Ceyrabeth was furious. She had spent most of her life more or less angry, but this was a feeling she hadn't had to deal with in a long time- this pulsing, glittering scratch at the back of her eyes that periodically sent little stars floating across her vision. That thrice damned idiot Knight-Lieutenant Parette…but he was dead now, and that was half the problem. That creature…Chirak, or whatever it was called…and the master that bound it. What kind of man was this Captain Sul, that spoke with such intelligence and compassion but kept flesh-eating monsters at his side like a pet Mabari?
She wished to the Maker that she hadn't had to speak up. It was not in her best interests to have the Captain's eye on her. There was so much she stood to lose if he looked too deeply, and spoke too indecorously. But it had happened and now she found herself in the rather incongruous position of being spokeswoman for her fellow Templars.
Between the humiliation of the bog, the uncertainty of imprisonment, and the raw terror the creature Chirak had instilled, they could hardly still be called Templars. Even Keiran's unfailingly upbeat outlook was faltering. He sat on the edge of the courtyard, the boy Arryn sitting beside him with a bleak look on his young face. The poor mage had simply seen too much, re-lived too much and he was just plain tired.
Stars hit Ceyrabeth's eyes and she pulled in a deep breath, her hand automatically touching the pouch that contained her lyrium dose. No, she told herself, even though the desire to take it made her muscles clench painfully. She only had one left, having given her spare to Ser Mathias after their supply sank to the bottom of the bog. She would be damned before she would go begging to Captain Sul for lyrium, so she had to make it last.
Stars again. She had to get herself under control. The past didn't matter. Now, she had to make sure they all had a future. "We have to decide who is going to speak, and what we're going to speak for. Quin, you're the ranking…"
"What's the point?" Ser Mathias was still looking a little green around the edges, but Ceyrabeth figured that was the result when you vomited up half your weight in bog water. "We're all going to die here anyway. That madman is just playing with us."
"We don't know that…"
"Did you get a good look at his face?" Ser Tregan said ominously before making a sign to ward off evil. "Something's not right there. I think he's cursed…"
Ser Corellan rolled his eyes, "You think everything is cursed, Treg. I'm surprised you don't insist your breakfast be purified every morning…"
"Better than being tainted! I've seen what the taint does to a man…"
"We were all at Ostagar, Tregan…you don't have to piss your pants over darkspawn…"
Ceyrabeth saw Keiran's shoulders hunch at the mention of Ostagar. It had been his first real battle and it was a good thing that none of them had actually needed to fight because it was all he could do to not vomit all over his armor. She was grateful that she had been the one to find him behind the tent, head hunched over his knees and unbidden tears making tracks down his young cheeks. He was steady as a rock against human opponents; the sheer numbers and monstrous nature of the darkspawn hoard had simply been too much of a shock to the young farm boy. Ceyrabeth had just picked him up, gave him her sash to mop up the evidence of tears, and told him to stick close. She imagined that Arryn too didn't need the thought of darkspawn of all things crowding his already tortured young mind.
"Enough!" Ceyrabeth barked. They all stopped bickering, mostly from the novelty of having Ceyrabeth command them. She was usually quiet, never questioning orders, never drawing attention to herself. Capable in a fight, but never one to boast about it later. "Do you trust your Maker, or don't you? Remember…
'Though all before me is shadow,
yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"
She looked at each of her brothers in turn, conviction making her dark eyes look impossibly large. "This is exactly what Sul wants. He wants us scared and scattered and bickering amongst ourselves. Every shot we take at each other is a shot he doesn't have to take, and it makes us weak. We are not weak! We are Templars, and we will start acting like it."
Her speech had the desired effect. Faces lightened as her words took hold, the Canticle of Trials adding steel to their spine as they were reminded of their holy duty. Ceyrabeth caught sight of Captain Sul's Qunari shadow watching them from across the way and Ceyrabeth lifted her chin defiantly. By the Maker, when they came to get them, they would find them a united force and singing the Maker's praises.
"'Oh Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights'," Ceyrabeth felt a little awkward singing the canticle without accompaniment- she was well aware that she would never be asked to join the Orlesian Temple Choir. But she pressed on, making up in assurance what she lacked in melody. "'Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places'."
