"What a shit-show," Bull grumbles as he finally sits fireside next to Cassandra. "How you holding up?"
The Seeker uncharacteristically lets out a tired sigh, pushing the remnants of her dinner around on a beaten plate. "I find it impossible to say there have been worse days, I'm afraid."
Bull hums in agreement and looks at the Inquisition's soldiers camped down the hill from the Inner Circle's site. The tents stretch for a long while in any direction and warm light comes from fires every few dozen feet. The din of the men and women of the Inquisition celebrating rises up on the air to create a cacophony of sounds. It would be comforting if there weren't a pounding headache forming right between his eyebrows, he thinks. But let them celebrate. They've gone up against Corypheus' henchmen twice now and have yet to be defeated. If that means he has to deal with the slight discomfort of his head on top of the rest of his aches then he'll gladly take it.
"Have you been to see a healer yet, Bull?" Cassandra scrapes the food into the fire and it sizzles on contact. "You took quite a few hits back in the Fade."
"Stitches was after me the second we settled down," he laughs. "Just the regular aches and I'm sure one hell of a nightmare are all I'm going to have to deal with."
They slip into a silence then, no doubt both imagining what their respective dreams will hold for them tonight. Could their imaginations ever make up something as bad as what they just fought through? He's not sure, but he does consider drinking enough to ensure he doesn't dream. There's bound to be enough mead in the camp to knock out a dragon. He'll be sore for a while after fighting like that and the last thing he needs right now is a shitty night's sleep.
He looks down at the Seeker to find her staring out over the camp, an uncomfortable twist painting her strong features. Perhaps she'll never admit it to him but she was just as terrified as the rest of them as they wound through the Fade. Anxiety clings to her like a bad cold, weighs down her shoulders and pulls at the corner of her mouth. Her hands grip at the plate as if it is the only thing keeping her from re-entering that place, she has yet to properly clean her armor of the demon blood and the stench sticks to her as much as it does to himself. It would rattle him to see the ever-composed Lady Cassandra like this if he weren't so bone tired. They must be quite the pair.
Just as he begins to consider the idea of retiring to his spacious tent to begin writing down what he has seen, Cole appears on the opposite side of the fire. It should startle him, but he's been around the kid for so long now that it hardly fazes him. All it earns now days is a double blink to make sure he isn't hallucinating. Even Cassandra, who most of the time remains wary around him at best, doesn't budge. He's gotten better at appearing to them at more appropriate distances, it's not how it used to be in the early days with him showing up right next to Bull nearly giving the fully trained Ben-Hassrath, towering Qunari a heart attack.
If he hadn't been fighting alongside the…Spirit... Boy…Spirit-Boy? He's still not sure what he's meant to call him, but if he hadn't been fighting alongside him in the Fade he would never be able to tell he was even there. Cole looks as Cole as ever. After the Boss had assured him that he would be safe he had seemed to take the whole "we're in the Fade" thing as well as the rest of them. But he can tell that Cole wants to tell him something and from the looks of him nervously wringing his hands, he wants to tell him away from Cassandra.
Cassandra takes one look at Cole and her eyebrows scrunch together. "Is something the matter, Cole?"
The boy nods quickly and looks desperately again to Bull, his voice wavering and high as he responds. "It's not getting better."
Cryptic as ever. Bull stands and circles the fire. His joints groan in protest with every step that sinks into the still-warm sand. "What's not better, Cole?"
"Twisting, burning, suffocating. I feel dirty. Wipe the blood off, don't mind the smell. Brave face, a bright mask. Strong. They need me to be strong."
Bull feels his stomach drop. "Where is she?" Cole hovers away but waits for him to follow. Cassandra moves to rise, realizing at the same time who his riddle is about but Bull motions for her to stay put. "I'll go."
They move silently through the camps. Around them soldiers sing boisterously and laugh merrily while others retire to their tents for a well-earned rest. Bull moves as fast as his bad leg will allow him to keep up with Cole as they weave through the people, making no attempt to stop if anyone calls out to them. They push towards the back of the Inquisition's makeshift settlement in what feels like record time. The farther out they move the quieter it becomes, most of the celebrating concentrated in the center, here the fires have already begun to die down and conversations are low, voices spent.
