Twenty-Eight
Red Is the Knight
Between the rocky shores of the Waking Sea and the frozen mountainsides of Emprise du Lion, there existed a somewhat tolerable pocket of land as far as the climate was concerned… Well, if the icy wind blowing in off the water was largely ignored, but other than that, it could've been worse. Their sturdy tents circled around a modest campfire, protecting themselves and the flames from the worst the elements had to offer on one of the blackest nights in recent memory. Tent flaps were tied back to allow heat and firelight to pour in as each person sheltered halfway inside to block the cold winds howling at their backs, and dinner sat warmly in their bellies while they occupied themselves before turning in for the night.
Cupcake sat to Varric's left at the entrance of his tent, fully enraptured by the notes she'd taken out once they had settled. On his own lap laid an open journal, quill in hand as he jotted down the occasional line of dialogue his characters whispered from the dark recesses of his mind for reference later. To his right, the Seeker had moved her pillow down near the door and crashed as soon as she'd lowered her head, unable to sleep in her armour without pinching a nerve or cutting off circulation. He'd helped her discard it, promising to watch over her while she slept, but so far nothing untoward had occurred.
A grunt sounded softly, calling him back from his silent scribbles. Dagna was shifting, an elbow resting on her knee as she propped her forehead up with a hand, staring down in frustration at Bianca's research.
"Anything promising?" He pried halfheartedly, though if her whingeing complaints were anything to go by, he already knew the answer.
"Not really," the arcanist kept her voice down, flipping through the pages one by one in search of the notes she'd made in the margins. "I think I learned more about lyrium from the reports on the Deep Roads under the Fissure than these darn notes. The only thing is…" She rubbed her rounded chin as she trailed off, clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "It's how Bianca wrote this that surprises me more. She hints at something… disturbing going on." She glanced up to gauge his reaction before clarifying, "I could be wrong, so take this with a huge grain of salt, but I get the feeling she didn't come out the other side of this research unaffected."
A hand automatically drifted toward the Seeker sleeping soundly at his knee, resting his palm on her shoulder as if to reassure himself that she was still breathing. "What sort of damage are we talking about?"
She shook her head wearily. "…You don't want to know." Rubbing her eyes, she turned to the relevant page and pointed out strange gaps in the handwriting, as if Bianca had started and stopped several times over a long period before recording her observations in full. "This has to be the original copy," Dagna reasoned. "She mentions things about red lyrium after a while that seem… well, 'glowing', for lack of a better word. She's obviously fascinated by it, the longer the notes go on."
"So were you, when you got your hands on a sample," Varric pointed out, inwardly noting that he'd experienced the same strange pull upon discovering the idol.
"Well, I wasn't around a vein for an extended period; I limited my exposure because I know I'm not invincible," Dagna countered quietly. "She seems to think otherwise, the way she talks…" Catching herself, she looked up with wide eyes. "I-I don't know for sure. Maybe I'm off-base – after all, I didn't know her well enough to make a judgement… Uh, do you want to have a look at her thoughts?" She offered the papers to him.
A chill ran up his spine. "Is there anything in there that might help us out?"
She frowned and considered for a moment, glancing down at the paperwork thoughtfully. "Not that I can see right now… Sorry, Varric," she admitted regretfully, "but I'll study these more, just in case. Don't hold your breath, though…"
He sighed through his nose and shook his head, remorse pressing upon his brow. "Then I'll just take your word for it," he muttered, running his thumb gently over the Seeker's shoulder. The last thing he needed right now was to read the potentially insane ramblings of his ex-lover and learn something about her he'd rather leave as an unknown, lest guilt get the better of him all over again.
He silently eavesdropped on the conversation his friends carried out with one ear, the other trained on the Seeker lying at his side. She had succumbed to fatigue not long after helping with the set-up, too exhausted to keep her dark lids from falling over her bloodshot eyes. He'd assured her after the first tent was erected that no one would cry foul if she wanted to call it quits right then, but it wasn't in her nature to give in to the demands of her body, however reasonable they were. Though he admired her for pressing on regardless, he worried about her resistance to doing anything that might indicate even the appearance of weakness on her part. Still, he didn't want to hold her back from proving her worth, even if it was only to herself. If he did, then in reality, he would be no better than his family…
In a sudden flash, the grave marker in the Fade came back to him, his memory as clear as the day it was formed. Varric Tethras: Became His Parents.
Oddly enough, he'd never considered that to be his worst fear. It hadn't really crossed his mind coherently enough to be frightened of it. If anything, caves were pretty awful, not to mention giant spiders, or anything that lived in the dark – hell, even the dark itself was creepy, and getting lost in it was somewhere in his all-time top five worst-case scenarios… But as he had stood there in the Fade just staring at that headstone, a cold realisation had dawned on him: the nightmare demon couldn't have been more right.
His family had been exiled from Orzammar a few years before he was born, but they desperately clung to the old ways like shit to the bottom of a shoe, forever grieving the loss of their home. His parents cowered in fear of the surface world, and his father even died when Varric was too young to form memories of him simply because he couldn't cope with it all. His mother was no better with her unhealthy vices, never adapting to their life topside or stretching her legs to test new waters, pressuring her sons to be exemplary dwarves and paragons of honour, keepers of the flame of tradition… Until she died, too. But just when Varric had thought he was free of it all, Bartrand had assumed control and forced him into a position in the Merchants' Guild. And Andraste's burning ass cheeks, he had hated every minute of living in his brother's shadow. Bartrand was the "good son", the eldest, a beloved child legitimately born in the Dwarven Kingdom, but despite having Varric, Mom and Dad felt like they had nothing for which to live without their old home and friends to call on. He didn't lament the good times with them, primarily because everything they were nostalgic for sounded stale and bleak. Hell, their stories of the glory days underground probably instilled that visceral fear of caves from an early age without him even realising it was happening.
But that was exactly how he had slowly become his parents: By lionising a past filled with friends long gone instead of living in the present moment; By grieving over the only home he had ever known, unable to move past the loss of what was most comforting and familiar; By behaving like a coward and enacting a subconscious, self-imposed exile from Kirkwall, hurriedly volunteering to help the Inquisition because he felt responsible for the whole damned war for not stopping Blondie in time…
Even by fretting over the Seeker, coaching her on what was best, and trying to limit what she could do in some misguided attempt to shelter her from the outside world, was exactly what Mom and Bartrand had done to him every day of his young life. He'd gone out of his way to avoid becoming just like them, but at his core, he was anything but a breaking of the mould... And the realisation weighed heavily on his spirit.
