Note: I love the conversation that the Inquisitor and Cullen have before fleeing Haven. But I'm pretty sure that if my Inquisitor was facing almost certain imminent death, she would have given Cullen a good snog before she left. I mean I love the kiss on the battlements – I just don't think that it would be the first kiss between my Inquisitor and Cullen.

So here's a slight re-write of the scene before Anwen Trevelyan heads off to face Corypheus.

Update: tidied things up a bit - fixing some typos and some awkward wording.

Her hands were coated in blood – thick and warm – chafing between her fingers as it dried. Her limbs were heavy, the skin on her palms ripped raw from her staff, and no matter how many times she blinked, she could not rid her eyes of the grating pain as ash scraped beneath her lids.

All around her, the Chantry was alive with chaos. Children wailed and mothers soothed; soldiers paced and Chantry sisters prayed. The noise was deafening, a wave of discord that ebbed and flowed around her.

All of this is because of me, she thought, because I had the audacity to live when I was supposed to die.

It took all of her willpower to pull herself out of her thoughts and back to the present, to push back the uncertainty and the shame and concentrate on the moment. She needed to concentrate on the counsel of her advisers if anyone was going to survive this siege on Haven, she needed to concentrate on Chancellor Roderick and what were almost certainly his final words.

Through blood-stained lips, he spoke of an escape route, a path that led from the back of the Chantry and into the Frostbacks. Roderick was using his dying breaths to offer them a chance of survival and Anwen felt a slight twinge of guilt for all the times she'd called him an arrogant, close-minded tosser behind his back (and once or twice to his face).

She listened to his words with growing hope, although tempered with a niggling, lingering feeling of doubt; the path would be difficult, especially with so many wounded.

But were there really any other options?

"Here's what must be done," she said, trying to sound as authoritative as possible, trying to keep the trembling terror out of her voice, "Cullen, you have to lead the people away from Haven. Follow this path that Roderick knows. Then I'll fire the trebuchet to make another avalanche. Hopefully it'll… buy enough time to get everyone out safely."

"Understood – I'll assemble some soldiers to accompany you-"

"No!" she interrupted, forceful enough that Cullen started at her words. "The Elder One is here because he wants to kill me. I cannot permit anyone else to die on my account. I will be the one to fire the trebuchet – and I alone."

Cassandra opened her mouth to object but Anwen stayed her with a sharp shake of her head. "I have decided," she said, "only I will remain." She was quite proud of how steady she sounded, even as her stomach roiled with the sheer enormity of her decision.

If Cassandra had any objections, she kept them to herself, holding Anwen's eyes as she gave a slow nod. Then she turned, striding quickly through the Chantry to rally the huddled masses of terrified people. Josephine soon followed, stopping only long enough to smile at Anwen sadly, then Leliana, who gave Anwen's elbow a companionable squeeze as she passed.

Soon only Cullen remained, watching her with a curious expression that Anwen could not quite pin down. There was exhaustion, of course, from the recent fighting, and the traitorous quivering of fear behind his otherwise steely eyes. But there was also something more, something sad – almost tender.

"But what of your escape?"

Anwen gave a mirthless chuckle, opening her lips to say something sarcastic before thinking better of it and snapping her mouth shut with a clack. Instead a heavy silence wrapped around them, seeming all the more pointed thanks to the cacophony of sound that filled the towering heights of the Chantry.

She'd expected him to object to her plan; in fact, she was mildly disappointed (though she would never admit it) that he hadn't begged her to come with the rest of them. But then Cullen had in all ways shown himself to be a dutiful man, eager to voice his opinions when necessary but also able to put any dissension aside when a decision had been made.

And a decision had been made. It was clear from the tight set of Anwen's jaw and the stern pinch of her brows that she was determined to face the approaching force alone – and no one, certainly not her Commander, was foolish enough to try and dissuade her.

"Perhaps you will surprise it," he said, perhaps in an attempt to encourage her, although the waver in his voice only betrayed his doubt.

It is nice of him to try, she thought, and the tightness in her jaw lessened a little to allow for a tentative smile.

He shook her hand then, firm and business-like, and she gave him a nod that she hoped exuded reassuring confidence. When their hands parted, Anwen was struck with an oddly intense feeling of loss, with the sudden realisation that this was perhaps the last moment of physical contact she would ever experience.

It took an astonishing amount of will to mask her reluctance as she turned away from him and strode across the Chantry. But she wanted people to say that she had marched bravely to her end, that she had carried herself with dignity in her final moments.

She trusted Varric would make her story a good one.

"If we are to have a chance," Cullen called from over her shoulder, "if you are to have a chance – let that thing hear you."

She didn't pause at his words, didn't dare even slow her pace, knowing that her resolve would crumble if she did.

Everyone has to go eventually, she thought, this is as good a way to go as any.

