Chapter Four: Hard Decisions
"…herald…"
The voice was faint, like it was coming from far away, across a large field or maybe the middle of a lake. It didn't concern her, whoever was calling, whomever they were calling, as Harold wasn't her name…
"…Herald…?"
Well, the person was persistent. She hoped this Harold-person would answer soon, she really wanted to go back to sleep. It was rare for her to get a chance to rest peacefully, without fear of being woken up by her…
"Hey, Herald? Can you hear me?"
The voice was right beside her, making her wonder how he had gotten so close so quickly. She opened her eyes, far too curious to go back to sleep, and her vision filled with the upside-down face of, "Varric?"
It was bizarre, watching relief sweep over his features, his smile looking like a frown from her perspective. "There you are, Snowdrop. She's awake!" he lowered his face, or lifted it, to shout at someone beyond her field of vision. When he looked back at her, he was all concern. "You all right? Does anything hurt? Did you hit your head?"
Her head, she repeated to herself. "My helmet…?"
"It's fine," he assured her, "Still in place. Want me to take it off for you?"
"No!" she answered quickly, too quickly. She started to notice the sound of blood pounding in her ears, making her face feel flushed and her skin tight. "No," she began again, a little softer, "It's fine. I'm fine. Am I upside down?"
He had been messing with something around her chest, and when she spoke he pulled back to look at her. She focused a little more on his face, noting the smudges across his reddened cheeks and the way his hair looked a little crispy. She watched him lower/raise an eyebrow before he went back to tugging at her chest. "You are. Do you remember what happened?"
"Um…" she chewed on her lower lip, trying to think, trying to remember, but her mind felt like it was stuck in thick muck. She had no idea how she ended up wherever she was, or why Varric looked like he got a little too close to a bonfire.
"It'll come to you," he reassured her, thinking she might become upset over losing even more of her memory. "Important thing is, you didn't forget me, right?"
She smiled at him, letting go of her lip to do so, "Right."
He paused, his smile fading as he held her gaze steadily. "All right now, Snowdrop…"
"Snowdrop?" she interrupted, confused.
Varric shrugged. "I'm trying out a nickname for you. Calling you 'Madam Herald' all the time is making my jaw hurt. Now, we're going to start lifting you up here in a moment. If anything hurts, shout out, all right? We might not have a choice, but I'd rather you don't get more hurt."
She nodded. "Me, too."
Varric gave her one more encouraging smile, then looked back up/down at the others. "Start hauling on the rope. Slowly!"
She got an impression of déjà vu, that this had happened to her before, recently, only it was with Commander Cullen instead of Varric…
He saw the pain hit her before she cried out, and was already signaling the others to stop pulling. "Hold it! Hold it! Tell me where it hurts."
"My leg," she gasped, trying hard not to cry, not to scream, making noise only brought more pain, more blood, more suffering…
No, she mentally shook herself. That was her old life, before the Breach, before she became the Herald. That life was over. Now she could cry if she wanted to, and she wanted to very, very much. But Varric was looking at her with such care and concern, she didn't want him to worry about her, to feel bad, it hadn't been his fault, it was hers, she had taken that shot, gotten the mage's attention, gotten Varric hurt, and herself knocked off the side of a cliff…
Varric heard her whimpering, but couldn't make out if she was saying anything in particular, or merely giving voice to her pain. He tried not to let it show, how much it hurt him to see her hurting, and steeled his resolve. "I was afraid of that. Listen, this isn't going to be easy. Your leg got caught in an old tree root. It saved your life, but it probably broke your leg. We're going to have to lift you up a bit, before we can free your leg from the roots. It's gonna hurt; I can't help that."
She nodded, her head inside her helmet beginning to feel stuffy and sweaty. "I understand. I'll let you know if it gets to be too much."
He wasn't sure she would, but they didn't have much of a choice. "Promise?" When she nodded, her lower lip once more firmly fixed between her teeth, he reluctantly gave in. He thought about scolding her for chewing her lip, afraid she might bite it through, but figured there was enough to deal with for the time being. "All right. Start pulling again."
It hurt. It felt like a white hot poker was being held, deep within her lower left leg, right inside her very bones. She tried not to cry, squeezing her eyes shut tight, but that only intensified the pain. She opened them again to find her vision blurred with tears, the dampness condensing at the corners of her eyes and dripping upwards/downwards/sideways over her skin and into her hair. She held her breath, willing her body to accept the pain, to remember how, to realize that it would soon pass and a healing potion would make everything better…
"Stop!" Varric called out again.
"No…" she moaned. "Keep going. I can make it."
"Sorry, we have to stop," his voice was deeply saddened by her bravery. "I've gotta work your leg free. It'll just take a moment." He silently prayed it would be easy to disentangle her leg from the jangled and twisted mesh of ancient roots.
The Herald blinked her eyes clear, looking for anything to stare at and take her mind off of what Varric was doing. Her torso was now even with the roots, Bull shifting a little further along the edge so she could lie relatively flat rather than doubled over her injured leg. The qunari easily handled her weight on the rope all by himself, leaving Blackwall and Cassandra to hold Varric's rope, Vivienne somewhere out of sight. She looked up at Bull, saw him watching her, saw the brief flicker of concern cross his features, and wondered if he cared about her, like Varric and the others. She had thought it odd, the way he asked to join the Inquisition—well, to be hired by the Inquisition—and then promptly told her he was a spy and would be spying on them as well as for them. She had never met a qunari who was so, well, likable. Of course, considering her past…
Her thoughts broke off along with a chunk of root that had jarred her leg as it fell away. She wanted to cry, maybe scream, and blacking out again sounded like a wonderful idea, but she was still looking at Bull. He held her gaze, his intense stare not allowing her to look away, his expression grim and determined. It was as if he was willing her to face the situation, to stay strong, to battle the pain and overcome it.
