Chapter Twenty-Six: …The Dawn Will Come
Cullen's hand was so tightly fisted, the muscles were beginning to cramp and spasm. He had tried to stay calm, he had tried to relax the fist as Leliana recited Scout Harding's reports, but such a feat proved too difficult for him. He had almost convinced himself that everything would be alright, that if Peredura was… Maker's breath! he didn't dare let himself even think the word… No, Peredura must be alive and safe or Harding would have reported that first thing. The fact that Harding had been sending such a detailed report could only mean that, though things had started out poorly, everything was alright now. Right?
Yet he could only imagine what she must have gone through, alone in the desert, literally running for her life, trying to stay ahead of the Venatori long enough to give Harding a chance to go for help…
"Harding should never have left Peredura," Varric almost raged, his hand slapping the top of the war table, nearly impaling himself on a pin or two. He didn't seem to notice, as riled up as he was over Peredura's imagined predicament, and his own inability to affect it, hundreds of miles away.
"Harding was injured, the Inquisitor was not; she could have made it back to camp much faster," Cassandra added.
"For once, Seeker, we agree," he muttered darkly. "Harding should have been the one to take the risk of capture and lead the Venatori astray. We can afford to lose one scout. We can't afford to lose Peredura …"
"She did exactly right."
No one was more surprised than Cullen to have heard his voice interrupt the dwarf's angry speech, much less that he sounded so calm and emotionless. Still, now that he had spoken, and he had gotten Varric to stop ranting and listen to reason, Cullen found the words continued to slip past his lips, almost of a mind of their own. "Pere had been seen, Harding had not. Pere was physically able to run and evade capture, Harding could not. Harding could, however, remain unseen and make it back to camp, where Pere would not be able to, not with the Venatori already after her. No, I'm afraid Harding did exactly what she had to do, the only thing she could do, really. Not ideal, but they truly had no other choice. And it was the right choice as it turned out, as Harding obviously made it back to camp and has been writing us these reports."
"Which I will continue to relay," Leliana looked around the War Room at all of them, her tone just a bit testy, "If there are no more interruptions."
No one answered, all of them concerned for Peredura, all of them wanting Leliana to get to the end and tell them she was safe and sound. Cullen tried not to imagine what she must have been facing, handing her Inquisitor badge over to Harding before racing off into the growing darkness. He briefly wondered what had happened to her, out there, in the desert, with her enemy snapping at her heels…
The shepherd's lost and his home is far.
Keep to the stars…
The stars… the stars…
The words of the hymn seemed to draw Peredura out of her protective stupor. Wondering how far off dawn could be, she began to twist her neck carefully. She found, if she moved slowly, she could tilt her head—at an odd and uncomfortable angle—but it would be just far enough to squint out of the corner of her eye and see the stars. It was the only way for her to accurately gauge the time. But she began to tremble, she was so tired after a full day of scouting, and then trying to run away from the Venatori, and then spending all these hours staying awake and keeping her balance on a thin rope.
Not to mention, her eyes were irritated and bloodshot, full of dry desert air and cold gritty sand. And her line of sight was off, so it was hard to see what was the actual position of the stars. But if she craned her neck just one more fraction of an inch, she could catch just a glimpse of them. Their positions had moved—must have moved!—since the last time she peeked. Was it one hour until dawn? Surely no more than two at the most. If she could just see a little bit more of the sky.
The giant spiders, still secured within their den but growing restless, were making more sounds than before. As she tried to view the sky, her face angled towards their little hollow, no more than a score or so of yards from her. Completely on reflex her eyes dropped to stare as one hairy spider leg lifted up over the lip, feeling the air, trying to sense some source of heat, whether it be sunlight or body warmth, like her body…
Her boot slipped, not too far, but it did jiggle the rope beneath her feet, which in turn through the labyrinth of ropes and loops and knots, jiggled the rope around her neck. The coarse braid dug into her flesh just that little bit more, though thankfully not yet to the point where it choked her. She paused in her movements, after regaining her balance, to force a few breaths past the obstruction. Her skin beneath the rope was raw, open, abraded, and her imagination made her think she could feel blood and pus oozing from the wounds to soak the collar of her tunic.
Fear. Exhaustion. Cold. Despair. All of it began to overwhelm her, and her trembling grew to shaking. First one knee twitched, then the other, the muscles of her legs weakened after her long ordeal, and she finally lost her fight to keep her balance. Both boots slipped this time, the rope beneath her feet bouncing and sending waves through the other ropes. Her arms felt it first, via a maze of connecting loops and knots, and were pulled a little higher behind her back. She tried to gasp, fearing the worst, fearing the end, in the split second that seemed to last almost forever, her final moment, as her feet continued to slide, and she was powerless to avoid the inevitable…
The heels of her boots, more specifically the groove between the soles and the heel, caught the rope, halting her movement with a final and painful jerk. She hung there in the balance, holding her breath, feeling herself suspended literally between life and death, while she awaited her fate. Her arms were pulled so tight she could no longer feel her fingers, and her neck was now half choked around the rope, the knot in back putting painful pressure on her spine right at the base of her skull. For an instant eternity she hung there, wondering what had happened, and what was about to happen. Was she dead? Dying? Or, by some miraculous means, still alive?
