Work Text:
It had always surprised him how small she was.
She was a Herald: the title conjured up images of a tall, grave woman, with long, flowing locks and a noble brow. Someone like Andraste, pale and light-haired, with a certain sorrow but beauty to her as she stood in front of the forces of evil and did not falter. Someone human.
But she was different.
Unabashedly Elvhen, his Herald had the lithe and tender build of her race, with a sun-kissed complexion and chin-length, unruly hair in that gorgeous deep auburn colour so unlike that of his Andrastian prophet. She looked almost frail sometimes, with her small build and gentle hands, but her core was as much of iron as Andraste’s, and her will indomitable.
In the beginning, he had seen her size as something that would put her at a disadvantage. She was so small that the crown of her head only just reached the top of his sternum, and so slight in build that he very much doubted that she could hold her own in a fight. But Cassandra said that she held herself very well in combat, and slowly his scepticism turned to curiosity.
Some days later, he saw her work one of the scouts she was training hand-to-hand combat with to the ground, forcing a dagger against his throat, seemingly without effort. He quickly learned that her size also meant that she was fast, and limber. She could get out of every situation, every hold, her body moving in such a way that she just slipped from her attacker’s grasp and turned their moves against them.
For some reason, her height made the children trust her more. The young refugees flocked to her, asking for stories or favours or toys. She would sit with them, patiently, listening to all of their requests and gently explaining when she could not meet them. Her small hands carved fantastic animals out of wood, coaxing smiles from the little ones as they guessed what shape it would take as she went along. Blackwall sometimes watched her, and Cullen had heard him admit to Iron Bull later that she was better at it than him.
One day he found a small, carved lion on his desk. He was pretty sure it was her, but did not want to ask about it. He kept it on his desk, despite looks from his soldiers, and stared pointedly at them when they seemed to want to ask about its origins.
She looked like a little bird when she perched on the walls of Haven, looking at the daily lives of the people in her care. With her head tilted slightly sideways and ears flicking when she heard loud noises, she looked like a pretty picture. It seemed impossible for her to keep her feet still, tapping back and forth against the bricks as she observed the people, and him. Cullen felt her gaze on him often, but when he turned to look back, she never averted her eyes. In the early days of the Inquisiton, it had been obvious that she was keeping an eye on him because she did not trust him, but as time went on she sometimes did this little… wave with her fingers, and he could never suppress the little smile on his face as he quickly waved back before turning back to his troops.
The soldiers always acted like they didn’t know, but they did.
He had felt the touch of her small hand on his arm, and had so wanted to hold her hand in his. To see if it would fit inside, if he could cover it with his and keep her safe.
Instead, she had put her hand on his vambrace, and looked at him with a pleading look on her face, asking him to let her die. She had looked so small, so fragile, and he wished he could have picked her up there and then and carried her away from her death.
After that, their escape and the journey through the mountains had been a never ending hell of lyrium singing in his blood and that one last smile she had given him¸ played endlessly on repeat.
And then, he had seen her.
Now that he had her in his arms, he truly felt how small she was. Cullen had tucked her against his chest, his fur coat wrapped around her as well as he could to shield her from the elements. The sight of her figure, stumbling towards them with slow, dragging steps had taken his breath away, and before he knew it he had been in front of her in the snow. She had looked at him with those big, vividly green eyes, her eyelids fluttering as she tried to stay conscious. “Cullen,” she had said, her voice rough and stuttering, and he had made soothing noises, trying to keep her quiet as he checked her over for injuries. There was a lot of blood, and from how slurred her voice had sounded she probably had a concussion. “Don’t speak now,” he murmured, slowly getting up and walking back to the camp. Cassandra had gone ahead to alert the healers and get a tent ready so they could attend to their Herald.
“Cullen,” Siiri repeated, her fingers twitching as she tried to grip his mantle. “Ir abelas. It means – I’m sorry.” Her teeth clattered from the chill and he was about to chastise her for not listening to him, but then she flashed him a sleepy smile. “That’s w-what you s-should say after saying goodbye to me w-with such a b-b-bad Ferelden accent.” He let out an unbelieving laugh, looking at her with wonder in his eyes. She had said that she would teach him proper Elvhen, but he had somehow thought that she might wait until she was at least recovered. That wonder died out quickly though, as Siiri shivered audibly and let her eyes fall closed, suddenly going limp in his arms. He shouted her name as he started running again, praying continuously to the Maker as he made his way through the snow. You have brought her back to me, he pleaded, and You will not take her from me now.