Chapter Thirty-One: Never Again

…taking careful aim at Peredura…

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Cullen didn't think. He reacted. Years of training and experience lending instinct and intuition to know what he had to do, how to do it, when to do it, all of it working seamlessly together, the muscles of his legs bunching and lunging, his arms pushing forward to add more thrust, his hips and shoulders turning in the air to make the best use of his torso and increasing his surface area.

It was odd—he had a moment to reflect—he could actually see the small bolt growing larger as it closed the distance, and he could see their trajectories merging.

Then he was landing on the pavement, hard, the air knocked out of his lungs. He gasped, his right hand clutching at his left side, and fought to clear his vision of the rain and the grayness of the evening even as he fought to catch his breath.

"Commander!" Devensport called out, but Cullen waved his free hand, letting him know he was alright. The next moment he felt it, he honestly felt it. Perhaps it was only one last drop of lyrium in his blood, a lingering remnant from his past, a small scrap of what he had once been, but it was just enough to allow him to sense the edges—just enough to know—Devensport was using his power to break the mage's connection to the Fade and banish the spell that had trapped Peredura and Abbets. It rolled out from behind him, a force of light and hope that dispelled the darkness, that shoved through the alley without mass while leaving mayhem in its wake—mayhem for the mage, that is. The man cried out, feeling his powers leave him, and Cullen managed to focus his eyes and reach his knees in time to see the Venatori turn tail to run.

"Ser," Devensport raced up to him, grabbing his arm to yank him to his feet, however unsteady his stance.

Cullen could barely keep his balance. "I'm alright," he again tried to wave Devensport off, but his head was starting to feel light. He doubled over a moment, yanking in a few lungfuls of air, one hand continuing to clutch at his ribs while his other hand pointed to the side. "Check on the Inquisitor."

"I'm… I'm alright, too," Pere called out. She was shaking her head, looking at her hands, blinking her eyes, cupping her ears, feeling her arms, basically checking to see that all her senses were back. "Abbets?"

"No time for that," he answered her, barely pushing himself to his feet before he started running, running right past Devensport and Cullen, down the alley and after the mage. His sword was in his hand, his shield discarded, and a look of towering ire stained his otherwise stoic features.

Devensport thought about chuckling, thinking of how that mage was in for a load of hurt once Abbets caught up with him, but now was not the time. He hefted his own sword and turned the way the other two had gone. "Should I…?"

"The Inquisitor is your priority," Cullen commanded, wincing while he tried to straighten up and shove the man towards her. "I cannot protect her, not from magic, only you can do that. Let Abbets handle the chase this time."

"What about you?" Peredura argued, having only just reached her feet herself. She started for him as he started for her, ignoring Devensport's offering of support as she limped, her only thought to reach Cullen's side, to curl up next to his warmth, to find shelter in his embrace. But then she noticed how he had one arm wrapped around himself, his expression broken and telegraphing his pain, and the force of his expression was so out of character she immediately switched roles. "Cullen? Are you… are you hurt?"

He gasped, stumbled a step, and tried to stand at attention, but the damn stitch in his side would not allow it. "I… I can't seem to catch my breath."

Now why had he said that, he wondered to himself. He shouldn't have, judging by the look on her face, the worry and concern and care making creases, and her lower lip sliding in between her rows of teeth. He should reach out and pull the lip free, but he couldn't find the strength to raise his arm.

"Cullen?" she was at his side now, her hand on his free arm, her expression trying to stay calm though her doe-like eyes were widening. "You're bleeding."

"Am I?" he looked down and to his left, to the base of his ribs, to where his hand would not unclench from his uniform, to where the red liquid was seeping out between his fingers and mixing with the rain to drop in watered-down swirls to the cobblestones. "I am. That explains the pain."

"Cullen," she repeated, but she didn't know what else to say, what else to do. "Cullen, we… we should… we need to get you back to the estate."

Almost immediately he began to stumble forward, his body moving of its own will, in the direction of the mansion.

"No, wait," she bit her lip again, and his steps stuttered to a halt. "Devensport, go after Abbets. Help him with the mage."

"Noooooo," Cullen countered with a moan, damn but it was getting harder and harder to speak, to think, to command, to breathe, to move… "The Inquisitor… Pere… she's your priority… she's… her safety… ah…"

Abbets appeared out of the rain, startling them all—all except Cullen. "Lost him in the rain," he huffed and wheezed, obviously upset with himself.

"Don't worry about the mage now," Peredura shook her head, sending water flying from the long strands, but the drops were lost within the rain. "The Commander is hurt. We need to get him back to the mansion…"

"Take her…" Cullen panted, jerking a breath into his lungs, feeling as if he was drowning on air. "Pere… only Pere matters…"

"Cullen!"

He heard her scream as he dropped to his knees. The lightheadedness was too strong to continue to ignore, the lack of oxygen making matters worse, and the pain in his side seeming to grow now that she had pointed it out to him. He could see the world tilting, moving around him, spinning the ground to come up at his side. Then it was his turn to be swallowed by the black, only it wasn't the black of a spell, but the black of… nothing.

"Cullen!" she called again, dropping to his side, but he didn't answer her. The rain was pelting down on them, battering the side of his face, but he only stared unblinkingly at the wall of the building next to them. Her hand shook as she reached out to turn him towards her, to see if he was still breathing or… Oh, Maker, please, she prayed, no, not dead, not Cullen, not so quickly, not like this, not by a mage's hand in some back alley, not right after they had finally been together…

"He's breathing," Abbets assuaged her fears, at least for the time being. He was kneeling on Cullen's other side, one hand on the chest that continued to rise and fall with each breath, the other hand on the pulse at his throat.

"We should, erm, I think…" Devensport hummed, but he couldn't make a decision as to what to do.

Neither could Peredura, wanting only to sit there and cup Cullen's face and will him to answer her. Tears were flowing freely from her eyes, lost in the rain, but the blotchy redness of her skin and the trembling of her lips betrayed her.

