Cullen knew it was a folly to pray for the blizzard to let up. He knew. Besides, they needed the blizzard to blanket the Inquisition's temporary camp and guard it from discovery by the enemy. Whoever that unknown enemy may be. Yet all Cullen could see in his mind was himself wading through the storm helpless and useless while the Herald faded away from exposure somewhere deep in the mountains.
The worse alternative, that the Herald was long dead and buried under several feet of snow next to the rubbles of Haven, had not occurred to Cullen. It was an unquestionable, though entirely unverifiable, fact to him that the man had made out alive.
Cullen shook his head to stop the thoughts from wandering toward the worst possible outcome and shielded his eyes with his right hand. The serrated blades of alpine wind relentlessly hacked at his face, making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes forward. The snow came up to his thighs and it was all he could do to remain standing. He'd already stumbled what felt like a million times as the terrain constantly changed beneath his feet.
"Cullen, we must pull back. We've searched long enough, and we cannot just leave the camp undefended." Cassandra shouted, breathless and tired. Her booming voice sounded muffled as the wind roared around them.
"Just a little more. Please."
"That is unwise. We have most of the soldiers searching for the Herald, who… Let's face it, who may not even be alive, while the refugees are sitting in the camp defenseless."
Cullen gritted his teeth. She was right, especially in her assessment of the low likelihood of Tharin's survival. But the Herald was alive. He knew it. "You and the men can pull back. I will go on with the search alone."
He could see the Seeker open her mouth to protest, only to close it as she considered the options. She then turned to the soldiers and barked orders. "You and you. You two will continue the search with Commander Cullen and me. The rest of you, make your way back to the camp and secure the perimeter. Make sure the mages set up magical barriers while you shore up the defenses. I've deputized Rylen, so follow his orders after you are done. Understood?"
The soldiers saluted Cassandra and Cullen before turning to leave. When the Seeker faced the Commander, he gave her an appreciative grin. "I cannot thank you enough, Seeker."
"Not at all. Let us make haste now."
Another half hour passed before Cullen started to lose hope. They were backtracking the route the Inquisition took after fleeing Haven, but there were no new footprints and no new personal items abandoned on the ground. The Commander kept stealing sidelong glances at the Seeker, feeling guiltier every second.
He was about to suggest that she and the two soldiers head back after looking around the narrow passage when he saw a figure collapsed on an open field just beyond the rocks. The silhouette shimmered with an eerie glow.
"There! It's him!"
"Thank the Maker!"
It was apparent from where they stood that the Herald's face was buried in snow. Cullen felt the pit of his stomach drop. He ran, tripped, fell, and finally crawled. An eternity passed before he could reach the figure. Failing to still his trembling hands, Cullen turned the young man over and checked for a pulse. It was a balm to find his heart still beating, though weak and slow. He was holding on, just barely.
"Tharin, please open your eyes. Look at me."
After the longest five seconds of Cullen's life, he saw a pair of intensely blue eyes looking back at him. A welcome flash of recognition crossed them. "Cullen… You came for me…" His lips, pale blue and cracked, moved slowly as he looked up to Cullen. Something akin to a pained smile spread across his face. His frozen hand reached out and rested on Cullen's cheek, as if to confirm that the figure kneeling in front of him was not a product of his hallucination. "You came back for me…"
"Of course I did. I would follow you anywhere," Cullen whispered. He pulled Tharin into a tight embrace, grateful for the contact and terrified of the body's coldness. He motioned to Cassandra and they helped Tharin up. Disoriented and at the threshold of death, the young man's head rolled back wildly as they put their arms around him. Like cradling a newborn, Cullen had to use his left hand to prop it back up.
The Commander snuggled his body tightly against the young man, hoping it would keep him warm enough as they fought their way back to the camp.
In a hoarse whisper, Tharin began to speak again. Whatever he was saying, he apparently wanted to say it right away. Completely occupied with their footing, Cullen only turned when the frail voice grabbed his attention.
"You said that… in Redcliffe…" The parched lips curled downward. "But then… I said all those horrible things and you said you wanted to leave." The young man quaked and frowned like he was about to weep.
