked lips pursed in concentration. "He tried to stop a templar. The blade went deep."
"Chancellor." She stared at Roderick in shock. He looked terrible, his skin both papery and translucent. Enlarged bluish-purple veins strained at his neck as blood dribbled over his spotted mouth. There was a wild, feral look in his normally determined visage. It was the look of a dying person. Lost. Dazed. Hurt. Whatever remained of his proud character was gone, diminished with the fighting.
Ellaria scowled. "Who are you? You came to war—"
"A friend," the boy replied stoutly. He smiled grimly, his voice wispy and strange-sounding. Why hadn't she noticed it before? Sores decorated his mouth, as if eating provoked a reaction. "My name is Cole."
"You. . ." Chancellor Roderick coughed up blood, fumbling at his side in pain. A red blossom spread throughout his embroidered clothing and stained his white robes. "A charming boy. . ."
Ellaria heard Cullen shouting, promptly followed by loud banging. Solas opened the doors hastily, ushering the last survivors inside with consoling words. The Commander marched through wearily, supporting a half-conscious Seggritt. He roughly deposited the man close to Vivienne, the woman sniffing in distaste at the smell wafting up to her nostrils. Even in peril the enchantress seemed nonchalant, a sleeved arm draped elegantly over her cushioned chair.
"Commander," Vivienne greeted sourly, gripping her staff tightly as she frowned. "My dress is ruined."
His reply was brusque, "Congratulations." He stormed past, stopping abruptly before Ellaria and drawing her attention. "All exits are blocked, and demons are swarming all over the place. We won't hold long here." Cullen made a noise resembling a sigh, a bitter smile resting on his scarred lips. "Better we die in freedom."
"Or not." Leliana strode from the shadows, her hair singed and disorderly. She was dressed in a hooded blue robe with golden scrollwork embroidered on her sleeves, chainmail placed over it to serve for extra protection. "This cannot be the only way," she said. Poorly masked anger was in her melodious voice, bouncing around the stone walls.
"It is," Cullen insisted. "We don't have enough forces to fend them off. At best, they'll lay siege within the hour. If that beast doesn't turn us into ash."
"We should inform the people," Josephine added worriedly, smoothing out her gown to conceal her displeasure as she added to the ongoing conversation. "Wouldn't you want to know the hour of your death?"
"No," Ellaria admitted, fidgeting when they all turned to look at her. "It'll cause a panic." The people would try to leave, making things inevitably worse. She felt pleased when they agreed, Josephine muttering in disgruntlement about advice and diplomacy.
"I've seen an Archdemon." Cole spoke up, nodding sagely. "I was in the Fade. But it looked like that. A dragon."
"I don't care what it looks like," Cullen snapped, agitated. "It's cut a clear path for that army despite our best efforts. It will kill everyone in Haven."
Cole's eyes widened. "The Elder One doesn't care about the village," he informed them sternly, "he only wants the Herald. Bleeding, angry clouds. Determined. Slaughters all he can to reach you. Ellaria. The glow that surrounds you, marks the air."
Ellaria froze stiffly. "What?" she asked, disquieted. "What are you talking about?"
Cole ignored her nettled look, the chantry's endless silhouettes making his hooded eyes seem like welling pits. "I came to help. To warn. Too late." He shrugged his shoulders in despair. "Always too late. What will happen?"
How could she have let this unfold? Ellaria was aware of the desperate, accusing stares from the injured and helpless. She closed her eyes, a sense of calm washing over her. "If it will save these people, then he can have me," she said quietly.
"It won't," Cole argued, distraught. "He wants to murder you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them, kill them anyways." He paused, shaking his head with a boyish enthusiasm. "I don't like him."
"You don't like—" The Commander made a noise of annoyance, fixing his attention on Ellaria. "Herald," he hesitated, "there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that could slow them are the avalanches were originally planned. I. . . suppose we could turn the remaining trebuchets and catapults to cause one last slide."
