Two things: (1) this chapter is penultimate, which means there will be another one, and; (2) the final chapter will come after Christmas.
One did not simply walk into Tevinter.
Not alone anyway.
No, in order to get to Minrathous from Nevarra City, one better catch a caravan. The Silent Plains, that great void of death, extended across the border region, limiting the travel to the old Imperial Highway. Which meant highwaymen made a lucrative business out of travelers foolish or overconfident enough to venture alone. It was said the land around the highway was littered with the sun-bleached skeletons of those fools.
Thus, traveling in group was not just an option. Survival depended on it.
Having been informed of this at the docks of Cumberland, a Free Marcher man introduced himself to a certain caravan leader who came highly recommended by the owner of the inn he stayed at. And the innkeeper seemed honest, he thought.
The caravan leader, a surface dwarf everyone called Nugsy, was brusque. "Not a lot of people brave the Silent Plains. What business do you have in the Imperium?" Nugsy had to be one of those nicknames that directly contrasted the person's character. For Nugsy was neither cuddly nor welcoming.
"My family's originally from there. My parents passed away, and I just received a letter from a relative in Minrathous inviting me to stay with him."
Nugsy had a pair of piercing eyes that the man had trouble looking away from. The dwarf probed, "Oh, I am sorry to hear that. What from?"
"Pardon?"
"How did your parents die?"
The man hesitated before explaining, "You've surely heard of the dragon that terrorized Ferelden?"
"Well, there are loads of dragons around. That is why it's called the Dragon Age." Nugsy tapped his left temple and raised his brow.
Disregarding the snarky response, the man continued as somberly as possible, "We were attacked on our way to Skyhold. I barely managed to escape to join the Inquisition."
Nugsy stroked his chin as he hummed. "Ah, so you're from the Inquisition."
The man shrugged. "Not anymore. Now that it's gone, I have nothing tying me down to the South. Might as well go and see what the Imperium has to offer."
After a beat, Nugsy inquired with what was obviously his characteristic curtness, "Is that an Hercinian accent I hear?"
Hercinia was famed for being the staging post for raiders of Brandel's Reach heading north to Antiva and Rivain. The man knew admitting to being from Hercinia would arouse suspicions. Better safe than sorry. "Markham."
Nugsy creased his brow. "I hate liars. I only travel with people I trust."
The man could not help but swallow hard. He was not used to actively lying, and it was harder than he thought it would be. "You can trust me." He then blurted, "I can also pay."
Nugsy's beady eyes lit up. He was a seasoned merchant after all, his senses attuned to the scent of money. "How much?"
The Free Marcher reached in his trouser pocket and held out two gold coins. "Four gold. Two now, two when we safely arrive in Minrathous."
"My, my. Someone really wants to get to Tevinter." Nugsy accepted the coins and stared hard at them for a while, probably to make sure they were genuine and were not filed down. When he was satisfied, he put them away and began, "Look, we are going to get attacked at some point. No doubt about it. I just need to make sure you aren't going to stab us in the back. That's all."
The man huffed, feigning outrage, and drew a heater shield with the Inquisition heraldry. "Have you ever seen a bandit with an Inquisition shield?"
The Inquisition may be gone, but its name still carried weight among people. Nugsy smoothed his brow, held his hands up, and placated, "All right, I get it. Maker's balls, don't be so touchy."
The man harrumphed, returning the shield to his back clasp and awkwardly crossing his arms. "I am just saying, I was with the Inquisition until the end. I have only honorable intentions."
Nugsy ran his hand over his hair and emitted a low sough. "Well, I assume you've got a sword under that cloak. Let's see how honorable you are when you're faced with a dozen of the worst the Silent Plains has to offer."
The light sprinkling turned into a proper deluge by the time Cullen arrived in the outskirts of South Reach.
Under the gray sky with murmurs of thunders in the distance, South Reach seemed like a dreary little burg. One could say it was Fereldan to its very core – solemn, plain, and wet. But Cullen could not discount the disasters at the Exalted Council and the disappointments that followed as the primary reason for his initial impression of the Arling.
The land the Rutherfords tilled was beyond the gated town, on the foot of the Southron Hills, but the family lived inside the gates. Cullen supposed it was Mia's way of making sure never to get caught unawares again by darkspawn hordes. Honnleath did not have any fortifications, and look what happened. The family lost their parents.
Cullen kept losing people and things precious to him. His parents, his faith, the Inquisition, the Inquisitor… But the days of sentimentality ended once he left Skyhold. Cullen felt nothing, and he was glad for it.
