Chapter Nineteen: Consequences

Bull stood with one leg cocked against the wall, his brow deeply furrowed, his arms crossed, and a frown etched into his stone-like face, staring down at the lump on his bed. Not that it wasn't a shapely lump, long and lean in the right places, firm and rippled in others, and that buttocks—quite a tempting sight, he admitted with only a little reluctance. Nor was it the fact that the 'lump' had obviously been upset about something yesterday, to the point where the man had himself in a drunken stupor shortly after noon. No, it wasn't any of these trivial matters that was bothering Bull.

It was the fact that he had had to spend the night sleeping in a chair.

Slowly he twisted and stretched his neck, trying to work the knots out before they migrated up his skull and gave him a headache. Most qunari had horns that stayed close to their skulls, making it easy to sleep. But Bull's horns stretched out to either side, impressive to look at and as broad as his shoulders, fear-inspiring in battle while dripping with gore, but a bitch to sleep with if he didn't have enough support to help take up their weight. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and pushed himself off the wall to approach the bed.

"Time to get up, Twinkle-Toes," he gently shook a shoulder poking out from beneath the sheets.

There was an answering mumble, which he took as an encouraging sign, though the words spoken in Tevene made him smile.

"I'm not your mother," he sighed, shaking the shoulder a little more roughly, "And I don't care if the other boys make fun of you. You need to get up. Now."

"Five more minutes…"

"Rise and shine, mage-boy," he changed tactics, giving the shapely rump a smart slap.

It worked. Dorian twisted his torso, pushing himself up onto an elbow, staring around wildly while his free hand began to glow with magic. "What? Who?" he blinked, trying to bring something into focus. It was Bull's massive face that was the first thing he saw. He gave a most unladylike squeak while scooting backwards on the bed. "You! What are you doing in my chambers?" He clutched the sheet to his naked chest, covering everything of import, and cast about for anything that might help him, anything he might use as a weapon or shield. The next moment, all his drinking from the previous day caught up with him, and the magic dissipated as he clutched at his skull. "Argh, my head! You've… you've poisoned me! Help! Help! I've been poiso…!"

Bull covered half his face with his hand, trying to shut him up. He stared at Dorian's eyes, holding his gaze steadily, while he tried to ignore the pounding in his own head. "These aren't your chambers, they're mine. So stop screaming, unless you want someone to find you in here."

He saw he was blocking Dorian's nose as well as his mouth, but waited until he got a shaky nod of understanding before removing his hand.

As soon as his airways were unblocked, Dorian gasped, groaned, fell back against the pillows, flung one arm dramatically across his eyes, and demanded, "What have you done to me? I'm dying… oh, merciful Maker…"

"You're not dying," Bull grumbled, finding it too hard to keep his mood jovial. He stomped over to a table, picked up a bottle, and brought it back to the bed. "You're hungover. Here, take this. It'll help."

Dorian didn't move his arm, keeping up his act, convinced that Bull had done something to him. "I don't trust you, ox-man."

"Then lie there and suffer," Bull tossed the bottle onto the mattress, watching it roll and bounce until it bumped against Dorian's hip, "I don't care. I've done enough for you already."

"What?" Dorian peeked from beneath his forearm, with a strange mixture of curious fury, despite the dryness of his tongue or the splitting of his skull. "What have you done for me? Drugged me? Abducted me? Kept me prisoner in your room?"

"I," he emphasized the word in each sentence, sharply nailed finger jabbing the air each time, his patience gone, "I didn't do anything damaging to you—you managed all that yourself. I kept watch over you while you tried to drown yourself in ale yesterday. I carried you when you were so drunk you had to hold on to the floor to keep from flying off the face of Thedas. I let you sleep it off in my chambers—in my bed—where no one would know of your shame. And I'm the fucking idiot who gave you his last fucking healing potion to cure your fucking hangover when I've got a fucking migraine of my own!"

Dorian had remained silent during the tirade, part fearful and part in awe of the ranting qunari. He shifted to sitting up, the movements slow and deliberate, all the while clutching the sheets higher on his person. He could tell, simply from the way the cloth touched his skin, that he was wearing nothing but his, er, silky under-things. But he could also tell nothing untoward had happened while he'd been incapacitated; the ox-man would have left obvious evidence behind if he'd taken advantage of him. So even though he was practically undressed and in the bed of a mortal enemy, he knew he was, well, in a word, safe.