The later proved true. The grooves of her boots held fast, preventing any further sliding off of the rope, any further jiggling, at least of the rope beneath her feet. Realizing this, she knew she would be able to keep her feet, with even less effort than before—so long as she kept the rope in the groove of her boot heels. She took a breath, timid, careful, but the air wheezed past her throat and gradually inflated her lungs. A little more confident—despite the pain in both shoulders and the tightness around her throat, or the unnerving scuttling of the giant spiders off to the side, or the supreme exhaustion that threatened to undermine her, or the strength-sapping cold of the high desert—she began to hope she could actually make it.
Her head was at a new angle, the knot of the noose forcing her to face the ground, and she could no longer look at the stars. Yet she would not allow herself to admit defeat, not after this second chance she had just been—miraculously?— granted. She began to watch the ground beneath her feet and the rope, staring at a tuft or two of grass and some scattered rocks, waiting for shapes to emerge. The east was behind her, so when she began to see shadows cast across the ground by those rocks and tufts, she would know the sun was about to rise.
Dawn couldn't be more than two hours away, she told herself. Two hours before she should expect help to arrive. Two hours to stay awake. Two hours to stay strong, stay brave, face her fears like Cullen. Two hours before…
…the dawn will come…
Dorian tried to stifle the yawn, then thought better of it. Why not, he wondered to himself, why not let Bull and the others know he was tired? They had to have been up half the night already, or more, and the scout said if Peredura and Harding weren't back by midnight—which was hours ago—then they must have kipped somewhere for the night. So why shouldn't he be tired? Why shouldn't he find himself a cot in one of the tents and get a bit of shut-eye? Sara was sleeping.
Well, alright, that wasn't exactly fair. Sara was a bit of a lightweight, and after only two mugs of ale, she'd quietly passed out and was now gently snoring beneath the table. She may wake up in the morning with a bit of a headache and a sour stomach, not to mention her normally snarky disposition would be magnified tenfold, but at least she had reached unconsciousness.
As Bull wearily dealt yet another hand and almost numbly intoned the stakes, Dorian realized something: even as tired as he was, even if he had a bed of feathers with silk sheets and not a grain of sand in sight—he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink. Not until he, like Bull and Blackwall, knew for certain that Peredura was alright. He briefly thought about giving Sara a jealous kick, seeing as she had cheated by drinking enough to pass out and get herself some worry-free rest that way, but changed his mind. IF—and he tried to convince himself it was a very big if—if Peredura was in trouble, then at least one of them should be somewhat rested and not silly from sleep deprivation.
"What is that?" Blackwall asked.
Dorian didn't see where he was looking, staring forlornly at the cards in his hand. "Bull said, the ante is two silvers."
"No," Blackwall set down his cards, face up, and pushed himself away form the table. "Out there. Something's moving."
Dorian scoffed, first at Blackwall showing his hand, then at his words—after they'd finally penetrated the fuzzy wool around his head. "Something…?" he repeated, questioningly, lifting his eyes up. He saw Blackwall was staring over Bull's shoulder, and followed his gaze to see that, yes, indeed, there was a shadow moving across the desert sands, a shadow that moved independently of the rocks and shrubs that were out there. He dropped his own cards, also face-up, and rubbed at his eyes to get rid of the dry tiredness, hoping he wasn't imagining it.
"Bah, guys, what are you…?" Bull started, still more focused on the game, but when he finally noticed the other two were staring, and where they were staring, he jumped to his feet and spun around. "Scout!"
It was a reflex, a command, an automated response bred from years of being a leader. "On it, Ser," one of the scouts answered, the one who was on watch. He started out into the desert towards the moving shadow, becoming a shadow himself, and as silent as one. The three men at the table held their breath, the card game forgotten, straining bloodshot eyes to follow the progress of the two shadows as their trajectories slowly merged.
"Lost 'em," Blackwall hummed.
"I… I think he's nearly there…" Dorian squinted.
"He's still ten feet away," Bull rumbled softly, like distant thunder. "Are you telling me, that my one eye is better than all four of your eyes?"
"Fine, then, if you qunari can see so much better than us humans, tell us what's happening," Dorian huffed, retaking his seat, not because he was upset so much as just plain tired. He continued to watch the darkness, however, unable to look away even though there was nothing he could see.
"The scout's stopped, just a few paces away. So's the other shadow. Probably giving a sign and counter-sign to prove they're friendly. Yeah, that's what happen. Scout's moving again, looks like he picked up whatever was moving out there. By the shape they're making now, I think he's carrying the other, helping them to walk."
It was as if Bull's words slowly sank into all three of them at the same time: Someone was approaching the camp, injured.
And as one, all three of them started out into the night towards the two shadows now merged into one. Dorian swung out his staff, casting his spell on the fly, not the one that would shield and protect them from danger, but a simple spell to make the end of his staff glow, giving them all—well, he and Blackwall at least—enough light to be able to see where they were stepping, not to mention see who it was approaching the camp.
"Harding!" Bull barked, in the lead thanks to his longer stride. His horns swung threateningly as his eyes swept the desert behind her for any sign of Peredura. "Where is she?"
