Sorry for the delays, school resumed and I'm going to be busy finishing this semester. Cheers!

Clashes of metal like symphonies erupt around him. The harmony line – a chorus of screams – underline the dotting rhythm, punctuated by occasional swears and cries of pain. Cullen stumbles blindly out of his tent, clutching a rib, armour half-fastened. Their camp is washed with red, stained deep in the snow, leathers, and the various bodies that littered the ground. Large mobile shadows flit in and out of focus, there one second then gone the next, and then it's in front of him. Behind. Beside. Behind. In front. Behind beside in front behind breathing down his neck.

He twists, sword clumsy, but he thrusts into nothingness, for the shadow no longer exists. A scream erupts behind him, where he was facing just moments ago, and he tries to turn, but he's in water. Limbs in slow motion, the edges of his vision blurring, his hand throbbing, her name caught in his throat; he's too late, he realizes, he's too late –

From her neck pours liquid ice, fountains and fountains spewing unendingly, the ground turning to a chilling shade of purple. She falls to her knees, a shaking hand pressing upon her wound, but her fingers cloak in blue, impossibly viscous, the consistency like oil as it dribbles between each appendage, swallowing her limb.

Her face twists. For a second, her mahogany hair gathers into horns and her blue eyes turn black, her skin tints purple and her lips draw back into a knowing smirk. Then it's her again, her eyes going hollow. A bubble of blue wells and bursts from her lips, spilling more liquid lyrium like pus from a spider's sac, dribbling down her front, approaching him with deliberate slowness, yet he can't move. He can't move as the liquid laps at his feet, as it crawls up his leg. Every sensation disappears one by one, snuffed out by ice, and the feeling only grows as it grows – up and up and up and up and up and up until it's at his throat and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, and they're like hands and they're grabbing and he can't breathe and it enters his mouth and he's choking Maker he's choking and it enters his nostrils and his eyeballs and pours into the back of his head and

Cullen jolts awake.

His heartrate speeds ahead and he can still feel cold ice crawling down his throat, threatening to choke him. Gasps of air barely do anything to soothe the feeling. Instead, he grips his knees, palms and hands sweaty and his bones almost fragile beneath his iron grip. As his head pounds with the effort to grasp reality, he can only really note a few things. For one, his clothes stick damply to his body – soaked from sweat, clammy to the touch. Another, his bedding is slick with sweat- nearly torn apart from his efforts, the pelts in no better condition. Lastly, his hand is raw - it's raw and dull and throbbing. He glances down, and his stomach drops even further. An angry red welt crawls up his hand, frayed edges of what was new skin clearly torn away from the night. It had been so fragile, too, having only been formed and sewn together thanks to the Herald's efforts. Shame joins the ménage of emotion. It takes another several heaving gasps to stop himself from vomiting, but aside from that nothing is working; despite the cold and the dampness of his body and his sheets, he's burning .

He doesn't bother with more layers. Cullen all but crawls out of his tent, the cold air chilling his sweat-slick skin. He stumbles to one of the tables still set up from the night before, fingers desperate for the brass jug sitting on it. He draws his trembling flask with his trembling hands, and he all but howls when he realizes the liquid inside the jug had long since frozen over.

He needs mead.

Something.

Instead, his cheeks burn at the thought. He's been many things, but never one to drink away his problems. The nausea returns in a wave, and for a hysterical second, Cullen wonders if his vomit would be the same, terrifying ice shade of lyrium.

He glares at his hand.

In the same hysterical way, he almost pleads that his hand would erupt into flame. That the residual magic that kept his wound open would somehow push from the confines of his skin. That he would use his burning, melting hand to heat this damn jug, so that the ice would melt, and maybe he could have a damn drink.

Morning doesn't come fast enough.

He doesn't know what time it was when he stumbled back into his tent, when exactly he'd decided he no longer cared that his beddings and clothes stuck to his body before his head hit the pillow. He doesn't dream of Red Lions and desire demons and lyrium, he doesn't see ice blue that he confuses for magic or her, or perhaps they're one in the same, because, Andraste preserve him, he's not sure what she is to him, and he wonders if this (surely sudden) affixation he has with her is due to the lyrium, her magic, or the fact that she'd been the one to say they were friends.

Sure, he'd suggested it, but she'd confirmed it, and –

- and nothing .

She may have confirmed it and perhaps she didn't care about the professional relationship they shared, but maybe he's the one overthinking it because, truly, she was friends with her companions. Naturally, she'd extend the same courtesy to him.

