A/N: Hello everyone! I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am for the long, long delay in updates to this story. Truth to be told, most of it has been finished for a long time, but since I couldn't really figure out the ending, I did not want to post any more chapters until I had things sorted through. Now, with some inspirational reading as well-needed push, I have. If you've forgotten what has happened previously, please don't hesitate to check out parts I and II again. I think it will set you in the right mood for what's ahead. Again, I'm very sorry for the delay and I hope you will appreciate the coming chapters.
It was as if he floated on a bed of feather dust grass. Soft, rolling slowly almost like waves but much more gently, caressing him. He heard whispers, carried to him as if on breezes, bits of conversation in which he had no part and little interest. Sometimes, he felt the shadows of touch on his skin, but it was as if the connection between that body and his mind was severed, as if he could not really be touched. And then he was yanked down.
Instead of floating, he was drowning. Arms flailing, legs kicking, he fought for air, for life, but he was held down until his lungs exploded and his mouth was filled with dirt, as if he was suddenly under the earth, buried alive, surrounded by moist dirt and a rhythmic, humming noise like insects, only bigger, nastier – and excited. The stench of death, of foul, rancid flesh, filled his mind, made his skin crawl, made him want to retch, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the inescapable fact that he would die.
Only… he did not die.
Slowly, timelessly later, he felt as if he could breathe again. It hurt, but there was air in his lungs, not water or dirt, and that, he decided, was a good thing. He no longer felt the grips of invisible hands either, and he was pleased to gather that whatever he lay on it was most probably a straw mattress, judging by the feel of it and the faint smell of warm, dry grass. When at long last he willed himself to open his eyes, he was in a room.
Room was perhaps too generous a description, it was more like the cell of a Chantry Sister – which, he thought, was probably the original purpose. There was nothing more in the room other than the bed in which he lay, a simple nightstand and a small chest for personal effects. A holy symbol hung one of the walls, but that was the only decoration. There were no ornaments, no carpet on the stone floor, nothing to suggest that someone actually lived there.
He felt slightly disoriented but sat up anyway, albeit slowly. His limbs were all fully functional, and he was pleased to notice that he was dressed, if somewhat scantily, as there was no shirt.
There was, however, a large pad of cloth covering his side, secured with bandage that wound its way around his midsection, and as it looked clean enough he decided not to study it further but instead try to find someone to talk to.
Walking proved to be something of a challenge. Every step caused pain to jolt through his body and the sense of disconnection seemed to remain, because now and then he would miscalculate his step and set his foot down too hard, or not at all, resulting in him stumbling pathetically through an empty corridor, grasping at the bare walls for support. If he fell, he was not entirely sure he could get up again on his own.
The corridor ended with a small, simple door which opened silently into a large hall. No, he realized after a few steps, not a hall: it was a Chantry.
He had entered one of the side chambers, where bookshelves lined one of the walls, filled with holy scriptures. The other wall was missing, opening the hall to the main chamber of the Chantry, where candelabras shone a soft, golden light over the dark, grey stones and the tapestries. There was the statue of Andraste at the altar, bathed in the light from the burning candles and the Eternal Flame and the bluish darkness from outside the high windows, incense and flowers at her feet. And in front of her, kneeling, was Julien.
He was dressed in simple clothes, no armor, and there were no weapons at his side. Perhaps he did not fear an attack in the sanctuary of the Bride of the Maker. Indeed, it did not appear very dangerous, empty and silent and peaceful. Not entirely silent though. There was the steady flow of murmur from where Julien was, soft-spoken words, a prayer.
"Take from me a life of sorrow, lift me from a world of pain…"
Nicolas was not very familiar with the Chant of Light, having never been properly educated in its verses, but even he recognized the words. It was the Canticle of Transfigurations, the chapter normally thought of as Andraste's prayer. It was a prayer of devotion, of surrendering oneself to the Maker, body, mind and soul.
"Touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval…"
Nicolas did not like the prayer, particularly. He did not appreciate the idea of the Maker demanding his followers to give up everything they were and hand it over to someone who had long since abandoned them. In all right, any prayer should be directed to Andraste. She would at least consider the request before deciding not to grant it.
Still, there was something heart-warming about the scene in front of him. Julien was a large man, strong and able, yet here he was, crouching down on a cold stone floor in the middle of the night, illuminated only by candlelight, putting his life and destiny in the hands of the Maker. It was humbling.
"For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give."
Nicolas stepped forward then, in slightly better command of himself than earlier, but he did not manage many steps before Julien heard the noise, opened his eyes and turned around.
"I did not realize you were a religious man" Nicolas said, having stopped in his steps and unsure of what else to say. In the shimmering light and with the distance between them, he could hardly make out Julien's expression, much less discern what the little he saw really meant.
"Nicolas?"
Surprise. Incredulity. Exaltation? Longing?
"In the flesh" Nicolas said, attempting to sound casual but failing, as he still needed to support himself with one hand on the wall and felt the exertion of walking and standing pulling him down. He did not fall though, because within moments Julien was on his feet and right in front of him, hands on Nicolas' arms, holding him upright.
"How long have I been gone?" he asked as they made their way to one of the benches.
"Almost four days" replied Julien, his voice trembling slightly. "I thought…"
He trailed off, unable to form the words, but Nicolas could well imagine what those words would be. With a smile he took Julien's hand and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.
"I didn't die" he said. "And neither did you. How's your arm?"
He remembered exactly where the wound had been but could see not any bandaging. Perhaps underneath the sleeve of the shirt?
"It was merely a scratch" Julien said, shrugging. "A lot of blood but not much else. How are you feeling?"
"Rather pathetic" Nicolas admitted. "Weak, sick, feverish. Do you know if it's bad?"
He guessed it was. It must be, if it had kept him unconscious for four days and still made him hurt all over with every movement. But it had not been that bad, surely? A shallow cut, however long, once cleaned would heal. Right? He made a motion to disengage the bandage patching him up, but Julien stopped him.
"What?" he asked, but the dark-haired man only shook his head.
"Let us go back to the room first" he said, then, more imploringly as Nicolas did not immediately accept the suggestion: "Please, Nicolas."
Nicolas would have liked to stay in the Chantry. Its dim lightning and the silence was welcome to him after the disturbing dreams that had haunted him. Still, he gave in to Julien's request and that proved to be a good thing. When they got back to the barren room Nicolas felt hot and cold, shivering violently with fever and exhaustion. He had no more than lain his head down on the pillow when he was caught again in dreams, nightmarish visions of blood and rotting flesh and the incessant humming noise, and he was lost to the world again.