Not a thought for the woman's injuries, which must be serious by the way she was leaning so heavily on her fellow scout, but Harding didn't take any offense. "I had to, Ser, she ordered me. Her Worship," her whole arm trembling, she brought out her fist palm upwards and relaxed the fingers, showing them all Peredura's Inquisitor's badge, "She wasn't injured, but she was the one they'd seen. I hadn't been seen. She made me come back for help."
"Stop right there," Blackwall reached them just a pace or two before Dorian. He put a half-comforting, half-restraining hand on Bull's bulging bicep, making the qunari pause before ripping off the scout's head in frustration. "You're not making any sense. Give her a bit of water," he told the other scout, still supporting her, "Let her collect herself. Then tell us what happened, from the beginning."
Dorian blinked, that had to be the longest string of words he'd ever heard coming out of Blackwall's mouth, but he was right. They weren't going to get anything coherent out of Harding until she could catch her breath. He went over to Bull, who was now ignoring the scouts out of spite and staring into the desert, as if by sheer willpower he could make Peredura emerge from the cold darkness. He opened his mouth, fully intending to offer comfort, but found there was nothing he could say, nothing that wouldn't sound hollow or trite. So instead he offered what comfort he could, and sought a bit himself, by simply standing next to the man.
Blackwall ignored his friends, knowing it was more important to keep Harding awake long enough to report, and to do that he'd need to tend the wound on her thigh. "Arrow?" he asked, untying the makeshift bandage and lifting away the ripped edges of her leggings.
"Lucky shot. One of the few that missed Bostwick. Found me, though," she grimaced while Blackwall's thick and calloused fingers probed the wound.
"Through and through," he commented, as if that said everything. "Lost a lot of blood, though. There's potions back at camp that'll take care of this in only a few hours. Now," he tipped a canteen into her mouth and allowed her a swallow or two before taking it away, "What happened?"
"We were out scouting, the Inquisitor, Bostwick, and myself. We were showing her the ropes, and she was doing pretty good. But then we heard screaming. It was…" Harding paused to shudder, and Blackwall didn't let himself imagine what could make a seasoned scout like her turn green. "We went to investigate, and saw a pair of Venatori using slaves to perform blood magic. We thought," she paused again, seeing that she now had Bull's and Dorian's undivided attention at the mention of blood mages, and Blackwall gave her another swallow of water before she continued. "Thanks. We thought we could take them, the three of us, with the element of surprise on our side. The Inquisitor was very adamant about stopping them."
Bull nodded, understanding exactly how she must have felt, seeing blood mages performing their forbidden rituals, but Harding's words continued.
"And we could have, it would have worked, if the Venatori didn't have their own patrol out and scouting, and surprised us instead…" Briefly she filled them in on what happened, Bostwick's death, herself getting shot, Peredura being spotted, and how she commanded Harding to come back to camp for help, while she tried to evade capture.
"You! Just left her! Out there! In the desert! Alone! With Venatori snapping at her heels!" Dorian was so upset, the light from his staff began to pulse and flicker with his emotions.
"She did the only thing she could," Blackwall leaned back from her, passing the canteen to the other scout. "The Inquisitor had already been seen. If she tried to make for camp, she would have led them straight to us."
"Good! Then we could have killed them by now." He was giving vent to his spleen, hoping that by doing so, he could head off any outrage Bull might show over this fucked-up situation. And amazingly it worked—well, for a moment, at least.
"Dorian," Bull thrummed, setting his hand on Dorian's shoulder, but whether to hold him back or offer comfort was uncertain. Yet the reprieve didn't last long. He made a disgusted noise and pulled his hand away to scrub over his face. Suddenly he spun, his fist punching air, as she shouted into the desert, "Fuck!" He paced away, kicking at an unoffending bush, uprooting it and sending it tumbling across the desert sands. Then he stood there for several heartbeats, panting, staring off into the shadows, his mind whirling and calculating and gauging how many hours it was until dawn. "He's right," he groused, meaning Blackwall, and turned back around to face the others, "And the Boss was right. There was no choice. As distasteful and frustrating as it is, no one had any choice. Sorry, Harding, for taking my anger out on you."
"I understand, Ser," she responded graciously, though remaining a little wide-eyed and not quite lifting her eyes higher than the toes of her boots.
"How far?" Blackwall asked, helping Harding to stand so they could return to camp.
"Fifteen, no more than sixteen miles, north-northwest of here," she waved her hand off in the direction indicated, from where it hung over the other scout's shoulder.
Blackwall examined the situation, while the scouts started limping away, estimating distance and time and terrain. "That'll take a good four hours to reach."
"Less, if we run," Bull countered, his eagerness to be off showing in his stance, half crouched already to begin his sprint.
"Even less, if we take mounts," Dorian attempted to have the last say. "No use getting ourselves knackered, racing across ground we can't see, risking broken necks and twisted ankles, when we're likely to come across a nice little fight at the end of it all. Let's get Harding back to camp, rouse Sara, and use some of those weird mount thingy's they use out here."
"Dracolisks, Ser," the other scout offered, calling back over his shoulder.
"Dracolisks, yes, those… animals…?"
