A/N: So... nothing all week, and then my muse decides yesterday morning that I should churn this out in 24 hours. And I've already started the next one, too. Beta'd lightning-fast by the lovely Raven Sinead, who is finally starting her own continuation fic, Sick World That Damns its Saviors, if you're interested. I, for one, am mega-excited that she's started.
Also. Fair warning. There is a fair bit of action in this one, and you're not gonna like me for all of it.
Chapter 14: No Rest For The Weary
Zanneth's whole world was blinded by a burning, searing pain. At the same time, her vision was filled with a bright, green light. She cried out, but the pain didn't last long, subsiding into a great throb that was at least manageable.
Looking up, however, had her level with the malevolent gaze of sightless eyes. "Zanneth, hold on!" Cassandra's voice shouted above her, and she realized that the hand around her waist was pulling her so close to the Seeker that Zanneth could feel the detail of the warrior's belt buckle pressed into the small of her back.
A realization hit her as the horse finally changed direction. No one wore anything harder than leather armor this time. Her stomach sank. What was going to happen? Zanneth still did not have much experience in battle.
The horse veered away from the rift, but the demons and shambling corpses gave chase. As their mount gained speed, Zanneth hoped they could outrun the beasts, but a quick glance around Cassandra told her that they could not. Another glimpse at her companions showed that they had already dismounted and were engaging the enemy. Some of those chasing the Herald broke off, moving back toward the rift and those attacking them.
Zanneth's hand burned, sizzling alive once more, responding to the pulsating rift in the air. Her eyes fell on her hand, only to find that the supple leather glove she had been wearing had a singed hole through the palm, the edges smoldering. Before her very eyes it began to disintegrate.
"Cassandra!" she called, holding her hand out in front of her to show that her glove had all but burned away.
"We must get close enough for you to close the rift!" Cassandra shouted, chancing a glance behind them. The rift was already a quarter mile off. Zanneth was pressed so close to the Seeker that she could feel her directing the horse's movements with her feet in the stirrups. The horse veered, swinging wide enough to maintain its speed. Unfortunately, the demons were not entirely without cunning, and they moved to cut the circuit short.
"Cass!" the elf yelled, panic making her voice crack like an adolescent boy's.
"I see," was all the Seeker said, not needing to yell to be heard over the din of the horse's hooves and Zanneth's own heartbeat thundering in her ears. The elf's ears picked up the tell-tale sound of steel over leather, just as she felt Cassandra shift. Then the warrior was holding a sword in her right hand, presumably pulled from the sheath on her back. Her left arm was still wrapped securely around Zanneth, the Seeker protecting the elf with her whole body.
An animated corpse, sprinting now instead of shambling, was suddenly upon them. Just as a skeletal hand, rotting skin falling away in sheets, reached Zanneth's leg, Cassandra's sword lashed out, relieving the monster of its arm. A kick of the her feet, and the horse picked up speed, straightening out and heading directly for the rift.
"We do not have time to stop," Cassandra said, her mouth pressed firmly above Zanneth's right ear. "We must both jump, and hope the horse comes back after the battle. I will protect you while you close the rift."
Zanneth nodded frantically. Her bow was not on her back, as it would only get in the way of riding double. It was also not strung, so grabbing it from the pack horse would do no good. She would be utterly defenseless. And yet she was the only one who could stop this madness. She would have to rely on the others to protect her while she worked to save them.
Bull swung his mighty maul, decapitating another walking corpse. Vivienne froze one solid, hurtling a stone the size of her head toward another shuffling her way. Varric and Sera stood back-to-back, picking off more distant targets while the Inquisition soldiers formed a loose ring around them to protect the archers from those enemies that had closed upon them. Zanneth took it all in with barely a glance, her attention recalled almost immediately as Cassandra squeezed her middle even more tightly in preparation for their jump.
Time seemed to slow, then stop. Zanneth's eyes fixed on the rift hovering in the air. It was sick and beautiful, utterly captivating. It sang a song the Dalish elf could not quite hear. It called to her, taunting her, daring her to harm it, to raise her hand and end it, cut off the energies that sustained the madness around her. Its light bathed them, casting shadows, filling her with anticipated excitement and dread. Her hand seared, sending pain slicing up her arm and into her chest like knives.
