Note: Cullen gets himself into trouble and Anwen gets angry.
Cullen can't sleep.
Not that this is a novel turn of events but, still, it's annoying.
He rolls to his left side, hoping the position will prove more comfortable. Nothing.
He turns back to his right. Still nothing.
Perhaps he's too hot? He pulls of his night-shirt and throws it into one of the darkened corners of his room. Still no help.
He grabs one of his rather threadbare pillows and gives it a thorough shake, plumping the feathers inside before dropping it back on his bed and nuzzling his cheek into the downy softness. Still no help.
He growls with irritation. Nothing has helped – and he knowsnothing willhelp.
Because it's not his pillow that's keeping him awake, nor his shirt, nor his sleeping position. For once, it's not even the nightmares – his lyrium withdrawals have been blessedly bearable the last few days.
No – it's Anwen who's keeping him awake; Anwen who's consuming his thoughts (and not in the good way, as she often does at night). He's replaying their earlier argument again and again, trying to identify the moment it all went irretrievably wrong, trying to figure out whether he could have said anything different, anything… better. But he's at a loss, so confused by Anwen's altered behaviour that he cannot possibly make sense of it.
And so he just lies there instead – stewing in his thoughts – and prays for sleep to come and free him from his gnawing anxiety.
He's so distracted by the spectacle running again and again in his head – cruel words bitten between sneering teeth, impossibly calm smile upon her lips, an almost pitying expression as her blue eyes pierce into him – that he doesn't realise someone is in his tower until he hears the ladder to his bedroom creak.
Immediately all thoughts of Anwen are pushed aside and he bolts upright, reaching for the sword propped up against the side of his bed. He may not be a Templar anymore but his training has prepared him well for moments such as this, piercing through the fogginess of exhaustion and leaving him alert and wary.
Whatever emergency requires his attention, whatever intruder has dared trespass in his tower – Cullen is ready.
He relaxes when he sees Anwen's head appear at the top of the ladder, the red tones in her hair catching in the moonlight that streams through the broken roof above them. He loosens his grip on the hilt of his sword and lets it fall back against the headboard, the tension bleeding from his body as he watches her climb into his room. But – Maker– what is she doing here?!
She's clearly not in a hurry – taking each rung at a leisurely pace, a gentle smile playing on her lips. No emergency requiring his immediate attention then. And there's an odd expression on her face, her features soft and open but her eyes narrowed with a strange intensity, hooded and heated and – oh, oh.
Well… this is – interesting.
They'd been taking their relationship slowly so far, limiting more intimate activities to brief (far too brief) liaisons in his office. It hadn't really been a conscious choice, not something they'd explicitly talked about; it had just kind of happened. They'd both been so busy after the fall of Haven – finding the Wardens, storming Adamant – they simply hadn't had the time to… enjoyeach other.
He wants to though. Maker, how he wants to.
He wantswith such burning intensity, he's amazed he hasn't already been struck down with the Maker's righteous fury (and isn't that what the Chantry said would happen?).
His first thought as Anwen reaches the top of the ladder is that she's beautiful– her pale skin illuminated by shards of silvered light, her blue eyes piercing through the darkness. She's only wearing a light night-shift, something silky and filmy and almost certainly Orlesian, and a blush spreads across Cullen's cheeks when he realises that he can see the outline of her bare figure through the fabric.
His second thought is that Anwen's never been in his room before, and he suddenly wishes he'd put a bit more thought into his accommodations. Cullen is used to sparse, used to the modest accommodations that are standard for those in the Templar Order, but Anwen is a noble and, as the plush décor she'd chosen for the Great Hall attests, fond of nice things. He now wishes he'd thrown down a few more rugs, maybe hung up a painting or two. At the very least, he wishes he'd let Gatsi repair the hole in his roof (it had just seemed a far lower priority compared to other repairs around the Keep).
But concern over his minimalist approach to interior decorating is quickly pushed aside because Anwen is slinking toward his bed, her gently smile tugging into something crooked and coy, and Cullen is all too aware of the growing heat unspooling in the pit of his belly.