He couldn't speak his gratitude, however, nor could he give voice to his guilt. His pride had suffered enough lately, thank-you-very-much, what with the colossal realization yesterday that Peredura… He swallowed, not willing to face that particular demon yet, and leaned forwards for the bottle of healing potion. The sheet slipped down to his waist, laying bare his muscular torso for Bull's perusal. With one hand he tried to cover himself while the other groped for the bottle. Normally he wouldn't mind showing off his physique—he worked hard to keep himself tanned and toned—but this morning wasn't the right time. Maybe the right place, if he read correctly the interested glance Bull gave him, but definitely not the right time.

Kaffas, was he actually entertaining the idea of bedding a qunari?!

"Er, this is a fairly large bottle; we could split it, and then go out for more to finish the job." Perhaps he was entertaining the idea.

Bull glanced at him again, and Dorian let the covers slip down to pool around his waist while he unstoppered the bottle. He closed his eyes and took a long pull, drinking half the potion as he had suggested. When he felt the mattress compress under Bull's weight, he opened his eyes and handed the potion over. "Benefaris."

"Benefaris," Bull grunted, taking the bottle.

"By the way, where are my leggings?

"On the stool over there," Bull thumbed over his shoulder with one hand while lifting the bottle to his mouth with the other. He finished off the potion, smacked his lips, and sighed before adding, "Right on top of your skirts."

"They're not skirts, they're robes," he argued, more out of habit than any real heat.

"Whatever. You feeling any better?"

"The headache's eased a bit, if that's what you mean. Stomach's still queasy, though, and…"

"Not about that," Bull stopped him with a wave. "I mean, about the Boss."

Dorian swallowed. The impulse took hold once more, to burrow beneath the sheets where no one would see him, but he knew it wouldn't do any good. Fearing Peredura had remembered him, and anxious to know what—if anything—she had told the others, he carefully probed, "You… know about… that?"

"Yeah," Bull nodded, his horns still feeling heavy, but at least the tension in his neck was lessening, "Have for a while. It happened a couple of weeks before you joined up. She'd managed to break her leg, bad, in three places. It's a long story," he decided to leave out the parts about the tampered healing potions or the long trek back to Haven, "But I was the one who took her back to her cabin, after her leg was tended. She had passed out, and I was making her comfortable, taking off her armor and shit, when I pulled off her helmet." He paused to give a single breathy laugh. "Kinda hard to miss, huh? I figured you had seen her ears too, or what's left of them, after the way you were acting yesterday."

"Her… ears?" Dorian tried belatedly to keep the surprise out of his voice. "You've known, er, that she is an elf?"

"Sure."

"And…" he licked his lips, trying to be coy, "And I suppose you've told others about…"

Any good mood Bull might have been nurturing dissipated. He shifted on the bed to face Dorian fully, his voice almost growling as he responded. "Not on your life, Vint. That little lady's been through a shit-storm of trouble already in her young life. I'm not gonna be the one to add to it. No, my Ben-Hassrath superiors don't need to know about her ethnicity, or her background. They're concerned with the Breach and Corypheus, and I'll keep them updated on those matters only." He might have lied a little, by omission, on exactly what the Ben-Hassrath were interested in, but he was telling the truth when he said they didn't need to know about her personal life.

"But," he kept going, since it looked like he had sufficiently cowed Dorian into keeping his mouth shut, for once, and all without having to sew it closed, "I'll admit, my reaction to finding out was pretty much the same as yours. Only it took me three days to reach the bottom of my bottle. I didn't want to see you go through the same."

"So, er," Dorian squirmed a bit, still wondering what exactly was known by whom; there was far more to Peredura's past than simply being an elf. He also wanted to make a break for his leggings, but Bull was leaning across him, his weight pulling the sheets taut across his hips and legs, "Who all knows? About her being an elf. I suppose Seeker Cassandra and Commander…"

"Listen very carefully, because I'm only going to say this once," Bull held one very large, very gray finger an inch away from Dorian's face, hovering right between his eyes, "If you want to know something, go have a talk with Peredura herself. Not everyone knows she's an elf, not everyone can know, and if I ever find out you've betrayed her…"

"Mum's the word, my dear fellow," Dorian quickly agreed, "Mum's the word. I'll forget I ever saw what I thought I saw."

Bull gave a snort through his nostrils much like his namesake. "Good."

"Now, er, do you suppose you could turn around, so I might get dressed?"

He didn't move, remaining leaned over Dorian. "Ah, and here I thought you liked putting on a show."

Dorian managed a bit of bravado, "I do like to perform for an appreciative audience, true, but I don't feel up to it quite yet this morning. Head's still a bit tender. Mind letting me get dressed? Then we can go and find some more of that delectable hangover medicine. And after that, well," he patted Bull's arm suggestively, "We'll just have to wait and see."

