No-One Loves The Messenger
"You don't… she wouldn't." Cullen collapses weightily into his chair, his throat working to form words. He recoils, his entire being rejecting the offensive idea.
"I don't believe, no." Cassandra is firm and Cullen feels a small wave of relief. "But before we start a panic, we should eliminate the most obvious possibility first." He cradles his head in his hands.
"I heard the ravens leaving. I wondered why so many, so suddenly. Now I know." He looks up sharply, "But the longer we take, if she has left, she could slip away-"
"She is not our prisoner Cullen!" Cassandra rebukes him, but her tone softens at his expression. "If she truly wanted to leave she could do so, we…" Cassandra cannot finish, her voice choked with emotion. Cullen knows what she feels. He doesn't want to believe Sulahnean has thrown herself to her death. But nor can he accept she would steal away in the night and not bid them farewell. After everything they had been through, neither scenario sounded like the woman he knew - or thought he did.
"Let me know when the Scouts are ready." Cassandra states as she leaves and he waves in absent acknowledgement. He is still processing, disbelieving. They had just celebrated their incredible triumph, over an ancient Magister of incomprehensible power. What could have possibly brought the Inquisitor so low after such a victory? Perhaps there had not been one single incident, but a multitude of them. She was not made of stone after all. Sulahnean had led them through the impossible, with patience and compassion. Cullen was all too keenly aware of the surprising tenderness that lay beneath her stoic demeanour.
He can still recall her cool, gentle touch on his fevered brow, as she nursed him through the worst of his lyrium withdrawal. The soft murmur of her sweet voice, soothing him when he was startled awake by haunted nightmares. He had been so ashamed at first, that she - the Herald of Andraste - had seen him in such a state. That she would spend her precious time attending to him when the whole world was at stake.
"I need you, Cullen," she had said and his heart had thundered, fit to burst, "I can't do this without you." He believed she was inflating his importance, but he knew better than to argue with the Inquisitor. Cullen had seen first hand what happened to those who mistook her merciful spirit for weakness; or quiet manners for timidity. Corypheus was chief amongst them, but the list of her vanquished enemies was as long as the Chant. He smirks despite the sorrow he feels.
Cassandra had not told him how they reached their appalling conclusion, that the Herald might have harmed herself. He trusts their judgement and yet - it feels wrong. He knows the Inquisitor carries a lot of grief. Knows how burdened she is by every life lost, every hard choice made. He thought he had done all he could to help ease those burdens. That he had always encouraged and supported her wholeheartedly, even when he didn't necessarily agree with her choices.
Was it enough? She was only mortal after all. Just a slip of a woman, but with steel resolve underneath her big heart. It is what he admires - no - what he loves about her. He cannot deny it any longer and he feels a surge of jealous resentment beneath his despair.
"Solas," he growls, that smug apostate. He pounds his gloved fist on the table, his head falling in sorrow. If that bastard has driven her to… Cullen cannot bring himself to finish that train of thought. He grits his teeth and calls out to whichever Aide is posted outside his office. If he ever sets eyes on that elf again, he will throttle him.
"Commander." Bryce lumbers into his office and delivers a rather sluggish salute. Cullen cannot fault him, they had all let loose the night before. Maker knows, they had earned it.
"Find Harding for me. No rest for the wicked," he frowns. This is not how he thought the morning after would be. Bryce hurries away, leaving Cullen to sit in silence, his thoughts turning grim. His desk is littered with unfinished work but he cannot seem to focus on any of it - it has become incomprehensible noise. He pushes up from his chair, trying to shake off the melancholy. They know nothing for certain, he has to hold out hope. She had been through so much and triumphed over all adversity, he believes in her; believes that she would not abandon them. He needs to centre himself and concentrate on his duties, that's what she would have done.
"Let's do what we can in the meantime." So many times he had heard her speak those words as they stood in the War room. It was more than just pragmatism from Sulahnean. It was central to her principles. To always do what they could, to do what was right - not necessarily what was expedient, or profitable.
