Chapter Five
Alistair struggled to reach his wife, who was now a motionless heap on the ground.
Hundreds of thoughts passed through his mind at once, every scenario flashed in an agonizing reel, each more painful than the last. She wasn't dead, she couldn't be dead. The thought alone was enough to strike him motionless. He wanted to shout her name, shake her until her eyes opened, anything to prove those thoughts wrong. Instead, he remained knelt in the snow, his arms slack at his sides. His injuries faded into numbness.
Come on, Alistair, he thought. Move. She needs you …
Before he could gather himself enough, a furry mass had returned in front of him. The Mabari hound blocked Alistair's path to Sophie, crouched in a deadly position with his muscles tensed and ready. Gatsby, Alistair was finally able to realize, was defending Sophie from him. The hound barked viciously and snapped his jaws in the man's direction.
"Gatsby," Alistair panted, suddenly exhausted. "It's me, old mutt. Don't you remember?"
A deep growl came from the Mabari's chest, his second warning. He barely moved, staring into Alistair's eyes, waiting for him to move. There was no way the creature would allow him to come near his master. Alistair had witnessed on more than once occasion Gatsby hurl himself between Sophie and something or someone he felt was a danger to her. He would die before he allowed Sophie to come to any more harm.
"Please, Gatsby," he breathed, feeling more drained by the second. If Sophie … "Just move aside. Let me see her."
The Mabari's jaws snapped as he slowly raised his right hand. Damned warhounds. Sophie would never forgive him, but he felt all of his options leave him swiftly. As Gatsby would do anything to protect his master, Alistair would do anything to reach his wife. He quietly apologized to her and the hound before reaching for his longsword.
"A mage who uses spell to force other people to fight?" Hawke commented with a loud laugh. "Interesting strategy. Cowardly, certainly, but interesting."
The tall mage seemed to jump out of his skin. He whirled around to see a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man standing with his own mage staff in his hands. The deadly curved blade at the top of the staff reflected the glow of the mage's spell, a scythe fit for an angel of death. Fear beyond measure spiked in the man when he saw the dark-haired mage's partner, a white-haired elf that glowed a vivid blue, veins of lyrium coursing over his skin brightly.
He had yet to bother bringing his massive sword into his hands, but the mage stumbled back reflexively. The elf's eyes flared with hatred and anger, and advanced toward him.
"Why are you here?" he demanded in a steely voice.
"I—I was just passing by," the mage squeaked. His staff was no longer glowing, his spell stopped. Movement through the trees slowed. Hawke looked up to see Varric pause in his fighting stance, a look of confusion coming over him. "I meant no harm!"
"That hardly seems true," Hawke answered. "By the looks of things, you were trying to get those people to kill each other."
"They were walking into each other, so I … I suppose I—"
"Would speed up the process? Let them fight it out then take home what was left of them? Again, smart idea, but it just happens that one of those people is a friend of ours."
The mage's face went from fear to a forced smirk. His grip tightened on his staff, and the glow returned. Hawke wasn't sure if he was stalling for time or if he actually—
His thought was cut short as a quick blur came in front of him. The man barely had time to bring his staff up and block the two brilliant daggers that were directed at his head. Isabela's speed was astonishing. Hawke concentrated his thoughts, and sent them outward. His bind blast spell sent Isabela stumbling back, but the pirate recovered in less than a second. She all but disappeared in front of him before he sensed an attack to his left side. Hawke stumbled back, a gash on his arm erupting blood.
"Isabela!" he shouted, trying to get her to focus on him.
Hawke was not one to underestimate his friend. If he wasn't able to snap her out of the spell that was cast on her, it was entirely possible she would kill him.
Varric shook his head, looking in front of him. The shades seemed to flicker in his vision, like a flame from a candle. There had been four of them, occupying each of his fellow travelers. Long, grotesque arms lashed out, deep purple, almost black flesh melding into claws where a normal man would have fingers. The creatures floated above the ground with their heads hunched forward, a single bright, glowing eye glaring out from their hoods.
The dwarf was always the most unnerved when in the presence of shades. But seeing all of them falter at once was strange. Alistair had been fighting two … well, if one could consider it fighting. Maybe the king was losing his fighting skills over the years, but he seemed to be on the defense the entire exchange. A quick rhyming triplet from Bianca dropped one, but the second was looming over Alistair as he sat on his knees. He was slowly reaching for his longsword when Varric saw the shift.
