Cullen felt cold.
Which would not have been surprising, considering they were meeting clandestinely in a cellar far underground, where the air was cool and damp.
Then again, it would have been very surprising, considering he was just having a heated argument with Josephine over the Inquisition's recent actions.
But there, on the other side of the table, was Peredura. Peredura, his love. Peredura, his wife. Peredura, the very air in his lungs, the beat in his heart. And Peredura was in trouble.
Over the past few minutes, even while he heatedly engaged Josephine in argument, out of the corner of his eye he caught Peredura doing that twitch of hers. She tensed, holding her left arm tightly to her side, elbow slightly bent, shoulders scrunched inward, her hand in a fist covering the Anchor. He didn't think much of it at first, selfishly focused more on his debate than on her, thinking her twinge would pass as it always had before. After all, these little episodes had been happening more and more frequently over the past week or so since reaching the Winter Palace. Now it was happening again… but differently.
This time, she cried out.
He had to stand there, helpless, and watch her bearing her agony, her scarred face contorted gruesomely, her jaw clenched to try to prevent her cries from growing into screams, her right hand clutching at her left forearm as if she could physically stop the pain from continuing up her arm to the rest of her. The next moment, her knees buckled beneath the force of her torment, her torso bending over her arms cradled in her crotch.
All the while the Anchor flared, menacingly, an eery and unworldly green, snaking out like tendrils back along the length of her forearm and shooting out like spikes from her tight fist.
She endured. There was nothing else she could do.
The other three, Josephine and Cullen and Leliana, gravely walked around the table to stand before her. There was nothing else they could do, either.
It seemed an eternity to everyone in the room, but despite the intensity of the episode, it did reach its climax and subside, reluctantly, fading into the background where it normally resided.
Sweat was beading at her hairline, dense enough in some places to congregate into a drop and trickle down her temple and cheek and jawline. One knee was pressed into the roughhewn stone floor, the other raised to support her weight against it. She breathed, deeply, trying to calm her racing heartbeat and far-flung thoughts. Gingerly she tested her muscles, easing her shoulders, loosening her grip on herself, lifting her face just far enough to see over the top of her knee.
She swallowed. That was the worst one yet, she thought to herself. The pain had been beyond excruciating and went straight to blinding. She honestly had not been able to see, to feel, to think, to do anything but exist as pain. It had been more intense than any blood magic ritual she had participated in, or any wound or broken bone acquired in battle, or any heartache over a fallen comrade. It had robbed her of her self as much as opeigh had done, though instead of a blissful numbness of a drugged state, she was given unending torture.
And the thought of it happening again, even just once more, or growing worse and worse and worse until…?
Her vision came into focus, and she noticed there were three pairs of boots before her. She thought her three advisors were on the other side of the table—at least they had been before her latest episode. She supposed, considering the severity, how odd and intense her actions must have seemed, she supposed it wouldn't be unreasonable for them to show concern. Briefly she considered putting on a brave face, standing up as if nothing had happened, shrugging off the Anchor and the fact that it was killing her.
But it was killing her.
It had been killing her, ever since she first got it two years ago. Solas had done what he could to delay it, but the outcome was inevitable. Had always been inevitable. They all knew it. Even though they hadn't been able to bring themselves to say it.
And so, as ever, it was up to her.
"So," her voice was surprisingly clear, all things considered. She took a breath and braced herself on her raised knee as she struggled to get her other foot beneath her. She had to stagger half a step, somewhat off balance after the episode, but when she felt sure and steady on both feet, she slowly and carefully straightened her back, dropped her arms to her sides, and lifted her face to her friends.
"So," she swallowed, hating to do it, hating to have to look them in the eye and voice the unvoiced, but that was one of the reasons she had become the Inquisitor—to do what the others could not or would not do. She gestured with her left hand, showing the palm, the Anchor thankfully non-glowing, "It is getting worse. I…" she gave a slow blink and a small shake of her head, "I don't know why. I don't know how to stop it. And I don't know how much time I have left.
"What I do know," she continued, stepping forward, her hand now pointing and punctuating with emphasis, "Is that what's done is done. Whatever the role the Inquisition played, knowingly or inadvertently, the consequences will be dealt with in their own time. But the Qunari need to be stopped now. Their plot to blow up the noble houses with gaatlok needs to be thwarted. And there isn't much time, for their plans…" she hesitated, hating the words even before they left her lips, but she had to stay determined and focused—for their sakes, "Or for me. Which means I need to get to the Darvaard while I can still fight!"
Whatever Cullen and Josephine had been arguing about suddenly seemed very petty and moot. It was Leliana who spoke first, who acknowledged her sacrifice and bravery with a simple yet profound, "Thank you, Inquisitor."