Abbets looked up, took one glance at her face and another at Devensport's before making up his mind. "Get her to the mansion!" he ordered.

"We can't just… leave him," Devensport argued.

"The Inquisitor is our main priority." He stood up and shook Devensport out of his shock, snapping him to attention. "The Commander said so, but you should know that without having to be told! There's a Venatori on the loose, the very one who's been after her, so get her to safety! Now!"

All the hesitation and resistance went out of Devensport. He reached down and took hold of Peredura's shoulders, yanking her upwards and away form Cullen.

"Nooooo!" she half-moaned, half-screamed, when he lifted her to her feet. "Cullen! We can't leave him. I won't leave him here to die alone."

"You will leave," Abbets countered before turning back to the other former templar. "Get her to the mansion. Send word to the Orlesians, to whatever they have here that passes for a city guard, and tell them there's a Venatori at large. Have them seal the city. Then take patrols out to the countryside and search for the mage; you never know, there might be that one guard who'll take a bribe to look the other way, even for an enemy. So keep searching until you find him. Your Worship," he gripped Peredura's arm, dragging her attention away from Cullen for a moment, "Don't worry about the Commander. I've seen him take far worse hits than this and shake it off. He'll be alright. I'll stay here with him until a stretcher can be sent to collect him. Do not worry. Now, go!"

"Ser!" Devensport reclaimed his grip on her shoulders and spun her away.

"No!" she screamed, kicking her legs, swinging her hips, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. She couldn't leave Cullen… she wouldn't… not while he looked so… dead…

Devensport grunted, stifling an oomf when she accidentally elbowed him in the groin. Seeing no other option available to him, other than cold-cocking her, he wrapped her up in his cloak, muffling her struggles. Then, knowing her pride would be bruised but that it would heal so long as she was alive for it to do so, he hefted her over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Sorry about this, Ser," he mumbled, ignoring her half-bitten curses at him and his parents, and started off at a run through the alley.

It hurt. Not the hardness of the spaulders in her gut. Not the overly-tight gauntlet clutched around her thigh. It hurt to leave him, to leave Cullen to lie there in an alley, to see his life's blood leaking out of him only to be washed away by the rain. She cried, unable to break free, unable to do anything but hang there over Devensport shoulder, bouncing up and down as he ran.

Her last vision of Cullen was heartbreaking, his body lying so still and sprawled across the cobblestones, a lone templar kneeling in vigilance and raising his shield to shelter his Commander's face from the rain.

Then they were swallowed by the gray and lost to her sight.

Peredura wanted to pace.

She also wanted to scream, to hit, to throw something breakable, to rail at the weather and mages and the world and life and even the Maker!

But all she could do was sit, sit with her ankle propped up on a stool. Sit and slouch and brood at the fire roasting the hearth. Sit and chew her lip until it bled.

She was back at the mansion, dried off and changed into fresh clothing, made to feel as warm and safe and comfortable as possible. She was also in Cullen's chambers. That had been quite the argument with Delonce and Fergus, the two members of her personal guard who had been tasked with her safety. They wanted her secured in her own chambers where they could better protect her, and not in Cullen's chambers were there was the balcony and the other doorway to his office which lead to another hallway—too many points of entry for just the two of them to manage. But she was going to win at least one argument that day! She managed to do so by simply having stopped arguing and hobbled across the hall, her Mabari lending support and growling at her honor guard when they tried to stand in her way.

She had allowed them to remain in the chambers with her, and agreed to sit in one place and stay off her swollen ankle. Which was where she was now, brooding and worrying her lip, watching with envious eyes as Fear paced for her.

Devensport had managed to get over his indecision once they reached the mansion. He passed her, still wrapped up in his cloak, to Fergus and Delonce and ordered them not to let her from their sight. Next he'd taken every other last templar and most of the scouts, split them up into teams, and headed off to search. Finally, almost as an afterthought—or so she felt—he sent Stitches and a couple of servants with a stretcher to fetch Cullen.

Which was why she was waiting in Cullen's chambers, waiting for Stitches to bring him back to her, to heal him, to make this nightmarish day end!

There was a commotion in the hall, scuffling footfalls and harsh voices, barely heard through the portal, and Peredura's heart jumped up into her throat. "Cullen…?"

"Stay there, your Worship," Fergus answered, his hand outstretched as if he would hold her in place himself. Next he headed to the door and opened it, sticking his head into the hallway to see what was going on.

"And I said, 'unhand me!'" a rather indignant voice was ringing through the corridor.

"I will not," some nameless, second voice responded. "You're a mage, and her Worship was just attacked by a mage, and…"

"And obviously that makes all mages guilty, am I right?" the first voice sounded again, and Peredura recognized Dorian, his droll tones a comfort to her bruised and battered emotions. "Honestly, woman, do you think I would risk my neck in the Hissing Wastes, racing at speeds only a Qunari can match to bring her here, exhausting myself of every last drop of willpower keeping her alive, only to kill her now when I'm surrounded by Inquisition forces? Seriously!"

"Dorian!" she cried, wanting to stand but Delonce's hand on her shoulder kept her firmly in her chair. She did twist around, however, to peek around the back of the chair and towards the door. "You all know he's one of my most trusted friends. Let him in."

"Ha! Are you satisfied? She wants to see me. Now, out of the way; there's a good fellow," the Altus sniffed and must have managed to finally get past whoever else was in the hallway, though he did have to pause a moment for Fergus to reluctantly step aside. "Not you, too. What is it with these templars…"

"Come in, Dorian," Peredura firmly invited him inside, removing any possible objections Fergus or anyone else might raise. "Everyone's a little bit edgy, that's all. I'm sure no one suspects you of being the one who attacked us."

"Yes, well," he at last managed to slip inside the room, thumbing over his shoulder as he did so, "Tell that to tall, dark, and chary over there."