Ser Keiran, bless his endearing heart, joined her on verse two and before long every Templar captive had joined in. Ceyrabeth felt a fierce satisfaction when Sul's elven lieutenant finally came to fetch them and they were all singing with a reasonably harmonious fervor. With the entire company united in their song, there was absolutely no way that they hadn't been heard in every corner of the Phoenix Legion's compound.
It was a delicious bout of rebellion, Ceyrabeth decided, but as they entered the command tent she realized; she should have taken the lyrium. Maker damn her, but she should have taken it. Ceyrabeth knew that the second she saw Captain Sul's face again and instead of fear or respect she felt a fissure of rage. Not anger; that was too tame a word. She wanted to rip and tear and rend, to see that self-assured demeanor lay in tatters at her feet. She wanted to lay into his precious Phoenix Legion with all her strength and shred it to tatters, like he had done to her Order. They were trapped, demoralized, terrified, and it was all his fault. He reminded Ceyrabeth of her…the woman whose name Ceyrabeth never said if she could help it…all cold, quiet arrogance and nauseating self-righteousness.
She glared at Lieutenant Pellinore, who was rolling out a piece of parchment on the desk in preparation to record the negotiations. She could take him easily, she decided. He was older, not as watchful as he should be. Ceyrabeth didn't realize that her hand was closing over her sword until Reaper Maul's raucous voice bellowed over the tent…"Oy girlie! You're not planning on doing anything bloody stupid are you?"
Ceyrabeth's head swung to face him, startled out of her less-than-gentle thoughts. She flashed him a smile, one that was indistinguishable from a teasing grin unless you happened to look in her eyes. "Would I tell you if I was?" She asked sweetly. "Especially with the threat of being…what was it? Skull fucked and beaten to death with my own arm? Or…" She turned back to Sul. "Is it cleaner to just feed me to an abomination? I'd hate to inconvenience you, Captain."
She should tone down the sarcasm, if Pellinore's scowl of disapproval and Maul's throaty growl were any indication. Even the cat on Sul's lap raised its head and narrowed its one eye at her tone. But Sul himself didn't seem to mind; he simply held up his hand and the room immediately fell silent again. "May I assume you will be the speaker for your men, Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin?"
"Yes, sir." She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Well, where his eyes would be anyway. "I claim a grievance, Captain."
"Do you indeed?"
"I do." Ceyrabeth almost faltered at his tone. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter, she thought to herself, and stood a little taller. "It is in regards to our former Knight-Lieutenant. A Templar bows to no authority save the Chantry, and declaring yourself to be a higher law does not make it so. 'As there is but one world," She quoted the Canticle of Transfigurations with calm conviction, "'One life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.'"
"So I am a god now?" Sul asked mildly.
Nervous laughter rippled amongst the Legion despite the fact that she had just not-so-subtly insulted every single member of the Legion in one fell swoop, and implied their captain was a blasphemous pretender. Ceyrabeth half expected to be tackled to the ground and be bludgeoned to death or have her heart ripped out; she decided to keep talking until it actually happened. "Thus, I maintain that the right to judge him was not yours, but ours. You robbed us of that right, insulted our authority and that of the Maker, and therefore I request recompense for his life."
And now she was practically calling him a thief. She heard Ser Corellan's groan of dismay, Ser Quinlan's whispered "Maker, protect us…" But really, what did Ceyrabeth-or any of them for that matter- have to lose? She had already seen the horrors Captain Sul and his pets were capable of and since the combination of lyrium depravation and abject terror was pumping an exorbitant amount of courage-building fury through her veins, she figured that she may as well use it to hFer advantage. At best, he would reward her for her conviction. At worst, she would be a meal for an abomination. And if Captain Sul really was just toying with them and they all died anyway, at least she could stand proud at the Maker's side in the knowledge that she had not faltered. All that the Maker has wrought is in his hand, beloved and precious to him.
The camp had become very quiet. Captain Sul's expression remained utterly inscrutable. If only I could see his eyes.
The silence continued to stretch, transitioning from uncomfortable to unbearable. Several of the members of the Legion exchanged looks as they contemplated what form the coming apocalypse would take.
Casually, Sul reached for another strip of dried ham and fed it to the purring cat on his lap. He smiled faintly at the sight and scratched the cat lightly under the chin.
