The hour had come. The Inquisition's forces were gathered at the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and Anya was ready to seal the Breach.
Cullen sat upon his horse, watching intently as the Harold made her way with Cassandra and Solas across the ruined chamber to stand under the yawning chasm in the sky. Their mage allies stood on the wall surrounding the broken courtyard in lines three men deep, still and vigilant, ready to lend their power to Anya's mark. It seemed likely that the attempt – successful or not – would render her unconscious, and Cullen had insisted that he would carry her back to Haven himself. If his firm declaration had raised any eyebrows, it wasn't done to the commander's face.
What was said only once (and then, by some unspoken but universally held agreement, never mentioned again), was that it also seemed entirely possible that the attempt – especially if it was successful – could kill her. Anya had acknowledged as much and then shrugged it off, and Cullen understood her apparent indifference. There was no way to mitigate such a risk, since they really had no idea what they were doing, so there was no point in dwelling on it. In her place, he would have felt the same way, but in his place, keeping helpless vigil as she left Cassandra and Solas behind and picked a path through the rubble to the Breach, alone… well. He knew they had no choice and that no one else could serve in her stead, but still he found himself wishing there was some other way. As she stood there under the enormous gaping rupture in the Veil, she just looked so small.
For a moment, she stared up at the swirling green vortex, rubbing her marked hand. Then she squared her shoulders and, with a quick determined glance back at Solas, thrust her palm towards the Breach. The mages slammed their staves on the ground in front of them, creating an echoing clamor in the temple that caused rocks to tumble loose from walls, and then poured their collective power into Anya's body. Cullen wanted to keep his eyes on her, but he couldn't stop himself from looking up as a great gout of light erupted from the Harold's hand and shot into the sky. Honor side-stepped nervously and tossed her head as the air was filled with a loud, rushing noise, as if something immensely heavy was moving at an impossible speed. He scanned the lines of mages for signs of strain – was anyone going to break under the pressure? He could tell they were all laboring hard to fill the Harold with magic, but so far, none of them seemed to falter.
And what of the vessel? How could Anya bear to have that much magic coursing through her? She stood with her feet planted apart and her arm high in the air. Her right hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically as the power from her mark pulsed upwards towards the Breach, and Cullen felt an aching, sympathetic admiration for her. The Inquisition had asked so much of her – not that they'd had any choice – but for all her fumbles and missteps, she'd done her best for them. And was still doing her best, as the unknown evil force that had opened the rifts battled against the power pouring from her palm.
To Cullen's amazement, the hole in the sky began to warp and wobble. Its edges shimmered as it drew in on itself, the green in the center becoming concentrated and almost unbearably bright as Anya forced it to shrink. He had to shield his eyes from a dazzling flash that bathed the temple in an unholy glow, brighter than sunlight, and then he struggled to control his mount as the horse reared, frightened by the resounding boom that echoed immediately afterwards. Mages and soldiers stumbled and fell, clutching their ears, and Cullen's eyes flew back to the sky. Where the Breach had once loomed, emerald and throbbing, an angry grey thunderhead now swirled like a cloudy wound, barely healed. She had done it. His exhale of relief caught in his throat as he dropped his gaze to the ground.
Anya was on her knees. Then she fell forward – caught herself on her hands – she swayed on all fours – she collapsed. Cullen gave a shout but Cassandra and Solas were already rushing forward, with Iron Bull close on their heels. The Seeker and the apostate crouched over her body, and Cullen was able to breathe again when Cassandra looked up and shouted, "She's alive!" Cullen watched intently as Solas cast healing spells over her, and then Anya sat up, clutching her head in her hands. She tried to get to her feet but staggered, and Bull stepped forward to gather her in his arms like a child.
