Harding Takes A Fall

Harding remembered it like this: one moment she was at the top of a steep hill studded with scraggly trees and dusted with boulders and peering down at a Venatori encampment some distance away.

The next moment, wet earth, loosened and weakened by recent heavy rains in the region gave way beneath her, tumbling her tits over arse down the hillside. The good news: a tree, trunk and branches bent like an old man broke her fall before she tumbled all the way down. The bad news: in arresting her fall, the tree also broke her leg.

Recruit Whittle winced as the Lieutenant slammed into the tree midway down the slope. Even from his position at the top of the hill, he heard the snap of bone followed by Harding's pained cry.

"You all right, Harding?" Goodwife Whittle's son could think of nought else to say, at that point.

In response, scout Harding voiced a few choice words in dwarven before shouting, "Do I look all right to you?"

"I was just asking, is all!"

With a massive effort of will, Harding kept a grip on her temper. She risked a glance at her left leg, wished she hadn't. Not only was the leg bent at an unnatural angle, she caught a glimpse of bone through a tear in her trousers. Already, the skin was purple and swelling.

Stay calm she told herself.

"Run back to camp and get help!" she called up the hill. Maker, but she hadn't realised how high up she'd been. She began taking slow, deep breaths, trying to focus past the agony clawing it's way up her leg and into her hip.

Whittle's reply floated down to her from on high, "I'm on my way."

Harding closed her eyes and breathed.


With a clear objective laid before him – find help, return with help – Whittle found himself oddly calm as he ran back towards the camp. The air hissed quickly in and out of his nose as he ran and soon he came upon the clearing where the scouting party had established their camp.

And, oh miracle! Standing by the fire, conversing with some Inquisition soldiers was the Herald his own self!

"Maker be praised!" Whittle found himself yelling as he charged into camp. Heads turned towards him until every man, dwarf, elf and qunari in attendance were looking at him. "Oh, did I say that out loud?" he muttered.

"Well, I don't think they heard you in Seheron," Iron Bull said dryly.

"What's the problem, Whittle?" the Inquisitor asked. No note of panic in his voice. Just calm as you like, as though he had every confidence of fixing whatever the problem was.

He knows my name! This thought blipped across Whittle's consciousness for a moment, there and gone.

Whittle took a breath. His moment was upon him. "Scout Harding fell down a hill and broke her leg." Said out loud, straight out like that, it seemed like a small, trivial matter when compared to the hole torn in the sky and the thousand year old darkspawn magister.

"Broken how bad?" the Inquisitor asked, still radiating calm. Now that Whittle had time to think on it though, that aura of calm could also be indifference. Hard to tell.

"Well she was still breathing when I left to find help."

The Inquisitor nodded and began issuing orders. "Iron Bull, grab that rope, Varric, pull some timber slats off that cart for splints." He turned to the elf. "Sera..." and trailed off.

She grinned and raised her bow. "Arrows?"

The Inquisitor shrugged. "That works."


Harding's eyes opened and the scout was mildly astonished to find she'd managed to drop off to sleep. Subtle changes in the quality of light and the way the shadows fell told her it was close to noon already.

Maker, where was Whittle? Knowing her luck, a Fade rift had opened on the path back to the camp and swallowed him whole. Goodwife Whittle, it is with deep regret we inform you of the death of your son. He served the Inquisition with honour right before disappearing into hole in the skin of creation.

Despite herself, Harding snorted laughter. The laughter died a quick death as movement sounded from the top of the hill. Given how well her morning had gone thus far, it was likely members of the Venatori encampment she'd spied earlier, come to kill themselves a dwarf.

Harding slid the fingers of her right hand around the grip of a dagger tucked into her belt. "Come on, then," she muttered.

"Harding? Scout Harding!"

The sound of the Inquisitor's voice brought on a wave of relief so strong Harding felt tears prick her eyes and wiped them with her free hand. She offered up a silent prayer to her ancestors and the Maker for good measure.

She worked past the dryness in her mouth. "Down here, your Worship."

If she craned her neck around far enough, Harding could just see the Inquisitor's party clustered at the top of the hill, Whittle among them. The qunari had coils of rope looped around his massive torso and began fashioning a noose at one end.

"I'm throwing down a rope, Lieutenant," the Iron Bull stated. "Don't worry, we'll have you up in no time."

"How's the leg?" the Inquisitor called down.

Harding shrugged. "Still broken." An instant later, the noosed end of the rope plopped down beside her.

"Loop it under your arms and pull it tight, Harding," the qunari called down. Moving as quickly as she dared, Harding did as the qunari asked. A moment later she called up, "I'm ready."

Wasting no time, Iron Bull began pulling the rope upwards in smooth, even movements. Even so, each time she slid towards the crest of the hill, pain lanced through her leg. With an effort, Harding bit back a pained moan.

The next time she looked up, Harding saw a pair of hugely muscled arms reaching out to pull her up the rest of the way up and into the Iron Bull's embrace; she felt about as small as a baby. As helpless as one, too.

At the top of the hill now, the Inquisitor quickly set about splinting Harding's leg with lengths of timber secured with short lengths of rope.

Harding watched him work with a certain detachment – as though it wasn't her leg that had been broken but another dwarf girl's and she was a curious onlooker. She thought she might have been going into shock but felt no worry at the idea.