"There isn't a dracolisk big enough to carry me," Bull stated, either bragging or complaining, it was hard to tell. "But you'll all need them, to keep up. Come on," he turned, catching up with the scouts in a few quick strides. He plucked Harding from the other's arms and swung her off her feet. "The sooner we can get going, the better. And while we're away, Harding," his voice dropped, sounding slightly malicious, "You can write the report to send back to Skyhold about what happened."
Harding swallowed, not sure if she was more afraid of the qunari, or the spymaster. No one back at Skyhold was going to like what she had to say.
Stand your ground, the dawn will come…
…the dawn will come…
The night… is long… and… and… and…
Peredura paused, or perhaps she kept silently singing, it was too hard to tell. She was numb. All over. Numb from the cold. Numb from the pain. Numb from the exhaustion. Numb from the fear. She could no longer feel anything, not the ropes threatening to break her ankles, nor the twisting of her arms and shoulders. Not the trembling of her legs, nor whether or not the rope was still safely secured within the grooves of her heels. Not even the choking in her throat.
There was only one thing she felt, one pain that blanketed over everything, blocking out any other possible sensation: the pain of the knot against her spine. That alone remained, almost comforting in its constant assurance that, as long as she felt that one pain, she knew she was still alive. But it was agonizing, this ache that went beyond a sharp hurt into a relentless pressure. It was excruciating. It was torturous. And it was abiding.
Perhaps it was the constant breeze blowing dry desert air and sand into her eyes and clouding her vision. Perhaps it was the constant agony and cold sapping her strength. Perhaps it was the angle of her arms, pressing her shoulder blades against her lungs and keeping her from taking a full breath—even if she could have gotten enough air past the constriction in her throat—but her mind was growing numb, too. Shadows were moving into her limited vision, shadows she should recognize, shadows with long hairy legs and clicking fangs and bloated bodies… but she couldn't muster the energy or focus to react. She could only hang there, motionless, unresponsive, while her nightmare reached its climax, while shadows shifted into shapes, while the sounds of scuttling emerged into giant spiders.
While darkness lightened into grayness.
While a flash of red light exploded the spider that was closest to her, ripping it out of her field of view.
"Nice shot!" Bull acknowledged, but he was too preoccupied to spare more than that. He doubled his speed, all but tearing his massive battleaxe from its sheath on his back, and reached Peredura before the next closest spider could strike. He swung his weapon, the blade slicing through the monster, cleaving it in two. There was a wet squelching sound, followed by two separate thuds as the dead thing hit the ground. But the gruesome death of two of their number did nothing to deter the other dozen or so spiders from attacking en masse. Still, it was a short battle, Dorian and Sera picking off the outer ring while Blackwall joined Bull in protecting Peredura.
The last spider was dead, the only movement that was left was the random leg twitching in the gentle breeze. Bull panted, shoulders heaving, his battleaxe weaving and seeking a target, but there were no more spiders to kill. Good, that meant he could move on to his next task: freeing Peredura. He turned back to the long-dead tree, to Peredura strung up awkwardly in a maze of ropes and roots. He could do it, he was sure of it; he could cut her down in a single stroke, his battleaxe cleaving through everything. He heaved once more, swinging his blade behind him, letting loose a battlecry before bringing the blade down and…
"STOP!"
It almost wasn't enough—almost. Dorian's command reached Bull's ears, and for one fraction of a moment he considered ignoring the man and freeing the Boss, but there was something in his voice, something about the tone and the forcefulness that made Bull hesitate. It was too late for the axe, however, the weapon far too heavy and with far too much momentum to simply stop. Bull hated the idea, but he knew what he had to do. He wrenched, with every ounce of muscle in his body, he wrenched his arms and pulled the battleaxe off course. The blade missed hitting any of the ropes and roots by a hair's-breadth, but it did find the ground, and rocks, chipping and dulling its keen edge as it buried itself halfway into the desert sand.
"Damn-it-Dorian-you-better-have-a-damn-good-reason!" Bull roared as he turned, his displeasure palpable, his lip curled up into a snarl while he massaged his aching shoulders. Blackwall, too, had been about to follow Bull's lead and start chopping from the other side, and he looked like he was taking longer to consider whether or not to follow Dorian's command, his sword halfway to his back in preparation for the first blow.
"I do…" Dorian panted, racing alongside Sera to reach them, hoping he wasn't too late to stop Blackwall. "It's… it's called… Jig… Jig on… Rope…"
Bull's jaw nearly dropped at those words, recognizing them from his time spent in Tevinter. He nearly snapped his own neck, looking back and forth between Peredura and Dorian, but he couldn't deny it now, seeing the ropes' locations and her awkward position. "Fuck!"
"Don' know what'cher talkin' 'bout, fancy-panties." Sera was cross, more so than usual after being awoken early only to learn that her friend was in danger, and then spending the past hour or so pounding over hard desert sand while her headache pounded in time with her mount's feet. Then finally finding Peredura, seeing her surrounded by spiders, knowing how deeply she feared them, but seeing that she wasn't moving… Sera swallowed her own fear and reached for an arrow, seeking comfort in the familiar act. "Start makin' sense, or I'll start shooting, startin' with your hairy arse…" She notched arrow to string, pivoting around to put the mage in her sights.
"My ass isn't hairy," Dorian brushed her threat aside as he absently brushed the arrow tip away from his face. "Besides, your aim is off. This is called, Jig on a Rope. It's a common form of execution back home in Tevinter."
