This was the end.
The Inquisition was over.
Haven was going to fall. The Herald of Andraste was going to fall.
It was bittersweet. There were parts of her so completely grateful it was over. She would no longer have to be a more-than-mortal being for the people of Thedas. She wouldn't have to be a symbol. No more forced choices and lesser evils. No more anchor.
Maybe the Wardens had had the saying wrong. It was actually: "In death, peace."
Finally, she would have peace.
Here in the dimly lit Chantry, she met the Commander's burning gaze. Chaos surrounded them, but she only saw him. She tried to hold onto his fiery golden eyes and let them strengthen her resolve. It was like a blazing heat tempering fragile glass.
"You never know, there could be a chance. You could-" Cullen seemed to steady himself with a deep breath. "You might surprise it." His expression was pleading, saying many things to Seyna that she didn't know how to interpret.
She grasped for her own words, starting many times but abandoning her attempts when it was never quite right. There was nothing to be said, now. Nothing she could say would be enough.
It was over.
She would never have to find the words to tell him how he made her feel.
She flattened her mouth into a thin line and squeezed his wrist tightly. The green glow from her anchor lingered on his bracer for a moment after she let go. With a weak shake of her head, she backed away. "Right, maybe! I will… I will try. Send a flare once you're past the tree line. I will try my best to- buy you enough time." She could hear that her voice was a shadow of itself. It was hollow and unconvincing. Seyna was putting into words what the others didn't want to admit.
Her sacrifice here was for their survival and escape.
She would not be joining them.
"That is… all we can ask." Cullen replied weakly as he pulled away. Seyna could not describe his expression as anything other than 'heartbroken.' Or maybe that was her wishful thinking, seeing what she wanted to moments before her demise. He turned and began herding the people towards their escape. As he retreated, he did not look back.
Seyna steeled herself. How did she walk out that door? How did she confront the impossible?
She tried to shut out all her senses and reach her calm center, but it was no use. Every part of her trembled. One last time, she pushed away the tears and carried herself onward.
One step at a time, just like every other impossible task during this mess. If she couldn't do it, then all the people who had helped her get here would die during their escape. That was not an outcome she could stomach.
She would buy them as much time as she could, for the sake of their cause. For her allies. For her friends. For Cullen.
The trebuchet had buried Haven and the Red Templars at least two hours ago, Cullen estimated. The Inquisition made their overnight camp in part of the mountain pass that was spared from the worst of the weather. Tonight's storm was a blessing and a curse- it would make it difficult for their enemies to track them, but it would make it equally difficult for Seyna to find their trail. If she ever tried.
All the advisors and members of the inner circle seemed to share the same uneasy expression. It was too early to mourn the loss of Lavellan, but the grief was too much to ignore.
Everyone made themselves useful and kept busy while the camp settled in. No one wanted to speak the truth- they were waiting here for her. When she did not come, they would continue moving. In a few days, they would mourn their loss when they could afford to.
Cullen couldn't move.
He couldn't make camp. He couldn't stay busy.
He was catatonic.
He sat on a cot in a tent someone else had set up. Nothing could reach him; he felt completely detached from the world around him.
The helplessness destroyed him. He could not wait and sit idly by. She could be out there, freezing. Alone. Dying. And no one could do anything about it.
Somewhere in his mind, Cullen knew that he could never live with himself if he stayed here and did nothing. If he did nothing, and she never returned. He couldn't bear the thought of her absence. Not now, not tomorrow, not for the rest of his miserable, lonely life.
It felt like he'd been torn asunder. He'd been cleaved into pieces and left shattered. If she were gone, he would never feel whole again. Something would forever be missing. It would destroy him every day.
She had brought light into his life. He coveted it and treasured it. Not it, her. He coveted her. He treasured her. Even when he knew he should not, he thought of her as his.
He would ache for the pull between them, longing for the tether that nagged at him ceaselessly, even now. Wait…
He shot out of the tent, pulling on a parka, and hastily wrapping a scarf around his face and head as he marched through the snow away from the camp. He thought he heard a voice calling after him. When he turned to look, Leliana had stopped whomever it was and turned them back to the group. She watched as he continued, but she did not try to stop him.
