A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'm on break from work for two weeks, and my will to write is back, at least for now, so I'm gonna push to see how much I can get written for this. No idea how many updates or how fast they'll be, but I do have 1 1/2 chapters written after this. so.

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Cullen tried not to curse the shift of the sands beneath his boots.

The battle at Adamant Fortress had been miserable. He'd known going in that there were going to be a lot of casualties. He'd known that, but to see the rows of pyres popping up around the fortress was so crushing.

Just like at the Conclave, just like at Haven, they'd lost too much.

And they'd nearly lost the inquisitor.

Nearly lost Finley.

Again.

He'd heard about the building collapse into the canyon below shortly after the Grey Wardens began their surrender. It had taken everything in him not to go running to see what he could do to help.

He had sent a few soldiers to look for the inquisitor, as well as the missing members of her party. The original reports were that they'd been eaten by the dragon during the collapse, and then that they'd all been crushed by falling debris, and then...

Isabela had found him, demanding to know how to get into the Fade.

Her tale had been quick and pointed. The building had fallen during the dragon's assault, and as the others fell, the Fade had opened up and consumed them. She'd watched in horror as each of their bodies turned to green and then simply didn't exist.

For a moment, he'd been just as lost as Isabela, though he quickly remembered a report of a rift from near the center of the fortress.

Cullen had barked at the nearest scout and had paced like a mad man, barely able to pay attention to incoming reports about casualties and give proper instruction until he heard back.

Isabela had been gone the second they knew the location of the rift.

And he'd been on her heels, appraising the situation, striving to make any sense of it. If Finl—the inquisitor had fallen back into the Fade, then perhaps she would come out of it again, too. And assuming this was the only rift, it would have to be where she would emerge.

After all, what other hope did they have?

It wasn't like Cullen knew how to tear the veil open, and the only person particularly well versed in the Fade was missing along with the inquisitor.

Surely, they would be fine.

She'd made it out once, hadn't she? And Solas knew the Fade and its creatures like no other, and Dorian was a worthy mage. And the others were good fighters. She wouldn't be alone, like last time.

This had to be better, safer. It had to.

Maker, let Andraste lead her out again.

The words had repeated over and over in his mind, sometimes even making it to his lips as a soft whisper.

When he'd gotten to the courtyard filled with that hateful green light, he'd been underwhelmed. The Rift had been formidable, unapproachable. This was just a regular tear in the Fade. Could people even come through it?

Had it been up to him, he would have waited there until something came out, be it demons or missing mages.

However, he'd gotten a report of another possible rift and had headed to check it, after promising a very angry Isabela that if he found Garrett, he would send for her immediately.

The second report turned out to be a few rogue terror demons preying on weary soldiers. After eliminating them, he sent word to Isabela that there was no luck.

And then he was roped into reports.

He'd wanted to tell them to deal with it themselves, that there were more pressing matters than the fact that the Grey Wardens had managed to light several of their supply wagons during the fighting. But then, what good was he standing outside a rift? For all they knew she wouldn't even come through that one. Perhaps she was already back.

Regardless, he wouldn't be able to help her.

What he could help was to keep the encroaching chaos at bay by doing his damned job instead of standing around like a heartbroken fool.

The dead needed to be rounded up, names collected so that families could be notified. The wounded needed tending. The healers needed organizing. The messages back to Skyhold needed to be done. The Grey Wardens needed to be dealt with. The soldiers needed to be reformed into complete units for battle, should the need arise on the march back.

It never ended.

While it was easy to delegate a few matters, there was still so much that he had to oversee himself.

In the very least, it kept him from worrying about the inquisitor too much.

He'd been in the middle of talking logistics of getting wounded to the Griffon Wing Keep and getting supplies from them for those who couldn't be moved, as well as getting more supplies to the keep in general, when Knight-Captain Rylen had lightly hit his arm.

"Something's going on outside—"

Cullen barely had time to look up from his makeshift war table when their command tent's flap swished inward, and the inquisitor stormed in.

If there had been a storm, she was the eye of it, for the entire tent fell silent as she stood there, back straight, mouth a thin line. Outside they could still hear the chaos of the camp, but in here, she owned the room, in a way she never had before.

Her steps to the war table were measured, as though it took great effort to control herself.

"Corypheus used Grey Wardens to get into the Conclave and kill the Divine," she announced, gaze down her nose at the stacks of paper on the table. None of it could have meant anything to her, but she kept her focus there. The gold in her eyes burned like molten fire, brighter than usual. "We cannot let them stay where they can fall into his grasp."

"If that dragon is an archdemon, then you need a Grey Warden to kill it," Alistair interrupted, standing beside her.

Cullen was surprised to realize that others had come in after the inquisitor. Dorian stood back a few paces with Warden Blackwall. Like the inquisitor and Alistair, they looked changed, though how he couldn't say.