Blackwall finally lowered his sword, carefully and slowly, but he didn't sheathe it. "And why can't we cut her down?"
"Because," Dorian craned and twisted his whole body, his eyes flying as he traced each rope running alongside and around and behind each other. "Because, every small jerk or tug will put extra pressure on the other ropes. Each rope is tied and connected to another, and another, and yet another, until they're all interconnected, pulling on each other, every slightest movement causing the tension to build and tighten. Simply put," he turned back towards the others, "One wrong slice will kill her."
"So what's the right slice?" Sera asked, still not letting go of her arrow, though now aiming towards the ground.
"That's what I'm trying to find. There's only one," he went back to his study of the ropes, "And there's a danger to even cutting that single rope. If it isn't done quickly enough, cleanly enough, if it's tugged too far before it gives…"
"I think we get the idea," Blackwall began to sheathe his sword.
"Don't put that away just yet," Dorian commanded, pointing his finger at the Warden. "I think…"
"Don't think," Bull suggested, though it wasn't out of kindness. "Either know, or don't know. We won't get a second chance at this."
Dorian swallowed, "Point taken. I believe I know which rope it is, but there are two other possibilities."
"Didn't I just say to be sure…"
"I can't be, Bull!" he snapped. "I've never done this to anyone myself, so I only know the theory behind it, not the practice. And usually the person isn't taken down until after they're dead, so cutting the right rope doesn't matter. But I can… I think I can…" he struggled to calm himself, to remain level-headed and think clearly, emotionlessly—but it was too hard with Peredura hanging there, the ropes already so tight she wasn't able to lift her head. He allowed himself the luxury of making sure she was still alive, of seeing her chest moving slightly with her strangled breath, before he forced himself to resume his study of the ropes.
"Why no' just cut the noose what's round 'er neck?" Sera re-aimed her bow.
"Because, though that might keep her neck from breaking, it would put undue stress on the other ropes and cause them to rip her arms off, or crush her ankles into a bloody pulp, or squeeze the breath from her lungs, or yank her backwards and impale her on the exposed roots, or a dozen or so other ways to die I don't want to imagine right now, and she's been up there long enough, has been weakened enough from the torture already, that whatever type of death occurred, it would happen too quickly to stop. So shut up and let me think!"
The silence was deafening, but Dorian told himself he'd feel the regret and apologize for his outburst later. His long fingers traced through the air, following the ropes at a distance, losing and finding and losing their way again and again. He tried to deny it, but his heart dropped into his shoes as he faced the truth: there was no way he could be certain which rope would free her from the labyrinth. As much as he wanted to be sure, as much as he wanted to sound like he knew what he was talking about, he simply could not give a single answer.
"Bull," he swallowed, trying to clear the tightness and dryness out of his throat, trying to sound more confident than he felt, "Bull, I imagine that blade of yours won't cut so keenly right now, would it?"
"Not after getting buried in the sand, no," he grumbled, feeling the mage was in part to blame for the dulling of his blade.
"Alright, then, it's up to you to support her. Don't move her, don't lift her or shift her around at all, but hold her still. And keep her from falling to the ground, once she's freed from the ropes. And support her neck," he added, again glancing at her and again not liking the way her head was angled.
"Got it." Bull walked around to the front of Peredura. Carefully, tenderly, as if he was cradling a human form of filigree, he put his hands on her. "Hey, there, Boss, just relax now. We've got you. Just a few more moments and it'll all be over."
"She conscious?" Blackwall asked, somewhat amazed.
"Mostly," Bull answered. "Her eyes are open, anyway. And her lips are moving, but there's no sound. I think, though, she's… yeah, she's reciting one of those Andrastian hymns." Bull leaned down and put his forehead gently against her head. "Hang in there, Boss, er, I mean, well, you know what I mean."
"Sera," Dorian called out next, "There's a rope here, just this single rope right here, that I'm pointing at. See it?"
"Yeah, so?" she groused, still not happy with him.
He wasn't about to insult her further by asking if she thought she could slice through it in a single shot, he would have to trust that she could do it. "When I tell you to, shoot it. Clean through."
She shifted around him, having to kneel on the ground to find a clear shot, but she found one where she could cut it without hitting any of the other ropes. "Right." Her bow creaked a little as she brought the arrow back and held it, ready for his signal.
"Blackwall."
"Say when and where," he hefted his sword.
"Here," Dorian pointed out another rope, one connected to the noose around her neck, all without touching it, "And whenever you're ready. We'll go off of you. Just let me get into position first."
He grunted, but his eyes remained on the rope, his hands shifting around the hilt of his sword, eager to slice it through.
Dorian had to walk around to the other side, standing dangerously close to Blackwall and where he would be swinging, and dangerously downrange of where Sera would be shooting. He might be hit with friendly fire, but it was the only way he could get his staff close enough to reach the rope he had to sever. "Right, one last thing, then we cut." He focused is willpower, casting a spell over Peredura, the one that would shield her from harm, or, well, any further harm. "Sera, pay attention to Blackwall, time your arrow to slice your rope at the precise moment his sword slices his rope."
"Yeah, figured that already."