He hesitated half a heartbeat longer, before he leaned away and removed his arm, allowing Dorian to escape. "Sounds good to me, mage-boy."

Dorian couldn't help the smile that tinted his lips, a nice warm feeling bubbling up within his chest. Though Bull had thrown an insult at him, it was spoken with something akin to… well, fondness, really, if he wanted to put an exact word to it. Neither could he help his own voice turning soft and a little sultry as he responded, "Savage."

Peredura was propped up against the pillows, a cup of cold broth near at hand. Cullen was sitting on the couch, a pile of reports to either side of him. She was watching him work; he'd take a report from one side, read it, make a mark or two on it, and set it on the other side. It was efficient, quick, and mind-numbingly monotonous. In a peculiar way, she found it extremely soothing.

"You really should try to get some rest."

He hadn't moved, hadn't looked up, but as he was the only other person in the room, she knew he had been the one who had spoken. She weakly shook her head. Maker knew she was tired, but that bone-deep ache had begun to settle into her limbs; sleep would not be coming any time soon—even if she didn't fear the nightmares. "No."

He heard her response, barely distinguishable from a moan, and looked up. She was almost lost within a pile of pillows, the blanket pulled up and tucked beneath her chin, her long brown hair spread out across the white sheets like a banner caught in a breeze. Her skin was damp with sweat again, he noticed, and her face was flushed. He set aside the last report and stood, approaching the bed softly. "Would you like me to reheat the broth for you?" he motioned to the untouched cup.

"No," she repeated, beginning to sound frustrated. "I don't need anything to eat right now. I don't need sleep. I don't need tea. I need…" Her words cut off as her face screwed up in pain, briefly, but it was enough to encourage him to reach her side. She opened her eyes as he sat down on the mattress, the deep brown orbs looming large against the pale backdrop of the sheets. "Talk with me. Please."

"Of course," he readily agreed. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything," she groaned. "I don't care. I just need something to distract me."

"Distract you from what?"

She groaned again.

"Sorry. Sorry. That's not helping, is it. Well, then, something to talk about," he racked his brain for a topic, feeling put on the spot, but nothing came to mind. There really wasn't anything he wanted to talk with her about, not right now while she was so sick. His mind uncooperatively blank, he looked around the room for inspiration, and his eyes fell upon the report he had just finished reading. "Er, there's the garden. Mother Giselle has found an expert gardener, who's quite good at, um, gardening, and such. She'll be planting, er, plants, in planters, ah, in the spring. You know, elfroot and embrium and other herbs and such for the healers, useful plants, I suppose some of them will flower, embrium flowers, doesn't it, can't remember if elfroot does…"

"Lilacs?" she asked, more than a little bit hopeful.

Cullen had to smile; with a single word she'd not only rescued him from his babbling, but brought back pleasant memories—for both of them. "I'll put in a request on your behalf, first thing tomorrow morning," he agreed. He was rewarded with a smile, a wan little thing more sensed than seen, but he knew it was there. "I've no idea what sort of plans the gardener is making already, but I'm sure one corner could be spared for a lilac bush. It is a pleasing thing to look at, and the scent is, er, nice, I'm sure she'll agree to at least one."

"That would be nice," Peredura all but whispered her response, shifting slightly on the bed, as if she couldn't find a comfortable position. Her brow furrowed briefly, but she made herself continue to talk. "Um, how are the other repairs and improvements coming along? Has the West Gate been fixed?"

"The main portcullis is working," he changed topics as swiftly as she did, without batting an eye, following her lead verbally while studying her appearance and actions. Though he had gone through his own withdrawal not that long ago, her's was different. He had very little idea what she was currently experiencing, or what would happen to her next, but he liked to think he was prepared for nearly every eventuality. Yet he had to watch her like a hawk, if he wanted to anticipate what that need would be. "The heavy wooden doors have all but rotted away. I have carpenters working on replacing them, but it will be another couple of weeks before they can be hung in place. Until then, I believe the portcullis is sufficient to keep Skyhold safe, not to mention the army of recruits camped all through the valley leading up to the gate."

"How are…" she paused to press her lips tightly together, a greenish tint coming to her skin. She swallowed some excess saliva before trying to speak again, "How are the newest recruits coming along?" Again she swallowed; her mouth simply wouldn't stop watering, and not in a pleasant manner.