"You can leave us," she informed the two guards, and for the first time in months she was not instantly obeyed. Feeling a bit irritated now on top of everything else, she might a been a little bit snippy as she continued, "Delonce, Fergus, I would like to speak with Dorian in private. You can just as easily, if not more so, guard this room from the hallways."

"If you don't mind, your Worship, we'll remain." Delonce sounded as if she had decided to put down roots, tree roots, thick and deep and lasting.

"I do mind," she answered, speaking slowly as if she was talking to a small child who didn't quite understand. "There are two of you, two doors to this room, one door each…"

"There's the balcony to consider, Ser," Delonce again argued.

Peredura was beginning to get a headache. "Which opens onto a small, inner courtyard, surrounded by the rest of the mansion…"

"And the roofs, too, which someone could climb down from and…"

"And I'll be right here," Dorian interjected, sensing the mood in the place, "To protect her. Honest." When the two templars merely stood there and looked at each other, Dorian affected a rather dramatic sigh, "Oh, don't tell me, you two, too? Suspect me? Simply because I'm a mage?"

"You're Tevene," Fergus added as if that made all the difference.

Peredura finally managed to shove off Delonce's hand and, wincing only a bit, she made it to her feet. She faced Fergus squarely, and when she spoke her voice was as deep and threatening as the thunder continuing to roll outdoors. "How dare you. You know—all of you in my personal guard—you all know how many times Dorian has saved my life, all the adventures we've been through, how close and trusted of a friend he is to me. I will not tolerate any prejudice against him just because of where he's from. In fact…"

"In fact, I do have an alibi," again Dorian interjected, fearing that Peredura might say a bit too much and reveal herself to be Tevene as well. She was looking a bit worse for wear, and worried, and battered, and it would be far too easy for her to let something slip simply because she was mad and emotional. "I've been with Kester, the chef, down in the kitchens. I found his creme brie from last night's supper to be exquisite, and I'm afraid I've been badgering him all afternoon, trying to convince him to come back with us to Skyhold to become the Inquisitor's personal chef. I think I've almost convinced him," he added in an aside to Peredura, winking as he did so. "Just think of it, my dear, the level of civilization he could bring to that mountainous fortress. Ah! What delights he could prepare for us!"

"That was very thoughtful of you, Dorian," she nodded. "Satisfied, Fergus? Now, you can leave us and…"

"Fergus," it seemed it was Delonce's turn to interject, "Fergus, you take the hallway outside the Commander's office. I'll take this hallway. And Ser Dorian can handle the balcony. Very good, your Worship. Excuse us." She saluted, slamming her fist against her chest, and waited for Peredura to nod. Which she did, reluctantly, and possibly a little bitterly what with everyone keeping talking over her and interrupting and making her decisions for her and…

"I'll check on that alibi." Fergus had stepped up until he was nose-to-nose with Dorian, nostrils flaring, daring the mage to blink. Which he did not. Leaving unsatisfied, Fergus bumped the other man's shoulder as he moved off, making Dorian spin a quarter turn. Before Peredura could open her mouth to reprimand Fergus—again—Dorian held up a hand to wave her off.

"Wouldn't have given it, otherwise," Dorian shot back just as Fergus reached the door to the office. The templar turned back looking like he would say something more, looking like he was not going to let the mage get the last word, but one look at Peredura's face shifting in between them was enough to deter him. His nostrils flared again and when he closed the door behind his retreating form it might have been a bit too forcefully.

Peredura had watched him leave, fearful of continued hostilities, and when the door finally closed she felt like deflating. Delonce had left as well, much more quietly, and she and Dorian were at last alone. "Kaffas, what an asshole," she reached out to hug him. "I'm sorry you have to put up with that. Actually, no," she leaned back and looked up at him, "You shouldn't have to put up with that. No one should! I know my personal guards have to be templars, but just because they were doesn't mean they have to hate mages. Or Tevenes…"

"It's alright, Peredura," he patted her back, encouraging her to rest her head against his chest, "I'm quite used to being 'The Pariah' wherever I go—I get to be the center of attention." He felt her shaking, and knew it wasn't from laughter. "Oh, come now, that was supposed to be worth a giggle at the very least."

"Dorian, please," she sniffed, "Don't make light of it. Don't let them off the hook. Fergus' attitude, and anyone else who feels as he does, needs to be addressed. It's not right, hating someone just because of where they were born, or for a particular skill, or…"

"Alright, alright," he patted her back again, rocking her gently, trying to calm her down, "You may present them with your little tirade on my behalf, I won't hold you back. In fact, I'll cheer you on. But later. Right now, you have more pressing matters that need your attention than one small-minded arse."

She sniffed again, "Speaking of assholes…" She leaned back and punched him in the arm, a bit playfully and a bit not playfully.

"Ouch! What did I do now?" he rubbed the spot, even as he assisted her back to her chair.

"You knew!" she accused, limping, trying not to put any weight on her ankle, but it was difficult. "You knew this whole time. For ages. And you never once told me!"

"Let me check your ankle," he ignored her huffing and ranting and focused on her slight injury, carefully unwrapping the linen to examine the bruising and swelling beneath. "Is it broken? No? Are you sure? Have you taken anything for it? You really should, you know, it might help. And there's no reason for you to suffer in pain, hobbling around."

"I did take something for it," she gestured to the empty healing potion on the table, "Not too long before you came in. And don't change the subject. I'm furious with you!"

"About what?" he blinked at her. "I've no idea what this tidbit of information could be that I was supposed to have relayed to you." He swallowed a little nervously, thinking of Bull, wondering if she might have heard a rumor or something that made her think there was more between them then… well… nothing much yet… other than that kiss… but no one could have told her about that… but being such a romantic herself, of course she would want to know about him and…

"Cullen," she pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Dorian stared at her for half a heartbeat, then a full heartbeat, then longer still. "C-c-cu-cull-Cullen?!"

"Oh, even now, how can you? How could you?! You know how I feel about him; you've known almost longer than I have."

