thearena | the light shall lead her safely; open;

Entry tags:

the light shall lead her safely; open;

Who| Cullen and YOU??
What| With Adella dead, Cullen is trying to keep a grip on his sanity.
Where| Near the river.
When| After this (warning for blood/death), around the start of the bloodbath in the caves.
Warnings/Notes| Warning for descriptions of blood, death, and some questioning of sanity.

He's sticky with blood, by the time the monstrous machine carries her body away. It's on his face, soaked into his gloves and his clothes, and none of it is his. The wound in his arm twinges, but it's easy to ignore in the face of this fresh pain.

He feels hollowed out, devoid of all feeling when she's gone. Like a light has gone out of his world and has left nothing behind. Just an empty void. If the birds with their eerie screams are still around, they mean less than nothing to him now. They're not even a nuisance worth his attention.

Cullen knows he should return to the others at some point, though probably not in his current state. He kneels, almost mechanically, next to the water, and begins scrubbing at the blood. His movements are careful, methodical, almost rhythmic, and his mind seeks for some kind of comfort, some kind of familiarity. It finds words - words he's known since childhood, that can be pulled from his memory as easily as breathing.

"The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

He has no candle to light, but that makes no difference. If the Maker can even hear him in this forsaken place.

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She had come to see the strange contraption flying through the air, a machine that flew like a bird. It moved fast, fast enough that she only got a glimpse of brown hair and a bloody corpse. When she saw that, she stiffened, and moved to cover, kneeling in brush and keeping an eye out for the one who made the corpse. Moving carefully, it's not long before she hears a voice. Well, Tabris was still of the mind it was best to take care of the hostile ones, and this seemed as good of a start as any.

She still moved quietly as she walked over--Not truly THAT quiet, for she had never bothered to learn how to move like a rogue. When you usually wore metal that clanked with every move, it didn't matter. But she found the source of the voice quickly enough--Peering forward, to inspect and try to learn, before attempting to battle them. She recalled the words of children being in the arena. But, well. She hadn't expected this.

Watching Cullen, she thought back to who was missing from camp, and how familiar that body had been (compared to the rest of the arena participants). And now that she's close enough, the words are familiar, as well. She would never be able to recite them from memory, but the words of the chant was something anyone from the Andrastian countries would recognize. There was something unique about it, about the power of the words.

She stood there awkwardly, still gripping the thick tree limb she had found. Tabris' own religious views were awkward, confused, a mish mash of hatred at the chantry and respect for the idea. She doubted her tumultuous relationship would religion would bring the man any comfort. And, of course. She had said that she was going to protect them, had't she. What a quick failure that had been. He probably wouldn't blame her, he hadn't seemed very secure on her ability to do so anyway--but she would hold it in her heart.

The pebbles on the beach crunched under her feet as she walked to his side, and slowly put a hand on his shoulder. She thought about pointing out that most people returned to the capitol, but with the uncertainly thrown in, was that really a comfort? And even if it was, was it a comfort to know that she was alive again, just to undergo this in a new arena, at some point in the future?

She stood there for a while, her hand still there, not sure if the silence was awkward, or some kind of solemn vigil. There were no words she had to give that would make this better, so she offered none.

The hand on his shoulder startles him a little, and he stiffens - unused to such intimate contact from a stranger. He doesn't shake her off, but he continues his motions with a little more tension in his back, and doesn't try to look at her face.

There really isn't much to be said. She had to have heard the cannon, and by nightfall, when the names and faces of the dead are shown for all in the arena to see, everyone will know of his loss.

"I need to clean up, before returning," he mutters with a scowl. "These clothes will be ruined, otherwise."