The silence continued to stretch on and Ceyrabeth felt her unease reach the breaking point, "Well?!" she demanded.
Sul calmly turned his attention to her, "Well, what?"
That bastard. He knew exactly what. "Do you acknowledge my grievance, or don't you?" She ground out, even as she felt heat rush to her cheeks.
"Yes, I heard you the first time, Ser Knight," Sul leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, "I'm curious to know what you're going to do about it."
"I—" The young woman stopped, completely off balance. What in the Void could she do about it, really? Don't let him intimidate you! She thought, and stuck her chin out defiantly, "The Order dictates—"
"As you wish."
Ceyrabeth stopped short again, "What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"You wish to settle your grievance?"
"Yes!" She felt her blood pounding in her head as the desire to pull this man limb from limb reemerged. She was dimly aware that something was off- the overwhelming desire for violence was almost frightening in its intensity, even to her.
"Very well then. What are your terms?"
"My-?"
One eyebrow arched, "Surely you do not require another reminder of the definition of the word 'terms'?"
Laughter began to echo around the camp as Ceyrabeth ground her teeth together so hard they hurt. That Maker-damned, unfeeling mongrel was toying with her! She clenched her fists to still the shaking in her hands, "The Order demands justice!"
"And you speak for the Order, I take it?"
Ceyrabeth injected as much acid as she could into her tone, "I realize that seeing may be hard for you, but I am the one standing here in Templar Armor…"
"I see more than you know," his tone exceeded her own for sheer toxicity, "For instance, your armor does not fit you very well. It was not made for you. Is it customary for a woman in your position to inherit second-hand armor?"
"Is it customary for a man in your position to examine a lady's garb in such detail?" She shot back.
"It customary for a man in my position to examine every detail, no matter how…insignificant they may seem at first." More quiet laughter. Ceyrabeth cursed herself for leaving herself so vulnerable but she simply raised her chin and glared at him. "Well Ser Ceyrabeth; if the Order demands justice, if you demand justice," the older man spread his arms magnanimously, "Claim it."
Claim it? Claim what? Did he really think that she was going to draw her sword and attack him in the middle of his bodyguards? How truly stupid did he think she was? Ceyrabeth cast about as it began to sink in how truly alone her and her brethren really were. Her burst of defiance was rapidly wearing off. She was foundering, and she knew it. "In the name of the Maker I…I demand that you disband your forces and surrender to the rightful authority of the Chantry!"
"No."
Ceyrabeth was flailing madly for some stable ground, a position of strength, anything that would allow her to regain her equilibrium, "'No'?." She almost shrieked, "What do you mean 'no'?"
"The word is self-explanatory," He stroked the cat at his lap with practiced ease, "I should think that the implications are as well."
"The Order dictates—"
"What the Templar order, or the Orlesian Chantry, or Andraste herself dictates is not my concern," he explained evenly, "Should the Maker wish to make a request in person, I will consider it."
Ceyrabeth was too stunned to speak; from any other man it would have sounded thunderously arrogant bordering on buffoonery. From him, said with that calm tone that neither boasted nor grandstanded but simply stated…it was deeply disturbing. "You…you are a traitor and a murderer and I will not allow…"
"I am a warrior," Sul interjected, "And I claim no allegiance to the Orlesian Chantry, the Templar Order or the monarchs of Thedas, I have betrayed nothing and no one."
"A child says 'I did not trip him' when his brother steps on a toy he deliberately put in his brother's way…but still he is punished for it."
A dark shadow settled across Sul's face, "You may dispense with the platitudes. Do not presume to moralize to me, Ser Ceyrabeth Vallorin," Sul said in a quietly savage tone undertone. "Not even under a banner of parlay."
Ceyrabeth felt a shiver work its way down her spine as for the first time she clearly understood the kind of man that could command creatures like Chirak and Reaper Maul. The kind of man that she should be very careful of if she wanted to get her brothers out of this place alive.
"I shall share with you a lesson that I have learned," Sul interjected. He had not raised his voice, but for some reason Ceyrabeth found her words withering on her tongue like so much fruit rotting on the vine. "Orders and other groups that feel it within their power to dictate the actions of others tend to have two tools at their disposal: the coin or the sword," Sul reclined in his chair, "You have neither. You and your Order can neither buy me with treasures nor bully me with threats. I will not be reasoned with nor negotiated with in such a fashion."