He turned away and carried on over the crest of the hill. The storm raged. The slope below him was a darkening abyss of blowing snow.
He could not ask any of his men to try what he was going to do; it would be a suicide mission. Any Templar with ample lyrium reserves would certainly be better suited than him to the task of dousing for Seyna. He wouldn't have ever asked someone to try. Not in this weather, not this late at night.
And if they waited for morning, she could have died in a snow drift somewhere and her magical lure would fade away. They would never stand a chance to recover her body at that point.
A shiver shot down his back. The idea of recovering her corpse rattled him. He couldn't think like that.
He made his way as far as he could from the camp before stopping to open his mind. If he were too close to the camp, it would be more likely that the mages there would drown out any chance he had of hearing Seyna's call.
He sank into the snow at the base of a tree and shielded himself from the wind. With perfect stillness, he tried to hear her. He sat there for a long time. Sometimes, there was a phantom nudge- he thought he felt something, but then he couldn't focus on it. His body grew colder the longer he stayed still.
Then, he felt the faintest sensation- that feeling of being near the waterfall's edge. It was distant. So weak. It was like trying to hold smoke, he couldn't quite get a solid grasp of it no matter how he reached. There was nothing substantial enough to guide him to her.
But still, he felt the urge… The beckoning power. It was so weak, but it was there.
Well, he had to try. He would never know if it could have worked if he left now…
He took a slow, deep breath and imagined himself going over the edge of the falls. Surrendering finally. Diving into the sensation and letting it surround him. It was warm, somehow. He knew it was a trick, and every instinct he had screamed that he was doing something terribly dangerous. What use was he as an abomination? Could he be inviting demons to finish off what remained of the Inquisition?
Against his better judgment, he embraced it, he reached for it.
Now, he could feel it sinking his teeth into him… And it sang to him. He rose to his feet and headed down the hill, every step sure that he was going to find her. The warm song was his compass, his guiding star.
He needed her.
He continued this path, using the trees to shield him from the bitter wind when he could. Otherwise, he focused only on the need that urged him forward. The song called to him; it knew his name. It wanted—no, it needed him. But it never seemed to grow louder. This panicked him. Shouldn't he be getting closer to her? Was she moving in the wrong direction?
He did not know how long he proceeded in this trance-like state, it could have been minutes or hours. Nothing would deter him unless he lost the song entirely.
Cullen thought his eyes were tricking him when he first saw an ambling figure trudging through the snow. The aching in his chest told him who it was beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her lolling head turned up and saw him. Her hood fell back, revealing the bloody gash up her neck and the side of her head. Her white hair was matted down with blood. She looked so weak.
She continued to stumble, heading straight for him. She collapsed, and he surged forward to catch her. He crushed her in his embrace, unable to speak. The relief that washed over him was all-consuming. Please, please, don't die. Whatever you do, you cannot die. I need you.
I need you.
She fell limp in his arms, but the weak pull of the tether between them persisted. He clumsily undid the scarf around his head and wrapped it around hers, trying to cover the wound and keep her from freezing all while trying to hold her up. When it seemed as good as he could manage to get it, he carefully lifted her and cradled her close into his open parka. Her body shook, but the sensation filled him with glee. She couldn't shiver if she was dead.
The pull of her magic was still weaker than he had ever known it, which frightened him. He felt himself mentally clinging to the invisible line connecting them. He hoped he could keep her alive if he held on tightly enough. He filled his mind with adoring, loving thoughts of her. The smile that brightened his days, the laugh that warmed his heart. Maker willing, it would be enough to hold her spirit here with him.
Cullen knew she would not last long without medical attention and heat. He turned to look up the hill and squinted through the blowing snow. He couldn't be certain, but over a ridge he thought he saw the glow of the camp's fires. He began the arduous process of climbing back up the hill, taking care to check on her when he could and not jostle her too much.
Shit. Why hadn't he brought a flare?