The mages and soldiers cheered as the qunari carried the Harold – perhaps she really was the Herald? – up the stairs and through their ranks. Anya waved weakly in response to their cries of joy and congratulations, and Cullen was surprised and pleased that she was still alert. Bull brought her over to him, and Cullen added his own warm congratulations to the din. The two men helped her into the saddle and Cullen tried not to think too much about the fact that the Harold was basically sitting in his lap, or that the arrangement was entirely by his own design. He kept a steadying arm around her waist while his other hand held the reins and guided Honor back to the path that led out of the temple.
"Are you all right, Anya?" he asked quietly as his horse picked her careful way through the ruins. Anya nodded, but then she gripped his hand that held her hip.
"Can we – can we move off to the side and let everyone pass? I need a minute, I can't – it's too much. I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain…"
Cullen shushed her gently. "There's nothing to explain." He called out to Cassandra and she jogged over, her armor and weapon clanking loudly. "Will you lead the men back to Haven? The Harold needs a moment to recover before she faces her adoring public."
"Of course," Cassandra replied. She touched Anya's knee gently and then strode out to the front of the lines, shouting commands to the soldiers and mages. Solas also brushed his hand across Anya's leg as he passed, and fixed Cullen with a penetrating look before moving along. Dorian sauntered up like an idle dandy out for a morning stroll in the park, grinning flirtatiously at the mage in Cullen's arms.
"Give us a kiss, sugarplum," he said, and Cullen forced himself to watch the men progress down the mountain as Anya leaned over to kiss the "shady arse-biscuit" (someday he'd thank Sera for introducing him to that delightful turn of phrase). "You did it, darling. Bravo! I hope you intend to get thoroughly, shockingly drunk tonight."
"I feel half-drunk already," Anya laughed. "But yes, I think I've earned my ale."
"Among other things," Dorian purred, and Cullen couldn't stop himself from glaring at him. The mage caught his eye and laughed. "Commander."
"Dorian." He tried to sound civil, but even his own ears weren't deceived, and the man's smile widened.
"I'll save a spot for you in the tavern, Herald, and if anyone tries to take it – fuaaaaaaa!" Dorian made the "fireball" gesture with a cheeky grin, and Anya laughed weakly.
"Don't even joke about it or Sera will make a pincushion of your backside."
"Now that would be a shame," Dorian said with a wink. "See you back in Haven, Anya. Commander." The mage strode off, stepping in file beside Iron Bull and saying something that made the qunari shake his head in disgust.
"I don't know what you see in him," Cullen said, before he could stop himself. He instantly wished he'd held his tongue.
"Someone who adores me, remember?" Anya said dryly.
"I shouldn't have said anything. My apologies." Cullen's cheeks felt hot and he shifted his weight in the saddle, but with Anya seated on his thighs, that hardly helped his discomfort.
"So, how many abominations did you have to put down while I was closing the Breach?" she asked him tartly. Cullen couldn't help but laugh.
"None," he admitted.
"Fascinating."
Cullen glanced over and saw that she was smiling, a hint of dimple appearing in her cheek. He wanted to press his lips to it, to tighten his arms around her and kiss her jaw and her neck and the pretty curve of her ear – it had been a mistake to insist on carrying her. He'd expected she would be unconscious, and hadn't fully considered how it would feel to bear her back to Haven while she was awake, triumphant and warm in his arms. Maker, he was an idiot.
"Ahem," Anya said, turning to look at him with a saucy smirk. "Isn't this the part where you tell me I was right?"
Cullen rolled his eyes and squeezed her side, causing her to squirm in his lap. Mistake! He tried not to hiss as his cock stiffened beneath her wiggling arse, and instead assumed a stern expression. "Your naïve nonsense has thus far borne out as you'd hoped. Congratulations."
Anya huffed. "How many days must the Inquisition remain abomination-free before I hear an unequivocal 'you were right, Anya, and I'm sorry I doubted your superior wisdom?'"
"Superior wisdom?" Cullen frowned playfully. "I don't know that you'll ever hear me acknowledge that. I suppose once our forces are disbanded and we are reabsorbed into the Chantry, if there has not been a single, solitary abomination, I will have to admit you were correct. On that one count."
