Just some quick housekeeping about this story! Aladdin is based on one of the stories that Scheherazade tells to her husband in the work called One Thousand and One Nights. The stories are a collection of predominately Middle Eastern folk tales, and as such I wanted to make the heroine of the story Middle Eastern. However, since Thedas doesn't really have a strictly Middle Eastern based country, I played around a bit with what was available to create someone who looks to be of Persian descent. (It will come up in later chapters more). So for now, I hope you will understand Elya's descriptions a little bit clearer!
Cullen slouched negligently in the back of the cart, a battered hat low over his head. His usual uniform of navy blue superfine decorated with gold braid was waiting for him back home. For this trip, nothing ostentatious was worn, simple cotton clothing of low quality. He had one leg pulled up, an arm draped carelessly across the raised knee. Behind him and up on the seat, Blackwall was similarly relaxed, driving a pair of nags. The others of his company lounged in the old, rattling vehicle, supposed farmers making their unhurried way down the road.
What anyone watching them could not see was the intelligent flicker of eyes carefully taking in the rolling and wild countryside they were passing through. Nor the wickedly sharp weapons concealed at each soldier's side, shields hidden beneath burlap bags, and a staff hidden against the cart side. It was impossible to know that resting in a concealed pouch sewn into his clothing, Cullen carried a secret document entrusted to him personally by The Nightingale.
Blackwall lazily flicked the reins along the horses' backs, but the cart did not pick up speed. Cullen was content with their pace. Slow it may be, but it was not speed which they required right now. While they were within Orlais's borders, it was stealth they valued.
Ferelden and Orlais had been at war for two years now, and Cullen didn't see an end in sight. It seemed futile; Ferelden struggling to keep their borders while Orlais sought to conquer his young country. Emperor Gaspard was determined to have them back under Orlesian rule, and his forces were organized and disciplined. His forces had pushed through the Frostback Mountains, naval support aiding in pushing through all the way to Lake Calenhad.
King Harrowmont was supplying some support from Orzammar in recognition of King and Queen's aid during the Fifth Blight. And the Ferelden forces were holding Orlais steady where they were, but the war was destined to be a long, difficult one. The list Cullen currently carried would help keep Ferelden independent… if it made its way into the Commander's hands.
He traveled with a small group; his full contingency of soldiers would draw too much attention. Just him, Blackwall, Harper, Harris, Hagman, and young Perkins. Samson was following a day behind, keeping an eye out for anyone who may have been too intent on their passage. A reliable group, talented, and most were battle-hardened. Cullen had hand selected them for their clandestine travels, relying on their acting abilities as well as their talents. If they were caught, they would be executed for spying… which was technically not what they were doing. They were just delivering the results of other's spying, but Cullen knew the distinction would not matter.
Cullen's sharp amber eyes were constantly scanning the cobbled road behind them, his men carefully positioned so that each section was being measured just as closely. So when Hagman calmly reached for his hidden sword, Cullen took note. There was a potential threat heading towards them from the front. His suddenly sharper senses honed in on the harsh sounds of metal clicking together, the squeak of leather as it rubbed. Horses, Cullen determined. Mounted horses, several of them. Not good.
He knew his other men had noticed, everyone becoming instantly aware of the danger they were in. Cullen's heart rate sped up, boiling to that point of perfect resonance where everything became sharper, clearer. He could taste the tension in the air, feel the calmness settle over them all.
The first blow swung down from a man dressed in black armor, a hissing spark of light flaring from where Harris threw up a magical barrier, preventing the blow from hitting true. Cries shrieked from behind the foes' distinctive facial masks, a yellow feather emblazoned on their doublets. Chevaliers, the most elite of Orlais's forces. Maker.
Cullen sprang into action as Blackwall tried to control the cart. The jerky motion made it difficult for any of the now fully engaged soldiers to ground themselves, battling both the unsteady motion and rapier fast blows the Chevalier knights rained down on them.
Cullen brought his sword up, deflecting a heavy two-headed axe aimed at his neck. He cursed roundly; well aware they were not equipped for a full armed assault. "Go!" He shouted to Blackwall, holding his shield up just as one of Harper's daggers flew through the air and buried itself in his opponent's neck. The chevalier froze, then slid from his horses back, the creature bolting away.