Cullen sighs as he lifts his armour over his head, the weight of the plates upon his shoulders snapping him back to reality.

He slides under the tent flap once more, tucking his bundled cargo under his arm. The rest of the camp is already awake, a stark contrast to how it was mere hours ago. With a sudden heave in his heart, Cullen realizes just how different this camp is compared to the one in his nightmares, but he's never been one to be aware of himself as he slept. Instead, his eyes rolled to the medical tents, where he knew there were still several wounded soldiers about. He grimaces.

Instead, he pivots on his heel. Some other troops brush past him as he strides forward – he can hear the snaps as they strike down his tent behind him. Cullen pulls his attention back in front of him, before he walks into a mouthful of druffalo fur. With another sigh, he reaches for the harnesses, pulling them down as he mounts his cargo on. He slaps the buckles into place, securely attaching another burlap sack to one of the sturdier latches against its hide.

The harness shifts beneath his fingers. The druffalo grunts as the cargo pulls in the opposite direction, giving a disgruntled shake at the sudden movement. "Good morning, Leliana."

"You're sighing a lot this morning," is her odd, not-quite-Orlesian lilt. A few more snaps reside between them, before the lady in question steps around the animal. Her grey eyes bear into his, before they roll to his hair, then his armour. "Are you alright?"

"Just fine," he responds quizzically. If there's any trepidation in his voice, she merely chews on his response. Something in her expression lends to her disbelief, but as fast as he's managed to detect it, it vanishes as she blinks.

"I'll get someone to fetch more water. Perhaps make some cedar tea."

"That would be… nice." Cullen pushes a hand against his hairline, and once again he's convinced that Leliana must be some form of omniscient, as she nods sagely and saunters off, hands clasped behind her back as she sways away.

He busies himself with attaching more of his things to the druffalo, the rousing sounds around him only a testament to the rest of the camp finally rising to their feet. Amongst the noise is her voice, and for a moment his blood chills. All he can remember, all he can see , is her form, shaking, as blue spouts in volumes from every orifice of her body – flooding her, cloaking her in lyrium, until she's nothing but a ghoul oozing the foul liquid, like darkspawn, slow, shambling, mouth open but nothing but a cavity of moreblue…

But her form is still her. If anything, she's tinged pink, rosy and soft , skin still smooth and unmarred by the upcoming day's hike. Her mahogany hair is matted from behind, her clothes still somehow looking unworn and limp on her body, as if she's not subconsciously ready for the day ahead. Her own luggage hangs limply off her arms and hands. Cullen watches as the Tevinter comes from around the corner, handing her pieces to attach to her own druffalo. Self-consciousness wells at his throat and he shifts his gaze away, giving his druffalo one last tug to ensure tightness. Amidst it all, he can hear snitches of the conversation to his left, most of it wordless until Dorian utters a single word that catches his attention.

Sol.

Cullen doesn't know why his stomach curls with sudden envy. Dorian's address is so carefree and thoughtless, a liberty Cullen knows he will never share. As coworkers – truecoworkers, and not the more casual abandon that she shared with Dorian and the rest of her companions – he'd never get that luxury. He'd never really felt envy for another man before, and yet the feeling that washes him over can't be described as anything but.

Cullen sucks in a breath, only perking when he hears the not-so-subtle whisper of his name as well.

His eyes meet hers: brilliant blue, not at all marred with any visible fatigue, a vibrancy that wasn't present in the haunting shade of ice that marked his dream. Her eyebrow arches, and she laughs a little. "It's nothing, Dorian, I assure you. We've talked." Cullen tries to turn away, but the Herald doesn't give him the chance. Instead, she bows her head lightly, inviting him to her. He doesn't think twice nor question when his pace quickens without him actively realizing it, instead he finds himself striding towards her.

"Good morning," he says quietly.

"And you." The Herald gives him a grin, turning to druffalo before her. The same, rhythmic snaps of her loading her cargo fills the silence for a moment. He watches her for a moment, before he reaches down and tugs a strap towards him. "Thanks," she says, her Free March accent a pleasant note to his ear.

The druffalo's loaded much faster with two people, and soon they step back from their work. At this point in the morning, the rest of camp has all been reduced to rolls and folded furniture, waiting to be loaded onto the awaiting animals or onto people's backs. The activity near the animals has tripled. Now, the two of them, as he's all too aware, wade through the swath of people loading and preparing for departure.

It's easy for Cullen, for him to lose himself in the rhythm of their steps. He could count the crunching of snow beneath his feet, or the light inhales that ghost from her lips, or even the way his heart pounds unsteadily in his chest. But against his better judgement, against the initial hesitation, he blurts, "he calls you by your first name."