The warden nods solemnly, and shifts the branch in her hands, glancing around. "Do what you need to do, I'll keep watch for others." She said quietly. He needed time where he wasn't constantly worried about others showing up--And if he wasn't worrying, that was even worse. She turned her back to him, giving him his privacy, but kept an eye on the surrounding area. Whatever had been the cause of the Inquisitor's death was long gone, it seemed. Which meant that they probably had the training, or supplies, to be able to stay on the move for a decent amount of time. A dangerous opponent. Unless it was a wild animal, of course. If the animal had hunted the Inquisitor for food, the excessive blood would be explained.

But why would a predator leave? Had Cullen managed to scare it off, even with his injury?

She wanted to ask the commander for the details on Adella's death, but hesitated, thinking it through. Making him relive it would probably just worsen the situation. She would have to trust him to tell them if there was a danger that he was aware of.

Eyes casting around, she found a decently sturdy stick, as long as her hand, and fetched a stone. The limb that served as a weapon rested against her hip as she meticulously stripped the bark from the stick with the stone, though she kept a continual lookout as she worked. Bark taken, the stick wouldn't burn quite as well. Then she walked to one of the trees, using the stone to pull at the bark of the trunk, until she found what she was looking for--sticky resin. The tip of the stick was rubbed on the liquid, and she headed back, holding it. Lighting it would have to wait until they were back at camp.

A mockery of a candle, really, but should the Maker be there, looking down on them, surely he would understand their situation. Or Andraste would explain it. Isn't that what she was supposed to do? Plea for their dumb asses.

Quite frankly, the clothes were already ruined, mostly he just needed time to compose himself. Just because they all knew the nature of his relationship with Adella, and thus would all know what he just lost, didn't mean he was going to make a spectacle of himself in front of the lot of them.

Still, he made the attempt. The water was icy cold, and the gloves would freeze solid instead of properly drying. He focused on that instead of anything else, and it took him a while to realize the Warden was doing something besides simple aimless stripping of bark.

He didn't know what to make of it. He knew nothing of this elf woman or her beliefs - many elves were at least nominally Andrastian, and she had none of the markings of one from a Dalish clan, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Perhaps it was simply a gesture of goodwill.

"That's - not necessary," he said, his throat feeling raw and dry though he hadn't really been crying.

She glanced over at him, expression calm, and shrugged, looking over the stick. Almost like a mini torch. "That's what you do, right? Light a candle when you pray. In the churches, there are altars with hundreds of candles, but I suspect that would be hard to come by." She held it out to him. "You'll probably have to light it with the campfire."

She didn't know if it'd do anything. If there was a Maker, had he taken multiple worlds into account? The only ones she had heard of had been the physical realm, and the fade, and this sure wasn't either of those. Was there even a god to rule over the kind of world where people made others fight to the death for sport, and seemed to enjoy trying to figure out how to worsen their suffering?

"But you should stay near the campfire, anyway. You're going to freeze to death with all your clothes wet." She continued, though she made no move to hurry him away. The site of your lover dying was one that had danced in her nightmares, but never in the waking world. Tabris' close friends were still very much alive, just scattered across Thedas. Except for one, but. Wynne would've scolded her for taking mourning too far.

Edited 2015-02-27 12:06 (UTC)

"I need to get the blood out, first," he said, firmly, scrubbing a little harder. "There's too much of it, I need to -"

He didn't know what he needed to do, frankly. Die, maybe, but she made him promise not to. She made him promise to keep going, to try and live. His fists clenched, and he finally reached for the makeshift candle.

"I - thank you for your concern," he finally said, politely.

"You need to get to the fire, before you die of the chills." Tabris told him, a little firmer. "You need to get some food in you, and you need to rest." She started for the camp, turning to look at him. She didn't want to seem unsympathetic--She wasn't, and she knew he was going through pain that she couldn't imagine. Thank the Maker, thank Andraste, and whoever else wanted credit, that Alistair wasn't here. But this wasn't a good place to mourn.