Cassandra breathed deeply beside him, turning in her sleep to face him. Shifting his gaze from the white blank page to her still form, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for her, something she would sneer at if he ever admitted to it. Her skin was pale, scars more prominent in the light of the fire, black veins standing out on her neck and temples. She shivered, but it was better than the threat of her fevers, and he pulled the field blanket back over her shoulder, running the back of his numbed fingers over her scarred cheek.
Contrary to all his morose dwelling in the past, the Seeker was the epitome of a future for him, someone who represented a chance for him to take risks and make a new home from the ashes of the old… And his chest tightened at the thought of her not being around to take part in it.
Her tombstone flashed before his vision as he walked past it in his mind's eye. Cassandra Pentaghast: Helplessness. It figured that someone as proactive and determined as the Seeker would be terrified of a lack of control over herself and her circumstances. If he was being honest, the only reason he'd memorised her fear in the first place was so he could deviously plan a way to exploit it, but after they'd jumped through the rift and back to Adamant… Well, it wasn't worth rehashing all over again, especially if he couldn't drink the memory away.
And like a cruel joke, Hawke's ghost appeared to once again stare down at his own revealing headstone, which Varric had glanced toward just before Solas had guided them in the right direction.
Garrett Hawke: Failed to Save Them.
His family, lover, friends, the templars, the mages, the poor, the Chantry… Kirkwall. Varric sighed and closed his eyes, broken anew at his loss. "You saved us in the end, Hawke,"he whispered to himself, wondering if the reckless bastard could hear him from wherever his spirit resided now… But he left thoughts of his old friend behind, turning his attention back to his new ones.
Buttercup rubbed her hands together vigorously, holding her fingers as close to the flames as she could tolerate. Just behind the elf, Hero emerged from within the confines of the tent and draped a thick wool blanket over her shoulders, patting her back companionably when she straightened in surprise. Uttering her thanks, she pulled it around her form tightly, waiting until her teeth inevitably ceased their chattering.
Dorian sipped at his tea, warming his own hands on the hot mug. "It's nights like these that I…" He caught himself and looked over the rim at all the eyes staring his way, waiting for elaboration. "Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything," he dismissed the voiced thought with a nervous twitch.
"Missin' Bull, eh?" Sera guessed, pulling the blanket tighter around her and tucking her feet inside. "Me, too. Could use a good drinkin' bud who's not so hung up on lady troubles."
Blackwall opened his mouth to rebut this, but paused before closing it again. "I was going to argue, but you're not wrong."
"In truth, I miss my home," the altus corrected them after another sip. The wind howled again, stirring the tents, but the fire was mostly sheltered from the gust. "In a strange way, I miss Bull for the same reason. He's… rather hot."
Sera snorted out a giggle. "Is it the muscles that do it for ya, or those big ol' horns?"
"Or the eyepatch," Hero waggled a brow, chuckling. "Very mysterious."
"That's not quite what I meant," he scoffed, resisting a twitch in his eye. "Not to get too sentimental, but… Well, the south is far colder than what I'm accustomed to, and Bull is… surprisingly warm." The mage cleared his throat and absently stroked a heated palm down his arm. "On nights when I'm particularly homesick, he… No. It's much too personal," Dorian shook his head, crossing his legs and burying his blushing face in his mug.
"Go on," Vivienne smiled gently. Too gently, Varric thought with slight amusement. "What does The Iron Bull do to alleviate your troubles?"
The steam from the mug blew away with another swift gust, which dissipated as soon as it swept in. Relenting after a moment of silence, Dorian sighed longingly. "…He pulls me close to wrap me in his massive arms and lets me rest against his chest. And then, no matter how cold I am to start with, I'm… genuinely warm again." The Tevinter swallowed another sip of tea in an excuse to look away before adding, "If I close my eyes when I'm with him, even for just a moment, I can almost convince myself that I'm… home."
The sweetness behind his statement had been thoroughly unexpected, surprising everyone who heard it. They'd all assumed the two were only carrying on an illicit affair, toying with the taboo idea of a qunari and a mage from Tevinter being bedfellows like it was something written in the pages of a smut-filled, clichéd fantasy about opposites attracting. No one would have guessed that their dalliance had extended beyond the physical, and by the mortified look on Dorian's face, he hadn't expected the endearing thoughts to surface, either.
Straightening himself, Sparkler blinked several times and eyed Madam de Fer in warning. "Don't you breathe a word of this to Bull," he stressed, the threat in his voice clearly empty.
"And have nothing with which to properly blackmail you? Hardly, my dear," she rested her chin on her wrist, smirking with those dangerous, twinkling eyes of hers.
As for Varric, the sentiment Dorian had reluctantly expressed pierced his heart in an unexpected way, though he cleared his throat and pushed all thoughts of it aside for now. Silently, he closed the journal on his quill and stuffed it away for the night, frustrated with himself at not getting anything substantial written. Once he'd carefully picked up the inkwell and corked the few drops that remained, he held the glass vessel in his palm and studied it closely, not noticing as his other hand automatically drifted toward the Seeker's to lace his fingers with her own…
The most natural gesture that had ever happened without his immediate knowledge. What a weird feeling that was…
Exhaustion was settling over the campsite as Hero slowly dumped a pot of cold water on the fire to choke most of it off, packed away the belongings strewn about by the wind, and removed dry garments from the clothesline to prevent them from blowing away overnight. The dwarf beside him yawned, and Varric suddenly remembered Dagna's presence there. He deduced by her silence until now that she had drifted off with the notes open over her lap and, stuffing them back into her bag sleepily, she rose to her feet to shuffle over to Sera's tent, crawling inside on hands and knees only to pass out on one of the two cots.
"Right, then – see yer ugly faces in the mornin'," Buttercup saluted after a long blink, untying the stays on the door flaps and securing them together.
"Who does Sera think she's calling ugly?" Dorian raised a brow in genuine confusion. "Oh, of course," he waved a hand toward Blackwall, finally understanding. Hero let out the ghost of a laugh at that, scratching his beard absently.
The grip on his hand out of nowhere caused Varric to leap out of his skin, and the sound of air being sucked repeatedly between grinding teeth did nothing to calm his nerves. "Shh," he rubbed Cassandra's shoulder, ignoring the crushing vice around his sore fingers. She was still asleep, shockingly enough, but at least she wasn't conscious for any of this.
"Another bloody surge," Hero shook his head forlornly, coming to Varric's side and offering support while the dwarf braced himself. "She did this to me a few times on our way up. Here, lad, give my shoulder a squeeze if it helps. It's killing me after the long ride, anyhow."