And at least she had no regrets – because Anwen had led a good life, had done good in her life. She'd spent the years since the mage rebellion in Kirkwall helping as many as she could; protecting innocent mages caught in the crossfire of the Mage-Templar War, escorting them away from the areas plagued by the most intense fighting. She had saved lives, of that she was sure, and that was enough for her.

Of course things had turned out vastly different from what she had imagined when she was a child, before her magic had manifested. She'd dreamt of elegant gowns, sumptuous feasts – of fat, curly-haired children running gleefully through manicured gardens.

But she'd been happy as an apostate, in a way. She'd found a home for herself, at first in Tantervale, and then in Haven. But not just home in places, home in people. She'd met incredible people, got outrageously drunk with most of them, and in time they had become like family.

No, Anwen had no regrets.

Except…

Cullen's face suddenly surges to the front of her thoughts.

Oh, Cullen – with his cautious smiles and his kind voice, his eyes that always looked a little lost. He'd become her most trusted confidant, her most reliable source of comfort when the mantle of Herald became just too heavy to bare. He saw her when no one else did, the real her, and not just the image she liked to project; the facsimile of a confident, competent leader she so expertly feigned when in the company of others. He'd stripped away her disguises – and she would have thought that would make her feel vulnerable – but it didn't. He made her feel safe, and valued, and… whole.

And she thought that he might, just perhaps, feel the same way about her too. There were those smiles he gave her, the crooked ones that made even innocuous statements seem like flirting. And there was the way he looked at her sometimes – intense, thoughtful – heavy with something she thought might be longing.

She hadn't said anything of her growing feelings; afraid of rushing things, afraid that she might startle him. She'd planned on talking to him about them eventually, when it felt right. She'd just assumed she had more time. Clearly, she'd been wrong.

Oh, fuck it.

"Cullen!" she shouted from the threshold of the Chantry's great wooden door.

He turned, eyes wide with surprise from her unexpected call, one eyebrow arched expectantly as if awaiting further instructions. Anwen supposed she should say something grand, something heartfelt and profound. Maybe something in iambic pentameter.

Instead she stepped back across the Chantry in long, determined strides, hooked her hands into the top of Cullen's cuirass, tipped herself up on her toes – and pressed her lips firmly against his.

His whole body stiffened at the touch, surprised by her unexpected contact, and Anwen's heart leapt in panic. Oh shit. She thought she'd read the situation right, she thought that he might return her feelings. But obviously she'd been mistaken – stupid, stupid.

But then he kissed her back – and any lingering feelings of doubt melted away to leave only a thrilling, pulsing excitement in its place.

He sighed as he relaxed into her, the sound muffled against her lips as his mouth moved against hers. One hand rose to cup the back of her head, gloved fingers entangling in dark curls, while the other came to rest at her waist, his palm warm even through her leathers. And then he pulled, dragging her forward until her body was pressed flush against his.

The front of Cullen's armour jabbed painfully into her chest and the height difference meant that she had to crane her neck uncomfortably in order to reach his mouth. She could feel the cold of the Chantry sinking through her skin, causing her already aching limbs to seize in pain. She was tired and afraid, streaked with blood and grime from an evening of fierce fighting.

And yet it was perfect.

His lips were gentle at first, soft and yielding. But then the desperation of the moment took hold and he became more demanding, returning her kiss with bruising force. The hand on her waist slid to the small of her back, leaving a tingling trail in its wake, a frisson over her skin even through her many layers. He splayed his fingers wide, pushing her against him, holding her close with an insistent urgency. Their bodies touched from toe to tip and she thrilled at the contact, his body feeling solid and safe against her.

She would have given anything to stay in this moment forever, feeling Cullen's strong bulk beneath her hands, tasting his lips on her tongue. But an army was marching toward Haven and she knew that innocent people would be slaughtered if she didn't go to meet it.

Reluctantly, she pulled away.

When she looked up at Cullen, he looked a little dazed, eyes glassy with some emotion that Anwen couldn't quite identify. At first his mouth hung slightly agape, as if some question lingered there on lips left swollen from their kiss, but then the corners twisted into a smile, small but… pleased.

She smiled back at him, broad and lopsided – giddy even. She'd been imagining that kiss for some time, although in her imagination they were usually secreted away in the privacy of Cullen's office, her bum pressed against the lip of his desk as he pressed his lips urgently against hers, not surrounded by screaming, terrified villagers in the heart of the Chantry.

"Make sure you…" he paused, fixed her with a stare, "come back to us."

She nodded, holding his gaze as she pulled herself to her full height, lifting her head high and rolling her shoulders back in an attempt to marshal her strength.

With renewed determination, she turned and walked across the Chantry, her eyes fixed on the looming doorway leading to Haven and the awaiting army. When she reached the threshold she paused, half-turning to look at Cullen over her shoulder. She threw him a cocky grin.

"I'll see you soon," she smirked.

She prayed to the Maker that he would not make a liar out of her.