"Then you lied." Beth forced out. "Why are we standing here, if you never meant to listen?"
Sul's expression darkened further, "I did not lie. I shall indeed listen, but do not think that your position or affiliations can be used to coerce any manner of concessions from me."
He rose to his feet, dislodging the cat from his lap, "Here, in this place, before me and before the eyes of the Maker itself, there is no Orlesian Chantry. There is no Templar Order. There is only the will of the Phoenix Legion. My will," He turned his back on the woman and sat back in his chair, "You may not believe that we are the 'rightful' authority, but as far as you and your Templar brethren are concerned, I am the sole authority,"
He steepled his fingers, "You are alone, Crusader and you have no power here."
Whether it was the lyrium withdrawal, the memories of past abuses at the hands of another or sheer fear, she couldn't say but Ceyrabeth felt her control snap, "To the Void with you!" Ceyrabeth snarled, drawing her sword, careful to keep the scabbard pointing away from her face. She shouldered the guards out of the way, intent in her blind fury to plunge her weapon into the chest of the man that surveyed her with such an air of dismissiveness.
She closed the distance quickly but before she could strike she heard something growl,
"No…..hurt…..mass-terrrr!"
A shape streaked out of the darkness, colliding into the woman with the force of a golem and sending her sprawling to the ground. She was dimly aware of claws raking deep furrows into her armor and snapping teeth trying to get to her face as whatever was attacking her hissed and spat. Ceyrabeth thrust her sword out blindly only to have it knocked out of her hand with such force that she felt her wrist break with an audible snap!
She brought her other arm up in a desperate attempt to defend herself, getting her first clear look at her assailant. Sul's pet cat proceeded to plunge its fangs into her armor, penetrating the mail as if it wasn't there. Its' one eye glared hatefully as it began to glow a dim red. Then his other eye opened slowly and revealed a burning orb of roiling fire. Ceyrabeth felt her gauntlet begin to inexplicably heat up. The heat spread to her breastplate, and soon she couldn't help but scream as she was cooked within her own armor.
Suddenly, the cat yowled deafeningly and Ceyrabeth tore her arm free. She clamped both hands over her ears as the high-pitched scream rolled over her like a wave. She felt blood began to leak from her eyes, ears, and nose and spatter with a sizzling hiss upon the armor that was now glowing a dim orange as it continued to burn her body.
"That will do," Came Sul's soft voice.
The cat ceased its attack turned to face him, its ears flat against its skull, "Kill for Massss-ter!" It hissed, "Eat its' face!"
"I am unharmed. Please come here."
The cat turned back to face Ceyrabeth. She hardly noticed through the agony of her flesh beginning to blister. Then he swiped a claw across her face, drawing blood, and jumped off her.
This didn't even register to Ceyrabeth- she was more concerned with removing the burning armor from her body. Ser Keiran and Ser Quinlan raced to assist. After a few frantic seconds of blinding pain and fear, the breastplate fell to the ground with a dull sound, her mutilated gauntlet following shortly after. The metal continued to glow angrily in the dirt for a handful of moments before it began to cool.
The cat raced back to Sul and jumped in his lap,"I good kitty."
Sul smiled and scratched him behind the ears, "Always."
The cat nuzzled his scarred face against Sul's bandages, purring loudly before curling up into a ball upon his lap. Sul stroked his back gently, "Osen; my bodyguard," He offered by way of introduction.
Osen lifted up its head and hissed at Ceyrabeth as she struggled to her feet before laying his head back down.
Ceyrabeth, not yet able to speak, just glared at it with eyes glazed with pain and hissed back. Ser Quinlan tried to speak forcefully but he was rattled to the core. "What manner of abomination-?!"
"Former abomination, if we're being truthful," Sul scratched Osen lightly under the chin before turning to Atiya, "Please send for the White Vanguards and Sister Giselle to tend the young woman's wounds."
"Yes, Captain."
"And find Osen something large to dismember."
"I have a Bronto available."
Sul nodded his approval as Atiya looked down at Osen.
"Osen, come."
The cat opened its one eye, eyed the Qunari with disinterest and closed it again.
"Osen," Sul whispered into his tufted ear, "Meat."