"Um, yes," he felt his way forward through the conversation very carefully. Surely she wasn't suggesting that he had any feelings towards Cullen. Thinking—and praying—that he was mistaken, he confirmed, "You've had a crush on him since before Haven fell, probably around the time we got back from that alternate future and you had that glimpse that it might be possible…"

"And you've known how Cullen feels about me." She narrowed her eyes at him now, feeling a little bit of satisfaction over how he was squirming, kneeling at her side. "Ever since you taught him the waltz so he could dance with me at Halamshiral and not make a fool of himself."

"I… oh… well, yes… I did suspect then…"

"And you never once told me!" Oh, but she wanted to punch him again, harder, and someplace serious like in the jaw. "For months you've left me floundering, suffering, in limbo, not knowing if we would ever take that next step and be together, when all the while you knew! You knew we liked it each other, that it was more than just liking each other, and not once did you even give me a hint…"

"You have to admit," Dorian's shoulders sagged a little with relief, and his lips curved beneath his precisely groomed mustache. Apparently, Cullen had finally managed to find the time to tell her of his love, "It was much better, wasn't it, finding out for yourself? And I assume the two of you did finally, erm, compare notes?" His eyes flashed over his cunning choice of words.

Peredura laughed, a little, still mad but the rage diminishing quickly down to irritation. "Yes, last night. We, 'erm, compared notes.' How do you think we figured it out, that you knew what we knew."

"Then I see no reason for you to be mad at me any longer. So!" he carefully replaced her foot on the cushion, having rewrapped her ankle, until it finished healing, "Now that all the 'assholes' have been dealt with," he looked up to her, his eyes dark and veiled and barely hiding his own deep grief as he probed, "Tell me: what happened this afternoon."

She had been doing it. She had been focusing on other issues, distracting herself with minor irritants, all in an effort to avoid the one BIG matter. But with Dorian before her, her confidant and quite possibly her closest friend, there was no more avoiding it. "Oh, Dorian…"

"Oh, my dear girl," he sighed, holding her as she cried, cried and blubbered and sputtered her words all over the place. He couldn't make out all of the words, but he did make out the more important ones. Alley. Mage. Cullen. Bleeding. Whatever had happened, it sounded truly horrendous. And right after the two of them had finally gotten together. It simply wasn't fair. "You poor child."

She sniffed, and he gallantly handed her a handkerchief. For a moment she resented the gesture, wanting instead to rummage through Cullen's things for one of his lilac-scented ones, but there was no reason to do so, other than it would remind her of him and she so needed the comfort just then and…

There was a knock on the door, and Delonce opened it just far enough to allow her voice to enter, "Excuse me, your Worship, but I think they're here."

"Come," she commanded, her voice clear despite her eyes being red and watery and her nose flowing freely and her skin all blotchy and puffy. Dorian had stood first, and she hid behind him to finish doing what she could to make herself presentable while they waited and listened to whoever was coming down the hall. Fear even had stopped his pacing to listen and watch, folded ears perked and nose twitching while sensing the air.

"Mind the corner. Good lad. See that soldier there? We'll go right inside, straight to the bed. Easy now, no need to rush."

There's every need to rush, she rebelliously thought to herself, but didn't give the argument voice. That was Stitches in the hallway, no doubt bringing Cullen with him, and she needed to smarten herself up a bit before Cullen saw her with weak and watery eyes. So instead she gave her nose one last wipe and tucked the handkerchief away, thinking to wash it before returning it to Dorian.

Then all thoughts of handkerchiefs and washing, and even Dorian beside her, was shoved from her mind when they brought Cullen into the room. He was lying on a stretcher carried by two servants, his form from his head to his groin covered by a templar's cloak. She gasped and shoved her fist into her mouth—this called for more than her lower lip—seeing how still he was, remembering Stitches' words that there was no need to rush, and if his face was covered by a cloak…

"Kaffas… no…" Her voice was so small, so timid, so lost and frightened, muffled by her hand, it immediately alarmed Dorian and he quickly snaked out his arms to catch her lest she do something silly like fainting or making a dash for the bed.

Fear had no such restraint. He barked and made a mad dash, almost running into the legs of the servants as they carried their precious burden, his stub of a tale quivering and vibrating with his emotions.

"What?" Stitches might have heard her, or noticed Fear; he noticed something at least, and perhaps only just then realized how things might look. "Oh, that. Easy lads, ignore the hound, he won't interfere. Set the stretcher on the bed first, then we'll shift him off of it. Here, let me take that cloak out of the way. It was only there to keep the rain off of him," he finished, the last bit meant for Peredura, a somewhat mild explanation for what would usually have meant something so much different.

"Then… Cullen is still alive?" she dared to hope.

"Of course he is," Stitches reassured her, pausing long enough to help lift Cullen off the stretcher and onto the bed. "Thank you, we appreciate your help."

"Yes, thank you," Peredura repeated to the servants automatically, "And thank the Maker."

Dorian gave her shoulders a squeeze and then let her go. She didn't need any more encouragement, practically flying to the bed, completely ignoring her ankle, completely ignoring everyone and everything in the room, to reach Cullen's side and see for herself. Yes, he was alive, his chest rising and falling with breath, his eyelids fluttering now and then, even his flesh, when she took his hand, was still warm with life.

"Excuse me, your Worship," Stitches sounded in her ear, "But I need to get at that side."

"What?" she blinked, giving her head a little shake, before she could remember and see that she and Cullen were not alone. And that she was leaning over Cullen and right over the wound in his side. "Oh, right, erm, I'll just… step over to the other side while you… um, you know…" She cleared her throat and hobbled back a few paces, turning around to see everyone else staring at her. "Um," she fished about for something to say and get their minds off of her awkward reaction. "Where's Abbets? We left him with the Commander. Don't tell me he deserted his post…"

"Oh, well, your Worship," one the servants began, giving a short and stiff bow, a little unsure how to speak to her. When she smiled a little and nodded in return, he grew bolder and continued, "There was a templar in the alley. He helped us carry the Commander here. Even offered his cloak to keep the rain off of him. But soon as we reached the estate, well, he just up and left us. Said to… erm, that is… he asked us to tell your Worship… ah, what was that word?"