"Just wanting to make sure. Alright, Blackwall, it's up to you. Whenever you're ready."
Blackwall nodded. "Three."
Bull shifted his feet, but otherwise didn't move, his grip on Peredura sure and steady. If this failed, he was ready to rip her from the ropes bare-handed.
"Two."
Sera felt her muscles want to tremble and shake from the effort of overdrawing her bow, but she was going to cut that rope even if her arms fell off.
"One!"
Dorian swallowed, his nerves so tense that his bowels turned to water. What if the right rope wasn't one of these three? What if the ropes weren't cut at the same time? What if…?
Then he was out of time, Blackwall's sword flashing in the dawn's light, the twang of Sera's bow filling their ears. Dorian tried not to notice the arrow as it passed through the hemp and narrowly missed the edge of his cowl, nor the breeze that fanned the back of his wrist at the passage of Blackwall's blade. His own rope had disintegrated at the precise moment the other two ropes were severed, burned to ash against the tip of his staff. Then they all held their breath as the three ropes fell away, and then another, and then more, until the labyrinth unraveled completely and dropped to the sands and piled into a snarl.
"A little help here," Bull said softly. "I've got her, but there's still the noose around her neck."
"Allow me," Dorian jumped forward, volunteering before the other two could mess things up. He knew the rope was too tight around her neck to cut through; with the course braid half-buried into her flesh, and the knot digging into her spine, there was no room to work a blade without cutting her. He brought the tip of his staff around and very carefully, very precisely, burned through the hemp one last time.
"Yup, that did it," Bull grunted, feeling her sag against him.
"Her neck!" Dorian nagged, reaching out to keep her head upright and straight. "Hold her still just a moment longer, don't let anything shift. Blackwall, get the ropes around her wrists. Sera, her ankles. Good. Now, lay her down, gently, easy, there may be bones broken already. Careful, now, that's it."
"She's still alive tho', righ'?" Sera's voice was small, all but lost within the cold high desert air.
Dorian's protection spell continued to shimmer around her body, and looking closely he could see her chest continued to move with breath. Slowly she blinked, her eyes moving around until they fell on Bull. Her lips moved, but nothing came out, no words or sounds, other than an anemic wheeze.
"I didn't quite catch that, Boss," he answered her, "But don't worry. We're here. We know what happened. We'll fix this. We will fix this, right?" he meant the last part to Dorian, and lifted his one good eye to him in emphasis.
Dorian knelt down on the sand, mindless of the grains sneaking their way into his shoes, and set a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Everything will be alright now, my dear. Just lie there and save your strength. And don't try to talk. Now, tell me, are you in any pain?"
"You just told her not to talk, then you ask a question?" Blackwall huffed.
"Oh, right, good point. How about this, Peredura: one blink for no, two for yes. Will that work for you?"
He watched as her gaze shifted towards him, the soft brown eyes almost bright red they were so bloodshot. But she blinked them, slowly and obviously, twice.
"Excellent. Now, where were we?"
"You were askin' if she hurt," Sera prompted.
Peredura blinked again, twice. Dorian caught the movement and hovered over her, like a protective spirit, shielding her eyes from the bright rays of the newly risen sun.
"Very well. Let's start at one end, and work our way up. Your ankles?"
One blink.
"Your legs?"
One blink.
"Your arms? Shoulders?"
Again, only one blink.
Dorian closed his eyes briefly, his worst fears seeming to come to light. The ropes had left deep grooves in her arms from her wrists to her elbows that should be stinging at the very least, and her shoulders looked nearly dislocated, not to mention the odd angle of one of her ankles. Though he tried desperately to deny it, he had to confirm the worst. "Your neck?"
Two blinks.
He refused to allow his emotions to show, taking up her hand and giving it a squeeze. "That's to be expected, my dear. But nothing to worry about. It'll fade in time, now that the rope's gone." He patted her hand with his other hand, cupping her fingers around his. Her flesh felt cold and lifeless, and when he moved his other hand away, her limp fingers fell away.
"Fuck," Sera muttered, "Fuck! Fucking fuck! Fucking sand! Fucking ropes! Fucking Vints! Fucking mages!"
"Blackwall…" Dorian eyed the elf meaningfully, "Could you? She doesn't need this right now."
Blackwall moved to take Sera aside, out of earshot of the others at least, but the girl waved him off. "No, it's a'right. I'm a'right. Better now. Jus' needed to get it out of my system."
There was another wheeze, a pale vision of what might have been words, coming up from Peredura's lips. Dorian turned back to her and chided, "No talking, remember? Whatever it is you think you need to tell us, don't bother with it right now. We can manage to figure it out for ourselves, I assure you. Bull," he looked up at the qunari, "This is going to take more than a healing potion to fix. We're going to need to get her back to civilization. Quickly."
"I'll carry her," he nodded, smiling fondly down at her, "It'll be just like that one time, coming back to Haven after you'd broken your leg…"
"No," Dorian was shaking his head, breaking over Bull's little reminiscence. "No, no, no. It won't work, just to carry her. We're going to have to brace her neck, keep it from moving—and anything else that might be broken—until we can reach a healer who can set things right. And I'll have to come with you, making sure she's continually protected by my spell. And there's no way I'm keeping up with you on foot."