Osen quickly sprang off his lap and rubbed against Atiya's shins. Atiya gave Sul an even look and he shrugged slightly before she and Osen departed.
"I challenge you!" Ceyrabeth cried out staggering to her feet bits of her clothing still smoldering. A tiny voice in her head was screaming at her that this was the worst possible idea, and she didn't consider herself to be particularly suicidal…but something had broken irreparably within her. She had held herself back too long and couldn't for the life of her figure out how to regain control. "Trial by combat for the murder of Knight-Lieutenant Parette!"
"Do you indeed?" Sul asked, keeping any implication of mockery from his tone.
"Unless you're a coward! You hide behind your demons and abominations and don't dare raise a finger for yourself…!" She caught the scent of alcohol and violence before a voice hissed in her ear.
"Go ahead. Call the Cap'n a coward again," Maul seethed, "Please."
The woman refused to be baited and kept her eyes fixed on Captain Sul, "Well?"
"Oh yes," Sul mused aloud, "I remember. This is when I am to erupt in a display of injured pride and rush forth to challenge a well-trained combat veteran easily several years my junior and trust that my ego will allow me to replace what the inevitable decay of time may have robbed me of," he leaned forward, "I'm willing to admit that your eagerness to fight is refreshing, given your current condition. But do not mistake any regard I have for your courage as stupidity." Sul gestured to Maul.
"Down you go," Maul gave Ceyrabeth a casual shove and the injured woman's legs buckled underneath her. She crashed to the ground, crying out in pain on impact, "That's for calling the Cap'n a 'coward' ya moisten wench!" The elf then made an obscene hand gesture at the fallen knight before turning his attention to Sul, "Do you need anything else Cap'n?"
Sul smile was barely there but it was enough to make the elven woman want to explode, "No, thank you Sergeant," His expression hardened as he scrutinized the young woman, "I believe the point has been made."
"Yes, sir!" Maul saluted crisply and, giving Ceyrabeth a snort of derision.
"Your commander was not murdered," Sul said quietly, "He was executed for dereliction of duty and behavior unbecoming a Templar officer. Your Orlesian Chantry would have done the same in the unlikely event that Parette was subjected to a fair trial."
Ceyrabeth couldn't determine what part of her body hurt most: the claw wounds, the burns, the shattered wrist, or the cracked ribs from being thrown from her horse in the bog but she struggled to her feet anyway. She would be damned if she would show her frailty to this fiend, "Do you remember what it was to have a conscience?" The rage was receding, taking with it the strength she desperately needed. Her voice was almost pleading, her sable eyes looking wider than ever in a face drawn with pain. "Kindness? Decency?"
"More than you know," Sul replied almost too quietly for her to hear. His expression softened. Became almost vulnerable. Ceyrabeth couldn't decide before it was gone entirely. "Perhaps you should ask your former Knight-Lieutenant about decency and conscience?" Captain Sul's tone remained soft but the words could freeze molten stone, "It's said that you can tell a great deal about a soldier by who they choose to serve. Your master was an immoral and incompetent man who betrayed his wards for profit. Tell me, Ceyrabeth…what does that say about you? Or am I to believe that you were blind and utterly oblivious to your former commander's corruption?"
His words scourged the young woman raw. Ceyrabeth went white to the lips. She swayed, trying to find something to clutch for support and found nothing. Nothing could ease the fact that Sul was absolutely right, and Ceyrabeth knew it, could not dispute it in the slightest. She felt cold wash over her, threatening to drive her to her knees. It was the ghost of an old sensation that coursed through her body- the frigid bite of a blade wielded by a lover as it was driven into her body all the way up to the hilt without mercy or affection.
"Sister Giselle will tend to you now. Dismissed."
Ceyrabeth dimly felt gentle fingers on her arm and a quiet Orlesian voice, "Come away, child," Her grip tightened, "This battle cannot be won. Not yet."
Ceyrabeth couldn't walk, could barely think. She just continued to stare wide-eyed at the man who had so easily found the most hidden of her shames and dragged it into the unforgiving light. She didn't know whether she wanted to rip out his heart or throw herself at his feet, pour out her shame and beg for forgiveness.