Their earlier argument stops playing in his mind, the anger and the ugly words simmering away, and instead more pleasant images start to appear – Anwen's skin under his hands, her hair cascading down bared shoulders, her delicate fingers plucking at the laces of his breeches. He's imagined this exact scenario a dozen times, not to mention all the variations. Sometimes she comes to him while he's working behind his desk; sometimes they spar together in the training ring; sometimes he'sthe one who goes to herroom, falling to his knees and professing his most ardent desire for her. No matter the beginning, the ending is always the same – Anwen writhing beneath him, back arched and fingers digging into his shoulders.
And yet – as much as he has imagined this moment, and as excited as he is to see it finally coming true, there is a niggling sensation of wrongnessat the back of his head. Because the last time he'd seen Anwen, they'd had a bitter argument, and her words had hurt – still hurt. And though he desperately wants to reach out and touch her, to slowly slip her nightgown from her shoulders and press his lips to each inch of newly exposed skin, he is more desperate to know just what in the Voidis going on between them.
When Anwen reaches the foot of his bed, she carefully clambers on top, crawling across the sheets on all fours, and Cullen is impressed at the steadiness of his voice when he finally finds his words and asks, "what are you doing here?"
"I didn't want us to go to bed angry with each other," she replies, and she's close enough now to stroke her fingers down his cheek, caressing down his jaw, then neck, until they finally come to rest on his bared chest.
He shivers.
"I'm not angry with you," he says, then cringes at the lie. "All right – I amangry with you. I just… I want to understand what's going on. You're not acting—"
She silences him with a kiss, soft lips canted against his own. It's gentle at first, almost chaste, until she raises both hands to frame his face and he starts to feel the intensity growing, the rising pressure as she presses her lips more firmly. Whatever words he'd wanted to say are quickly lost, lost to sensation, lost in the heat of her kiss, in the heat of her. His hands lift of their own volition, fingers running along her arms before curling around her shoulders, pulling ever so gently to bring her closer. He smiles when he feels her tongue swipe against his lower lip, pleased by her eagerness, and he opens his mouth to let her in, happily deepening the kiss.
He can feel a moan building at the back of his throat, a slow but deliberate stirring between his legs, and he wants nothing more than to pull her onto his lap and let his hands wander down, down, down. Instead he surprises himself by pushing her back, and she frowns at him petulantly as the kiss is broken.
"Wait – just a second – wait." His hands still rest on her shoulders, though now they hold her at arm's length.
She sighs in frustration. "Wait for what?" Then her expression shifts, from something surly to something strangely fragile. "Don't you want me?"
He feels something patter in his chest. Maker – what a question. Thoughts of her have invaded his mind, both day and night, since those early days at Haven, long before he discovered how smart she was, or how funny, when he was still consumed with the realisation that she was, quite simply, stunning. Yes, he wants her, wants this, more than perhaps he's wanted anything except to join the Templar Order as a boy.
But there's still that niggling voice at the back of his mind – just not like this.
"Maker's breath, of course I want you. I have… dreamt of this moment for—" he chuckles, the blush on his cheeks spreading down to his neck, "far longer than I dare to admit." She smiles, a little shy, but more achingly like the Anwen he knows than anything he's seen since her return from the Exalted Plains. "But can we please just talk first? Some… things… were said earlier and I think we need to talk about them before…" He trails off, the right words lost just out of reach. It's not his most eloquent of speeches – but then he's not sure eloquence was ever going to be possible when there's a near naked Anwen kneeling next to him in bed.
"What's there to talk about?" she asks, and she tries to lean forward but his hands hold her firmly in place. "I said some things when I was angry – things that I didn't mean – and now I'm here to apologise."
"You didn't mean – what you said to me or what you said to Sera?"
She doesn't answer. Instead one hand starts to stroke slowly along his thigh, and even through his blanket he can feel the heat of her skin. His arms start to bend, seemingly forgetting that they were supposed to be keeping her away, and this time when she leans forward, he leans forward to meet her, their lips crushing together clumsily. This kiss is hungrier than the last, teeth and tongues clashing with a hurried heat, her hands tangling into his hair almost possessively.
Somehow, miraculously, he manages to break away from the kiss long enough to croak out, "wait, wait – you didn't answer my question."
She hushes him with a sshhbefore shifting her weight and sliding into his lap, straddling him between her legs as she dips in for another searing kiss. He's desperately hard now, any questions or concerns immediately banished as he feels the weight of her pressing against him. She shifts her hips as if trying to make herself comfortable and the movement sends a jolt of heat through him, crackling and burning like the lightning he knows she favours on the battlefield.