"It's not a problem, Cullen. I won't give you some crap about it being alright, but." The elf shrugged as she handed over her attempt at helping him. Telling him that it was just what Wardens did seemed so...impersonal. Particularly since it seemed like the Wardens of late had skipped the memo. "Think of it this way. Don't give them more of a show than you can help."

If those people were watching, surely they would enjoy it. Seeing a man mourning his love. It was right out of a tragedy, a play or a book. And because it was sincere, it was that much more moving. And she intended to make sure their show was as unpleasant as possible.

Edited 2015-03-02 03:26 (UTC)

A show. Yes, that's all it was for those monsters out there. They were probably watching everything. Had probably watched Adella die, as though it were a stage play and not a very real person with a very real life.

"I can assure you, I won't give them any such thing," he said quietly. He'd given them enough of a show already. "I'm not going to do anything rash."

"Good. They don't deserve it." She felt her lip curling up. What a disgusting mess of things. To have mourning your loved one on display for others to view at their leisure. She shook her head, and turned, starting to head for camp. She wishes she could give Cullen more privacy, but doesn't trust the arena. A man dying while mourning his beloved. It would be utterly poetic.

But she heads away, and give him distance at least, stopping only to make sure that he doesn't leave her view. It's what Wardens do. Help other people. Even when there wasn't a Blight, wasn't that their call?

"I don't care about them, or what they deserve," he pointed out flatly, finally standing to follow her. He understood - somewhat. She had no obligation to him, or to the Inquisition, but he understood that, being from Thedas, it was best they all stick together, regardless.

So he closed some of the distance between them, tucking his now-ruined gloves in the waist of the trousers he wore.

"She would never forgive me if I gave up," he finally said. Simple, direct, and true. "Whether she's alive in the Capitol as they say, or at the Maker's side for eternity, or something else entirely, she would never want to see me give up."

"Fair enough." She replied easily, returning to walking once she was sure that he was following. She wasn't too sure what to tell him regarding Adella's fate, for she didn't know one way or the other--And certainly not about the Maker. Nor how the mage would feel about the situation, as they had only spoken once. She supposed that this was what the sisters and reverend mothers were for, were trained for. Alleviating people's worries.

"I believe that you'll be able to do that for her. And wherever she is, you'll see her again." She chose the words carefully. Well, unless death was wandering the fade, that adjusted around you, territory ever shifting and changing it, making it impossible to find anything, and the black city ever looming in the distance.

But that wasn't polite.

Cullen's belief in the Maker was one of the few things that had remained steadfast in his life - even as his faith in the old order of things was shaken, even as he left the Templars and joined the heretical Inquisition, he never stopped believing the Maker had a plan for them.

He didn't know for sure if Adella was really dead, but if she was, he knew she would be at the Maker's side, waiting for him. Tabris could believe - or say - anything she liked, nothing would convince him otherwise. It was as simple as that.

"She believed in me when I didn't," he explained after a moment. "It doesn't matter where she is - I intend to be the man she saw in me."

Tabris' views of religion were confusing enough without trying to lecture people on theirs. And thus, she rarely told someone their views were wrong. Unless, like, their views were really fucked up. Like with the origin Haven, and that Kolgrim asshole. Fuck him. But he had a great axe, and her clearing out the city made room for the Inquisition, so hey, everyone won. Except Kolgrim. But again, fuck him.

Besides, if Andraste had been reincarnated, Tabris would guess that she would have chosen a different place to hang out than some backwards patriarchal hole in a mountain.

She nodded along when he talked about believing in himself. She often felt that way about Alistair--Believing in him, that was. She rarely required him to believe in her. In fact, it could be argued that she believed in herself far too much. Possibly even completely full of herself. But that just meant she had more belief to lend Alistair.

"I think you can do it. But more importantly, as long as you think you can, you will." She replied, nodding. If Tabris knew anything, it was that a deluge of overconfidence could get you surprisingly far. And if you didn't have the confidence, you faked it until you fooled yourself. "Ah--Do you want to tell the others? I can do it, if it distresses you."