On the way here, Cullen had to pass through several checkpoints scattered along the road, and the town gates were guarded as well. The Fifth Blight made all of Ferelden wary of strangers bordering on paranoid. And after years away, Cullen was, by all intents and purposes, a stranger.
But Ferelden was also known for its devotion to the Chantry. Cullen had no trouble getting through with Leliana's letter with the Divine's seal affixed on it, though it raised not a few eyebrows.
The town was certainly small. It would take no more than ten minutes to cross it even in the slowest gait. Cullen let his horse trot slowly, keeping pace with townsfolk shuffling about and observing them.
It appeared to be a market day, although the spring rain had clearly dampened the activity and enthusiasm for it. Some of the market stalls were shuttered. Some were open, but most of the owners were reclining and dozing off or fidgeting with their wares to make them somehow more attractive to potential customers. The customers who would not come in this heavy rain.
After making his way through the marketplace and passing a small chantry, the decrepitude of which seemed to indicate the town's wealth, or its lack thereof, Cullen came upon a two-story cottage. It was a cozy little place, built with timber and masonry but embellished with a cover of ivy on its front.
He tied his horse to a spindly oak in the yard and walked up to the front door. When he knocked, there was sound of quick footfalls followed by a creaking sound of the door opening.
And in front of Cullen stood Mia, graying at her temples in her middle age. The rain cooled the atmosphere, and she had a bulky shawl around her shoulders to keep her warm. Cullen looked up and down, trying to commit his older sister's image to his memory and comparing it to what he had imagined.
Mia broke out in a warm smile. Ignoring how wet his clothes were, she embraced Cullen firmly and murmured, "Hello, you. Welcome home."
Cullen thought it strange that this was ostensibly his home now, the place he could return to in order to escape the life's travails. South Reach was an unfamiliar place in a still more unfamiliar part of Ferelden. Before the Exalted Council, home had been Skyhold, where Tharin was. Home was Tharin. But the Inquisitor, much like the Inquisition, was gone. He should be grateful he was not an orphan out alone in the world.
He embraced back and susurrated, "Thanks."
The reunion with the family was awkward at first, Cullen had to admit. It had been two decades since he had last spent real time with them.
But through dinner, he told his siblings about his adventures and misadventures in the Inquisition and brought up old memories of Honnleath, and things seemed to fall into a sort of groove Cullen could work with. Mia, the stoic eldest, listened with a soft grin while Branson and Rosalie, Cullen's younger siblings, bickered with each other and added bits of colorful commentary here and there. Their spouses were friendly too, though they were busy minding the many children in the house.
One of Cullen's nephews and nieces was rambunctious indeed.
Bran Jr., named after his father and Cullen's little brother, refused to go up with other children for bedtime. In fact, he insisted Cullen tell him a bedtime story before he joined his siblings and cousins.
Cullen kept it secret from Tharin because he knew it could never be, but he adored children and wanted one of his own. But handling one was different. He was not at all used to it, and he looked to his brother for guidance. And Branson merely simpered and added, "Oh, come on. You must have something from your Commander days. Tell him a good story." He pointed. "Just not the one that would give him nightmares."
And so, he racked his brain for an appropriate tale for a little boy. After a moment, he remembered the nonsense involving a bear in the Frostback Basin. "All right. Well, I once met a bear named Storvacker down in the frigid south…"
Bran fell asleep in Cullen's hold before the story was over, and Branson brought him to bed. For a little while, Cullen was left alone in the parlor.
The fire burned merrily in the fireplace, little bits of cinder popping and crackling. He stared at it, letting his eyes blur into a vision of dancing bright colors. He kept rotating the wedding band on his left hand. Alone, lost in the pleasant drowsiness of the moment.
Until Mia was back from kitchen with two mugs of honey ginger tea.
She left his tea on the end table next to the plush armchair he was sitting in, and she sat down on the settee opposite him.
He watched her watch the fire. How funny and queer the siblings shared the same affinity. He was about to turn away and let his mind wander again when he heard Mia's soft voice.
"I hate him, you know."
"Who?"
"Your husband."
Cullen felt something rise in the back of his throat. It had been two months since the funeral, since he had last seen Tharin. He wasn't sure what to feel now. Did he feel sad because he was supposed to feel sad, thereby making it somehow less than? Or was his emotion a genuine article worthy of lofty treatments by bards and poets?
After clearing his throat, Cullen asked, "Why?"
"Because he's deserted you."