The Herald perks, before a light chuckle breezes from her lips. "Dorian? He insists." Her nose scrunches, her eyes trained far beyond them in thought. "Something about how surnames reminds him of home – the formality is an insult. It's formal detachment seen as patronizing." Her shoulders rise, then drop, with a weight he didn't expect. "I don't mind it, however. And you," the Herald turns to him suddenly, her eye contact electrifying. Cullen's breath hitches. "Please, Herald is too formal. Sol is fine, as well."

Because we're friends now? The thought swirls in Cullen's brain, but it doesn't stop the rush of warmth that suddenly leaves him a little breathless. "I couldn't, I-"

"Trevelyan, then," she amends matter-of-factly. "I cannot stand you not using my name."

A sudden memory surfaces in his mind, when she was all too cold and all too pale and all too tired as she stumbled forward, right into his arms, his name tumbling from her mouth. No 'commander', no address, simply Cullen.

"Then you?" he murmurs.

She wrinkles her nose, each miniature crevice somehow endearing in a backwards fashion. "Anything other than Commander seems too informal."

"Surely you jest," he teases, but the thought of just being 'Cullen' and not 'Commander' sends his heart into a nervous stutter.

She laughs a bit now. " Commander Cullen?" The way her voice caresses the syllables is – he doesn't have words to describe what it is. But he likes it. He's always liked the sound of his name on her tongue, he realizes and now he has to fight to swallow back the words that fought to surface.

"If you wish," he can only manage, somewhat lamely.

And as he walked away, he realizes how light he feels. His hand still tingles with her phantom touch of her fingers ghosting across his palm as she hoisted herself onto her mount. Above all, his night terrors are nothing more but morning mist, chased away by the sunlight and her thankful smile.

A few telltale snaps and sparks dance and meld into the flush of conversations still audible from where Cullen sits, several feet away from camp. He can see the steady orange glow that outlines the treeline of their temporary settings. He turns his attention back to the water, which simmers with hints of warm reds and yellows amongst its inky black, and he plunges his clothing in. The fabrics ripple, pockets of air bursting to the surface as he submerges them with the weight of his palms. He sighs once, before grabbing a fistful of material, swirling it one way then the other.

Gathering his clothes into soaked clothes into a basin, Cullen shifts his weight back, resting his wet hands against his knees.

Already his body was used to the uphill trek that was the snowy Frostback Mountains: where his feet once ached, now it was normal, as if he'd been hiking this route daily. Yet the scenery is always different; one day, all that their eyes were met by sheer cliff face. Sometimes, a snowy expanse. Today, it was more greenery. Tall pines and evergreens had dotted the skies, clashing violently against the smoky blue hues that paint in broad strokes above their heads. Their unintentionally-decorative collective garments of browns and reds had stood foreign against what should've been unmarred white. The scattered nature of the offending colours reminds Cullen of flecked blood, the vision all too familiar – all too ripe – and he can almost feel the phantom ache in his palm after withdrawing his sword from the hides of Red Lions.

In the first passive moment of silence, he could only remember the large, seemingly-formless shadowy masses which were those terrible beasts. He wasn't sure at the time they were the same beasts as his nightmare, but now it's all too apparent that they're one and the same. Cullen turns his left hand up, his eyes tracing the sensitive skin that marked its way up his palm. He flexes his hand once. Sinewy muscle rolls with the movement, the red angry flesh wrinkling in a surprisingly fragile manner, as if the layers of new skin hadn't already torn from the previous night. His hand had ached when he'd seen the Red Lions, ached when he gripped his sword. Throbbed in his dreams, when he saw those formless shadows, the ones that kept flickering back and forth, in and out of reality, before they grabbed various people here and there, tearing them limb from limb, and all he could do is grip his sword, hand throbbing -

Soft, padding steps startle him out of his stupor. Who – what? His hand scrabbles for a sword that isn't there; and for a second, he thinks he may truly be in danger. But upon turning, he realizes it's only the Herald – Trevelyan – who watches him quizzically.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Cullen breathes, suddenly aware of his stuttering heart. He exhales out, willing to regain some control over his heart beat. Even he can't have that, he realizes with bitterness, so he swallows instead, stuffing his hand into a pocket. "I thought that you were something else."

"Some thing ?" Trevelyan inquires as she kneels, and Cullen notices that tucked under her arm is a similar basin full of clothes. She sets down the laundry beside her, tenderly rolling her sleeves to expose her thin forearms. Her skin is that delightful shade of cream, and, as his hands trace down her arm, her hands are delicate, somewhat plump if to be compared to a soldier's hands. His hands.

