Chapter Nine: Nothing, If Not Tested
Dorian's life was full of regret.
He regretted leaving Peredura behind to face the Elder One alone.
He regretted never having found out how she came to know so much about Tevinter, like how she knew the difference between an altus and a magister. He should have asked her if she had a relative who had spent time in Tevinter, someone he might have come across, which might explain why she sometimes looked so familiar, yet he was sure they had never met.
He regretted not taking his former mentor, Alexius, up on his offer to join the Venetori. Then he might have been able to spy on them, gather some useful information before defecting to the Inquisition, and have somehow headed off this disaster.
He regretted not taking Blackwall or someone else useful with them to protect Peredura—and to help him carry Bull's hulking weight. The large qunari staggered next to him, his one good eye wide and glassy, blood covering the other side of his face thanks to a large head wound.
Fasta vass! He regretted ever leaving Tevinter. He should have stayed there and buried his head in the sand. Or… perhaps… taken a chance with Rilienus. Or allowed his father to do with him as he had wished, he added bitterly. At least, as a mindless vegetable, he'd not have to suffer the fear and anguish he was feeling now.
But at that moment, what he regretted most, was allowing Bull to talk him into going with to help Peredura. He should have stayed with the other refugees, fled with them, not get himself left behind. Now he faced the impossible task of tracking the Inquisition through snow while trying to keep an injured qunari on his feet.
Dorian kicked open the door at the back of the chantry and stopped, surprised. Scratch that last regret off his list; in retrospect he should have expected this. It would be nearly impossible for hundreds of refugees, mages, and templars to walk a path through the forest and mountains and NOT leave a trail as wide as a river. It looked like a hundred qunari abreast had tramped through here. Since he no longer would have trouble following the Inquisition, all he had do to now was make it out of the valley in time. Right. Simple enough. He shifted the arm over his shoulder and steered the lumbering gray giant after the others.
Further along the trail, Bull came to his senses, or at least became inclined to talk. "Hm," Bull hummed into his ear, in what he was sure Bull thought of as a sexy voice, "You smell nice."
Dorian made a brief noise of frustration mingled with disgust. "Hardly, you over-amorous ox-man. I'm soaked with sweat and covered in gore."
"I know," Bull inhaled deeply, his nose pressing as close to the neckline of Dorian's robes as possible, his arm tightening around Dorian's shoulders to keep him from pulling away. "You smell… masculine… all testosterone and adrenaline, like you're ready for a fight. I'd love to fight with you, sometime."
"You're concussed," Dorian rebuffed, "Out of your mind."
"We could wrestle, you and me, no magic or weapons. We could even do it they way they did in Ancient Tevinter."
Dorian had to stop walking so he could stare at him. "You want to wrestle in the nude?!"
"You'd rather do it with your clothes on?" Bull countered and shrugged, which caused him to sway a little. "Either way, it makes no difference to me. I can take you robed," he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Dorian's, getting blood on the mage, "Or disrobed."
"Vishante kaffas!" Dorian was disgusted enough to speak in Tevinter. He pulled his head away and forced the two of them back to walking. "You don't know what you're suggesting. The only comfort I have is that you won't remember this, when you're recovered."
"Maybe," sighed Bull, nuzzling at his neck, "But YOU will…"
"Vishante kaffas!"
"You said that."
"Iron Bull! Dorian!" a voice called to them, and Dorian felt relief when he looked up and saw Commander Cullen coming back down the path. "Hurry. You're almost there. Get over the rise, and you'll find where we're regrouping before moving on." He ducked under Bull's other arm to help take up some of the weight. "Any, er, sign of, I mean, Peredura, is she…?"
"She's the distraction, remember?" Dorian grunted when Bull stumbled and staggered into him a little too harshly. "She ordered us to leave her, after the final wave of red templars was repulsed. This stupid ox had gotten himself brained and in need of healing." Dorian took a moment to breathe, before he finished, "I cast one last barrier spell on her, and left her to her fate."
Cullen could hear the regret in the other man's voice, and interpreted it wrongly. Feeling like he might have intruded where he wasn't wanted, and not wishing to give the impression that he himself cared for Peredura, he looked to change the subject. "Right. Of course. You there," Cullen called to another soldier. "Help Ser Dorian take Iron Bull into camp. See that he gets to a healer." He passed the Bull's arm to the soldier, neatly taking care of Dorian and the awkward moment in the process. Then, before he could allow himself to hesitate, he turned to the archer nearby. "It's time. Everyone's here who's going to make it. Send the signal."
The archer fitted her arrow to her bow, lit the wadding around the head from a nearby torch, and took careful aim while adjusting for the wind. Dorian paused to look over Bull's arm as the burning arrow took flight, wondering if this would be the last sight he'd associate with the remarkably unremarkable Herald of Andraste…
…Peredura had regrets, from her life before the Breach, before the Conclave, regrets she never wanted to admit to much less name. But even since then she'd gained more regrets.