Then time sped back up, and Cassandra was jumping from the horse, sailing through the air, finally releasing Zanneth so they could both land safely. The elf tucked her shoulder, letting out a yelp when she hit the ground, but otherwise rolling safely to her feet. She did not stop to assess herself or the battleground. The rift was close. It sang to her. She ran for it, already raising her left hand, feeling the power pulse and ripple through her, ready to connect with the rift-
"Ah!" she yelped, falling to the ground as pain sliced through her right shoulder. She rolled backwards, her sensitive hearing alerting her that something was coming through the air straight for her. When she finally looked up, she saw a terrifying creature of molten fire bearing down on her, a high-pitched shriek emanating from it. She was going to die. This was going to be it. She stood no hope of finding her feet and running fast enough.
A blade sliced through the monster where its throat should have been. It hissed and wailed, shrinking into the ground like something melting. Behind it stood Cassandra, both swords in her hands, one glowing red from slicing through the demon. She merely nodded, turning and standing guard over Zanneth.
The elf's heart kicked into her throat at the sight, but she had no time to savor her relief. Pushing herself to her feet, she dodged around the warrior, lifting her hand to the rift. The remembered sensation of warmth overtook the pain radiating up her arm, and the green light burst forth from her palm once more. She watched in rapt fascination as the light from her palm and the energies of the rift enfolded each other, embracing like long-absent friends. Then she was rocked back to the ground, the rift exploding outward like the others she had closed, a shockwave traveling outward, flattening all on the field of battle.
Only Zanneth's companions found their feet again; the monstrosities that drew their energy from the rift were no longer sustained without their link to the Fade. The Dalish elf lay on her back as the warm, soft green light bathed her. Her arm no longer hurt, and in fact she felt good and right in a way she hadn't felt since closing the last rift.
Except for the bleeding, burning wound on her right shoulder.
"Come," she heard Solas's voice, and she looked over to see him pushing himself from Cassandra's side, not far away. His eyes were on the Seeker as he spoke. "Your arm is broken. I will need to set it before mending it."
Zanneth looked around to see that nobody had gotten out of the scuffle without injury. But they were all alive, even the Inquisition soldiers, and nobody looked in danger of death. They had made it.
A cheer went up, and the soldiers, Varric and Sera among them, were suddenly upon Zanneth. The elf squawked as she was lifted bodily from the ground, and then she found herself supported on two sets of broad shoulders, being paraded around the battlefield. As shouts surrounded her, of triumph and faith and joy, she caught Cassandra's eyes from afar. The Seeker was smiling.
Zanneth could not help but to mirror it. They had done it. The Inquisition had survived through its first skirmish. It was small, but it was real, and their soldiers now had definitive proof that they were helping to do good and effect real change.
All Zanneth seemed to be able to care about at the moment, however, was how well Cassandra's smile suited her otherwise sharp, refined features.
Cauthrien was serving watch on the scaffolding. Commander Cullen still did not seem to trust her or her abilities, but she was not bothered. She would do as she was told, and if what he wanted was her seemingly-superior eyesight to watch for the return of the Herald's party, then she would do it. She no longer followed blindly - she had learned her lesson with Loghain Mac Tir - but neither did she challenge an order unless needed.
Challenging this assignment would have simply proved she was the whiny, spoiled knight he was afraid she was.
Her companion on the scaffold was another come from Denerim, an elven scout she had worked with on many occasions. In Cauthrien's opinion, elves made the best sentries, if for no other reason than their hearing far outstripped a human's. An elf could hear something clearly a human could not even detect in a quiet room. But the prejudice against the race still clung very strongly to many, despite King Alistair doing all he could to counter it. In the end, he'd had to open a separate branch of his military for the elves he now allowed to enlist. Many humans simply refused to serve with the elves, and besides, the elves had little care for the humans in the guard. Experience had shown them that humans were not to be trusted.