"Take heart, Ser Knight," Sul's voice slid into Ceyrabeth's thoughts like a stiletto, "You'll have your opportunity for justice…or vengeance should you so choose."
Ceyrabeth might have nodded, she was unsure. Instead, she allowed Sister Giselle to lead her away from the command tent. When she looked up, she the saw eyes of her brothers accusing her for her complacency. Quinlan, who had vouched for her many times when others tried to label her inadequate. Keiran, who had looked up to her, had been her friend. Corellan who, though she always rebuffed him, had seen something lovely about her that she did not see. She tried to think of something noble to say, she tried to think of the Chant. Her shame silenced her and she allowed herself to led away like the walking dead.
"You appear to have struck the girl a mortal blow," Atiya commented tonelessly.
"So it would seem," Sul replied quietly, "I'm curious to see if she has the strength to recover."
"And if she does not?"
"Then she is weak and she does not matter."
"As you say, Captain."
.:*:.
"You knew!"
Ceyrabeth didn't even bother turning around as Keiran rushed past her and Sister Giselle and spun about to confront her, "You knew what Parette was doing! The boy! The deal with Uldred and the mages! All of it!"
"Yes," she replied softly, "I knew."
"And you did nothing?!"
"I went to the Knight-Captain about the boy…he said that they would take care of it."
"And you believed him?"
"Obviously."
"And Uldred?"
Ceyrabeth's silence told Keiran everything he wanted to know. He shook his head in disbelief, "I can't believe you would…"
Her control snapped, "He was our commanding officer! Our leader! We are Templars! We obey! We are called to a higher purpose! We do not question! That is the will of the Maker and that is the law!"
Keiran laughed bitterly, "No, we're not. When Parette took that gold and you said nothing, we lost our honor and our decency. You're not a Templar anymore, none of us are. You're a whore and you've made us all whores!"
His head rocked back from the force of the blow as Ceyrabeth's hand slapped him hard across the face.
"You will not speak to me like that!" Privately she was horrified by her actions, but she could not afford to show weakness. Not here, not while under the scrutiny of Sul and his minions, "Like it or not, I am still your commanding officer."
Keiran gently touched his lips and drew back blood. He gave a little, broken laugh before looking back at Ceyrabeth.
"Not anymore."
Slowly, he unwound the peace knot from around his hilt.
"What are you doing?" Ceyrabeth demanded.
He didn't answer her, instead he slowly drew his blade with exacting care. Ser Quinlan and Ser Corellan exchanged worried looks as the boy scrutinized the weapon in his hands, "All my life," He murmured, "I thought I understood…" He looked back at the young woman, "Well, I understand now. And I hate it."
And then, he threw his sword into the mud at Ceyrabeth's feet.
"Keiran, you can't do this!"
"I can," he replied simply as he dropped his shield and helm into the mud, "I am."
"But why?!"
"Because I can't follow you and follow my conscience at the same time," He replied sadly, "What we are doing; this isn't the Maker's work. Not anymore."
"But where will you go?"
"Who says I'll go anywhere?"
Ceyrabeth followed that thought to its logical conclusion and her eyes went wide, "No! I will not allow you to pledge your life to that madman!"
"It's my life, Beth. And you don't have a say with what I do with it anymore."
Beth. The formerly-affectionate nickname was enough to make Ceyrabeth want to throw her arms around him and beg him not to leave. Instead, she straightened her back and injected a chill into her voice, "It's Ser Ceyrabeth, Serah Keiran. I have earned my title, regardless of how you feel about it." She deliberately turned her back on him. "Now go. I think I hear your master calling. Maybe if you sit at his feet, he'll feed you bits of meat as well as he does for his pet demons."
She turned her head as he passed, refusing to watch him walk away. She dashed a hand across her eyes, angry enough that she was crying over a traitor but absolutely furious that the motion brought pain from her shattered wrist. She was so tired of being in pain, of always being the one who was crushed and broken.
"And what of you?" Ceyrabeth whirled on Quinlan and Corellan. "Anything to say?"
"Nothing, Knight-Lieutenant." Ser Quinlan answered evenly as Corellan mutely shook his head. Quinlan actually had plenty to say, Ceyrabeth could tell, but like the excellent soldier that he was he was keeping it to himself. Ceyrabeth had no doubt that Corellan would follow Keiran, but quietly, in the dead of night, with no scenes and no goodbyes. She had no idea how many of the others she would lose to that…that…eyeless whoreson and his insanity but right then, she felt the loss of all of them.