"What do you suggest, then?" Blackwall hummed.
Dorian swallowed, knowing no one was going to like it, but also knowing it was their best option. "Back down the slope, at the campsite we passed."
"Where the mages were practicing their blood rituals?" Sera pressed.
He nodded. "There was a cage there, on wheels, abandoned because one of the wheels had been bent out of shape against the rocks. If we took the bars off, and removed two of the wheels, we could tie it up behind one of these dracolisks and use it like a cart."
"Could work," Blackwall nodded, trying not to think of the gore and mess they'd seen around that site, nor the mess that was still in the cage. "Sera and I will head there and get started. Catch up when you can."
"One more thing," Bull started, standing and facing Blackwall before he could move off. "Dorian and I will take the Boss to Val Royeaux, it's the closest city, and the Inquisition has a presence there, so it'll be safe. While we're doing that," his tone was like soft thunder, his one good eye boring into Blackwall, "I want you and Sera to hunt down the bastards who did this. Find them, track them, but do not take them down. Save them for me, Blackwall," Bull's voice dropped even deeper, becoming an almost subsonic rumble. "I'm not asking."
Blackwall straightened, refusing to back away from the force of Bull's fury, "Then I suggest you hurry back. I won't make a promise I can't keep."
Cullen felt the sweat, cold and irritating, like an insect crawling across his skin, finding that one place where he couldn't reach. He didn't flinch, didn't even twitch, almost relishing the discomfort as a sort of punishment for… what, exactly, he could not name, but knowing that Peredura had suffered, was possibly suffering still, and here he stood safe and warm in the middle of Skyhold…
"That's the last report," Leliana confirmed, dropping the parchment down with the others, almost blanketing the War Table. "Bull and Dorian passed the base camp on their way to Val Royeaux, so we would know where they were taking her. I predict it'll take them at least five days to reach the city, perhaps a day longer."
"I could make it in four."
Cullen didn't realize he had spoken out loud, not until Leliana answered him. "My thoughts exactly, Commander. I'll leave the details to you, but I would think that… twenty should be about right."
"Only twenty?" Josephine countered, "Would that be a large enough Honor Guard for someone of the Inquisitor's stature? This is Orlais, after all, and we must make an impression."
"But we already have a presence there," Leliana countered, "A whole estate, fully manned and equipped, in the very heart of the city, if I'm not mistaken. Besides, the Commander wants to travel light and quick; and a twenty-man escort will slow him down enough as it is." She turned back to Cullen, giving a nod of consent. "Go, Commander. Meet our Inquisitor in Val Royeaux, and bring her back home, safe and sound."
Suddenly Cullen realized he was being dismissed. Not only that, but he had just been given orders to go to Val Royeaux, to go to Peredura, to see for himself that she was alive and ensure she was restored to health. There was nothing else he wanted to do more, and being ordered to gave him the perfect excuse to indulge the personal and secret desire, which, of course, made him feel guilty. None of this showed, however, as he snapped off a smart salute. "We'll leave within the hour."
He turned to leave, his mind already working out what he would have to do; perhaps one hour might be cutting it a bit close. He didn't make it two steps, however, before he hit his first delay. Well, not exactly hit, as he kept himself from walking into Cassandra, but she was barring his path to the door. "Seeker?"
"Commander," she began, then stopped, then opened her mouth, then shut it.
"Yes?" he prompted, shifting his feet as if to keep walking, feeling himself in a bit of a desperate hurry, and her hesitation was aggravating.
"I won't go with you," she started at last, "I want to, but I won't invite myself along. It's not my place. But, I feel responsible, in part, for her leaving for the Hissing Wastes, after what happened in the Fade and… I just… I want her to know… Could you tell her… I don't blame her for what happened to the Divine. I was shocked when I learned the truth, yes," she squared her shoulders, forcing herself to face Cullen, to face her own guilt, "But I know she's not to blame. Could you tell her that? She needs to know that I… I still think of her… as the little sister I never had."
Cullen managed half a smile for the woman, "I'm sure she knows that already, but yes, I'll tell her."
"Thank you, Cullen."
"Now, if you don't mind…" he gestured meaningfully towards the door. She gave a small sound of surprise, as if just realizing she was still blocking his progress, and stepped aside. She didn't watch him leave, afraid she might change her mind and invite herself along after all. Instead she kept herself still, facing the reports scattered all over the War Table, until there was the heavy thud of the massive double doors closing behind him.
After Cullen was safely out of earshot, Leliana gave a heavy sigh. "I wonder some days if he's figured it out yet."
"Doubtful," Josephine hummed, tapping the tip of her quill against her cheek, "But there's hope."
"Figure what out?" Cassandra was pulled from her dark musings by the cryptic conversation. She looked from one to the other, but neither woman answered her. Solas, too, seemed unwilling to make eye contact.
"Never mind, Seeker," Varric patted her arm, just above the elbow, "I'll explain it to you, when you're a little bit older."
Solas smiled sadly at that, but continued to remain silent.
Cullen had no idea of the conversation—alright, gossip—going on behind him. He was already outside in the courtyard and planning the trip. Twenty men wasn't too large of a force, and if he picked the right ones, they should be able to move almost as fast as one man alone. "Abbets!" he shouted, entering the barracks. "Devensport!"
