Cullen fights the darkness around him, unmoving limbs still thrashing furiously in his mind, still tearing and sifting through the black nothing that claws at his thoughts, desperate to grasp a thread of light to pull him back. They come up empty for too long. Bleakly he thinks that this, this is how it ends. Not with his brothers at the Tower, not with his Order at the Gallows. Nor with his soldiers at Haven, but instead here. Alone with his carelessness, and little more than a feeling of--
...of warmth? Is this it, to be called to the Maker's side? To feel your pain washed away, and hear your own breath of relief? To know that you are filled with light, before you even open your eyes to see? To wake up beyond the mortal word to--
--stiff limbs, a throbbing head and ice cold nausea, and the blurred vision of something which looks remarkably like a certain blighted Warden mage. Cullen lets out a frustrated groan.
Passing out of the world, in that Void shall they wander; O unrepentant, faithless, treacherous, They who are judged and found wanting Shall know forever the loss of the Maker's love. Only Our Lady shall weep for them.
no subject
...of warmth? Is this it, to be called to the Maker's side? To feel your pain washed away, and hear your own breath of relief? To know that you are filled with light, before you even open your eyes to see? To wake up beyond the mortal word to--
--stiff limbs, a throbbing head and ice cold nausea, and the blurred vision of something which looks remarkably like a certain blighted Warden mage. Cullen lets out a frustrated groan.
Passing out of the world, in that Void shall they wander;
O unrepentant, faithless, treacherous,
They who are judged and found wanting
Shall know forever the loss of the Maker's love.
Only Our Lady shall weep for them.