Peredura gave a short nod, tight lipped, feeling time slipping away from her like sand caught in a dust storm. She didn't want to do it, she didn't want to leave them with this mess, but she knew she didn't have a lot of time left, and fighting the Qunari was a better use of her dwindling lifespan than standing before the Exalted Council caught up in an endless debate. She knew that. They all knew that. But since she wasn't going to be there, she had to make sure they all understood their roles. "Josephine, I want you to go to the Exalted Council. If we fail, they will need to be informed of the danger…"
"No," Leliana took half a step forward. "I will inform them, personally."
"As Divine, you sit on the council," Josephine pointed out. "Wouldn't it be better if I…"
"No," she repeated herself, "Again, Josephine, I will do this. Your job is hard enough. Besides, this is my responsibility, as the Inquisition's Spymaster. This will be mine and mine alone to own up to."
Peredura nodded, adding her weight and authority, while she was still alive to add it, to Leliana's choice. "Very well. Josephine, you will be the Voice of the Inquisition. From now on, you'll have to make the decisions. Whatever…" she paused to close her eyes and swallow, trying to remain strong, trying to keep the fear and pain and aguish from her voice. "Whatever happens over the next few days, or hours even, you must stay in control of the Inquisition. And whatever the outcome, remain strong and confident and sure, even if you don't feel it. Leliana and Cull…" she paused to clear her throat, "And Cullen will support you. Do this, for me. Whatever the fate of the Inquisition, face it on my behalf. In my stead."
Josephine inclined her head. "As you say, Madam Inquisitor."
With the two women taken care of, she turned to Cullen next, but there were no words. All the things she wanted to tell him… all the words she should have spoken… all the love and years that should have been theirs… all the plans and opportunities and FUTURE!… all of it was gone. Had been, honestly, but they had tricked themselves into thinking—believing—that they could remain untouched by Fate.
Even if Leliana felt chagrined over her failure to catch a spy amongst their ranks, even if Josephine felt betrayed over the corruption growing within the Inquisition—Peredura and Cullen had been the biggest fools of them all.
They had loved.
Cullen stepped forward. Despite their fates, despite the lack of time, despite their dreams and plans being dashed and shattered and destroyed—He still loved. Wordlessly, he held his arms out as he approached, and she gratefully sunk into his embrace, selfishly savoring this one last time. It did not last long enough, even if he could have held her until the Mark took her life, it would not be long enough. After only a pair of heartbeats he began to pull away, sensing as she did that they no longer had time—they never did have time. His face tilted, as did hers, both of them asking for one last kiss, a timid brushing of lips, hardly a breath to be shared, before he was stepping back once more, hands falling away, leaving her alone and untouched.
And yet he loved.
If nothing else of her life survived, if she left behind no other legacy, if even the Inquisition and its Inquisitor became lost to the infinity of time, she had done this one thing. She had given Cullen life. Love. Hope. Dreams.
She would continue—in him.
Nodding to them all, she turned to leave, Leliana's voice following behind her as she passed through the doorway.
"Maker watch over you."
Cullen allowed her to leave. It broke him, it broke him harder than Kinloch, but he watched her step out of his life and face her destiny alone.
No, he corrected himself, looking down and to the side, his thoughts working quickly. He would not leave her alone. Even if she died alone, he would not leave her there. His mind made up, he moved towards the door.
"Commander?" Leliana's voice tried to call him back.
He had opened the door, taken a step through, but allowed himself time to answer her. He didn't even turn fully around, only his head far enough to show his stubbled cheek and the corner of his eye. "I'm going to see that guards are placed at the Eluvian, just in case the Qunari decide to attack us here at the Winter Palace." It wasn't a lie, but it also wasn't the whole truth. If the two women saw through that, they didn't comment.
"When you've seen to that, meet us outside the council chambers. The sooner we deal with this situation, the better."
"Of course, ladies," he nodded, still without having turned around, and finished closing the portal behind him.
Quickly he stalked through the hallways, knowing where Peredura would be going as she prepared herself for her final battle. He wanted to avoid seeing her—he didn't think he could let go of her again if he did see her, but he knew the one he was searching for would be nearby her. In the chambers set aside for the Inquisition armory, he found whom he was looking for—Iron Bull. The Qunari was suiting up, slapping on pieces of armor, testing the edges of his weapons, giving orders to Krem if things should not go his way, everything a good commander would do.
Everything Peredura had done, just before she left.
Cullen pushed that thought out of his mind, He marched straight up to The Iron Bull and stood before him, somber, even a bit menacing, and stared him directly in the eye. "Bring her back to me." As fiercely as his advance was, his voice was deadly quiet.