She regretted the noble notion that encouraged her to sacrifice herself to an ancient evil.
She regretted sending Dorian and Bull away, as their company and experience would have come in handy right about now. But Bull had been injured, and if either of them had stayed behind, the Elder One would have killed them without a second thought. Thanks to that other future, she already had the deaths of enough friends on her conscience; she didn't want more.
She also regretted never telling Cullen how she felt, tested the timid feelings—as his future self had described them. Not that there had been much time for that. The celebrations had started on the heels of her closing the Breach, and though she looked for him among the dancing and singing, Cullen had remained elusive. She didn't see him until after the fighting had started, and by then there was no time for speaking of personal feelings that may or may not evolve.
But at that moment, what she regretted most was not having put on her usual extra layers of clothing.
The wind was cold, bitingly cold, having robbed her armor of any warmth it may have once held. She wrapped her good arm around her front and gripped her other elbow, steadying her left arm, which had been hurting her ever since the Elder One had tried to remove the anchor. Somehow, by some miracle of luck or hand of Andraste, she had survived the avalanche at Haven by falling into a disused underground passage. But of course she had landed on her left shoulder.
Now she was out of the cave, trudging through the snow, head bowed into a blizzard, searching for the others. Facing the full force of the weather was not ideal, but if she wanted to be reunited with the Inquisition, she had to go after them, and that had meant leaving the safety and protection of the cave.
She stumbled through a deep drift, lost her balance, and started to fall. Almost as soon as she started she stopped, her side slamming into something hard and upright. Her shoulder, the one that was already hurting of course, exploded with pain, a sympathetic starburst filling her vision. She let out a small cry, instantly swallowed by the howling wind, and blinked her eyes clear.
A tree. She had staggered unknowingly into a tree. And there were more, a forest, growing thicker on her left, but it was the trees on the edge she was interested in. Not too far away was another campfire, like the one she had found upon exiting the cave. She stumbled up and fell to her knees beside it, hoping, praying, as her hand let go of her sore arm and reached towards the embers.
Was there heat there, she wondered. Or was it simply a little bit warmer here, just inside the trees, where the storm started having trouble penetrating. Throwing caution to the wind—there was plenty of wind—she stuffed her half-frozen fingers into the deepest part of the ashes.
Warmth. Not much, but enough. This campfire was fresher than the last. Inwardly she blessed Blackwall for his lessons on campfires, while outwardly she pushed herself to her feet. She was gaining on them. Another few hours, perhaps a day, and she would be with them once more.
Be with Cullen once more…
…Cullen added yet another regret to a long list of them, a list he didn't bother to count. He'd performed enough acts in his life, made enough hard decisions, seen enough injustices done, to know you can't live your life without regrets. But this latest regret had to be the worst.
He should never have left Peredura behind.
It did no use, lamenting the choices made. The past was the past, unchangeable, uncaring of your intentions. All you could do was remember it, learn from it, and keep from making the same mistakes.
That wouldn't be hard this time, he supposed, avoiding making this mistake. Peredura was one of a kind, brave, resourceful, an intuitive leader, a quicker learner. She was the Herald of Andraste, the one who survived the destruction of the Conclave, the one with a mark that could close the rifts, the one who had closed the Breach.
Deep down inside his heart he knew: they'd never see her like again.
He'd done what he could since they parted in Haven. He had explained her sacrifice to the other advisors. He had led the Inquisition to a valley that would shelter them from the weather. He kept everyone busy, setting up camp, scouting for passes through the mountains, assigning parties to scavenge the wilderness for food. He had collected all the available lyrium and worked out rations for himself and the other templars.
It had been hard work, delegating tasks and assignments, but it didn't take long for everyone to accept his commands, for every cog to fall into place, for the entire campsite to start to run cleanly and efficiently. Inevitably, however, with everyone having a place and doing their jobs, he quickly ran out of things for himself.
Now he had nothing to do but wait for useless and conflicting reports. It had been two days since they left Haven, two days and one full night, with no sign or word of Peredura's fate. Worse, they were lost. The scouts were reporting back, some thinking they recognized a landmark that put them south of Haven, others saying west, or northeast… nothing that was of any use!
His fist crumpled the map and threw it from the table. The damn thing wasn't worth the parchment it was drawn on, not if they didn't know where they were. The mountains between Ferelden and Orlais were too treacherous, too full of vast canyons and insurmountable peaks. If he didn't know exactly where they were, he couldn't plot a course to safety that would avoid the worst of the terrain. He hated feeling this way, worthless, futile, inadequate. He felt a snarl curl his lip, and prayed for something he could vent his anger against.
"Commander?" someone called from the front of the tent, and he recognized the voice of Harding, one of the aforementioned ineffectual scouts.