"There's little to tell," Cullen said, trudging onward without pause. "Her face will be in the sky for all to see when the sun sets tonight, regardless." That was how the deaths were announced every day.

She had seen, by now, for herself, what he meant. Faces she didn't recognize, foreign names, written in the sky. She was confused and amazed, until she had learned that they were the faces of the dead. She didn't spend much time looking after that. She nodded at his words, and continued walking.

"Then we'll let the sky tell them."

He nodded. "I - appreciate the offer," he said after a moment. He certainly wouldn't have expected compassion from a perfect stranger, someone probably inclined only towards hostility, if the bit of him she remembered was anything like his last meeting with the Warden from his world.

Aang had come down to the river to gather more clean water. He had dehydrated himself running after the birds who sounded so much like his friends, and then he had dehydrated himself even more by breaking down and crying when he realized that it was birds making those noises, not his friends. He was still alone.

When he got to the river, he noticed the blood. The smart thing would have been to fill up his basket and go back to his cave, but the smart thing could possibly end with someone bleeding to death upstream when he could have potentially helped.

Aang is quiet when he walks upstream. He hears the chanting before he sees the man washing all the blood off his arm. There's blood all over him. Aang should quietly leave. He doesn't. Instead, he stays perched on a rock, not far away enough to avoid detection but far enough to give him a head start if the man chooses to attack him. He slowly crouches low on the balls of his feet, his basket dangling from his hand, big reddened gray eyes staring at the man intently. It somehow seems rude to interrupt the chanting. He'll be quiet until the man is done.

Even in this state, it doesn't take Cullen long to realize he's being watched. The size of his watcher makes it obvious that he's a child, or close enough as makes no difference, which to Cullen means not a threat.

So he continues what he's doing without paying the child much mind, at least for a few moments.

"I'm not injured, so if you're waiting for me to die you're waiting in vain," he finally says, his voice quiet. "This blood isn't mine." He assumes the child is a scavenger, waiting to pick his corpse clean of anything useful. He wouldn't begrudge him that, if he didn't have others to worry about.

"I wasn't waiting for you to die." Months ago, Aang would have been offended by the implication that he would ever dream of it. Months ago, Aang hadn't been very well acquainted with the realities of the games. Now, he just softly states it as a fact, staying crouched.

The man sounds... tired? Sad? Or maybe that's wishful thinking on Aang's part. That much blood means that the man either killed someone or held someone while they died. Aang likes to believe the best in people, even in the people he's never met before. It's gotten him into trouble in the past.

"I was waiting to see if you were hurt," Aang begins, "because I have a first aid kit where I stay and I was wondering if you needed it." He hugs his knees, still staring watchfully at the man. "Are you going to attack me?"

It's a silly question, since he would hardly admit to it if he planned on killing Aang, but Aang likes to think he's pretty good at telling when someone is lying. Usually. And he doesn't quite want to leave to cry alone again.

He does glance up at the child at that question - in any other circumstances, he might almost be offended just as Aang would've been offended by his suggestion that he was a scavenger. But here, and now, he understands the sort of logic that underlies it, even if it is a bit naive to ask.

"No," he says honestly, turning back to the water in front of him, to the task at hand. "Save your medical supplies. I don't need help, and you're in no danger from me."

"Okay. That's good."

Aang should go. The man is busy, and even if he said he wouldn't hurt him, it's still a risk to be near strangers in this place. Even so...

"What were you chanting?" He doesn't want to be alone. It's horribly lonely in the cave with only the memory of the voices of his loved ones. It's lonely knowing most of his friends are already dead or aren't even in the same dimension as him. So he clings to what little company the man might provide. Maybe it will distract them both.

He expects the child to leave, frankly. When he doesn't, Cullen looks at him again, curious this time. The question is simple enough, but he's found the answer is a bit more complicated for many of the people here than it would be back home.

