Samson's face swims at the edge of his vision, hazy. It's not the face he wants to see as he loses conciousness, but Evelyn is gone, out of reach, and he can't picture her. Not now, not in this moment of failure. Not with the Horror that was Nathaniel squeezing the life from his throat.
His fingers brush against fire again, recoiling, bringing sharp focus to the dull throb behind his eyes. Flames, under the water. He wills himself to reach out again and it's there, burning, the tang of magic trapped in wood. Magefire. Dorian's magefire. Evelyn's arrow.
The one that failed to find it's mark.
He ignores the pain because everything right now is pain - what's a little more? - and clenches his hand around the arrow shaft. It stings, lancing through him. Wet and gurgling, Nathaniel laughs above him, still spitting blood.
Trials on his mind, he sings the Chant, soft and low, equally wet. Blood in and on his throat.
When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me
And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then
In the pounding of my heart
I hear the glory of creation.
It's not pretty, it's barely coherent, the next verse escapes him. The rest of the Chant eludes him.
All but two lines.
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.
When he was young, playing in the fields of Honnleath, he had taken the role of proud Templar, strong and brave and devout. He had rained the Maker's judgement down on his siblings with wooden sword and toy shield, slain abominations and defended Rosalie from any number of foul beasts - most of which had been Branson, covered head to toe in seaweed. Rosalie and Mia would cheer and crown him with wildflowers, clumsily knotted together, their saviour and hero. He had faith then, faith when he walked through the doors of Kinloch the first time. He still had faith when he stared up at the giant chains of Kirkwall's docks, though shaken. He had faith when the Chantry exploded. He even had faith when he had turned against Meredith at last. He had faith when he took Cassandra's offer.
It had wavered with the Breach. It had crumbled with the loss of the Divine. Cracks that had existed way back when - formed while he had knelt and prayed locked in the barrier, unable to do anything but watch as his friends and fellow Templars were slaughtered - had turned into fissures, into gaps so deep not even the ocean could not fill them.
He had clung to the Chant, to the words, but denied the lyrium leash. It had weakened and empowered him, but it had not restored his faith. Nothing had, not even knowing that he alone had earned the love of one of Andraste's chosen. And Evelyn was just that, no matter who had helped her escape the Fade, she was Maker blessed and Void take him if he knew why but she loved him.
Even if it killed them.
Well, he was dying now.
He was dying with her name on his lips and her arrow in his hand and a broken promise hammering in the back of his skull.
Stand the line.
There has to be an after this, for him to be by her side.
Stand the line.
There has to be another night, for it to be impossible for her to leave him.
Stand the line.
There has to be another time, for all the things he still had yet to do with, for, to her.
Stand. The. Line.
His head fell to the side, staring blankly at the arrow clenched in his fist. An arrow, touched by magefire, designed and intended to incinerate.
An arrow with green and blue fletching.
Something clicked in his mind, something about the sky. When did that happen, that blue meant the sky and not the bottle of lyrium? The sky, bright and endless, blue eyes and a sweet smile. Green, spilling from a fist like gemstones; the crackle and burn of Fade energy she had learned to twist to her will.
He blinked, struggling to focus. The fletching was yellow.
Dying makes you delirious, apparently.
Stand.
He doesn't want to fail. He doesn't want to die with red lyrium at his throat.
The.
He doesn't want Samson sneering down at him. He doesn't want to drop his shield.
Line.
The fletching catches his eye again, first yellow, then green and blue, the arrow still searing into his palm despite his wavering focus. It feels impossibly heavy in his hand but he pours everything into lifting it. Evelyn meant it to help him, her last shot before she went to face Corypheus.
It saves him now as he roars all his anger, all his rage, driving it as hard and as deep as he can into the laughing mouth of the Horror that hovered above him.
Faith sparks anew, reborn in the fire that consumes Nathaniel's screams and the yellow fletching marking the kill.
One oath kept, his the sword arm and the weapon hers, aided with flames gifted by friendship.
Cole wants to help, but not in the usual way. If he helps that way, if he eases the pain and lets it go, he creates more pain. Pain that he will feel too. Is that what it is to be human? Pain on endless pain, cyclical, pain for pain endlessly, on and on, everything creating more pain until it swallows the world?
It spirals, caught in the wind. He could fetch her, his friend. But it might take too long. She is far ahead, fighting a different battle now. The Iron Bull is close but it's too late for defense and he does not want the other ending the Qunari can offer. Solas, he tugs at, a moth fluttering at the flame. The elf does not respond. Iron could save and he tries to get Vivienne's attention but her hands are full of ice and her mind focused inward, protecting the part of her that is brittle.
Varric and Sera are on the fringes, arguing over who shot first. Neither notice.
Don't go where I can't follow.
He pulls the the thread and it unravels in his hands. Pain already there, created from worry.
Don't go. The sun sinks into the water, all burnished reds and copper tang, life washing away in a slow current. The forest doesn't care; the Arbor Wilds grow silent even as they teem with life and death.