He forced a chortle. "But I'm not alone. I have you. I still have my family."
When Mia turned to him, he saw pity. He rebuked with a sharp tone, "Don't. Don't look at me like that."
Immediately, Mia lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry. I just… can't help."
Cullen took a deep inhale. Somehow, the only thing he could think to spout was the official line. "I am proud of what we achieved together. I am proud of the Inquisitor."
A divot appeared on Mia's brow. "Is that how you addressed him day to day?"
"No, of course not. But…" Cullen chewed on his lower lip. "It is all he will be remembered as now. The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor. The savior."
Mia set her mug down on the end table and leaned forward. "He was a person, not just some deity or some symbol. He was your husband. People will remember that."
Cullen let forth a hollow laugh. "I would have believed you in peacetime. But we aren't at peace. And people will miss their hero…"
"You must miss him more than anyone."
"I do."
Mia grabbed her mug and sipped. She tightened the shawl around her before finishing with a shrug, "I told you. I hate him for what he did to you."
Dust. That was what one noticed about the Silent Plains. Dust everywhere.
And the heat, its ferocity uncontested. And the sun. The rays raining down, oppressive in its constancy.
The Free Marcher had to repeatedly wipe down the grit and sweat that threatened to coat his face. Everyone in the caravan did. Even Nugsy, who had made this trip tens of times by now, seemed run down by them all.
At least the face covering helped. The bottom half of his face was unsoiled, relatively.
It was hard to tell time as they rode on. The elevated Imperial Highway seemed to stretch on forever in a straight line, and nothing in the Silent Plains moved except for the dust and nothing cast a shadow.
But the man soon learned the monotony of the Imperial Highway was much preferable to the unpredictability of the desert. There was a long section of the highway that had been destroyed, and they had to descend into the dusty plain. As soon as the caravan acclimated itself to the rocky new terrain, an arrow flew into a sack of dried beans on one of the horses.
Nugsy pointed to the distant horizon and announced, inane yet potent in volume, "Highwaymen!"
The next moment, the Free Marcher could see a cloud of dust kicked up by the highwaymen.
As they closed in, more arrows came. An errant arrow whipped past the Free Marcher's face. He leaned back in a clumsy effort to avoid it, but lost balance and fell from his horse. He landed on his back, which had his heater shield strapped to it and broke the fall. It was still painful and humiliating, but at least he did not break his back.
The man jumped up and reached for his shield.
His right hand forced his left fingers around the shield's handle one by one. Each digit seemed to resist. Unlike his right arm, his left arm was wooden in its stiffness. And the only thing it was good for was to hold onto the shield in defense. He reached for his sword when he completed the arduous struggle with his left hand.
Some in the caravan unsheathed their weapons. Some ran the opposite way. Nugsy drew his dagger. The Free Marcher was surprised since he saw the bejeweled hilt and assumed it was decorative.
The problem was, the highwaymen were still on their mounts and the Free Marcher was not. Soon, two of them surrounded him and began to circle, one with his face covered and one with a mustache. Their horses kept dashing, and the dust rendered everything a dull tone of beige.
Little flecks of dirt flew into his eyes, and they teared up. He raised his right forearm to wipe them to no avail. The pain of unending prickles worsened.
A blade suddenly appeared through the dusty haze. He ducked just in time, too close for comfort. He saw a horse's hindleg and wantonly slashed at it, causing the mount to kick up its heels. The mustachioed highwayman lost his rein and fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
Not about to miss the chance, the Free Marcher drove his sword through the man's neck. It crunched, and blood sprayed in the air, mixing with the dust.
The other one, the one whose face was covered, was a tougher opponent. He began to twirl his lasso in the air.
Panicking, the Free Marcher turned and ran. But it was a futile effort. The next moment, the lasso wrapped around his shoulders and tightened. He fell face first to the ground.
When he scrambled to a supine position, he saw the highwayman standing above him, tall and menacing. The eyes were crinkled in a murderous sneer. He drew his sword and let the tip gambol upon the man's neck.
This was it. This was his last moment. Here, in the middle of nowhere. He would die, and they would probably leave his body behind. So unceremonious and undignified.
Yet, he did not see his life flash before his eyes. The adage was wrong. The only thing he could think was how he had so many unfinished businesses, so many things left unsaid to his love.
He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the final blow. But it never came.
When he cautiously opened his eyes, he saw the highwayman gag. A large gray hand was crushing it as a crimson circle bloomed in the middle of the man's bosom.