She tried not to get frustrated over the servant's poor memory, or lack of education, or nervousness, or whatever was holding him up, but after the past few hours her patience had all but evaporated!

"Abbets put himself under house arrest," Stitches finished for them. "Said you and the Commander would understand why."

"I…" she started to say she most certainly did not understand, but that was only because she really hadn't given it much thought. But then Fear was there, pressing his head beneath her dangling hand, grounding her and giving her a moment to think. Truthfully, standing there, fingers scratching behind one of Fear's ears. she supposed on some level she did know the reasons for it, but at that moment it was not as important to her as Cullen. "Yes," she breathed, letting the matter go for now, "Yes, thank you. We'll deal with him later. Why don't you two, ah, head down to the kitchens, get yourselves something hot to eat; you look soaked through. Wouldn't want to catch cold, would you?"

"Oh, no, your Worship, I mean…"

"Thank you, your Worship," the other servant bowed, covering his fellow's flustered stuttering, and pushing and shoving the other until they had left the room. At least that servant had a few social graces.

"Now," she turned back to the bed to see Stitches had not been idle. "How is he?"

"Strange," the Chargers' healer admitted. He had just finished cutting open Cullen's jacket and was about to start on the tunic, spreading the fabric apart so he could get a clear look at the wound.

"Strange? How so?" she pressed, crawling onto the bed and coming up on Cullen's other side to help. She lifted the tunic so Stitches' knife could rip it without coming close to the flesh beneath.

"He's, well, acting strange, or rather," Stitches finished with the tunic and bent his neck to examine the wound. "He's not acting. Anything. At all. No response to stimuli. No sign that he's in pain. I know he must be bleeding into his lungs, but he isn't struggling to breathe, merely taking shallower breaths."

"He's… bleeding into his lungs?!" Peredura repeated, far more alarmed and concerned that Stitches. She grasped and clutched and shoved at his arm, desperate to make him move, "Do something. Give him a potion already. Don't just sit there and let him die…"

Fear echoed her concern with a sharp bark.

"He's not dying," Stitches responded calmly, taking her hands and keeping them from causing any inadvertent mischief, and hopefully calming the hound by calming his partner, "Not yet, anyway. There's plenty of time. And I do have to get this bolt out of his chest first, or he'll continue to bleed internally. But there is something strange about this bolt, too. It wasn't fired from a crossbow; the shape's all wrong for that. You see? It's, well, too thick."

"Too thick," Peredura repeated, again. She needed to stop saying what had just been said, she needed to kick her mind into a gallop and start thinking, but she was so exhausted and worried and a bit 'too thick' herself. Blinking, she managed to focus her eyes on the bolt. "It does look too short for a normal crossbow bolt. And yes, it is rather thick."

"Looks more like a vial than a bolt," Dorian opined. He was standing at the foot of the bed, out of the way but still close enough to see what was going on, or to be useful should the need arise.

"A vial, interesting," Stitches hummed. "Yes, I can see where you would get that idea, but…" his fingers touched the bolt, "But it is made out of metal…"

His words stopped when the bolt moved, freely, easily, no longer restrained by the fabric of clothing, and all but fell out of Cullen's chest.

"What the…"

Peredura never finished her words, staring as Stitches finished pulling the bolt free. Immediately blood began seeping from the wound, heavy with each and every heartbeat. Almost absently he put a pad of linen over it to staunch the flow, but everyone was staring at the bolt.

"Is it…" Dorian wondered, craning his neck, trying to get the right angle to see, "It is… isn't it!"

"Hollow, like a vial," Stitches' confirmed Dorian's question. He set the strange bolt down on the bed and returned his attention to his patient. "A metal vial with a tip that broke off inside the wound, if I'm not mistaken. I'll have to cut it out, if I can, but it looks like it went pretty deep. Might be easier to get at if I go in from his side. Help me roll him towards you," he said to Peredura, "And lift this side up. I'll need to see just how… deep… the wound… goes…"

His words trailed away into the night, swallowed by the crackling fire in the hearth and the pounding rain against the balcony doors. Cullen had, without assistance, without a word, without even opening his eyes, rolled himself onto his uninjured side, lifting the wound just as Stitches had wanted.

"How…?"

Peredura swallowed, finally thinking, finally figuring things out. "Hand me the bolt," she commanded, hand outstretched, all the while staring at the man she loved. She never took her eyes off of him, not when Fear whimpered in confusion, not when the odd bolt was dropped in her hand, not when she lifted the open end up to her nose and sniffed, not even when she confirmed what had been inside… what had been delivered into his body… what had undoubtedly been meant for her. Then and only then did she give one slow blink. "Opeigh."

"Vishante kaffas!"

"My thoughts exactly, Dorian." She was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. Shock, probably. Or self-preservation. She certainly should be running and screaming with fear, thinking again of that one mage, his pockmarked cheeks, his ice blue eyes… Her Fear, her Mabari, had finally had enough and stood on his hind legs to place his forepaws on the bed next to her leg, making sure she could no longer ignore him or brush him aside with some half-hearted gesture. Looking down at her hound, her partner, she smiled and nodded, thankful for Fear's interruption. Nope, right then she definitely did not need to think of what might have happened, or what had been intended to happen. Instead, she needed to keep her wits about her and not dwell on the near miss. "Do what you must, Stitches, to get the head of the bolt out. He won't know."

"Peredura? What do you mean?" Stitches was shocked enough to use her first name, not a title.