"Pardon?" Iron Bull hadn't been expecting Cullen, or anyone for that matter, to approach in such an aggressive manner. Yeah, sure, tensions were high, everyone knew what was at stake, what was happening, as Peredura had just come through to announce that she would be going to Darvaar and why and what was happening to her. It was a shock, not that they didn't know it would eventually happen, just that it was happening now. She was dying. The Anchor was killing her. The Qunari had to be stopped. She was going to do all that she could before she ran out of time.
"You're going with Peredura, aren't you?"
"Yup, she's getting ready herself, over there, with that hound of hers," he thumbed off to the side but Cullen refused to look. "We're all going with her, Commander. We'll keep her safe…"
"Please, don't bother," Cullen cut over his words, "We all know the truth. Do what you can for her, Iron Bull, but in the end…" His voice failed him. He forced himself to look the other way, opposite of where she was buckling armor over Fear's torso, and dropped his voice even further.
"Promise me," he sighed. Looking back at Bull, he continued, "Promise me you will be with her to the very end. Promise me you won't let her die alone, out there, somewhere amongst realms that haven't been visited in eons, and may not again for eons more. And when it's done, when the last battle is over, when the danger is past, when she has gone…" He had to stop, he had to take a breath, and yet he had to keep going, keep speaking, regardless of the inevitable pain. "Whatever is left of her… allow me the chance to place her amongst friends and loved ones, her family. Give me the chance to see that she's laid to rest someplace peaceful and remembered. Promise you will bring her…" he pointed to the side where he knew she was preparing, where he refused to look, "…back to me."
Bull saw it in his eyes. He saw the cost, the pain, the endurance, the loss, the acceptance. The love. And he knew he couldn't say no. "You got it, Boss." He laid a heavy hand on the Commander's shoulder, engulfing it, squeezing it reassuringly. Bull would do everything physically possible.
Cullen trusted him.
He nodded once to the Qunari, and managed to leave the area before Peredura could spot him—or he spotted her. Mechanically, because at that moment he could not afford to allow himself to think or feel, he went to the barracks where the Honor Guard was stationed. Automatically he handed out orders, who was to stand guard at the Eluvian, how many, the length of the shifts they would take, all the necessary routine details that took up the busy moments in a Commander's schedule. All the men and women accepted the orders without question, though all of them wondered.
Cullen didn't answer their unspoken questions; they would learn soon enough.
He returned to the council chambers, his heels tapping sharp staccatos on the marbled floors. Once more, he was cold. Once more, he wrapped himself within endless layers of stonework and iron, barricading himself inside the fortress around his heart. It was not that he didn't love, or didn't feel—it was simply that he cherished her love, their love, deep within his heart, and he didn't want anyone or anything to take that from him. Not yet. Not just yet. Please, Maker, please allow him the mercy to hold onto their love for as long as possible. Please, allow him to love her until he knew she was gone. Until he held her remains. Until he saw her cold body and unseeing eyes for himself.
Then he would grieve.
Only those closest to him could have seen the change. The ambassadors argued, and he answered as he had before, the same words, the same protests, the same debate. His tone grew harsh when warranted, or forceful, or aloof, as if he was reading from a script. But it was all a puppeteering act, his mind telling his body to do what it had to do, while his heart was held in stasis, prepared to mourn, but unable to begin just yet.
At long last, their duty to the Exalted Council was finished—at least for the time being. He and the others retired to a side chamber, Leliana once more garbed as Divine Victoria, though she did remove the hat and a few of the more formal vestments while they waited. Josephine as well tried to ease the formality, undoing her jacket and even going so far as to pour a glass of wine. She offered one to Leliana, who took it even though she didn't drink it. Then she offered one to Cullen.
He was leaning over a table full of reports, his hands braced on the sturdy desk, his head bowed. He wanted to ignore her, but he knew that would be petty and rude. She was only trying to be considerate, nice, thoughtful—yet he did not want to think, not on that topic. He shook his head, waving the gesture aside, "No, thank you, I have reports to go over. Must keep a clear head." He shuffled clipboards around, glancing at the handwriting on them without comprehending the words, randomly picking them up and setting them down.
"Um, Commander," she tilted her head, her eyes curving with concern, her voice gentle, "You've already gone over all the reports. There's nothing new…"
"There were a couple ravens from this morning," Leliana interrupted. "I haven't had the chance to read them, yet. They're on the left front corner of the desk."
Cullen's eyes immediately tracked to the location and found the anaemic stack. "Ah, excellent," eagerly his hands reached out and secured the new news, however mundane he did not care, only that it was fresh and something his eyes hadn't read a hundred times already. Something to fill his time, occupy his mind, give him a productive chore.