And she did.
A moment later and her leg swung free, her body pivoting now that the only thing holding her was the rope just beneath her armpits. Bull's face was pulled from her view, but not before she saw his approval. Then Varric's face was there again, looking at her closely, making sure she was still alive. She gave him a little smile, not that he could see much of it, but perhaps he saw it in her eyes because he relaxed. "Almost done, Snowdrop. You did very well."
She could barely hear him. Her head was above her heart once more, the blood draining away from her swollen face, leaving her feeling lightheaded and a little giddy. When Varric took her hand, however, she returned his grip just as fiercely.
She must have fainted, just for a little while. Bull was carrying her over to where Vivienne had set up a tent, his arms surprisingly gentle for their size. She knew how strong he was, had seen how easily he swung that greataxe of his, had even seen him snap a man's back across his knee, but the tenderness with which he set her on the camp cot was unexpected. "You awake again, Boss?" he asked as he pulled away, spying her eyes blinking at him through the slits in her helmet.
"Yes," she answered, though she had to clear her throat before the word was more than an unintelligible squeak.
"Here, let me take this off for you," his thick fingers started working on the ties holding her cheek guards in place.
"No," she tried to shove his hands away, but the movement caused her to twitch her leg. She hissed, halfway sitting up, one hand trying to grab her thigh while the other tried to keep her helmet in place.
"It's okay, Boss," he reassured her, supporting her with one hand between her shoulder blades, helping her the rest of the way up. He spread the fingers of his other hand, peacefully, and moved it slowly away from her helmet.
"Here," Vivienne bustled into the tent without so much as a cough to warn them. She held a vial in one hand, and pushed it in front of the Herald's face. "Drink this down. All of it. Then you're going to take a nice little nap while it works. And you," she turned to Bull, "Are going to wait outside with the others."
"Yes, ma'am," he bowed. Slowly he removed his hand from the Herald's back. Encouraged when she didn't fall over, he stood up and moved a step back. "If you need anything, just give a holler."
"I will, The Iron Bull, thank you."
He smiled, she thought because she used the article in front of his name. It was silly, in her opinion, but it pleased him, and she did like his smile. Besides, if there was anyone whose good side she wanted to stay on, it would be Bull.
"Out!" Vivienne repeated, shooing him away with the back of her hand. Obviously she didn't care if she hurt Bull's feelings, but somehow, amazingly, it didn't matter. Bull always backed down around her. The Herald was fairly sure it wasn't because he liked her or anything along those lines, but the reasons why escaped her.
"Didn't I tell you to drink that?" Vivienne turned to her next.
"Oh, er, yes, I'll just, um, drink this," she brought the vial to her lips and bumped into her cheek guards, spilling some of the liquid onto her front.
Vivienne gave a long-suffering sigh, "Take your helmet off first, my dear."
"I'm sorry. I forgot."
"You have nothing to apologize for. Remember that. You are the Herald of Andraste; act like it."
"Yes, ma'am." She hadn't meant to do an imitation of Bull, but thankfully she didn't comment on it. The Herald untied the leather thongs holding her cheek guards closed and freed her mouth. She brought the vial to her lips and sipped.
And promptly choked. "What's the matter now?" Vivienne asked.
The Herald shook her head, trying to pass the vial back. "This tastes awful." Opening her mouth had been a bad idea. The little potion she had swallowed was making her stomach to backflips, and she feared the potion might come back up on her.
"Of course, dear, it's supposed to taste terrible," Vivienne soothed her with a cool hand covering her own, making her hold on to the vial. "If healing potions tasted good, everyone would want to get sick and hurt all the time. Terrible tasting medicine is a good deterrent against a lapse in attention. Now, have another sip."
She did so, only because the mage sounded so calm and sincere. She took a healthy swallow, wanting to get it done and over with as soon as possible. As she feared, however, her stomach began cramping the moment the liquid hit it. She groaned and clutched at her gut with her free hand. The next moment she rolled to her side.
"Madam Herald!"
"Is something wrong?" Cassandra's voice penetrated the canvas a moment before she shoved aside the flap and entered. She saw Vivienne hovering over the Herald, who was lying twisted and in obvious pain, a puddle of sick on the ground beneath her.
"I… I'm sorry… I can't… I can't drink…. it's off…" she panted between her words, trying to gasp out an explanation that the two women could understand.
"There, there," Vivienne patted her shoulder. "Take a deep breath. Try not to think about it." She didn't flinch as the Herald choked and spit up a little more, right onto the toe of her boot. She did reach down and pick up the bottle, having fallen from the Herald's grasp when she began to be sick.
"What is it?" Cassandra blurted, coming up beside Vivienne. "What has happened? Why is she sick?"
"I'm not sure," Vivienne stood up, knowing there wasn't much she could do for the Herald and wanting to examine the contents of the vial. "This should be a healing potion, but…" her words trailed away as she upended the vial. Most of it had either been taken by the Herald or spilled when she dropped the bottle. There was enough left inside, however, for Vivienne to tap out onto the palm of her hand. She sniffed at it, and very gingerly dipped the end of her smallest finger into it and placed the drop on the tip of her tongue.
Immediately she spat it out, making a face. "She's right. This potion's gone off."