Varric grimaced, slapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder and squeezing to distract from the pain. As Cassandra curled in on herself and somehow tightened her death grip, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting, instead taking out his aggression on Blackwall's back. "Shit, I forgot how strong she is during these things," he hissed in agony, believing utterly that his fingers were about to break in several key areas.
"Just during these?" Blackwall offered a small chuckle, doing his best to diffuse the situation. It was a smart tactic – the less concerned they sounded, the less her dreams might use their distant voices to fuel her nightmares. This way, she was more likely to calm down and let the negative influences fall away.
After a short time, the two mages in their party approached, Vivienne taking a knee beside Cassandra and cooling her forehead with a rudimentary frost spell, Dorian squatting beside Blackwall and absently adding heat to the deep-tissue backrub the warrior was enviously receiving.
"Damnit, didn't I tell you to keep an eye on her? Why didn't you stop her?" Varric sneered through clenched teeth, shifting to ease the pressure he was undergoing while shooting daggers at Hero. Ever since he'd received that woefully insufficient reply the night they had arrived at the chateau, he'd been meaning to turn the screws on the man, and now was as good a time as any, since he could blame his snippiness on the pain he now endured. Still, he kept his voice as light as possible for the Seeker's sake.
Blackwall tried not to take so much pleasure in the apparently incredible massage he'd spontaneously arranged for himself. "Have you ever tried telling Cassandra she can't do something?" He nodded toward her shuddering form in outward admiration. "She takes it as a fucking challenge, Varric; you know that."
Without warning she let up her hold, and though the dwarf had an opportunity to snatch the crushed appendage away, he only relaxed his body in a great sigh of relief, his gentle hold of her hand continuing as if nothing had transpired to dissuade him whatsoever.
"Something more permanent must be done for her, and soon," Vivienne affirmed, her velvety voice hard as steel. "There are many pronouncements I aim to make as Divine Victoria, but I refuse to let one of them be the act of naming a replacement Right Hand."
"The mission in the Arbor Wilds is bound to be over by now," Blackwall sighed after the two men let go of his shoulders, the mention of battle darkening his eyes and reminding him of his time as a captain in the Orlesian Imperial Army. "Twenty silver says they succeeded in capturing Samson. Cullen wouldn't leave without the man; not with so much riding on it. He's too valuable to kill."
Dorian bit the inside of his lip, hands clasped together while his elbows rested on his thighs, and Varric could pinpoint the exact moment when exhaustion finally hit him. "If they activated the rune Dagna constructed to disable his armour, then doubtless they'll bring him back alive," he yawned, fighting to keep his eyes open. "We shall see for ourselves soon enough. In the meantime, I need my beauty sleep."
And with a few nods of goodnight, that was it. Blackwall disappeared into Dorian's tent while the mage sealed it behind them, ready for the comfort of their dreams, and Vivienne quietly went to her private tent across the way, commenting that he should wake her if Cassandra's condition caused any concern. He had a tough job of it while kicking off his boots and reaching up with one hand to let down the flaps over the entrance. After an awkward minute of no success, Varric carefully untwined his arm from her grasp and stood up, closing the tent properly. Rubbing his eyes, he pulled the leather tie from his hair to shake it out, loosening his belt and unfastening the buttons of the vest over his loose-fitted tunic.
When it was all said and done, he laid down on his back, hands clasped over his bare chest while staring at the tent supports and waiting for the void of sleep to claim him. He briefly considered turning to hold Cassandra in her sleep, but he reminded himself sternly of what she had said in the garden that morning and let the instinct fall by the wayside in disappointment. Still, it wasn't long before his lids were glued shut, time slipping away little by little.
He jolted in his sleep sometime later, snapping awake in alarm. Thoroughly exhausted, Varric heard the snore rattle from his throat before his lids fell, but he lurched yet again, snorting involuntarily in surprise.
He wasn't jerking at all. Someone was shoving his arm.
"Move," she ordered him.
Before he could properly respond, he was pushed on his side like a ragdoll once more, and he turned roughly to face away from her, not knowing why she was so determined to annoy him at such an early hour.
Then her arm enveloped him out of nowhere, creeping from behind before pulling him firmly to her in a possessive manner. The Seeker pressed her whole body against the chill of his back and sighed with relief, wrapping around him tighter than ever before. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, absorbing her heat to fight the cold of his surroundings while she soaked up the chill on his skin to regulate her core temperature, and she draped a leg over his hip, the other tucked snugly behind his legs, trapping him in place. Pretty sure this is exactly how giant snakes devour their prey, he thought in a blurry haze.
Still, this was undeniably comfortable, Cassandra brushing his hair from her face as she settled behind him. Despite whatever she denied while awake, in her dreams, Varric was always hers… and he thanked the Maker that, even after all this time, she continued to pursue him.
"…What happened…?" She mumbled sleepily, clearly unaware of her contradictory behaviour.
"Mmm…?" He stirred, patting the hand over his chest. "Oh…You had another episode, but everything's fine, now."
She lapsed in and out for a moment, sighing out a soft moan. "…I meant… with your story…"
He smiled to himself, glad at least that she was still interested. "Ah… Spoilers ahead, Seeker… They live happily ever after."
Pulling him nearer, Cassandra cuddled close, resting her cheek against the back of his neck as she drifted off once more. "Good… I love happy endings…"
And before he could make the same observation Sparkler had made, feeling safe at home in her loving arms, Varric was dead to the world.
~oOo~
This was all his fault. As always. Fenedhis, how could it not be, in this glaring instance?
From his place by the hearth, Solas stood beside his two companions as the Herald sat upon her throne, resisting the strong compulsion to pace like an alpha guarding his pack. His breath was carefully measured to control the hue in his cheeks, clasping his hands at the small of his back as though he'd locked himself in heavy irons. Closing his ice blue eyes, he fought for calm while the storm inside raged on. Yes, he would have his say in time.
But now it was time for less sensitive matters to commence, and he strained to peek around her audience as the Commander – not the Ambassador – approached the Herald to open proceedings.
"Forgive me, Inquisitor. For personal interest, I have relieved Josephine. As you might expect."
Their defeated foe was escorted bodily through the parted crowd to the opposite end of the long hall, but it wasn't the man in chains on whom the old elf focused, a worry line permanently etched between his brown brows. As far as he was concerned, his only reason for being here at all was to observe her.
"Knight-Templar Samson, General to Corypheus, traitor to the Order," Cullen announced, his voice tinged with familiarity and disappointment. "The blood on his hands cannot be measured. His head is too valuable to take. Kirkwall, Orlais: many would see him suffer. I can't say I'm not one of them," he admitted, staring at the fallen Knight with weighted scorn.