Her fingers twist, yanking at his curls, and he lets out a hiss of pain that is lost in their enjoined mouths. She's being… rougherthan usual, tugging at him with peculiar urgency. And the kiss is – well… it's not quite right either. It's less eager and more… angry, lips pressing with almost bruising force. She bites at his bottom lip and it hurts, the distinctive coppery taste of blood suddenly blossoming on the tip of his tongue.
His head jolts back, shocked mainly but also a little riled. Anwen may be prone to the occasional playful nip but – this? Anwen has never actually drawn blood before.
"Stop – wait. We need to talk about what's going on with you."
She rolls her hips against his, firm and deliberate, and despite his frustration, Cullen can't help the needy moan that's shudders through his lips. One of her hands slips free of his hair, winding its way down his torso before coming to rest on the bulge that's prominent even through his breeches and the blanket pooled around his waist.
She growls into his ear, "I don't want to talk – I want you to fuck me."
Wait – what?!
She's looking at him slyly, smirking crookedly, and something about her expression is so alien to him that he can't help but remember what Cole had said to him earlier in the day: she's someone else.
Her hand starts to work its way under the blanket to the waistband of his breeches and his own hand suddenly snaps out to stop her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He holds her firmly in place, staring intently at her face in search of… something.
"I said stop, Anwen – what are you doing?!"
The smile falls from her face and there's nothing coy or sly in her expression now – only a burning fury; like a cornered animal about to lash out. Her eyes are boring into him, that familiar, striking blue, until suddenly he notices a flash of gold – for the barest fraction of a second he's looking into someone else's eyes– and in his shock he throws Anwen off him and sends her tumbling to the floor.
She hits the wooden slats with a hard thud and Cullen should feel guilty for having so unceremoniously thrown her aside except he can'tbecause he's consumed with the sudden, terrifyingrealisation that this is not Anwen. It's an abomination or a demon wearing her skin or… he has no idea what it could be but he does know, without a doubt, that the woman lying haphazardly on the floor of his bedroom is not Anwen Trevelyan.
"Who areyou?" he asks, and though he can feel his rage beginning to bubble up inside, the question sounds more scared than angry.
She smiles at him again, sickeningly sweet (and he has no idea how this creature can turn Anwen's face into something so horrifyingly chilling), before she lifts one hand and Cullen's whole world turns sideways.
Something hard hits him square in the chest and Cullen is sent flying across his room, arching over his bed before slamming into the stone wall and sliding into a heap on the floor. He grunts, clutching his hands to his now aching stomach. Stonefisthe thinks, even through the haze of pain, and he starts pouring through memories of his Templar training to try and remember the other abilities associated with Primal magic.
Not-Anwen has now pulled herself from the floor, and as she glares daggers at him from across the bed, he can see a growing ball of sputtering light coalescing in her hands. He remembers Lightningjust in time, throwing himself into a clumsy roll as her attack expends itself uselessly against the wall behind where he'd been standing mere moments before.
He gets to his feet quickly, dashing around the end of his bed and tackling Not-Anwen to the floor. His sword is still out of reach, resting against his headboard where he'd left it, and though he has little choice in the matter, it seems like a peculiar form of foolishness to attempt to take on a clearly powerful mage with just his fists.
She thrashes violently against his grip, desperately trying to wriggle free, but he holds steady, easily trapping the far smaller woman. Then he feels her hands press against his torso and there's a sudden explosion of pain, a frisson of energy as she unleashes electricity directly into his flesh.
His body spasms from the searing, scorching agony, and the hoarse roar that's torn from his throat is so loud that he can feelit rattling in his ears. He finds himself wishing desperately for his Templar abilities, the power to snuff out this woman's magic with only a thought, to save himself from this torment. But giving up Lyrium has been his choice to make, and a choice he'd made gladly, and if this pain is another thing he has to suffer in exchange for his freedom, he will gladly pay the price.
Even with the tossing and writhing of his body, Not-Anwen is still trapped beneath him, his sheer size and weight keeping her pinned to the floor. When the pain eventually passes, her spell sizzling out like a snuffed candle, he rounds on her with a snarl and violently backhands her.
Her body goes limp beneath him, finally calm in her unconsciousness.