"Please… don't leave me," Tharin mumbled sadly, "I'm sorry about everything. I betrayed your confidence and hurt you… I've treated you so horribly. I'm sorry…"
Cullen finally shushed him and spoke gently. "It's all right. And I won't. I will never leave your side. I am sorry I ever said I wanted to."
"…Thank you, Cullen…" Tharin replied with a long exhale, like a burden was coming off. But the breath must have let out some of his dwindling life, because the young man began to fade away and slide from their grasp.
Panicked, the Commander urged, "Come on, stay with me. Please stay with me… please. We are almost there." As if woken up by the prompting, the young man's arms were once again holding on, on their own volition. He wasn't done fighting, and the Commander was not about to let him surrender.
In the most calming voice he could rally amid the chaos, Cullen breathed, "I've got you. You will be okay. Just a little more, I swear."
Cullen could not be sure, but he thought he heard Cassandra sniffle.
As they descended the mountains, there was only one thought in his head. Despite the loss of Haven, despite all the lives cut short, despite his failure to foresee the sequence of events that brought down the Inquisition, and despite the uncertainty of the coming day, Tharin was alive. That was all that mattered.
I will not lose you now, he swore silently.
After a night of absolute terror and a harried flight across the highlands, everyone was done in. A rousing chorus Mother Giselle started did energize the camp, but only for a short while.
Under the morning sun, with the previous night's storm completely cleared up, people could no longer hide their weariness. Nor did they have enough physical and mental energy left to care.
Josephine, who would normally be excitedly chirping her morning report, and Leliana, who would be following in Josie's footsteps with a soft expression of muted amusement, were just leaning against each other on a bench, half-dozing and half-awake.
Cassandra was sitting in the muck in front of a burnt-out campfire, using her shield to prop her face up and holding her sword crookedly. Though the mixture of melting snow and dirt was staining the seat of her trousers, she did not move. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't all there.
Most other members of the Inner Circle were sleeping. One exception was Dorian, who was furiously leafing through every book on ancient history he had managed to extract from Haven, trying to ascertain the identity of this "Corypheus" the Elder One claimed to be. No luck so far.
Cullen was in a makeshift tent, watching over a sleeping Tharin. He was cognizant that he must be exhausted after the ordeal, but he did not feel it. Instead, he felt a dull ache in his chest whenever he caught the glimpse of the Herald's left arm beneath the moth-eaten blanket.
Since they staggered back, every thought that had crossed Cullen's mind was like a jagged glass fragment. The glass dug into the sensitive spots and widened the wounds already there. If only he had been more careful, if only he remained behind, if only he wasn't such a Maker-damned coward, all of this could have been averted and Tharin would not be hurt. His incompetence was astonishing.
Maybe the Commander could have sacrificed himself somehow, changing the course of events and bringing about better results for the Inquisition and the Herald.
Yet being dragged into the swirling vortex of agonizing what-ifs reminded him of what Tharin had said about love and pain. Cullen cast off the burden of proof, prudence, and prejudice, and as he did so, lingering doubts about his feelings toward the young man gave way to singular confirmation. The absolute certainty of this knowledge weighed heavily on the Commander as he watched the young man's chest rise and fall steadily.
Blissfully unaware of the hurricane raging inside the Commander's head, Tharin groaned and opened his eyes. As his profound sapphire eyes became alert and focused on Cullen, he flashed a sweet smile that brought forth more pain in the other man.
"What a pleasant sight to wake up to. Why the long face, Commander?" He seemed groggy but spirited. The healers had done a wonderful job, considering the state he was in last night.
The Commander clutched his right hand. "How do you feel?"
The young man flexed his muscles and yawned. "Mm, like I could sleep for years."
"I think we still have a few hours before we are off to… wherever Solas is leading us. Though I don't know why we are trusting him when we know next to nothing about–"
"Cullen, it will be fine." chuckling jovially, Tharin began to reach out to Cullen. But he froze instantly when his left hand entered the field of his vision. The hand, in addition to hosting the Anchor, was now missing the ring finger and the little finger. It was impossible to tell the extent of damage though. Rolls of bandages obscured everything from wrist up.
