Heloise dreams, as she often does, of the day the Ostwick Circle fell apart.
There's a warm, solid presence beside her as the heavy footsteps of a dozen Templars ring outside the Elementalists' Solar. She looks up, and is relieved to see that the apprentices and enchanters focusing on fire spells look as they had in life. For these last few moments, they're all healthy, skin aglow with life, cheeks pink with it, and lit by the kindness of summer afternoon sunlight through spun glass. Even the boy, the one Knight-Captain Ghyslain had beheaded in the courtyard before the liveried soldiers had marched in, still looks well.
The boy smiles at her, pale as if bloodless, and his mouth seems to stretch on forever. And even if he's whole now, not a broken body and a bloody stump, she's far, far too familiar with what's coming.
Hel shakes herself awake and almost wishes she hadn't, because now that her consciousness isn't in the Fade, she's actually aware of the headache that threatens to pound her skull asunder. Worse, her stomach roils with nausea.
The metal-banded boot nudging her in the side does not improve her situation or her disposition. Hel rolls over, trying to ignore the nausea, and slaps her hand against the offending foot. She can't seem to gather the concentration to summon an element, not even ice.
"The Herald lives," a voice calls. Hel half-hears the accent, notes that it sounds familiar, and then pushes herself up onto her hands and knees so she can vomit.
Another voice says, from farther away, "I offer our sincerest apologies, Herald. We are unused to taking captives, and may have overestimated your resistance to ether."
And now that she's heard more than three words, Hel recognizes the accent, why it's so familiar: Antivan. They're Antivan.
"Wonderful," Cullen says from her other side, which means he's probably either seen or heard her be wildly, loudly sick. "You're Crows, then, I take it?"
"We are indeed, stranger! I did not know Fereldans were generally so swift to grasp such niceties."
Cullen doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to say a word. Hel can easily imagine his long-suffering look.
There's a scrape and a snap as flint strikes tinder, and then a torch flares. Sparks reach out from it, burning briefly against the black, and it illuminates the face of a Crow with skin the same golden brown as hers. He has pouty lips, she notices, and doesn't appear to be carrying weapons.
When she looks to her right, she sees Cullen. He's on one knee, hands behind his back — bound? — and he's staring up into the darkness and the men surrounding them with an expression of irritation that seems to be shading into impatience and honest anger. He's hooked his mouth down and the torchlight only casts a threatening glitter across his narrowed eyes.
"Herald," the man with the torch says, smooth and easy, "I must request that you make some effort to control your man-at-arms."
Her man-at-arms. If she had the energy to spare, she'd clap her hands to her mouth to cover the bark of laughter welling up. As it is, there's no stopping it, and the Crow arches an eyebrow.
"Is he not your man-at-arms, then, or is he simply not the one in need of control?"
"He's the Commander of the Inquisition's Forces," she says, because it's either laugh more or answer. And, honestly, if they specifically set out to capture the Herald of Andraste — well. Making sure they know who Cullen is can't hurt. Probably can't, anyway.
Only the Crows go completely silent. She doesn't even hear the creak of leather, only the faint popping of the torch's flame. After several moments that seem to drag on with their nails caught deep in her skin, one of the Crows Hel isn't looking at says something in Antivan. She can't translate it, but the tone is unspeakably dry.
"That is… most unexpected, but perhaps fortunate," the Crow with the torch says, slow and cautious, words careful as a cat's steps. He pauses, and then says, faster and more lively, "It is good! We have found you a meet travelling companion."
"Travelling companion," Hel echoes, hollow.
Cullen is the one with the practical question: "Where are you taking us?" And then, a moment later: "You don't intend to hold us hostage?"
The Crow's mouth turns down in exaggerated sorrow. "You will of course be released in time, but alas, your ransom cannot be paid in coin. Gold will not satisfy the Guild."
"What will?" Heloise crawls up and sits back on her heels. She ignores the burn in her legs as she tries to gather her thoughts. What could the Antivan Crows possibly want with the Herald of Andraste?
"Why, keeping those lovely, and yet sadly empty, promises your Ambassador made us in the autumn," the Crow says, and then smiles. He slips into Antivan, and at the liquid flow of words she doesn't understand, the Crows start moving around.
At least one of those incomprehensible commands must have been, 'Gag them,' because somebody from behind her jerks her head back, then forces something made of wood into her mouth. She's vaguely reminded of a horse's wooden bit, but it's rounded, and someone had the foresight to drill holes into it.
When she turns to look at Cullen, she sees a blond shadow, lit in flickering torchlight. His mouth stretches around the same style of gag, but his eyes are narrow from fury.
The Crows don't set a forced march — they seem to understand that an exhausted mage, dragged from her bed and then drugged with ether, from which she is still hung over, will likely collapse at that pace. But they do push and tug and prod them into walking some distance away from the former campsite. When Hel looks over her shoulder, at the horses they're being forced to leave behind, the Crow at her left shoulder pokes her with the pommel of a dagger.
