Cullen was startled awake by the dream revelation. He was drenched in sweat and his head swam. Burying his face in his hands, he exhaled shakily. He wanted to deny it. Solas obviously was wrong. Evie couldn't be… he couldn't bring himself to say the word. Admitting it would make it real and until she was recovered and he held her lifeless in his arms, he could not lend credence to such a thought. A body. He realized, he would have to find the location and recover it. They were already pressed for time. Still days away from the Arbor Wilds -assuming she'd been left there- he would have to battle the elements and the wildlife in order to recover her in one piece, fit for a pyre. His mind was his own worst enemy and though he tried to banish it, an unrecognizable and mangled corpse, hers, remained at the forefront causing the blood to drain from his features.

So lost in thought, it took him a moment to come to terms with reality. The sun beamed down on him and he became irritated, realizing he overslept. We should have left at dawn. His curly locks hadn't been tamed and he opted to skip the bath. Even if he wanted to take one, there wasn't any place here that wouldn't cause his appendages to freeze off. The succulent aroma of breakfast called to his hungry stomach and it rumbled in response. Yet, he neither caught it nor cooked it and given the tension from their debacle, he settled for the rations he pulled from his pack. Without a word, he scarfed down both the dried meat and a few chugs of water he decided to use sparingly, in case there was no other option.

He dressed in his plate and watched the remainder of the party laugh and eat as if there wasn't a care in the world. He gritted his teeth and scowled. By their demeanor alone, he could tell they hadn't received the same grim message from Solas. Perhaps he felt the need to warn Cullen alone knowing the extent of his personal relationship with the Inquisitor. Whatever the reason, he clearly hadn't told the others. For now, it was for the best. They seemed so happy, how could he take that away from them when he was in disbelief? The inner circle was so confident they would get to Evelyn and find her safe and sound. So incredibly wrong.

I wanted to look for her first thing. Cassandra told me no. I deferred to Rylen, relinquished control to ensure this was handled objectively. It's possible it wouldn't have changed matters, but I could have done more. I owed her that much.

His heart thudded slowly in his chest, a dull and unrelenting ache that echoed through his entire being and he yearned to clear his head, to take a moment of silent reflection and grief. The edge of the frozen river was on the outskirts of town and he contemplated a long walk to clear his head. Instead, he sought time alone and visited Sahrnia's makeshift chapel before getting a move on.

-I-I-I-
Evelyn would want us to press forward.

The name formed a lump in his throat and he swallowed dryly. In an instant, his cuirass seemed to choke him as he forced breath into his lungs and his heart constricted. The wind was frigid, and it was as if the surrounding atmosphere reacted, a reflection of his grief. His eyes burned with tears and he clenched his fists, sucking air into his body with slow, calming breaths.

Once he could breathe again without difficulty, he made his way slowly back to camp. Whether it was because Bull was a spy or because Cullen was so lost in his grief, he never heard the Qunari approach until he placed a heavy hand upon his shoulder. "It'll be okay, Cullen. You'll see."

"No," Cullen said, moving out from under Bull's hand, "nothing will ever be all right again." He rolled out the muscles in his shoulders and straightened his posture to give the illusion everything was normal. "I could use a hand packing up, we should be halfway to the Emerald Graves by now."

Cullen knew he should tell them, should say something, anything . Yet, he couldn't form the words. As if speaking them aloud would mean acceptance, and he wasn't able to do that. Not now, perhaps not ever.

-I-I-I-

Silverite bounced Cullen up and down with each trot. Horseback riding had never been his favorite. Though he was quite skilled in the matter, it was rather uncomfortable after long periods of time. He shifted awkwardly until he was moderately satisfied with his position. Cullen's plate clanked with each jerk and it added to the pounding in his head. A subtle breeze blew and the familiar scent of lavender and honey filled his nostrils from the last time she wore his mantle.

And that's all it took.

Pressing his cheek against its fur, he inhaled as tears formed and trickled down his face; thankful that he took lead. With the rest of the party following behind him, he let them fall without wiping them away. Even were he in their line of sight, he wouldn't bother as he wasn't ashamed, though it would provoke questions he was unwilling to answer. If they knew, they would continue to talk about her, recalling memories of the good times, perhaps lose hope or sight of the mission given the news. He couldn't risk it. Moreover, telling them would require speech and he wasn't certain he could formulate words. Despite his crying, he neither sobbed nor sniffled, but suffered in silence alone with his memories on the path laid before them.