The green light from the Anchor seeped through the fabrics, making the hand look otherworldly, like it belonged in the Fade with its lost digits.
"Oh."
Apparently, the shock was too great for an overdramatic response.
Cullen let his gaze drop. He attempted to resist his throat closing so he could choke out a feeble explanation. "After you fell unconscious, we had the healers take a look at you. They were able to save the rest of your limbs, but those two were too frostbitten."
To Cullen's surprise, Tharin snorted amusedly. "Ha. Excellent. Now no woman will have me. A husband who is maimed and who can't keep a wedding band on? They will run for the hills screaming."
"Tharin…" The name came out as a half-sigh. Somehow this reaction was much worse. He would have preferred for the young man to lash out, maybe yell, letting Cullen take the blame. It would have come as a relief.
The young man's voice, now even more softened, mercilessly slashed at Cullen's heart. The punishment that he deserved, that he dearly sought for, never came.
"It's okay. Really. I've only ever been with men, and I don't plan on changing that. Which means I will never marry, so a ring finger is just a waste. And so is a pinkie, unless you are a courtier and need it raised to show how fancy you are."
There was something bittersweet about the young man's verbose and rather clumsy attempt to cheer up Cullen. Part of the rationale for Cullen's desire of a verbal thrashing was because he wanted Tharin to let his guard down around him. Even if courtship was out of the question, he still wanted to be a loyal friend to the young man.
But what could the Commander expect when he himself was the source of pain, both physical and mental? No wonder the Herald was keeping him at arm's length by pretending everything was all right. In reality, everything was categorically not all right. He knew it, and Tharin had to have recognized it.
Cullen felt an old companion return: loneliness, equally as upsetting but fairly distinct from guilt.
He looked hard into the young man's face. There must have been something below the clownish smile plastered for his benefit, but he could not see it.
The young man continued with his babbling, "This is nothing. Though I guess I will have to learn to lift my greatsword with just eight fingers now. My forearms are going to get gigantic!"
Cullen leaned forward and buried his face in his own hands. He meant to stifle his voice, but it came out anyway, halting and constricted. "I did this to you…"
The ensuing silence was suffocating, as if they'd dove headfirst into a vat of molasses. Certainly too heavy for the young man to joke and pretend nothing was wrong.
"Cullen?"
The voice kept getting tenderer. It was killing Cullen.
"Will you please look at me?"
He lifted his face, but willfully avoided the gaze. Tharin exhaled lightly, propped himself up, and reached out with his right hand to gently hold the Commander's bristly chin. Cullen blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the emotions that would have led to tears given the chance. When he adjusted his focus, he saw the intense crystalline eyes peering back at him.
"Corypheus was coming after me, and I had to stay. It would have been wrong of me to hide behind you or anyone else. I was also the one who ordered you to get everyone to safety. Everything is the result of what I am, of the decisions I made. Not because of you or the decisions you made. You are not responsible for this."
"But… I could've done more. I should have defied your order and stayed. I shouldn't have left you to fend for yourself."
"Yet here I am. No offense, but I know you well enough to know you wouldn't have gone against my plan, because there was so much at stake. And don't forget, you came back and saved me from certain death."
Tharin's carefully constructed smile began to crack, and Cullen could see the simmering anger contained within. There was a new edge in the young man's voice. "Not everything is your fault. You are not a god. So, stop blaming yourself for every bloody thing that's went wrong."
"I–I wasn't saying I am… I apologize. Truly."
The anger seemed to transmute to anguish, though it took Cullen a considerable effort to distinguish between the two in the young man's expression.
"No, no. You shouldn't have to ask for my forgiveness… I just wish you would be kinder to yourself," said Tharin in a low tone.
The Commander fell silent. Perhaps the young man was right. Still, the turmoil roiling inside him was real, and it pointed the blame squarely at him and no one else. Or at the least, the feeling of guilt was more visceral to him than the opinion that he was unreasonably harsh on himself.
