My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  Each ripple increased in force, Lana's hands struggling to hang on. Splinters bit into her fingers, but she ignored the pain. Staying alive was all that mattered. Without the nightmare, she stood a chance. If she could just...

  Her bloodied hand flung off, too slick to maintain a grip, leaving her dangling by only one. She stared up at where the breach had been, watching the last of the ripples come to shake her away into depths of horrors the Maker only knew of. "I'm sorry," she whispered, dipping her head down. She hadn't wanted it to go this way, had hoped for... Gritting her teeth, she prepared for the coming onslaught to wash her away. Beyond imagination or understanding, something like a hand grabbed onto her wrist yanking her back from the pit of the unknown. No, not a hand, an unbendable vice that pinned her to her staff.

  Lana struggled to look up to see what it was, but the ripples hit her first. Shattering against her head, they blanketed out her vision, white hot light searing against her eyes. Momentarily blind, she tried to blink but the force kept her eyelids pinned shut. The next wave scattered her hearing, knocking her head back so hard she lost all sound of the winds yanking up the world itself and tearing it apart.

  She dug into her staff, refusing to let go, when the last ripple hit. With nothing left inside of her, her body collapsed into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  "Ser!"

  Cullen's arm slagged lower than it should, the brunt of the rage demon slamming against his shoulder. Its mouth flared with an internal fire attempting to strike him down, but he smashed his shield into the demon's face. Spinning his sword in an arc he slit across its throat, even more black ichor scouring the ground in a growing puddle. He'd already nearly slipped in the mess twice.

  Shoving the dying demon aside, Cullen turned to face one of his soldiers racing towards him. They'd been trying to pick off the never ending stream of demons flooding through the battlements since the Inquisitor...since something happened to them all. Cullen got pinned down near still smoldering ruins, demons flooding into his area. Never backing down, and swinging his sword without grace, he cut through each wave while a shattered portcullis dug a waffle pattern against his back. "What is it?" he shouted while swallowing down the eternal scratch of the rage demon's smoke.

  "It's the breach, Ser!"

  "Maker's breath," Cullen revived instantly, already running up the stairs towards the courtyard where the worst of the fade continued to pour out towards them. "What's happened to it now? An army of archdemons?"

  "No idea, Ser. Only know that it's gone wobbly," the soldier fell in behind him, his own sword bent at the tip from Maker only knew.

  "Wobbly, that's just perfect," Cullen sighed. "Go and find the lieutenant...um," his mind faltered, unable to toss up the name of his second or even third hand. "Any of them will do. We need to regroup around the breach incase that demon's finally broken through."

  "Ser?" the soldier pointed up the last of the incline to where the rift in fact wobbled through the air. Whatever foul magics kept the blighted thing in place knocked free and, Blessed Andraste, the Inquisitor himself leapt from the fade onto the summoning pedestal. With more fanfare than was usual for the man, he curled up his anchor and knocked away the rift. He didn't even turn back to watch it seal away behind him, green light cracking as the vestiges of the fade broke.

  "Thank the Maker!" Cullen cried, clapping the soldier on the back. He'd heard word of their party falling from the crumbled bridge pursued by Corypheus' dragon, but no bodies could be found dashed amongst the rubble. Against all common sense he hoped, prayed for some miracle to deliver them all and here it was. He didn't want to question it for fear it would be yanked away.

  The Inquisitor spoke with the grey wardens left behind to keep an eye on the rift. Few of them remained, but Cullen wasn't about to turn down the ones willing to fight off demons. In the heat of battle, he needed all the help he could get. Swiping his sword against the edge of the wall to scrape off the blood, Cullen tried to move towards the Inquisitor.

  Everyone was all cheers, even a muted round of applause broke through the crowds. They all knew a miracle when they saw it, and this was one about to go onto the chantry calendar. Then Cassandra stepped up from the side. Cullen couldn't see her, but her voice projected above the joy ringing through the courtyard, "Inquisitor...where is Lady Amell?"