Pleased that he finally had a spare moment to speak with her regarding her weapons training, he quickened his steps to catch up with her as she left the tavern. "Lady Herald." He'd need to evaluate her current expertise to determine where to place her or if one-on-one sessions were appropriate.

"Ugh." Evelyn groaned. "Could you call me anything else other than that or Your Worship?" She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"It wouldn't be professional." Her pace accelerated, though he kept up with her long strides. It was almost as if she was trying to avoid him.

"Yeah, well neither is locking someone up and making them your prisoner until you coerce them to do what you want." She quirked her eyebrow at him. "Your soldiers found me, so I imagine it was on your order they threw me in irons. Was it not?"

This was true. The soldiers were uncertain what to do with her, until they could find out more information, he had little choice. She could have been responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Treating it any other way would have been a grave error in judgment. "It was necessary at the time."

"It's always necessary." Evelyn retorted. "But since you are now aware, I'll take that apology."

Cullen shook his head. "I'll not apologize for protecting the people of Haven from our only suspect in the conclave explosion."

"Okay." Evelyn shrugged. "Well, I'll be around when you change your mind." As the path branched off, she headed towards Haven's doors. "Oh and Commander, I'll not apologize either."

"What for?"

"For not giving you the time of day." With a wink and a smile, the doors closed behind her.

The urge to say something was ever-present, and he was compelled to speak aloud. "I never apologized," Cullen whispered. "There were a great many instances where I should have. Even so," Cullen softly chuckled, his salty tears running over his lips, "that wasn't one of them."

"Unless you're here to buy the next round, I am off duty." Evelyn sat the empty tankard down on the table, the metal thudding softly against the wood.

"The Herald doesn't have that luxury, I fear." Cullen took the stool next to her. "It's imperative we discuss your level of weapons training. I'll not send you out there without adequate means of defense."

"They're right about you." Evelyn motioned to Flissa for another round. The barkeep set two ales down on the table and Eve pushed it in front of Cullen. "You need to lighten up."

"Who's right about me?"

"Everyone." She gestured around the room to the patrons scattered about. "Have you met you?"

He clicked his tongue, left his coin purse on the table -buying the round- and departed without taking a sip of his own drink. "Another time, then."

Time was man's worst concept: yesterday there wasn't enough, and he'd raced against it. Today, its sheer abundance was his enemy. The irony made anger churn in his gut and blackened his heart.

It occurred to him that mere hours earlier, he was mounting a rescue, not a recovery.

The Chant for the Departed passed his lips and he hoped that she was sent to the Maker's side in tranquility. That there was no pain, darkness, or suffering but the worst part of his mind argued against that logic. Cullen was nothing if not determined. He would retrieve her body and see her returned to the Maker. She deserved peace. He would return her home with a contingent of soldiers and compose a letter to both the Rutherfords and the Trevelyans informing them that instead of planning the wedding he'd already received their blessing for, he'd be preparing her pyre. Overseeing the details of a gathering where everyone could say their goodbyes and mourn the hero who saved them all on countless occasions.

Saved people who would never thank her, never truly appreciate what she was willing to give. What she gave.

For the duration of the trip, he was alone with his thoughts- a dangerous place to be in his current state.

She'd been missing for four and a half days, 108 hours to be exact, the realization dawned on him when they entered the Emerald Graves. Deciding to camp for the eve, they would depart for the Arbor Wilds at first light. He did what he could to set his grief aside though he continued to blink back a great many tears and focus on his tasks. Should one slide down his cheek, he could blame it on allergies that made his eyes water to avoid questions and speculation. Which, given the vast amount of trees and brush in the area, wasn't necessarily a lie. Courtesy of the long journey that allowed him to contemplate his next move, Cullen was now a man on a new mission; a renewed purpose. It was with the ferocity of a force of nature that Cullen decided: Samson must die.

Cullen fully intended to ensure that Samson's death was bloody and violent. Vengeance for all the suffering the monster had inflicted. Then he could allow himself to mourn: over his friends, his former comrades-in-arms that Samson poisoned, and his love. Cullen felt a sliver of anxiety at the thought of battle with Samson; the rune would certainly help, but Samson had been ingesting large quantities of red lyrium while Cullen himself had been battling withdrawals. Even if his armor could be broken, the lyrium still gave him the upper hand.

That would pose a problem.