He tugs harder, a broken promise but he wants to understand more than duty. He wants to understand love that means letting go and giving in and trust, there's so much trust. He sobs - her sound, not his - because he's breaking the trust. Later. Ask later. She might not explain, but it will wait.
He lets the thread drop, picks up another.
Seat me by Your side in death.
The Chant sings in multiple hearts, the last vestiges of hope on dying lips all around, men red and men of Red, all equal in the end.
The riverbed is empty and the song echoes with the laughter over the stones, safe and new but flickering and fading. Broken chains and broken promises.
Varric is his friend, he understands the words better than most. He tries again.
Her first instinct is to run back through the Eluvian, but Morrigan pulls the magic from the glass without a word, sealing them back at Skyhold.
Safe.
Whole.
She doesn't wait to argue, flees for the stables. They left an army, friends, Cullen behind by taking the mirror. Trying to convince Morrigan will do her no good; the mage owes no one here her allegience, that much is abundantly clear. Anger flares, deep rooted in fear, and green light bounces off the walls as she runs.
They would have died if they had waited or turned back. Corypheus reborn once again, his goal taken by a mage outside of his control, had only one intent - to see them destroyed, snuffed out like a candle, stomped down like ants. Morrigan saved them by using the Eluvian.
But in doing so the Inquisitor fled the battlefield, left her army behind.
She fled now, down stone steps and dirt paths, ignoring Dennett's confused yelp as she burst into the stables. It's only the startling absence that stops her rampage before it truly started.
There are no horses left, none that could carry her with any haste. No beloved Forder with boundless stamina, no white Charger capable of bearing any burden, not even a Courser, bred to run. Only pack ponies, small and built for the slow climb up and down mountains, useless to her for the purpose she has set herself.
She promised she'd be back.
Piss and raisins. This forest is fucking piss and raisins.
Varric steals her shots, Iron Bull steals her pummels, Vivienne and Solas just plain suck. She's surprised Cole isn't dancing about, slicing throats better suited to an arrowhead. Seems like something he'd do.
Not that she wants him to. Doesn't even want him around. That thing's wrong, innit. Aw fuck though, he tries. All human-y and doing things with Varric. Sometimes she slips, forgets, calls Cole him and not it and then the damned thing gets all weepy-smiley and ugh. So gross.
Gross like centipedes and spiders and nightcrawlers in the bedrolls. Rashvine for the nightshirts. Under the saddles! Oh that had been grand, that one had. Way better than stolen breeches and bees.
Where's Inky? She should remember about the rashvine saddles and-
Oh, right, elfy temple, Cory-shite, blah blah, what?
"What?"
"Blood in the water, setting sun."
"The fuck." It's still afternoon, sun still bright enough to see that there aren't enough blood red arrows in corpses. Wave away, fuck off creepy.
"No one else will listen."
Course they won't. Maker's balls, she doesn't want to be! "Go away! Killing things!"
"Sera. Don't let him go where she can't follow."
Well shite, the bugger never yelled at her before. "You wha?"
But of course Cole can't actually just spit it out. Frigging raisin-like excuse for a human spirit thing. Thingy thing. Fuck. What?
Probably something important, but it's lost to the thwack and thrum. Mm, the bowstring sings pretty.
"SERA," and fuck shit piss damn your mother Maker's hairy balls the FUCK Cole? Grey eyes followed the brim of the floppy hat, the assassin's blade pointing out beyond it back to the stupid elfy temple place.
The fuck is she supposed to do about that? There's a roar, dragon (should have taken her and Bull, we do dragons right), something desperate and angry, so angry, she knows angry, she's angry right now too because that's best for fighting and-
Shite.
Oh, Uptight, you absolute arse.
"Eggy elf-butt!" The arrow gets a little too close to the tip of his ear to be comfortable, but piss because it would have been better if it had hit maybe. Gets his attention though, don't it? Won't risk that with Madame Fancypants though, no, that arrow goes through her line of sight but all respectable distances and whatnot, all proper, bonus for the Venatori it skewers. "Now who's not paying attention, fuckers?"
Iron Bull gets one through the horns, because, you know, horns, have to tell them about that later. Good one.
Get it.
Got it.
Don't let him snuff it.
Sera loves Inky, and Inky loves Cully-Wully, so Sera tolerates. Frigging shite though. Looks bad. Human red thing all blah blah blah, Scowly all hurk.
Bye bye dragon, sadface. Would have loved to poke it with arrows. Wait. If it leaves, where does that leave Inkness? Tits and arse, can't be good. Gonna have to go into the stupid elfy temple thing and find her, right? Ugh. It's going to be so elfy and dumb and wait, wait, no, hang on. Shite. Piss. Inky doesn't know. Inky needs to know, come help.
Fuck. Gonna have to go in for sure. Plus side, bad side, enemy going bye too? Bad side. Wanted to kill more. Good side, easier to find Inky. 'Less she got eaten by the dragon. Serves her right for not taking her and Bull, though.
