I hate everything I've ever written, and there's the barest possibility I'm a bit depressed.
Ugh, I'm depressed, okay? The crazy thing is that writing new things isn't a huge problem, but editing? Forget it.
Trapped
It was a glorious spring morning, bright with hollow promise, as we made our way across the patched bridge to the Citadelle du Corbeau. The stench of the undead hit us even before our feet touched the land again, and the wooded shore was unnaturally silent, utterly devoid of animal life. In the distance, we heard the stuttering screech of a demon trapped within a rotting corpse, seeking the world but unable to truly grasp it with dead flesh.
I suspected, based on the sheer number of undead my scouts had seen, that there was another arcane horror using another collection of bones as a focus to call demons across the Veil and into corpses. Varric and the two soldiers who were archers had worked on making fire arrows of various types - some exploding and some merely burning - to fill their quivers. By trading weapons between individuals, Harding had managed to outfit all three heavily-armored soldiers with fire-rune-enhanced swords, and she had found one dagger with a similar upgrade incorporated into the blade for Cole. Solas and I had traded our usual staves of ice and lightning, respectively, for those that would summon fire. Dorian had no need to trade as he usually used a fire staff, even though he was better with lightning. He claimed to enjoy the versatility, in spite of its relative inefficiency at gathering ambient energy for his spells. Only Bull and Cassandra had their usual weapons, but both had found armor with runes of frost resistance, which would help protect against any arcane horrors we encountered.
We were as ready as our rather meager stores of gear could make us.
Much as it had been on the ramparts, the fight to the outer gate of the Citadelle was a wildly unpleasant slog through far more undead than anyone should ever have to deal with in a single lifetime. Though the first arcane horror went down with relative ease, none of us were counting on a second , though we likely should have considered the possibility. We were near exhaustion by the time we found it, and several people sustained injuries in the battle.
All of the soldiers were wounded badly enough that I thought it was better to leave them at the gates - once we reached them - to guard our backs. One of the archers had been reduced to using her belt knife after an undead warrior with a mace broke her arm. Solas and I made certain that no one would die while we investigated the Citadelle, though it meant burning through two lyrium potions each. Cassandra had taken an arrow in the elbow-joint of her armor, but I didn't think leaving her behind was an option. I took on the task of healing her up well enough to allow her to continue swinging her sword while Solas saw to the broken bone.
"All right," I told the soldiers, pushing sweaty, grit-filled hair off of my forehead, "things should be fairly quiet out here, but do not give your lives to hold this gate. Flee, if you must - send the scouts at camp for us. They're fresh and unhurt. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Worship!" they chorused with admirable energy, despite their wounds and the brutality of the fight we had just endured.
"Enaste," I told them, stepping back as Cassandra lifted her sword and gave it a few experimental swings - swings I heard more than saw, though the light glinting off the blade was certainly visible enough. "Give us until sunset to return. If we haven't, go back to camp and have them send a message to Harding. She'll have ideas." I glanced vaguely in the direction of my companions. "Everyone ready?"
Varric groaned dramatically, but the others murmured various words of assent. I took a breath, and we entered the gate.
It didn't lead immediately to the interior of the fortress, instead winding us through a short series of narrow passages whose ceilings were probably laced with murder holes that would allow defenders to rain hot oil and arrows on attackers. I couldn't see them, of course, but it was clear that the Citadelle had been built with defense in mind, and so I couldn't imagine they weren't there.
Now that we were getting closer, I could clearly sense the magic at work in the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, which the scouts had alluded to in their report. It was nothing I recognized, though it felt somehow hot and angry. The anger wasn't directed at us, precisely, but I wasn't certain it would differentiate between us and whatever it was directed at.
"There's a mechanism of some sort," Dorian said then. "At least, I think that's what it is - it's raining mindless fire and rage on the interior of this fortress. Some sort of defense, I suppose. I didn't think you southerners were capable of making such devices, though they're quite common in Tevinter."
"The heart of this fortification - which you can see there, the tower that rises from its center - is Elvhen," Solas informed him. "While it surprises me that the defenses still work, they were not constructed by a human - any human - southern or not."
"Ah. Well, that explains a great deal," Dorian replied.
"Do you refer to this specific fortress, or to human magic generally?" Solas asked archly.
"Why not both?" Dorian asked in return, and Solas chuckled.
Mindless fire and rage was a good description of what we found within the outer courtyard. A beam of focused golden light swept the courtyard in a repetitive pattern. I could smell the smoke of old fires, and presumed that meant it had already burned everything flammable. A handful of undead had, apparently, managed to find enough cover to avoid a fate similar to the structures and gear had once littered the yard. Whatever sense of self-preservation they might have possessed, though, was overcome by our appearance. They rushed towards us - only to be swiftly immolated by the Citadelle's defenses. Varric picked off the few that weren't immediately cut down by the fire.
"Well, that's handy," he commented.
"Barring the part where we have to make it through," I pointed out.
"Well, sure - barring that part, of course," he agreed easily, only the barest bite of sarcasm audible in his voice.
"There is a visible pattern," Cassandra observed.
"Not too fast, either," Bull rumbled in agreement. "But I think someone's gonna need to carry the Boss."
"Not again," I groaned, pleading with fate more than any of my companions. Cole laid a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I heaved a sigh. "I am going to look like a complete fool when we find Celene's forces."
"I'll try to let you down before that," Bull assured me. I would have been more comforted had he managed to restrain the undertone of laughter in his voice.
As it happened, I needn't have worried. It took us some time to traverse the apparently-deserted fortress, which was a maze of corridors and connected courtyards, each one patrolled by a beam of burning golden magic. Many of them still had undead wandering about, though their lack of care once they spotted us condemned many of them to die in the fire unleashed by the ancient defenses. Varric shot the rest.