He was occupied enough that he did not notice the silent exchange happening between the other two. Josephine turned to Leliana. Leliana gave a small shake of her head. Josephine tilted hers and raised an eyebrow questioning. Leliana shrugged and flicked her fingers to Cullen. Josephine turned back to see the man, contentedly pursuing the reports, calm and steady and in control of himself. Josephine dabbed a finger at the corner of her eye where there was an annoying bit of moisture, walked away to stand next to Leliana, and rolled her eyes. Leliana inclined her head, gave a small smile, and took a sip of her drink.
They each had their own coping mechanisms. Some people talked, some cried, some used physical exertion, some even turned to abusing substances. Cullen's was work.
He was fooling himself, and he knew it, but he kept doing it because, quite honestly, there was nothing else to do. Not unles he wanted to think about…
Cullen swallowed, pushing away the unthinkable, and refocusing on his work. At long last, however, even the fresh reports were exhausted. He went back over them all, making notations on some, stacking them in piles, reorganizing them into other piles, an endless and worthless and useless spending of his time. And the minutes ground on slowly, the time he did not have now turning into time he could not spend.
One hour became another, and then another, and then the next, held futilely out before him, shoved into his face almost as an insult. The time he might have had with her, now spent alone, wondering if she was gone yet, wondering if he might never know. She was going to die—there was no avoiding that fact, but he couldn't begin to mourn her until she was actually gone, could he, which left him adrift in limbo, unable to move forward, unable to move backward, with no where to go and nothing to do…
...nothing to do…
…nothing…
He could not breathe. That old fear, that old torture, so long familiar and so long a burden that the return of the torment was almost like an unexpected visit from an old friend. He felt it again, as he hadn't felt it in ages… the lack of air. Unable to move. Unable to think. Unable to fight. Unable to plan. Unable to escape. Unable to do ANYTHING!
He stood, and his muscles ached in protest—how long had he been sitting at that desk to become so stiff? One of the others said something, perhaps to him, but he didn't bother to decipher the sounds into words, focused only on one act. He held himself stiff as he headed over to the balcony, refusing to run, refusing to give in to the panic and fear and anxiety. His hands found the latches, the metal cool in his hands, firm and solid and real. He twisted them and opened the doors, his arms spreading wide as he stepped out onto the small landing, walked until he reached the railing. He had to feel the air on his skin.
A summer storm had just passed, the last of the clouds breaking up along the tail end, sending a few final drops of rain. He felt them hit his cheek, felt the breeze ruffle his hair, felt the coldness and dampness of the stone railing beneath his hands, felt the heaviness of the atmosphere begin to lift. Felt the peace of the late twilight envelop him, calm him, soothe him.
He would never feel her touch on him again, her lips on his cheek, her fingers in his hair, her supple flesh turning wanton due to the ministrations of his hands. Maker's Breath! Let the torment end soon, so that he might finally allow himself to…
As if in answer to his anguished prayer, there was a knock on the door. Yet instead of turning around expectantly, he bowed his head and closed his eyes, taking one small moment to prepare himself to face fate and the end of his torture, at long last. He turned to see that Josephine had gotten up to open the door, and through it came…
"Abbets! Fergus!" His voice was a bit sharp, but with annoyance or surprise or relief it was too hard for even him to tell.
"Excuse us, Commander," Abbets, sensing the unusual amount of tension in the air, decided to soften his tone and speak for them both, "But we just arrived, and we heard, on our way here, Devensport made sure to find us before… well, you know how he is. So we know, and if there's anything we can do…"
Cullen cut him off before he could say it, raising his hand and stepping back into the room. He spoke as he continued approaching the two former Templars. "I believe you said in your last letter that you had found a suitable location? Were you able to finalize the purchase?"
Fergus seemed taken aback by the Commander's manner, his mouth falling open with shock. Abbets, however, knew better and took it in stride. "We weren't sure you would wish for us to purchase it, sight unseen by you, but the timing was pressing, so yes, ser, we purchased a fair amount of land."
"Good man," he nodded. He didn't look at either of them, not directly, but he did address them. "Tell me about it."
"Ser," Fergus started, finally finding his voice and reaching out with one hand, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather…"
"Rather what?" he snapped, a shadow of the Old Cullen, harsh and bitter and angry and hurt and… He took a breath and forced himself to raise his eyes to them, calming his tone and temper. They were his men, his friends, and they were only trying to help. By way of apology, he gave a brief explanation of his actions. "There's nothing I can do. Now or later. Except wait for the inevitable news. So, no, thank you, but I would rather like to have something else to focus on right now, to occupy my time. Tell me everything about the land."