Lavellan leaned forward on the imposing throne, and his back stiffened in alarm. She paused in place for too long a moment, her mind seemingly elsewhere for a time, causing him to swallow hard and bite his tongue to keep from swearing aloud.
"What's she doing?" Bull whispered, crossing his thick arms uneasily over his chest.
"She's learning to listen," Cole answered while petting Banal'ras in his arms, peering at Lavellan steadily beneath the rim of his tattered hat, "…and not to. They stir inside her, speaking soft secrets in a long-lost language… It's hard to hear her."
Solas resisted the urge to cross the floor and enter his study, the impulse to throw a full bucket of paint at one of his murals growing stronger with each passing second. He'd been trapped between a rock and a hard place. The sentinel, Abelas, eternal guardian of Mythal's great temple, had nearly destroyed the Vir'abelasan to keep its secrets from the clutches of unworthy hands, but to decimate a relic so precious and rare in this world would have been a tragedy worth unceasing mourning. The witch, Morrigan, had passionately volunteered to drink, but she sought the ancient knowledge of his People for selfish ends, in his opinion, and he'd scoffed at the very idea of it surviving so long only to have her as its vessel, the woman arrogantly believing herself more deserving than all else present. And, of course, he would never dare to consume it; he knew what that act would entail and refused to play slave to Mythal, or anyone for that matter, regardless of how noble she was. To let it fall to Corypheus, however, would have been catastrophic.
She is right about only one thing: we should take the power which lies in that well, was all he had allowed himself to say at the time.
So, there had been only one choice left to her…
At last, she sighed and straightened herself, clearly able to function under her new burden again. "Judging him will affect as many as his crimes. I won't take it lightly…"
"The red lyrium will steal your vengeance," Samson declared forebodingly, his bitter voice carrying throughout the main hall. "You know what it does. Corypheus only delayed my corruption."
Eyes narrowing a fraction, Solas' heart quickened its pace. The General believed himself a dead man walking. With the crystals spreading in his veins, that was easy to understand, but what had set Solas on alert was what he had revealed. Without the Elder One's magic, without the aid of the foci, the fallen Knight would surely die, just as Cassandra would without the protection of her amulet.
Samson would have nothing to offer in the way of a cure, but if Solas could just destroy Corypheus and reclaim the orb…
His musings were cut short as Cullen wheeled on the prisoner. "Are you still loyal to that thing?!" He was incredulous, incensed enough to abandon his role as arbiter in lieu of venting his outrage. "He poisoned the Order, used them to kill thousands!"
"Templars have always been used," Samson countered readily. "How many were left to rot, like I was, after the Chantry burned away their minds? Piss on it," he spat. "I followed him so at least templars could die at their best! Same lie as the Chantry… The prophet just isn't as pretty."
Lavellan shook her head clear for a moment before leaning forward, resting an elbow on her knee. "I found your people. They believed in you. Believed your cause was righteous."
That seemed to disturb the man, hitting upon some unseen scar, though he fought to recover from the old wound. "…Not your business, Inquisitor."
"Your friend Maddox was so loyal, he killed himself," the Commander sneered. "For you." Even from where he stood, Solas could tell Cullen found the notion repugnant, but to inspire such loyalty was a noteworthy achievement. Prospects must have been slim indeed for the Order to willingly follow Samson down into depravity.
"They were always going to die," the General shook his head. "I saw what Corypheus was doing, so yes, I fed them hope instead of despair! I made them believe their pain had purpose… Just like the Chantry," he chuckled ruefully, raising his eyes to his former brother in arms. "Right, Commander?"
Solas stirred uncomfortably, Bull shifting to give him much-needed space. Hope instead of despair... He disliked the feeling of finding common ground with the man, yet an ounce of sympathy bled out of him. Despite the fact that he would never choose that route himself, he could certainly understand where their surly war captive was coming from.
"…It ended as well as anything else I've done," he heard Samson say, though it was so quiet, others around him totally missed the depressing confession. "Corypheus would kill me on sight. I'll tell your people what they want… Everything I cared about is destroyed…"
Yet again, she paused, and again he felt the cold pit in his stomach widen, threatening to swallow him whole. As the awkward silence grew, Commander Cullen stole a glance toward the Inquisitor, the concerned expression on the man's face mirroring Solas' own. She sat rigid on her throne while staring blankly ahead, only occasionally breaking her odd trance to cast a nervous smile toward the ex-templar and tap a finger on the stone arm, attempting to remain casual despite the chaos now dwelling in her mind.
Oh, how Solas had wanted to beg her more adamantly not to go through with it, but to do so might have been misinterpreted – or worse, correctly interpreted. Would they have even believed him, or merely taken his warnings as pure speculation on his part? How could he have been more clear without further drawing suspicion to himself? Should he have made more of an effort to stop her? But then who else would have been left to drink of it? Cole? The Iron Bull? No… From a completely logical standpoint, there was no other option for them if the Vir'abelasan was to be preserved.
Indeed, Lavellan's choice was ultimately his own making, setting the guilt entirely upon his shoulders for the thousandth time. How often had he dissuaded her from relying on Dalish folktales, on fables and farces, on unreliable oral tradition? Had he not, at every bend in the road, encouraged her to seek out only the truth? What should he have expected after months of subtly persuading her away from her firm reliance on myth and legend? He'd consistently stressed the importance of her legacy, eager to impart knowledge and instruct her in the ways of true wisdom. Going directly to the source of any rumour will provide one with more certainty, he'd once said to her so casually that the memory now pained his heart. And yes, she had gone directly to the source this time, however dangerous it was.
Yet as she had waded into the well and sipped of its waters, the explosive tidal wave thereafter knocking them to the ground, he had dreaded the worst. He had feared she had been lost to him forever.
Only then had he regretted his decision to remain silent.
At that moment, the main door creaked on its massive hinges, and the three turned in time to see their companions file in quietly, careful not to disturb the proceedings. Blackwall held the door as Vivienne passed through first, followed closely by Sera and Dagna, all quite exhausted from their journey. Dorian and Varric were the last to come through before the door was silently closed behind them, both flanking Cassandra as they supported her, all but holding her upright. When he shot the bearded warrior a questioning glance, the man came to stand beside him, folding his arms.
"Has Seeker Cassandra taken a turn for the worse?" Solas mumbled, a fist touching his lips to effectively disguise his words from the others.
Shrugging ever so slightly, Blackwall shifted his weight from one boot to the other at took advantage of his proximity to mutter back, "Beats me. She was doing just fine until we climbed the outer stairs. They caught her just before she could take a tumble over the side… Mentioned something about her blood spinning." Though his voice was awash with concern, he made no outward signs of it, and the elf craned his neck just enough to observe the warrior cradling her head in her hands.