Cullen nevertheless thought he had to be in the wrong if his words evoked such wrath and hurt in the young man, and he tried to give Tharin a reassuring grin. Unfortunately, he had never been all that adept at controlling his face to suit the needs of the situation at hand. The Commander was first and foremost a soldier.
Tharin withdrew his hand and Cullen mourned the loss of the touch, however meaningless or passing it might have been.
With another sigh, the young man began to draw out an inquiry punctuated by one too many pauses, "Cullen, I've been thinking… I suppose this isn't the best time, but I've wanted to ask forever… I don't quite understand… how things between us could have gone wrong so quickly. Did something happen? Did someone tell you to… end things with me?"
The Commander could feel the veins throbbing in his ears. Leave it to Tharin to accurately deduce what had happened all on his own. Everything in Cullen was clamoring to tell the truth, but he daren't. Though they escaped Haven alive, the Herald was irreparably injured because of him.
The Spymaster was right all along: his own ineptitude could do more damage than the Elder One's army. So, Cullen couldn't possibly come clean now. The young man deserved loads more than what he could offer, and other than his heart, he could offer precious little.
He forcefully willed his jaw to unclench and let the frigid words tumble out, "Your worship, I make my own decisions. No one forced my hand."
Tharin's brilliant eyes lost their luster. He murmured dejectedly, "Ah, of course. I apologize for putting you on the spot. I guess I just wanted to understand the… suddenness of it all."
Cullen couldn't breathe. He clenched and unclenched his fists, willing his body to calm down. Unsuccessfully.
Filled with a desperate desire to end the exchange right then, he leapt up to exclaim, "You must be famished. Let me see if I could go scrounge up some tea and breakfast for you."
When the man craned his neck toward the entrance to see if any runner was waiting outside, he felt a tug on his surcoat.
"Don't leave just yet." Tharin's right hand was firmly attached to the fabric.
After a debate in his head, Cullen decided to settle back down reluctantly. Only then did the young man let his hand drop.
"You should know I attacked you in the war room because I was hurting. It hurt to lose you, but that is no excuse. It was unfair to you and unworthy of me."
The Commander couldn't help but observe how fragile Tharin seemed. He started extending his arms to embrace the young man before he remembered. He couldn't do that anymore.
"I know I don't have any right to ask, but please try to find it in your heart to forgive me."
Cullen frantically searched for the right words, the right kind of reply to comfort without letting on too much. Yet his mind drew a blank and nothing else.
"…I understand if you can't. I made a promise to you, and I should have kept it regardless of our quarrel. The Inquisition is your home, as long as you want it to be."
"Thank you." Cullen took a second to steel himself and stood up once again. Before he turned to leave, however, he was finally able to articulate what he had been thinking for the past fortnight. "But you were right to criticize me. Change must begin somewhere, and the Inquisition could be the model for a new relationship between mages and non-mages. You saw our potential beyond the immediate goal and… I am deeply ashamed of my intransigence and shortsightedness."
Tharin tried to clasp his hand, but Cullen swiftly moved out of the way. Spurned, the warm, large, callused hand hovered midair, only to flop down a moment later. Just like its owner, it looked limp and downhearted.
"You won't leave the Inquisition now, will you?"
Cullen turned away, facing the exit. "No. I made a promise to you, too. I will stay as long as you have need of me."
It dawned on him that this was the new normal. His relationship with Tharin had been stripped of all emotional components, romantic or otherwise, and the only thing left was the common cause. The ambiguous later had finally arrived, and now was the time for him to move on and continue to perform his duties as he had always done. As the way things were supposed to be.
But then why did his life seem so… abhorrent to him all of a sudden?
"I will be back with your food," intoned Cullen lifelessly.
This time Tharin did not stop him from leaving.
Dorian was frustrated. He adored the south to bits for its rustic charm, but it had little to offer when it came to literature on Tevene history, especially the ones without salacious insinuations and overt vilification. After scanning the books salvaged from Haven, he had to concede that he was not about to make a great discovery. Perhaps talking to the Herald might be useful in understanding the Elder One, he tried to comfort himself.
