Cassandra frowned sympathetically as she looked Cullen over from afar. It had been hours since they made it to the refugee camp but he hadn't said a word. His expression had been locked in what she could only describe as a blank, nervous, horror. He even hadn't moved since he found his spot in front of the fire. He sat close to the doctor's tent, anxiously awaiting word on Rylen's condition. The news that one of his best friends was on death's door only served to compound whatever mental demons he was battling. He felt responsible, that much was clear even without the words to validate it. He'd carry the entirety of Thedas upon his shoulders it seems, she mused, but how much can he truly bare?

Not even his siblings seemed to console him. But then again, they all appeared to be influenced by their own grief as well. Not that she could blame them. Losing a mother, a home, and countless friends must be a truly horrifying ordeal. She hadn't experienced much loss herself beyond Anthony…and that was a long time ago, a wound that had been healed for years now. She felt the urge to speak to Cullen, offer some sort of sympathy, but she was unsure that it would do any good. She wasn't naïve enough to think that whatever she could say would have the sort of miraculously uplifting affect he'd need. Maker knows words were never her strong suit.

She turned her attention back to this make-shift war table instead. She had been assisting Barris in organizing the survivors and planning their next move. An agonizing task to be sure, hours into it and they still weren't positive that they had an accurate head count. They had only a roughly hand drawn map of Lothering that was as accurate as Barris's own memory served.

"…Lady Seeker?"

Cassandra snapped back to attention like she'd been physically pulled to it. "Yes. I apologize, Ser Barris, my mind was elsewhere."

Barris nodded in acknowledgement. "Perhaps you should rest, Seeker?"

"Thank you, but I will manage." She scanned over the map again, "Have we made further progress?"

Barris sighed heavily. "A little, ma'am. I believe we've rallied an accurate number of the missing…but the…death toll…well, that…"

"Depends on Ser Rylen…?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Cassandra looked him over for a moment. Emotions were just as difficult as words seemed to be for her, but she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder nonetheless. "I understand that Ser Rylen is a close friend. You have my sympathies, for what it is worth."

"Thank you, Lady Seeker." Barris straightened up, hardening his expression. "I will not let it distract from my duties."

"I have no doubt." She gave a small smile that she could only hope was encouraging. Maker, was that awkward? She was almost relieved when a frantic templar came scurrying up to Barris.

"Ser! There's, um, we-we-found—among the survivors, there's…" The templar looked as if she were terrified to even utter the simple word. It was such a dramatic reaction that Cassandra nearly rolled her eyes. "M-mages! They claim to be townspeople but you can just smell the foul magic on them!"

Barris rubbed a hand over his forehead, uttering a curse under his breath. "You can't smell magic. And I highly doubt any mage would be fool enough to escape the tower and run right into our camp."

"But I swear it, ser! They're mages, through and through! They'll bring the demons here! The darkspawn too!"

"Quiet, Recruit!" Barris squared up to the templar, "I will look into the matter if you're so certain but I will not have you starting a witch-hunt. Now, find yourself a cot and sleep it off. You're dismissed."

The templar's shoulders sunk under Barris's harsh gaze. She shuffled off without another word, with the eyes of many of the surrounding refugees on her. As soon as she was out of earshot, Barris turned back to Cassandra. "Maker, what you must think of our order. I could have vouched personally for each and every one of them before today…They were good templars, every last one of them…"

Cassandra held up her hand to stop him. "There is no need. They have been through an ordeal. It would be unbecoming to judge them too harshly."

"Well, that's a relief." He replied with a small, almost forced smile.

"I will, however, be remembering those that who stood out in this trying time. Specifically, those who willingly took the responsibility of command when his fellow templars needed a leader."