"Such generosity of spirit must be the key to your success in life," she replied, and he grunted in amusement. She leaned back so that her head rested against his shoulder, and sighed. "Maker's breath, I'm tired."
"I'll bet you are," Cullen replied. He turned his horse so that they faced the swirling scar in the sky where the Breach had been. "Look what you did, Harold. It's not every day someone single-handedly – literally, in this case – saves the world."
"I didn't do it by myself," she insisted, staring up at the jagged clouds.
"Not entirely, but you were the key." He paused. "I was afraid we'd lose you."
"I was a little afraid of that, myself," she said, "but I rather thought I'd make it. I mean, at least it wasn't shitting demons, and I've gotten pretty good at punching rifts."
Cullen chuckled and watched as she flexed and curled the hand that still bore the glowing mark. "That you have."
"I thought the mark might go away after I sealed the Breach, though," she confessed. "I'd hoped it would." She sounded so disappointed that he couldn't help but hug her a little tighter.
"Perhaps the Maker has plans for you yet, Harold."
"Do you really believe that?" she asked, turning again to look at him.
"I suppose I do," he said. "I believe the Maker has plans for us all."
"But do you really think I'm Andraste's messenger? You call me Herald all the time, but I have a hard time believing that you, of all people, are buying into this rubbish."
Cullen's face flushed. He'd wondered if there would ever come a day when he'd have to confess his silly little jest. "Well, actually, since that first time you mentioned it, I've been calling you 'Harold' in my mind. You know, like the man's name."
Anya gaped at him in surprise, and then turned her face against his neck and laughed. "Maker's balls, have you really? Oh, that's amazing!" She let loose another delighted peal of laughter and Cullen found himself grinning at her.
"Yes, well, I'm not saying you aren't Andraste's chosen but…." He trailed off and shrugged exaggeratedly, and she laughed again and leaned back against him. "Actually, I might even be starting to believe it. It was incredible to see you close that Breach – perhaps she did mark you."
"Oh, please don't start calling me herald-herald," she begged. "Let this be our secret, so when you roar at me in meetings and make me quake in my boots, I'll have a reason to smile anyway."
"I don't roar," Cullen protested.
"You absolutely do," Anya replied. "Varric told me that when we argue, it sounds like a fennec fox battling a bear. I'm the fox, obviously."
Several unsuitable responses came to Cullen's mind. "You always hold your own," he said finally.
The last of the soldiers had filed past them, but he felt content to sit in the saddle and look up at the sky with his arms wrapped loosely around Anya's waist. She seemed in no hurry to go back either, although his horse probably wished they would get moving.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked, bending his neck so that his mouth was close to her ear. He couldn't seem to help but court temptation.
"Not yet," she said, and turned her head a little so that her temple rested against his cheek. She was silent for so long that Cullen began to wonder if she'd fallen asleep, until he heard her quiet question. "Did Leliana tell you that my daughter isn't among the mages?"
"Yes. I'm sorry." He hadn't wanted to bring it up, but he was strangely glad that she did.
"Me too," she said. "I know I'm no worse off than I was before, as far as that goes, but somehow it feels like I've taken a step backward. I guess I had resigned myself to never knowing anything about her, and then I got my hopes up. It was probably foolish of me. The chance was so small that she would be here…"
Cullen tightened his arms around her. "Leliana is incredibly resourceful. I'm sure she can find her."
Anya nodded. "To be honest, there is a cowardly part of me that doesn't want to know, in case the news is bad, but I think not knowing would be worse. And now that I've sealed the Breach, I imagine my usefulness to the Inquisition is near its end. Finding her would probably be the next logical thing to do."
"I don't know if you'll get rid of us that easily," Cullen joked, although the thought of Anya leaving made his stomach twist unhappily. "There still may be rifts out there – we don't know if they've disappeared with the Breach or not. And there's that matter of the Avvar in the Fallow Mire. We still need you, and you need us. I'm sure we can help you reunite with your daughter, if that's what you want."
