She wakes slowly, face down on a cot, and pushes herself up, wincing at the tug of bandages around her torso. The wounds are mostly healed but she feels the depth of her injury and the amount of magic that was needed to knit her back together.
Maker's breath... what happened to me?
Pushing her hair from her face, she racks her brain for her last clear memory, frowning when she can only recall the moment they had breached the lower levels and nothing after finding the rift.
She listens for panic or urgency but there is nothing but the distant crackle of a fire, the murmur of voices, and the occasional ring of metal that sounds more like a spoon clanging on the side of a pot rather than the meeting of swords.
She reaches for the clean tunic near her bed and winces as she pulls it over her head and stands slowly, closing her eyes to let the dizziness abate. The length of time it takes to do so tells her she's either been unconscious for a long time or lost a lot of blood. She attaches her spirit hilt to her waist but leaves her staff. The thought of the rough-hewn wood laying across her back does not appeal to her in the least at the moment and so she will take her chances that she is safe enough for now.
After she dresses, she pushes the tent flap open to see it is dusk (at least several hours I've been out then) and starts for the council tent. She nods at the soldiers she passes along the way, noticing that a few are steadfastly avoiding eye contact. The fifth time it happens, she becomes unsettled, her steps faltering.
What can't I remember?
"They feel shame."
Evelyn jumps, her hand going to her hilt before she recognizes Cole's flat voice. "For fuck's sake, Cole."
He blinks and looks at her, his brow pinching. "I frightened you. I am sorry."
The dizziness returns and she steps into the shadow of a tent and sits. "It's fine, Cole. You just startled me. It happens."
He doesn't bother to move with her and she catches her breath and waits for her heart to slow. "Why do they feel shame? What happened?"
Cole frowns and turns his head towards one of the soldiers who ducked away (Tennent, a former Templar) and focuses before he starts to speak in that faraway tone that tells her he is reading the man.
"What did we do to her? She kills demons and Tevinter apostates. She faced Corypheus and a dragon. And she looked at us like we were the worst of them all..."
His head swivels, locking on a new target. "Red Templars, what we did to the mages, Lord Lucius... The Order has no honor. Damn the Chantry. Damn the Circles. And damn us too."
His eyes flick over to another. "She thinks of the things she's seen and what she could have done to stop it. She was a coward."
He turns to lock in on another ex-templar but Evelyn stands, drawing his attention. "What happened after the rift, Cole?" she asks firmly.
"You almost died."
She sighs, her eyes closing with the confirmation but continues, gently. "I figured that, but I'm interested in the details. Why do they suddenly seem to be questioning the Templar Order?"
"They've had doubts. The Templars who remain with the Inquisition are the kinder ones but still believed. Now they know."
"Know what?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper (they know, they know they know).
"Her lips are bloodied from where he hit her but still he presses his mouth to hers. Scream and he'll silence her again, he smirk. Fabric rips and her Circle, already so dark, grows even dimmer."
She can only stare at him in shock, her hands coming up to cover her mouth, horrified.
They know, they know, they know, they know.
Her feet are backing her up slowly at first before she turns, winding her way between the tents, each rapid breath pulling the skin at her back. She leaves the perimeter of the camp, marching into the tree line, stumbling over tree roots in the waning light. She isn't certain of how long she walks, every time she considers stopping she doesn't.
Too close. They'll hear. They'll feel.
Until finally she is too lightheaded and she sags against a tree, the bark surprisingly smooth against her forehead. Her face twists up against the roar of emotions within her. Humiliation. Rage. Sadness. Fear. They will look at her with disgust or pity. And she just knows, he was there, the Commander.
The green grass at her feet starts to smolder, a low burning fire that spreads out from her as she releases some of the constant hold she keeps on her magic, the flame flickering with each hitch of her breath. The tears that fall from her eyes freeze against her cheeks and blue lightning ripples over her skin as her fingers press hard into the bark of the tree. She will give herself this moment to feel before she has to pack it away and reign it in. It is not fair that something that happened for a few minutes so long ago still gets to have this from her, that it still gets to take.
She stops after a few long moments, knowing any more will draw the attention of demons to her subconscious if it hasn't already. With a shaking breath, she pushes off of the tree and her hand closes into a fist, the fire and electricity snuffing out while her tears melt. Sometimes she feels both far too old and far too young for her twenty-six years and thinks she would give nearly anything for even a fleeting moment of peace to step away from the control, the decisions, the fear.
But things must be done and she has the anchor.
She needs to know what became of Samson, and what they found, if anything at the Shrine. And so she will go back (just a minute more) and join her Council (duty will be enough).