"Here, Ser!" Devensport jumped to attention, Abbets from the bunk across from him. Neither man showed any surprise at being called out; they had more duties than guarding the Inquisitor when she was at Skyhold. Like the other soldiers, they took their turn at watch, or patrols, or guarding supply trains. Thinking this was just another random assignment, they were completely unprepared for what came next.
"Pick men, eighteen of the best former templars we have. We're going to be riding hard for Val Royeaux, and I want to be there by the end of the week."
"Ser?" Devensport queried, but seeing the expression on the Commander's face darken, he reconsidered his reaction. "I mean, Ser! Yes, Ser! Right away, Ser!"
"Good man. Meet me by the stables when you're ready. I want to leave within the hour, if possible."
"Of course, Ser!" Devensport answered, again for them both. He didn't ask any silly questions, like why they were going to Val Royeaux, or what to expect when they got there, or why the rush. The fact that the Commander himself was going, and that he knew Devensport and Abbets were two of the Inquisitor's favorite guards, could only mean they were meeting her Worship herself.
"One more thing," Cullen had been about to turn away, but paused to ask, "Do you happen to know where Fear is, the Inquisitor's mabari?"
"I, er," Abbets answered this time, "I believe that Charger, Krem, was taking the pup hunting or something, early this morning. Probably's in the tavern with the other Chargers by now, though, this late in the day."
Cullen almost smiled. "Excellent. Thank you."
Abbets swallowed after the Commander left, feeling his knees shake while he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
"I know, right?" Devensport also swallowed. "Poor little thing must be in some sort of trouble with the Chantry again, or something. Come on, Abbets, we better round up the others and get to the stables BEFORE the Commander expects us to. Who do you think we should bring?"
Abbets didn't answer right away, his hand now shaking, as he picked up his lyrium kit and slipped it inside his pack.
Cullen marched into the tavern next, not a place he frequented, feeling the press of bodies a bit too stifling, but he ventured inside today on a mission. The hound spotted him first, giving out a happy bark of welcome, his stub of a tail practically vibrating with joy. Cullen acknowledged him, noting that he didn't have to lean over quite as far as he used to, to cratch the pup's ears, as the animal continued his rapid growth to adulthood.
"Commander, nice to see you," Krem grinned as he strode up to him, a mug in hand. "Here to collect Fear, are you?"
"That obvious?" he queried.
"Nah, it's only that you never come in here, not to socialize at any rate," Krem paused to take a swig. "And then everyone's been talking all morning, about the flock of ravens coming in with messages. Must be something big brewing, something to do with the Inquisitor undoubtedly. So of course if you're here, you'd be looking for her mabari. Am I right?"
Cullen didn't look to be impressed with his reasoning. "There's one other thing I'm here for, a favor, if I may be so bold."
"Oh?" Krem's arm stopped, his mug halfway to his lips, "What's this? The Inquisition's Commander asking a favor of the Iron Bull's lowly Chargers? Got another lost supply shipment? Or an old fort to be cleared out and scavenged?"
"I'd like to borrow your healer, Stitches, if I may."
Krem paused for half a heartbeat before answering, all joking set aside in the brunt of such a serious request, "I'll fetch him for you, myself. Excuse me, Commander, Fear."
Cullen waited until he had moved off, back to the corner where the other Chargers were gathered. Then he dropped down onto one knee, to be at a closer eye level with the hound, and began talking quietly. "Listen, Fear, I need to speak with you. This is serious, so before you give your answer, I want you to think about this very hard. I'm going to Val Royeaux to meet your partner, Peredura. It'll be a long journey, a hard journey. We'll be traveling day and night, hardly pausing to rest, much less to eat. If you come with, you won't be coddled, you won't be carried, you won't be indulged. You'll have to travel on your own four paws all the way there. You'll be cold and tired and hungry before the trip is through, but at the end of it all, will be Peredura. And she needs you right now. You can stay here," he leaned back a little, looking around the room, "Stay with Krem and the Chargers; I'll be bringing Peredura home as fast as I am able. So there's no shame if you'd rather wait here for her…"
Fear barked, sounding somewhat hurt or incredulous. Immediately he took Cullen's hand in his mouth and started to tug, gently, as if wanting to lead him towards the door. Cullen stood but didn't take a step, "Hold on, Fear, we need to wait for Stitches. She's going to need him, too, though not as much as she needs you."
Fear let go of Cullen's hand and tilted his head. He knew. He knew better than anyone—better even than his partner—what she needed. Whom she needed. So of course he was going with, no matter how hard the journey, if only to make sure that Cullen got there in one piece.
"You asked for me?" Stitches said from behind them.
"Yes, thank you, Stitches, you don't have to come, but…"
"Save your breath, Commander," he held out a hand, palm frontwards, as if to physically stop Cullen's words. "You asked for me, specifically. Only one reason why. And of course I'll come, for her. Lead the way. I'm ready," he hefted his pack over one shoulder in emphasis.
Fear barked, once, in acknowledgement, before taking Cullen by the hand and leading him towards the door. Sometimes, one just had to take matters by the hand, literally, to get things moving.
"Alright, Fear, alright, we're moving. Stop pulling so hard."