"Off?" Cassandra demanded. "Healing potions don't go 'off'."
"This one did," Vivienne held the blackish green liquid up for her inspection. "It's rancid. No wonder the poor girl's sick."
There was a moment of silence while the two women stared at the goop in Vivienne's hand. Then Varric's voice cut in from the tent flap behind them. "That's… not good."
"Varric!" Cassandra immediately seized on a line of questioning, wanting answers, demanding answers. "You took a potion, didn't you? After being hit by that spell?"
He shrugged, "Sorry, Seeker. I didn't feel the need. Sure, I'm sore and bruised in a few places I won't name, but nothing that warranted a potion. Not while the Herald was hanging upside down off the edge of a cliff, at any rate."
Cassandra was not going to be deterred. "They can't all be rancid. Get another potion."
Blackwall was closest, he and Bull standing behind Varric, all of them wanting to make sure the Herald would be all right. He rummaged in the pack and pulled out another vial, handing it carefully to Varric who passed it to Cassandra who uncorked it herself.
A disgusted sound popped from her lips as she poured some of the liquid onto her hand. "The same. Spoiled. Give me another."
"There was only one more in the bag," Blackwall stated flatly.
"Shit…" Varric sighed into the crowded tent. "You want to make for the Inquisition camp?"
Cassandra shook her head. "I suppose we'll have to, but I got these bottles from the camp. It's quite possible the other bottles there will be just as unusable."
"There's the Crossroads."
"They don't have a healer, now that Mother Giselle has joined the Inquisition." A groan of frustration rattled inside her chest. "Splint her leg. We'll make for Haven, with all possible haste."
"If speed is what you're most concerned about," began Bull, "I could get her to Haven in two… no, wait." He slipped his head outside briefly to gauge the time, "Three days. Tops."
"You can travel that quickly?" Cassandra didn't sound convinced.
"I can, if it's warranted. It won't be easy, might get a little rough on her, but she'll be in Haven before the end of the week."
"Sounds like you're gonna run there, day and night. There's no way the rest of us could keep that pace," Varric sighed.
"You can't," Bull agreed. "But I will."
"Out of the question," Cassandra declined the offer. "I will not risk the Herald's life like that. Just the two of you traveling alone? Without any protection? Without any assistance should you come across bandits or bears…?"
"I'm all the protection she'll need," he huffed, crossing arms as thick as tree trunks and glaring at Cassandra with his one good eye.
The Herald had lain there this whole time, listening with wide eyes, as the others decided her fate. She decided, since it was her fate, she should have a say in it. "I'll go with The Iron Bull."
Everyone rounded on her. Suddenly she remembered that her cheek guards were undone, that everyone could see the scars on her face, though thankfully the worst side was turned down and away from them. She swallowed, feeling nervousness grow inside her, but she wasn't going to back down. She focused her eyes on Cassandra and opened her mouth, hoping the right words would come to her. "You said it yourself; I need to get to Haven. With all possible haste. Bull can do that. He can get me there quickly, and safely." She paused to swallow, really wishing that healing potion had been usable, her leg throbbing with each heartbeat. Throwing her last card on the table, she hoped it was enough to win the pot, "And I trust him."
Cassandra looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but then again, she had that expression on her face a lot of the time. She took several breaths through flared nostrils, everyone else watching her now, wondering and waiting for her decision. "Very well. Iron Bull, you will take the Herald to Haven as quickly as possible. The rest of us will follow." She stepped up into his personal space, her voice as dark as her hair, "But if one hair on that girl's head is harmed, if she gets so much as a scratch from a passing bush…"
"Right, right, you'll have my balls for breakfast. Hurry up and splint her leg already; daylight's wasting." He seemed almost bored with Cassandra's threat, dismissing it as he turned to walk outside the tent. "Blackwall, help me get a pack together. I'm gonna need food for the two of us; won't have the time to stop and hunt for anything along the way. Gonna need water skins, too. Could probably find a stream or two, but the less time I spend standing around refilling skins is more time I can spend running…"
The Herald tried to listen to him; anything to keep from watching Vivienne wrap her leg tightly between two splints. The more she looked at her leg, or thought about it, the more it hurt. Bull and Blackwall were out of earshot, however, and Cassandra stalked off quickly without so much as a goodbye. The Herald looked up at Varric next, hoping for some comfort that she had made the right decision. "Cassandra's mad at me, isn't she."
Varric sighed, a slightly sad expression on his face. "Mad, maybe. Also, maybe a little scared. You are the only one who can close rifts, or has a chance at closing the Breach. If anything should happen to you…"
"Bull will keep me safe. I trust him."
"You trust everybody," he argued. He glanced over Vivienne's shoulder to see she was almost done. "That's not quite true, but you do sort of put your trust in people before you really get to know them. That can get you into a lot of trouble, if you chose the wrong person to trust." He shook his head, "But it's not like we have much of a choice. Just…" he hesitated, unable to say what he wanted, what he feared, what he knew Cassandra was fearing as well: that someone had deliberately tampered with those potions, that somehow the Herald's assassin had managed this little mishap. He settled for patting her shoulder, "Just take care of yourself, all right? I want to see you on your feet and running with Sera by the time I get back to Haven."
She smiled, the expression warm and genuine, feeling grateful for his concern. Before she could answer, Bull stuck his head back inside the tent. "You ready to go, Boss?"
She looked to Vivienne, who nodded and stepped out of the way. "I'm ready. Let's get going."