The inky black sky is pierced by millions of stars and a bright moon, giving their path illumination. The wind has also picked up as the tents have become less and less crowded. A chilled breeze ghosts over his scarred skin and with it comes a smell that would make a less seasoned fighter gag. Death. The stench of it slams into him with ever step he takes. They're moving towards a smaller, offset camp where the wounded are being looked after. He should have guessed that she would have been here instead of resting in her tent.
"Cole, have you been with her this whole time?"
Cole's hat flops in an affirmative. "I was already helping when she arrived. Her thoughts… they're louder than the others. She wouldn't let me help her."
A song of wails and coughing, whimpering and screaming floats into his ears. People are dying here while only moments away others are celebrating. That's the brutality of war, one that he's far more familiar with than he would like to admit. A particularly brutal shriek reminds him of what he had heard on Seheron day after day for years and while that part of his life is over it doesn't stop him from digging his fingernails into his palm.
They move into the light of the first fire to find it surrounded by exhausted mages and herbalists alike. They're covered in bloodstains and other fluids that he'd rather not know about; their faces and eyes empty as they go through the motions of eating and cleaning themselves. They hardly seem to notice the two members of the Inner Circle brush by. One man looks up at him like he's going to ask him to mend a wound, his hands clenched at his side as if he's preparing himself. When he seems to realize that he's relatively unscathed his whole body falls back in on itself in relief and he returns his gaze to the fire.
He quickly learns to begin breathing in and out of his mouth instead of his nose. Dying never smells pleasant, the stories rarely say that you shit yourself when you die. Shit, blood, lyrium, and elfroot permeate the immediate air around them and stick to their clothes and skin. It'll take a good wash to get the stink out.
Wherever Cole is taking him, it's getting them closer to the worst of the screaming. This must be where the worst of the injured are being kept.
Cole stops outside of a large tent, larger than the Boss' tent by far, and picks at a loose string on his shirt. "In there," he murmurs. Bull almost misses it over the yelping.
"Not coming in?"
"There are others that I can help. She needs you to make the hurt go away." And just like that he vanishes, off to do what he can for whomever he deems needs it the most. While the kid is creepy, he does good work.
The inside of the tent has the most foul of smells yet, and the loudest screams. After a deep breath and a quick scan of the tent he finds the Boss' body hunched over a young soldier, her willowy hands normally reserved for lightning and fire glowing with a soft, soothing light he's seen time after time. Bull can almost imagine the gentle warmth against his skin as her healing magic is being pressed against a nasty gash on the soldier's arm The man thrashes in the grasp of two assisting herbalists, one a tall elf woman and the other a burly looking dwarf man, and he wails at the Boss' touch.
"It's no use," he hears her say. "I can't heal this properly. It's been unattended to for too long, infection has already set in. I need you to hold him down while I amputate."
"W-w-what! No! Not my arm, Your Worship! Not my arm! Please your Worship!"
Her bright green eyes connect with the young man and Bull can see the irritation lingering under the surface. "It's the arm or your life. Your choice."
There's a thump and groan as the man's head connects with the wooden table in defeat and he can hear him begin the Chant of Light. Bull decides that right here and now, the loss of this man's arm will have to be carried out by someone else. The Boss looks horrible and even from here he can see her shaking, feel the fatigue coming off of her in waves. When he thinks about it, he hasn't seen her in at least eight hours, meaning that she's likely been here the whole time.
"Boss!" He crosses the tent to the low table just as her hand comes to rest on a bone saw. "Need to talk to you."
"Not now, Bull."
"Boss-"
Her head snaps away from the soldier while one hand rests on the wounded arm and the other clutches at the bone saw. "Not. Now."
Normally, he would respect her wishes and listen to her order but this isn't a normal situation. She's too far-gone and too tired to realize what she's doing to herself. His hand envelops her shoulder and he tugs gently, moving her away from the table. The dwarf looks at him appreciatively, no doubt recognizing how bad her state is himself and takes the bone saw from her fingers. She doesn't fight him at all and allows Bull to guide her away from the table and out of the tent.
They don't speak as the travel to the far edge of the medical camp. He watches her closely, though. She looks angry, face bunched up in a sneer that could curdle milk or make a Chantry Sister cry, and her footfalls are heavy with long strides. She's walking like she's still in battle. Of course she is, it's probably the only reason why she's still standing and awake. Out of the frying pan, he thinks.