"Eyes forward, Herald," he tells her, and Hel turns back to stare at the ground ahead of her. She watches her feet, thinks: left, right, left, right.
They go perhaps two miles before Cullen evidently loses patience with this farce. He stops moving, all abrupt, and then bowls his shoulder into the Antivan who tries to force him to keep going.
After that, it's pure chaos. Using magic in combat is already like playing one of those tiered chess games with pieces made of knives, but Hel is still tired and having a hard time focusing after the long walk. Worse, she's gagged, and her hands are bound.
She's lucky they bound her hands in front of her. She can at least point, and the gag will let her control her breathing, even if it won't let her incant.
She starts with chain lightning. It's easier than fire; she and lightning understand one another, and she can predict how it will move. It spins out from one Crow to another, causing them to twitch and moan in pain.
Cullen jabs out with his elbows and even headbutts one of the Crows who gets too close. Heloise does her best to back him up with ice glyphs and Winter's Grasp, even going so far as to encircle him with a wall of ice.
She's not sure it helps him much. It's more than a little crooked, and she's not sure if that's because she's swaying on her feet from exhaustion or if that's the way her head pounds from the ether.
It turns out Hel can't take the time to correct her badly-formed ice wall. One of these Crows is an apostate. He's strong, too; she can feel the way mana gathers around him, even before he shapes it. Something buzzes on her tongue, which only makes her reel even more, and then she looks up, realizes that the mage is the Crow who deigned to speak to them before. The one who'd carried the torch.
And then the sky splits open, lightning racing down in one long, agonizing moment. She watches the sparks dance beneath the stars, watches the purple line reach for her.
There's no running away, no locking in the shriek as it reaches her. It leaps along her limbs, traces lines of light, paths of agony and ecstasy too intense to endure, and her body somehow swims completely out of her grasp. She is not in control of it anymore; instead, it's a puppet on strings of pain.
The scent of blood fills her nose, the taste of it fills her mouth, and then everything goes, once again, black.
Heloise is getting seriously fucking tired of passing out. This time, she doesn't dream, only floats in a part of the Fade that seems empty. She surfaces from her so-called slumber in a long, slow drift. Like a leisurely rise from the bottom of a bath.
She almost wishes she could sink back down again. The Fade had been warm, and comfortable, and her entire body hadn't hurt. She can't decide now if her heart hurts the most, or if the headache is enough to make even Cullen or Blackwall or Cassandra long for death. She's tempted to see if she can brain herself on the rocky, twiggy earth beneath her.
"— it is not the fault of Antiva, of course, that she is here," the Crow mage says, probably to Cullen, "or that you must be punished. And we cannot permit her to blame our citizens. This leaves me, you must see, in a difficult position."
"Ambassador Montilyet," Cullen replies, voice thick, as if there's something wrong with his mouth, "has tried everything in her power to charter a ship. No trustworthy captain is willing to sail the Eastern seas."
"Yes, yes, we've heard the stories. Angry Tevinter ships sacking and enslaving merchant vessels. Angrier Qunari dreadnoughts using their black powder to destroy any ship that looks southern. And to add insult, pirates! One of them with a very large hat, I am told."
"Once those matters were settled — and the Ambassador has devoted her full attention to them — we planned to sail for Antiva and fulfill our bargain. But you keep this course, and I doubt Inquisitor Trevelyan will cooperate with you."
"That," the Crow mage purrs, "remains to be seen. But now she wakes, and I must begin the unpleasant task of punishing this attempt at escape. I must admit, I never excelled with discipline."
"What?" Heloise asks, and is faintly surprised to realize the Crows took her gag out. Even without it, her tongue feels thick in her mouth, and her voice sounds cracked. To her surprise, the Crow takes a few steps toward her, and then offers a canteen.
She can't reach for it — they've bound her arms behind her back this time and the Crow surprises her once more by simply tilting her head back, hand fisting in her hair. Stubbornly, she keeps her mouth closed, but he presses the tip to her mouth, and at the first few drops of water to her lips, she finds herself opening up for it.
"I cannot let an escape attempt go unpunished, Herald. It might encourage you to try again, and I cannot have that. The Guildmasters would be most displeased."
Water runs down her chin, even as it pours into and overflows her mouth, but it's so sweet on her aching throat. She closes her eyes, tries to ignore the vague humiliation of being forced to accept sustenance from the hand of a man holding her captive.
"I could," the Crow says to Cullen in an easy, conversational tone, "whip you for it. But you're no stranger to pain, no? It would teach you little, if aught, and the Herald would hate us for it. Her pain would be more instructive, but again, she would only hate us."
Hel can't even tell him that she already does, because she's too busy trying to swallow rather than choke.
After a moment, the Crow takes the canteen away. Not trying to follow it takes every ounce of will she has.
"Help him stand." This time, the Crow apostate's voice is cold, hard. Unflinching. "And unlace his breeches. What pleasure this manner of instruction bring him, the Herald's resistance will sour."