Cullen drags his aching body upright – stiff and sore and smelling a little charred – and looks down at the assailant wearing his Anwen's face. He is… confused to say the least. Utterly baffled that someone (or something) could so seamlessly mimic another's form. But behind the confusion there's a plethora of other emotions: anger, that he had been so thoroughly deceived; shame, that he'd allowed baser thoughts to overwhelm his common sense; but most of all there's fear – a crushing, suffocating fear.
Because if this thing lying on his bedroom floor is not his Anwen, then where in the Void is the realAnwen?!
Oh Maker, he prays, please do not let her be dead.
Anwen wraps her arms around her knees and pulls them closer, tucking her head down until she's bent into a tight ball in the corner of the room. She hopes that if she curls up small enough, she'll be able to disappear, wink away into the ether and dissolve through the air to freedom.
She hurts.
Her left hand is agony, a startling, stifling pain that radiates outward like an exploding star, permeating every limb with a dull, throbbing ache.
She supposes she should be proud of herself; she's managed to survive another day. Another day of torture, another day of writhing, roiling pain as the Venatori channelled their magic into the Anchor in hope of invoking a reaction. And react the Anchor did – just not in the way they wanted. It sparked and burned and flashed in her palm, but no Rift opened.
Perhaps opening the Rift at Adamant had been a one-time affair – and no amount of magical interference will open another.
She wonders how long they'll keep trying. They've already been experimenting on her for several days with no success – will they try for several more, a week? She's not sure her body can last much longer.
Sure they feed her, and occasionally they drag her back to her small room to rest – but she can feel herself being worn thin and she's not sure how long it'll be until she snaps.
She shifts slightly. She's lost track of how long she's been curled up in the corner but her muscles are beginning to cramp and seize. She realises now how much she takes her magic for granted. Normally she doesn't hesitate to pulse a little healing magic for even the tiniest of complaints – stubbed toes, paper cuts (and, of course, devastating hangovers after particularly ambitious nights with the Iron Bull). But now her magic is gone, and she would give anything to feel its soothing cool touch across her aching limbs and cramped muscles.
She takes a steadying breath and makes a tentative tug against where the veil normally curls in her chest.
Nothing.
The Venatori had given her something before they'd thrown her into her room. Something tangy and sharp and disgustingly viscous. It had felt gummy as it had slowly inched down her throat, and for a few uncomfortable minutes she'd been utterly convinced that she would suffocate. She has no idea what it was – the taste ominously unidentifiable – but it seems to have quite effectively blocked her magic.
It's almost funny – really – that Anwen had so often resented her magic, the curse which took her from a life of privilege and forced her into apostasy, and yet now she would give anythingto feel its power again.
Anwen and her magic had always been uncomfortable bedfellows. Coming in to her abilities abnormally late, the veil rests uneasily upon her, pinching and chafing. She's cautious when she casts, wary and restrained, sacrificing strength for the sake of control.
Precious, preciouscontrol.
Control has always been important to Anwen; uptight and finicky as a child, only growing worse with age. She's smart, astutely observant, and with a natural charisma she'd honed over the years into a powerful tool – becoming a veritable masterof control. She controls herself, her emotions, her image, other people, her surroundings. Magic is just one more thing, one more aspect of her life that she keeps closely, obsessivelycontrolled.
But then.
There hadbeen times she'd felt that control slip. When she'd been backed into a corner, or when her friends had been in danger, and her carefully maintained limits had shattered. Her magic had surged and swelled, erupting with such ferocity that the earth trembled and the air sang with power. It had been terrifying the first time it happened – terrifying but…thrilling. And every time since, every time she'd let her magic flow free and loose from her fingertips, the easier it had become.
That's what she needs to feel now, she realises. Not the clipped, careful magic she'd practiced as an apostate – that scared teenager who'd fled from her father's estate with nothing but shame and fear and a few hastily-chosen possessions. Not even the measured, elegant magic she'd mastered once she'd found her place with the mage underground. She needs that force– that trembling, desperate power that throbs and pounds when she reaches deep, deep inside.
She shifts a little more, uncurling ever so slightly, raising her head and canting it from side to side, stretching her neck until she feels a satisfying pop.
There's magic inside her, she knows it. Even if she cannot feel it. A blazing magic – bright and powerful and terrible and wonderful.
She makes another small little tug, trying to coax that first little whisper of magic.