The sticky blood began to trickle and drip on the Free Marcher, which was preferable to having the dying highwayman collapse onto him. But that was the inevitable next step.
The man could not help but utter a disgusted noise as he struggled to free himself from the lasso and pushed the highwayman's corpse off him.
A gargantuan Qunari laughed heartily. "Some moves you got there, kid." He lifted the Free Marcher from the ground with little trouble. His torso, bare except for the leather pauldrons, bulged with muscles.
The Free Marcher faltered but soon gained his footing and dusted himself. Nursing his left arm and rather peeved at the invocation of the word kid, he spat, "I am working with a crippled arm, and I took down one of them."
"And yet, you almost died."
The Free Marcher rolled his eyes.
The Qunari did not appear to mind the tetchy manner. He said, "The name's the Iron Bull," and offered his right hand.
Accepting the hand and shaking it, the Free Marcher replied, "I know. I've seen you around in the Inquisition. But it is good to finally make your acquaintance, Iron Bull. I am Rupert."
The Iron Bull emphasized, "The Iron Bull. Or just the Bull. Don't forget the all-important 'the.'"
The Free Marcher hummed and nodded. He looked around and saw the Iron Bull's companions finishing off the last of the highwaymen. Blades sunk into their flesh, and with plaintive cries, they gasped their last breaths before turning still. The caravan looked fairly unscathed, having lost mayhaps one or two members.
The Free Marcher lifted his chin toward north. "You were behind us. Are you headed to Tevinter as well?"
"Yes, to Minrathous. Me and my band of misfits here have landed ourselves a job. A long-term one." The Bull winked.
While fussing over his various merchandise loaded on the horses, Nugsy shouted, "Why don't we travel together? Safety in numbers, right?" The Free Marcher scoffed. The Iron Bull and his group may have saved them, but they knew next to nothing about these people, and Nugsy was inviting them to travel alongside. Nugsy may have been more trusting than he let on initially.
The Iron Bull broke out in a wide smile. "Good idea. Seeing as you were all terrible in the battle, why don't my Chargers take the front? So we can protect you."
The Free Marcher scowled and snorted a fake laugh.
Before leaving the site of the fight, Nugsy kicked one of the felled caravan members, the one who ran in vain, while muttering angrily, "Coward." The Free Marcher turned away and shook his head. The mundane cruelty of the world became amplified in a place where water, food, and shelter were precious commodities.
The caravan and the Chargers left the bodies of the fallen behind. The Free Marcher was correct in his assessment: had he died, his corpse would have been left out in the sun, to be picked clean by scavengers.
Despite these brutal truths and the dust that refused to rest, the Iron Bull seemed to be in a cheerful mood. In fact, he was humming a little tune to himself. The Free Marcher sidled up to him and noted without any guile, "You seem happy."
"Do I? I've got a friend I'm looking forward to seeing."
"Who?"
"Hold on, let me see if I get this right." The Bull held up his hands in an exaggerated flourish and breathed after each word, "Magister Dorian of House Pavus."
"Oh." The Free Marcher cleared his throat. "I know him too. Well, I'm related to him. We're distant cousins." He emphasized, "very, very distant. He's the one who invited me out north."
The Bull let forth a diminutive chuckle that contrasted to his hulking frame. "Well, maybe the three of us can find ourselves a cozy little pub and grab a drink when we arrive. To celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Celebrate surviving this damned place. Celebrate your new life. There must be something worth celebrating."
The Free Marcher could not help but think of one person he wanted more than anything to share celebratory drinks with, but he soon chased the thought away. "I suppose I do owe you a drink for saving my hide back there."
The Iron Bull guffawed and rapped the Free Marcher's back. "See? Now that is worth celebrating! Be warned, I can outdrink anyone."
A crooked grin surfaced on the Free Marcher's face as he droned, "I'll keep that in mind."
Sera despised Tevinter. With its rabid obsession with slavery, corruption at all levels of governance, and the general disdain toward those not Tevinter, the country had no redeeming quality about it no matter what Dorian said. That was why she was here in Minrathous, to teach the Tevene nobles a few lessons in humility and charity.
She was the founding member of the Friends of Red Jenny branch here. She managed to recruit a great many Liberati – the formerly enslaved – as well as several Soporati to the cause, and they had already wreaked a havoc upon the worst offenders of Tevene high society. Sera may or may not have been the brains behind the plot to set a pompous magister's hairpiece on fire, a distraction while the rest of the crew emptied the old geezer's coffer.