Cauthrien, who had initially simply ignored elves and their plight, had had her own mind changed by the king. His two most trusted advisors, Master Zevran Arainai and Mistress Shianni Tabris, were elves, and they gave nothing but good advice. Dismantling the gates to the alienage had only improved the situation in Denerim. Allowing the elves to live wherever they wanted, to conduct business wherever they wanted, had increased the prosperity of all, allowing fine elven craftsmanship into general circulation. It was not perfect - some were still attacked, thefts still happened, and hate still abounded - but the one language that could speak more loudly than hate was gold.
King Alistair, coming from a common upbringing, understood this, and did not look down upon the trend. Instead, he used it, starting a program with the treasury to give loans to aspiring business and tradespeople, human and elven alike. The people were mostly happy. They had a generous king and queen who were heroes of the Blight and whose love for each other bled over into everything they did. Punishment was meted out to those deserving of such, but for the most part, prosperity had brought peace and understanding. Well, at least the facade of understanding. True understanding should follow in time. Things were changing, slowly but surely.
The elven man beside Cauthrien suddenly perked up. He looked out over the lake, straining to see.
"What is it?" Cauthrien asked.
"I thought I heard horseshoes on gravel," he said. "But I don't see anything yet. And it was just the hint. It would be far away yet."
Cauthrien thought about it. Should they send someone out? A company? Perhaps send scouts out into the trees to surround whoever was coming, in case it was a hostile force?
"I'll tell the commander," she announced, already reaching for the ladder. Sliding down, she was on the ground and jogging for Commander Rutherford in seconds.
"Something to report, Ser Cauthrien?"
Cauthrien smiled internally. He at least recognized her rank, even if he put no stock in it. It hadn't been so long since she'd had to earn someone's trust and respect. If she could do it with the king after the fiasco of Loghain's betrayal, then she could earn this man's respect with no problem.
"My partner on the scaffold thinks he heard horseshoes, but we can't see anything yet. It could be the Herald's party returned, or it could be a hostile force."
The commander nodded. "It could be the possessed corpse of a horse for all we know. Elven hearing is good, but if he only thinks he heard it…"
"Then it's still a long way off," Cauthrien finished with a nod. "Perhaps a sortie to see what the problem is?"
"No." Cullen shook his head. "Lead a handful of scouts through the trees. Your fastest ones from Denerim. Send word ahead whether or not it's hostile. Greet them if it's the Herald. Do not engage if it is not."
Cauthrien smiled. "Aye, sir," she responded, turning and running for just the people she had in mind. Already he saw her competence and gave her more responsibility. Cauthrien could not be more pleased.
Zanneth sat on a seat in the tavern back in Haven, currently staring down the contents of her tankard. The brew was bitter, bubbly, and she could not help the grimace after she swallowed. She would have much-preferred a dry wine. But this was what had been placed before her, and she did not want to waste it. Besides, she could feel it working, and she felt markedly relaxed already.
Her party had returned to Haven early that afternoon. One of Cullen's human soldiers, introducing herself as Ser Cauthrien, had emerged from the trees to meet them, several elves in the uniform of the Inquisition joining her. Their party looked the worse for wear, but Solas's healing magic had ensured that nobody sported more than cuts and bruises. Anything potentially life-threatening had been staved off with magic, broken bones mended and anything larger than a cut closed up to a puckered scar. Zanneth had made a mental note to always ensure they had a mage capable of healing with them, as it would save lives and minimize tragedy in their small numbers. She also needed to learn some form of close-up combat, so she did not always need to rely on Cassandra for protection in battle.
After a debrief with the council, Bull, Varric, and Sera had dragged her off to the tavern to celebrate the closing of a rift and their success in Val Royeaux. Among the people. Zanneth could see that having the Herald around was definitely putting those crowding into the tavern into high spirits. Already several tankards she would never drink had been delivered anonymously to the table. The three she sat with had selflessly volunteered to drink it for her.
Now Varric sat recounting the tale of closing the rift the day before. His audience was rowdy, but still they paid attention to the dwarf's tale. It was hardly accurate. Zanneth had been scared witless. But to hear Varric tell it, Zanneth grew to ten feet tall, had the strength of ten men, and had never felt an ounce of fear in her life.
"I see Varric is spinning his tales."
