Korysaur

When the last man has walked through Adamant’s busted gates into the punishing glare of the afternoon sun, Rylen joins Cullen on foot at the back of the column. The evacuation is complete. Ahead of them, prisoners are prodded along in shackles, carts of the fallen rattle along behind brontos. They’d run out of funerary wraps about halfway through the count. The pale wash of the sky is segmented by threads of black smoke from the pyres in the rear camp where Brother Nicaise and his colleagues preside. The air reeks of sacrifice.

Somewhere in the mess of it is Rose, sequestered away by better friends to scrape together a moment peace.

Rylen clears the grit from his throat and fills the silence. “Still can’t quite believe we did it.”

“We did. I only wish that the cost weren’t so high,” answers Cullen. Rylen takes his meaning.

“One could argue that Hawke went out the way he was always meant to,” says Rylen. “A fitting end.”

A sudden surge of indignance boils in his gut. For her. For them. Cullen slows, letting a gap open behind the last soldiers.

“He’s a man, not a myth,” Cullen argues. “He deserved a quiet ending as much as any of us. Maybe more.”

“He spent his last moments sparing others a horrific fate. Tell me that isn’t a heroic ending for a mere man.”

Cullen knows the agony of something precious fumbled. A life they’ll never have that he’s certain they would have. There’s no denying the potency of their love, not anymore.

“She’ll never recover.”

Sand sharpens the wind between them as Rylen chews on the retort.

“Maybe not, but she’ll look ahead eventually,” says Rylen, shielding his eyes against the sun. “To new things. Other people.”

“Other people,” Cullen repeats. Sweat beads beneath his armor, streaking down the small of his back. A whisper of nausea curls in his gut.

“Comfort. Surely you’ve been thinking it, Cullen.”

The thought has trespassed too many times already, Hawke’s plea riding to the front lines haunting in its portent. It’s somehow repellent at the moment.

“Regardless of our history, I would very much like to not think such things.”

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Complete darkness had enveloped the room when he next opened his eyes. From the open window a solitary ray of moonlight crept through, allowing him to see just enough. He stumbled on his way to the stand where spare candles were kept, a curse escaping his lips. He grabbed the tinderbox and started striking the flint against the steel - a long process but in the end he was rewarded with a tiny spark, sufficient enough to catch on the tinder, thus the beginnings of a very weak, but serviceable flame. Setting his tools aside, he lit up the old lantern.

The water on the washbasin beckoned to him - it would be so nice to wash the dust off the road away. The water was cold, and combined with the sea breeze it almost made him recoil when it hit his face. He soldiered on, as he was wont to do, and dipped the washcloth in the basin. A bath sounded heavenly, but it was also out of the question as the hour was long past. He removed his underpants, and threw the to the wicker pail on the corner of the room. The rest of his clothes had already been taken to be laundered while he was sleeping.

A humourless laugh and a sharp breath escaped him once the cold water touched his chest. He ran the rag across his chest and under his armpits before dipping it in the water again. He cleaned himself thoroughly and put the cloth back into the water one last time.

He found a fresh set of clothes from his dresser - just breeches and a long-sleeved tunic. He put on his off-duty boots and grabbed the lantern. He walked the dark hallways of the Circle, heading towards the courtyard for some much needed fresh air and a special kind of peace that came when almost everyone else was asleep. He immediately spotted the lit torches the knights on sentry duty carried, all six of them burning like beacons in the night.

"Knight-Captain," the sentry closest to him saluted. Ser Malcolm, a young knight in his early twenties who had only taken his vows three years ago. His face still bore the more youthful attributes; rounder of shape, cheeks full and no signs of jadedness or tiredness. A Kirkwall native, the Gallows was his first post. Cullen recollected quickly.

He returned the salute. "Anything to report, Ser Malcolm?" He inquired, because I might as well do so now that I am awake.

The younger knight replied swiftly, with the enthusiasm of one eager to please. "No, Sir! No sign of trouble."

Cullen nodded. "Very well, resume your duties," he said. Ser Malcolm rushed to comply, leaving Cullen - once again - alone. Instead of heading toward the small dock, he took a sharp turn, walking towards the granite rocks that constituted a natural defense against outside attack. Once he was there, he placed the lantern at the feet of the rock formation and climbed up.

He had been here countless times before, and always at night. There was just something so calming about looking at the sea below him. He sat down on the smoothest part of the rock and sighed, content. His eyes closed on their own volition and his senses overflew with the smell of the sea water, the cries of night herons in the distance and the feel of the breeze on his skin.

Facing southwards, he could pretend that he was somewhere far away from Kirkwall, closer to Ferelden with its low valleys, untouched forests and snow-covered mountains. The only home he had ever known lay somewhere over the horizon, obscured by the cover of darkness and the early spring mist. He dared to hope that one day he would be able to return, all his broken pieces reassembled - whole of body and mind so that his siblings would see something of the boy they knew within him. So they could love me.

Some time later, the clouds dissipated and the sky cleared - the stars were once more visible and the light of the moons shone freely, painting the world with an ethereal, silver-white glow. For a reason unbeknownst to him, his thoughts rounded on that woman with the curious name, Shadowheart. There was something about her that had stuck with him; the minor resemblance she bore to Solona - their short stature and the raven-black hair perhaps. But Solona had been soft spoken, with an open, honest face.

Whereas this Shadowheart…even the name she had given him felt wrong, like it did not quite suit her. He briefly wondered if she had just lied to him. Does she think so lowly of me that she would be scared to share her real name with me, in fear that I will find her in this city of thousands and throw myself at her?

No, he concluded a moment's deliberation. If that was the case, she would have given me a normal name.

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