"Well, Ser," Abbets cleared his throat and taking firm control away from Fergus, "It's deeper into the Hills than we were originally led to believe, and quite a few leagues north of South Reach, but still close enough that you should be able to visit your family from time to time. The land has a good forty or fifty acres that's level, or level enough to build the sanctuary. And defendable, should there ever be another Blight. There's an artesian well to be found in the eastern half…"
His voice droned on, and for a small while Cullen found himself envisioning the place that would become his new home.
A dream. One of his own. Though a dream he had desired to share…
Peredura remained on her knees, though the conversation was cordial, an easy and free exchange between two equals, two friends. She could have stood, there certainly wasn't anything holding her down; yet she simply lacked the strength. So she stayed on her knees, thankful for the respite from the pain that Solas was providing her, while they good-naturedly debated the fate of the world.
"You don't have to destroy this world," she stated, trying to find compromise, grasping desperately at anything and everything. "I'll prove it to you."
Yup, that argument was thin. Yet if his smile was a little melancholy, if her cheeks turned a little pink, neither one mentioned it. They both knew she would not be around much longer, and definitely not long enough to change his mind. She dropped her gaze, trying to find something—anything—that would help him feel some sort of attachment to this world, this time, this life. Some thing that would call to him and remind him of the good things that were NOW. She knew, however, deep inside his heart, he would always—ALWAYS!—crave and long for that which was lost to him. She supposed, in a moment of brutal honesty, if their situations were reversed, if she were the one who had lost everything, if all she knew and loved and hoped for was suddenly past and irrelevant, she might feel the same as he, do the same as he, to the lengths as he threatened. She bit her lip, knowing her arguments would be fruitless.
"I would…" he began, stopped, and restarted, "I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again, my friend." He set his hand on her shoulder. She turned her cheek towards it, wanting to make a personal connection with him, still trying to win him over. Prove to him… show him… make a deal with him…
The tingling began, the Mark, not strong but enough to remind her that it was still there, that it could not be removed, that death was near. "There's still the matter of the Anchor. It's getting worse." An obvious statement, and a poor attempt to yet again show him a connection between them. The Mark. What he had sought for, what Corypheus coveted, what she stole.
"Yes," he agreed, simply, honestly. "I'm sorry," he continued, taking her hand, having noticed the glow was beginning to return. He turned her hand palm upwards, the green seeping through her skin. She stared at his face, watching the underside of his jaw begin to take on a greenish hue from the unworldly light. "And we are almost out of time."
The Anchor flared, making Peredura gasp and grip her wrist, pulling it from his grip. It was worse this time, the pain, the agony, the worst it had ever been. And it wasn't showing any sign of easing up.
Irrelevantly she felt like laughing, and a funny little huff of breath escaped ahead of her words. "This is it," she said to no one in particular, even though Solas was beside her.
"There was never any avoiding it," he agreed, albeit sadly. "All I, or you, or any of us could have hoped for was to delay it for as long as possible. Now…"
"I'm out of possibilities…!" she gasped again. Her face twisted into a snarl, she let loose with a howl of pain, both physical and emotional. Perversely, her torment diminished for a moment, as if screaming had helped to lessen some of the pressure. She panted, catching her breath, and asked, "Will you remember me after I'm gone, Fen'Harel? Will I have any… lingering… effect on your thoughts?"
He once again reached out to her, his hand brushing her hair behind one mutilated ear. "Of course, Peredura. You were like a daughter to me, although a headstrong and independent child." He caught her gaze when she looked up at him, and he gave her a small smile. "I did try to teach you the right path to take, but you chose your own, as all children eventually do. Though I do not necessarily agree with your decisions," he inclined his head, his eyes turning sad as he struggled to maintain the smile, "I am proud of the woman you have become.
"And you were like a father to me," she agreed, tears slipping past her lashes. "I only remember a little of my real father, but ever since I awoke in Haven, you have been there for me, sheltering me, teaching me, guiding me, occasionally indulging me." For a very brief moment, there was an answering smile on her lips. "I wish… aaarrrGGGGHHHHHHH!"
The moan quickly rose into another scream, the pain physically tearing her apart, starting at the Anchor and spreading up her arm.
He waited until the scream subsided due to lack of breath, until he was sure his words could be heard. "I wish it, too." For the last time, he took her hand. He had meant to do it as a gesture, to let her know she was not alone, she would not pass from this world to the next without someone beside her, without someone to witness. Instead, he felt the cool golden band on her finger. Pain, sadness, disappointment, all of it welled up inside him as he instantly surmised, "You… married him? Commander Cullen?"