"The Chant of Light," he says carefully. "The holy words of Scripture."

"Chant of Light? What's that?"

Aang now rests his chin on his knees. He's still crouched, but he's attentive, curious, even when he feels sad at the same time.

"I've never heard of that before. I don't think we have it where I come from." More accurately, they have nothing approaching the Chantry, the Maker, or anything related to it.

"They don't seem to have it in the Capitol, either," Cullen says, sitting up to wring out his gloves one last time. They're basically ruined, but there's not much he can do about it.

"Forgive me if I'm not particularly interested in discussing theology," he says flatly. "I think Andraste would forgive me for not spreading Her Chant in this instance."

"They don't have a lot of things in the Capitol."

Aang has no idea who Andraste is, but if she's at all reasonable, she wouldn't mind a man not talking to him about something. (Why would she even care anyway?)

His eyes follow the man's movements. He doesn't move himself. "Do you want me to leave?"

It's a frank, even question. It's okay if he's asked to leave. He learned a long time ago that sometimes people just want to be left alone for one reason or another, and that's okay.

At the question, Cullen actually gives the boy a long look. He looks as though he's been crying, his face is a little blotchy and his eyes are red-rimmed. "Do you need assistance?" he offers after a moment.

Aang hesitates, tilting his head to rest his cheek on his knee. He doesn't often reach out to adults for help these days. He's become too used to doing things alone.

"I chased around a lot of birds today. They sounded like people I loved." He shruggs in that way unhappy kids shrug when they don't want to show how unhappy they are. "I guess I didn't want to be alone."

He turns his head to face the blond man again. "Do you want to be alone?"

"They - seem to be doing that to a lot of people," Cullen says after a moment. The birds. He's heard them too, though they have no power to upset him now. Not after what happened to Adella.

"Stay, then," he finally says. The boy obviously needs company. Perhaps he can help him, if only for a few moments.

Aang nods, then delicately steps off of his stone perch. He sits on another rock that's closer to Cullen--not so close as to be intrusive, but close enough that it doesn't seem like he's prepared to run at a moment's notice.

"I'm Aang."

It seems like pertinent information, a name. He doesn't need the man to really talk to him. He just would like to be near someone else.

"I'm Cullen."

Company might actually be for the best, even if only for a few moments as he finishes cleaning himself. The last thing he needs right now is to fall into the pit of despair that's threatening to well up inside him. Adella wouldn't want that.

Of course, she hadn't wanted to die, either.

"How long have you been doing this, Aang?" he asks quietly.

"Um..." Aang has to count in his head, calculating the time he's been here. It's been a while. "Somewhere between six and seven months. That's three arenas and one mini-arena." Wow. It sounds so long when he says it that way. That's almost as long as he had been traveling around learning all four elements.

"What about you?" Aang guesses that this is either Cullen's first arena, or he might have shown up late in the last arena. Aang is usually good about knowing the faces of all the tributes if not the names, but after the last arena, he had been... compromised. He still is, but lots of meditation helps.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, frowning. That seems so much for anyone to go through, let alone a child. No wonder he looks so lost and upset. He looks almost the way Cullen feels.

"I arrived during the last arena, near the end of it," he explains quietly. "I didn't know then just how bad it was going to get."

Didn't know how many from his world would be brought here, didn't know he'd have to watch Adella die in his arms.

"It can get really bad," Aang agrees, beginning to hug his knees again, every inch a sad and vulnerable child at the moment. He'll be okay later, he knows how to pick himself up, but it's always hard when one's alone in the arena.

"But it's easier when you know that the people you lose here just go back to the Capitol most of the time, and you'll see them again soon. That's what I keep telling myself." And maybe that's what the man needs to be told too. Even after going through one arena, it can be hard to remember that no matter how gruesome and final the death, the Capitol usually brings people back.

"So I've been told," Cullen says quietly. "I can't say I'm finding it easy to believe right now, though."