"Quite well, surprisingly," he allowed. "We're beginning to get actual soldiers, even a few former templars, rather than inexperienced farmers or the bored, younger sons of noblemen who don't know the difference between a lance and a rapier…" He went on for a bit, his mouth running on automatic while he watched and waited, recognizing the signs, knowing—as she obviously did—what was about to happen, that it was inevitable, however undesirable, but ultimately unavoidable.

Finally it occurred. Peredura made a small mewling noise, her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with panic, looking this way and that, trying to find someplace she could…

"Here," he said. Without waiting for her cooperation, he grabbed her shoulder and shoved her towards the side of the bed, directly over where he had a bucket waiting for just such a situation. While she vacated what little was in her stomach, he focused on keeping her from slipping off the bed or her hair from falling in the way or the cup of broth from spilling onto the sheets. He shut his ears against the sounds, steeled his stomach not to lurch with sympathy pains, and waited for the spell to end.

At long last she gave a final cough, sniffed, and limply tried to roll back from the side of the bed. He took over for her, settling her against the pillows, pulling the blanket halfway up her chest and tucking it in, smoothing a wayward strand from the corner of her mouth. He studied her gray face, glazed eyes, and sweaty temples, "Now you're the one pushing themselves too hard. You really do need to rest." He pulled back to stand up from the bed.

She didn't argue the point, couldn't garner the strength to find the words to communicate her dread. Instead she closed her eyes, letting the cushions support her, letting Cullen take care of matters—simply letting go. Incurious she listened to what was going on around her, the crackling of logs in the hearth, the birds singing outside her balcony doors, the soft protest of moving fabric and leather. A masculine scent assailed her nostrils, nothing unpleasant, but reminiscent of leather and sweat and steel—and so achingly familiar. The bed creaked beneath a heavy weight, the covers moved across her as something pulled them, and she knew Cullen had returned. Lastly there was the gentle drip of water, the delicate scent of lilacs, and the coolness of a soft cloth against her skin.

She blinked her eyes open to find Cullen leaning over her, wiping clean her face and neck.

"I thought you were asleep," he hummed.

She shook her head, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyebrows. "No. I don't want to sleep anymore, not now, not when…" She stopped speaking suddenly, the dread returning with haunting power, making her suddenly fearful of giving it voice lest she give it dominion over her.

Her lower lip squirmed between her teeth.

The pad of his thumb pulled it free.

She blinked at him, surprised by the action, and confused by what it could mean. He waited until he had her attention before he removed his hand, but then pretended unconcern as he resumed his ministrations. Her tunic was soaked through in sweat, and he imagined she would appreciate a change of clothing, just as she undoubtedly appreciated the damp cloth cleaning her skin. His fingers nearly dropped the cloth at that thought. Maker, was he actually going to do that? Was he truly thinking about washing her body, running his hands all over her? He didn't think he could, he didn't think he should—not even to slip inside her sleeves to wash her arms—but neither could he callously hand her the cloth to do it herself. He was supposed to be taking care of her, as she had of him, but he couldn't bring himself… it wouldn't be proper… far too intimate a touch… "Um, Solas said you were, er, experiencing nightmares," he said, wiping a stray drop of sick from the side of one hand. He didn't look at her, thinking he was allowing her the space needed to get control of herself, ignoring the fact that he was the one who needed the space. "Is that why you don't want to rest?"

She didn't answer him, but her silence was answer enough.

"Would you like to talk about it?" he was sufficiently distracted from his earlier inappropriate thoughts, focusing now on her mental troubles. "It helps, you know, to share bad experiences with someone who'll understand."

She felt the shame, hearing her own words used against her, knowing she couldn't tell him, not yet, not until she was stronger, not until she would be able to survive the pain of his feelings towards her turning into disgust… She choked off a sob as she choked off that line of thought, and instead of speaking about her nightmares—her secret—she stubbornly shook her head. "Solas mentioned," her brown eyes lifted to his face in what she hoped was a beguiling manner, "You searched the cabin where the mage was hiding?"

He made an agreeable sound, thoroughly rinsing out the cloth before folding it neatly to place over her forehead.

"What did you find? In the cabin. He must have left, um, some evidence, or…"

"Stop right there," he commanded, his voice a caress, his words a wall. "I know what you're going to ask."

"I just wanted to know what you found, if there was anything that would speak to where he came from. He… he… ah… told me he was planning to bring me to Corypheus. If there was something there that would indicate where that might be, where Corypheus was hiding…"

"Are you sure you weren't going to ask if we found any opeigh?"