  Invisible fists punched into the back of Cullen's head, his lips falling slack as he vigorously hunted through the faces of those circling the Inquisitor. He spotted Dorian clutching his arm, and Varric silently glaring down his crossbow, but so many of the others were in shadow or eclipsed by heads. She had to be hidden somewhere among the mass of wardens, so tiny she slipped into the crowd. Lana was going to pop up at any moment, laughing from the gore in her hair.

  The Inquisitor shared a look with Hawke, the warrior snapping her head down in a seething rage. A hint of a shudder broke through his lips as the Inquisitor lifted his head and shouted, "The Hero of Ferelden is dead."

  White spots burst against Cullen's vision wiping away everything in front of him. His heart screamed as a vice enveloped it, pulverizing and banging the organ against his ribs. Unable to keep himself upright, Cullen stumbled into the wall, his shoulder taking the brunt. He could feel the Inquisitor talking, but his ears wouldn't hear it, refused to believe it.

  "Ser?" the soldier, the nameless soldier tried to grab onto his arm to yank him up, but he couldn't stand. Sliding down the wall, Cullen's knee jammed from the force of meeting stone rubble. "Ser, are you all right?"

  No. No, she couldn't be. Not now, not after...!

  "Someone, help. Please help me! The Commander's wounded!"

  Maker, no.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Goodbye

  The ceremony was lovely - or so everyone with nothing else to say insisted upon afterwards. Held in the gardens, only the elite of Skyhold gathered because there wasn't room to house all the mourners. Everyone, regardless if they were from Ferelden or fought in the blight, or even knew her name, wanted to be there to...to do what one did at funerals. To be seen sharing in a sorrow whether it truly touched them or not. Mother Giselle prepared a heart wrenching sermon she delivered while standing in the middle of the crowd circling around her. He couldn't remember if Lana ever spoke to her. She'd been skittish around the subject of the chantry and her own faith. Understandable given the mages involvement with...it didn't matter.

  Josephine timed it to begin as the sun's last rays cast an ethereal glow across the garden, almost alighting the trees themselves on fire. A golden haze gave the entire thing an unreal quality, as if they'd slipped into a nightmare of their own. He'd overheard that an even larger funeral was planned in Denerim, one Leliana intended to attend for...someone's sake. All of Ferelden mourned their lost savior. The streets would wash clean from tears. Cullen couldn't remember where he heard that, but it felt right. Lana could...had touched lives, whether she meant to or not. Whether she wanted to or not. Still, the Nightingale was here now and for her fallen friend she offered up a song. It wasn't a funeral dirge, but a sliver of hope to find faith against the dying light, to embrace your fellows as neighbors and discover the spark of life in all.

  It was the only time Cullen feared he would lose his grip. Lana would have gritted from the corniness of it, but she'd smile along and by the third verse be carrying the chorus in her own alto. The advisers had to stand at attention around the...pyre, in view of everyone. He felt Leliana sneaking furtive glances his way, the Spymaster gauging if he was up to the task to present a sad but strong temperament in the face of a sea of heartbreak. Cullen blanketed his mind, his eyes staring across the darkening horizon. The ceremony drew on while people gave speeches and offered up pointless anecdotes, everyone certain they knew what Lana wanted in death, praising her for her sacrifice, saying she died well. Maker, that was the worst of them all. He slipped away from every word, his focus upon the rising night sky while watching each star emerge. When a new one hatched from the dar
k field, he'd try to draw the name of it from his memory. The game kept him from noticing Varric's somber frown, Dorian glowering into his hands, Cassandra's staggered breath, the witch from the Winter Palace haunting around the back with her son tight in her arms, and Hawke... She wouldn't step into the gardens, as if the survivor - the reason Lana wasn't here - couldn't be welcome. But she kept watch on the battlements above, unable to face the rest of them. Even still, her never-ending, heart-wrenching sobs carried across every beam, every stone. It sounded as if all of Skyhold was crying.

  He'd made it through the ceremony, the lighting of the pointless pyre, even gritted through the receiving line - as if some Duke or Count of Orlais knew anything about Lana. He knew that she would have rather ran barefoot through the snow than have to sit through this funeral. Knew that she would have hidden a book up her mage's droopy sleeves and tried to sneak a few pages in when no one was looking. Knew that she was always trying to slick down a tuft of hair at the back of her head that refused to obey. Knew that...

