» When there’s nothing but the long way ‘round

[stumbledfromtheashes]

Iona emerges from the tunnel into blowing snow and ice-cold winds. She’s not sure where she is in relation to where she was, where Haven was, and she can barely see through the blinding snow. There’s nothing to tell her which way to go, which direction to choose. All she can do is make a choice, and hope that it’s the correct one.

Hope that she can find her people (her people, she’s gone and claimed them so quickly, but they are. Almost as much as her clan, almost as much as the Dalish) before she freezes to death.

So she chooses, forging ahead through the drifting snow. Maker, let this be the right way. She thinks, distractedly, that she might be spending a little too much time with Varric, the way references to the Maker and Andraste are working their way into her vocabulary. Mostly cursing, but still.

The wind cuts through her armour, and she shivers violently against the cold. Fenedhis, she’s freezing. Her armour is all well and good for battle, but not this. Not snow and ice and cold and wind. Nearly tumbling down a hill she couldn’t make out, she struggles to her feet and keeps moving. There’s a half-buried, burning wagon ahead of her, she can see the flames flickering dimly through the snow, and she shifts her path towards it. The flames die in the wind as she nears it; it doesn’t matter, though. They were beacon enough.

She doesn’t know how long she’s walked when she finally hits trees. She doesn’t much care; her teeth are chattering and she’s beginning to go numb. Which isn’t as bad as it might otherwise be, because at least she can’t feel her ribs. And her... everything else. She hurts. Violent shivers wrack her body and make it difficult to keep moving, as difficult as the wind and snow themselves. The snow is up to her knees and she has to push against it, push herself forward, slogging through it, one hand lifted in a desperate attempt to keep the snow out of her eyes so she can see. There’s a campfire, but the fire itself is out and the embers gone cold.

It’s a sign. She hopes. They got out. Cullen got them out. Kept them moving. Kept them alive. She’d asked it of him, and even if she hadn’t he would have done it anyway. It’s who he is. They’re safe. Alive. They have to be.

Her thoughts are drifting, and she drags them back to the present, to the snow, and the cold, and survival. Survival, most of all. Although she can’t help but think of Percy, a little, too. More than a little.

Trees break for open ground and rocks. Mountains. The right direction. A direction, anyway. The snow has died down, only a few flakes still falling from the sky, for which she is eternally thankful. She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking. She doesn’t know how much further she has in her. She is exhausted, the pain of her injuries burning white hot, and so numb it hurts.

And there’s another campfire. The snow is so deep that she has to pick her way through it, forcing one leg forward, then the other. Embers. Recent? She thinks. She hopes.

Left. Right.

Left. Right.

It’s stubbornness keeping her moving, now. Stubbornness, and determination, and a refusal to let Corypheus win. If she dies, he wins. If she stops, he wins. So she won’t. She can’t. She won’t abandon her people. She won’t abandon her friends. Percy. She might not have asked for the title of Herald, might not have asked for the Anchor, glowing green on her hand, but she’d gotten the both of them. And she would not shirk her duty. Her breath is catching in her throat, as she forces herself on, forces herself forward. Down the path.

She has to find them.

She almost falls, more than once, as exhaustion, and her injuries, and the cold wear at her. But she catches herself and keeps moving. Forces herself to keep moving. They have to be close. She has to find them.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Until she can’t, until even a single step more is beyond her. Taking a hitching breath, she collapses to her knees in the snow, chest heaving as she struggles to breathe.