Nothing physical.

It was in their eyes.

The look of people who had seen too much.

"Not your mages. You saw what happened to them, what happened here!" The inquisitor turned on Alistair, shaking her head and pointing in the general direction of the fortress. "That thing will not come through to this world."

"So long as our remaining mages don't make deals with demons—"

"No." The inquisitor looked back down at the papers, fingers splayed on the edge of the table. "No. Every one of you is hearing the false Calling, aren't you? It's...him. It's Corypheus making that happen to you. He can get into your heads."

"One thing doesn't automatically mean the other," Alistair insisted. "The Wardens fight the Blight. We fight the darkspawn. Corypheus is darkspawn. Even if his dragon isn't an archdemon, it's still blighted. We can track it like no one else can." He didn't give her time to argue before adding, "We can tell a lot better than that spell of yours. You have to know that."

"I don't care—"

"Inquisitor," Warden Blackwall interrupted, stepping forward. "Not everyone fell sway to Corypheus' control. We saw that here. Surely the Wardens can still be called upon for help."

For the first time, the inquisitor paused, looking back at Warden Blackwall and appraising him for a long, quiet moment. Some of the tension bled out of her shoulders, though it was back in a breath. "You haven't mentioned the false Calling once."

"He hasn't—" Alistair's gaze snapped toward Warden Blackwall, confusion plain on his face. And then, slowly, his expression hardened. However, whatever he planned to say, he kept it in, instead closing his eyes and then trying for a gentler look. "Finley. Let me gather the strongest of those of us left, those with wills that can't be bent. We will stay and end this creature and the dragon, archdemon or no."

"What do you think?"

Her words were quick and soft, and for the first time, she sounded like Finley.

Silence settled over the room for a tick before she looked up at Cullen.

"Commander?"

Cullen straightened up immediately. Embarrassingly, a small, boyish part of him relished the idea of sending Alistair packing, but instead, he forced himself to consider what was being asked of him. "What seemed to make the majority of the wardens here bend to Corypheus' will was fear and misdirection. They didn't realize that it was his plan to get them to gather the demon army from what I've been able to gather. They thought the demons were going to be used to storm a sleeping archdemon, if I've heard correctly."

"Because we all heard the Calling and thought we were going to die," Alistair added. "Afraid that there would be no one to fight the archdemon should it wake, Warden Commander Clarel—"

"I was there for the explanation," Finley snapped, not looking at Alistair. "Their mages were bent to demons' wills. I will not have any remaining warden mages stay here when they are so easily tempted." There was venom in her voice, and Alistair winced at that.

"I don't condone what happened here, but we have always done what we felt needed to be done. We—"

"No more than a dozen of you will stay. You will report to Commander Rutherford and Leliana, and they will decide where you go and who goes with you because you will not go alone."

She hadn't been herself as she'd negotiated the finer details, insisting that the more at risk wardens be on the road by sun up.

When Knight-Captain Rylen dared to say something, she'd snapped, "I'm not possessed."

The way she'd said it, Cullen could have sworn she was telling him. She leaned forward then, over the table, as though she were trying to stop herself from saying more, her knuckles white as she held the edge of the wood. Even as Knight-Captain Rylen apologized, she'd turned on her heels and left.

And with her went the eye of the storm, the tent bursting back to life with the movement of runners and scouts who had silently born witness to the whole matter.

Cullen had stood there in silence before barking a few orders to the few who floundered for what to do.

As he stepped up to the war table, however, he'd noticed one of the notes had water resting on it. There were just a few drops, and he almost missed that they were where Finley had been.

Tears?

With that and a total disregard for anything that still needed to be done, he'd headed off to find her.

Of course the mere minutes of difference between their departures meant the world.

No one knew which way she'd gone. No one could remember seeing her leave. She wasn't in the keep, wasn't helping with the dead—thank the Maker for that—and she wasn't at the infirmary. She hadn't retired for the night, either.

Not where anyone would see her, anyway.

Knowing what he did of Finley, Cullen could guess that she'd slipped out of camp to be alone. Especially if she was going to cry.

But that meant an even larger distance to cover.

He'd been wondering if there was even a point in looking for her, considering that she hid rather well when she wanted to, when he saw...that thing.

The demon.

Spirit.

'Cole.'

Since his falling out with Finley, he hadn't seen the creature. He'd heard plenty. He had Finley's templars listening for stories of its actions, as well as a few templars he trusted like Knight-Captain Rylen. True to what was said of the creature, it seemed genuinely helpful, in the strangest of ways.

Onions brought to fading soldiers to remind them of soups from home, cats lured to play near people and brighten spirits. Odd things. Ones a person might not think of, though even Cullen had to admit that they were effective.

He couldn't help but wonder what price was attached to all these acts of kindness. Demons always wanted something in return.