The shade towering over Alistair flickered into a Mabari with black markings throughout its fur. It stood in front of a woman who was crumpled on the ground. Varric heard Alistair apologize quietly as his longsword came up. Something wasn't right here.
"Wait!" Varric called out.
Alistair paused, though he didn't take his eyes away from the Mabari. The hound did the same, a menacing growl erupting from him. Varric went to take a step forward, but was forced back as Isabela suddenly ran by. She went just beyond the trees to his right. He noticed a fully armored female dwarf leaning against the trunk of a tree, breathing heavily. Hard grunts made him look across the treeline, where he could see the Arishok swinging his sword at a red-headed dwarf, who was blocking and returning his own attacks with a gigantic hammer.
The shades had disappeared, leaving this group in their place. Maker's piss, what was going on?
"Isabela!" someone shouted. There was some urgency and surprise in the voice, but it was unmistakable.
Derric Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was on the other side of those trees.
Hawke threw a stonefist spell at Isabela to knock her to the ground. Her daggers had already met his flesh three times in mere seconds. Frankly, the man was tired of being cut open. The pirate rogue remained on the ground, a small groan escaping her. Before she gathered herself again, Hawke heard a sickening sound.
Fenris held his fist inside of the mage for a moment before spurts of blood came from his mouth, nose, and ears. The elf pulled his hand away, his claw-like gauntlet now streaked with red. Hawke was fascinated by Fenris's phasing ability, but he had to admit that witnessing it still sent cold shivers down his spine. For a moment, the mage stood on unsteady feet. He looked down to the gap in the robes, to the hole in his chest. Then he dropped to the ground, dead.
"Enough," Fenris growled.
"Thank you," Hawke sighed before walking over to his fallen friend. "Isabela? Are you all right?"
"If I wasn't feeling like … every rib was broken right now … I would swear I was dreaming," she said slowly. "Is that really you, Hawke?"
"Of course," Hawke laughed. "You know no one can impersonate me, my dear. Are you really hurt? Hold on a moment …"
A quick healing spell got Isabela sitting back up, brushing snow off of her shoulders and hair. She took Hawke's offered hand; he pulled her to her feet and into a hug. Isabela laughed and thumped her friend's back. She hit Hawke's shoulder playfully as they came apart, looking at him and Fenris, who was occupied with cleaning his gauntlet with some snow.
"The Champion of Kirkwall, in the middle of the damned mountains of Tevinter," she joked. "It must be my lucky day. Good to see you, Fenris."
"I'm glad you're all right," Fenris nodded in her direction.
"Fenris speak for he missed you, I'm sure," Hawke chuckled.
"Thought I recognized that voice!" Varric's voice practically boomed as he came through the trees, unable to contain his excitement. "Chuckles!"
"Thought I recognized that chest hair!" Hawke immediately answered. "Varric!"
The dwarf and mage hugged, laughing happily. Varric then went over and clasped hands with Fenris, who was grinning rather broadly himself.
"And Elf! What in the name of nugs are you two doing out here?" he asked.
"We should ask you the same," Hawke said.
"We're with Alistair and the Arishok," Isabela replied, suddenly remembering the rest of their party. "Are they all right? The shades—"
Varric shook his head. "Not real. Something was making us see shades. But we better go check on them."
"Wait, wait," Hawke demanded, throwing up his hands. "You mean to tell me that Isabela is willingly traveling with a Qunari? And an Arishok, on top of it? I feel like that would be on the top of the list for 'things to avoid' for you …"
"We'll explain everything later," Varric laughed. "We may need your help right now, though."
"Warden-Commander!" Sigrun called worriedly.
The dwarf pulled her helmet away and dropped it beside her. She recognized King Alistair, her commander's husband, as he sat on his knees near her, Gatsby blocking his path. The hound was blinking furiously and looked confused, but he would not move from his position. Alistair had his longsword in his right hand, preparing.
"Gatsby, stand down!" Sigrun ordered. "It's all right."
Reluctantly, the Mabari eased out of his attack stance. He huffed in Alistair's direction before turning to look at his master. Sigrun reached Sophie first, but Alistair finally shuffled to her side. The Legionnaire of the Dead dropped down beside the woman, carefully turning her onto her back. Alistair remained on Sophie's other side, searching desperately in the snow around her.