"I, uh, forgive me, Seeker, but I wouldn't have my actions speak ill of Cullen…"

"Of course not. I had to drag him out of the city, quite literally. I saw firsthand what he had to leave behind, what he had to face. Were the circumstances not so personally dire to him, I have no doubt he'd be where you are now…But that doesn't deter from the fact that he is indisposed and someone had to lead in the interim. I will see that the Divine himself rewards you for this, you have my word."

"That's, um, very kind, Lady Seeker. But I didn't do this for some kind of reward, it simply had to be done."

Cassandra gave him a knowing smile as she gestured towards the direction the templar recruit had come from. "See to these mage rumors, I can handle things here for the moment."

"Thank you, ma'am." He gave a small bow as he turned to leave. Everything about his outward demeanor suggested he was cool, calm, and had everything and anything under control. But internally he felt as though he had his head just barely above ever-rising water.

It was a sentiment Cullen shared. But for him the water was rising faster and faster. It was water made of demons, darkspawn, fire, death and endless screams of torment—were they the ones they lost or his own? He couldn't get the image of his mother's crying face out of his head. Maker, what she must think of him now. He failed. Fundamentally failed. At every last step. There was nothing to be proud of. Nothing but shame and sadness. He was supposed to be getting better, to be starting over and thriving once again. But Lothering was in ashes. Everything he worked for, everything he ever achieved was gone. He was supposed to be atoning after what he did. How do you atone when all that is left is ash and ruin? It felt like the end. Nothing left. Nothing to make better, nothing will ever be better. Maker what he wouldn't give for it all just to end…

"…Knight-Commander?"

Cullen nearly jumped as the doctor's voice startled him out of his rapid downward spiral. "Uh, yes?"

The doctor's eyes wandered over him for a moment, as if he were trying to piece together a complicated puzzle. "I'm afraid we don't have the proper equipment to deal with Ser Rylen's wounds…"

The words sunk in slowly. He rose to his unsteady feat, coming close enough to whisper to the man. "What does that mean?"

A sympathetic look crossed the doctor's face for a moment. "If he's your friend, I'd speak with him now…I was going to send for a priest…" He locked eyes with Cullen as if to make sure he understood him completely. "…to commend him to the Maker."

Angry tears welled up in Cullen's eyes once again. He had a near overwhelming urge to hit him. It was stupid and irrational and Cullen knew it. The need to make someone pay for this crime and the knowledge that his behavior was unbecoming of him was warring inside him. It served to drive him further into his own madness.

The doctor seemed to notice. The blonde man took a step back from Cullen, slowly inching away. "I'll be back with the priest shortly."

Cullen was left alone, staring at the flap at the tent's entrance. For a moment all he could think of was running away. Not that he had a specific destination in mind, but 'anywhere away from here' sounded just so appealing. But no, that was selfish and he knew it. He wasn't raised to run away from his problems. He could almost hear his father's voice scolding him. He looked back at the table Barris and Cassandra had been standing around, hoping that his long time friend might accompany him. But Barris was gone. Only Cassandra stood at the table, seemingly working through whatever the current crisis was…doing his job…Maker, he wanted to hit something.

He took a deep breath to steady himself but it didn't help much. That drowning feeling was only worsening by the second. As if his fears were actually slowly suffocating him. His shaky hand pulled back the flap of the tent and stepped inside before he could think about it any further. Rylen was nearly covered in blood, and not all of it was red. Seeing the black blood around the wound in his stomach really drove home the reality…he was tainted…his friend wasn't coming back…

"Hey!" Rylen said with a small cough. "None of that shite. Bad enough your face is the last I gotta see, don't need ya blubberin' about it."

Cullen huffed a laugh as he pulled up a stool next to the cot. "Would you prefer I began performing a riverdance, instead?"

"Ya do that, and I'll croak right here and now, I swear it." A violent coughing fit broke whatever levity he'd just built up. Black blood colored his hand he'd covered his mouth with.

Cullen hung his head in his hands. "Maker, Rylen, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, for fucks sake, Cullen. Not like ya were the one who ran me threw. That damned 'spawn did that, the bloody bastard. Do me a favor, eh?"