Aw nuts. He's gonna snuff it.
Varric didn't listen. Sera listened, heard, responded.
An oddity, but her threads tangle up with other threads, loom woven tapestry spilling out at his fingertips. There are no certainties in life. I should have died, too many instances where the thread could have been cut before, hanging on now by one last twisted thread, gold and blue.
Does he see it yet, the sky? Does he remember the first time, after the cage, stumbling into the night? The stars were bright, Judex mighty, but Equinor the clearest, easiest to trace.
Lion even then, drawn to the filly.
That brings a soft, sad smile to life. Sera did well, but it's in the hands of others now. Cole traces the threads, careful, not looking. Just prodding, casting for what's on the surface.
Equinor is on the surface, stars winking and fading and then not stars, but star shaped flowers. No velvet sky but silken hair tangled in clumsy fingers.
That memory isn't for him, and he lets it go, following the thread down, inching closer and closer to the weak point.
It's there, the moment. ...Real? Because he needed to know, couldn't tell. Worried. Wanted. He hadn't seen this one, tied though it was. Evelyn told him to ask, and she hadn't want to share. Kept it hers, held safe like a coin in his pocket.
He moves past threads knotted together, tracing his path through.
Honey cakes are what keep you sweet?
Sweet words where he doesn't deserve them, sweet like the smile that accompanies them. He should have said it, it wasn't stupid. He should have asked, because Cole knows this memory already. She wanted him to tell her the secret to his smile.
He finds the fraying thread, Kirkwall in sharp constrast to the Wilds, fire and smoke and pandemonium. All the what ifs and maybes and could have should have would have and you're to blame too, complicit through inaction.
I should have died, one wrong choice too many, no absolution.
The thread snaps, and he can follow it no more.
Elfroot and blood hang bitter in the air.
Leliana, Josephine, Cullen,
Used the Eluvian to get out. Morrigan sealed it and can't get back. At Skyhold. No horses. Going to find a way back though. Left the fight unwon.
Inquisitor Trevelyan
Evie,
Thank the Maker. Don't leave Skyhold, we are making preparations to return already and there is nothing for you to do here. Corypheus fled the field with his dragon, it must have been when you went through the Eluvian. We were able to capture his general, Samson, but Calpernia eluded us. We will bring him with us for your judgement.
Josephine
E,
J will be returning soon with an advance party. Wait for her. The army will follow.
L.
Seeker,
Maker fuck but don't let Little Fox come. Promise me, alright? I'll give you anything.
Varric
Josephine,
We are fine, but the Inquisitor insists on travelling. I am glad you are safe. You should never have gone, and I was worried.
Blackwall
Blackwall,
I'm sorry to have worried you, but our men kept me quite safe. I was worried about you though, especially when we couldn't find any of you after the battle. Sera insisted the dragon ate you all! I think she meant to be serious, but it helped raise spirits, oddly enough.
Do me one favour, though, please. Don't let Evie leave Skyhold?
Your Josephine
Leliana,
Tell me what happened.
Cassandra
Cassandra,
Later.
L.
Josephine,
I'm flattered you think I could stop her. She's on her way. Sorry.
Blackwall
Blackwall, Cassandra, Dorian,
You had better be with her.
L.
Leliana,
She left without us but we are trying to catch up. What happened?
Dorian
Dorian,
Later.
L.
Bull,
Vishante kaffas, but you will tell me what happened amatus! Leliana just keeps saying later.
Dorian
Kadan,
It's not news you want in a letter. Catch up to Boss. We're coming to you.
I.B.
Varric,
Tell me what happened or I will wring your neck, dwarf.
Cassandra
Seeker,
Curly got hurt, it's not pretty. Don't tell her. Please.
Varric
L,
You should have fucking told me.
E.
"At least that means Seeker is with her?" Varric smiled sheepishly, patting Bianca for comfort in the wake of the Spymaster's glare. "Little Fox was going to find out anyway. Postponing the news won't make it any easier."
Leliana sighed, throwing the parchment on the fire. "We don't need the Inquisitor galloping across Thedas right now. We need to find where Corypheus went, what his next move is. She would have been safe at Skyhold, and we would have been there soon enough."
"Bullshit, Nightingale. She's human behind that anchor, you know." He set the crossbow aside, staring her down.
Leliana dropped her gaze to the forest floor, contrite. "I know. All heros are human once you get to know them."
"Oh yeah? You've been holding out on me. Tell us some stories about the Hero of Fereldan, won't you?" He indicated the group across from them, all sullen and quiet. Varric had run out of stories, but the defenders of Fereldan, the Blight destroyers? That's good material, and from a source like Leliana unlikely to suffer from too much word of mouth.
She gave a thoughtful hum then smiled softly. "Oh, alright. 'Lis had a warhound, Barkspawn, and Morrigan couldn't stand him at first. He used to leave half eaten hares in her unmentionables..."