"I think it is," she said slowly, "but would you think less of me if I said I wasn't sure? She'll be thirteen in three months, and we're absolute strangers to each other. I really don't know how to be a mother, especially a mother to an adolescent. I want to be, but… what if it's too late?"
"I'm certainly no expert, but I don't think it's too late, and you'll never know unless you try." He paused and then added gently, "And I'd never think less of you for feeling conflicted about a complicated and painful situation. I hope you know that."
"I do," she acknowledged, patting his hand. "Isn't it funny that I can face down crazed mages and templars, and giant ferocious bears, and rifts with demons pouring out of them, but the idea of meeting my own child terrifies me?"
He shrugged. "I can't judge. I'd rather slay a dragon than endure a confrontation with my sister. Which reminds me, I really ought to write her and tell her I'm back in Ferelden."
"You haven't written your family yet? Scandalous!" Anya turned and stared at him with an open mouth, pretending to be shocked.
Cullen struggled to check the impulse to kiss her full, impudent lips. Instead, he gave her a little squeeze and she grinned, then sighed softly and leaned back against him again, completely relaxing in his embrace. He would have been happy to stay that way for the rest of the afternoon, were it not so hard to resist trailing his lips across her skin. He felt his resolve weakening – surely a kiss would be harmless enough – but then his nightmares sprang to his mind. Anya, screaming. Screaming because of him, because he was hurting her, because she was helpless and he was enraged. He remembered how angry he'd been in Redcliffe and how he'd wanted to use their mutual attraction against her… No, nothing about Cullen being close to Anya could be harmless, not for her. And yet thinking about the possibility had made him grow hard again, much to his embarrassment. He prayed she couldn't tell. Wincing in shame, he sat up in the saddle and adjusted her in his lap.
"Let's go, Harold," he said, and she giggled at the pseudo-honorific.
"I suppose it's time. Thank you for indulging me, Commander."
"Thank you for saving the world," he replied softly, and turned his horse down the hill.
…
Anya never did join Dorian in the tavern when she returned to Haven. She felt exhausted and light-headed and really wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for three days, but she had to make the rounds among the people. She was offered countless handshakes, back pats, and flagons of mead, but other than taking the occasional sip to acknowledge a toast, she stuck to water. Partially because she didn't feel well, and partially because she didn't trust herself not to shamelessly proposition her commander if she were even slightly tipsy. Just remembering how it felt to sit on his lap with his arms around her brought heat to her face and a throb to her loins. He wanted her – his leather breeches weren't thick enough to hide the evidence as she'd squirmed against him – and yet he hadn't made any effort to do more than hold her. She knew if she pressed him, he would reject her again, and she also knew if she got drunk, she would press him – preferably up against a wall. She kicked a rock in impotent frustration, wishing that he would just get over whatever scruple kept him from kissing her. Void take her, after that strangely intimate little horseback ride, she was ready to blow right past kissing and straight to sex. It seemed incredibly unfair that the one man she really wanted also seemed to want her, and yet she'd still be taking herself in hand at the end of the night, alone. Especially since she'd just saved the world! She shook her glowing fist up at the sky, scowling in the Maker's general direction.
"At least you could allow me a victory shag!" she seethed, not caring if she blasphemed.
"What was that, Lucky?" Varric asked, sounding very amused indeed.
Anya blushed. "Nothing," she mumbled, and sat down next to him on the wall by his tent. She leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes, appreciating his companionable silence, and she was so exhausted that she nearly fell asleep. Varric startled her back to alertness when he shouted across the pathway.
"Is that… Hey! Junior!"
There was a commotion at the gate caused by templars she didn't recognize – except for one. Ser Handsome from Val Royeaux stood just within the village walls, flanked by his brothers, talking to Cullen urgently. Cassandra and Leliana were making their way to the group, with Josephine trailing not far behind, and Varric and Anya jumped down to join the council. As she jogged along the path, Anya thought she saw a dark, scarecrow-like figure out of the corner of her eye, creeping through the half-open gates, but when she turned her head, it was gone. She frowned, wondering if she had imagined it, and then put it from her mind as the templars claimed her attention.