Blackwall battled with the reins while trying to protect himself from where another opponent hammered against him. Cullen leapt to the narrow seat, placing himself between the two fighters. With single minded determination, Cullen fought the skilled knight, their swords ringing sharply from the strong clashes. The cart, despite Blackwall's attempts, failed to move.
Blackwall jumped down, fumbling with the traces. "They're cut!" He cried out, and Cullen's stomach sank. The scruffy animals reared and kicked, tied together by no longer attached to the cart. They wildly careened away, abandoning them. The cart was not going anywhere.
Just then, a shrill scream made his eyes shoot to the back of the cart. Perkins had his hands wrapped around the blade shoved in his belly, terrified eyes locked on the death mask of the man who killed him. With an efficient flick, the sword was removed and the boy crumpled, dying breath rattling out slowly. Somehow the noise overrode all others, sinking into Cullen.
Despair spiraled through him. Perkins was just a lad, barely eighteen. Too young. Cullen had known it, but had agreed to the boy's pleas bring him along, tactically agreeing that such a youthful looking boy would dissuade suspicions even more. He had allowed it. And now, Perkins's blood was on his hands.
Cullen cried out, Harris yelling wrathful obscenities and twirling his staff, sending a bolt of angry red towards Perkins' killer, setting clothing on fire. Cullen snapped back to his own fight, the chevalier pressing his advantage at his inattentiveness. With all the anger he possessed, Cullen blocked and parried, trying to keep some control of the fury that threatened to engulf him.
Blackwall brought his shield up to bear; yelling as he smashed into the man Cullen was fighting. The chevalier tumbled from his saddle and Cullen left him to Blackwall. He jumped down the carts opposite side and sped to where Hagman fought from a losing ground, his opponent from horseback having already inflicting grievous wounds. Blood flowed from various cuts, and the eldest of Cullen's soldiers stumbled, his face pale.
Cullen thrust, his sword catching between armored plates. The chevalier grunted, jerkily spinning and switching his attacks to Cullen. Hagman stumbled back, grabbing the cart and his chest, breaths heaving. Cullen gritted his teeth as he and the chevalier danced, but Cullen knew that he wouldn't be able to last long, dodging both the trained horse and the man on its back.
Another sharp cry pierced through the sounds of fighting. Harris fell backwards, landing on the cobblestone with a crack. His staff fell from his fingers, and Cullen could only watch in horror as one of the chevaliers sent his horse trampling over the mage. Hooves bit into unprotected flesh, crushing down on fragile bone and organs.
Distracted by Harris, Cullen didn't notice the chevalier on foot who came up behind him. He saw the flicker of dark movement too late, spinning in time to prevent the sword from impaling him. Instead the blade bit deeply into his lower right side, the slice of the sword so sharp for a moment Cullen didn't feel anything. With a snarl, Cullen retaliated, fighting with the burst of adrenaline pumping through him. On more even footing, Cullen clashed with this chevalier, ignoring all his impediments as he unleashed his fury.
Cullen drove the man back, away from the cart. He brought his shield up, blocking an overhead attempt, before changing directions and knocking into the man. The chevalier stumbled, his sword flashing out and nicking Cullen's arm in a wild blow. Cullen ignored it, pressing further still while his opponent struggled to find footing. With a strong twist, he brought down his sword, severing the man's hand. A high pitched scream came from the man's mouth, and Cullen brought his blade around, cutting into his throat. The chevalier's scream died with a gurgle.
Cullen spun back to the battle, taking assessment. Perkins and Harris were down. Hagman and Harper fought off two chevaliers, both bleeding and trapped against the cart's side, their abilities hampered. Blackwall faced off with a third chevalier, fighting over a smoldering body. Cullen clamped a hand over the deep gash on his hip, a wave of weakness dragging at his limbs. He gritted his teeth and readjusted his grip on his sword.
Harper caught sight of him and jerked his chin to where one of the chevalier's horses paced nearby, the beast's eyes rolling. Blackwall saw him as well and shook his head in warning. Cullen knew what they were telling him to do.