She felt like a child, caught with her hands full of stollen cookies. "He said…" she stuttered, feeling overwhelmed, feeling her bones ache, feeling her skin crawl, feeling her stomach try to climb upwards and out of her throat. She didn't know what she was saying, not really, only that she had to keep talking. "He said, that he would use the opeigh to keep me quiet, all the way back to Corypheus…"

"Pere," Cullen's tone was full of warning.

She didn't heed him. "…but what he gave me wasn't enough, it wouldn't have lasted, not that long, not unless Corypheus was close to Skyhold, but we haven't seen any sign of that, so he must've had more of it, more opeigh, somewhere in the cabin or nearby or…"

"Or perhaps on his person, and he took his supply of opeigh with him when he fled," he finished for her, his words final. "Pere, listen to me: I swear to you, we did not find any opeigh. We only found one empty vial. That was all."

"But…" she bit her lip, drawing blood.

He pulled it free, wiping away the drop. "I know," he breathed, his voice empathetic and forceful and anguished, all at the same time. "I know what you're feeling. I know what you're thinking. But I'm here with you, Peredura, I'm not going to let you face this alone. I'm not going to let you fail." He leaned in close, a hand to either side of her face, holding her and making her look at him. "You did the same for me. Let me return the favor."

Tears. Tears and a blubbering spurt of laughter that quickly digressed into sobs. Unable to see through the tears, she felt herself pulled forward and pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady in her ear, his arms warm and secure around her. She held on tight, as if she could physically leach off of his might to reinforce her waning strength. "I can't," she whispered through the torment, "It's too hard. I know, I know, I can do this, I've done this, you've done this," she paused to sniff, "But that'll be at some point in the future; right now it just hurts!" Her hands gripped the fabric of his jacket; if she had the power, she would have left wrinkles in the tough leather. "I thought, maybe, if you had found some opeigh, then maybe just a little bit, not enough to block out everything, just enough to take the edge off the pain…"

"No," he disagreed, stroking her hair down her back. Maker, how he knew what she was feeling, what she was hoping, and how terrible he felt knowing he had to crush her hopes. "I know what you want to have happen. But would it work that way? Would it really? Could you take a little bit of opeigh, and not slip into a stupor? Would a small amount take away the pain, without feeding the craving?"

She hated to admit it, feeling the chagrin as keenly as the pain, her voice childish and pouty as she said, "No."

"Then there's no point in trying, is there? Even if we had the opeigh. There is no 'little bit', Pere, not for us, not anymore. If we take anything, any amount, then we've failed, we're right back where we started, and we would have to go through this all over again. I wouldn't want to do that; once was enough for me. And, I don't think you'd want to, either. I know this time you didn't have a choice, like last time…"

"Last time the mark was trying to kill me!" she half-shouted against his chest. "So of course it was bad. And the times before…!" she bit off her words, fearing she had spoken too much.

It felt like a knife, an old and rusty and blunt blade had been pushed and shoved straight through his heart. He tensed, from his scalp to the soles of his feet, and he feared she could feel it, but he could not stop himself. He knew—sweet merciful Maker—he knew, "Vicici took you off of opeigh before, didn't he."

It wasn't a question, but she answered, "As a punishment, mostly. At first he wanted to see how addicted I was, if the opeigh was working as a deterrent against escape. Later, he'd deliberately withhold it, and forced me to do things—help in his blood magic—before he'd let me have any more. Sometimes…" she had to fight to get the words out, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Sometimes, he'd do it just to see how long I could go, just to see what it would do to me…"

Her voice faded into sobs once more. Cullen didn't press the issue, knowing it wouldn't help her right then, knowing he had made his point. She wasn't truly looking for another dose of opeigh; she had only needed to talk about her addiction, to excise the poison from her soul with words. He sat and held her and waited for the tears to stop, all the while thinking of Vicici and the hell he had put her through. But her trembling continued, her body shaking and sweating and fighting through her withdrawal. He thought about letting her go, setting her back against the pillows, allowing her to rest, but her hands continued to grip him fiercely, as if all her strength was in her fingertips. She needed him right then, and—ever attentive to her needs—he gave.

"I promise you, Peredura, if Vicici were alive, I would hunt him down and kill him. If I knew where to find his body, if there was a body to recover, I'd have Dorian reanimate his corpse so I could kill him again. Slowly. Painfully. Over and over. One time for every harm he's done to you."

The tears slowed. She was overwhelmed by his fierce pledge, his bloodthirsty oath, his unquestioning loyalty. She gave a final sniff and leaned back, just far enough to see his face. "You'd… you'd do that… for me…?"