  Everyone was sad, but he doubted they knew the real loss. How could they understand, how could they smile again knowing they faced a colder world? It was at the reception after, when people exhausted and hungry from mourning gathered in the great hall to stuff their bellies. That was when Cullen snarled at someone's incompetent question, his resolve shattering into full anger. He'd had few good moments since she fell, and never a full hour. Keeping it in check proved impossible with every passing minute, his skin itching to break free, his tongue snapping against any and all. Leliana interceded before he ripped off...he didn't even know whose head it was. Didn't care.

  "Commander, would you like to join us? Varric was about to read from one of his books about the Hero of Ferelden. Apparently, she annotated it for him."

  They'd huddled around a side table: Cassandra, Hawke, Vivienne, Dagna. Dorian and the Inquisitor clasped hands, their heads bowed together in an intimate prayer of sorts. Even Iron Bull was there with Sera perched upon his horns trying to get a better look. In the middle of it all was Varric, stomping around with boots on the table so everyone could see him. With his biggest voice he shouted out, "And then the prick mage said he didn't care about 'Who killed who' and turned into a giant pride demon!"

  "No," Cullen shook his head, "No, I...should return to my work. We have yet to find Corypheus and..." He didn't bother to finish his sentence and left Leliana and the rest to celebrate and remember her life. The walk to his office was hollow.

  What was the point? What was there to celebrate? She'd gone into the fade same as the rest, fell into that forlorn and endless place along with the Inquisitor, Hawke, Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric. But out of them all, she was the only one to not come out.No! Cullen slammed shut the book he hadn't been reading and flung it against the floor. No, she chose to stay behind. She...she gave up on everything, on him, on herself, on- Maker, damn her.

  Gripping onto his hair, he collapsed into the chair, his elbows slamming against the desk. The force rattled a trio of lyrium bottles a soldier left for him to dispose of. Contraband confiscated off some merchants. Why did they think he'd have any idea what to do with them? It was the damn mages' problems and...

  He didn't realize he'd picked one up until the vial was in his hand, his finger twisting around the cap as if to wedge it open. The movement was so natural to him, he shuddered. He wasn't about to give up, not now, not after... But she did. The others saw it as a heroic sacrifice. If Lana hadn't stayed behind then the nightmare demon could have infected the world, would have torn through their forces and left the Inquisition vulnerable, broken. He wanted to feel the same swell of bittersweet pride the others did, but all his mind kept playing over and over was her explaining the Calling. Admitting she wasn't... Before, when she thought there was nothing left in her life, she tried to throw it all away. And what now? Did he truly mean so little to her?

  "Face hopeful despite the odds, fingers wishing to touch something soft and not sharp. Call her over and whisper your heart, 'I love you.' She smiles back, wanting to tell you what you want to hear but never lying. Not to you. 'Stay safe' she says hoping that's enough."

  Cullen whipped around in his seat to find the wholesome voice. Perched upon the top of his bookcase was Cole staring intently at his gloves as if he had no idea how he was wearing them. "Get away from me, demon!" Cullen shouted. He'd reached the edge of his rope hours ago and couldn't stop from lashing out. His fingers reached for the grip of his sword but Cole only looked up, a hint of his watery eyes below the hat reaching Cullen.

  "I only wanted to help, to take away the pain. To make you forget."

  "You will not get inside my head," Cullen threatened, his body tightening as he moved to unsheathe his sword. He'd put up with the demon because the Inquisitor insisted, but he kept a watchful eye upon it, waited for it to touch his mind, to pollute it the way they did. The way they all did.

  Cole looked more struck from Cullen's words than his obvious physical threat. Or perhaps it was his grief breaking against the compassion spirit, dragging Cole down into his own wallowing depths. The spirit patted his hands against his thighs and dug in with his fingers. Whispering to his knees, Cole said, "I'm sorry, it hurts."

  Cullen's eyes screwed up tight from the madness around him and he noticed they'd begun to burn from the rage percolating through his brain. A light knock echoed off his door and he swung to that. Realizing his error, he turned back to Cole but the demon was gone, vanished as it kept doing.

  "Commander," Leliana's voice called from behind the door, "may I enter?"