"I'll cut down every last one of those monsters, I swear it."

"Aye, much obliged, hero. But ya oughta be doin' that anyhow." Rylen groaned as he shifted uncomfortably. He reached under the cot and pulled out his sword, handing it out to Cullen.

He visibly stiffened as he took the sword from him. "What…? No…no, this is no time for a joke."

"It aint a bloody joke, Cullen, look at me!" He winced as he moved again, gesturing to the wound in his stomach. "Does this shite look a damned joke, to you? I aint long for this world, even the doc said so."

"No, no, it's not—no, I can—I'll find a mage, I'll make them heal you!"

Rylen rolled his bloodshot eyes. "Ah, come on, hero, that damned doc was a mage."

"He…what?"

"Aye, it's clicking now is it? Hadn't seen him at the clinic before, had ya? Don't ya be trying ta track that one down after I kick the bucket, eh? Matter of fact—remember his name: Anders—blighter was a good man. He did what he could. You find him, you give him the courtesy—" Rylen coughed hard again. "Listen, damnit. Whether I bleed out or the corruption gets me, it's gonna be slow. I don't wanna be writhing and moaning like a bitch for hours til I die…" He pushed the sword further into Cullen's grip. "Make it quick, please."

"I…no! I can't…"

"What? Do ya need me ta get on my knees and beg, ya? I'm fucking asking ya here. I wanna choose my own death."

Tears were threatening to flow again. Cullen shook as he tried to contain it. He couldn't bring himself to look at his friend anymore. "Rylen, please there's already been so much death…"

"And none of it is on you. Ya hear me? Not even mine. I took a blade protecting a frightened pair of kids and I'd fucking do it again. I don't have anyone waiting for me ta get better. I've served my purpose but I'm a liability now. So get this shite over with so ya can get back ta doin' yer damned job."

Cullen was shaking uncontrollably now. He couldn't tell when the tears began to fall down his cheeks but all he knew was he couldn't stop them now. He felt Rylen's hand weakly grip his and begin to slowly guide the sword towards him.

Through small coughs, he began reciting a part of the chant meant for the dead and dying. "The light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next…"

He still couldn't open his eyes to look at him, but Cullen reluctantly let Rylen guide him. With uneven words, he continued the chant with him. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water, as the moth sees the light and goes towards the flame…" He stepped closer to the cot, raising the sword as Rylen guided it into position. "…She should see fire and go towards the Light."

The way Rylen recited his last words felt as if he made it personal. As if he was trying to reassure his friend in his final moments. "The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, For the Maker shall be her beacon…and her shield…her foundation…" He guided the tip of the sword down until it rested tightly over his heart. "…and her sword."

Summoning whatever bits of strength he had left, he heeded his friend's dying wish. He drove the sword easily through Rylen's chest; refusing to open his eyes until he heard the last rattle of breath leave him. Cullen forced himself to look over Rylen's body for a brief moment in order to satisfy some need to face the problem head on. The only comfort he could discern from the whole thing was that he seemed content when he died…there was a faint smile that slowly faded from his face as lifelessness took over his body.

It was only a small reassurance that he'd done the right thing. But knowing his friend died by his own hand overshadowed it completely. He reverted into a near mechanical state as he took his next actions. He wasn't even sure that he had commanded himself to do it, but he saw himself doing it nonetheless, and felt no urge to stop it. He walked calmly back out to the fire, reaching in to grab a burning log. There was no pain registered in his mind until much later. He placed the burning log beneath Rylen's cot and tied the flap to the tent shut. He sat down again by the fire, his burned hand laying limply at his side.

He wasn't sure how long it had taken anyone to notice that the tent was on fire, or how long it was before someone tended to his hand. But none of it mattered. He stared blankly into the fire, feeling nothing, slowly but surely delving into caring about nothing.