He blinks. "The Red Lions."

"Ah," she responds thoughtfully as she, too, submerges her own basin. "Solas had informed me. And you?"

"Dwaine."

"The hunter that spoke to Rylen?"

"From Haven, yes."

"Ah," she says again, distractedly. He watches as she scrubs at her robes and clothing, her fingers working furiously in the water. Her hair falls from its usual careful upkeep, brushing along her cheeks, a strand caught on her lip. "And what did he say?"

Cullen grimaces. The memory of the shorter, stocky man jogging up to him after he'd left the medical tent the night previous was still vibrant in his mind. "He warned me that it wasn't just stragglers, like Rylen had thought. Red Lions mark their prey. That they –"

" – wouldn't stop at nothing? Solas said something similar," Trevelyan murmurs. She cocks her head towards him, her eyes wide and inquiring. "Though he presented it as a fact, and not a rumour."

"Actually, Dwaine was the same." Cullen says, turning his attention the water. "I guess Rylen misinterpreted."

"Well. I think we put enough space between us and them. Unless it's apparent, I don't think we need to worry about it any further." Her tone is matter-of-factly, to the point. Cullen's envious of how simply she's parsed it all out, and he wishes he could believe in her conviction as much as she does.

"Soap?"

He raises his head to her outstretched hand. Cullen blinks at the gesture, before he suddenly remembers the laundry that was still awaiting his attention. He chews his lip and tosses the wrapped package to Trevelyan, who swiftly undoes the white strings, revealing the coarse scrubs within. With a languid pull, the entire basin comes clean from the pond, streams of water pouring from the edges and spilling back into the larger body. She begins scrubbing, the small basin of water and clothes beginning to bubble and turn a pearly grey.

They sit in silence, her only scrubbing her clothing in circular patterns, the sound of lopping water and wet fabric filling the void made more apparent by the neighboring chatter from their camp. Cullen sits, aware of how his blood pumps around his ears, how his fingers tingle in their fists, how he's vaguely embarrassed to show her his left hand.

"You're doing your own laundry?" Is her warm voice, somewhat hesitant, entirely redundant – and for a moment, Cullen wonders if she, too, is just aware of how pregnant their silence was.

He clears his throat. "I insisted. Everyone has their own things to worry about. I'm nothing but a glorified soldier."

"Nonsense," Trevelyan responds. And for a moment, it's as if she's grateful for the opportunity to speak. "If that's the case, I'm nothing more than a mage."

He lets a chuckle spill from his lips. "You're a Trevelyan."

"As you are the Commander of the Inquisition," she says fairly. Trevelyan then grasps the edges of her basin, tipping the contents back into the pond. With her delicate touch, she places the soaps back on top of the brown packaging, sliding the entirety of the contents back towards him with the tips of her fingers. Cullen gives her a brief smile, before similarly grasping own basin and pulling his laundry onto the space in front of him.

"And I was a Templar before then. No one would do our laundry even if we begged," he says jokingly. The soaps nearly slip from his grasp, but he grips them just in time, the pebbled surface digging into his palms. He gingerly withdraws his other hand and begins to scrub out the grime from his coat. "Though I suspect your experience differs."

Trevelyan hums thoughtfully. "You'd be correct in assuming I hadn't had to do my own laundry. But I had other occupations. Knitting, sewing. This is a substitute, I suppose. And it gives me leave to think."

As much as Cullen shares those sentiments, he merely remains silent, instead focusing his efforts onto his chores. He agreed – and yet this time, when left to his own devices, all he could muster was the recollection of nightmares he'd much rather bury and never mention again.

"Do you miss it?" The words tumble from his mouth before he realizes.

She blinks. "Do you?"

He thinks for a moment – remembers the terror from the circle, the death and destruction in Kirkwall, the exploding chantries, the helplessness, the inescapable feeling of lossand confusion.

"No."

"It's not my life anymore," she says simply. "Though I'd like to return one day, and see my family again. I thought – maybe, within the Circle…" Trevelyan reaches into the lake, pulling soaked robes from the depths. With a quick shake, she wrings the clothing once, water spilling noisily. "But as Herald now, unless we have official business in the Free Marches, I suspect that that's that."

Cullen exhales, his fingers combing a mechanical rhythm as his own basin goes from clear to milky grey. "I'm sorry."