"What's going on?" Anya asked.
"We're about to be under attack," Cullen said. "These men have come from Therinfal Redoubt to warn us."
Anya searched the faces of the dozen-odd templars before her, hoping to find Nicky, but he wasn't there. Her friends seemed to know one of them from Kirkwall, but the rest were strangers. Cullen introduced the handsome fellow she'd seen in Val Royeaux as Delrin Barris.
"According to Ser Barris, a legion of templars led by this Elder One are approaching from that direction." He pointed over the ridge.
"How long do we have?" Anya asked.
"Not long," said Ser Barris. "We've been trailing the horde, trying to get here in time, but it was difficult to get around them without being caught. We'd hope to give you more notice but – "
"Look!" Josephine shouted.
Lights appeared on the ridge – torches, so many of them. The templar army was enormous and Anya didn't need to be any sort of military strategist to realize that they were outmanned.
"Ring the Chantry bells!" Cullen shouted. "All soldiers and mages to the gate!"
"There are children skating on the pond," Anya realized. "We have to get down there!"
She took off at a run, ignoring Cullen's shouts, with Cassandra right behind her. As she approached the ice, she saw that the skaters all stood still, staring up at the advancing army with uncomprehending awe.
"Get back into the village...NOW!" Anya screamed, waving her arms. Her desperate call seemed to wake them from their trance.
"Move, move, move!" Cassandra barked, herding the children towards the shoreline. In their panic, they skidded and slid, tumbling over themselves on the slippery ice as they tried desperately to escape the oncoming templars. Once off the ice, those who wore skates had to remove them before they could run.
"Run barefoot," Anya cried, desperately trying to help them pull off the bladed boots. She kept her eyes on the ridge, watching in terror as templars poured down the mountainside. There were so many of them that it looked as though a river of molten fire was coursing towards Haven. When the last child was off the ice, Anya sprinted up the embankment behind them, ushering the stragglers towards the gates. Cullen was picking up the littlest ones and shoving them into the arms of townspeople who were fleeing for shelter. He had the blonde mage girl that Anya had met on the road upon his shoulders, and when he saw Anya approach, he handed her the child.
"Get all the civilians inside!"
Anya ran for the village, clutching the screaming girl in her arms, and passed her off to the tavern keeper before darting back out through the gates.
"What's going on, Cullen?"
"Their force is massive, and they've been taking the red lyrium, which apparently augments both strength and speed – at the price of sanity. We'll have to control the field if we have a prayer of winning this battle." He pointed to an outcropping, where she could see a man, and an impossibly tall thing standing watch over the templars' march. "There's our Elder One, and Ser Carver says the man beside him is Samson. I knew him from Kirkwall… I never would have believed it possible... but there's no time." He coursed his hand through his hair and then paced back and forth in front of the gathered mages and soldiers.
"We need every able body," Cullen said desperately. "Lysas, will the mages stand with us?"
"Oh yes," Lysas said decisively. "If these are the templars that have hunted us since the Conclave, we have many scores to settle."
Cullen didn't exactly look happy to hear that, but there was no time to argue. "I suggest the mages stay back, line the walls, and keep the templars out of the village. Inquisition soldiers and templars will march out to meet the army – but Cassandra, the best bet is the trebuchets. If you can keep them firing, perhaps we can hobble their forces before they make it off the ridge."
"Understood, Commander," Cassandra said.
"Harold, stay back with the other mages," Cullen said.
"Absolutely not," Anya replied. "We need all of the trebuchets working. Cassandra can lead a group to defend the north, and I'll take another unit to defend the south. The third is behind the wall – it should be safer to operate, if you have a team that you don't want to put into direct combat."
"The team with you on it," Cullen growled, but he saw she would not be swayed. "Fine," he said grimly. "Rylen, go with the Harold."
"Yes, ser!" Rylen replied sharply.
