The next few days were not the longest of Adaar's life, but they were definitely in the running.
She could not lead troops out to kill Darkspawn, because the Inquisition shouldn't even know that there were Darkspawn, and anyway, the Grey Wardens were supposed to be handling it.
(Supposed to be. She couldn't exactly send a note out saying "Hey, you guys killed the Darkspawn yet?" Leliana would have had her head.)
She most certainly could not tell Blackwall why they were not heading to the desert right this minute, which meant that he spent a lot of time brooding at her.
His beard had a way of following you around the room. It was unsettling.
There was nothing anyone could do but wait. She fought in the practice ring until she was bruised and sore and she read reports until her eyes ached and none of it made time pass any faster.
Cullen's troops were moving into position. If she was lucky, she had bought them time.
If she was unlucky, she had killed a great many innocent people.
At night, Adaar dreamed. Adaar-dragon flew over the hills, but instead of green grass and rams beneath her, there were unending ranks of Darkspawn. They crawled out over the world like a spreading stain. The ground turned black beneath their feet.
She opened her mouth to breathe fire at them, but only ash fell out.
Oh Maker, she thought, in the tiny part of herself that was still Qunari, not a dragon. Oh Marker, I'm an Archdemon.
She woke, bolt upright, hearing her breath rattle in her chest. The light through the window was the cold grey of predawn.
Adaar clutched her horns in her hands and groaned.
Bull was gone. He usually stayed until she was falling asleep, but he was always gone when she woke. Part of it was discretion, and part of it was that human beds were not well designed for someone with a rack of horns like his. He could only lie flat on his back or propped up with pillows.
Since Adaar could only sleep on her side—or impale the mattress—sleeping together was…difficult.
She knew all the reasons for this, and yet she still felt very alone.
Still, the nights with Bull were probably the only reason that she had not gone barking mad and kicked Blackwall off a tower—or jumped off herself in an agony of guilt.
He had a remarkable talent. Not physically—although she certainly had no complaints—but an ability to completely fill the room. When he said "Nothing outside of us matters for now," Adaar believed him.
A bit more ambition—and born something other than Qunari—and he'd have been a terror down here. He could have set a continent on its ear.
She smiled faintly. He still might. He's got the ear of the Inquisitor, anyway. I'm already pretty much a figurehead for Leliana and Josephine to work behind.
Adaar snorted to herself. She knew what he'd say—"Not a chance, boss. You're not foisting that mess off on me."
I'd love someone else to take over this three-ring circus. Unfortunately, I'm the blessed Herald.
She tossed the blankets off and went in search of tea.
When she returned to her desk, there was a note on it in Leliana's hand.
Operation successful. 52 D accounted for. W delayed for five days.
No civilian casualties.
Adaar's hand shook and she nearly dropped the letter.
She read it again, twice. The last line seemed enormous.
No civilian casualties.
She wanted to burn the note or tear it to pieces or eat it. She wanted to rush out of the room and hug anyone she saw, including Blackwall, or yell at them, or perhaps fling herself off the tower anyway.
I didn't unleash another scourge. I didn't hurt anyone but the enemy.
I have done a terrible thing, and somehow, it worked out all right.
I did not deserve to have it work out.
She felt strange and hollowed out, with relief that felt curiously like despair.
She could not sit still. She threw the note into the fireplace and watched it burn, then strode from the room to go find someone to hit with a sword.
The scarves were a different color that night, black with a shimmer to them. Adaar smiled as he bound her wrists together. "Lovely," she said.
"So are you, kaden."
I wonder what kaden means. She wasn't going to ask. The last time she'd asked the meaning of a Qunlat phrase, she'd gotten a lot more than she'd wanted. It's probably 'She who has above average breasts' or something.
She waited until he was done with the knots, then tested them as she had before, a bit of strength, just enough to make the fabric creak…
…but it didn't.
She felt the first flicker of unease.
They were not uncomfortable. She was not going to lose feeling in her hands or anything like that. They twisted easily when she moved her wrists.
And yet…
The scarves were silk, and silk was very strong, but she was always stronger. There was always a point where she could feel the fabric straining, and then she stopped before she tore them apart.
These were soft, gentle on her skin, and as implacable as iron.
She looked up. Bull leaned against the wall, his arms folded, watching.
"Fade-touched silk," he said. "It can be cut, but never torn."
Adaar inhaled sharply.
After a moment, she said "Is that really necessary?"
She had not waited long enough to ask. The tremor in her voice that she was trying to hide was still there.
Bull sat down beside her. "Adaar," he said gently. "Did you think I hadn't noticed?"
Noticed? Noticed…what, exactly?