Nothing.
Nothing, until.
There's a tremor – one tiny, tremulous note of power.
It's quiet at first, so quiet, but as she concentrates on blocking out all other sounds, she thinks she can hear more. Delicate tones of magic seem to build and build, ebbing and flowing in an urgent, rolling cadence.
She can't understand now how she'd ever thought this a curse. This beautiful symphony of thoughts and feelings and sensations and power. Surely this is a gift.
Magic thrums within her now, not just a lilting melody but something she can feel, urgent and alive, flickering, fluttering, like the wings of a butterfly flapping frantically against a windowpane. And then it bursts, a great cyclone of power torn from a darker, deeper place than she has ever known. It surges out into her limbs, filling all the tired, empty spaces inside of her with power, tingling pleasantly beneath her skin.
Feeling whole again for the first time since the Venatori took her captive, Anwen extends her right arm and pushes, smiling with immense satisfaction as an arc of lightning springs – finally, finally – from her fingertips.
The wooden door trapping her in the cave is instantly obliterated, shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Splinters waver through the air like confetti, coming to rest on the uneven floor of the cave in a charred heap. The smell of burning wood permeates the room, along with the odd, crisp tang of her magic.
She slowly unfurls her body and rises unsteadily to her feet, hands braced against the wall as her still aching limbs remember how to move. Despite her discomfort, she knows she needs to move – needs to move now. The explosion was loud. It's only a matter of time until the Venatori come to investigate. And then she'll need to fight her way out.
A small, uncertain part of her mind already regrets the door – sneaking out would have probably been the safer bet. But that regret is soon quashed; it had felt goodto blow the door.
She smiles – let the fuckers come.
A bolt of electricity pierces through the air, a glittering orb of pink and shocking white which bathes the stone walls of the tunnel in unnatural daylight.
Anwen doesn't see the moment the ball hits the Venatori's chest, blinded by a sudden explosion of light, but she does hear the man's desperate screech. When the light has faded and her eyes have had time to adjust, she can see the man sprawled awkwardly on the floor, gulping raggedly to drag mouthfuls of air into his scorched lungs. His staff lies uselessly on the floor beside him, the wood smouldering in flames. She's surprised that he's still alive; even from a distance she can see the blackened skin, the blisters covering his face.
She starts walking toward him, already calling another powerful burst of magic into her hand. It would be the merciful thing, after all, to end his suffering swiftly. But in all honesty, offering the man a quick death is only a minor concern, mostly she just wants to make sure that every one of these Venatori fuckers is truly, undeniablydead.
He tries to back up, charred limbs scrabbling against the pocked floor to push his injured body away from her. She raises her hand and a wall of ice erupts at his back, spanning the entire width of the tunnel and effectively blocking him in. He looks scared as she nears, although there's something else as well – astonishment, she realises.
"I didn't think you had it in you," he coughs out with a sickening wheeze, "you Southern mages are all so—" His words fail him, voice cracking into broken breathing. But she can guess what he meant to say – you're weak, pathetic.
Arrogant man, she thinks with a snarl.
Something flares and burns inside. She's angry – furious, even – that he'd thought so little of her abilities, that he'd underestimated her so completely. This man has held her captive, been complicit in days of torture, and yet this affront to her pride seems to sting worst of all. Whatever designs on mercy she'd previously held are soon forgotten.
He is going to die – and it is going to be slow.
She pulls a lance of ice into existence, a long, thin stiletto with a thinly tapered end. She curls her hands around it, adjusts her grip so that her strike will have sufficient force, then leans over her Venatori assailant to pierce the icicle into his chest. He's only wearing mage robes, more decorative than protective, and the sharpened lance pushes neatly into his flesh.
There's a wet sputter as she pushes it deeper, and the man coughs thickly, splattering the front of his robes with fat, crimson droplets.
Anwen steps back but doesn't let her eyes linger on the ruined man at her feet. She knows he will die; she doesn't need to watch.
She turns and she starts stumbling down the corridor, her tired, stiff limbs trembling with each unsteady step. A prayer to the Maker is rattling through her brain, a desperate plea that he will deliver her from this place without further incident, but she's already calling lightning to her palms – just in case her prayer goes unanswered.