Leliana threw back her hood, her ice-blue eyes chips of stone. "We're overrun," she observed coolly. "To hit the enemy Haven must be buried. It would defeat the purpose."
Cullen nodded, his face solemn. "We'll die. But we can decide how, like I said before. Many don't get that choice."
Ellaria couldn't help but stare at him. He wasn't afraid, she realised. Did he welcome death? It was strange how he was regarding everything, where moments before he had been the complete opposite. She bit her tongue, wanting to argue but unable to think of anything worthwhile. It was a noble point he made, but one she didn't necessarily agree with.
Cole was studying the floor intently, his brows furrowed in concentration. "Yes," he said loudly to no one in particular. "That." He smiled, grinning up at them excitedly with hope in his eyes. He nudged Cullen's foot, drawing his attention. "Chancellor Roderick can help. He wants to say it before he dies."
Roderick made a feeble sound of agreement, slowly nodding his head as if he was tired. "There is a path, y-you wouldn't know it unless you made the summer pilgrimage as I have." He coughed, trembling in a violent fit. Blood dribbled out of his mouth in an undignified manner as he shook despite the overheated atmosphere. The chancellor weakly thanked Cole as the boy diligently mopped it up with a rag, draping a tattered blanket around his bony shoulders. "The people can escape," he continued with renewed effort. "She must have shown me—Andraste must have shown me so I could. . . tell you. . ."
"What are you on about, Chancellor?" Josephine asked, wringing her hands as she pursed her dainty, bow-shaped lips. She demanded an explanation, wanting answers for the questions undoubtedly burning in all their minds.
Roderick shook his head, chuckling. "It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start it. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers. . ." He looked uncertain. "I don't know, Herald," he confessed, addressing Ellaria with a filmy gaze. "If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more."
Her heart swelled with pride. Roderick had never called her Herald before. It was always knife-ear or something worse, as if her company was a horrible thing to endure. Not now. Not in the face of death. Ellaria realised that he wasn't a bad man, but simply a misguided one. His intentions had been muddied, biased by his harsh religion. He was setting that aside for her, giving her a chance to prove herself.
She could try.
"Commander," she asked softly. "Will it work?" So much depended on his response, that her elated heartbeat nearly drowned out his words.
Cullen's mouth twitched into the semblance of a frown, displeasure in his eyes as he caught her suggestion. "Possibly," he allowed, "if Chancellor Roderick shows us the path. But what of your own escape?"
Ellaria couldn't look at him. She felt relief, but shame as well. She shook her head, quelling the building emotions inside her that threatened to choke her stability. The Elder One wanted her, and so he would have her heart and soul. She would see him face-to-face. "No," she said quietly, voice a murmur.
"I. . ." Cullen sighed. "Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way. . ." There was a forced cheeriness to his tone, but his eyes spoke otherwise. He was unhappy with her decision, though he knew it was the right one. Ellaria glanced at him, promising him silently, swearing him to keep them safe.
"Had to be me," she joked, the weak jest dwindling into a void of uncomfortable silence. "Someone else might have gotten it wrong."
The Commander dipped his head in understanding. "Inquisition!" he ordered, unsheathing his shortsword. "Follow Chancellor Roderick through the chantry. Move!"
A hand touched her shoulder. She looked down at Roderick, hiding her shock that he would lower himself to touch an elf. "Herald. . ." His red-rimmed, watery eyes were shining with a pleading devotion. "If you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this. . . I pray for you." Ellaria stared after him as Cole gently led Roderick away in a slowed shuffle, lending his weight as support.
Cullen cleared his throat, his face stoic and impregnable. "You'll have to load the trebuchets," he said, firmly ushering a stumbling woman towards an awaiting soldier. "Keep the Elder One's attention until we're above the treeline—I'll send a signal." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for something terrible. "If we are to have a chance—if you are to have a chance. . ." His golden-brown eyes silently beseeched her. "Let that thing hear you."