"Come, child. Sit down. You are shaking," Sister Giselle parted the tent flaps and motioned her to a bunk. "This is my assistant, Sister Petrice," She gestured to a severe-looking young woman who indicated the arrival of the injured Templars with barely a nod of acknowledgement.
"Good afternoon, Ser Templar," Sister Petrice said stiffly in a thick Free Marchers accent.
Ceyrabeth realized with a start that they were in the healer's tent. She was shaking and suddenly her knees buckled. She dimly realized that she hadn't hit the ground because Ser Quinlan had caught her and was laying her down on a nearby cot. "Quin…" Ceyrabeth cried out as the burns made themselves known with a vengeance. "You should have been the one to speak…I never should have…"
"Hush, Ceyrabeth." He opened the pouch at his belt and gave the vial within a gentle shake before uncorking it and pouring it down her throat.
The lyrium hit her blood just as Sister Giselle placed her hands over her chest and began work on the burns and cracked ribs. She laughed then sobbed at the sweet release of it, the lack of physical agony. But then the rush of emotional anguish hit like a landslide, until the combination of two opposing feelings was too much and she finally fell into blessed darkness.
.:*:.
It was a very subdued Ser Ceyrabeth that was brought back to the command tent later. She had deliberately left off arms and armor-without it she looked as vulnerable as she felt, all scarred, wiry arms and big, wide eyes. She stepped forward before she could lose courage and went down on one knee before Captain Sul, head bowed so low her red hair tumbled in a loose curtain about her face.
"I fully acknowledge my earlier disrespect to you, Captain," She said, her voice carrying clearly to all corners of the tent. "However, my men are innocent of my actions and I beg your mercy on them. If you will release those who wish to go, with arms and armor intact and supplies enough to reach civilization, I stand prepared to accept whatever terms you see necessary to mete out. I claim no concession for myself."
A moment of silence and then, "Rise Ser Knight," Sul said cordially. "I am glad to see that you have regained your honor and integrity. You needn't grovel to me."
Ceyrabeth frowned in confusion as she struggled to her feet. Pain wracked her body- even the healers couldn't fix everything, she thought wryly- and she stumbled until she felt strong hands bracing her. She looked up in surprise into Atiya's expressionless face.
"Thank you," Ceyrabeth said.
"It is the Captain's way," She offered flatly, "And it is my way."
"I see," Ceyrabeth replied quietly. Now that she had a chance to see Atiya's face up close, she felt a pang of sadness- the woman's scars around her lips looked raised and painful as if someone had stitched her mouth closed at some point.
"We have a matter to discuss," Sul informed them.
Ceyrabeth heard footsteps behind her and she turned. She felt a sharp pain pierce her heart as Keiran entered the room, no longer garbed in his Templar armor but instead in a homespun tunic and breeches.
"This man has petitioned for enlistment into the Phoenix Legion," Captain Sul explained, not unkindly.
Ceyrabeth felt tears burn in her eyes but she simply nodded.
Keiran took a deep breath- A nervous habit, Ceyrabeth knew- before striding confidently forward and prostrating himself at Sul's feet, "I pledge myself to your cause, Captain Sul. My sword and my life is yours."
"Noted," Sul said, "Your petition is refused."
"What?!" Keiran and Ceyrabeth both exclaimed.
"Your sword and your life are not yours own," He nodded towards Ceyrabeth, "They are hers; your commander. And I will not be party to desertion."
Right then, Ceyrabeth forgot how to talk and Keiran wasn't much better. He recovered first, though he still sounded stunned, "But…but there must be hundreds of people who've joined you that deserted!"
"Those that you speak of did not have their commanding officer present at the time, as one would expect," Sul gestured to the young woman, "Your commander is here, however. If you wish to enlist, you will do so with her permission or not at all," Sul opened his arms, "We are still abiding by the rules of war, no?"
"But…but—"Keiran spluttered.
"I give it," Ceyrabeth whispered. The idea of her being his commander had once been laughable to her. Years ago, he had posed a question to her, stammering but earnest. If she had answered that question differently then, she might have the right to hold him back now. But she hadn't, and the tenuous link they had as temporary commander and soldier didn't seem strong enough.