Anya quickly gathered a small group and made haste for the south trebuchet. When they reached it, they found that it was jammed and useless. The operators that had come with them worked frantically to fix the gears, while the rest of them watched anxiously as the north trebuchet fired volley after volley against the red templar horde descending from the ridge. She had no idea what had happened to the third weapon, but it didn't seem to be in operation either. They were going to be overrun if they didn't do something soon.
"It's not enough!" Anya cried. "We need to get this one working!"
"We're trying, Herald," the engineer snapped.
"Rylen!"
Anya turned and saw Bronwyn running up the path from town.
"You have to come back to the village," Bron shouted. "We're can't hold them off, and Commander Cullen is calling for everyone to take sanctuary in the Chantry."
"Get out of here, Bronwyn!" Rylen cried.
"Come with me," she pleaded.
Then something odd happened. Bronwyn let out a surprised oh! and bent over. Anya was puzzled, until she saw the bolt protruding from her friend's belly. She hardly had time to make sense of it before another one caught Bronwyn's shoulder. She floated backwards, and then fell – and Anya wondered if Alexius had gotten loose, for time seemed to stand still. Rylen's anguished cries bellowed in her ears as she turned and saw the templars emerging from the northern path. One bore a crossbow, but not for long, as Bianca, wielded by a grim-faced Varric, enacted Bronwyn's revenge. Rylen charged them like a maniac, roaring in rage.
Then everything moved faster than Anya could stomach. It was the most vicious fight she'd ever encountered, as wave after wave of merciless templars assaulted the trebuchet. Anya knew it would never end unless they got the siege weapon working, for they were hopelessly outmanned.
"Fire!" she cried at the engineers. "FIRE THE DAMNED TREBUCHET!"
But the blasted thing was still jammed, so Anya did her best to protect the operators as the rest of the unit fought off the demented templars. The red lyrium gave them strength and speed beyond mortal men, and even flames didn't seem to faze them. Anya watched in amazement as a knight, consumed by a blazing spell, still swung his sword even as his flesh melted inside his armor. They were insensible, crazed monsters, who had once been normal men and women. Where was Nicky?
Whenever she could, Anya frantically tossed healing spells at Bronwyn, but she had a feeling it wasn't enough. If only she'd brought Solas with her! She knew her spells were weak after her efforts with the Breach, and Bronwyn needed strong magic. Her friend had studied quite a bit in the creation school herself, so perhaps she was somehow holding her own? But there was so much blood on the ground beneath her…
Anya turned desperately to the trebuchet, determined to operate it herself if necessary. They'd lost too many soldiers, and all but one engineer, but it turned out that one was all they needed. He'd gotten the gears working and Anya was able to release the weapon. In a stroke of genius (if she did say so herself), she aimed it at the mountainside above, triggering a small avalanche that soon buried a large portion of the red templar forces. They watched the lights from the templars' torches wink out as they were engulfed in the raging snowslide, and Anya barked out a little half-sob as she sounded the retreat. Her gut churned with despair as Rylen carefully picked up Bronwyn and bore her back to the village. As they ran, a great shrieking roar sounded through the valley, and Anya looked up to see a giant creature soaring overhead. She could hardly comprehend it; it had bat wings and a lizard tail and hideous claws and – dragon. They were doomed.
In the Chantry, Rylen laid Bronwyn down with the rest of the injured, and Anya screamed for Solas to help her. The elf rushed to her friend's side, and then Anya couldn't bear to look anymore. She turned her attention to Cullen.
"Was that your idea to aim for the mountain instead?" he asked her, and when she nodded tearfully, he offered a grim smile. "Good thinking, Harold. It's given me a plan. It's not a good plan, mind you, but this situation isn't survivable anyway. If we aim the remaining trebuchet at the top of the peak, we might cause an even bigger slide and…"
"And bury Haven?" Anya gasped. "Cullen, that will kill everyone!"
"We're already dead, Anya," he said, firmly but sadly. "It's just a matter of time until the Elder One's dragon brings this building down on top of our heads. At least we can take his army out with us."