"Samson, you can still be of use to good people," Lavellan decided, calling Solas' attention forward again as she reached sentencing. "What you know is less important than what you are. My arcanist will study your resistance to red lyrium."
He watched closely until Samson lowered his head in defeat at her words. "Do as you will, Inquisitor. Your kind always does."
After witnessing all she cared to, Vivienne nodded to herself and left their company without a word, going immediately to the Spymaster, who happened to be standing nearby. He wondered briefly how her conference with the Grand Clerics went, but in all honesty, trading sharp words with the enchantress wasn't worth the information he would gain.
As the soldiers began to lead Samson away, Dagna stood on her toes, squinting toward the front. "Wait, what am I doing? …I missed it."
"They got 'im. Inky says you get to frisk him bloody," Sera nudged her, a cheeky smile on her lips. "Some girls have all the fun, eh?"
Varric's tired voice held a note of hope at that. "Well, there's a lucky turn of events. Maybe you'll find something after all, Cupcake."
Dorian winced slightly. "I'm not certain that turning the poor fool into a live specimen is the best we could do," the Tevinter sighed, rubbing at his brow, "but thank the Maker I don't have to make these decisions…"
Dagna cleared her throat through a bright smile. "Well, it's been fun, but I better get back to the undercroft," she waved goodbye to the gathering. "Sure hope Harritt hasn't wrecked the place while I was out." And at their nods of farewell, the dwarven arcanist slinked through the crowd back to her post to await further orders.
Light murmurings returned to the great hall eventually, its occupants stirring as they migrated back to their usual cliques and gossip circles. Solas had continued to stare toward the throne while the Inquisitor exchanged words with her Commander, finally releasing the joined hands at his back with a deep breath and turning just as The Iron Bull stepped forward to scoop the formerly grumbling altus into his waiting arms. He hugged the mage affectionately, the publicness of their display somewhat surprising the elf.
Dorian at last relaxed against him and lowered his head to the qunari's expansive shoulder, patting his back slowly in reassurance. "Yes, yes. Good to see you, too, Bull," he greeted the hulking mercenary with a sarcastic smirk.
Curiously, Cole looked up at the two then, a soft smile touching the outer corner of his mouth. "He missed his signature scent: sweat, soap, cinnamon… Sincere arms and sweet charms send his spirits soaring back to where he wants to be. Home, at last…"
Unnerved, Bull turned to look directly at the boy, setting Dorian gently back to the stone floor, where the blushing mage ironed out the soft wrinkles in his glimmering robes. "Cole," he muttered through clenched teeth, smoothing his moustache to hide his humiliation. "Not. Now."
Cocking his head to the side in confusion, the compassionate spirit only replied, "Oh. I wasn't listening to you."
His dark brows shot up in pleasant surprise, lowering again as he glanced up at the qunari. "Why, is that so?" He grinned knowingly.
The Iron Bull pressed his lips to a fine line and scratched uncomfortably at his stubble. "Umm… Shit."
The awkward moment was interrupted by yet another as the guards passed them, hauling Samson roughly in tow. In an instant, Banal'ras leapt from Cole's arms and bolted in the other direction, obviously spooked by an unknown force, causing the elf's pointed ears to twitch. Curiously, the captured General stiffened as he passed the group, his eyes going wide upon something internal taking place that he presumably hadn't expected. Though Samson froze in shock, confusion written plainly over his pale features, he didn't have time to register the odd sensation before he was shoved bodily into the foyer and out the door… And Solas took careful note of the Seeker's troubling response while the prisoner was moved beyond the immediate vicinity.
Sensing the disturbance as well, there was no chance to speculate on the cause before the Inquisitor joined them, a forced smile on her marked face. Whatever Lavellan currently suffered, she hid it beneath Mythal's vallaslin well enough. "Hello," she greeted her newly-arrived companions happily. "Glad to see you all still in one piece."
"Inquisitor," Cassandra stepped forward under her own power, eager to appear competent before the Herald. "How was the battle in the Arbor Wilds?"
The practiced expression on the Dalish's face faltered for the span of a breath, likely wondering how to adequately sum up the convoluted series of events. "Uh…" She glanced at Solas out of the corner of her green eyes, catching his frank stare while he studied her. "Well, it was… interesting. But we got what we were after, at least."
"And then some," Solas couldn't help but add, rubbing the bridge of his nose to hide the pursing of his lips from view.
"Oh?" Cassandra glanced at him before eyeing the Inquisitor from head to toe warily. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine, fine," Lavellan dismissed her concerns with the wave of her marked hand. "A-and you?" She stammered, deflecting the question right back on Seeker Cassandra.
The warrior met the eyes of her travelling companions, and Solas noted their awkward silence, Varric rubbing the back of his neck as he winced. "I'm… fine," she replied at last, echoing the obvious lie.
The two women exchanged a meaningful glance then, as if there was a mutual understanding of self-denial between them. Neither was "fine" in Solas' opinion, and yet both were too stubborn to ever admit otherwise. At least they seemed to recognise this blatant fact, though they had nothing beyond empty reassurances to offer as proof of their positions.
"Hey, where did Mouse run off to?" The dwarf wondered, peering through the hall in the direction that his pet had scurried off to so hurriedly.
Sera made a noise that could be best described as a verbal shrug before suggesting, "Just call 'er over, Varric."
"Buttercup, she's not a mabari. Cats don't exactly come when called."
"Bet ya she does!" And to demonstrate just that, Sera cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "Mouse!" as loud as she could, her voice echoing off the high stone arches above.
"Mouse?!" A noblewoman shrieked, picking up her skirts and running toward the side wall. Without hesitation, three-quarters of the gathering followed suit, panic soon breaking out over the entire hall.
He closed his eyes and shook his bald head, having predicted such an outcome yet not acting quick enough to stop the prankster. Solas could hear his companions breaking into fits of hysterics over the scene that had arisen, Bull and Blackwall's laughter most obvious among them, along with the tittering of Dorian and the giggles of Sera. At last, Varric chuckled, crossing his arms over his hairy chest and feigning interest with his table by the hearth, whistling a tune to himself innocently to distance himself from the event.
"She's not that kind of Mouse," Cole uttered in confusion, wondering why the nobles and diplomats mistook the cat's given name for that of a rodent.
Either exhausted by her trip or her entourage, Cassandra frowned and locked eyes with Lavellan. "If I'm not needed, I think I should rest for now," she informed her seriously. "Wake me if anything changes."
"I'll stop by shortly so not to disturb you too much," the Inquisitor replied with a nod of dismissal toward the Seeker and the rest of her party. "Go relax, for now. We'll regroup later."