"Hey, ah, Boss, could you stop doing that? It sort of… tickles." Bull's voice sounded strained to his own ears, as if he was panting like a bellows—at least for a qunari. Damn he was tired, near exhaustion, but he knew Haven was only a couple of miles away; they'd make it. That is, if she could keep from tickling him every few moments.
"What?" she asked, her speech a little slurred. She blinked up at him from where he carried her in his arms, but his blind eye was towards her. She looked back down at his chest, at his scarred and naked skin looking ghostly in the predawn light, and realized she had been stroking one of those scars. Damn she was tired. She had tried to sleep, she really had, but between the pain in her leg—intensified with every heavy-footed leap over an obstacle or sudden shift in direction—and the sweating she had done those first two days, she hadn't been able to sleep very well. Or for very long. Her mind was a foggy mess, buzzing with fatigue and pain and inactivity…
"Of course, if you're into that sort of thing, maybe later…" he purred suggestively, "But not right now, you know?"
"Oh," she said quietly, not really sure what he was talking about, other than her fingers on his scar had been tickling him. She dropped her hand onto her lap, thinking the best, and easiest, thing to do right then was agree. "Sure. Later works for me, too."
It felt like Bull might have laughed at that, his massive chest bouncing a little extra, but no sound escaped his lips. Not until he spoke, "Try to get some rest, okay? We're almost there."
"Can't," she mumbled, even as she tried to snuggle into a more comfortable position.
"Leg still hurts?" He didn't want to talk, but it sounded like she needed it. They had been mostly silent these past three days, his breath and energy focused on running, hers focused on not falling out of his grasp. Yet so close to their goal, perhaps he could spare a few breaths, encourage her to talk about what was bugging her so bad it kept her from some much needed rest.
She hummed a little acknowledgement, her fingers straying back to that scar, cutting across his left, er, breast? She didn't think men were supposed to have breasts, but Bull was so massive, so muscular, he had… well, she had to call it something. The scar ran in a slight diagonal line, from his, er, cleavage, almost to his, um, nipple? "Why don't you wear a shirt?"
Yup, she was tired, her mouth running off on its own, saying things she never would have said, her brain completely helpless to stop it.
Bull made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "You don't want to see a qunari in a shirt. Things are still casual, you know, when we walk around wearing only pants, or less. But when we put on shirts, then things get formal—it's all business. Yeah, you don't want to see that."
She forced her hand away from his skin. "But you have an awful lot of scars. Don't you ever feel like, well, covering them up? Keeping people from staring at you?"
Bull laughed, he simply couldn't help himself. He had to stop for a moment and lean his backside against a boulder to catch his breath. "Look at me. Do you really think wearing a shirt would keep people from staring at me?" He turned his face far enough to see her across the bridge of his nose, having distracted her with the question so he could study her condition. She was pale, looking thinner than normal, a light film of sweat hanging about the edges of her helmet—which she had repeatedly refused to take off. She wasn't in bad shape, but she wasn't doing so great, either.
The Herald looked back at him, because he asked her to, and took in everything about him, from his wide and singular-looking horns, to his massive frame, to the scars, to the eye patch… "No, I suppose you'd still stand out. But don't they bother you?"
"What, the scars?" He resettled her in his arms and took off at a light jog. "Nah, they're just marks. If anything, scars can tell you a lot about someone. Every scar was caused by something, so every scar tells a story about the person's past. You, for instance," he stole a glance across his nose again, "I'm guessing shrapnel, something hot, probably metal, thrown out from a blast or explosion."
Immediately her hand reached up to cover her face, what little showed from within her helmet. With the cheek guards hanging loose, even from his angle he might have been able to see far enough inside…
She sighed, dropping her hand. It wouldn't do any good covering it up, not if he had already seen it. "How can you tell?" she asked, her small voice falling to where her hands now clasped each other.
"Like I said, every scar is caused by something. After seeing a few, you get a feel for what sort of injury would leave behind what sort of scar. So, was I right?"
She shrugged, belatedly remembering that she was supposed to be suffering from amnesia. "I guess so. I can't remember what caused my scars, only that there are a lot of them."
Bull gave a gruff sort of sound in acceptance of her statement. Something didn't quite add up, but he let it slide—for now. "You got more of those kinds of scars? That's… awesome!"
As he planned, his unexpectedly positive reaction to her physical form made her lift her head up, suddenly, a brief flicker of hope crossing her features. "You…" she had to swallow, her voice wanting to crack, "You're not put off by…" she waved her fingers in the general direction of her cheek.
"Not in the least," he answered honestly, for once the truth serving better than a lie. "In fact, I think it's turning me on. I mean, here's you, a mere slip of a girl, surviving the explosion at the Temple. Actually, you've survived more than that if you think about it; all those scars were caused by something, right? But you lived through whatever nasty load of shit was dumped on you. That takes guts. Yeah," he had to look away, "That'll turn me on."
He might be teasing her, but considering his views on fights and scars… "The Iron Bull, are you… flirting… with me?"
"You're the one that brought up scars," he shrugged, then thought better of it when she winced. "Never start a scar-comparing contest with a qunari, unless you're prepared to win."
Her brow furrowed, "Don't you mean lose?"
"Nope," he broke into a strong canter, "I mean win. I can see Haven's chantry in the distance. Hang on; I think I can get us there before breakfast is finished!"
He had to be teasing her, but her mind was too tired to even try to figure out how. The faster pace was jarring, making her leg throb, but it would be over soon. She gripped the strap holding his shoulder pauldron in place and gritted her teeth, trying her best to ignore the pain.