She twisted her hands, but the silk held effortlessly.
"Three times now, we've done this," he said. "And every time, you have believed that if you really needed to, if I ignored the watchword, you could get yourself free. And then—oh, I don't know, kick my ass, probably." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eye.
Break the wrist bonds, open a rift mark over your head, get my ankles free while it's sucking the life out of you, bounce your skull off the wall a couple of times so you don't come around and—oh shit, he's right.
"I've…err…been enjoying it, though," she said.
"Oh, I know you have." He ran a hand down her back, flattening it out against her spine. "I am very good at making this enjoyable. And you do everything I ask and more." He turned his hand, scraped his nails lightly over her skin. "But you've been humoring me, kaden."
Adaar tested the fade-touched silk again and found it still unbreakable.
"I've always trusted you'll stop if I ask," she said, wondering why it sounded like an excuse.
"And I will. Always. But you've never even come close to asking. Because if you can break free, you don't have to trust me, not completely." He put a hand under her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. "And because you don't have to trust me, you don't. Not really. Not all the way down. In your heart, you still believe you're in control."
There was nothing that she could say, because it was true.
"I will free you the instant you ask me," he said, stroking his thumb over her cheek. "I promise you. But this time you'll have to ask."
He stepped back.
A wild animal panic rose in her, sudden and shocking, and she threw all her strength against the silk. She was strong, she was always strong, she was the strongest person she knew, she could break down a wall or a living dragon, surely she could break down the world itself, if she only knew where to hit.
The knots held. The silk held.
She was not strong enough.
"Kaden—" he said, and on some level, she knew she had surprised him.
She thrashed against the tie and he caught her around the waist, holding her against him. "Adaar. Steady. It's not supposed to be like this."
"Katoh," she said miserably. The word was bitter on her tongue. "Katoh."
He took her wrists in one hand and deftly untied the knots with the other.
She did not realize that she was weeping until Bull gathered her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. "Shhh. Shh, kaden, it's all right. Too much, too soon, that's all. Shhh. I shouldn't have pushed you."
"I'm not strong enough," she said. "I've tried so hard—so long—but I'm not strong enough."
"No one is. Most of us just learn it a lot sooner."
Neither one of them believed that they were still talking about the silk.
He set his chin on top of her head and laughed softly. "Of course, as much as you've done, you probably earned the right to believe that you were invincible. At least for a little while."
He held her close, stroking the back of her neck. She wanted to be comforted and did not know if she dared.
"I shouldn't have released the Darkspawn," she said.
"It worked out."
"It shouldn't have. I did a terrible thing, and got away with it…" She shuddered. It felt as if some dark vein had been opened and she was bleeding out, into a space that had been good and safe.
"Sometimes we get away with things," he said. "Sometimes we're lucky. Life is like that."
Adaar gritted her teeth. Having opened the vein, she could not seem to stop. Wherever the words were coming from, they had been festering for a long time.
"What good am I?" she asked. "The advisors do all the work—all the important things—they send people everywhere. All I do is take the punishment and hold the line. That's all I'm for."
She said it against his neck, because she could not say it and still meet anyone's eyes.
"That's fine," he said. "That's all I'm for, at the end of the day. Someone has to take a beating for the cause."
Adaar shook her head. "I'm going to break," she said. The words were harder to speak than the watchword had been. "At the end. When it really matters, I'm going to break. All they ask of me is that I am strong, and I'm not going to be strong enough."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she broke down.
"I thought that was probably it," said Bull, in his detached, Ben-Hassrath voice, almost to himself. "I knew it was in there somewhere…" And then, kindly, "Hush, kaden. It will be all right. You only have to learn to bend a little."
She shook her head again, not believing him.
He kissed her. "Steel breaks," he said. "Silk doesn't, because it knows how to bend. We will get through this, kaden, I promise."
She wanted to believe him.
He set her down on the bed and went around the room, snuffing out candles, until it was only firelight. She pulled a blanket up over her shoulder and watched him moving.
He brought her a cup of tea. There was honey in it.
Adaar drank obediently, and then he set the cup aside and wrapped his arms around her again.
"Go to sleep, kaden," he said. "I'll stay tonight."
"Sleep?" she asked, vaguely surprised. "We haven't done anything…"
"We've done enough for one night."
It was true enough. She felt wrung-out and hollow. She had not cried on anyone's shoulder in…well, in a very long time.
I'll be embarrassed tomorrow. Or not.
It was difficult to fit them both in one bed, but they managed. He laid down enough pillows to keep his horns away from the mattress and gathered her up in his arms.
His breathing was deep, even, untroubled. She fell asleep listening to it, and it stayed there, under her ear, through all the long watches of the night.