When Dorian entered the hovel the healers had left Tharin in, he found the young man perched on the cot. His left hand looked raggedy and his pale right hand hung onto a tray with a dismal bowl of gruel and a dirty cup of liquid with a shade that vaguely resembled elfroot tea.
The man was staring into space, not paying attention to the food.
"Didn't the Chantry sisters teach you not to waste?"
"Sorry?"
"Your breakfast. It's getting cold." Not likely. "Well… Colder, anyway."
"Oh, right. To be honest, I'm not really hungry. Do you want it?"
"No, thank you. I've already had my fill of abysmal rations for the week, maybe the whole month. And I'm sure you need it. You must be famished."
Tharin huffed a hollow laugh.
"It's good to know I'm funny, but care to enlighten me as to how?"
"Someone else said that to me not five minutes ago."
"Ah, great minds think alike, I daresay." He strode surely and took a seat on a crate next to Tharin. Without hesitating he asked, "How are you?"
The glazed look returned. It did not bode well for Dorian's plan to interview the young man. But he was determined to wait out if necessary. He simply must hear about the Herald's encounter with the Elder One.
Tharin stubbornly refused to cooperate with his plan, however. When the young man finally returned Dorian's gaze, he saw troubling signs of overtly expressive emotions. Before he could start, he heard a subdued voice, "I have a question for you."
All that emotional repression, a natural part of Dorian's Tevene upbringing, rendered him hardly ready to handle interactions fraught with feelings, much less those with off-putting ones. And Dorian was aware of his weakness. Scrambling to hide the uneasiness, he responded flippantly. "Oh goody. Something to distract us as the world comes to an end. What is it?"
The young man seemed unfazed by the biting sarcasm, though he was having more than a trivial amount of trouble verbalizing his question. "What do you do when someone is… If you are… What should you do when you… like someone who doesn't feel the same way about you?"
Dorian thought about the man whose unattainable allure could reduce the mighty Herald of Andraste to this sorry state, though the mangled left hand must have contributed to the low spirit.
It had to be Commander Rutherford. A fascinating twist, since he had gleaned from their first personal interaction that the Commander was the one who was besotted with the Herald, not necessarily the other way around.
Knowing how tediously serious and conventional that man was at all times, however, it would not have surprised Dorian one bit to find out that the young man was too forward and managed to scare the Commander off.
Still, Dorian had to accept that his position in the Inquisition was far from rock solid, so he must not be too nosy in others' personal matters. All he could do for now was to surmise wildly.
Nonetheless, Dorian did not particularly feel like being helpful. Why was he responsible for resolving whatever was happening, or not happening, between the Commander and the Herald? If those two were meant to be, they would find a way. No need for a third person to get involved and create a larger mess. In any case, there were far more pressing matters to worry about, like correctly identifying the Elder One and his vulnerabilities.
Not that the Altus felt like chastising the young man either. His years of fruitless attempts at romantic undertakings taught him that when it came to a one-sided love, being sensible was not one of its prerequisites.
Dorian thought back to all those times when he foolishly believed that the man who wanted his body at that moment would eventually want more, that it would blossom into a genuine courtship. Frivolous little flirts they all were, but the yearning to be claimed and cherished defeated the better judgment every single time.
And so, Dorian had to learn over and over that a wild night of hedonism – nonstop dusk-to-dawn fucking, as he would put it – would never lead to reciprocation of his infatuated devotion. The magic of the moment always dissipated, and his lovers always forsook him. At least he was grateful for having put those naïve years behind him.
"I've always found that trying to make something out of nothing inevitably ends in misery." With that, the Altus found himself sufficiently content with the advice he had given and decided to change the subject. "Anyway, if that is all…"
To his dismay, the young man was not finished. "But what if you aren't completely sure? The other person's intent, I mean. What should I do?"
It was too easy to forget that the Herald was only twenty-one. A pup, really, with much to learn. And Dorian could be patient if need be. "Have you told this person how you feel?"
"Yes."
"If it wasn't met with an enthusiastic response, I say move on." He immediately qualified, feeling slightly sorry for his insensitivity, "Let the person come to you. You've done all you can."