"I didn't come here just to hide in a Chantry and wait to be buried in snow," one of the new templars said hotly. "If I'm to die, I'll go down swinging, with my blade buried in a traitor's gut." He picked up his shield and headed for the door.
"Carver, wait!" Cullen barked.
"There's another way."
Anya turned her head, surprised by the quiet, unfamiliar voice, and let out a shriek as she noticed the scarecrow creature, crouching over Chancellor Roderick. It appeared to be… a boy?
"Who are you?" she gasped.
"I'm Cole," he replied simply. "I'm here to help. There's a secret path out of Haven through the back of the Chantry. You can lead them all out."
"How do you know this?" Cullen demanded. "Where did you come from?"
"He came with us," Ser Barris said reluctantly. "He's a spirit – "
"A demon!" Ser Carver interjected angrily.
"A spirit," Ser Barris insisted, "and he seems particularly attached to templars. I first encountered him at Therinfal Redoubt. Very few people can even see him, but when he realized that I was trying to mount a covert resistance to Samson's plans, he revealed himself to me. It was Cole who told us to seek you out, who told us that the Elder One means to kill you, Herald."
"He's still on about me, then?" Anya said, flexing her glowing hand. This Elder One had been behind Alexius' bizarre obsession with her, as well. "Seems someone has a little crush." Cullen frowned at her, but Anya ignored him as she mustered up the courage to say what she knew she must say, and do what she knew she must do. "If this Elder One wants me, he can have me. You – Cole – you say there is a way out?"
"Yes, Roderick knows the way. He's dying, but he has strength left to show me his thoughts. I can find the path."
"Then find it. Get the people out, while I distract the Elder One. If you send me a signal when you've reached a safe distance, I'll set off the trebuchet and bury his forces. If he gets to me before I can do it, perhaps he'll be satisfied with my life and won't feel compelled to claim more."
Cullen stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, speaking in a low, urgent voice meant only for her ears. "I can't let you do this, Anya. You're too important, we need you… I …" He stared into her eyes, his voice faltering.
"Cullen, you know I have to. It's the only hope these people have to escape with their lives." She looked down at her hand and offered up her palm, glowing and pulsing in the dim light of the Chantry. "We've been wondering why I have this mark – why I still have this mark, even though the Breach is closed. Well, now I know. I thought I was here to seal the Breach, but now I think that if the Maker put me here, it was for this. So I could face down this Elder One in our moment of need. I have to do it."
Cullen's warm brown eyes brightened with tears, but he swallowed hard and nodded. "You can't go alone. You'll need a sword and shield to protect you if you're to make it to that trebuchet. I'll go with you."
"You can't!" she cried, horrified by the idea. "Cullen, the Inquisition needs you. You're our commander. Whatever happens out there tonight, I'm sure it won't be the end of this business. You have to stay, you have to lead." Her voice caught in her throat. "You have to let me go."
"Don't ask me – " He closed his eyes and cursed softly under his breath, then turned his back on her, rubbing his face.
"I'll go with you, Anya." Ser Robart stepped forward. "It would be my honor to fight at your side. By my life, I'll get you to that trebuchet."
Anya clenched her jaw as she looked at him – dear Ser Robart, who had cared for her and counseled her since she was just a child. She'd spent more years under his guidance than she had her own parents', and perhaps it was selfish, but it would be a comfort to have him with her.
"If there's an opportunity to escape before I trigger the snow slide, you'll take it," she warned him. He smiled faintly.
"On the contrary, my dear, if that opportunity exists, it will be yours. Don't argue with me, mage." He put on his "Knight-Captain" voice and it made Anya's eyes fill with tears. She looked down and nodded, her throat constricting painfully.
"It's settled, then," Cullen said harshly. "The Harold and Ser Robart will distract the Elder One and set off the trebuchet, while the rest of us lead the townspeople to safety." He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head and turned on his heel. Anya stared at him in shock as he strode towards the back of the Chantry, barking orders and marshalling his men. That was it?