"He was drugged with opeigh. No doubt that bolt was meant for me, to drug me so the mage could carry me off and hand me over to Corypheus. This much opeigh," she looked into the hollow darkness inside the bolt, still amazed her hands were shaking, "Would probably have kept me out of it for a good three days. No idea how long it'll effect Cullen. He is twice my size, so half the time, but he's never experienced the effects before, so it won't be as bad for him as it would have for me. But then again, that means it might last longer, I just… I…"

"No more than two days," Dorian answered. "That would be the standard time for a dose that large."

"How do you…" Stitches started to ask, but the dark look on Peredura's face made him stop.

"I was an Altus," he explained, "The son of a very prominent family. I myself never," he turned to Peredura, "NEVER used opeigh on anyone, slave or no. I promise you that! But I was instructed on the proper dosage. This amount, for a man of Cullen's size and metabolism, for his first exposure," he paused to nod, "It will be two days, perhaps less, before he starts coming around. And then, well…"

"We'll deal with that later," Peredura cleared her throat, refusing to look up at Dorian. She tossed the bolt aside, "But for now, he won't be feeling anything. You can cut him, dig out the head, whatever you have to do, and he won't feel. He won't know. He won't even remember this."

Stitches nodded and started rummaging through his pack. Bringing out a small and wicked looking blade, Dorian swallowed, "Peredura, if you'd rather…"

"I'm staying," she confirmed, continuing to look anywhere else but at the mage. "I'm not leaving Cullen. Go ahead, Stitches. I'll hold him steady, but he won't move, not of his own will at any rate."

The healer bent over his patient and planned where the first incision would be. "Will there, um, I mean, what about after? When he starts to come out of it? Will he have withdrawals as serious as yours were?"

She swallowed, not wanting to think about that yet, "No, I doubt it. This would be his first exposure to opeigh, so his body won't have built up any cravings for it yet. But he will feel something, like having a hangover, I'm sure. It was a good sized dose." She watched as the blade sliced through skin and flesh and, true to her prediction, Cullen didn't even flinch. "We'll deal with that when it comes. However bad it comes."

"At least you'll be here to help him through it."

He might have meant his words as a comfort, but to Peredura there would be no comfort. She had a bit more experience with the drug than Stitches and knew how aggressively addictive it was, how devastating the withdrawals. Even now, she almost could find herself wishing she had been shot with the bolt instead of Cullen, and not only because of her love for him, or her desire to keep him from harm, but from the siren-call allure of addiction…

Heat flushed her cheeks as she felt embarrassed and ashamed after that thought. She dropped her gaze from everyone lest they somehow read her mind and think less of her, and kept her gaze on Cullen's face. Despite what had to be extremely painful, though Stitches was working quickly, Cullen's expression never changed. Yet his features weren't peaceful so much as blank, without thought or will, without anything really, and she found herself wondering if she had been similarly blank all those years she had been under opeigh's power. Similarly blank to the cutting of a knife. Similarly blank to the danger and nearness of death. Similarly blank to anyone around her—wanting and desiring and seeking and needing only that blankness. Suddenly, she felt disgusted. At Vicici. At opeigh. At herself.

Her heart breaking, she vowed to herself, never. Never again. Seeing Cullen suffering through it, or not suffering, destroyed any craving for it. Ever. She would never again allow that blankness, that lack of anything, that nothingness stain her features, stain her heart and mind and soul. Whatever the cost, whatever the allure, she would always remember Cullen at this moment and no longer feel the craving for opeigh.

Never again.

"Report."

The command was short, abrupt, and delivered so much like Cullen would have delivered it that the soldiers present snapped to attention. But, upon seeing it was the Inquisitor who came through the bedchamber door and not the Commander, they felt a bit cheated and tricked.

"Ah, Ser, your Worship, shouldn't we wait for…"

Gingerly she stepped up to the desk, but she needn't have bothered; her ankle was fully healed. "The Commander is unable to attend," she answered, keeping her voice strong and her chin up. She walked around to his chair and, though she didn't take the seat, she did stand beside it, her message clear that she would be standing in his stead. "At least, he isn't able to attend at this moment. Even Commander Cullen is allowed to take a sick day now and then."

She meant it to be humorous, just a bit, and even tried turning a corner of her mouth upwards a little, trying to alleviate their uneasiness. Yet the soldiers shifted restlessly from foot to foot, unit another one of them spoke up, "But he… he will recover, though… won't he, your Worship?"

Seeing their faces she realized that no, she had yet to ease their fears—perhaps because she had yet to ease her own. But that was a price of leadership: self-sacrifice, setting an example, keeping a cool head when all around you reigned chaos. And she realized she could either continue to imitate Cullen, to give them something familiar, to keep them waiting and watching and holding out for him… or she could act as herself and move them forward.

She took a heavy breath, thinking it a daunting task that had been set before her. Most of her life she'd spent in a stupor, in darkness and solitude. She had never had to deal with people, and part of her might have missed that right about now. Even after she found herself the Herald of Andraste, she had been able to press back to the edge of the group, blend into the wall paneling, watch others discuss matters and make decision and simply go along with whatever they said. It had been so much easier back in Haven.

But no longer. Now she was the Inquisitor. Now she was their leader—she commanded their Commander, for Andraste's sake! Now the decisions were hers to make, the orders hers to give, and the spotlight hers alone to endure. She relaxed her posture, allowing her hair to fall forwards and curtain the sides of her face. "Alright, yes, Commander Cullen was shot in the chest with a bolt and was bleeding into his lungs," she allowed, though she for some reason decided not to tell them about the opeigh. "But the bolt has been removed, and the excess blood is draining. He will recover, though it may take a bit longer than expected. And that is all I will say on the matter. You know the Commander—he is first…" she paused, looking a few of them in the eye, "And foremost…" her eyes moved on to the next group, still unflinching, "And forever…" she finished the room, her gaze holding steady all the while, "A Templar."

And that was all she had to say. Because no one speaks of the suffering of templars, even amongst themselves. Nearly every last man and woman there understood that, those who had been templars themselves; if they wondered at how she, an outsider, could understand it, they didn't voice their concerns. They accepted her answer and, reassured, were ready to move on to other matters. And the few scouts in the room, who may not have completely understood, were nonetheless willing to fall into step.