Gingerly, Dorian pushed. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Elder One…"
Tharin's eyes seemed to snap back into focus. They were actually quite striking, pellucid oceans captured in small discs. Their brilliant color so reminiscent of the warm waters of the Tevene coast that he missed dearly, especially in this biting freeze.
"You are right. I should be concentrating my energy on the new threat," agreed the Herald as he nodded deliberately.
"I think that'd be for the best, for now."
But before Dorian could begin, he was interrupted yet again. He rolled his eyes as the tent flap opened and the giantess clomped in.
"Ah, you are up. I'm glad." Dorian thought he detected a note of criticism in the Cassandra's words, that she was displeased with Tharin's indolence – how dare he sleep through the day after having lost two fingers and almost died? –, but he chalked it up to his being hypersensitive to any perceived slights.
"So, how are you doing." There was no upward inflection at the end, but the question clarified the fact that this was a social call. No doubt a rare occurrence for Seeker Pentaghast.
"As well as I can be, I think. I'm still processing… this." Tharin waved the bandaged hand.
"Yes. It is a pity the Commander and I could not reach you sooner." She seemed stumped for a moment before blurting out, "I am sorry." The young man simply gave her a downcast acknowledgment.
The woman stood awkwardly, hands on hips. She sounded curt as she inquired, "Have you spoken to Cullen?"
"Yes."
"Did he explain why he…" She turned to stare at Dorian and pursed her lips. "Never mind."
"Cassandra, did Cullen tell you what he's thinking about–"
"No, I haven't had the chance to talk to him in private since the last night's argument."
"Ah, I see."
A good chunk of the dialogue was left unsaid, but Dorian filled in the gaps. He was clever like that. He saw another piece of the puzzle fall into place.
But the extent of the Seeker's ability to discuss private matters was limited, to say the least. The Altus listened to Cassandra drone on about the refugees and the elven apostate, and when she ran out of topics – even the ones about the official business – he cut in. The young man was obviously in no state to be hassled any further.
"Well, this visit has been lovely, but we should leave you to rest. I shall bother you with the questions later, so be ready for an onslaught. Speaking of resting, Seeker, you look like you could use some as well."
The woman grunted, seemingly offended at Dorian's suggestion. "I've had shuteye."
"I don't mean napping. I mean, a proper lie-down, without all the Inquisition nonsense bouncing around in that charming head of yours."
The woman bristled, but her irritation soon lost vigor. Her commitment to keeping an annoyed expression seemed to melt away. She tersely acknowledged, "I've felt better." If Cassandra was admitting to being under the weather, she must truly be. It was the perfect time for the both of them to take their leave.
Before they left, however, Cassandra reached out with her right hand and squeezed the Herald's left shoulder. For her, it must have been a remarkable gesture of close friendship. "Take care of yourself. The Inquisition needs you."
A weak grin floated on Tharin's face. Dorian suddenly felt unbearably desolate, but if someone asked, he could not have explained exactly why.
Having trekked the mountain paths for three days, Tharin was beginning to think they were on a wild-goose chase. The sun was setting, and the visibility was getting worse. The night chill would set in soon, making it impossible for the sick and the wounded to trudge along further. The Inquisition could not very well leave them all behind.
At least there was to be something at the end of all this. Solas was expectedly secretive about the destination, but he had already proven himself to be a man of his word and the Inquisition no longer had a base of operation. Anything would be better than nothing.
Yet it was far more than any of them could have dreamed. When they scaled the last mountain summit, they saw. There, above the clouds and reflected by the dying sun, stood a titan, a fortress that seemed grander and more majestic than any castle in all of Thedas.
Solas proudly proclaimed, "Skyhold."
End Notes:
Hey, at least Cullen and Tharin patched things up in a slipshod, temporary way, didn't they? And we got more Dorian. What more could you want?!
Next up, a new variable in the equation.
Follow me, isk4649, on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new WIP, Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所): Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan. I just posted the summary as well.
Comments, reviews, and critiques are always welcome but never obligatory! Thank you for reading!