So that was how they always moved forward. Patiently tackling a problem, doing what they could - when they could - until it was resolved. Never deterred when a new crisis arose, never flinching at the losses, but always persevering. The results spoke for themselves. Slowly, steadily, until they'd finally won the day.
Scout Harding shuffles into his office, looking worse for wear. "Harding reporting for duty, Ser." Cullen waits til she closes the door behind her.
"Sorry to do this to you and your men today, Harding." He grimaces by way of apology, but Harding shrugs it off. He sighs ruefully, there is no easy way to break this news. "We need you to search the ravines north of Skyhold." Harding raises a questioning eyebrow and Cullen clears his throat, finding it difficult to form the answer.
"This is not to be shared, even with your men, but we have reason to be concerned." He clears his throat again, trying to maintain a neutral tone of command. He doesn't want to say the words though, to voice it would make it real.
"Ser?" Harding interjects into the silence. Worry lines form on her brow and it shakes the paralysis out of him. He has a duty to these people, to lead them with calm assurance.
"Sister Leliana fears something may have happened to the Inquisitor." As alarm spreads across Harding's features Cullen presses on. "We know nothing for certain, simply that no-one has seen the Inquisitor since last eve. We want to rule out the worst possibility before we let people know she is gone." Harding nods slowly. "Seeker Pentaghast will be accompanying you, let her know when you're ready to leave." He dismisses her with a nod.
"Yes, Commander." Harding salutes crispy and darts out of his office. Cullen knows it would raise too many questions if he were to suddenly depart on a mere scouting mission. It makes sense for Cassandra to go, but he desperately wishes that he could. He knows that from now until they return he will be restless with anxiety.
Cullen steps out of his office and into the glorious sunlight, hoping to chase away the chill that has overtaken him. He needs to do something to help him expel all this nervous energy. He paces the battlements, eyes unerringly drawn north to the jagged, snowy peaks that loom behind Skyhold.
He wishes now that he had approached her at the celebration last night. She had been surrounded by nobles and he - like a coward - had done everything he could to hide from them amongst his officers. Cullen stood back and watched while she charmed and flattered, just as Josephine had taught, but with a grace that was all her own.
Underneath though he could see it - her exhaustion - and convinced himself it was just one night. One more night, then their guests would be gone on the morrow and she could finally rest; could finally lay down her burden. But he was lying to himself, deep down he knew she would never be free. Cullen sighs, he should have dragged her away from them, propriety be damned.
Would she have welcomed the interruption? he wonders. What did he think would happen? What was it he hoped for? She is the Inquisitor and a Dalish mage; he a human and former Templar to boot. It was a miracle she even deigned to call him a friend. She was a miracle - the Herald of Andraste. Was it ordained that she suffer a tragic end, just like the bride of the Maker?
"I need you Cullen." A sudden vision of Lani crying, alone in her despair, bursts into his mind. He reels in horror as she falls - broken on the mountainside.
"No," he grunts, squeezing his eyes closed against the image. He feels as though those very mountains are crushing him, squeezing the breath from his chest. Cullen leans against the parapets, head pressing against the unyielding stone as he gulps in great, icy lungfuls of air until it burns.
I'm sorry Lani, I'm so sorry. He had promised her, never again would she face the despair and hopelessness of Haven. He must find something to take his mind off this.
Maybe he should question the guards that were on duty last night. If the Inquisitor had managed to slip out, they clearly weren't doing their job. But until they confirm what had actually happened it would be wrong of him to reprimand them. Perhaps he can run the troops though some drills.
No, that's far too cruel, he quickly realises and drags his fingers through his hair in frustration. Cullen decides to head to the Tavern, maybe Bull would be up for a sparring match. He really feels like hitting something right now. Hitting it very hard.
As he descends the stairs he catches sight of Harding and Cassandra by the front gate. They look geared up and ready to join the rest of the scouts at the main encampment. Cassandra spots him as he crosses the yard. He waves forlornly, he cannot wish them good luck and Cassandra nods solemnly in return. He makes a silent prayer as he watches them depart.
Andraste, please bring them home empty handed.