A/N: And proper update
All day long, the noise of battle echoed through the idyllic glades and pathways of the Arbor Wilds.
It was the most beautiful place Killeen had ever fought in, and it was hardest battle of her life.
Clear the path for the Inquisitor. Hold the path for the Inquisitor.
There had been scarcely a moment to draw breath since a messenger from the War Room had brought word that Corypheus was moving. A frantic rush to get the army moving; a boiling mass of horses and wagons in the courtyard; shouted orders, everything hurried.
It was Killeen's job to be where Cullen couldn't, to handle the things he had no time for, and so she had seen him only once in the midst of that organised chaos: Cullen headed one way across the lower bailey, herself the other, both in frantic haste. Cullen's face had been the mask he wore as Commander; her own, Killeen knew, was similarly set. The only words they had exchanged had concerned tents and mess supplies.
In the harsh light of daylight on the road, it had been easy to believe that moment on the walls was nothing but a dream born of alcohol and her own desire.
Camp established, equipment checked, objectives established, Killeen had taken that memory out, held it in cupped hands, warmed herself with it … allowed herself to believe, for one carefully limited moment, that it was true.
And put it away, like everything else that might distract her in the fight ahead, shoving all of it into the chest she kept in her mind, closing the lid, turning the key.
Clear the path for the Inquisitor. Hold the path for the Inquisitor.
Everything else was irrelevant.
They had many allies – Dalish elves, Orlesian chevaliers, irregular fighters from the Emerald Graves and the disciplined troops of Ferelden arls – but the foes they faced seemed bigger, stronger, faster than any before. Each yard of progress seemed to cost a life – whether taken by the troops of Corypheus or by the strange, half-seen figures who flickered in and out of view, striking with deadly precision.
Clear the path for the Inquisitor, Killeen thought grimly, stabbing and striking and barely holding her ground. Hold the path for the Inquisitor.
Neither were really possible. Soon there were groups of Inquisition troops or allies strung out along the route like beads on a string, each fighting to hold their particular glade, or hill, or pond. None could break through to their neighbours without losing the ground on which they fought.
And none of us can stand alone for long.
She failed to parry a blow that knocked her helmet clean off and sent her, limbs like rubber, to the ground; rolled away from the next strike that would have taken off her head and got her shield up, got to her knees and then her feet, sword tip weaving, fighting nausea.
And then the Inquisitor came, Solas behind her, Blackwall using his shield as a battering ram and Sera firing arrows from the rear. The sallow, dark-haired mage Killeen had sometimes seen walking the garden was there as well. Together, they swept through the clearing Killeen and her soldiers had struggled to hold, disposing of the enemy, and then onward, the troops behind her swelling in number as she gathered more and more of the isolated bands in her wake.
They followed her down a long corridor of stone, broken in places by the work of trees and time, out into the light of day. A long bridge flanked with statues stretched toward a tall and elegant building, and a handful of hooded figures stood on the near end of the bridge, Corypheus looming over them.
As he strode toward them, the statues on either side of the bridge shuddered, were suddenly limned with light.
"Be honoured," Corypheus declared. "Witness death at the hands of a new god!"
He leaned down and seized the nearest hooded figure, a man. The statues at either side of the bridge were suddenly incandescent. Their glow struck Corypheus, coruscated around him and around the man he held.
For a moment, it seemed to have no effect, and then, incredibly, his skin began to dissolve. The flesh was torn from his bones.
All of them, Corypheus, his victim, the other hooded figures, the statues — all exploded in a brilliant flash.
Killeen gaped at the empty bridge, the piles of ash, the sudden absence of Darkspawn Magisters from the dawn of time. Gone.
Over.
Her knees buckled with relief. They had prevailed, when it had seemed for so long they would be lucky to simply survive, to live one more day and face one more battle. Now —
"Look!" the Inquisitor shouted. "Samson made it across!" She leapt to her feet and ran for the bridge, closely followed by Solas and the others.
Not quite, not yet … Killeen struggled to rise, legs rubbery.
"Andraste preserve us ..." Cullen's voice was little more than a whisper, flat with shock.
Killeen raised her head and saw a dead body, the corpse of one of Corypheus's wardens, move, and stir, and rise, and ...
The warden's corpse threw back its head. Blood fountained from its mouth. It collapsed in a pool of black sludge.
And rose as … Corypheus.
"Maker," Killeen said, and for perhaps the first time in her life it was a prayer made sincere by desperation. Varric was right.
He can't be killed.
He can't be beaten.
From above their heads, the dragon of Corypheus swooped down, sweeping over the bridge and blasting the doors of the building opposite with its terrible fire.
Killeen stared blankly, and then Cullen had her by the arm. He hauled her to her feet. "Retreat," he said. "That's all we can do. She got into the Temple. We can't fight that thing, not without her."
"We can't fight it at all," Killeen said numbly.
Cullen shook her slightly. "Soldier, you have an order," he said crisply, and the fog of horror lifted slightly.
Don't think about it. Don't think. Act. "Yes, ser," she said, and turned to follow his order.
Not all the Red Templars had been killed in the Inquisitor's advance, and it was cruel irony that they lost even more of their soldiers on the retreat back to the camp: men and women killed after the battle had been won, won and then proved useless.