As several of the members of her inner circle left through the main door, presumably to trade stories of their adventures over a pint or four, Lavellan pivoted slowly on an ankle to face Solas, a nervous expression on her lovely face. She closed her eyes for a moment against the voices in her mind, but it was upsetting enough for the man to lose his nerve entirely, lowering his head and walking back through the door to his study in the rotunda. If she wanted to speak with him about what she had done to herself, she would surely follow, and they would speak in private. For now, though, his thoughts raced anxiously, staring at the unfinished mural adorning his wall which told the tale of when Lavellan's life had been altered once again by magic no mortal could remember, nor comprehend.
The Inquisitor had given herself into the service of Mythal, not understanding the full implications of what she had submitted to. Perhaps, in light of this, the hour was fast approaching when he would need to explain all to her. And perhaps, after all Lavellan had learned at the temple, she would not fear the truth as much as she might have otherwise… It was certainly something to carefully consider.
Whether he let her in on his secret in the end, he knew now that he must act to ensure Mythal did not maintain such a tight grasp on his vhenan…
No, he thought mournfully, staring up at the mural as he heard the door creak open, his Heart walking in with a proverbial tail tucked between her legs… He simply could not let that stand…
~oOo~
A week of hopeful optimism and disheartening upsets ultimately boiled down to a gross weakening of resolve, and little to no encouragement from his friends was needed to finally give into temptation.
In other words: Varric fell off the wagon that night. Hard.
Relapse was expected every now and again, or so he had convinced himself in order to avoid the niggling feeling of guilt and panic he felt each time the tavern door burst open, fully expecting the next Divine to catch him in the act and turn him into an ice sculpture at any moment. But with every foam-topped mug, his nerves relaxed, allowing him to shake off the stress of the fruitless trip.
Whatever differences that had created friction between Solas and the Herald were clearly overcome through working it out privately, and while making her last rounds before leaving the keep, the Inquisitor stopped by the tavern briefly to say goodbye. She seemed happy to be going on an outing alone with Chuckles, and with the stress she was under, Varric was glad to see them taking a breather together. After all, someone should be happy around here, at the very least. Lavellan wasn't sure if now was the best time to be indulging herself, though, given Cassandra's precarious ailment, so Varric had taken her aside and reassured her, in his own charming way, that everything would be fine while she was away with her man. Besides, once they came back from wherever Solas was taking her, they would certainly have something positive to offer in regards to Samson. Maybe he would let loose the secret cure for the lyrium corruption, or Cupcake would find a clue in his resistance to red lyrium that could increase the Seeker's longevity. Staying positive – or at least appearing to – in the face of crushing disappointment was key.
By the end of a night full of drink, laughter, and good friends egging on bad decisions, Varric had found himself at Cassandra's room, not knowing how or why he had gone there in the first place. He stood outside her door, awkwardly shuffling back and forth as he debated whether to turn around and find his own quarters or just go in anyway, but the latter won out eventually.
Still, even though he wanted more than anything to climb into the Seeker's bed and pass out in a familiar, drunken haze next to her, Varric could already hear the disgust in her voice to that kind of inconsiderate behaviour. It wouldn't be the brightest idea ever to invade her space in this state, especially while she was still consumed with the dilemma of whether to take him back at all. At the same time, however, leaving her to potentially suffer alone wasn't sitting right in his stomach, either.
And so, there he was, curled up with a blanket over him in the steel tub she kept stored out of the way in the corner of the room. Completely trashed. Without asking for her permission first. Like a jackass.
But Varric utterly blacked out before he had time to give himself all the shit he was due…
Or before he could notice the Seeker sit up in her bed.
~oOo~
Come…
Midnight. It was midnight at most, judging by the position of the moon high in the wounded sky… And the snow fell like funeral ashes to the cold ground…
Something was calling for her… Something in her very bones.
Cassandra had been half-asleep when her body rose automatically from the bed, walking clean past Varric snoring away in her empty steel bath. The smell of stale hops filled the air, but she barely gave him a passing glance as she was… pulled. That was the only way to describe what was happening to her.
She reached out and opened her chamber door, wanting immediately to turn around and put more layers on than the bare minimum of her simple nightshift, but she was unable to correct her movements. Blood thundered in her ears, beating a fast rhythm as she set her bare feet to the icy stone walkway. Still, all she could feel was the volcanic heat of the blaze in her veins, glowing hands outstretched while she made her way over to the snowy grounds…
Was this another nightmare…? Maker help her, it was more vivid than any dream she'd had yet to experience, but the horrible sensation of being forced through every step she took was so divorced from reality that it clouded all distinction. There was no way to turn around, no ability to cry out or fight against the draw luring her forward. She was helpless to obey the command of the red lyrium. Without knowing how, it had completely taken control of her.
Come…
She could blink, that much was certain, and she did so over and over through her scarlet daze, struggling to regain control of other facets of herself, other motor functions that would better aid her in this fight. It was all in vain, though, as Cassandra was barely conscious enough to register where she was even being led so thoroughly against her will.
When she at last approached a locked door beside the armoury, to her astonishment, the mechanisms cracked and snapped, falling away seemingly of their own volition. A guard somewhere behind her cried out and fled blindly in fear, the man not even attempting to stop her when the door creaked open as though a ghost had pulled it open on the other side. Would no one help her? Panic stirred her insides, trying to scream for attention, yet her mouth was all but sewn shut as she walked through and descended into darkness.
She could feel her breath misting in the air, chilling her upper lip with dew drops. The voice in her head somehow echoed off the walls of the stone staircase she descended unwillingly, chanting to the beat of her racing heart. Her lips parted, signalling that she had regained control somewhat, but her voice was still beyond reach, and her fingers twitched as she commanded her mind to make a fist. She was coming back to herself, slowly but surely. The closer she was to the red lyrium's destination, the more Cassandra was able to fight back against it. Still, as she reached the bottom of the staircase, she couldn't help but wonder…
"Come closer…"
A man had spoken, and for the span of a single breath, she believed it to belong to the Maker Himself, calling her home… But the voice was weak, forlorn, broken… Bitter.
And then she stopped.
Right in the centre of the dungeon.
All was silent as she stared with wide, glowing eyes at the prisoner of war. He stared back at her, the expression on his drawn, pale face nothing short of absolute shock. Studying her closely, his bloodshot eyes travelled over her, slowly registering every symptom for what it was, the truth finally breaking on a sad smile.
And then he let out a breathless, wheezing laugh from his corrupted lungs. "So it was you," he whispered, daring to meet her red eyes in the near-darkness. "Unbelievable… You're the last person I ever expected."