This was an improved Sera. A person who could actually think up coherent plots and execute them successfully. A person who could understand the nuances of politics and mastered the ability to stay hidden in plain sight. The years spent in the Inquisition were not in vain, apparently.
Still, she sometimes wished she could just throw bees in jars at the whole lot of them and be done with it.
Sera liked to perch on the roof of her flat and watch people pass by. Another habit she developed in the Inquisition, it was additionally helpful in watching out for Venatori or Siccari agents coming for her. Today was no exception. She sat on the tiles, munching on day-old bread and hard cheese for lunch.
Thus far, her Red Jenny managed to remain underground as to be unknown, and the day was particularly peaceful. Little fluffy clouds dotted the bluest sky, a bell tolled in the distance, and the passing crowd in the laneway was jolly. Minrathous was all jagged, ancient, tortured buildings and monuments, but there were moments of peace in which the city looked almost beautiful. Well, tolerable. And Sera was free until the evening when she was supposed to sneak into a grand estate of another magister and scout out the location.
Suddenly, there was a shriek emanating from the direction of the city gate. Sera turned sharply toward the noise and narrowed her eyes.
In a moment, she saw gray skin, horns, and a black eyepatch and felt her heart ring faster. The Iron Bull was here. She fidgeted with childlike excitement at seeing a friendly face. But of course, he stood out like a mabari's balls.
The fearful shriek had to have been because of what the Iron Bull was. A Qunari in the Imperium's capital? With the most hated enemy at the city gate, it would have been absurd to expect a Tevinter to stay calm and composed. In fact, Sera was impressed there was no immediate riot to rout the Bull and the Chargers.
But the Chargers had a company. A motley caravan of some sort, with a dwarf and a hooded figure riding in the front. It was too far to tell who they were. No matter, if they were important, then she would find out.
Sera finished the last morsel of the cheese and leapt, sliding into her window with a lithe movement of a hardened rogue. After the Inquisitor's funeral, Leliana – sorry, Divine Victoria – ordered all the companions to go their separate ways and to never stand out. Obviously because of Solas and what he was planning, they all had to keep a low profile even as they still worked together. And an elf talking to a Qunari would definitely stand out here.
Though the mere thought of a wee elf and a massive Qunari sharing a friendly, raucous conversation in the middle of a Minrathousian street as a crowd gathered to gawk amused Sera, almost but not quite enough to attempt such a feat. Sera cackled.
There were ways for Sera and the Bull to meet discreetly. She had mapped out all the nooks and crannies of this city in her head by now. And she missed the Inquisition and its people, rather more than she had thought she would. Better hurry and send one of her deputies with a message.
A friend of Red Jenny is waiting, come see her in the dark.
"Don't forget your biscuits."
Mia held out a bag of shortbread biscuits that had somehow slipped from Cullen's mind. Cullen chuckled and accepted the package, stowing it away in his rucksack.
Unlike the day he arrived, it was sunny in South Reach today. In fact, it was positively balmy. Instead of wearing his cloak, Cullen had folded and put it away along with his camping equipment and variegated rations and gifts he had accrued at the Rutherfords. His poor horse was looking quite weighed down now.
Cullen enfolded Mia in a bear hug, which Mia responded with a squeeze. He susurrated, "Thanks for everything."
"Don't forget, you always have this place to return to. Your family will always be here for you."
There was a catch in Mia's voice, and Cullen thought his voice may break too.
"I won't forget. I love you."
"I love you too." Mia let go and rubbed her eyes. They were bloodshot. She let forth a chortle and shook her head. "I know I shouldn't pry, but where are you headed?"
"To the far north, across the Minanter."
"How very informative," mumbled Mia deadpan. "That's north of the Free Marches, right?"
Cullen flashed an apologetic grin and shrugged. "Sorry. I can't be more specific. It's better you don't know."
Mia frowned. "Please write more frequently than you have been. I need to make sure you're well."
And Cullen responded with a vigorous nod. "I shall."
He hopped on his horse. He felt light. And despite his deep love for the Rutherford siblings and a wonderful new home they had built in South Reach, he felt eager to get on the road. In fact, Cullen was more excited than he had been in a long while. He was elated.
He could not wait to get started.
Onward, he galloped.
As I mentioned, this chapter is penultimate, and I will post the final chapter on Monday, January 2. See you in 2023!
I posted a new fic for Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) series. Please check it out! *FFN*/s/14171513/1/My-Worth-and-Your-Happiness or *AO3*/works/43567560