Though it made her want to cry, Bull pushed himself to his fastest pace yet. In less than a quarter of an hour he was slowing down, trying to enter Haven at a more reasonable speed that wouldn't, well, look like he was charging the town single-handedly. Just in case some trigger-happy scout didn't see him carrying the Herald in his arms. He had been spotted, he'd been sure someone would see them, and was greeted by Cullen and a small escort as they came around the last bend in the road.
"What happened?" Cullen commanded. He'd been cautious when a scout reported seeing a qunari running towards Haven, curious when another scout a few minutes later reported the qunari was carrying something, and concerned when the third scout reported it looked like Iron Bull and the Herald. Seeing her curled in Bull's arms, clinging fiercely to the qunari, her leg splinted and her face hidden, made his heart nearly stop. He was going to have answers, and he would have them now.
"Not now, Commander," Bull huffed, fighting for breath. Damn, but he wasn't as young as he used to be. He needed to reach the tent before he passed out. "I've got to get her to Stitches."
"Stitches?" Cullen refused to let them out of his sight, falling into step beside them, almost jogging to keep up with Bull's longer strides. "Is she hurt?" He cursed himself as soon as he spoke; of course she was hurt—her leg was splinted. Trying to cover his stating the obvious, he continued, "Take her up to Mother Giselle in the chantry…"
"No offense, Commander," Bull's voice was dark and deep, a hidden meaning lying somewhere behind his words, "But Stitches is closer. And I trust him."
"Does the Herald trust him?"
Bull paused just outside one of the tents set up for his Chargers. "The Herald trusts me. That's enough, isn't it?"
Cullen didn't like the challenging tone in the qunari's voice, nor the ominous meaning implied behind it. Still determined to get answers, he followed them into the tent. "I'm waiting to hear what happened."
"I'd like to know, too," Stitches agreed, standing up as soon as his leader appeared. He didn't waste time with talk, knowing Bull would set the Herald on the table at the back of the tent. Instead he got out what he thought he would need, having noticed the splint.
"She broke her leg," Bull began, already having decided to keep the narrative short. "We didn't have any healing potions, so I brought her back here as quickly as I could." As he stepped away, Stitches stepped in, cutting away the old splint.
"Back here?" Cullen repeated, aghast. "There had to have been someplace closer than Haven. An Inquisition camp. Or a settlement."
The Herald pushed herself up onto her elbows as Stitches took hold of her boot. He tried to slide it off carefully, but her leg was too swollen. He ended up having to cut through the leather, which tugged and twisted on her leg. She hissed and gripped the edges of the table, but otherwise managed to keep still.
"There was a camp, but they were out of healing potions. That's why we didn't have any with us when she got hurt," Bull lied, he thought quite convincingly.
The Herald looked sharply at him, saw the slight shake of his head, and allowed the lie. Something was going on, and she was too tired and weak and just plain upset to keep up with everything. She trusted Bull; she would let him handle matters. She focused on what Stitches was doing. He had finished cutting a slit in her leggings and was palpating her leg. She grew concerned—she had some scars there too, and not all of them matched the scars on her cheek—but apparently the broken bones were drawing more attention than the scars.
"How long ago was the break?" Stitches asked his commander.
"Three days; a little less."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure," Bull blustered, then because he had to know if and where he had messed up, continued, "Why do you ask?"
Stitches pulled his attention away from her leg to stare his boss square in the eye. "Because the bones have already begun to set. Incorrectly."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," he groused, "Either the injury is at least a week old, or she's taken something to help her start healing, or she's a quick healer. But whichever it is doesn't matter. The bones weren't set properly. Her leg's going to be twisted, slightly, but enough to give her a limp."
"Is there anything you can do?" Bull pressed, feeling guilty somehow. Maybe he'd jostled her leg one too many times during their trip here. Maybe the way he carried her twisted her splint until that twisted her leg.
Stitches blew a harsh breath out of his nose and looked down at her. She stared back steadily, her face calm, trusting. "Is there?" She watched his pock-marked face soften where only she could see it, before he nodded determinedly and turned back to the other two.
"I'll have to re-break her leg, as close to the original breaks as possible, and reset it."
"Blessed Andraste," Cullen muttered. He knew what that would entail, and though he'd never had a broken bone before, he had seen such a procedure done by other surgeons on other soldiers… but the Herald was just a girl. He looked at her, lying small and helpless on that table, three strong men standing over her deciding her fate, deciding to put her through even more pain…
He knew someone strong would have to make the fresh breaks, the stronger the better, to make it clean and quick, but he couldn't be the one to do that to her.
"I'll do it."
Bulls' statement was calm, not quite cheerful, but definitely unconcerned, as if he was offering to carry her pack for her. But he wasn't; he was offering to deliberately crack bones, give her torment, and Cullen found his attitude disturbing. His hazel eyes grew hard as he glared at Bull, but Bull was looking elsewhere, at the Herald. He turned and saw she was holding Bull's gaze. What little he could see of her face was drawn and gray, and perhaps a little fearful, but her deep brown eyes were steady. Damn, she was going to let him do it.
The Herald was unaware of Cullen's disquiet. She was captivated by Bull's stare, and recognized the expression on his face. It was the same one he wore as Varric worked her leg free from the tree roots, when he silently willed her to be strong and conquer the pain. And she knew what he was trying to tell her: she had done it before, she could do it again. "Just another nasty load of shit," she said, thinking of their conversation regarding scars.
"You must be standing in front of the target," Bull smiled at her.
Stitches spoke up before Cullen could ask—again—for clarification, "Give me a few minutes to fix you something for the pain."