Zanneth looked next to her to see that Cassandra, now in clean, undamaged clothing, had taken the empty space on the bench next to her. The Seeker was oddly weaponless, though Zanneth noted with a glance that she still carried several daggers on her person, just neither of her swords. Most notable, however, was that Cassandra was the only one willing to simply sit next to Zanneth, no questions asked. The nearly month-long journey to Val Royeaux and back had definitely brought them all closer, but none so close as the Seeker and the Herald. Truly, Zanneth had not been so comfortable around another since Hyune.
Thoughts of her brother abounded always. There was never a moment he was not at the back of her mind. He was the only one who had always been there. Even their grandmother, as clan Keeper, had duties that often deprived Zanneth and Hyune of her company. But the siblings had each other, and that was all they had. Especially Hyune. Zanneth remembered a time in the world before Hyune. But for him, she had always been there. And in the end, she had let him down. She had failed to protect her little brother.
She wished she could remember what had happened.
Thoughts of Sinna were actually easier to shake, though once they took hold it was impossible to not get lost in them. And thoughts of Hyune invariably led to thoughts of Sinna. Sinna's easy smile, his light hair and green eyes that were so different from any others in her clan, his broad shoulders and caring ways. But when the memories moved to the way he held her hand, the way he stripped her clothes, the way he lay on top of her and pushed inside of her, it made her gut clench. She carried his child. It was confirmed; her courses had not come when they were due. What would she do? She could only hope that they closed the Breach before she was incapacitated by the pregnancy, and she could go on her way, give birth with the midwife of her clan.
She did not want this child, this reminder of her lack of love for its father, but she could not change it. She would do what she must.
"What is wrong?" Cassandra's voice jarred her from her thoughts.
Zanneth forced a smile. "Thinking of my clan. My grandmother. I just realized that they do not know I yet live. Would it be possible to send a message?"
"I do not see why not. I can speak with Sister Nightingale in the morning and see if one of her masterful falcons can be spared." The Seeker reached over for one of the many tankards of ale unclaimed in the middle of the table. "I take it these are for anyone?"
"Gifts from admiring soldiers!" Bull announced, reaching over and clapping Zanneth so hard on the shoulder that the elf thought for a moment it had come dislocated. The giant qunari had the barmaid on his knee, his own tankard of ale in front of him, and a beaming smile of his face. The only other time Zanneth had seen him so happy was directly after a fight. The man clearly had simple desires. There was something utterly beautiful in that.
The Dalish elf's gaze was caught just then by a scowling face in the corner. The look was situated on a pale female face, covered in freckles and ruddy from drink. Atop the head was flaming ginger hair, and below was a tabard of the Inquisition. It caught Zanneth's eye because it was literally the only face in the entire tavern that was not alight in cheer. Everyone else listened to Varric or worked on company for the night, flirting and getting drunk in equal measure. This was the only face set in a scowl.
"Ugh, this is the best we have?"
Okay, perhaps it was not the only scowl in the room. "What's wrong, Cassandra? The Inquisition hasn't requisitioned good enough ale for you?" Zanneth teased.
The Seeker huffed a laugh before taking another drink. "No matter how hard I try, I suppose my spoiled noble roots still show, don't they?"
Zanneth smiled, pushing the scowling face in the corner out of her mind. "I can't say I blame you. It would be nice to have a little wine and some venison. Nothing like the taste of home."
"You drink wine? But your people don't cultivate grapes."
"My clan is somewhat more friendly with humans than those in Ferelden and Orlais, I think. I never encountered humans myself, but our craftsmen would go to whatever village or town we passed near laden down with items for trade. They always came back with food and drink items we could not get in the forest, like wine and bread."
Cassandra nodded. "I see. And it was always small villages and towns? Hamlets and the like?"
Zanneth nodded, taking another drink and trying to hold back the grimace. "We couldn't risk a place too large. As long as we stood a chance of defending our people, we were safe. I'm told it was only the elves in those places who would even deign to trade with us, and I never saw the reason we always stopped, but I could never deny that sharing a wineskin around my grandmother's fire was a treat well worth the stop near the village. Given how my life has gone… perhaps I should have accompanied them on some occasion or other. I never knew I would spend so much time with humans."