"Cullen!" she cried. Several heads swiveled to look in her direction, no doubt startled by the raw emotion in her voice, but Anya didn't care. Cullen stopped walking and stood still, slowly curling and flexing his left hand, and then he turned around and walked towards her again. She could see he was at war with himself, the battle playing out across his handsome face, and she could also see when she'd won. His expression softened, his arms opened, and Anya hurled herself into them.
She put her hands on either side of his face and brought her lips to his, so frantically that their teeth collided. Fighting back tears, she softened her mouth and put everything she had into that kiss – all her longing for him, her desire, her affection and rage and fear and hope. She wanted him to somehow feel all of it, to know what he meant to her – or at least, what he might have come to mean, if they hadn't been robbed of time. Anya kissed him like her life depended on it.
And for his part, Cullen gave as good as he got. His mouth was hot and hungry, and his hands were warm and strong splayed against her back, and if Anya could have crawled inside his armor to get closer to his skin, she'd have done it in a heartbeat. Too soon, she had to draw back and lower herself from her tiptoes, breathing hard against his chest. Cullen wrapped his arms around her and crushed her body against his, resting his cheek on the top of her head and rocking her slightly. She leaned into him, her fingers tangling in the slightly sticky fur of his cape, and the metal of his breastplate felt surprisingly warm. Cullen released her, but then he raised his hands to her face and pressed his forehead against hers.
"I don't know if I can let you do this," he whispered brokenly, his eyes closed. "How can I let you do this?"
"You have to, Cullen," Anya replied. He made a soft, anguished noise and then brought his mouth to hers again. This time the kiss was slow and tender, and it sent a thrill through Anya's body. Cullen was kissing her, the way she'd always wanted him to. But right behind that jolt of excitement was a column of white hot rage. Cullen was kissing her, and it was the last thing they would ever do together. Cullen was kissing her good-bye.
Anya swallowed a sob as he pulled away, and Cullen looked as miserable as she felt.
"You make that thing hear you," he snarled fiercely. Anya nodded.
"You get them all out." She sounded just as savage as he did. He nodded in return, leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers one last time, as if for luck, and then turned back toward his men.
Anya stared at the floor, summoning her courage. She'd known before, when she'd tried to seal the Breach, that there was a chance the attempt could kill her, but she hadn't really believed it would. Now she felt certain that she was facing the final moments of her life, and an eerie sort of calm fell over her. It was so strange to think that she was almost out of time. In an odd way, she was grateful that everything was happening so quickly, that she didn't have time to consider all that she was about to lose. A conversation came to mind, one she'd had with Leliana after they'd come back from Redcliffe. Anya had wanted to impress upon the spymaster how brave and selfless she'd been to give her life to buy Dorian a few more precious minutes. Leliana had scoffed, unmoved by her own heroics, and had joked that she'd always loved a bargain. At the time, Anya had been amazed that she could be so cavalier towards the idea of sacrificing her own life, and had chalked it up to the fact that the Leliana she'd spoken to hadn't actually faced that choice. But now she thought she rather understood. Anya didn't feel particularly brave, or heroic, or selfless. After all, she didn't want to die. But death was coming for her anyway, whether or not she went out to face the Elder One, and a great many more people would perish with her if she didn't. It did seem a bargain, then, didn't it? One inexperienced mage and one aging templar, in exchange for all the other lives in Haven? What a steal. She choked out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.
So there it was. Anya knew what this Elder One intended for the world, and she would do her part to oppose him. She had wondered many times what falling through the Breach meant for her and what she would become as a result. Now she understood. She would become the last person standing between a force of evil and the people she loved, and she would do her damnedest to make sure they got a chance to fight another day. It didn't make her feel any less sad, or less angry, or less afraid she would fail, but at least it strengthened her resolve.
"With me, Ser Robart," Anya barked, dashing tears from her face with her sleeve. She slammed the Chantry door open with the palm of her hand and strode out into the cold, windy night.