No, he told himself, that was the lyrium withdrawal affecting his judgment. The scout was too easy a target, too coincidental a timing, and too undeserved a reason. He didn't turn until he had control of himself, the only sign of his distress the crumpled map on the ground and his fist wrapped tightly around the pommel of his sword. "Scout Harding, isn't it? Come to deliver your report. Do you have an idea where we are?" He couldn't make his voice sound pleasant, but he could make it sound less hateful.
"Not exactly, Commander," she hedged. "But I do have news. One of the other scouts saw signs of someone following us." The other scout she mentioned was standing slightly behind her, fidgeting, perhaps too fearful of approaching the fuming Commander on his own. Cullen didn't feel guilt over this, too distracted by the information.
"The Elder One?" he asked, wanting to rule out the worst possibility first. And judging by Harding's shaking head and wide smile, he had done so.
"No, Ser, one person. They were spotted when they crested the second hill to the northwest not an hour past; they silhouetted themselves against the sunset. It looks like they're following our trail. Heading straight for this valley, anyway."
"Where, exactly, was this person seen?" he came around from behind the table, his voice eager, and gripped her arm. "Show me!"
Harding didn't answer, except to start leading him towards the edge of camp.
Perhaps it was the eagerness of his steps. Perhaps it was the joyfulness of Harding's smile. Perhaps it was the way Cassandra got up to follow, grabbing a torch to join them, but those they passed—the exhausted and footsore and half-starved refugees from Haven—lifted their faces and followed them with eyes filled with expectation.
And hope.
Peredura was cold.
She was numb with cold.
Her breaths were stuttering, hindered by eternal shivering she could not control, despite the fact that she was so cold she couldn't feel cold. Even her mind seemed frozen solid, her body moving of its own will, right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot… Over and over and over again as the unchanging snow passed beneath her. Her ears could hear the howling of wolves, a sound that had grown so constant she couldn't be sure it wasn't the wind. That was all her existence consisted of: the white of snow, the howl of wind, the numbness of cold.
The snow changed once she left the trees, becoming knee deep, covered with a crisp crust created by the never-ending wind, a crust that could not support her weight. The rhythm of her steps changed, synchronized and punctuated with a staccato upbeat. Catch the heel, set the right foot, hesitate, fall through, catch the heel, set the left foot, hesitate, fall through, catch the heel, set the right foot, hesitate, fall through…
At least her arm and the mark stopped hurting.
On second thought, she had a fleeting worry that that might be a bad sign, but she didn't dwell on it. There was nothing she could do for her arm, or the numbness, or the snow and the cold, except to keep moving, keep following the faint trail, keep heading towards that next camp. She imagined she could see it, in the distance, a little valley nestled warm and secure within the bosom of the mountains. There was the welcoming glow of campfires surrounded by tiny figures—little black specks more seen because they moved than for any distinguishing characteristics. Cullen would be in there, she was sure, somewhere, giving orders and keeping everyone together and busy and safe and supplied.
She wondered if Dorian had gotten The Iron Bull out in time. A smile tugged her lips as she imagined Bull walking through camp, his horns so imposing that people ducked whenever he passed. He would be an unmistakable figure, tall and thick and gray with those brightly colored pants, easily discernible even from a great distance.
Peredura nearly tripped, her breath steaming through the seam between her cheek guards, appearing in little wisps only to be whisked away by the wind and the dark. It took a moment, an immeasurable mind-staggering moment, for it to register: the valley was real. The campfires and figures were real. She even thought she could see one with brightly striped pants and wide horns walking over to an awning and sitting down on something.
She'd done it. She'd found them. The feeling of accomplishment was overwhelming, knowing it was over, that she could finally stop struggling and rest. She sank to her knees in the snow, but she hardly noticed it, her eyes glued to where a light was shifting around the side of a boulder and coming into view.
"There! It's her!"
She smiled within her helmet. That had been Cullen's voice, shouting the alert. Somehow she wasn't surprised he had been the first to see her. Shadows began moving towards her as the night grew so dark even the torch they brought couldn't dispel the blackness.
"Thank the Maker…"
Yes, she echoed Cassandra's prayer in her heart, and thank Roderick for praying for her, and Blackwall for teaching her, and…
"Peredura," Cullen's voice called, and she felt warm to hear him call her name, the first warmth in her blood that she had in what seemed like days. "Peredura? Can you hear me? Stay with me, Pere, stay awake!"
He'd given her an order, and she tried to obey, she truly tried to obey. She never wanted to disappoint him, ever. But she was so tired, and cold. And hadn't she done enough? Hadn't she distracted the Elder One, escaped the avalanche, tracked them through a blizzard, and found their little valley? "Let someone else do that; I'm done."
"What did she say?" Cassandra asked, kneeling on her other side.