Cassandra smirked. "The only human you have spent any appreciable time with is me. Otherwise, you have other elves, a qunari, and a dwarf as your inseparable companions. Hardly something spending time in a rat-spit village would have prepared you for."
Zanneth laughed. "True!" she announced, feeling the smile settle into her face. This felt good, this camaraderie. She had never really felt it before. Maybe… maybe being here wasn't such a bad change after all?
She left the tavern over an hour later, a little drunk and very tired. She looked forward to the bed in her cabin, being able to strip her clothes and settle into the feather mattress under the wool blankets. Taking a shortcut between the apothecary and the tavern, Zanneth headed out, weaving pleasantly with her drink.
"Bloody knife-ear."
Startled by the unexpected voice, Zanneth looked up just in time to see a fist coming directly for her face.
Pain exploded around her eyes. She felt a crunch and knew that her nose had broken. Crumpling to the ground, she tried to roll away, but her assailant did not let her. A thud sounded a split-second before she registered the pain of a boot to her gut.
"Filthy scum, taking our jobs and our livelihood!"
Another explosion of pain to her shoulder, then her knee, then her gut once more. Zanneth was made of pain. All she knew was pain.
"No way Andraste would choose an elf for her Herald! You're a fraud, you have to be!"
She curled up, trying to shy away from the assault, trying to present parts of her body that didn't hurt quite so much. But then she was being wrenched flat on her back, and a weight settled on her hips, pinning her to the ground. Her hands were gripped and thrust under her assailant's knees, removing any obstacle to the elf's face. An odd detachment from the pain settled over Zanneth, and as a fist crashed into her cheek, all she could think about was the feeling of the frozen gravel pressed into her back. The sheath of her hunting knife pressed awkwardly into her thigh. The weight on her hips felt oddly familiar.
What was Sinna doing here? Why had he not removed her clothing first?
Black crept in around her vision, and she could not focus on the alarm bells sounding in the back of her mind. Something was wrong, but what? The weight vanished, shouting sounded in the background, and then the blackness took her, carrying her to a warm, soft place that she was all too eager to get to.
"My Lady Montilyet, what a pleasant surprise to meet you out here."
Lady Montilyet smiled, walking to meet Cauthrien. "I really should take more exercise than I do. It is so easy to lose track of time in that dark office."
Cauthrien offered her arm. "Would you like to accompany me in a walk about the village?"
A warm smile. "Yes, of course."
It had become a nightly ritual at this point, though not acknowledged as such. Cauthrien would go for a walk after finishing her supper, and as she passed the Chantry, Lady Montilyet would be at the door, looking out over the village. Cauthrien would say it was a pleasant surprise, and Lady Montilyet would join her for a stroll.
It was the highlight of the knight's day.
How Cauthrien had managed to steal Lady Montilyet's attention, she would never know. But she had no intention of letting this opportunity slip. Romance was never something she had made room for, and while she had dallied with people on two separate occasions - one man in Gwaren, and one woman in Denerim - she had never allowed it to blossom in this way. It had been dallying and nothing more, though each affair had lasted several years before the other informed her that they had met someone else they intended to settle down with.
The Antivan woman on her arm was beautiful. Her skin was dark, dusted with yet darker freckles, her ebony locks naturally wavy. Cauthrien had a difficult time not picturing it down around her face, reflecting the red firelight of the hearth. The ambassador was shorter than her, coming somewhere between her nose and her eyes, and Cauthrien's heart skipped every time Lady Montilyet glanced up through thick lashes to meet her eyes. What might that combination be like with their clothes missing, no longer worried about propriety and polite conversation?
So far nothing untoward had happened. It had been weeks since they had met at the wedding, the day after Cauthrien's arrival. She was unsure how these things usually went. She would very much like to kiss the ambassador. But Lady Montilyet was Antivan nobility. Surely Cauthrien could not simply pull her into an abandoned doorway and start snogging her?
So they walked, and talked. Sometimes the conversation grew personal, intimate. But more often than not they stayed on polite subjects that would not scandalize even the most prudish person who might overhear. It was nice, to have the company of a beautiful woman as she strolled through the village. Far nicer than the rough crowd currently in the tavern.