There was irony here somewhere, seeing as how his angry and hateful words had finally provided her with comfort. But he had to admit it to himself, that yes, he would do that for her. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and was reminded of other harms Vicici had inflicted upon her. She obviously remembered it as well, her eyes sliding from his, her neck tensing as if she wanted to pull away from his hand, hide her ear, retreat into that quiet girl she had been when they first met. He had to say something; he couldn't let her turn from the brave young woman she was now, back into that timid creature so fearful of her own shadow.

"Yes," he answered simply, any eloquent words escaping him. Yet it seemed simplicity did the trick, her face lifting up, her gaze returning to his. One of his hands picked up the cloth that had fallen from her forehead onto her lap. He brought it up to her face, wiping off her cheeks, wiping off her tears, wiping off every painful and loathsome and disgusting memory. He watched her dark brown eyes blink at him, eyes that reminded him of a doe, wide and cautious, a heartbeat away from bolting away through the woods.

He didn't want to let her go.

"Would you like to try to rest now?"

That had been the wrong thing to say, the fear and pain returning.

"No more nightmares," he quickly added, "I promise, I'll stay awake and keep them at bay."

Mutely she shook her head.

"Peredura," his eyes narrowed as he studied her face, "What is it? What's troubling you still? Why are you so afraid of your dreams?" As soon as the question left his lips, he knew the answer. "Oh, of course. Forgive me, Pere, I didn't stop to think, but you were a slave, weren't you, and… Vicici… he did more to you than withhold opeigh, didn't he. He… he took advantage… of his ownership of your person…" he had to pause and swallow, trying to ease the tight knot in his throat, "And those things he did to you… are what haunts you in your dreams… the opeigh bringing back the memories…"

He was so close to the truth, and so far from it. "No, please, Cullen, I don't want to tell you, it was so long ago, leave it be, it's over…"

"It's not over," he argued, "Not if it's continuing to trouble you. Not if it's giving you nightmares. Peredura," he took both her hands in his, having to pry them off of his jacket first. "Peredura, Vicici is dead. Gone. He cannot hurt you any longer. Believe me; you're safe from him. He can no longer force you… touch you…" Blessed Andraste, if he couldn't bring himself to give it voice, how could he expect her to speak of it.

Yet, miraculously, she did. "It wasn't Vicici."

The words were quiet, merely a breath, made more terrible by their lack of fervor. It wasn't something she wanted to talk about, but she had no more strength to continue to resist. And if she told anyone, she wanted that person to be Cullen. Half in a state of dazedness, half in a state of denial, the words began to fall from her lips.

"Vicici never asserted his rights over me, in that manner," she made herself clarify. "He was afraid that if I conceived, the power in my blood would pass to the child. He knew he couldn't use a baby for the rituals." She gave a funny sort of huff. "Even Vicici wasn't insane enough to sacrifice an infant to blood magic. And he didn't want to have to wait several years before the child would be old enough to survive the loss of blood. So he took measures to ensure I would never become pregnant, kept me isolated from other slaves, always made sure a female guard was watching me, never left me unsupervised if we weren't at his estate… things like that."

He still held her hands, and she made no move to break free. If anything, she seemed to want to draw closer, to come under his protection, to leech off of his warmth and strength. "Then, if it wasn't Vicici," he swallowed, the answer coming to him as soon as he spoke, "Maker's breath, it was the male mage, the one who abducted you, the one who's been trying to kill you. He…" Cullen couldn't bring himself to say it, but he didn't have to, Peredura's earlier reluctance had worn down to nothing, her exhaustion left her numb.

"It might have been a month before the Conclave, it might have been a year, I don't remember. There was a meeting at another magister's estate, a gathering of Venatori, all of them blood mages. My mast… er, Vicici had me… he liked to show off how subservient I was… he had me bleed for him…"

Cullen wished he could close off his ears. The thought of blood magic… of Peredura being forced to participate… of what Vicici did to her—with her… all of it made his blood boil, made the bile rise in the back of his throat, made his own unwanted memories turn vivid and sharp. But she spoke, and he listened.

"I didn't really know what was happening, what had taken place, other than a lot of blood, a lot of demons," she paused to shudder, and he pulled her even closer. "But afterwards, Vicici was very pleased. With the outcome. With me. Whatever. I didn't care. I only wanted the opeigh. He took me to an alcove and handed over the bottles. I took the opeigh first, I needed it so badly, but Vicici made me take the healing potion, too. Then someone came for him, and he had to leave me for a few moments. He told me not to leave the alcove, and then he left.