She nodded, trying to stay upright enough to keep him in her sights, though her exhausted body wanted nothing more to do than crumple in upon itself like a pile of discarded laundry. "I did. Last week. A simple ceremony. The two of us and a couple of witnesses, and of course Fear." She swallowed, and thought she understood the look on his face. "I've disappointed you again."
The Mabari wasn't currently with her, having been held up with Iron Bull and the others, but Solas knew they would be arriving soon. He knew he should be gone before the others got there, whether or not she died before then, yet he lingered long enough to respond, "You… had an Adrastian wedding, I suppose? In a chapel, before a Mother, complete with vows and the Maker's blessing?" It broke his heart—the thought of her giving up on her faith, her people. Whether or not she had been raised Elven, whether or not she looked Elven, she was in her heart of hearts Elven—she had to be. Why could he never get her to see that?!
"Cullen spoke his vows in his faith, yes," she nodded weakly, feeling the Anchor flare up again but having no more strength to fight it. Their conversation was drawing to a close, she knew it, he knew it, and the thought floated in the back of her head that her next words might very well be her last, "I spoke mine in Elven."
It was growing dark. Cold. Her voice sounded small and distant in her own ears—how must she sound to Solas? So much had happened, so much had been discovered, in these past few hours, but how much would survive without her…? There had been no time, not enough, to confer with the others, to see if they understood and had figured out the mysteries she had surrounding Solas/Fen'Harel/Dread Wolf. And then their conversation just now, right before the Anchor flared up, when she had learned so much, she had to make sure the others knew what was coming so they could prepare…
Yet it would be easy, so easy… she took a breath… just sitting there now… Solas holding her hand… let the air out of her lungs… the Anchor ripping her to shreds… the pain so intense she had grown numb to it… so easy to simply not take another breath…
Solas stood in indecision for a long moment, watching her fade away, watching the unworldly light from the Anchor pull at her flesh, watching the sunshine glint off the wedding band. What could he give her? What else could he do for her? What would it—any of it—be worth in the face of his own plans?
He looked her in the eyes, in the large, soft brown orbs, no longer able to focus, but she must be able to register that he was there, somehow, in some manner. "I'm sorry…"
Quick like lightning, his other hand shot out and struck her forearm, just below the elbow.
Peredura gave a funny sort of spasm, the shock of what had just happened snapping her out of her pre-death stupor.
The pain was gone.
She took a breath, as if it was her very first breath, all new and free and open, lungs tasting air as if they had never done so before. She took another, and another, and yet there was no more pain, no more weakness, no more crippling torment calling her to her death. She stared at him, as unable to speak as a newborn, while he stepped away.
He held her gaze, gave her a sad little nod, as if confirming that what her senses told her was true. She glanced down at her arm, at the Mark, but…
His voice floated back to her, and she looked up just in time to see him step through the Eluvian. "Live well, while time remains…"
Then everything was quiet. There was a wayward wisp of overlong bangs hanging down in front of one eye. It hung there, unmoving in the windless atmosphere.
"…boss…"
Her right hand continued to hold onto her left arm, at the elbow…
"Peredura…?"
Her eyes were wide, staring without seeing.
"Hey, ah, Boss?" Bull's large, massive hand reached out and touched her shoulder.
She didn't move, not at first, not in response to the warmth of another body, or the familiar voices that had been calling her name, or even when a massively furry, drooly face filled her vision.
Fear whined, unsure what to do next. He had found her, found his partner, and he was sure she was alive, but why wouldn't she move? He panted at her. He licked his muzzle, threatening to lick her—that usually did the trick, but not this time. Sitting back on his haunches, he tilted his head and studied her for a moment. Someone else was going to have to figure this out.
"She's… not moving," Dorian's voice was concerned, floating from somewhere behind her.
"She's still warm," Bull confirmed, just over her shoulder, "But, ah, there is something… off."
From where he stood, he could see what the others couldn't, mostly due to the fact that his massive frame blocked their view. Varric was the first to walk around and get a good look at her from the front, coming to stand next to Fear. He tilted his head, much as the Mabari was doing, hardly able to believe his eyes. Yet he was positive he could see her left arm, or what was left of her left arm. Trying to keep the shock and horror from his face, trying to bring something normal to the moment, he give a low whistle and quipped, "Well, that's… unexpected. You still with us, Snowdrop?"
She took a deep breath, exhaled, sending the wayward bangs swinging in front of her, eyes remaining unfocused. "I've lost my wedding ring."
Eventually, Abbets had run out of things to say.