At long last, she regained all control of herself, noticing starkly that the immense pain had dulled from the moment she'd arrived. Anger coursed through her blood, and she stormed over to his cell, feeling strong enough to bend the iron bars and step through to bludgeon him to death.
Seething through clenched teeth, Cassandra glared hotly. "What game are you playing, Samson?"
He stepped toward her, the chains around his ankle clattering as he inched forward. His eyes held no malice, nor did his words. "I only wanted to see where the call was coming from. Never expected it to work… If I'd had a proper say in it, I'd have asked you to bring down a hot fish pie." The General frowned with a shake of his head, his slick black hair brushing the back of his neck.
Not hesitating, the Seeker sent her fist flying between the bars, narrowly missing the man as he backed out of her way. "You don't want to do that," he warned sombrely, watching the dark veins in her neck swell. "Trust me."
"You think you can tell me what to do?!" Enraged, she kicked the bar, venting her frustration and only tenderising her toe in the process. "You summon me in the dead of night and expect me to remain calm?!"
"You want to go?" Samson gestured with a hand dismissively. "Fine. Stairs are right there, Seeker Pentaghast. Never called you here, anyway. The lyrium did that; not me."
She narrowed her eyes and snarled, "You just said you wanted to locate the source of the red lyrium. Now you say you did not call me here? Get your story straight before lying to a Seeker of Truth, Samson."
"That's sound advice, coming from a crazy woman." Hugging his elbows over his chest, the pathetic man walked to the back wall of his meagre cell and leaned against the stone, staring down at the metal pot in the corner. "If you're still a Seeker of Truth, even though your Order's just as much in shambles as mine," he muttered through yellowed teeth, "I'll leave it up to yourself: you can go back to bed and suffer through your nightmares while no one else here understands the pain, or you can stay and listen to some hard truths. Your choice."
"You?" Cassandra scoffed, her hands dropping from the bars to clench at her sides. "You don't know the meaning of truth, telling the templars nothing but lies to make them drink! Why should I believe anything you have to say?"
"Yeah, you're right," he nodded, taking her aback for a moment. "I'm a liar. I encouraged my men to drink for their new god. But I gave them hope after the Chantry abandoned them and took their dwarf dust away, leaving them to die on the streets like animals after they'd used them up. You want a comforting lie, go to the Sisters and Mothers. They'll tell you what you want to hear and offer nothing else. Your death will come anyway, same as mine."
Cassandra swallowed her rage for the time being, though it was difficult to hold her disgust at bay, and the feeling voiced itself before she scowled, "Not soon enough for the likes of you." Turning her back on him, she headed for the stairs.
"I just want to know one thing, Lady Seeker," Samson called after her suddenly. "Why'd you decide to drink red lyrium?"
Affronted, she spun on her heel on the cold stone floor and shot him a death glare. "I wasn't given a choice," she bit disdainfully, the corner of her lip upturning in a growl. "Much like coming here."
In all sincerity, he seemed truly surprised at her answer; puzzled even. "Really?" Walking to the corner of the cell nearest her, he held the bars loosely, thoroughly intrigued. "We lost all the ones who resisted… If a templar wasn't fully committed to the transition, they didn't stand a chance… No offence meant, but why aren't you dead yet?"
"None of your business," Cassandra snapped back immediately, feeling extremely defensive. She turned to go then, but stopped short on pure impulse, pausing to consider his words more carefully. The stiffness in her shoulders relaxed and, against her better judgement, she surprisingly found herself walking back toward him to continue the conversation. "…Is… that the secret?" She asked, a brow raised warily. "Is that how you have survived this long? By giving in to the demands of the voices?"
Samson shook his head. "Yes and no. Corypheus was the one who kept me going this long. By all rights, I should be dead, but I didn't try to fight it… Anyone who doesn't give mind and body over to the stuff ends up as worm food within a few days. It's painful at the best of times, but I don't envy what you must be going through if you're still fighting it."
She nodded along as he spoke, but when he paused awkwardly, she recalled the difference she'd noticed about herself upon her arrival. "…But I don't feel pain now," she muttered to herself, frowning in consternation. Looking up, her red eyes flew wide in astonishment. "Wait… There's hardly any pain! Why doesn't it hurt?"
Though her own nerves weren't on fire anymore, the same obviously couldn't be said of Corypheus' General. The sweat poured from his brow, and the lines of his face deepened as he winced through what must have been sheer agony. Cassandra hated the fact that she was empathising with his plight, but it couldn't be helped. "Could be because I drew it to me," he suggested, his fingers tightening around the bars in an effort to remain standing. "Or because it feels better when you're near the stuff… Or maybe because it just calms down around someone with the same stuff in them… Who knows? Not me."
She scoffed, her glare returning once more. "That's a level of stupid I've never encountered. You mean to tell me you ingested something without knowing how it works?"
Defiantly, the prisoner narrowed his eyes right back at her. "Show me one templar who claims he hasn't done just that, and I'll show you a liar." His next words were bitter as they poured from his pale throat. "And I know what you're thinking: It don't matter how much you had to drink. A thimble or a cask makes no difference in the end. You can yell at the clouds all you want, Seeker Pentaghast; it's still going to rain, so you're better off getting your coat instead of standing in it like an arrogant pisshead."
Desperate for answers, Cassandra ignored the insult and tried to catch him off-guard with a pointed question, affecting her best authoritative voice to force him to talk. "You know how to get rid of it, don't you? Talk, or I'll beat it out of you, myself! No one can hear your screams down here!"
Intimidation didn't work on Samson. He'd likely suffered worse threats from his Elder One every day since allying with the tainted darkspawn magister. Still, behind his smug façade, his eyes twinkled in the dim light, the red glow of her skin reflected there for her to see.
"…I might know how to relieve your pain – for a time," he nodded, crossing his arms over the simple cotton tunic. "But you won't like it one bit."
~oOo~
Andraste's ass, he really needed a piss…
Varric groaned loudly, his shoulder smashed uncomfortably against the side of the tub while his head complained about indulging in too much too soon, but it wasn't the only part of him that felt the worse for wear. Everything ached like he'd been strapped to a rack and pulled apart. There were two rules as far as he was concerned to avoid blinding hangovers like this: either be young forever, or never go without a drink long enough for the aches to start. And he'd broken both rules, along with what felt like multiple bones.
Holding his head gingerly, he turned over in the bath and opened his eyes carefully, resembling an old man as he gripped the steel sides and leveraged himself up to use the chamber pot… and promptly toppled over in the noisiest crash possible.