"How you feeling, Harding?" the Inquisitor loomed over her from what seemed like a mile above. With an effort, the scout forced her eyes to focus. "I could use a drink," she answered and took the flask the Inquisitor offered. The cool water felt like heaven and she drained half the flask before reluctantly handing it back.

"Now we just have to get her back to the camp," Sera observed. "Shite, that's gonna be fun."

The Iron Bull hefted his axe. Much like the qunari who held it, the weapon was massive and deadly. "I know a trick," he said and began hacking at a nearby tree. Within minutes, he collected enough fallen branches to fashion a crude sled.

"Hold on, Harding, we'll have you out of here in no time," he assured her.


Back at the camp, Harding was discomfited to learn she had become an object of curiosity among the rest of the scouts who took turns wincing at the state of her leg and offering insights such as, "My grandpappy busted his leg when he was young and for the rest of his days, it always gave him trouble come winter."

"Alright, that's enough," the Iron Bull called out, "Get back to your duties. I don't want those Tevinter assholes ambushing us because the rest of you have never seen a broken leg before."

To the Inquisitor he quietly added, "Sorry if I overstepped my bounds, Boss."

The Herald shook his head. "Nicely done, Bull."

Sera smirked, "I think he just about scared the pish out of some of 'em."

The party looked around as hurried footsteps moved towards them. "Oh what is zis? Ah! An injury!" came an Orlesian-accented voice.

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow, "And you are?"

The Orlesian gave the sort of over-exaggerated bow more at home in Val Royeaux than in an Inquisition camp in the middle of nowhere. "Forgive me, Herald of Andraste. I am Renoit de Montfort, second son of Comte Montfort of Orlais. My family trained me in ze healing arts and wished zat I represent ze family in ze Inquisition!"

"A healer?" Harding sighed. "Thank the Maker!"

"You're a mage then?" Iron Bull asked, good eye narrowed to a slit.

"Maker's mercy no! I am a, how do you say, surgeon? Yes! A surgeon." Renoit squatted beside Harding and said, "Do not worry, I shall have zat leg off in no time at all!"

Harding's eyes went wide. "Wait, what?"

"Off?" the Inquisitor gasped.

"Oh, piss on that!" Sera exclaimed and nocked an arrow to her bow. "Damn noble pusbag!"

"Hey whoa!" Varric interposed himself between the surgeon, Harding, Sera and the Inquisitor. "I think we all need to take a deep breath and try to avoid anything that will result in the needless amputation of Harding's leg."

"I'm going to be sick," a noticeably pale Harding informed the gathering.

"Oh forgive me, my Lord Inquisitor!" the surgeon pleaded, hands raised in apparent surrender. The Inquisitor noticed what appeared to be dried blood beneath his fingernails and felt a touch ill himself.

"My Ferelden, it is, how do you say, not so good?" Renoit attempted to explain.

The Iron Bull stepped dangerously close to the surgeon who fell back a reflexive step. "Listen carefully, friend," the qunari spoke quietly. "I've seen enough wounds to know when an amputation is needed and when one isn't," he pointed towards where Harding was still struggling with her gorge. "And that isn't needed."

Renoit bowed again. "As you say, an amputation, it is not needed. I shall set ze the leg and provide ze necessary herbs to dull ze pain."

As the surgeon busied himself digging bundles of dried herbs from a crate, the Inquisitor knelt by Harding's side.

"Take my hand, Harding," he offered the visibly shaken dwarf and her fingers clamped down on his, painful-tight. "I'm scared," her voice shook. Varric knelt by her other side, "I ever tell you about the time Hawke and I went into the Deep Roads?"

The surgeon returned with a strip of leather and a steaming mug of some concoction that smelled like feet. He handed the leather to Harding who saw it bore countless indentations of what she suspected were old bite marks.

"You're gonna want to bite down on that," the Iron Bull advised. "Trust me, I know."

Harding took the leather strip and bit into it unenthusiastically. At the same time her hand squeezed down on the Inquisitor's even harder.

The surgeon placed the mug carefully on the ground. "For later," he said, "It vill dull ze pain." Kneeling beside her bad leg, he quickly removed the splints and rope bindings. "Zis is good work," he noted.

"My family also had me train in the healing arts," the Inquisitor replied. "Sadly I am better suited to the making of wounds than the healing of them."

"Oui," Renoit nodded. "Ve all have our burdens to bear, no?" He raised his head and nodded to Harding. "If you are ready?"

"Mmm," she replied through the leather.

"Zis vill hurt rather a lot, I am afraid," he warned.

Harding removed the leather long enough to reply, "Of course it will." before biting down with renewed vigour. Now that the moment was upon her, she felt no fear.

The surgeon's hands closed firmly around her leg and set the break. Varric winced in sympathy. The Inquisitor gave voice to a pained squeak as Harding's hand almost crushed his. He felt the small bones in his hand clicking and grinding together.

Harding herself saw waves of blackness rolling across her field of vision as she screamed into the leather strap. After a few moments, the blackness receded and she blinked at the feet-smelling mug as the surgeon lifted it to her lips.

"A concoction of elf root and refined horse shit," he said happily. "Wonderful, no?"

Harding sprayed the mouthful she'd drank down the front of her armour. "Somebody bring me some rum, wine, anything! I have a powerful desire to be very drunk right now."

The Inquisitor brushed an errant strand of auburn hair away from her brow with a smile. "I'll make sure you don't lose your pants."