A/N: After a rather harsh argument, Finley debates what to do when it comes to her and Cullen. Angsty angst. Also, kinda spoilerish.

...-...

Finley sat on the outer ledge of one of the northern towers built along the battlements, one leg tucked under her and the other dangling into the empty air as she stared down at a little piece of paper.

Talk to me.

She idly traced the letters with a fingertip.

Their fight seemed…stupid wasn't the word.

Except that it was. He was wrong, and she was right, and why did he have to push the matter?

He wanted her to say that they would have a future, that she could see them—as Sera so eloquently put it—as little, shriveled old people sitting together watching the sunset. She'd told him she didn't like to think about next week, let alone years from now.

Because realistically, years from now people would forget that she'd been their savior—assuming they could even beat a darkspawn magister—and she'd just be another apostate to fear. He might not see her as a threat, but someone would.

All it would take is a failed crop or two and there'd be pitchforks at their doors. She didn't doubt Cullen would fight for her—unless, no, he would—but then what?

They disappear into the Wilds to live out their days hoping the templar order didn't reform and take up the hunt? Cullen had family, and even if he didn't see much of them…there would be no getting letters in the Wilds.

The mark crackled, sending a lance of pain up her arm all the way to her shoulder this time.

It was stupid to think that far into the future. Why couldn't he be happy with what they had now? Why wasn't this enough?

He'd brought it up four days ago, and after she'd danced around the subject, he'd gotten frustrated and suddenly he had a lot of work to do and they could talk in the morning. Except they hadn't.

And with each hour, Finley felt like everything was slipping away.

Her hand fucking hurt.

Talk to me.

He'd reached out, though.

She'd been afraid he wouldn't. On the second day after their fight, they'd had a war meeting, and he'd walked in as thought his bones had gone brittle, and he'd said the fewest words he'd needed to get the job done, dismissing himself as soon as his reports were dealt with.

She'd thought about going to talk to him, to be the one to offer a bridge across the gap, but she didn't know what to say to make things right. 'One of us will probably dead by the end of the year anyway, so what's the problem?' didn't seem like it would fix much.

Below those three words he'd put to meet him in the Chantry room by the gardens. That he'd be there this evening.

Part of her just didn't want to go. If she didn't, it would be clear that things were over, and they could each move on.

But she didn't want to move on. She didn't want to wake up without him, to see him fall for someone else, to live knowing that she'd tossed away one of the few things that had ever happened to her. Maybe she'd die tomorrow for all she knew, but for however much time she had left, she did want it to be with him.

Maybe that would be enough.

Swinging up from her perch, she hauled herself back onto the safety of the tower's open, top floor and then strode over to the ladder going down. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the chantry room's door. It was closed, which struck her as odd.

If it was her, she'd want a chance to see Cullen coming. Glancing down at the letter again, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Cullen?"

There was no response. Not here yet, then.

Even as she read the words over again, wondering if there was a set time within the evening that she was supposed to be there, and if it had already happened, she paced into the room.

The mark throbbed angrily, but it wasn't until she was rubbing her forearm that she realized a tingling sensation had started to overtake the rest of her. Snapping alert, she looked around until her gaze landed on a few barely visible runes scrawled across the walls.

Magic suppressants.

Cullen had…?

No.

Cullen wouldn't do this.

Even as she took a step back, the edges of her mind grew hazy from the strength of the wards. She nearly lost her footing. Why would someone want to suppress her magic? All she did was—

Numb as she was, she didn't even feel the blade go through her.

She looked down in time to see the tip of the longsword disappear back into her as it was withdrawn.

Red stained her shirt.

Finley felt like she might throw up. She hated the sight of blood.

While she was sure she'd been reaching for her wound, when she opened her eyes again she was staring up at the ceiling. No. There were stars overhead. And leaves.

A decent breeze, and she'd know she was home.

Even as she wondered why that word felt so empty, Cullen leaned into her view, pale and panicked, blood staining his shirt.

Was he hurt?

She reached out to heal him, but her magic didn't want to listen.

Catching her hand with a bloody one, Cullen squeezed hers, tears pricking his eyes. "Finley? Finley, listen to me! You can't die," he choked on the word, abruptly letting go of her hand to put his down with his other on her stomach. "Please don't die."

He looked around and yelled for someone to hurry up.

As he looked back at her, she felt like crying herself. Maybe she was the one who'd been so stupid about everything. She loved him more than anything, and maybe that was something she should have been willing to fight for, instead of fearing pitchforked mobs that might never come.

"I love you."

She wasn't sure if the words reached her lips.

He was talking to her again, but she couldn't hear what he was saying, the world was slipping into darker shades and all of her senses were dulling, being drowned out by another voice that had no actual sound.

Let me help.