He wavered. The document had to get to the Commander; it could not fall into enemy hands or remain undelivered. But every part of Cullen rebelled at the thought of leaving his men behind. He saw Harris, Perkins, the way his soldiers and friends fought valiantly. There was a chance that Cullen's involvement would help turn the tide, but only a chance with his injury. He knew what his duty was. He knew what his men were telling him to do.
He turned and limped towards the closest horse, slipping his shield onto his back and his sword in his scabbard. His men were keeping the remaining chevaliers occupied, preventing them from seeing as Cullen grunted and fumbled.
He could feel the blood running down his pants, piercing pain radiating from it as he hauled himself into the saddle. It would kill him if he didn't get it closed soon. He couldn't prevent himself from grunting, but he steadied himself and gathered up the animal's reins. The horse danced, aware that a stranger was on his back. But Cullen was adeptly trained on horseback; he commanded a company of hussars, light cavalry. He skillfully collected the beast and turned down the road, spurring the horse into a gallop.
Cries rose up behind him, the chevaliers seeing him bolting away. Instantly he heard the clatter as they raced to follow him. Cullen allowed himself one glance back; Blackwall was the only figure he saw. The man had his shield up, his sword at the ready, watching as Cullen raced away.
Cullen gritted his teeth. Perhaps now whoever still lived would be able to get to safety. He was grateful for the horse's smooth gait even as he urged the animal faster. The sound of the chevaliers remained far too close behind him, and Cullen knew he would never outrun them. Not with his wound. He would need to lose them somehow.
Cullen veered off the road, a copse his destination. If he could just reach it, a forest rose behind it, a place where he could more easily conceal himself. He would worry about his injuries when he wasn't being pursued so closely.
As Cullen leaned over the horse's neck, the horse gaining more speed, he knew only one thing for truth. A contingent of chevaliers hadn't just stumbled upon them. Someone had tipped them off.
They had a traitor.
A gentle rapping on her door brought Elya's dark head up, an indulgent smile to her lips. She knew what that meant. Carefully she covered the mortar and pestle in which she had been grinding Crystal Grace, and set it down on her work table. Her tawny brown skin was streaked with paste, and she absent mindedly wiped them on her apron already liberally stained with a rainbow of colors. The simple dark green gown beneath had sleeves that ended just below her elbows, handmade but well maintained, a narrow band of leaf colored ribbon beneath her breasts the only decoration.
As she crossed her little cottage, she looked at her current menagerie of animals. The little bird with his wing in a splint tweeted loudly at her from his cage, hopping along the bar in restless energy. He was almost completely healed, just a day or two more before he would be ready for release, as he was vocally letting her know.
The rabbit in the hutch next to him, however, still needed plenty of time to recover. She had cleaned and sewn a long jagged gash down her side just yesterday. The poor thing was scared still, her head shoved in the corner. Elya had smeared a combination of elfroot, dawn lotus, and rashvine paste over the cut to keep an infection from setting in. In recent years, she had tweaked the recipe passed down from her mother and found it to be potent in healing and in keeping away infection.
Elya opened her door and looked down, but there was no wounded animal for her. Frowning she looked around; that particular knock always came with a creature that was in need of some help. Her mysterious friend had been entrusting these animals to her care for years now. Although she had never met him, once she had seen him very briefly, a young boy with almost sickly pale skin. For some reason he had decided that she would care for these injured wild beings and, Elya smiled wryly, he had been correct.
This time, though, there was no fennec fox or fawn to greet her. Perhaps out in her small barn? One time she had been startled to find a young halla in the unused stall next to her old druffalo, Tansy, and the chicken's coop.
She started across the young spring grass that filled the short distance between her house and barn, when an unusual lump caught in the corner of her eye. She blinked her brown eyes, the same almost-black as her hair, another frown creasing her smooth skin. It took a moment for Elya to register that the shape spread long across her garden was a person.
She gasped and gathered up her long skirt, lifting the hem. Racing through the open gate, Elya dropped to her knees beside the man, uncaring that the dirt would dirty the already stained fabric. Carefully she ran her eyes over him. He was slowly bleeding, the edges of his many wounds crusted with dried blood and debris. A portion of his shirt had been torn away, revealing golden skin with an unhealthy pallor beneath it.
"Messere?" She gently shook his most uninjured shoulder, careful not to touch any of his angry looking gashes. "Messere, can you hear me?"