Cullen didn't look up, shrugging out of his mantle and wrapping it around Peredura. He could see her eyes were open, though barely, and her gentle breath slipped through the front slit of her helmet. "I couldn't make it out," he admitted, undoing the cheek guards, knowing she'd be colder but it'd be easier for her to breathe. "She's exhausted and half frozen, but she is alive. Let's get her back to camp and warmed up; then she can tell us what happened." He picked her up, armor and all, barely noticing the weight. His heart was rejoicing; Peredura was alive.
One regret would be forgiven, only one of a thousand, but it was still erased, lightening the load in his heart. And he promised himself, no matter the cost, he would not fail her—or the Inquisition—again!
"Commander!" Leliana's voice called, holding another torch, she and Josephine meeting them just outside camp. "Is it true? Is she…?" she never finished her question, seeing the answer lying there in his arms. They quickly fell into step beside Cullen and the others.
"She's cold, but alive," he answered. "I don't know if she's hurt…"
"My arm," Peredura managed to chatter, feeling coming back to her as she warmed up in his embrace, "S-s-s-solas. Get Solas…" She turned the palm of her hand over; the green glow was explanation enough.
"I will personally fetch him for you," Josephine promised. "We'll meet you at the hospital tent."
"If we can get there," Cullen muttered darkly as she raced off.
Their entrance into camp was witnessed by more people than their hasty exit. A crowd quickly gathered, voices asking questions, hands reaching out to touch—to make physically sure—that the Herald of Andraste was alive. At one point, some anonymous zealot nearly pulled her helmet from her head with their eagerness. Cullen cursed as Cassandra and the others tried to order the people back, but they were too desperate; after all they'd seen and suffered, they needed this miracle. He could sympathize, the fact that she lived was nothing less than a miracle, but he needed to get her to shelter if the miracle was to continue.
It seemed Peredura still had some clout with the Maker, for yet another miracle occurred. Templars fought their way through the crowd, shoving and pushing and ordering the refugees to step back. Interspersed among them were mages, staffs in hand, ready to bar the way. Templars and mages, shoulder to shoulder, working for a common purpose; the thought made Cullen shake his head in wonder. Then slowly, irregularly, like an undulating snake, the templars and mages managed to hold the onlookers at bay and open a clear path towards the hospital tent.
Cullen needed no further urging. He carried her quickly though gently, his long and powerful legs eating the distance with a singleminded purpose. Stoically he refused to answer all questions, leaving Leliana with the daunting task of satisfying the crowd's curiosity. After all it had been her idea, from the beginning, to encourage the rumors and stories of divine intervention on Peredura's behalf. And if he could believe the few comments he heard by the time he got Peredura to the surgeon's tent, he was sure her status was well on its way to becoming legendary.
It was the Chargers' surgeon who met him. "Put her on the cot there," Stitches ordered, "And give us some room."
"I'd rather have Mother Giselle…"
"She's with Chancellor Roderick," Stitches countered, "Who's very critical right now, probably worse off than the Herald. But if you'd rather wait…"
Bull was only two cots over, and lifted himself up onto his elbows, grunting when his head started pounding. "Having some trouble, Stitches? I feel well enough to bash in a head or two, if it's warranted."
"No thanks, Chief," the Chargers' surgeon answered, watching carefully while Cullen set her down, "Got it under control. And lie back down before you bash in your own head. Again. I just finished re-stitching it."
Bull huffed, but did as he was told. His head felt like it was splitting in two, though it had been worth it, the headache and the extra stitches, to go sneak that bottle of mead.
"I'm not hurt," Peredura forced out between her clacking teeth without managing to bite her own tongue. "Just the mark. And cold. And tired. But that's all."
"I'll get you something hot to drink," Stitches offered, stepping back.
Solas was there the next moment, pushing his way past Cullen, his face filling first with shock, then with hope. "You live! As ever, Peredura, you find new ways to surprise us. Now, what is this about your hand?"
"Commander? There was a little more we need to tell you." It was Harding again, and though Cullen longed to hover over Peredura, to make sure she would be all right, he knew duty was calling. Cursing the timing, he stepped back outside the tent, leaving Peredura in Solas' very capable hands.
"Yes? What is it?"
If his tone was a little harsher, Scout Harding tactfully chose not to comment. She was standing alone this time, the other nameless scout having left at some point, probably when the crowd appeared. "One of the scouts, the one who first saw the Herald? He said there was a pack of wolves following her, the Herald, on her way here, but they broke off about half a mile back to follow a herd of sheep instead."
Cullen smiled, another coincidence—or another miracle—he didn't care to discern at that moment. "Take a group of our best marksmen. Hunt those wolves down and kill every last one of them. And as many of the sheep as you can. The meat will fill a lot of stomachs over the next few days, and we can always use the extra hides and wool."