Death is death - or should be, he thinks. But if Adella is alive, waiting for him in the Capitol?

"It's not easy to believe until you see it. Even then, it can be pretty hard. I'm still not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing."

On one hand, it's unnatural and stalls the Avatar cycle in a way that it was never supposed to be stalled. On the other hand, it's allowing him to keep hope that he can still save his world instead of killing the last airbender.

"But it happens. You'll see." He's not sure if that's an encouraging sentiment, but it's what he can give.

"I suppose I will, one way or the other," he says quietly, bending over to let out a sigh. "The Maker will watch over her, regardless. In that, I have faith."

He wasn't nearly as immediate as he meant to be. His run in with Bucky had ended up with him downstream a ways, battered, bloody, and soaked through to the bone. He managed to stumble back to where Adella fell - helpfully guided by the giant machine - only to find Cullen there. A pain sprung in his chest that had no origin in mortal flesh, and he walked over slowly.

"Commander--" He started, the solemnness of the moment bringing out the formality, but soon found he had no other words behind the first. Are you alright? He wanted to ask, but it was a stupid question. He'd heard the canon, heard the scream, seen the machine. Cullen was just the last piece of evidence he needed, to know who had fallen here.

Strangely enough, the formality may be just what he needed. He glances up at Dorian at the sound of his voice, his back straightening, his gaze clearing a little.

Being reminded of his position - it means something, even here. Even without her. He still has a place, a duty to those left.

"Is there something you need?" he asks.

"A hand back to camp might be required," Dorian said, a small attempt at humour, but still honest - he was so beaten up, and he was starting to shake. Spending several minutes in ice cold water didn't exactly help the whole gravely wounded thing.

The humour, however, felt flat, and he couldn't smile. He'd failed. He'd promised himself to keep the Inquisitors safe, at the very least, and promised himself especially not to allow Cullen to feel this sort of grief again - but he'd failed. He hadn't even managed to get here in time to even see her body, let alone be any use. The anger was there - bubbling up in his chest, raging against both himself (too slow) and the circumstances, but it did not reach his face. His worry and concern outweighed it, and for once, this worry had no place with rage.

"This place is growing more dangerous by the moment - we need to stick together. Now more than ever."

I'm sorry, he wanted to say, but the words didn't quite make it to his lips.

It was only then that Cullen really looked at Dorian, saw the state of him, and frowned deeply. He was still alive, but he looked terrible, bruised and beaten. Maker's breath.

If Dorian was feeling like a failure, Cullen doubly so. His entire job was to protect others, had been for most of his life. And he hadn't even been able to save the person he loved most in the world.

But Dorian was still here. He could help him, for now at least. Standing, he got an arm around the other man to help him stay on his feet.

"You're right. Come, let's get back to camp."

He nearly slumped against Cullen as soon as he felt the support there - he had been doing his best to look as strong as possible, but it was almost a miracle that he wasn't passed out, face down in the river. He sagged as if deflated, putting more weight onto Cullen than he really meant to, but didn't have the strength not to.

"I hope you know where it is," He quipped, another poor attempt at a joke. "I admit I've gotten somewhat turned around."

It was far from what he wanted to say, or what he meant. He wanted to console Cullen, wanted to reassure him. But what could he say that would manage either? They both knew very well the reality of this place. They'd both danced with death enough times not to treat it lightly. They'd both known their share of grief. How did one even begin to broach that canyon?

"It's this side of the river," Cullen said, supporting the other man without too much effort. Even with his injured arm, he was strong, used to wearing heavy armor, carrying sword and shield. Even after weeks of strict food rations, it wasn't a problem.

Frankly, there was nothing anyone could say to make it better, and Cullen preferred that Dorian didn't bother trying. The hollow in his heart, the aching void in his soul, those were his burdens to carry. He had no desire to share them with anyone else.

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the light shall lead her safely; open;

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