Her movements are jagged and erratic as she winds her way through the labyrinthine tunnels of the mine that the Venatori have repurposed for their hideout. She is exhausted, ravenous with hunger, and it's taking all of her concentration just to keep on moving, just to place one foot in front of the other, then again, and again. Her left hand still throbs with the lingering remnants of the torture she has endured but she daren't waste any magic on soothing the pain; she'll need all her mana for fighting.
Somehow, miraculously, she manages to keep walking forward, more out of sheer stubbornness than anything else.
This is exactly what they warn against in Circles. Mages desperate and exhausted. Mages pushing themselves to the very edge of control, with nothing but the chasm of destruction beside them. She is being fuelled by anger and magic now, and even an apostate knows that this is a dangerous combination. This is when the demons are meant to come, whispering with promises of power or freedom.
Although she doubts she would even noticewere a demon to offer her a deal right now.
All she can hear is her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the sound of her ragged breathing as her lungs try to drag in enough oxygen for her exhausted limbs – the whispering of demons could never be heard over this cacophony of sound.
Anwen stumbles across some sort of laboratory in her frantic search for an escape route – different from the one where she'd been held as object of curiosity – and at first she feels a sudden spark of curiosity. She wonders what else these mages are working on, what other secrets they hope to unlock and offer to Corypheus. Were she not so desperate to escape, she might even be tempted to stop and investigate. But she's tired, and she's hurt, and as she looks at the neat rows of glass and metal and reams of paper, her curiosity is quashed under a swell of anger.
She doesn't want to waste her magic so instead she pushes forcefully at each table as she winds her way across the room, shaking each surface until the peculiar assortment of equipment and alchemy ingredients fall and shatter against the floor. It is oddly satisfying – the bright tinkling sound of breaking glass, the colourful splatter of unknown potions against the dull stone – and when Anwen reaches another tunnel at the other side of the laboratory, she starts staggering down it with renewed determination.
She's near the end of the tunnel when a woman turns a corner just ahead, coming to startled stop when she catches sight of Anwen.
Anwen blinks, pushing through the fog of memory to try and picture the figures who stood and watched and sneeredwhile she writhed on that examination table. There's a flash of recognition – Anwen doesknow this woman; she's the one in charge of the foul concoctions they'd fed her, the Lyrium potions tinged with magebane and whatever other vile, unpalatable monstrosities they added.
The woman raises her staff and sends a fireball hurtling down the narrow tunnel. Anwen's arms lift instinctively, palms flat before her, and there's a momentary flash of violet before her barrier flickers to life. The flames lick across the pearlescent barrier of light then fizzle and fiss into nothingness.
Anwen wastes no time, dropping her barrier and flinging her own ball of flames. Fire magic does not come to Anwen easily, it feels prickly and uncomfortable in her hands, but she'd liked the poetic justice of using the same magic that the woman had used against her.
If the woman has the ability to form a barrier, she doesn't manage to summon it in time, and the flames consume her in a wave of fire and heat. There's a scream, brief but curdling, and then a pop of light that makes Anwen cower to shield her eyes. When she looks up again, she can see that the woman is leaning heavily on her staff, a little charred in places but mostly unharmed.
Fuck.
The woman narrows her eyes at Anwen, and there's an amused twitch at the corner of her lips which makes Anwen uneasy. But it's when the woman starts chanting, low and steady and almost mesmerising in its steady rythem, that Anwen knows she's in trouble. Anwen can feelthe words worming their way into her ears, settling inside her skull, bringing a shroud of panic and horror with them.
She knows the spell, recognises it as one of Dorian's tricks, and she knows she needs to finish this nowbefore the woman has the chance to finish casting and render Anwen useless with Horror.
Anwen summons the Fade as she dashes forward, letting waves of magic hurry her steps until she's standing straight in front of the Venatori woman. She draws on her Spirit Blade, unleashing the glittering, golden blade from her hands, but before she has the chance to strike, the woman lifts her staff, jabbing it upward until the jagged curl of wood and bone at its tip smacks against Anwen's jaw.
Anwen reels back, vision blurred with the startling force of the blow, and though she can't really see her assailant through the haze of pain, she raises her blade to try and block any further attacks. It doesn't work. Instead the woman's staff swings squarely into her skull, slashing into flesh and tearing away a chunk of skin and hair. The swirling sensation of Horror is already scrabbling inside Anwen's head, clawing at her skull, and now it feels like her head might crack apart, bone torn apart by the sheer force of the staff strike and the shredding of Horror's fingers.