"I'll take charge of it personally, Commander," she saluted.
Cullen watched her salute and race off, the thought of fresh meat and a warm meal no doubt doing more to encourage her weary legs than his authority. He had to admit, his own mouth was watering at the thought of all that mutton.
Had the wolves not followed Peredura here, had they not broken off trailing her in favor of a larger source of food, the Inquisition might never have known of the passing herd…
He sent a quick prayer of gratitude to the Maker before returning to the tent.
The others had gathered by that time, Solas remaining by Peredura's side, though it was clear her hand was no longer causing her grief. Bull was sitting up and had moved to the closer cot, braced by Varric and Blackwall on either side. Vivienne and Leliana and Josephine sat on the opposite bunk, while Cassandra and Dorian stood at the foot. There was a strange boy, the one from before, lurking off to the side, but Cullen couldn't be bothered to notice him.
Sera set herself right at her feet, and often while Peredura talked, the mischievous elf would tap or bump her boot until Peredura finally had enough and kicked her—gently—off the cot. Sera remained on the ground, giggling, which annoyed the others but made Peredura smile.
Peredura herself looked better already, sitting up, though bundled within a mountain of pelts and blankets. There was a slight warming flush to her cheeks and a steaming cup of something in her hands, which thankfully were no longer shaking. Cullen moved up to stand between Dorian and Cassandra, his face impassive.
"I, ah," she cleared her throat, "I suppose, now that we're all here, I should start at the beginning."
"Start from when you sent Dorian and Iron Bull away," Cullen suggested quickly, unthinkingly. He was merely eager to hear the part they didn't know, not go over the things they already knew. Yet she shot him a look, half-embarrassed/half-grateful, that left him wondering what he had done this time to earn her gratitude. The next moment he remembered; their last conversation in the chantry had been slightly personal. No, he thought as he scratched the back of his head, he wouldn't want the others to know about his scolding her, forbidding her to risk her neck until after the Breach was closed. He truly hadn't meant it that way.
"Oh, um," she stalled for time to gather her wits by taking a sip from her cup, "After they left, there was this spell, I think, some sort of explosive force, but without fire or wind or thrown debris or anything like that. It just… pushed me, knocked me off my feet. I don't think I passed out, but it took a bit of time for me to make sense of what was around me. Then he was there, the Elder One. He calls himself Corypheus…"
BREAK
Peredura wanted to believe.
She felt she should; after all, she was the Herald of Andraste.
Or was she, she wondered to herself. She couldn't remember being anything special, either being chosen by the Maker, or being sent from Andraste. She hadn't met Andraste in the Fade but the Divine. Or had it been the Divine; it might have been a dream, for all she knew. She leaned against a convenient pole and stared across the small clearing to where the advisors were arguing. So much of that time, of what happened at the Conclave, was absent from her mind. It wasn't like her life before, as a slave to Vicici; she wanted to FORGET those memories, even though they lingered like a dank cesspool in the back of her mind. No, she wanted to REMEMBER the Conclave, but the memories simply weren't there. If only she could, it would answer so many questions, clear away so many doubts, settle once and for all what—or in whom—she should believe.
Instead, the doubts continued, lingering, growing like a cancer in her soul. Corypheus had only added to them. He had taken one look at her and laughed, laughed at her for pretending to be the Herald, sneered gloatingly over her ignorance, taunted her that the only reason she had the anchor was because she had failed her master. She didn't know what he was talking about. How he could recognize her when she had never seen him before—his was not a face one would be likely to forget. It made no sense, and the lack of understanding created more doubt.
Doubt. There was too much doubt. She was drowning in a sea of it, her heart wanting to turn bitter and disillusioned!
Who was she, really? Just a slave from Tevinter, a girl who had willingly allowed her master to use her blood to perform such atrocities… No, she would not think of that. But she knew: she was definitely no one to be worshipped, no one to offer guidance or wisdom, no one who could save these people… comfort them… lead them…
She turned her gaze towards them, the people: refugees and recruits, templars and mages, peasants and noblemen. She remembered what they whispered behind her back at Haven, giving her such unearned credit, such undeserved glory. Survived the Conclave. Sent by Andraste. Rescued the mages. Closed the Breach… Suddenly she felt the weight of their faith in her like a heavy yoke, choking her, pulling her down, forcibly humbling her to her knees. They expected too much of her; she was only one person! No one special. She couldn't lead them. She couldn't inspire them. She couldn't save them!
She slapped the side of the post with the side of her hand, causing pain, enough to clear her head a little. Looking at the reddened flesh of her hand, a new thought occurred to her.