Not surprising, considering he had never been much for talking, but after reporting every detail he could remember about the land purchase, and not one for repeating himself, he had nothing left. He had excused himself and Fergus from the room, and though Fergus offered to stay, just so Cullen could have another male in the room with him, the Commander declined the offer. The two former Templars left, and any conversation left with them.
Evening turned to night, the hours continuing their incessant march from future to present to past, slipping by him empty and without promise. Cullen didn't tire, didn't move, didn't sway, standing at the open balcony doors once more. Leliana suspected he was once again using his old trick of sleeping while standing, but she couldn't summon up the spunk to go and check.
Josephine lounged in a chair, her head propped on one hand, her breaths soft and steady.
Leliana leaned against the corner of the desk, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the floorboards.
It had to be almost midnight, he reasoned, when it finally happened. When The Knock sounded. Blessed Andraste, he prayed, all his earlier bravado vanishing, help me, I can't do this thing, I beg you, I've been unmanned, please, let it be a dream…
He heard the chair creak and knew the knock had roused Josephine from her light dozing. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily in a futile attempt at denial, but immediately his decades as a soldier took over and he opened them. Nothing he could do or not do would affect matters. There was but one simple fact to face: Time was up. Almost as if in a dream, as if it wasn't his body but someone else's, he did what was expected of him—he lifted his chin, straightened his posture, turned away from the balcony, and steeled his heart for the inevitable. Dispassionately he watched Josephine open the door, heard the others' voices, the tension in their tones, but he couldn't have been bothered to care. His vision was tunneling down, centering on the doorway framing the bulk that was The Iron Bull as he stepped through. Immediately Cullen saw that he had been successful on his secret mission. Peredura's body lay in his arms, her left side curled against his chest, so small and still, if he was still in denial he could have convinced himself she was merely sleeping. Cullen didn't remember walking up to them—he couldn't remember taking a single step!—but nevertheless he found himself before the Qunari, his jaw set, the corners of his eyes drawn sad.
"Thank you, Iron Bull."
His voice had no right to sound so steady, so calm, so in control, not at that moment, not when everything meaningful in his life was ending. He lifted his arms, a mute appeal, feeling he should be the one now to carry this burden.
"…Cullen…"
His ears stopped. They must have stopped. He could not have heard what he just heard, the quiet and feminine voice calling his name. Yet when Bull made to pass her over to him, his deep voice rumbled, "Ah, Commander, there's something you should know…"
"I… ah…" Cullen responded as her weight was transferred to his embrace, her body warm, her limbs shifting as she turned away from Bull to curl up against him. He dared. He dared to breathe. He dared to hope. He dared. "Pere?"
Her head moved, lifting up from his shoulder. Her eyes opened, glassy and unfocused. Her lips parted, words spilling out like ale from a mug that was tipped over. "I've lost my wedding ring."
Somehow… he was sitting down. Probably on the chair Josephine had been using. He was grateful, needing the support after the shock he had just been given. Her body in his arms, her warm and living body was in his arms! And she was speaking. And…
Her words about her ring finally penetrated the thickness around his brain. Instinctively he looked down for her left hand and where the ring should be—the very fact that the Anchor hadn't yet killed her made him look for it as well—and again he found himself in shock. Her left hand was gone, along with almost all of her forearm. Horror and fear tried to grip his heart first, but yet again that night his training saved him. How many amputees had he witnessed in his former career as a Templar? Dispassionately he studied the area, refusing to give into his emotions, becoming her strength and steadiness and ground. There was no wound, no scar, nothing to show what had happened, nothing to show she had ever had a hand, only smooth and perfect skin covering the end, as if she had been born that way. And yet words failed him, as he could find no obvious reason for why things were this way, no explanation, no cause. "Pere, your… your hand…"
"He took it," she licked her lips, swallowed, and gestured with what was left of her arm, "The Anchor, the hand, the pain, the death, everything…. He took it all. And everything else just fell to the ground. My bracer. My glove. My wedding ring. It just… fell away, and…" Tears began to fill her eyes, though at that particular moment she couldn't have said why. She felt ashamed by them, crying over such a silly thing as a little band of gold, and not her hand or the fact that she wasn't dead. She tried to cover her face, but said hand was no longer there, and her right was tucked between her and Cullen, and… and… and…
"Shhh," he answered, sensing her distress if not the cause, knowing she needed help, praying he could find the words, "Shhh, my love, it's all right. It was just a band of gold." He planted a very chaste kiss on her forehead. "A symbol. A token. Like my lucky penny. It's replaceable. The important thing is I have you back."
She was crying harder now, everything that had recently happened came crashing over her, drowning her in her own tears.
He shifted her in his embrace, turning her towards him, tucking her underneath his chin. Three words kept repeating themselves in his mind: She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.