"I'll be all right. Just do it. The quicker, the better." Her words were tired, but held the authority of command. Stitches shrugged and went to work.
Cullen knew he didn't have to stay, he didn't have to watch, but he couldn't leave her like this. He stood off to the side, out of the way, half hidden in the shadows, feeling like he was spying on them. Stitches very carefully felt for and found the partially healed breaks, three of them, and pointed them out to Bull. He watched the qunari's massive hands swallow the lower part of her leg, her scarred skin disappearing beneath the gray.
He couldn't do it; he couldn't watch. Cullen dragged his eyes up to her helmeted head, and found her eyes locked on Bull's calm and unconcerned face. The first snap wasn't loud; he wouldn't have been sure he had heard it, if it wasn't for her reaction. Her helmet tapped against the table, her hands gripping the sides until her knuckles were white. He saw her bite her lip, but she barely made a sound louder than a whimper.
After the second one, she turned her face away, towards Cullen. He could see between the loosened cheek guards that she had bitten her lip, drawing a droplet of blood. Her eyes had been squeezed shut tight, but she slowly opened them to find him staring at her. And she couldn't look away. They continued to stare at each other through the third re-break.
Stitches took over after that, setting the bones carefully before wrapping her leg securely in a fresh splint. Bull moved up to the Herald's shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze. "You did good, Boss. Better than most. Shit, better than some qunari I've seen."
She turned away from Cullen, and it was as if he had been released from a spell. His knees suddenly felt weak, a cold sweat beaded his brow, and his hands were shaking. He discreetly leaned against a large chest while he collected himself.
"Thanks, Bull." Her speech was slurred, quiet, and breathy.
"Why don't you get some sleep, huh?"
"Not until she drinks this," Stitches paused in his work long enough to pass over a healing potion.
"Ah, I don't suppose this is one of yours?" Bull asked, holding the vial in his hands like it might bite him.
"It is," Stitches affirmed, sounding exasperated. "I mixed it fresh yesterday morning. And this one's a healing potion, if you're worried about the taste," he tapped the green glass. "Don't mind him," he turned to the Herald, smiling reassuringly, "He's afraid it'll taste bad, because he always drinks the healing poultices I make for him. This one's a potion; it should taste like pears or apples."
"I like pears," she sighed. She let Bull hold her up with an arm behind her shoulders, while he carefully dosed her with the potion. After it was finished, she smiled at Bull and confirmed, "It didn't taste rancid at all."
He smiled indulgently at her. "That's good. Now go to sleep."
She nodded, too tired to speak, thinking that sleep would be a wonderful thing to do right then. Her leg was feeling loads better already, the pain fading past memory into forgetfulness. And she hadn't gotten much sleep on the way here. She yawned as far as her jaw would allow, feeling her body grow limp before her mind drifted away.
"I want a full report," Cullen broke the silence.
"Yeah, okay, Commander," Bull sighed, "Right after I put her to bed."
Cullen looked at him critically, noted the dark circles under his eyes, saw him sway slightly as he picked the Herald up. Yet despite his fatigue his arms remained steady and sure around her frail-looking form. "I'll be waiting."
Bull nodded, not wanting to do much more than find his own bed and fall asleep for a week. Well, a day at least. He'd get too hungry if he tried to sleep for a week. But he had to make sure the Herald was resting safe and sound in her own bed first. He left Stitches to clean up what little mess they'd made, left the Commander fuming darkly behind him—he'd explain everything when they were alone; he didn't want to do so in front of Stitches. Not that he didn't trust one of his own, but he had a suspicion that something else was going on, and he wanted to get in on it, and he didn't think Cullen would talk about it in front of Stitches. Of course, he might not talk about it with him, either, but he'd have to try.
He was Ben-Hassrath, after all.
Bemusedly he found himself in front of the Herald's little house in Haven, thinking he must be tired if he couldn't remember the walk there. He gingerly juggled her sleeping form while trying to open the door, managed it with the help of a knee, and stumbled inside. The room was cool but warming up, a fire recently started in the hearth. Someone must have been in here getting it ready while they had been in Stitches' tent. Good, he wouldn't have liked the idea of her sleeping in a chilly room, even under a mountain of blankets.
He had a little trouble after getting her onto the bed, trying to get the covers out from beneath her so he could put them over her. But he soon had it figured out and the fragile-looking young woman tucked in nice and warm. He stood up and studied her critically for a moment, trying to figure out what was wrong. He mentally kicked himself when he realized her helmet, in fact all her armor, was still on. With a quiet little grunt of disgust over himself, he sat on the edge of the bed and began working on her helmet.
A hand to either side of her head, he firmly yet gently pulled it off. As he did so, his hands brushed her hair back, away from the sides of her face, revealing…
"…shit…"
Bull was in a pickle.
Or rather, he had gotten pickled last night. And the night before. And the night before that. Ever since he and the Herald got back to Haven. He had only held off long enough to give his brief report to Commander Cullen, of how the Herald had broken her leg, and the potions were off, so the decision had been made to bring her back to Haven. Cullen took the news stoically, refusing to acknowledge that there was anything out of the ordinary about the incident, and Bull was too shocked and preoccupied by what he had seen to press the issue. After the Commander had dismissed him to get some sleep, Bull instead had all but crawled to the one tavern in town and started drinking.
He must be getting soft, that's what he thought to himself. There was no other reason why one single woman could cause such a crisis of faith. Oh, sure, she was cute, especially whenever he could coax one of those rare smiles out of her. And her large brown eyes reminded him of a doe in the woods, innocent and wild and pure.