  Releasing the grip on his sword, Cullen laid his hands out upon his desk. "Yes."

  The Spymaster slipped inside without anyone wary. She'd kept her hood drawn for the entire funeral, perhaps she was playing her own game to keep from breaking. Now she pulled it back to reveal her face as if entering cleansed into a chantry's sanctuary. "May I sit?" Leliana indicated the chair piled with books. Before Cullen could respond, she knocked the stack off and placed the chair in front of him. He didn't look up at her, his focus burning through the desktop, but out of the corner of his eye he caught the three lyrium vials. Guilt churned through his stomach even though he had no intentions of using them before. He wanted to reach over and knock them all away into a drawer, but that would only draw attention.

  Properly seated, Leliana reached into her pocket and unearthed a small glass bottle. It was sky blue, tapered at the top, with a crystal plug sealed in wax to keep its contents safe. Cullen grimaced from the grey powder poured into it. Seeming to not notice his discomfort, Leliana placed it upon his desk directly between his hands. "She would want you to have some."

  Glowering through the ashes, Cullen tried to not snicker at the misplaced sentiment, "What's the point? It's old wood and lavender burnt to ash as a stand in? It's not her."

  "There is acceptance in ceremony."

  "There is idiocy in it all," he countered, still glaring at the fraudulent bottle, but he didn't knock it away or hand it back. His hands were lead against the desk, too heavy to move.

  "Are you all right?" the Spymaster asked, her own crystal eyes chewing through him.

  He wanted to scream that of course he wasn't. It seemed unlikely he'd ever be all right again. Sleep was impossible, only a sliver of night claimed to the fade, and even then he'd start awake with sweat dousing his skin. Even burying himself in work drew forth more weep from his soul, so much of Adamant - the wardens themselves - needing his approval, his ideas, his heart. Instead of telling the truth, he settled for, "I am...doing what I must. What of you? You knew her well, best friends I think she even claimed, and yet you seem unfazed, as still as a pond."

  And then he saw something he knew to be as rare as a white dragon. Leliana cracked. Her lips wobbled and tears gushed from her eyes -- not the pretty, solitary tear of a proper mourner, but a deluge pouring down her cheeks and crumpling her nose. Ruddiness charred up her cheeks and circled around her eyes, the poor Spymaster's pa
le skin an instant giveaway when she'd been crying. No wonder she kept herself in the shadows.

  "I...I didn't meant to," Cullen reached out and clumsily grabbed her hand.

  "We put on the show for the sake of the others, but behind closed doors..." Leliana glanced back at his making certain it was still tight. "I thought she was invulnerable, hoped she would be. Imagined her as if..." She shuddered in a breath. "I feel her loss with every pang of my heart."

  That was it. That was what it felt like. Not the grief he thought he knew, the grief of losing a part of your life, of change. It was pain inside every inch of his body, his soul, as if someone drove a nail into his brain. Every thought, every breath dug the nail in deeper and deeper until there was no coming back, nothing worth coming back for. He was exhausted, his mind haunted by both sweet and harrowing memories. Either drove him to the edge of tears, his fingers digging into the bed frame in the middle of the night while Cullen fought for a grasp on reality. She was gone, she went into the fade and didn't come back. He'd never see or hear her again. And she did it of her own accord. Because...because he wasn't worth surviving for.

  "I've cleaned out her belongings," Leliana spoke up, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

  "What? Why?" He hadn't gone near that side of Skyhold, couldn't face it, but to think that her books, her handful of personal effects, even that silly mechanism she never got working right... No, they couldn't be gone too. Not with her.

  Leliana pinched her nose and sucked in a breath, "Lanny has...had sensitive relics in her possession, things that Ferelden could lay some claim to. I...the king asked for her staff, but..."

  Of course he would. He was the one with the greatest standing of all those who knew her, the one who broke her, beat her down until she saw no escape. Couldn't find a reason to keep fighting to come back.

  "Commander?" Leliana spoke, her words jarring him. He woke to realize he'd been strangling a stack of parchment upon his desk. Somehow in that time, she'd wiped away all evidence of her crying, even her cheeks back to a milky white. "There was something of hers that I thought you should have."