"He is undoubtedly expecting us to keep doing our jobs, whether or not he's here to manage us," she straightened back up, confident she had successfully started them forward, "And we should probably have some sort of progress to report for when he does return, don't you think? So: Report."

She hadn't shouted, she hadn't barked as he would have, she hadn't needed to, but her voice carried nonetheless. It carried weight and responsibility and authority. She wanted to swallow nervously but could not afford it, as all eyes focused on her while each of them gave her their reports. She listened and weighed and judged and handed out commands with as much ease and calm certainty as she could manage, but she was very thankful when it was finally over.

"Very good," she acknowledged when the last soldier had delivered his report. "If there is nothing else I need to be made aware of…? No? Then you have your orders. Dismissed."

She watched them file out and managed to wait until the door closed before she gave in to her weak knees. Thankfully there was Cullen's chair handy and she slumped into it, elbows on his desk, her face buried into her hands.

"That was magnificently managed, my dear."

She took a deep breath, but didn't bother lifting her face up, "Thanks."

"No, I mean it," Dorian affirmed after hearing the defeat and self-doubt in her voice. He had been standing behind the door, cracked far enough for him to eavesdrop, just in case he needed to intervene and lend her his support—which amazingly he hadn't needed to. "You were strong. You calmed their fears. You affirmed the Commander's position, and that he will return. Then you took charge for the interim. Very professional."

"I suppose," she dropped one hand to the desk to fiddle with the corner of a clipboard while the other continued to support her head, the heel of her hand braced against her temple. "How's Cullen?"

"Unchanged," he answered. "Peredura… I, um, was hoping we could talk…"

Wearily she lifted saddened, deep brown eyes up to Dorian. "Honestly, if it isn't a life or death situation, I'd rather not right now…"

"I… well, I need to know something."

She was tired. She was worried. She was scared. She was confused. She was overwhelmed…

She wanted to hide, somewhere quiet, private, cool, secluded, empty, with no more people she had to talk with and no more reports she could barely read and no more decisions she had to make with little to no information…

She wanted to cry!

But apparently Dorian would not wait. "Do you… hate me?"

She blinked, her angst momentarily forgotten in light of his devastating question. "No."

"Are you sure?" he pressed, coming around the side of the desk so she didn't have to strain her neck to look at him. "It's only that… well… back in his chambers," Dorian's fingers flickered to the partially opened door, "When I shared what I knew about opeigh, you seemed… you seemed to pull away from me, to grow distant. Are you… mad or upset or…"

"No, Dorian, no," she reached out to him, gripping his wrist, trying to reassure him. "I'm not mad, well, not at you. It's just, ah…" she breathed a heavy sigh, the exhale strong enough to reach out and fan both their hands. He stood beside her, captured by her gentle touch and timid voice. "Sometimes," she whispered, giving her lip a brief nip before she started again, "Sometimes, it's too easy for me to forget. I mean, my life here—both our lives, really—are so much different than back home."

"Tell me about it," he moaned theatrically. "In Tevinter, I'm known as The Pariah. Here? I'm actually accepted. Welcomed. Even needed on occasion. Quite a different type of treatment than I'm used to."

"Exactly," she affirmed. "Back home—and yes, I do still think of Tevinter as my home, though sadly not a very pleasant one—but anyway, back home I was an Elven slave to a blood mage. Here? I'm the Human Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. Someone who commands and inspires and leads," she waved her other hand at all the reports on Cullen's desk, sitting up a little straighter to do so.

"Quite a change, isn't it?" he hummed.

"For both of us," she nodded. "That's why, I think, sometimes, it's so easy for me to forget both our pasts, me a slave and you a master. And it… it just caught me off guard, you know, when you talked about the use of opeigh from a master's perspective, I wasn't expecting you to know about it because I don't think of you as a Magister's son, but as my friend Dorian. Does that make any sense?"

"A little," he allowed, patting the hand still on his wrist. "So, you're not mad at me?"

"Not about the opeigh, no," she shook her head, "Actually, I'm glad you were there. You have knowledge I don't, knowledge of a more… practical nature. But I am still mad at you for not telling me that Cullen loved me."

"Here we go again," he dramatically rolled his eyes and gave vent to a long-suffering moan.

"But I shall allow you to make it up to me. And Cullen."

"Oh?" one of his black eyebrows rose up into his forehead. "I believe this is my cue to run back into the other room."

"No you don't," she kept hold of his wrist, her touch turning from tender to firm. "You are going to help me with these reports. I want to get them organized, before Cullen gets back to work, so he doesn't come back to a mess."

"Ah. Lovely. Bureaucracy, the cornerstone of any and every ruling system," he swallowed. Truthfully, he thought it a wonderful idea, but he wasn't going to admit to anyone that he was willing to help. "Where do we start?"

She flashed him a small smile, but one that overflowed with gratitude. "We'll sort them out by subject matter and make stacks across his desk, left to right, the more important reports on the left. And then we'll organize those stacks, putting the older reports on the bottom."

"What about the ones that are no longer relevant?" he queried, holding a report in his hands. "This one is from earlier this afternoon, a routine patrol, nothing to note, but by the time he's back on his feet, it will be too old…"

"Keep it," she nodded. "Keep them all. He's going to want to see them anyway, even if they're no longer relevant. He's… sort of a control freak that way."

He lifted that curvy eyebrow again.

Peredura sighed, taking the old report from his hand and setting it off to the right side of Cullen's desk. "Just… trust me. It'll be better to keep every single report that comes in, and let him decide what to do with them; it'll make him feel better. Now, what's this one about? I can't quite make out this word."

Dorian glanced over her shoulder. "'Reconnaissance.' It means…"

"I know what it means," she quickly stopped him, feeling her cheeks burn and having to duck her head to pull her hair forward to hide the fact. "I just, um, had trouble with the handwriting."