She already had; she had saved these people countless times. True, she hadn't been alone in her endeavors, but most of those little adventures were due to her prompting, her interference, her desire to help. She had closed rifts, fought off dangerous animals, killed a dragon, fed the hungry, secured blankets and supplies for the homeless, stopped a mage/templar war, rescued the mages from becoming slaves to Venetori masters, sealed the Breach…
And she'd done more than just physically affect their lives. She'd inspired courage while holding off advance troops until the trebuchets could bury an army of red lyrium tainted templars. She'd sacrificed herself and stalled Corypheus, gaining time to allow all these people to escape. And like Mother Giselle had just said: these people had watched her apparently die beneath an avalanche, only to miraculously reappear from out of the night.
On the other hand, she was only a girl, a lost and scared young woman who didn't know, couldn't understand, half of what everyone else around her took for granted. She was no miracle. She was no Herald. She was nothing, but a… but a…
But a person who saw what needed to be done, and did it, because she could, because—sometimes—she was the only one who could do it.
She looked down at the mark on her hand, the anchor as Corypheus called it. Solas had worked his magic, literally, and eased the discomfort once more. It only glowed now when she wanted it to, giving off a little bit of light at her command before growing dormant.
Maybe… just maybe… she was something more. Maybe… she was chosen. It had been a strange and unusual journey that put her at the Conclave, a long and unpredictable set of circumstances, and even if she couldn't remember them, there were probably more strange happenings that gave her the anchor instead of Corypheus. Who's to say it wasn't divine intervention, rather than accidental happenstance, that guided the unfathomable rat's nest of cause and effect? For everything to have happened, as it did, when it did, to whom it did, so precisely, so decisively, so perfectly…
She clenched her fist, squeezing her eyes shut against the futile tears. "I want to believe," she whispered, "I want to believe, but I don't know how…"
Her heart in crisis, her life—her very purpose—in a state of limbo, teetering on the edge of belief and non-belief, she opened her eyes and looked once more towards the advisors, her advisors. They were no longer arguing, but were no better off for it. Cassandra was leaning over a table, staring unseeingly at a map, her expression as dark as her hair. Near her paced Cullen, stalking back and forth, looking like he wanted to say something, but knowing he had nothing to say. A little further on sat Josephine, clipboard in hand, also staring at the words she had drawn without reading them. Leliana sat on the ground next to the bench, her arms on her knees, her hands dangling uselessly in the air.
These four people, Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana… These four were, in Peredura's limited experience, the strongest and most faithful people she had yet met. These four people, hurt and angry and torn apart, were also in crisis. How could she hope to reach an answer, how could she hope to find her way, if they were also floundering?
The answer was unexpected. Mother Giselle started singing, a low and somber tune, each phrase sung as if it was a song unto itself. Peredura listened, her ears eagerly devouring the sounds. Never had she heard words like these; the emotions, the despair, echoing what was within her heart; the hope, the promise, echoing what was within her soul. All too soon, however, Mother Gisselle was done, her voice fading into the night, and Peredura found herself wishing—praying—there was more…
Another voice took up the next verse, a clear and soft soprano, flowing across the campsite like a mist. To Peredura's amazement, she saw it was Leliana who had lifted her head, raised her voice in song. The expression on her face changed, opened, and filled with something other than despair.
A few more voices joined in as the verse progressed. Then she heard a strong and heartbreaking tenor voice, wavering like a songbird, so beautiful it nearly made her soul want to take flight. She was shocked when she tracked the voice down to Cullen; of course he would know the hymn, having been a templar for so many years, but she never suspected he could sing with so much emotion.
The second verse ended and the third began, even more voices raised, refugees and recruits, mages and templars, seemingly everyone in the camp. Some of them stood up, moving forward, closer, congregating, joining in one common purpose. Suddenly tears were in her eyes again. Suddenly she felt the urge to join the song. Suddenly she wanted… she wanted…
She wanted to be a part of them, a part of their faith, a part of their lives, a part of their dreams.
Yet despite it all, questions lingered…
"How does one have faith?" she wondered, not knowing she had spoken out loud. The hymn drew to a close, the people looking more calm, her advisors less defensive. Even after the last echo had faded away, Peredura could hear little snippets of the tune, someone's favorite phrase or a whistled stanza, as everyone returned to what they had been doing before. Their faces were no longer burdened with despair, but at ease and reassured even in the face of their hopeless situation. She wanted to share in this feeling, but, "How does one ignore all the doubt?"
"Faith is made stronger by facing doubt," Mother Gisselle said softly as she walked past, "Untested, it is nothing."
Tested, Peredura thought to herself, staring unseeingly at the back of the retreating Mother. She had been tested. She had faced nothing but tests ever since the Conclave.
But in her life before, she had never been tested, never believed. Yes, she had heard of the Maker, but she had never been formally taught about Him, not while being a slave for a powerful magister with a lust for blood magic. She knew even less about the elven gods, though at one point there was an elf in the cell next to hers who constantly prayed to them. Every time the guards came for him he would scream, 'May the Dread Wolf take you!' Yet he was the one taken, and one day he was never returned.