At last, however, we came to a much smaller courtyard that was bordered on one side by the walls of the central tower. The magic didn't - perhaps couldn't - reach this courtyard, and so the others spent a few minutes casting about for a way to open the doors into the tower while I kept watch for undead. That meant descending from Bull's back, which I was more than happy to do.
The same winch that opened the doors apparently lowered shades atop the tower that quelled the magic. Dorian described it to me with interest since I couldn't see it myself. "I wonder what is up there," he said.
"You can ask the soldiers," I told him, "but we don't have time to investigate. Whatever the state of Celene's people, we left wounded outside."
He blew out a long breath, but agreed.
"I don't suppose I'll have the chance to come back," he said wistfully.
I shrugged, thinking it was unlikely, but much too tired to be properly sympathetic. "Have Solas dream the history for you," I suggested. Though, for all I knew, Solas might know the history firsthand.
We were greeted, when we entered the fortress, by a panicky-sounding guard demanding to know who we were.
"Inquisitor Lavellan of the Inquisition," I told him, squinting as I tried to get some idea of his age and state of health, but too far away to see much. "It seemed you might need some help. May I speak with your commander?"
"Inquisitor - ?" he echoed, and then seemed to gather some of his wits. "Yes! Right - right away, Your Worship."
We were led through a musty-smelling corridor and then down a flight of stairs into another corridor that must of have been older, but also smelled considerably less of damp. "This section was built by the Elvhen," Solas commented. "The decorative stonework is well preserved."
"Will you show me? Later?" In the Fade, my tone added.
"I would be happy to," he agreed, and I thought he picked up on the silent piece of the request, given the faint bloom of amusement that echoed across our bond.
The soldier led us to a large room containing perhaps two dozen soldiers. One side had apparently been arranged as a makeshift infirmary, though its attendants mostly sat listlessly among the patients. I noted their lack of movement first, and the pallor and gauntness of their faces as I passed close enough to see some of them. There was frighteningly little difference between the appearance of the caretakers and their patients. "Lieutenant," the soldier leading us addressed one of the attendants, his voice trembling with excitement and possibly also weakness, "members of the Inquisition have arrived. I - I believe - it seems they have shut off the defenses."
The lieutenant raised his eyes, his face slowly lighting with something a shade closer to hope - but the woman lying before him stirred, raising herself laboriously on one elbow. "Jehan," the lieutenant chided her, immediately bending in an attempt to force her down again.
"Commander Jehan," she told him with a fierce look. "Whom do I have the honor of addressing?"
I sank to the floor beside her, putting out my hand to read her physical state. "Inquisitor Lavellan," I told her. "What sort of illness…?" I trailed off, searching for what was wrong with her.
"No illness but lack of food," she told me, finally allowing her lieutenant to coax her to a reclining position. "We have been on starvation rations for the last two weeks, and the last morsel was eaten yesterday morning. Even rats have eluded us this day."
I looked up. "Solas?"
"Our hardtack, stewed in sufficient water, will provide a sort of gruel," he said. "Not enough for more than a mouthful or two for each of them - but that may be for the best."
I grimaced - I had little doubt it would be as disgusting as it sounded - but he was right. "See to it." I glanced at Jehan. "Water?"
She chuckled bitterly. "There is a cistern atop the tower. Water we have in plenty."
"Good. Varric, Cassandra," I returned my attention to my companions as Solas strode away, "go let our soldiers know the situation. They'll be of limited use with their injuries, so have them return to camp and send the scouts. Some of these people will need to be carried, and Eugenie should be told what sort of problems to expect."
"Of course, Inquisitor," Cassandra agreed, and the two of them left, too.
"What can we do?" Dorian asked. Only he and Bull remained - Cole was no doubt about somewhere, but he evidently preferred to help in his own way.
"Find out how many are ambulatory and how many will need to be carried, and see if you can find…staves, or something, to aid those who can still walk, but may have trouble without some sort of assistance. Oh," I added as the thought occurred to me, "give me your feladara potions. They can be watered down as well, and might help keep people on their feet for a while." Our path here had, alas, been brutal, and Bull only had one potion to hand over, while Dorian had two. I had two myself, and knew Solas had at least one - but I thought Cassandra was out, and it was very possible that Varric and Cole were, as well. By the time I diluted them enough for everyone to have a drink, it wouldn't be much better than feladara tea, but it was still better than nothing.
Dorian reached down to pat my shoulder, and then he and Bull left to do as I had asked.
"What happened?" I asked Jehan.
She released a long breath. "We were ordered to retreat several weeks ago - a chance for peace, our orders said. For a while, we received regular word from the capital, as well as supplies. But two weeks ago the undead rose, and our next supply caravan never arrived. We began rationing - and tried to hold off the undead, but there were simply too many. Eventually, we were forced to retreat to the tower and one of my soldiers worked out how to activate the defenses. We didn't know that doing so would effectively trap us here." There was a suggestion of moisture in her eyes as she swallowed. "I had over a hundred troops under my command when the retreat was sounded. Now…we have lost more than three-quarters of our force."
"Gaspard's forces have fared no better," I told her. "You were all fools to bring your war here, to this place with so much prior history of death."
Her lieutenant straightened - bristled at the criticism, perhaps - but Jehan choked out another laugh, though this time it sounded almost like a sob. "Your Inquisition and your troops are fortunate to have a leader for whom such considerations are even worth entertaining."
"Perhaps," I ground out, my voice flinty, "but it shouldn't require fortune."
I bade her sleep, and rose to find out if anyone else had feladara potions I could make use of.
Enaste: "Grace" or "bless"