The lie was weak, and he knew it. "How many people know that you can't read."

"I can read," she denied, lifting her chin with what pride she could muster while refusing to look at him. "Just not very well. And only Cullen, Varric, Mother Giselle, Josephine," she looked up and gave it serious thought, "Undoubtedly Leliana, but thankfully she hasn't mentioned it."

"And now me?"

She nodded, eyes returning to their downcast gaze.

"No wonder you wanted my help with this," he opined, thinking her request for his assistance wasn't so much making him pay for keeping a secret, but to cover her weakness. "Very well, my dear, let's get to work, shall we? Here, seven more reports on routine patrols. Should put them with the rest. Are you better with numbers than letters? Dates and such? Yes? Good, then you keep things in chronological order while I sort by subject matter. Here's one from Devensport, just came in, on his first sweep of the countryside. Probably important. Speaking of Devensport..."

"Hmm?" she hummed while squinting at a date, this time honestly having trouble with the handwriting.

"What happened with Abbets?"

She didn't stop moving, but she immediately changed; he could tell. She grew tense, her shoulders stiff, her neck bowed, and her face deliberately kept away. She took an offered report, but without any sort of verbal acknowledgment.

"In the alley," Dorian pressed, either ignorant of the non-verbal cues or purposefully disregarding them. "I mean, he's a templar, right? He's here, as part of your honor guard, to purposefully protect you from magic…"

"Dorian," her voice was terrible in its softness, "Don't…"

"The way I hear it, Abbets is a very powerful templar; his reputation among the others is nearly legendary. There's no reason why he shouldn't have been able to handle one single mage…"

"Drop it."

"Yet he couldn't. A serious matter, I grant you, and one that certainly should be looked into, but now he's placed himself under house arrest?" he prattled on. "Why? What happened? I mean, I know the templars back home have no such power; they're nothing more than a joke, really. And I know the templars here have power over a mage's access to the Fade because they use…"

"Drop. It." She repeated herself, forcefully, lifting her face to look at him with the darkest expression he'd ever seen cross her features.

But he couldn't stop himself, his mind clicking and the wheels turning and the pieces falling into place. "Oh, you don't mean Abbets has stopped…"

"Dorian!" she barked, slapping a clipboard down on the desk with a sharp snap. "Ingerere canavari kaffas!"

The room plummeted into silence with the deadly force of a headsman's axe. Dorian tried to hide his shock, both from himself and from Peredura—he, too, often found it easy to forget she was Tevene—but after she told him to eat a dead man's shit, it was kind of hard to forget. "That… was rather strong…"

"And I mean it," she confirmed. "Dorian, this subject is taboo. Do you understand? No one speaks of it. Not even me. And especially not a mage."

"Why? I don't understand. Is it truly that terrible for him to…"

"Please," she all but moaned, her cheeks turning blotchy red and her eyes beginning to glisten, "Please, Dorian, just stop right there. Not another question. Not another word. Please, it's…" she hesitated, considering, and realizing truthfully that she did wish to talk with someone about this. And Dorian was there and willing. And he had proven in the past he could keep a secret. She sighed and rubbed a hand over her cheeks, wiping at the moisture before it could fall. "Cullen has… visions, visions of demons, visions that appear as real to him as this desk does to us. He's suffered them for years. Even now, when he's no longer taking lyrium, they're still there, still haunting him. Every time he sleeps, he dreams them."

"Because of the lyrium use?" Dorian pressed, cautiously curious over the sudden change in her behavior, over her sudden willingness to open up and share. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, glancing down now and then at her profile, both of them facing the desk.

She nodded. "If Cullen's visions have been so drastic, I cannot imagine what Abbets must be suffering for him to even consider having done what he's done, to take such a risk."

"But why didn't he tell anyone?"

"Because," she sighed, "Because no one talks about it. And no, I don't understand why not, either. Maybe," she gave her lip a chew, tasting blood, and found herself wishing Cullen was there to pull it free, "Maybe… it's because… well… if you're a mage, you've no choice, right? I mean, you're either born with the ability to use magic, or you're not. And if you are born with it, you're fucked." She gave her head a funny sort of wobble, "Unless you were born in Tevinter."

Dorian snorted at that.

"But templars are different. You're not born a templar; you become a templar. It is a choice. Even if you consider it a divine calling, you still have the free will whether or not you answer that call. And templars go into their service knowing full well what the consequences are. They know what lyrium use will do to them. And they choose to become templars anyway. They choose to make that sacrifice. Perhaps… that's why they don't speak of it. They don't voice their complaints, because they've nothing to complain about."

He set another report down, oblivious of which pile he used, "And so Abbets…"

"He will be dealt with," she stopped him again, "Once Cullen is back on his feet. He and I will handle Abbets. And that's all I have to say on the subject. What's the date on this one? I can't tell if this was from yesterday or today."

"Ah," he swallowed, his eyes a little wide, his head a little too full, "Ah, today. Peredura," he had to pause to swallow again, his throat a little too dry, "Thank you. For explaining this to me. You didn't have to, and I can admit: I was a bit of a pest about it."

"It's alright, Dorian," she smiled at him, taking the clipboard back. "I do feel better, having someone to talk with about it. And I know you can keep a secret. Nor will you act any differently now that you know what you know. I should be thanking you."

"Well," he placed a hand on his chest in a somewhat theatric fashion, "Don't let me stop you. Thank away."

Her smile grew, but she dropped a little curtsy and acknowledged, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he smiled back, "And by that, I mean sing my praises to your Commander when he returns to work, of all I did for him, all the eyestrain and neck cramps and paper cuts I suffered," he held up a finger in emphasis, a small slit on the pad that might produce a drop of blood—if he squeezed it really hard.

"Oh, Dorian," she laughed, rolling her eyes. It was weak, and still a little watery, but it was a laugh, proving that things were still okay between them. Then side-by-side, they returned to sorting through the reports.