Then one morning she'd woken up, free from her former life, with a mysterious power only she could use. Others called her Herald, Worship, Chosen, sent from the Maker to save them. Still others forced her to use this power, to prove herself worthy, prove herself the Herald, prove her self. And she had succeeded every time. She had grown more confident, more capable, more intelligent.
Was faith like that, she wondered. Did faith need challenges, tests, to be pushed beyond its limits, before it could grow?
Was the fact that she was wondering, doubting, feeling tested, proof that she had faith already?
"Peredura?" a voice called from a few yards away. She looked over her shoulder to see Solas, standing at a respectable distance, beckoning to her. "Excuse me, but could I speak with you. It is important."
She sighed, sensing whatever important matter he wanted to discuss would take up a great deal of her time. "I'll be right there," she acknowledged, setting aside her crisis of faith, and approached him.
BREAK
Cullen had been about to approach Peredura and talk with her, and found himself feeling cheated when instead she turned to talk with Solas. He watched them walk away, side by side, their heads together like two errant children planning mischief…
His shaking hand tightened around the pommel of his sword. Damn, what was his problem, he demanded of himself. Here he was, Commander of the Inquisition forces, a position of power and respect, and under constant scrutiny from himself and Cassandra as well as everyone else. He had to remain above reproach. He had to remain loyal to the Inquisition. He had to remain focused on their cause.
Instead he had been ogling the Herald as if he was an un-blooded youth, thinking of some excuse to talk with her, yearning to be close enough to touch her. He thought she was on prescribed bedrest for another day, but she appeared to be recovering well, standing there and leaning against a post. Then again, there had been the slightest wrinkle in the middle of her brow, and her eyes hadn't been focused on anything in particular. And her lips had looked a little chapped, and she had hugged herself as if she was still cold after her ordeal. And he had the impulse to speak with her about something—anything—perhaps what it was that was troubling her. And he had wanted to put his arms around her to comfort her and warm her…
No! He could not… he would not… allow his attention to divide. He would not give in to those demons—those desires—that had haunted him for a decade. She was just a girl, yes a woman physically, but emotionally she had never had the chance to experience any sort of personal feelings towards anyone. He would not allow himself to take advantage of that, of her, of their situation.
He took a deep breath, the cold air helping to clear his head. It was merely the side effects of lyrium withdrawal, he told himself, growing more pronounced as he continued to decrease his dosage, wrecking havoc with his emotions, pulling apart pieces of different thoughts in his mind and shoving those pieces together at random, making him obsess…
"Commander, might I have a word with you?"
Leliana's distraction was both welcome and unwelcome. "Of course." Cullen squared his shoulders and faced her, forcing away thoughts of Peredura, preparing himself for whatever it was Leliana wished to discuss.
"We are in trouble."
Right, another disaster. Nothing better to distract him from unwarranted temptation than a worldwide disaster. Refusing to let the cynical attitude show, he asked, "What is it?"
Leliana looked around, but for the moment they were alone. "We are leaderless," she paused to let the words sink in, allowing them to fade away slowly. "We are leaderless, and this fact is destroying us far easier than anything Corypheus could do to us."
"Agreed," he nodded, concurring with but cutting short her dramatic prose, "But I see no solution at the moment. Both you and Cassandra were unsuccessful when you first sought a leader, and currently we're not in a position to continue that search. And there's no one here who could lead us…"
"I think there is someone," she broke over his words, cocking her hip and crossing her arms, "Someone right here in the camp, someone very obvious, someone who has been grossly and unfairly overlooked."
Cullen stared at her for a count of three before he could breathe. "You're not serious!" he scoffed, thinking he knew whom she meant: himself. Such an idea would be preposterous. Yes, he had been in a position of leadership before; he was in one now as Commander. But there was no possible way he could take on the role of Inquisitor, not while his loyalties remained in question, and they would remain in question so long as he used lyrium, leashing him indirectly to the Chantry…
"I am. Think of it. The people already look to her, whether for spiritual guidance due to her association with the Divine and Andraste, or out of gratitude after seeing all she personally has done for them. Also, she has proven herself wise if not formally educated, after having faced difficult situations and made hard decisions—some entirely on her own, some based on the advice of others—that have proven intuitive and beneficial for the Inquisition."
He blinked at her, at first thankful that she wasn't suggesting him after all, then confused to whom she was referring, then…
"She is dedicated to our cause, and not only because she has to be, thanks to the mark on her hand, but because she KNOWS it is the right thing to do." Leliana stepped far too close into his personal space, grabbing his arm, but he was too flummoxed to take note. "Peredura could lead us, lead the Inquisition. She could serve as Inquisitor. And, after all, it's not like she would be alone in the position. We would continue to advise her, guide her, help her make decisions in areas where she has no experience or knowledge. She could do this, Cullen. She may be the only one who can do this."