But she was none of those things.
He knew what he ought to do. Shit, that's why he was there, in Haven, openly spying on the Inquisition—and helping them out on occasion for a modest fee. So far it had worked out fairly well; he knew the information he sent back to his superiors showed that the Inquisition was working to close the Breach, which the Ben-Hassrath would have to admit was a good thing. They couldn't have any objection with his request to remain here to help. But he should tell them. He should report this to his superiors. That's really what he was supposed to be doing here. Yet he couldn't, not because he wasn't loyal to the Ben-Hassrath, but because he'd grown too fond of her.
So he'd taken up drinking, hoping to stall for time, that somehow an answer would appear, the problem would solve itself, and he wouldn't have to get involved. Yeah, he was getting soft.
He pushed himself halfway to sitting up, pushed away last night's half-finished drink, and signaled for a fresh mug. "I need some reconditioning…"
"Nah, Chief," Krem's cheery voice invaded his pounding head, intensifying his hangover, "You just need a good fight or two; that'll get you back in shape." He slapped Bull on the shoulder and sat down next to him at the bar.
"Krem," he grunted, not at all pleased to see his lieutenant. He tried ignoring him, hoping that would work. It did for a time, the two of them sipping quietly at their mugs, but he knew it wouldn't last. This was the first time Krem had sought him out after his return. Damn, he must be going to try to talk with him about something.
"Heard the others finally made it back from the Hinterlands late yesterday."
"Ungh," he grunted again, his voice echoing inside his mug, hoping that was all.
"Seeker Cassandra interrogated Stitches for an hour regarding the Herald's condition before she was satisfied."
"Ungh."
"I talked with him myself this morning. He says the Herald is all healed. Good as new."
He was quiet this time; apparently making some sort of acknowledging sound encouraged him too much.
"You should go see her."
Nope, apparently Krem was not to be stopped. Not this morning. Bull thought about pushing away from the bar, but he didn't trust himself to stand right then, not without his head exploding from the pressure. Damn, but his horns were heavy this morning.
"Listen, Chief," Krem leaned in closer, "I talked with Stitches. I know what you had to do. Something like that, sure, it can be tough to do, tough to live with after," he put a heavy hand on Bull's shoulder again and squeezed, "But it worked. It was worth it. Her leg's good as new. I know it put you through the Fade to have to hurt her like that, but it's over now. Go see how good she's doing. It'll make you feel better. Loads better than this swill ever could." He clanked their mugs together.
Bull wanted to argue. He wasn't hiding in the tavern, pouting because he felt squeamish over re-breaking the Herald's leg. He was Ben-Hassrath. He'd been trained how to use torture, if necessary, to get to the truth. He'd even purposefully broken bones before, and not just during a fight. But he couldn't tell Krem the truth, that every time he looked at the Herald—every time he thought about her—he would see…
He made a disgusted sound, long and mournful, and scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe he should see her, tell her what he saw, and then go from there. "Fine, fine, I'll go see her. She in her cabin?"
"If you hurry. I think they're all meeting up at the chantry today, to discuss Inquisition business, now that the others are back."
Bull stood up, and both of them held their breath to see whether or not he could keep his feet. After a few seconds, and after the pounding in his head eased a bit, he shot Krem a wary glance. Krem smiled back, and Bull gave a little snort before he nodded and turned away.
Carefully he threaded his way through the tavern, thankfully uncrowded due to the early time of day. He stepped outside, feeling the bite of the cold air sting his lungs and the brightness of the sunlight burn his eyes. He took a deep breath, reveling in the discomfort of his hangover, and used it to fuel his recovery.
By the time he reached the Herald's cabin, he was able to walk a straight line. There were two soldiers waiting outside, former templars Bull guessed by the way they held themselves. He remembered Commander Cullen saying something about the Herald getting an honor guard or something like that due to her esteemed position. The two didn't challenge him when he approached, however, so he did his best to ignore them, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. He lifted his hand to knock just as the door swung open.
"Oh!" the Herald squeaked, her eyes widening in surprise. "The Iron Bull. I heard you weren't feeling well, or, ah…" She bit her lip, thinking she might have slipped up, that she shouldn't bring up his bout of drinking. Though no one had told her why Bull had taken up residence in the tavern, she thought she knew. And perhaps she felt a small amount of guilt, not because she had made him hurt her, but it had been her leg…
"Hey, Boss." His hand was still hanging there, like he was going to knock, so he moved it to the back of his head, pretending to scratch at an itch. "Ah, good to see you up and about."
"You, too," she quickly agreed, and again regretted it. "I mean, me, too, well, that it's good to see you."
They stood there, looking at each other awkwardly for a moment. Finally Bull cleared his throat and tried again. "You, ah, mind if I come in?"
"Oh, ah, actually I have to go up to the chantry. There's a meeting and…"
"This is important," he interrupted, his voice sobering with his expression. "Believe me, or I wouldn't be here."
She swallowed, and a warning chill with a featherlight touch ran down her spine. She ignored it, too far into denial to want to see the signs. "Sure." She shifted to the side, allowing Bull entrance, watching him duck and twist his head to get his horns through the doorway. It was a practiced move, something he did without thinking, something he must have been doing for most of his life. She followed him into the main part of her cabin, saw him hunt around for a place to sit, and finally decide on the edge of the bed. He looked up at her then, his scarred and fearsome features bent into a sad and regretful visage, and patted the mattress beside him.
"Come sit down."
She did so, thinking there must be some bad news he had to tell her. "Is something wrong? Did one of your Chargers get hurt or… killed? Is it Krem?"
