A letter from Enchanter Trevelyan to Commander Cullen:

Commander:

I have finished my business in the Hinterlands. Cassandra, Solas, Varric and I are going to Redcliffe today to open talks with the mages. Cassandra agrees with me that now is the time for action.

I realize that you would rather we attempt to contact the Templars first. I have chosen this course of action for two reasons:

1) When I went to Val Royeaux, the mages approached me civilly and asked to talk. The Templars literally punched a Reverend Mother in the head.

2) The rebel mages have what may be a large number of children and Tranquil travelling with them. There is only a remote chance I may be able to remove them from Redcliffe, but either way, I need to see the conditions they are living under.

I will attempt to not negotiate anything lasting with the mages without consulting with the rest of the War Council. Should I need to make an immediate decision, I have Cassandra, whose judgment I trust implicitly.

Enchanter Trevelyan

A letter from Commander Cullen to Enchanter Trevelyan, written even more carefully than usual:

Herald:

I strongly disagree with this course of action but I also cannot think of a time your judgment has steered us wrong.

I think that I have…upset you, given you indication that I do not trust you. I had hoped to apologize to you in person when you returned to Haven but that obviously did not happen.

Knowing you has changed many of my attitudes about mages, but I will always remain cautious. It is who I am. But I also respect your opinion, even if I disagree with it, and I trust you with the fate of the Inquisition. I hope that you knew this before you went into Redcliffe.

Be safe.

Cullen

A letter from Enchanter Trevelyan to Commander Cullen, scrawled quickly on a scrap of paper:

Cullen:

Situation in Redcliffe worse than initially expected. Will send a crow to Haven with arrival time when we change horses—need to see everyone in the War Room.

Evelyn

A letter from Seeker Pentaghast (whose penmanship is truly terrible) to Commander Cullen:

Cullen:

The Tevinter Magister is defeated and the Herald has negotiated a full partnership with the rebel mages.

I realize this is not the news you want, but please do not judge until you have at least read the Herald's report and spoken to her personally about what she experienced.

I have attached her report here, as well as numbers on the mages, including supplies and resources they bring with them. Please mobilize some of your more moderate mages and Templars to act as emissaries (and examples!) for our new allies.

The mages are heavily indebted to the Herald, and their leadership has lost a lot of credibility, so she may be able to step into that gap, at least to smooth the transition.

Our full contingent will be leaving tomorrow, as Queen Anora has ordered the mages to vacate Redcliffe as soon as possible. I wish that we could stay longer here, but the option simply does not exist.

As you can see in the report, the Herald's experience was extremely stressful and she is exhausted. She says work must be done to prepare and train the mages to assist her in closing the Breach, and Solas estimates she will not be at her full strength for at least a week.

The die is cast. I pray to the Maker that these mages are what we need.

Cassandra

From Commander Cullen's personal journal, written about a week later:

She sleeps, but no one can say if she will awaken. I do not know what to do, so I will write.

We—she—closed the Breach. We celebrated. She was quiet, sat to the side. It must have been very painful—she wrote once that closing rifts hurt her. She only mentioned it the once, though. That creature came, with Samson and an army of Templars, perverted and strange. Then the dragon, and we retreated to the Chantry. Roderick was dying, stabbed trying to talk to a Templar, and we were all going to die, but that strange boy gave us a way out.

All except for her. She stayed to save us.

"Perhaps you will surprise it—find a way."

She fumbles with a small pouch at her waist, draws a dagger and cuts it loose, shoving it at me.

"Take it," she says. "Go now."

What did I say to her? I don't remember now. We fired the flare when we passed the tree line and watched as the snow covered Haven. And we ran as far and as fast as we could, until we could not be followed because even we did not know where we were. Mages laid burning hands on frozen Templar armor, melting ice and staving off frostbite, keeping the train moving. Templars carried the mages who collapsed.

I stood at the edge of the camp, and watched, even though I knew she would not come.

That strange boy—Cole—approached.

"You know that she is gone, consumed in the collapse. But can't you faintly feel her? There in your pocket, something precious persists." He was gone, then.

I find the pouch she'd given me, forgotten in the moment. Reach in the bag: a piece of parchment, folded in four. Several drafts of the same letter, informing me she is going to Redcliffe. All rejected and crossed out: "too angry," "too apologetic," "too sad."

At the bottom, twice, like a meditation: "I am not a woman, I am a mage. I am a weapon. I am fire. I am the sharp edge of a blade."

Turn the paper over. There are two…drawings of me?

I stand at the war table, confident, hands on the pommel of my sword. In the other, I am by the gates at Haven, looking away. My hand is at the back of my neck. Is this when she left for Redcliffe? I fold the paper up, tuck it into my breastplate. It is near my heart, near the coin. There is no one to see.

Turn the pouch over. Six small rocks fall out, but something is left. Small bottle, no larger than my smallest finger. There is a label, but I do not need to read the tiny crabbed writing. It is full of blood.

It is her phylactery. I know just where she is.

From Seeker Pentaghast's personal journal:

I entered her tent the day after Cullen tracked her down in the snow. He had been sitting with her for a full day and night. I came in from time to time with tea, to check on her. He seemed to be spending the time writing, probably troop reports, plans. Anything to keep busy.

When I entered, he was next to her, head cradled in his arms on the blanket. Asleep.

"Cullen?" I said, and he sat upright with a start. "Cullen, you need to go to bed."

"Yes, I should," he said, rubbing his stubble, "Just sit with me for a moment?"

"Yes, of course." I pulled up a chair, and we sat for a minute, contemplating the Herald.

It was strange to see her so still. Asleep, drained from the cold, she was just a not-quite-young woman in her mid-thirties with her brown hair in a neat braid. Nobody special.

"She is…beautiful," Cullen said quietly.

"What?" I stood up immediately. He followed me up just a second later, swaying slightly and blushing a terrible mottled shade of red.

"Commander, I am going to pretend that I did not hear that, and you are going to bed immediately. That is an order. You are sleep-deprived and delirious. If the Herald's condition changes, I will notify you, but otherwise I do not expect to hear, see, or think about you for the next six hours. Go to bed."

"Yes, Seeker," he mumbled obediently, and stumbled through the flap. I peeked out to make sure he was headed in the right direction, and sat back down next to the Herald. Beside his chair was a piece of parchment. I picked it up, avoided reading what he had written, and folded it in half to return to him later, when he had regained his sanity.

The Herald is not a beautiful woman, but I suppose there is something special about her. When she is awake, she is dynamic. When she talks, people listen. When she moves, people watch her go by. It is hard to explain. Her eyes are sharp, and green. They are probably beautiful?

Maker, I must write all this down, but I have no good words. How can I explain how, when she awoke two days later, we were arguing?

And she emerged grouchily from her tent, like she was too stubborn for the grave? Mother Giselle led them, us, in a hymn, and the Inquisition knelt before her. She walked through the crowd, so alive, touching heads and shoulders.

She reached the edge of the camp, and stepped out into the snow, summoning tiny lights that flickered and danced like blue fireflies. Solas followed her, and as they spoke, we came back to life, and stood and stretched like we had been asleep for two days. She walked slowly back to her tent, pausing only in front of the Commander.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Cullen," she said, "We head north. Can the Inquisition be ready to travel tomorrow?"

"Yes, Herald," he replied. "The people are tired and it will take us a few hours to mobilize, but our present location is not secure. Since we must move, we will."

"Thank you, Commander. Oh, and Cullen?" she said, squeezing his shoulder encouragingly.

"Yes, Herald?"

"You look terrible. Get some sleep." She wound her way back to her tent, where she collapsed in a pile of blankets.