Later, Killeen would only remember flashes of it: a hideous figure looming suddenly before her, or a shout from behind cut short in a horrible, bloody gurgle.
She found herself standing in the camp, sword bloody to the hilt, half-blind with sweat, as all around her were shouts and confusion as the army prepared to move in a hurry. Nearby, she could hear Cullen, voice raised, letting a wagoneer know exactly what he thought of him.
Wiping her sword on the grass, Killeen sheathed it and went to bring some order to the process of departure.
In the chaos, she didn't see Cullen again until they were on the move, when he reined Steelheart out of his place at the head of the cavalcade and waited for the train to move past him. As Killeen came abreast of him, he slipped Steelheart in beside her. Firefly, well rested during the day and without the oppressive weight of horror that lay over her rider, whickered gently to greet her stablemate.
There were no doubt words to say at a time like this, but Killeen couldn't think of any of them. "Have you eaten?" she asked at last, voice little more than a croak. Not that it matters.
Nothing matters.
We're already dead.
Us. Everyone who we defend. Dennet, Adan. Harritt, Mother Giselle. Fel.
"Yes," Cullen said, his own voice hoarse from hours bellowing orders. "You?"
Killeen shook her head. "No time."
"Make sure you get something," he said.
A dispatch rider came racing along the edge of the procession with a message that took Cullen back to his position in the vanguard. Killeen watched him go, still upright in the saddle, chin high. Giving heart to an army that he can't afford to allow to realise just how utterly beaten we are.
Hours, days — Killeen couldn't tell — of riding, and they reached Skyhold. Numbly, she took care of Firefly, checked that Dennet's boys were taking proper care of Steelheart.
Found herself standing in the lower courtyard with no thought of where to go or what to do.
Corypheus can't be beaten.
We can't win.
We're already dead.
The future held nothing but an endless, futile struggle against an enemy who could be held off, but never, ever defeated. This must be what people feel when they realise they've been blighted, Killeen thought, head pounding. As if the future has turned to ashes in their hands, as if there is nothing before them but a long, hard road, without rest or shade or shelter, growing harder and steeper every day, nothing but stone and sand all around.
And leading nowhere good.
Training took over: training designed to keep soldiers like her on their feet, doing their duty, long past the point where heart and will and soul had quit. She climbed the stairs to the upper courtyard, had to stand a moment to get her breath, and then made it up the next flight to Cullen's office.
Empty.
War room, the part of her mind still running on the rails of habit provided. War room.
She took the shortcut, ignoring Solas as she passed him, ignoring everyone in the Great Hall.
As she passed through the Ambassador's office, Lady Montilyet raised her voice. "Lieutenant. Lieutenant?"
Killeen paused, turned. "Yes?"
"If you are looking for the Commander, I believe he is in the chapel."
"Oh," Killeen said. "Thank you." Of course he wishes to pray.
She made her way to the garden. When there is no hope, no plan, no chance — what is there to do, but pray? Even if those prayers are to a Maker who has turned his back to us, left us to face this horror alone, who could save us but refuses to — what is there to do, but pray?
Killeen could not bear to go into the chapel, herself, into a place consecrated to the worship of a god so indifferent, so careless, so cruel. Instead, she sank down on the bench by the door, elbows on knees, head hanging.
She could hear Cullen's voice, that familiar, light, warm voice that had been a constant in all her days for so long now she could not remember the first time she heard it. "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the maker be my guide."
Does he truly believe it? Killeen wondered. Always, she had taken Cullen's faith at face value – he believed, in a way she could not. And now, all before us is in shadow. And where is the Maker's guidance?
A footfall. Killeen raised her head and saw the Inquisitor. She looked as weary as they all did, and Killeen felt a stab of sympathy for this young woman, cast so unprepared into such great responsibility.
And knowing now, as we all do, that she will inevitably, must inevitably, fail.
"I was looking for Cullen," the Inquisitor said.
"He's inside," Killeen told her.
Still, the Inquisitor hesitated. "You didn't wish to join him?" and when Killeen shook her head: "You don't believe?"
"I believe in the maker," Killeen said wearily. "I just don't think he believes in me."
"Have hope," the Inquisitor said. She touched Killeen's shoulder gently, and went inside.
Of course she believes. Something else she shares with Cullen.
Killeen closed her eyes and let her heavy head sink back to her hands.
She could still hear Cullen's voice. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond. For there is no darkness in the maker's light, and nothing he has wrought shall be lost."
The Inquisitor's clipped, refined tones. "A prayer for you?"
"For those we have lost," Cullen said. "And those I am afraid to lose."
"You're afraid?" the Inquisitor asked.
Of course he is, Killeen thought. How could any of us not be?
Cullen echoed her thoughts. "Of course I am. Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal. Who knows what he's capable of? It's only a matter of time before he retaliates. We must draw strength where-ever we can." He paused. "When the time comes …" He said something too softly for Killeen to hear, and then: "Andraste preserve me. I must …" His voice trailed away to silence.
"Cullen," the Inquisitor said. "I know how hard it must be to think of losing who you love. But look at everything we've accomplished." She paused. "I'm ready for this. We all are."
He sighed. "We would not be here without you. Whatever happens, you will come back."
Yes, she will Killeen thought, her eyes closing with weariness, her mind blurring. Of course she will.
She's the Inquisitor. Of course she'll come back.
It's the rest of us who are dead.