"I stood there, just stood there, waiting, feeling the opeigh start to take over, watching my wounds close and heal. The curtains moved, but it wasn't Vicici who entered the alcove." She trembled, and one of his hands let go to encircle her, to stroke her back, to try to comfort her. "I don't know who he was. I'd never seen him before that night, and I never would again, not until the other day. But I'll never forget his face. Swarthy skin. Lean and angular features. Pockmarked cheeks. Ice blue eyes."

She couldn't speak it. She simply could not give it voice. Yet neither could she remain silent.

"He told me to lie down on the couch, and I obeyed—the thought never crossed my mind to defy him. He touched me, touched himself, had me touch him. It hurt, whatever he did to me, but the healing potion was still working, still healing whatever harm he caused. He laughed at that, took enjoyment from it, and he hurt me more.

"He was on his second time, when Vicici came back and saw what he was doing," she paused to hiccough. "Vicici was angry, shouting, threatening to kill the other mage, but someone else with him wouldn't allow it. So Vicici banished the other mage, told him to run. I don't know what happened next; the opeigh had taken effect and everything's blurry. But there were more precautions after that, and I was never alone again, unless I was locked away safely in my cell."

There it was, all the hateful ugly truth, heavy in the air between them, lying across their laps like a macabre blanket. And here it comes, she told herself, the moment when he left her; she felt the tension in his arms, the spasming of his fingers. But she was sick, and tired, and somehow knew he'd find out eventually so maybe it was better if he learned of her sinful past and she quit pretending she was a normal person and let go of the silly dream of being in love with Cullen or any man her past her previous life too ugly for anyone to share…

"He doesn't deserve to live."

The words were flat and forceful, breaking through her tumbled thoughts, breaking her out of her self-made prison of disgust and despair. She lifted her doe-like eyes to his, saw the harsh hazel orbs burn with ire, and was amazed to learn the hatred and anger wasn't aimed at her.

"Anyone who would," he had to stop, his words coming out strangled, too tight to be understood. Taking a deep breath he attempted to calm himself, and tired again, "Anyone who would force himself on another person, doesn't deserve to be called a 'man.' He's more a beast, selfish, primal, un-evolved. He only deserves to be hunted down and slaughtered like the rabid animal he is."

"Cullen…?" she finally found her voice, but he acted like he didn't hear her.

If he couldn't kill Vicici for her, he'd do the next best thing. "I swear to you, Peredura," he continued, "I swear with every breath of my being, that I will hunt down this mage. I will apprehend him, I will make him answer for his crimes, I will kill him slowly and painfully for what he did to you. On my soul I swear this to you!"

Too much, she thought to herself, there was too much happening in her life right now. The Breach, the mark, Corypheus, freedom, becoming Inquisitor, Cullen… She was overwhelmed, almost scared by it all, but she didn't feel she deserved his loyalty—his oath—and began shaking her head. "No, Cullen, you don't need to…"

"I do," he interrupted, holding her head, one hand to either side of her face, "Or rather, you need this. You need to know, you are important. You are a person. You did nothing to deserve what he did to you. Rather, you deserve justice. I will give you that, or if not, I will give you vengeance. He will not hurt you again."

He was sincere, honest, open, and he was doing this for her. Tears welled up once more—she had to be dehydrated by now from all the crying—feelings so strange and alien filling her up from within and pushing the moisture out. All the fears and anxieties over keeping her secrets safe were gone, replaced by acceptance, understanding, compassion, empathy… love…? Blessed Andraste, she couldn't hope for that, not yet, not with Cullen, she didn't dare…

Yet she dared. She closed her eyes and nodded, accepting his oath, as he accepted her—all of her ugly past and dangerous present and uncertain future. She felt him tense again, but he only shifted her around until she was cradled on his lap, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arms around her like a blanket. His heartbeat was a consistency—something stable she could hold on to, something that would always be there, something she could always rely upon.

"I hope this is love," she whispered, already falling asleep.

Cullen didn't quite hear what she said, his mind too full of all the nasty things he wanted to do to a certain mage. Oh, sure, he was once a templar, deeply religious and ever laboring to follow in the Maker's footsteps. And though he had left that life behind, he continued to try to hold himself to a higher standard and be merciful to his fellow man—but this mage was no man. This mage deserved no quarter, and Cullen would offer none. The impulse to leave that moment and begin his hunt was strong, but with Peredura in his arms—sleeping, at long last, deep and restful—he decided the hunt could wait. Besides, it was likely this mage would try again, would come to them, and Cullen would be ready.

