Cullen sat on a small outcrop of rocks, elbows braced against his knees, hands clasped and lips pressed against his crossed thumbs as his amber gaze bore down on the tent across from him. He could see the shadows moving around inside, the fires within the tent making them dance and swirl in eerie shapes.

The wind tugged at his disheveled hair and brought gooseflesh to his skin, but he didn't notice. His surcoat was in the tent. Whether it was still wrapped around Herald Finley or carelessly discarded on the floor mattered little.

He'd found her.

It had been a nightmare. He'd managed to assemble a small group to dare the cold, despite Cassandra's protests that he was hardly in a position to lead the search. He was the commander, and the Inquisition needed him.

"This is my fault. I should have sent someone else," he'd admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He'd been so sure they were going to die, so sure… He'd thought sending their more capable people to bring down as many of the enemy as they could had been the best bet to draw even, if they could.

Though he'd expected her to argue with him—dreaded it, really—after he'd said his piece, she simply nodded. Cassandra had wished him a safe search and promised to keep order in the camp while he was gone—no small feat considering how few resources they'd managed to bring with them and how frightened and confused and demoralized everyone was.

They hadn't any beasts of burden to spare, and so Cullen and his assembled search party had headed out on foot, trudging through the layer of snow that had buried Haven and their tracks, trying to use the Breach to give them direction.

It had still been hard, even with the blizzard gone. The storm had left them wandering aimlessly, and it was difficult to retrace their steps, though it was also likely that Herald Finley hadn't been able to follow their steps, either.

Maker, she could have been heading in the opposite direction, and it would have been impossible for her to tell in the snow.

Cullen had prayed to the Maker with every breath that she was heading toward them, that her feet would be guided.

Something crashed inside the tent, and one of the healer's soft swearing followed—Stitches, if he recognized the voice correctly.

Cullen sat up, drawn and pale, ready to charge back into the tent and—

And do what?

The whole reason he was out here now was because there was nothing he could do.

Sera paced around the tent, pausing when she saw him, glaring. She blamed him for what had happened.

And she was right to.

If he'd been better prepared, if he'd been...more.

The echo of lyrium's hum reverberated in his head, a haunting melody that told him how much more he could be. It seemed fainter, though, almost as if something had toned it down. It seemed like that had happened a little while ago. His head had been pounding and then someone had sat to talk with him, a quiet, gentle voice. Odd that he couldn't remember the man's face. Or had it been a boy?

Perhaps it was simply the exhaustion.

For two days, he, Warden Blackwall, Sera, and a few others had scoured the mountains. For two days, they'd attempted to find their way back to Haven, or just to their Herald.

For two days, he'd had unusually vivid nightmares that gave him no respite and kept him moving for fear of returning to them.

They were different from what he was used to, and Maker help him, but he could almost swear something had ahold of him. Something dark and vile.

He couldn't figure out what part of his dreams would make him think that, though. There were the usual memories of people being torn apart, tortured, debased while the abominations cackled gleefully from their games. There was the guilt that he should have done more, that he could have saved even one soul. There were the demons that the abominations summoned, of course.

Why did it feel like that was where something was off in his dreams? Like there could be an extra one in that mess.

He hadn't exactly taken count of the monsters—he'd tried early on, when he was sure Knight-Commander Greagoir would be coming any second to the rescue. He'd wanted to be sure to tell them how many monsters they needed to have struck down, so that none would be missing.

But then time had dragged on, and no one had come, and the demons had been so free to do as they pleased.

He'd lost track, unable to tell if the creature before him was the same one he'd seen earlier, or a new monstrosity.

Sure, he'd recognized a few—the thing living in Surana, for example—but for the most part, he'd been lost.

Now though, he was certain one had been talking to him over and over.

His brow scrunched together, the call of the lyrium abruptly getting stronger. Darkness tinged the edges of his vision, as though it might sweep up and take him. He didn't want to fall asleep until he knew how she would be, though. That she would live.

She had to.

Maker, help him…

Though, if it came between him and the Herald, he'd rather He helped her.

She deserved it more than he did.

That they'd left her…

Cullen had been furious when Ser Yorric—one of the half dozen templars who'd gone with him—had told him they needed to head back. They were out of food, cold, and tired. They would do nothing more than lose themselves if things kept up the way they were going.

Clouds had rolled in, reading to dump more snow upon them.

Sera, Warden Blackwall, and Ser Jensen had been the only three who had stayed with him after that—after a terse conversation between the Trevelyan brothers—but even they'd been slowing down as the cold worked its way into their bones. It was doing the same for Cullen, but he kept thinking about how their Herald was the only one who had never volunteered, how she deserved better.