She shoots him a glance; it's warm, friendly, and – scarily, unguarded. "Don't be," she responds gently. Warmth suddenly blossoms from her mere presence, but Cullen knows it's not internally, for once. His cheeks rose at the sudden warmth, and if he listens, he could hear the quiet and subtle hissing of steam as heat pulses from the mage's fingertips. She gave a grin. "I like being a mage."

With that, she nods farewell; Cullen could only stare at her retreating figure, where she left modestly warm footsteps in her wake.

He's in his tent, pulling his wet clothes from the basin, hanging them along the single rope that ran lengthwise across his tent, when he hears footsteps approach. His heartrate speeds again, urging him to grab his sword, but instead Cullen pushes the tent flap aside. Josephine blinks back at him, one hand holding a wooden flagon of steaming liquid. "Mead?" he inquires, and he doesn't bring up the fact that no Ferelden's preferred their mead warm.

"Tea, actually," the Antivan responds. "And it's for you. Cassandra recommended it."

Ah. Of course. "Thank you," Cullen says, and he plucks the drink for her hands.

Josephine looks worse for wear – though to her credit, she still seems lively. Though her gold threads are absent, she doesn't seem as lost as she could've been. Adorned in thick furs and a furry hood, for a moment Cullen could believe she's a native to the Frostbacks.

The woman sighs. "I wish I could do more, be of more help. I feel out of my element. I can't exactly send notice of our relocation, not yet, anyways."

"Why not?"

Josephine takes a breath, as if indignified. "Why, Commander, we cannot publicize our defeat! Once we find a new location, though, it could be spun into a tale of redemption." Her hazel eyes glaze and a smile plays on the corner of her lip. "Rise of the ashes – no, the return of the Herald, like Ferelden's rebuilding after the Blight – I should ask Varric for suggestions."

Cullen chuckles into the rim of the flagon. "How romantic."

"Oh hush," Josephine responds lightly. Once again, Cullen's reminded about how thankful he is for the Antivan's presence; Leliana could be dark, Cassandra (clearly) overbearing. Josephine at least could find light in most situations, otherwise he'd be too reminded about how much of Thedas relied on them. How one mistake, one loss, could be the end of them.

"But speaking of romantic, how goes it between you and the Herald?"

That nearly makes Cullen choke on his drink. "E-Excuse me?" he sputters, and he's only met by Josephine's tinkling giggles.

"Why Commander ! We aren't dense, especially not Leliana."

"Maker," he groans, and he occupies himself by taking another, this time surely, scalding gulp of tea. It burns on its descent, but it doesn't do as he vaguely wishes it would – that is, take him out of his body, and away from this conversation.

Josephine giggles again. "I'm just teasing you, Cullen. Though she truly is lovely. And strong. And growing by the day."

"She is marvelous," he admits, and for a brief second, his heart thumps unevenly. Truly. From the way she moves, the way she commands, her authority, her kindness…

"Also, Seeker Pentaghast suggested that you take this," Josephine continues, holding out a small object. Upon first glance, Cullen's blood chills – the small vial resembles a phylactery, but the contents are a milky white as opposed to viscous red. And that the vial is just that – a vial. "Deathroot milk, mixed by Adan," the Antivan supplies mildly. "To help you sleep. Cassandra suggested that if you take it, take it with the tea."

Cullen stares at the vial. On one hand, he never was one to support substance use unless absolutely necessary. But it seems like this time, it is necessary. So he accepts the vial, uncorking it. He glances as it once – imagining himself drinking it only reminds him of the times he's chugged lyrium without any avail – and downs it. The flavor is rather pungent, and he takes a modest swig of tea, now cold. Cullen's not sure if it's the milk or otherwise, but he sudden feels tired . His eyelids droop and he all but thrusts the empty flagon back into the Antivan's hands (to her credit, she catches it without so much as a blink).

"Thanks."

"You're welcome, Commander." She smiles warmly. "Sleep well. You seem like you need it."

Cullen tries to offer a smile in return, though he's not sure if he manages it.

Instead, he ducks back into his tent, undoing the clasps to his armour. His head spins, but it's almost dizzyingly pleasant, in that he knows if he were to lie down, his world would black out. He'd know nothing but the pleasurable comfort of nothingness, which surely may be a discomfort to some, but would be reprieve to him…

"Commander, surely you don't intend to leave your wet clothes hanging there!"

"It doesn't matter," he manages.

"We have mages, I could ask them to –"

"- Josephine."

Pause. "Sorry. … If you're sure , Commander."

"I am," he says gently.

"As you wish, then. Goodnight."

Goodnight, he thinks. And it is, too, for his sleep is dreamless, and blissfully so.