Chapter Text
Commander Cullen paced the floor of the small wood cottage near Haven’s training grounds, his booted feet heavy on the stone floor. There was no need for quiet as the small woman he guarded had been unconscious for hours, with no sign of waking. The others had done what they could with potions and healing magic, but now needed to tend to their own wounds and necessities.
Cullen knew too well how people were prone to rash behaviour in times of fear and uncertainty...and so he remained, watching over the woman who was no longer a prisoner, but a hero.
The breach in the sky was both terrifying and mysterious. The green coloured vortex was visible throughout half of Fereldan and even into parts of Orlais.
He couldn't believe it when he looked at her, but this fragile, almost otherworldly, woman laying unconscious on the cot was the one who had delivered them all from the endless spout of demons that had been continuously falling since the explosion.
There had been reports of many miracles at the temple, inspiring awe in some, and as many reports of horrifying devastation that enraged others. Both salvation and fear needed a face and, unfortunately, her face stood for both right now.
And so he stood guard, not even trusting his recruits at a time like this, to make sure that no one would harm her while she recovered…if she recovered at all. She was so still, it was hard to know which way it would turn out.
She'd certainly given everything she had when she'd faced the Pride Demon and Shades that had come through the rift, and then to close the rift itself.
One of the reports he'd received from his soldiers at the scene indicated that, as they'd faced the Pride Demon and its lightning whip had come down upon them suddenly, the “Herald” – as they had begun to call her – had thrown up a barrier to shield them all, leaving her open to the slash of a Shade’s claws. Cullen could see where the wounds, now healed, had been. He could see the faint, puckered skin through the shredded material of her tunic.
It must have been a terribly painful wound, he thought sympathetically.
It had been a fierce battle at the temple and it was just the last of so many over the days since the explosion at the Conclave. How many more will there be, Maker?
His body and mind had been in a constant state of stress and even in that moment, with a few hours to relax, the adrenaline still flooded his systems. It brought with it the sharpness to his senses that had always helped him in battle. Now, however, his sharp senses took in every sensory clue as to who this mysterious woman was.
He hadn't seen her in battle, but could imagine how formidable she might look with her staff twirling around her. Now, though, he could only see how vulnerable she looked as she lay there. He felt a strange urge to protect her, the small-but-mighty warrior, while she slept. It bothered him, more than it should, to see her in that state.
He couldn’t quite understand the visceral reaction to her, a stranger. He wondered if it was fatigue or even lyrium withdrawal that brought on these fanciful musings. He thought that she was fairly attractive, but couldn't put his finger on what it was that pulled at him.
Though there was a fire in the small hearth, half of the room was still in shadow, including the place where her cot had been placed. He moved closer to her bedside - just to get a better look - he thought, hoping to be able to find some answers and finding only more questions.
He could tell that she was fair. Even if she had been healthy and hale, she would still be as pale as cream and he noted that her skin was near flawless, with out marks or scars beyond tiny superficial scratches. Like marble..., he thought and Cullen had to curl his hand into a fist to stop himself from reaching out to touch her cheek to check its softness.
He, very gently, picked up her hand to examine her skin there instead. He ignored the green pulse of the mysterious mark in her palm and noted that her hands were free of calluses. She was definitely not used to combat; her hand only bore the small cuts and scratches of the battle she had just fought. He knew she was a mage, but she was no battlemage.
There were many schools of magic and some circles even specialized in different talents. Cullen imagined that the Lady’s talents would be more defensive than offensive, as evidenced by her skill with barriers, and may even run more to healing talents.
There was one thing for certain in Cullen's mind, however; whoever she was and wherever she came from, she did not cause the explosion at the Temple. Every gift that he possessed to assess situations and people told him that plainly.
She moaned very slightly in her sleep. This, he thought, is a gentle soul. He rubbed his thumb across the delicate pad of her palm in comfort.
She had occasionally been heard by others to murmur a few words as she lay there. 'What's going on here?', 'Spiders' and 'Run' were the things she'd whispered already while Cullen alone had been with her.
"Help me...help, please!" she whined softly, her head twitching minutely in her sleep.
He squeezed her fingers once to reassure her, unsure if she could even feel it.
Bringing his focused gaze back to her face, he noticed the faint tracks where hours old tear stains dried on her cheeks. He did touch her face then, gently breaking up the path that ran down one side of her face, smudging it with his thumb as though he could erase some of what had brought the tears there. Had they been tears of pain or fear? Perhaps both.
She calmed again, and went deeper into her sleep. Cullen kept her hand in his, just to let her know somehow that she was not alone.
He found himself wondering what colour her eyes were. Blue…yes, he imagined that they would be blue eyes to go with her fair colouring of creamy skin, platinum hair and pale lips. He noticed that those lips were so delicate and pink, they were like the inside of a sea shell and looked just as smooth.
He didn’t realize how closely he was inspecting her lips, close enough to feel the soft exhale of her breath…
A sharp knock came at the door and Cullen shot off the side of the cot like he’d been burned, cheeks flushing furiously and mind whirling to understand his behaviour. He tried to school his thoughts once more, thankful for the flickering fire light to hide his expression, as Cassandra poked her head through the entrance.
“Commander, I’m here to relieve you.” She said, her accent making her sound more clipped than he knew she intended. “I’ve eaten and I've already seen to the horses."
"I was not injured beyond what a healing potion could fix on the field.” As a Seeker, Cassandra, was efficient and tough, but also a truly compassionate and devout woman.
“She was remarkable out there." Cassandra said as she eyed the Herald for a moment before looking thoughtfully at Cullen. "I don’t know what our next steps will be, Commander...I feel so unsure about so many things right now, but I believe that we need this woman. Life as we know it is changing and she has a role to play. Andraste preserve her.” Awe tinged her voice in a way that surprised him. Truer words could not have been spoken, however.
As he looked back at the sleeping figure, he thought about that truth…his life had just changed. He could feel it to his core. He didn’t know how or why or what it all meant, but he just had a knowing that there was no going back from what the Maker had put before him, before all of them.
Cullen gave a quick nod to Cassandra and, confident that she could handle anything that might come up, slipped out the door and into the chilly air of the Frostback Mountains, letting it cool his flushed skin.
I need something to occupy my mind. Maker's Breath! Pull it together, lad.
He decided to join the other refugees and recruits in the Chantry that night as they prayed for those that had fallen in battle and for those who were in recovery.
If, while reciting the Chant of Light, instead of visualizing the loving grace and golden visage of Andraste, his mind brought up the ethereal creams and pinks of a different face, no one knew it but him.