He moved carefully, slowly, easing her back against the pillows, tucking the blanket in around her, praying she'd stay asleep, selfishly wanting the next hour or so all to himself—in order to finalize a trap or two for the mage. That wasn't yet to be, unfortunately, a knock sounding on the door downstairs along with an insistent, yet happy, bark. Quickly he looked at Peredura, but she remained slumbering, her eyes closed, her breathing deep and steady. Trying not to feel cheated out of his quiet time, he stood up from the bed and stepped softly—for a man wearing boots—down the steps.

"Yes?" he asked, opening the portal to see Cassandra standing there with Fear by her side.

"Hello, Cullen," she acknowledged him, trying to ignore the mabari's ceaseless pulling on a makeshift lead. "Blackwall said that Fear has recovered sufficiently from his injuries, and I volunteered to bring him back to Peredura. How is she, by the way?"

"Asleep," he answered, not moving out of the way lest it would encourage the hound to break free and make a run for it, "Finally. She's had a rough morning, was sick once, and is very weak. But I think she's about to turn a corner and start recovering." Even Cullen eventually had to pay attention to Fear, his antics and begging and whining becoming too strong to disregard. "Oh, very well. You may go upstairs and see her, but stay off the bed! She needs her rest."

Fear gave a quiet bark, as if he completely understood Cullen's command, and pulled his lead from Cassandra's fingers. He bounded up the steps on oversized paws, stubby tail quivering with excitement, tongue lolling the whole way.

"Is she…" Cassandra began, and just as quickly stopped, and just as quickly started once more, "Is she… angry… about what happened… about what I did…?"

"No, Cassandra," he sighed, letting her off the hook. Truthfully, they hadn't talked that much about who was responsible for putting her inside the never-ending nightmare of torment. But Peredura looked to her as a sister, trusted her, loved her—in a way. He was sure she would not blame Cassandra for anything that happened with the sleeping potion. Besides, she had much more pressing matters to deal with, such as a queasy stomach and exhaustion and out-of-control emotions. Maker, how he wished Cassandra would leave so he could deal with his own out-of-control emotions. He rubbed at his brow as he continued, "She has her hands full just now, dealing with her withdrawal, but we've done some talking and she doesn't hold a grudge against you. She knows you only had her best interests at heart, and had no idea the nightmares would occur."

Cassandra seemed to believe him, relaxing her stance and moving back from the door. "That is well. I wanted to see her, to explain… but no matter. She has forgiven me, and is sleeping, both of these good things. I won't disturb her. But when she wakes, tell her…" she stopped, her hand coming up as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words, "…tell her…" The hand dropped in defeat.

"I will," Cullen promised, not sure what message he was supposed to convey, but it seemed to satisfy the Seeker. She nodded without another word and turned to walk down the steps and away from the door.

Cullen sighed, shutting the door and leaning against it for a moment. Quite a lot had happened so far that day, but at least he had gotten through his stack of paperwork. Yet it was tiring, dealing with Peredura's withdrawal and emotional hurts on little to no sleep. After indulging in the single moment to catch his breath, he launched himself off the wood and up the steps, to make sure Fear hadn't gotten into anything while he'd been unsupervised.

The mabari sat on his haunches beside the bed, his head resting lightly on the mattress, his deep brown eyes staring dolefully at his partner. He flicked his eyes to Cullen as he approached, his head twitching only a little, before he resumed his longing gaze.

"You're a spoiled mutt," he grumbled good-naturedly, "Go ahead. Up on the bed with you. But don't wake her. She needs her rest."

Fear needed no further permission. In a single leap he landed on the mattress beside Peredura. Quickly he snuffled around her face and shoulder, satisfying himself that though she was sick, she would recover. He watched her closely as she responded to his nudges, smiling and sighing a little before falling back asleep. Then he moved down to her hip, padded the blankets into submission as he turned in a circle three times, and plopped himself down curled into a tight ball to fall asleep.

Cullen had held his breath, waiting for Fear to wake her, second-guessing his decision to let the hound onto the bed. But during his recovery, Peredura had stated that he was calmer whenever Fear was near him; perhaps the mabari would do the same for her. Satisfied that the hound hadn't woken her and the two were sleeping peacefully, he moved away from the bed and returned to the couch. With a particular disgusting mage foremost in his thoughts, he picked up an extra piece of parchment and his stylus, and began sketching out one or two of his more simpler ideas for dealing with the son of a bitch. Simpler was better, he told himself, though it was hard to resist the urge to embellish.

Well, he reconsidered, perhaps just one overly elaborate trap, not to use, certainly, but simply to satisfy his bloodlust.

Happily Cullen spent the rest of the afternoon, humming a hymn under his breath, stylus making dry scratches on unsuspecting parchment.