But then, so did people.

In Kinloch, the demons had wanted bodies in exchange for their power. In Kirkwall, Meredith had wanted unquestioning loyalty for her acceptance and reassurance.

In both cases, the one giving what they shouldn't have had thought the deal fair.

Cullen had thought Meredith's deal to be fair.

It made him cold to even think of her, like icy snakes were crawling under his skin, nipping at his nerves, reminding him of just what he'd been complicit in, in what he'd allowed to happen while he played the vigilant soldier outside the Circle's walls.

If he could have gone back, he would have fixed things. He wouldn't be fooled by Meredith's comforting smile, her assurances that what she did was necessary as she played upon the fears instilled in him in Kinloch.

If he could go back to Kinloch, he'd…

For the first time since his rescue from Kinloch Hold, it wasn't the screams that came rising up to clutter his ears as twisted bodies filled his vision.

Instead, he saw the faces of the surviving mages, one small child in particular, clinging to Senior Enchanter Wynne's robes as Cullen insisted that there could be demons lurking in any one of them.

There had been such terror in those large eyes, knuckles white as the boy tried to hide behind his elders.

Elders Cullen had also advocated to be struck down.

Those eyes had looked up at him as though he were the demon.

Maybe, in a sense, at least for that little boy, he had...

Before Cullen knew what was happening, he was bent over retching. As his hands tightened into fists in the sand and his throat burned, he saw that little face, terror stricken as Cullen's own words filled his ears, demanding the boy and the others be put to death for something they hadn't done.

He lived.

Those words hit him like a druffalo, and he blinked, suddenly acutely aware of where he was.

He wasn't in the Circle, practically frothing at the mouth as he saw demons in every corner.

He was at Adamant Fortress, allowing himself to crumble pitifully where anyone could find him. HIs gaze snapped up, half expecting Cole to be there, hovering.

If the creature was there, he couldn't see it.

Cullen wasn't sure if it was the thought or the desert wind that made him shiver.

Straightening up and wiping his mouth clean, he looked around for any signs of an audience.

However, he was far enough from the camp's torchlights that he hadn't drawn any noticeable attention.

Cole was nowhere in sight, either.

It was almost enough to wonder if perhaps he'd simply imagined the creature, but then…

It had been Cole's voice in Cullen's mind, interrupting his spiral.

A spiral that the creature might have very well started, to prove a point perhaps.

No.

No, that hadn't been Cole's doing.

It had been building up for a while, with Cullen's falling out with Finley and the demons here and his constant ponderings about Cole. It just brought him back to dark times.

Afraid that he might start a second spiral, Cullen shook himself out and looked around one last time. He needed to head back to the command tent. No doubt there were plenty of people who needed instruction—mobilizing the Grey Wardens alone was going to be a nightmare, even if he wasn't directly in charge of it.

Finding Finley would have to fall to someone else.

To someone she considered a friend.

Despite knowing his responsibilities were waiting—and mounting no doubt—Cullen chose to wander along the outskirts of the camp a ways. He wasn't sure if he was hoping to cross paths with Finley after all or if he just needed the relative quiet.

However, as he paced along, he stopped in his tracks when he saw movement off to his left, further out into the desert. A figure slipped around the edge of one of those odd rock pillars that protruded occasionally from the sands.

His breath caught a second as he remembered the tear drops on the papers.

Could it be?

He had to pace himself when he nearly tripped in the sand. Even if the ground was even, it would be better to take his time. Nothing startled the inquisitor like a quick paced templar—former included.

However, the half-formed attempts at striking up conversations ranging from 'How are you?' to 'Forgive me' to 'Maker, I miss you so much,' scattered as he drew closer to the column and realized that he could hear more than one voice.

He'd turned to go back when he recognized the plethora of voices speaking.

Garrett, Varric, Isabela, and Alistair.

Wasn't Alistair supposed to be coordinating the Grey Wardens' departure?

That alone was enough to make Cullen's blood boil. Getting off task and making others pick up the slack was the exact sort of thing Alistair had always done in training.

Cullen thought that Alistair had changed since joining the Wardens—since joining an organization he actually wanted to be part of.

Moving closer, if only to prod the old acquaintance along, he stopped again when he heard Alistair's voice, clear as day, snap, "I'm telling you! I have dealt with Flemeth and two of her daughters, and they are all manipulative nightmares! If Finley is working for Flemeth, then we need to take a closer look at her motives before—"

Alistair was cut off by Cullen's fist slamming squarely into his jaw, the crack of it a harsh echo in the empty desert.

Alistair stumbled backwards, eyes wide as his hands went up to cradle his already bruising jawline. "Cullen? Where did you even come from?"

Pure rage filled him as he drew himself to his full height, towering for once over the Warden as he hunched over, nursing his injury. "How dare you?"