There's a growing warmth as Anwen feels the blood spilling out into her hair, then a strange tickling sensation as it creeps down the side of her face and to her neck. Her fingers twitch, as if fighting the urge to press at the wound and staunch the bleeding, but instead she merely tightens her hold on her hilt, clutching her Spirit Blade with a vicelike grip.
She's losing, she realises. But then – she's been losing from the moment she fell into the Venatori's ambush. From the moment she was manacled, the moment she was poisoned, tortured. She's been losing for days now. But that didn't stop her from escaping. That didn't stop her from cutting down her captors. That doesn't mean she can't still win.
She's the Inquisitor, for fuck's sake – and she will notlose to these preening, sneering, arrogant fools.
A smile comes to her lips, small and weary but definitely there, and she almost cacklesas she lifts her Spirit Blade and slashes with all the strength she can summon. The blade cuts cleanly through the woman's staff, whistling strangely as it slices through the air, then sinks into the woman's side, leather and bone proving futile defence against the magical edge.
There is no scream, not even a wet gurgle, just a stunned silence as the woman stares at Anwen with large, shocked eyes. The woman stands skewered at the end of Anwen's blade, teetering for a few breathless moments before finally falling to the ground, her body hitting the stone with a dull, heavy thud (and at least for her the end was quick).
She'd seemed so large before, looming over the examination table as Anwen had moaned in pain, begged for mercy. Now she seems so small – just a crumpled, fragment of a life.
There's no time to dwell on this small victory though. Anwen may have bested another one of her torturer's but she knows there are more, and she needs to move – needs to hurry– if she hopes to escape with her life.
Anwen's not sure how long she stumbles aimlessly around the mine. And though she can feel her exhaustion spreading its hold over her body inch-by-inch, she's relieved that the few Venatori she encounters fall swiftly to her attacks, taken by surprise and unable to counter the sheer force of her rage and desperation.
She's taken down six so far; she thinks that's about half – and while part of her wants to carry on stalking the tunnels and caves until every single one of those fuckers is dead, that bloodthirstiness is soon forgotten the moment she opens a door and finds herself standing in the cool, crisp air of night.
She's free.
And not even her burning desire for revenge can outmatch her desire to just get as far away as possible.
There's a rocky clearing directly in front of her, spotted with rusting, long-abandoned mining equipment, and beyond that she can see a treeline masking softly undulating hills. There's a gentle breeze, remarkably refreshing after so many days in stagnant, cave air. And above her she can see the stars – twinkling spots of silver that seem to wink at her in greeting; happy to see her.
She runs.
Or at least she tries.
Her legs are heavy, throbbing and leaden, and her clumsy feet stumble again and again as she pushes forward over uneven terrain. She doesn't know where she's going, doesn't recognise this particular landscape. And she thinks that maybe she should feel afraid – she is, after all, lost and injured and worryingly low on mana (and wouldn't this be the perfect time to run into a Rift).
But she's free now, and none of the fears her mind can summon are more horrifying than the thought of going back into that dark, miserable cave again.
So she runs, and runs, just desperate to put as much distance as possible between herself and the mine.
When her legs finally give out for good, she sinks into the grass, knees shaking with the impact before her torso pitches forward and she falls face-first. She cannot move, her cheek pressing into the ground, limbs bent uncomfortably from the fall. Instead she just focuses on breathing, breathing and living and just – trying to figure out what in the Void she's going to do.
She pushes what remains of her magic into her limbs, tendrils of healing power that caress against aching muscles and knit together the torn flesh of her head. It's not much – her rampage in the cave has left her with far too little mana – but it's enough to bring her body back from the edge of uselessness.
Eventually she has enough strength to roll over, turning onto her back so she can stare at the ocean of stars that stretches above the canopy of trees overheard. The branches seem to be reaching out, almost like hands, leaf-lined fingers trying to catch their own sparkling balls of light.
It's a beautiful sight.
Anwen knows she can't stay here forever. She's injured. She's filthy. She's starving. She has no money, no idea where she is, no clue how to find her allies. The whole situation is utterly grim.
But she's alive – and she has her magic back – and there are beautiful things like stars in the world.
She supposes that'll do for now.