She was alive.
Her sobs subsided a bit, muffled as she was against his chest. Her right hand finally freed itself only to reach behind and clutch at his uniform, keeping him close, capturing herself even more. There was a swaying motion, back and forth, back and forth, comforting her and warming her and helping her. She had Cullen. Whatever else had happened, or would happen, she had Cullen.
She had Cullen.
There was a polite sort of cough somewhere behind her, but she didn't want to acknowledge whoever wanted her attention. She had Cullen. Everything she'd just been through, everything she'd just felt, everything she'd just seen and learned, faded into the background now that she was back in her love's arms.
At the second cough, Cullen managed to open his eyes and look up at their intruder. It was Dorian, damn him, though at least the Mage managed to look apologetic over his interruption. "Excuse me, Commander, but she'll want this." He held out his hand, a small circle of gold centered in his palm. "It was just that, well, after whatever happened, erm, had happened, and we found her, and she was in shock, but she kept repeating she had lost this. I took the time to search the ground next to where we found her, and… well…"
For once, Dorian was at a loss for words.
Cullen smiled his thanks, a warm and gentle look to his features, and took the ring from his hand. "Pere," he turned his face to kiss her hair. "Pere, my love," he repeated, hoping she could hear him as her weeping was easing up. "Give me your hand."
She sniffed, her chest tightening with dread and shock and past pain and present horror and future fear as memory returned, solidified, and became permanent. "I can't," she moaned against his shoulder. "It's gone. He took it…"
"Your other hand," he clarified, his tone light, calm, reassuring, "Your right hand. Let me see it."
She didn't want to. Her right hand—her only hand?!—was setting a permanent wrinkle in the back of his uniform jacket. He tapped her shoulder, kissed the side of her head again, and repeated, "Come, my love. Give me your hand."
She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, wanting to ignore his request, but knowing that would be childish. Yet she didn't feel like being an adult at that particular moment. She wanted to be a child, to be loved and cared for and looked after and not have to deal with serious matters, such as her hand… He tapped her shoulder again, insistent, and she—very slowly, definitely not because she was still feeling childish—relaxed her fingers and brought her hand up front between them.
Something hard, metallic, but not cold, something warmed by the heat of his body, touched her fingertip. She bravely opened one eye to peek and immediately was amazed by what she saw. Cullen was slipping a modest gold band on the ring finger of her right hand. Her wedding ring. Both eyes were open now and widened, her mind spinning with yet another shock. How many more could she endure, would she have to endure, before she could get a chance to catch her breath? "But I lost it." She turned her hand around, confirming it was whole and secure on her finger. "My hand… and I saw it fall to the ground… lost in the grass… lost…"
Cullen could hear the distance in her voice, the fear, the pain, the shock, the joy, the sorrow, the hysteria. Tonight was going to be a long night for them, as would the foreseeable future, but at least they had each other. At least they would go through it together. "Dorian found it for you. See? You have it back. All is right in the world."
She shook her head. "It's on the wrong hand…" She had to stop the words, the emotions, biting her lip until it bled, her whole body trembling with the effort of keeping everything at bay. Too much. Too quickly. Can't cope with it…
"Hush," he kissed her lips, briefly, trying to encourage her on her own to stop the self-mastication. "Look. Do you see?" He brought his left hand, his band, around to hold her hand, entwining their fingers. "Now they line up. Now, when we hold hands, our bands will touch. We'll feel that, each and every time, and know we are together. And we are, Pere. We are together. Now and for the rest of our lives, which will be a lot longer, thanks to…" he paused, looking up, looking at everyone standing around them. Suddenly he remembered that he and Peredura weren't alone. Suddenly he remembered that their conversation wasn't private. He felt he should excuse themselves, or something, but the next moment he realized by the awkward shifting and averted faces that everyone else seemed to be feeling the same way, so he plowed forward. "What did happen?"
"It's, ah," Varric spoke first, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, "Kinda, well," he looked at the others, but they were not showing signs of being eager to offer help explaining matters. "We don't really know. Peredura here got ahead of the rest of us, and by the time we caught up, everything was over. She's really the only one who can say what exactly happened."
"And it can wait," Leliana took charge, "Until morning. I think, after everything we've been through, especially Peredura," she swallowed, trying not to stare at her left arm—what was left of it. "We will retire for the night. Tomorrow, after everyone has rested and managed to collect themselves, we'll reconvene and discuss what happened. Until then," she smiled at Peredura, who was singlemindedly staring at her wedding ring, "Get some rest. If you can."
Cullen nodded, answering for them both. He looked back down at his love, his life, his breath, restored back to him.
She was alive.