"Yes," he swallowed, "Quite. I see your point." Maker's breath, what would he do, with these rampant feelings of his, these unlooked-for and inappropriate and lustful desires, if Peredura was not only Herald, but Inquisitor?
"I would have your opinion, Commander. Will the people follow her? Not just those here, but the people of Orlais and Ferelden and elsewhere. Could she inspire others to join our cause? Could she lead us in defeating Corypheus?"
He looked away; he had to take a step back and look away, breaking out of Leliana's grip. Peredura as… Inquisitor? The idea was ludicrous. She was just a girl. An elven slave from Tevinter. She had no skills, no specializations or training that would put her first over another candidate. And yet… yet…
She had a certain charm about her, an ability that could win people over. She had gained the trust and loyalty of so many here in the camp, as well as out in the countryside. And among her most confidential friends, one found a diverse cross-section of society: a confessed Ben-Hassrath agent; a member of Red Jenny; an expatriate Tevinter Mage; a Gray Warden; an apostate mage as well as a pro-Circle mage… The list went on.
Leliana's idea could work. And it had the added benefit of helping to add another layer of deterrent between himself and his wayward desires, as it would be exceptionally unseemly for the Inquisitor and her Commander to fraternize personally.
"I think you already have your answer, Leliana," he began. "Look around us, at the people she's won over so far. Take the Iron Bull, a confessed Ben-Hassrath spy, yet I think he is more loyal now to her than his fellow qunari—he certainly takes a personal investment in her safety. There's also Blackwall; Gray Wardens are typically concerned with only the Blight and leave political matters alone, but he's vouched his self and the Gray Warden Treaties to the Inquisition, all at her behest. Even Dorian Pavus, a Tevinter mage, could very easily have washed his hands of us after informing on what his former mentor was up to in Redcliffe; he stays because of her and her alone. I could go on if you need me…"
"That will not be necessary," she tilted her head, a smile on her face, "At least, not yet. I feel the same as you, but I wanted another's opinion on the matter, before I brought it up with Cassandra. She can sometimes be… stubborn… to a new and unconventional idea."
"Ah, wonderful," he moaned, "You wanted to get me on your side, before you go up against Cassandra. Why do I feel like I just signed my death warrant?"
"It won't be that drastic, Cullen," Leliana tried to reassure him, "Yes, Cassandra can get carried away on occasion, but I think if we put forward a convincing enough argument…"
"I was joking."
"Oh." Leliana felt slightly embarrassed. In her own defense, she had never heard Cullen joke about anything, so her discomfited state—for being such a seasoned bard—could readily be excused. She looked around for a change in subject, something to smooth over the awkwardness, and saw Peredura.
"What is she doing now?" Leliana sighed, staring at something over his shoulder. He looked to see Peredura racing across the camp to duck beneath the awning that sheltered her cot. She came back outside a moment later, her helmet in her hands, trying to hold the cheek guards out of the way so she could put it on.
"Herald!" Leliana called out as she strode forward, and Cullen had to snap out of his thoughts to catch up with her. "Where are you going?"
"Oh, Leliana, Cullen," she answered, her fumbling fingers finally able to stuff the helmet onto her head. To Cullen's eyes she seemed excited, happy, even hopeful, a marked contrast to her moody brooding earlier. "Solas and I are going scouting."
"Scouting?"
"Yes," she held the straps to her cheek guards, but didn't tie them yet, not wanting to hinder her voice. "He thinks he knows where we are, or at least, that there's a place not too far from here, something we could use as a sort of base. Probably to the north. But we're going to scout ahead, see if we can find it."
Cullen blinked at her.
"No doubt some sort of long lost elven settlement he's seen in one of his dreams. Are you… sure… about this?" Leliana pressed, leaning forward, her eyes calculating.
"No," Peredura shook her head, "But it's something, a possibility, and we've nothing else, have we? Not at the moment, anyway. If this place exists, well…" She reached out and took Leliana's hand, "I have to do something. I have to at least try, don't I?"
"Good luck, Madam Herald," Cullen offered. "Take plenty of supplies, and try to report back every other day."
She flashed him a smile, appreciative, warm, and enthusiastic. Then she raced off, tying the cheek guards in place, to rejoin Solas.
"Commander, are you sure that was wise, encouraging such reckless behavior?"
"You're the one wondering if she would make a good Inquisitor," he nodded in the direction she had disappeared. "There's your answer."
A/N: yeah, I know, this chapter might seem weak and sappy and useless in places. But trust me, I'm setting something up. Just give me a little time…
Also, I really wanted to try writing an early flirt scene between Bull and Dorian. I just LOVE those two knuckleheads—they crack me up!