"Oof," he uttered, grunting while rolling over on the floor to stare at the ceiling. Well, if that didn't wake the Seeker, nothing would, and when she made no discernible noise in the dark, Varric counted himself lucky. He rubbed at his eyes with his wrists and pushed himself upright again, shuffling over to the iron pot in the corner, where he relieved himself after a short struggle with his trouser laces.
The dwarf thought through a likely excuse to climb into bed with Cassandra after a minute, and resituated himself just before approaching her bedside. He felt blindly for her body, unsure whether he'd have to make his way to the other side or could simply lie down on the outside. She must have been nearer to the wall, though, so he carefully lowered himself down and reached for the covers at the foot of the –
Wait, why wasn't Cassandra under the covers?
"Seeker?" Varric's brow furrowed in confusion, and he reached over in concern, hoping to find her shoulder. Not finding anything but the wall, his hands scrambled over the rest of the bed, realising suddenly that it was cold and empty. She was gone.
"Shit," he swore, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head and shoving his boots on, doubling back from racing out the door only long enough to grab Bianca. "Why can't that woman just stay in one place?"
Keeping his eyes trained on the ground as he walked swiftly through the shortcut to the yard, Varric caught sight of a set of footprints not yet lost beneath a new layer of snow, leading directly to the door of the dungeon. Perplexed beyond all reason, his mind swam through dozens of thoughts at once, wondering what would have possessed her to go there, of all places, in the dead of night.
"…She didn't have no keys, ser! The locks just… opened for her!"
"And you swear you haven't been drinking, Jim?" Varric heard Curly bark, two sets of bootsteps rapidly on their way over to his location.
"I didn't have nuffin' this evening, ser – I swear on the Holy Prophet's golden hair."
"Well, blasphemy and double negatives aside, at least you did right by informing me straight away."
"Aye, ser. Sorry, ser."
"Wait here."
"Aye, ser."
Shivering, Varric bit his lip and made his way over the footprints, holding his elbows as he approached Cullen on his flank. "Need backup?"
Mildly surprised to find anyone besides the soldiers awake at this hour, the Commander at once understood the dwarf's presence and nodded toward the door. "I don't think I could stop you from following if I wanted to," he sighed, stepping through into the dark. "Keep up, then."
~oOo~
Cassandra stared at him in disgust. "You can't be serious!"
"I knew you wouldn't want to hear it," he shrugged, giving up and leaning against the back wall.
"How would that not just make it worse?"
Samson practically grinned and rolled his eyes at her. "I already told you: you take a little at a time to appease it, and it won't bother you too much. You stop taking it altogether, and that's when you piss it off and the pain gets unbearable."
She angrily shook the bars of his cell, the heavy iron clanging as the door swung with the shockwaves. "You said the amount of red lyrium consumed didn't matter!"
"It doesn't," he stressed again, clearly fed up with repeating himself. "You Chantry bastards have a hard time listening, don't ya? It's a death sentence, like it or not, but do what it says and keep taking it, fuel it with your anger, and it'll make you stronger. Trust me, you'll last longer and feel better if you do what it says. You want to extend your life for a few more months? Then use it to your advantage."
Rage filled the Seeker to the brim at his imploring, and in an unexpected burst of adrenaline, she let out a war cry and ripped the bar from his cell, tossing it aside before stepping in entirely.
He didn't flinch, having no reaction beyond doubling over from a stab of internal pain. "Ahh-hnn" he cried out, clenching his stomach with both hands. The closer she was to the prisoner, the more agony he seemed to be in, though she stood over him nonetheless, her fists raised. The lyrium in her body sung, and she felt more alive than she ever could have, even in a hundred ages.
"D-don't… come near me," he groaned, his glowing flesh burning bright. "If you touch me now –"
"Cassandra! Stay back!"
The Seeker whirled on her heel in time to see Cullen storming toward the cell, Varric not far behind. "Get out. He's mine," she heard herself roar, though she hadn't meant to say it at all. Maker, what was coming over her?
"Can everyone just try to act normal for five minutes?!" Varric asked incredulously, eyeing the red waves wafting off her body in alarm. "Whatever that asshole did, Seeker, don't let him rile you up!"
It was difficult to hear anything over the commotion in her blood. More than anything, she had an urge to touch the General, the bewildering instinct nearly impossible to resist. Reason couldn't reach her, for she was well beyond it by now, and all she wanted was everything Samson had in him.
She must take his lyrium. It. Was. Hers.
And as if the substance in his body understood this fact, Samson's skin fractured on the arm closest to her, crystals growing out of him at an accelerated rate. The man keeled over and rocked on the floor from the excruciating pain, and she ignored the shouts from behind her as she slowly reached her hand out toward the glowing crystal, mesmerised by its spellbinding beauty…
Someone pulled her back with force, unceremoniously shoving her out of the cell, where she landed with a thud on the hard-stone floor. The lyrium in her blood didn't care for being separated from the crystals and screamed an inhuman screech in her skull, causing her to hold her head in anguish. She couldn't tell if she was the one letting out the piercing howls or if only she could hear them, but it didn't matter. Being so close to something so pure and then being ripped from it was nothing short of torture, and she writhed in her suffering, oblivious to whoever was trying to comfort her through the chaos.
Save me.
Samson's blood called to her, the lyrium desperate to reach a new host and live beyond the prison bars it was currently trapped behind. Driven utterly insane by the call, Cassandra rose automatically and bolted for the barred door, preparing to tear it at the hinges to reach her goal…
But her eyes rounded at sight of the fallen General on the floor, his final screams choked off as the sinister crystals solidified over his entire body, freezing him in the throes of a terrifying death that sobered Cassandra's bloodlust in an instant.
"Maker's Breath, not again," Cullen breathed, horrified and stumbling back slowly in shock. "We'd barely begun to examine him!"
Paling, Varric's jaw dropped, a hand covering his mouth. "Shit… And here I thought Meredith was just a fluke!"
The lyrium wasn't done trying to escape the confines of the dungeon, though, and the lifeless man on the floor all but transformed into a pulsing vein before their very eyes, roots snaking out and growing alarmingly on a direct route for the Nevarran. Terrified that she might be next, she stumbled back and crawled to get away before it was too late.
In that moment, Cullen, with sword and shield in hand, smashed the root with the heel of his boot to stop its evil crawl, causing a chain reaction that crackled back into the heart of the vein, the flashpoint causing the red lyrium to react on a chemical level.
"Get down!" Cullen bellowed, bracing himself.
Before he could explain what was happening, the Commander raised his shield to protect them from the violent explosion, Varric throwing himself over the Seeker as they cried out in abject horror.
And for a heart-stopping moment, Cassandra's world, and everything she valued most in it, was filled to the brim with red.