"Ser Cauthrien, I wondered…"
"Hmm?"
The ambassador looked down and away. "I wondered if you might-"
Cauthrien stiffened as someone appeared from between two buildings, cutting short whatever Lady Montilyet might have just said. It was one of the elven scouts that had been placed under her command that day by her thankful commander. He looked around wildly, then latched on to Cauthrien.
"Ser Cauthrien! I heard something. A fight, though I think it is one-sided!"
"Dammit…" Cauthrien released Lady Montilyet's arm. "I apologize, but I must break this up. Our soldiers cannot be allowed to brawl like common thugs."
"I will accompany you. Perhaps the sight of a lady will rid them of their barbarism."
Cauthrien was about to argue - the sight of blood and beaten faces from a brawl was no sight for a lady - but the elven scout was already running, and the knight had no choice but to follow if she didn't want to find her own way.
She heard the sound of a fist striking flesh. Putting on a burst of speed, Cauthrien rounded a corner on the heels of her scout. There, halfway hidden between the apothecary and the tavern, was someone sitting astride another, fists falling in a sickening rhythm. Cauthrien spared no time for disgust, merely continuing her sprint to the brawl, hauling the attacker off and throwing her on her ass.
Then the scene truly hit Cauthrien, and her heart fell through her stomach.
The person on the ground was the Herald, and the woman she'd just thrown behind her was Threnn.
"Threnn, what were you thinking?!" she yelled, rounding on her subordinate.
Threnn had been a pain in her side since Gwaren. A racist soldier was one thing, but Threnn took the elves' ascent in Denerim personally, spouting on about how the elves took jobs away from humans, and their goods were poor quality but cheap so people bought them, taking business away from good, honest human craftsmen. She also spared no love for King Alistair. She had remained blindly loyal to Loghain Mac Tir through everything, including his death, but she followed orders and did everything technically correct in her guard rotation, so no one had fired her. She just ran at the mouth when she drank.
This, however, was too far. Why did they allow her to volunteer for the Inquisition? No one knew the Herald was an elf until she had arrived back in Haven earlier that day. Cauthrien should have known she'd have trouble with some of her people.
"I… will get help," she heard Lady Montilyet announce, and then crunching footsteps disappeared in the direction of the tavern's entrance. Most people were there. It was a good bet to find help inside.
"You're defending her?!" Threnn's voice was incredulous, though Cauthrien noted that she was smart enough to remain on the ground where the knight had deposited her. "What kind of knight are you? You leave our noble Teyrn to his death. You embrace that elf-shagger of a sham king, and now you protect this false Herald?!"
"Shut your mouth before you condemn yourself to the gibbet, Threnn!" Cauthrien warned.
"No! I will be quiet no longer! This cannot stand! It's wrong! Andraste would not choose a knife-ear for her Herald!"
Cauthrien's temper flared. "Who are you to decide who Andraste would choose?! Do you stand at the Maker's side? Do you claim some holy connection with Him, who abandoned His creations on Thedas? Are you a priest, in addition to being a bigoted prig?!" She took a deep breath, standing directly over Threnn now. "The Maker gave you the ability to close your loose lips. I recommend you exercise the ability now."
"Zanneth!"
Cauthrien turned to see Seeker Pentaghast rounding the corner, the giant qunari and Lady Montilyet flanking her. The Divine's Right Hand sprinted to the white-haired Herald's side, and within moments was standing with the clearly unconscious elf in her arms. "Get Solas," she said, and the qunari ran off. Without further word, she disappeared into the night, Lady Montilyet running toward the Chantry.
Cauthrien turned back to Threnn. Taking her roughly by the collar, she hauled the soldier to her feet. Before she could say anything or react in any way, Cauthrien's gauntleted fist lashed out, taking Threnn in the temple in a move designed to rob her of consciousness. She let the soldier crumple to the ground, her face stony even as a number of emotions roiled underneath, chief among them anger.
"Inform Commander Rutherford of what happened," she said to her elven companion. "I'll be here, watching over this piss-poor excuse for the king's guard."