The man groaned slightly, and a giant rush of relief swept through her. She let out a breath; he wasn't dead. She shifted around to where his face was turned to the side. "It is alright now, you are safe," she told him in soothing tones.
He had obviously been attacked by someone and had managed to escape the death they had tried to deal him. He would be safe enough here. Her little house was far from any others, and she received very few visitors. She needed to immediately start working on his wounds though. There was a very serious one on his hip, and she could see the raging red of infection puffing at the edges.
Briskly Elya stood and raced back inside. With a critical eye, her fists planted on her hips, surveying what she had to work with. Her table was too short; the man was tall and wouldn't fit across it. She would have to lay him on the floor, before the fire. Her eyes snapped up to the loft, and she quickly ascended the ladder to her sleeping area. She ripped the sheets off her pallet and lifted the straw stuffed bedding. It was not the most comfortable thing, but it would be better to have him on it than the floor.
She shoved the pallet over the edge and descended back to the lower floor, arranging it before the hearth. Swiftly she ignited the kindling and logs already set up in the fireplace, her hands glowing with a little burst of power. She turned to one of her work tables, underneath it a heavy canvas cloth. She spread it over the pallet. It would help keep the blood from ruining her bedding… perhaps. Satisfied that the area was as ready for him as possible in the short time she had, Elya dashed back outside.
The man remained unmoved, unconscious in her vegetables. She brushed a heavy lock of hair that had escaped from her pins behind her ear, concern drawing her brows down. Her eyes roved over his broad shoulders and long legs. The man was big, undoubtedly heavy. Paired with being unconscious, Elya worried that she wouldn't be able to get him up, let alone move him into the house.
She swallowed once and then squared her shoulders. She had to, that was all there was to it. "Maker, grant me strength," she prayed, then crouched down to his side. "Messere," she told him gently but firmly, "I am going to move you inside. It may pain you, but please understand I mean you no harm." She doubted he could hear her, but it made her feel better nonetheless.
She lifted his right arm and slipped it over her shoulders. Awkwardly she maneuvered around and wrapped one arm around his waist, the other keeping him locked to her body. She grunted as she heaved, pulling his torso up from the dirt. His head lolled, the only signs of life the faint shivering through his muscles and the low moan that dropped from his lips.
Elya strained as she slowly straightened her legs. Remarkably the man came up with her, his dead weight far less than what she had guessed. She usually was more accurate about those sorts of things. Her perplexed gaze actually looked to his empty side; it almost seemed as if there was someone else there, helping share the burden. But of course, there was no one. They were alone in the garden.
Elya turned her focus back to the unconscious man, and slowly she was able to get him upright, leaning heavily into her body. His head rolled onto his lower shoulder, sagging uselessly. Somehow she had gotten him on his feet, but Elya felt despair trickling through the brief flush of triumph. Even with her supporting him like this, there was no way she would be able to physically drag him the short distance to her door.
"Messere," she pleaded, "You must help me! I cannot move you without your help!"
He made no indication that he had heard her, and Elya felt the panic start to grow stronger. Suddenly he grunted and jerked slightly, and his eyes opened weakly. The light whisky color was glazed with pain and fever, unfocused as he blinked. White lines bracketed his mouth, pulled at his eyes. Elya gulped and asked, "Messere? Can you hear me?"
He didn't seem to comprehend her words, moments passing before he frowned. "Must… speak… Commander," his words came out halting and slurred, but clear enough. Elya gasped. He was unmistakable Ferelden! What was he doing here? They were in the Northeastern part of Orlais; an entire sea lay between him and his country.
Rapidly, Elya switched from the Orlesian she had been speaking to Common. "Sir, you must walk. We need to go inside." His eyes closed again, the lines of his face easing slightly, as if he had gone unconscious once more. For a moment Elya feared he would remain motionless, but slowly one of his feet pushed forward.
Relief made her dizzy as she adjusted her grip around his waist, careful to not pull at the skin around his deep wound. She settled her hip against his uninjured one and slowly they shuffled towards the beckoning door.
A Ferelden man and, based on his physique, probably a soldier. If he were discovered, his life would be forfeit. That is, if he didn't die from his injuries. Elya took a deep, calming breath. First thing first, through the door and to the pallet. She would deal with the rest when it came to her.