"No, no, no, nothing like that." He let her take his hand and sighed, though he didn't dare to look at her. Staring at a spot on the rug in the middle of the room, he decided the best way to do it was quick and clean. "I saw."
She didn't speak.
"It was after your leg was fixed. I brought you back here, thinking you'd prefer to rest in your own bed. I, ah, took your helmet off, so you could sleep easier, and…" his voice trailed away.
It took three heartbeats before she could find her voice. "Oh."
"Yeah," he agreed, "Oh."
"Did…" she stopped, her throat feeling thick, the words wanting to stick in the phlegm. She gave a small cough and tried again. "Did you tell anyone?"
"No." His horns were feeling heavy again, and he was glad he was so much taller than her, allowing him to droop a little without having to worry about braining her. "No, it's not my place to say anything. You're my boss, Boss. I work for you, not the Inquisition, though they do pay my fee. But my loyalties lie with you. When Krem first came here, looking to offer help, he said no one would talk with him. He stood outside in the snow for hours until you came by." He poked the center of her chest with his free hand. "You talked with Krem. You agreed to come out to the Storm Coast and speak with me. You hired us. So you're the boss, and I'm not going to betray my boss, no matter what she does."
"Or… or what she is?" Now it was her turn to stare at the rug.
He shrugged. "What are you? Far as I know, you're the Herald of Andraste. You're the only one who survived the explosion at the Conclave. You can close rifts with that funny mark on your hand, AND you stabilized the Breach. Might even close that someday. Least ways, you're the only one who's got a shot at succeeding. That's what you are, to me."
"That's… not quite what I meant…"
"But that's what's important," he emphasized. "Not what you look like, but what you can do, and who you are on the inside—your character. And you, young lady, are a very selfless, trusting, loving individual, willing to sacrifice for the greater good. Most people in your situation would've run the first chance they had."
"Where could I have run to?" She lifted her face, only a little, but far enough to peek at him from beneath her long bangs. "That Breach was going to destroy the world, and I was the only one who could do anything about it. I had to stay here and help close it. I still have to."
"See what I mean? You're a good person, caring, understanding, responsible, and running towards danger rather than away from it like any sensible person would do." He grinned fondly at her, "That's my kind of girl."
She returned the smile, the barest hint at the corner of her mouth. Though she felt a little better, she knew not everything was all right, not yet. She took a deep breath, knowing what she had to ask next. "So now what? Are you going to report this to the other Ben-Hassrath?"
Bull shook his head, and as he spoke to reassure her, he realized he was speaking the truth. "I don't think I will. I mean, sure, they're concerned about the Inquisition. I think they're worried it might grow into a force that would oppose them someday. But so long as the Inquisition focuses on the Breach, I think the Qunari will leave us alone. They might even offer an alliance, someday. Besides," he leaned in close, "Technically this discussion is happening in bed, and my superiors generally don't care to hear about how I spend my time in another's bed, especially after that one report regarding a brothel in Orlais," he ended with a bemused chuckle.
She looked at him, one eyebrow raised slightly, her mouth parted and lips curling like she was either going hurl or laugh.
She took a deep breath instead…
"But you should tell the others."
…and let it out in a whoosh, her shoulders deflating. "I can't, Bull, I just can't, they'll hate me, they'll throw me in that cell again, they'll never trust me, never like me, I'll be…"
"Hey!" Bull wrapped a trunk sized arm around her shoulders and gave her a little shake, snapping her out of her babbling rant. "Hey, Boss, come on, stop that. No one's going to hate you. Sure, they might be a little sore for a while, that you kept the truth from them, but they're not going to hate you. They'll come around, once they see things from your point of view. Besides," his hand stroked down her back, petting her, soothing her, "They're going to find out eventually; Leliana's just that good, you know that. And it would be better if they heard it from you. Then you're right there, to answer any questions and keep them from speculating."
She looked miserable, her eyes red, her cheeks blotchy, her fingers twisted into a tight knot and pressed into her lap. She sniffed, managed to keep the tears at bay, though the trembling refused to be stopped. "You mean, like how you were honest, about being a spy?"
"Now you got the idea," he nodded, making sure he wouldn't knock her with his horns. Though impressive on the battlefield, the horns tended to get in the way whenever he was indoors or there were too many people nearby—which is why he loved to be outside so much.
"Will…" she bit her lip, her face so intense he was afraid she might draw blood. "Would you come with me?"
He gave a nonchalant shrug, acting like there was nothing to be concerned about. "Sure, Boss, whatever you say." It worked, her face lighting up—enough at least that she could scrub away her unshed tears with the sleeve of her coat.
"Suppose we should get this over with, right?" She stood up and waited for him to mimic her actions. "I should be up there already, anyway."
He didn't answer, but walked ahead to hold the door for her. Then he followed, a pace behind and to the side, like a faithful bodyguard. The two former templars looked at each other, thinking they'd be superfluous if anyone tried attacking her with a qunari in tow. But they had their orders, so the more experienced templar shrugged and the two fell into step behind Bull.
She stepped out into the cold mountain air, pulling the edges of her coat closed. She didn't bother fastening it, her pace quick and light as she and Bull headed towards the chantry. Even with his reassuring presence she was uneasy. With two of Cullen's soldiers bringing up the rear and knowing what she was going to tell the others, she felt like she was walking to her doom.
A/N: okay, so, um, maybe this is another cliffhanger, sort of. Don't worry, the next chapter is also almost finished. Just a day or two, and then…
The Big Reveal!