The sky, the air, the ground beneath his dusty and worn out boots – they were all tinged with that sickly shade of green. It seeped into every particle, in his lungs and in his veins and in his blood. Every hour felt more hopeless than the last, as it had been for the last year, but still he trudged on. His armour was rusted, dented, the lion's mane unkempt and missing more than a few ruffles. His hair, always lower on the list of his priorities – and by Andraste, he had many priorities – was ragged and dirty and had turned the colour of ash. All the colour had been washed from his face, from his lips, from his eyes, the amber honey having long darkened to mud and despair, just like the rest of the world all around him. They turned up now to look at the sky, exhausted and reflecting the poisonous green, and once again the Commander felt his heart shrivel just that little bit more. He didn't think there was anything left in him. Maybe there wasn't – maybe the same last strand of himself died every day when he woke, and struggled to live again in the precious few hours he rested.

Because at the end of it all, he still fought. He still raised his sword to the enemy: demon, undead, Venatori. The tatters of the Inquisition, newly formed all of a year ago, remained in the shadows with him. They all fought for their lives, but they also retained their faith and remained loyal to their cause. And as long as he had soldiers, Cullen would not back down from a fight. As long as there were people who needed protecting, Cullen would be there by their side, leading from the front. It was how he had always been, and how he would always be, no matter how little he had left.

Leliana had not been found. The Commander had thought he'd long since been numbed by the constant death and losses around him; he'd thought nothing could affect him anymore, battered to bones and nothing more than keep going, keep fighting, but Leliana's loss echoed in between the space in his chest where his heart used to be. It had been the two of them for the longest time, trying to keep the world from falling apart when so many others had fallen.

Josephine, sweet Lady Montilyet, had been amongst the first to be captured and lost to the enemy. Losing her had hardened Leliana to the point that Cullen genuinely feared for her soul, but there was no time or space for sentimentality. There was only the singular need to survive, to fight back for as long as they could, and if sometimes – much too often – Leliana ruthlessly and mercilessly killed or tortured anyone from the enemy ranks, well. The Commander only turned his head and closed his eyes and sent a mental prayer to the Maker for his friend.

And now she, too, was gone. The ache throbbed through him again, but his eyes remained dry, weary – his tear ducts were probably dried shut by this point. There was nothing left in him to cry, or even to rage, or to feel anything else than the hollow, empty feeling that another of his friends had fallen. Of the advisors, he was the last, and the weight of the responsibility on him nearly doubled him over, the burden almost as physical as his armour. Oh, if he could just sink to his knees on the ground and call out to the Maker to take him, for he was beyond tired, he'd tried to keep everyone and everything together for a year and he could do no more. How many more of his soldiers must he send into fruitless battle against an army too powerful, too ambitious, too much?

It was all too much.

The Commander's shoulders slumped forward in a moment of weakness. He was alone in this section of the tunnels; he could afford his brief surrender. The handful of soldiers still looked to him to direct them. Despite their having no chances of winning, the Commander still fought to keep his composure, at least in front of them. Everything in the world already served to remind them that they had lost, that there was no longer any point in trying – the few survivors and pockets of rebellion needed at least one thing, anything, to give them hope, to remind them of their faith. Even as they marched to their deaths, at least they would be doing it with their heads held high and with the passion for their cause burning in their chest. Cullen knew all this, and that was why he checked his pain and refused to feel for longer than absolutely necessary. There was no room for sentiment in war. Leliana must have known what she was doing.

"Ser, we have news. Someone's spotted Leliana breaking into the castle through the sewers."

Or maybe not.

The Commander's face twisted for a brief second in the safety and privacy of having his back turned to the soldier. It was as if the Maker had heard his anguished cry for a quick release from this pathetic excuse for a life, and provided him with the way out. Because this was Leliana, this was his last friend, this was their spymaster – it did not matter that he had no chance whatsoever of surviving the ordeal. She was probably even long gone, dead the moment she stepped onto the brick of Redcliffe Castle, but he couldn't not try. And if he died trying, well, at least it was in the service of a friend and their cause. An honourable death. He could not ask for more than that.

Shoulders squaring and wiping his face clean of any emotion other than resolve, the Commander gritted his teeth before turning to face the soldier. He had expected only the one who had spoken, only to find that the others had heard the news and had stood, waiting for their Commander. Perhaps they, too, were too tired to carry on – perhaps they, too, were looking for this one final mission, the last chance to fight for their loyalty. And if, by Maker, any of them survived it, and saved even one person from the clutches of the demon army – by Andraste, they would give their lives for it.

Cullen could see it in their eyes, the same flinty resolve, the same steel and dark fire and final prayers before their last battle. He opened his mouth to try to persuade them to stay, to tell them that this was his fight, this was his friend, but he knew nothing he could say would dissuade them. His soldiers had already known from the moment he had gotten the news what his next action would be, and they, loyal soldiers that they were, would be right behind their Commander, even if they all knew this was a suicide mission.

Faith. Loyalty. He had trained them well.

A tendril of pride sprouted in his chest as one by one his soldiers brought their closed fists against their chest plates, saluting their Commander for the last time. The ghost of a smile transformed his face, even as his eyes remained flat and dead – he had long forgotten how to express any shade of happiness. There was nothing more he could say to his soldiers, to the men and women who had followed him to the end of the world, and now into the beyond.

"It has been an honour," he said at last, his voice rough and raspy from disuse. His eyes burned as he met each and every last gaze and found the same sentiment in their hollowed souls.

As though that was the signal, the others moved away to collect their weapons, adjust their armour, prepare themselves for the fight ahead. The Commander turned his back on the preparations again as he turned to look out at the sky. They would be going out, but by Maker they were going to take as many of the enemy as they would, and try to save a friend if they could. That was all he could ever ask for. With a slow, exhaled breath, Cullen turned to join his soldiers for their final battle.

.