A twig snaps and she looks up. There is Cullen, his foot very deliberately pressed down onto a branch, blond hair illuminated in the increasing starlight. The faint glow of her phylactery is visible under his tunic. He looks wary, but determined.
They stare at each other while she uses the back of her hands to brush her tears away.
"I'm sorry," he says with a grimace but doesn't move closer. "We couldn't find you and Cole would only say he made things worse. Are you alright?"
"Who all knows?"
His lips thin into a line and one hand clenches at his side. "Cassandra, myself, a Healer, and the other eight Templars who were able to withstand the lyrium long enough to stay at the rift and return." He steps closer. "It was made explicitly clear they were not to speak of it to anyone."
"And you believe them?"
"I believe they will follow orders. You didn't say anything overt so they don't know for certain what you meant, but it was enough that inferences were made. Regardless, Cassandra threatened to set the lyrium in their blood aflame if they speak of it."
She nods and they are quiet for several long moments until she folds her arms tightly across her middle.
"I..." he starts then clears his throat before trying again, "The Order was supposed to be about protection. We were supposed to protect the world from nefarious magics, but we were also supposed to protect the mages. I am sorry we failed you so miserably and in every way."
"I don't want to talk about it, " she cuts him off sharply. She's afraid she'll say something so much worse right now if he continues. She is too raw, too exposed, and he confuses her far too much.
His expression is carefully neutral but he nods once. "I can go get Cassandra if you'd like, though I must warn you, she was the one that sent me."
Evelyn snorts a humorless laugh and shakes her head. "I do not wish to talk at all."
She sees him swallow. "I do want to talk to you but..." he sighs, running one hand through his hair and looks back at her. "May I-"
She is moving then, marching past him and his question dies on his lips. "Where is Samson? Was he there?" she asks, throwing the question over her shoulder as she starts back towards camp. There is a pause before she hears him pull up a step behind.
"He wasn't there." She can practically hear the snarl in his response. "But we did find the tranquil who designed his armor and we have his equipment. I'm hoping Dagna can use them to find a way to dismantle it. "
"That could work. And how are the mages?"
"Nearly all have recovered. There were only a few casualties on our side, thank the Maker."
She nods and the movement makes the forest floor undulate under her feet sending her staggering sideways in an attempt to regain her balance while spots dance before her eyes.
A large hand flattens against her stomach and the Commander uses his torso to brace her side, mindful to avoid her injuries.
"Easy," he mutters, using his free hand to brace her at her shoulder while she leans heavily on him and he squeezes it in reassurance. She wants to scream that it is not bloody fair, the way he feels like a heated brand through the thin fabric of her tunic but just remains still while she waits for the world to stop moving. It would be so easy to take these meager moments and see them as more.
And so, because she has had a particularly fucking awful day, she doesn't push him away even when the ground feels solid once more. The chest beneath her palm where she has braced herself rises and falls in what she thinks is a sigh.
"Evelyn, I would like to explain why I," he pauses, and the hand at her shoulder lifts to brush the hair at her temple, "why I am the way I am. If you do not want to hear it at this time, I'd understand, but I do owe you an explanation."
She thinks it may be easier if she does not have to look at him, if she can just let his words fall over her and then wash away to join the rest of the detritus of her disappointments.
And so, she nods.
"In Kinloch," he starts, "I was tortured by a desire demon. It would use an adolescent fascination I had with a girl, taking perfectly innocuous memories from my mind and twist the details. At first, it seemed as if these small hopes I kept close were coming true. But then there would always be a turn and then it would just be the demon, touching me, hurting me, and forcing me to do things I did not want to do.
It did this over and over again, clouding my mind so I could not tell when it pulled me into the fade or when it was actually there. I was very near mad by the time I was freed. It still stalks my dreams and sometimes I wake thinking I'll be back in Kinloch, this all just a new elaborate torture." The hand on her stomach twitches. "It is... difficult... for me to be touched since then and I am only comfortable when I am in control of any physical interactions. It's been nearly ten years and I'm not sure I'll ever be any different." He shifts away from her then and stoops so he can see into her eyes. "So yes, it is all tied up with magic and my life as a templar but it is not because you're a mage. Our, uh, time together has become important to me and I would like to keep seeing you."
He looks so earnest, she can't help but think they are the same in some ways, a little broken and very alone. No one could fault them for this though she worries she will do something terribly stupid eventually, like decide she loves him.
There are worse mistakes to make than to love, she thinks. Like her magic she will reign it in and keep it close so the extent of it is known to her and her alone.
She wants this. She wants him and any resolve she built up against this (horrendous, moronic, lovely) idea falters.
Her fingers flex where they rest over her phylactery against his chest.
"Me too," she whispers.