Sera had succumbed to the cold first, her warmer clothes given away to anyone who could use them. She'd cursed herself and everything else when Ser Jensen had reluctantly hoisted her up and taken her back on Cullen's orders.

Warden Blackwall had stayed.

They'd stopped a few minutes to wait out the winds—and to try to get some warmth back in their bones—when something had caught Cullen's attention.

Some type of spell.

It was just a whisper, a thread, but it had felt familiar.

With that, he'd all but abandoned Blackwall in pursuit. It never occurred to him that it might be an agent of the Venatori or a demon or anything other than her.

He'd been so sure. So sure that he hadn't even paid attention to how far he followed that whisper of magic, to how dawn peeked up over the mountains and the morning sprung to life, the snow glistening around him while he was all but blind to it.

And then he'd come up over a small ridge and seen her there. She'd been kneeling in the snow, her hair tangled and matted, her clothes a torn and battered mess.

He'd called to her, screamed her name as he stumbled forward, nearly losing his footing time and time again.

Somehow, in the time it'd taken to look down and make sure his footing was steady through a more treacherous part of the snowbank, she'd fallen forward into the snow. He'd collapsed onto his knees beside her, oblivious to the way they ached in protest of the abuse.

He'd barely heard Blackwall calling him, though he could vaguely remember calling back that he'd found her. He'd shirked his surcoat and wrapped it around her small frame, horrified by how cold she was.

As her name had tumbled from his lips frantically, she'd opened her eyes for a fleeting second.

He'd never been so happy to see that ethereal fire dancing in someone's eyes as he had been when she met his gaze. Her chapped and frozen lips had twitched as though to form a smile, though the effort was too much energy. Her eyes rolled back and she passed out in his arms, her breathing so shallow he wasn't sure if he'd gotten to her only to watch her die.

He'd wished he had a better cloak, a blanket, a fucking horse.

Anything that could have kept her warmer and made the trip back to their miserable little camp a little warmer or faster. Blackwall had shed a layer to wrap around Finley as well when he'd met Cullen as he struggled back up the embankment with their Herald in his arms.

She'd been so…light.

Lighter than she should have been, he was sure.

The whole way back he'd worried that she was slipping away, that he'd been too late, too slow.

They'd traded off carrying her, the added weight of even so slight a person making the trip back through that miserably unsure footing all the more brutal.

After almost a day, they'd run into Ser Yorric and Ser Jensen leading an attempt to follow their commander's footsteps. The Iron Bull and a few of his Chargers had been among their group, and the Iron Bull had almost tossed Cullen over his shoulder when the parties had met, commenting that he looked like he was as close to death's door as Finley.

Cullen had snapped something he couldn't remember about not speaking so disrespectfully. Denial was all he had left at that point, and he'd been intent that if he denied that she could die, somehow she wouldn't.

Whatever he'd said, the Iron Bull hadn't taken it personally.

It wasn't until Solas was kneeling beside Herald Finley that Cullen finally felt relief washing through him, brief that it was. The elf had commented that she truly was a remarkable healer to have kept herself up as she had, even as he began tending to the worst of her frostbite. He'd been more surprised that it didn't look like she'd lose any fingers.

Even so, he had seemed concerned about how she might fare if left out in the frigid temperatures for much longer.

As soon as the elf had declared her stable enough, the Iron Bull had lifted her in his arms and taking off in that long, loping stride, covering ground far faster than Cullen or Blackwall could have.

He'd felt oddly useless as he fell toward the back of the group, unable to get his legs to keep moving quickly, his earlier sense of urgency spent.

She might still be injured and frozen, but at least she was safe.

They'd found her.

Ser Yorric had given Cullen his cloak, though Cullen hadn't noticed until someone had adjusted it on his shoulders to keep it from falling off. A few of the soldiers had worried over him like he needed it.

He would be fine. The cold had not gotten in so deep that it couldn't be banished with a decent fire.

When he'd reached camp, he'd ignored Cassandra's attempts to chastise him for his foolhardiness, commenting glibly on how she'd been horrified to see the others come back without him as they had. She'd scolded that he was pushing himself too hard.

He'd ignored her and instead swept through their camp until he came to where they'd brought Finley, only to have Leliana stop him, stating in a simple, clipped tone that there were already enough healers in with her, and he could do very little other than get in the way.

And so he sat out in the cold, waiting.

Cassandra sat beside him, with the Iron Bull and Blackwall across the campfire from them, all expressions grim. Sera paced around the tent, cursing under her breath, growing tense and still whenever something sounded like it was going awry inside that thin layer of canvas.

It seemed like so much needed to be done, should be done, and none of them had the power to do it.

Cullen closed his eyes, wishing that the darkness would make some of the fear and apprehension in him fade away.

Maker, please let her live.