"What?!" Ser Quinlan cried aloud.
Ceyrabeth lifted her head, "Ser Keiran has my blessings to join the Phoenix Order."
Keiran smiled, hugged Ceyrabeth before she could dodge. "Thank you Beth."
She didn't even bother to correct his familiarity or rebuke him for the sudden pain in her aching ribs his embrace caused. Her next words came reluctantly, tasting like ash on her tongue. "I wish to submit a petition to join as well."
This time, every face in the Command Tent locked shocked….Every face except Sul's and Atiya's. Atiya wore her usual placid expression and Sul's expression was inscrutable.
"Andraste's flaming arse!" Maul swore softly as the remaining Templars went into an uproar.
When the furor died down, Sul regarded the pair of supplicants, "Why?" He asked simply.
Ceyrabeth licked dry lips; she had to be very careful, "Because I—"
"If the next words you speak are not the unadulterated truth, Maul will shatter every bone in your body."
Maul grinned broadly as he began to crack his knuckles loudly. "Shit," Ceyrabeth sighed.
"Beth!" Keiran said, aghast, "You swore!"
"Yes, thank you Keiran, I noticed," She rubbed her temples and exhaled hard before looking up at Sul, "I'm going to join because you need to be watched. The Maker, Andraste, the Chantry, everything belief that I hold dear tells me that you and your Legion must be ended, and the best way to do that is to here," She looked straight into his bandaged face, "Know your enemy—"
"—as you would know yourself," Sul finished, "Where did you hear that?" He asked curiously.
Ceyrabeth frowned at his tone, "I enjoy reading."
Sul didn't respond right away, he settled into his high-backed chair and rubbed a finger across his upper lip, "So, you will stop me?"
Ceyrabeth nodded, "Yes."
"Through whatever means necessary?"
"Yes."
"Even through my death?"
Ceyrabeth closed her eyes, knowing that her next words could very well be her last, "Yes."
"Bitch!" Maul roared as he stormed towards the girl, "I'm going to fold you in half!"
"Cease," Sul instructed in a calm voice infused with steel.
"But Cap'n-!"
Sul shifted his attention from Ceyrabeth to Maul and raised a single eyebrow.
"This hopped-up little chantry rat says she's going to murder you because her Chantry doesn't like you! I'm not going to let-!"
"That is correct, Sergeant," Sul's voice cracked like a whip, "It is not your duty to 'let' anything happen. You are a soldier under my command. And if you wish to remain so, you will calm yourself and stand down."
Maul's expression crumpled under Sul's scorn, "Cap'n, I—"
Sul held up his hand, "You are a loyal man, Reaper Maul and that loyalty is appreciated," He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, "Take heart, I have no intentions of being assassinated. Not by her or anyone," Sul raised his voice to be heard by everyone else, "My duty to Thedas remains and so I shall remain," His tone became more pointed, "Regardless of the wishes of the Orlesian Chantry, The Maker, or a certain ex-Templar, however dedicated she may be," Sul returned his attention to Maul, "Return to your post, Sergeant."
Maul saluted smartly, grinning madly, "Yes, sir!" He spun on his heels and leveled a finger at Ceyrabeth, "Touch him and I'll make you beg for death before the end. Got that?!"
Ceyrabeth swallowed nervously at the zeal in the elf's expression: he meant it. It didn't halt her conviction, didn't change her wishes in the slightest, but it did make her aware of just how carefully she would have to tread.
Maul gave Captain Sul a slightly embarrassed looking shrug and hurried off as Ceyrabeth's brain caught up with Sul's words, "'Ex-Templar'?" She hazarded.
"Your petition to join the Legion is approved," Sul informed her, "As is Keiran's."
More disbelieving looks were exchanged along with quiet exclamations that their captain had taken leave of his senses.
Atiya leaned down to whisper in Sul's ear, "My Captain, are you certain that is wise?"
"No," Sul replied with a small smile, "But it should be interesting," He got to his feet, "I do have one question though for our would-be spy and assassin."
"Yes, sir?" Ceyrabeth managed to choke out. Better get used to it she thought darkly as Captain Sul's smile took on an edge.
"How long have you been masquerading as human?"