"No blood, by the looks of it," she said in an attempt to be reassuring, though her voice cracked with strain. "We need to try to get her armor off, see if … if the arrow penetrated or not. King, can you help me unstrap her gear? Just get the other side."
Alistair's hands were shaking uncontrollably and the blood from his left arm made his fingers slick and clumsy. He released a quivering breath, trying to gather his composure. Terror was racking his thoughts again; he wasn't sure he could see what was under Sophie's breastplate. A hand on his shoulder made him tense up, jerking his head up. Oghren nodded at him. A cut on his cheek oozed blood and he was slightly out of breath, but the dwarf was no worse for wear.
He gently pulled Alistair to the side to kneel next to him. Wordlessly, Sigrun and Oghren worked to remove Sophie's breastplate. Sten's large form seemed to block the snow from them as he stood behind Oghren and Alistair, his arms crossed and staring intently at the unconscious Grey Warden. Gatsby whined and sniffed at Sophie's hair before retreating. The hound began to step from right to left quickly, a panicked whimper coming from his throat.
"Calm down, boy," Alistair finally said. Gatsby whined again before plopping down on his stomach, pressing his nose to the top of Sophie's head.
Sigrun's audible hiss made his heart drop. Blood had collected within Sophie's armor, pooling on her left side where she landed. Now it leaked around Oghren and Alistair's knees, a shocking, vivid red tainting the white of the snow. Alistair fought the urge to be physically sick. Sigrun gulped air, as if she was trying to keep from doing the same. All of them had become so used to injuries and deaths over their lives, but their friends, their companions, their beloveds … seeing them in such states never made it easier.
"All right, um, Oghren," Sigrun sighed. "I need you to … to hold the arrow in place at her chest so I can pull her breastplate away. If the arrow comes up with it, it may cause even more damage."
Oghren reached underneath Sophie's breastplate, gripping the shaft of the arrow that protruded from her right side. Alistair took the left side of the armor, pulling up slowly and in time with Sigrun. Oghren's worried grunt made the two of them freeze.
"Keeps comin' up," he said shakily.
"You must cut the arrow, then," Sten offered in a clipped voice. "Here is a dagger. Cut under the plate."
The red-headed dwarf took the dagger from the Qunari, his hands slightly shaking. He quickly straightened up and went to Sophie's right side, to be nearer to the punctured wound, removing his gauntlets in the process. Alistair and Sigrun held the armor in place while Oghren slipped one hand underneath the plate. He struggled for a moment to put the shaft of the arrow between his fingers, holding it in place. After another deep breath, he slipped the blade of the dagger under his hand, beginning to cut at the thick wood.
Oghren cursed flavorfully and pulled his hand away from under the armor, fresh blood trickling from a cut on his palm.
"Blighted son-of-a-whore!" he growled.
"Hold the arrow up top, Oghren," Sigrun suggested. "It should hold steady enough, and you won't cut yourself. Just cut under the plate, but be careful of Sophie."
Ignoring the blood of his hand, Oghren reached for the shaft of the arrow sticking out above the armor. His fingers gripped it while his right hand carefully slipped the dagger blade under the breastplate. Alistair felt his stomach lurch when the first cut shifted all of their efforts. Sigrun gripped the armor tighter while it seemed like Oghren's hand was about to snap the arrow in two. After some seconds of grunting struggles, The group heard the last snap of the arrow, and Sophie's armor pulled away easily.
Sten took his dagger from Oghren as Alistair and Sigrun put the breastplate aside. The Qunari put a large finger under the Warden-Commander's nose, noticing the ashen look on her pale face. He remembered the woman as fair-skinned, but now, it lacked more color than he had seen it before. The cold air caused goosebumps to prickle over the skin where her undershirt didn't cover. A shallow puff of air met his fingers after a moment, appearing in a small hazy cloud of vapor before quickly vanishing.
"She's breathing," he said. "Lightly, but breathing."
"Is there any hope of waking her?" Alistair asked, returning to his love's side.
"With that arrow where it is, it wouldn't be a good idea," Sigrun explained quietly. "There's a strong chance her lung is punctured. If that's the case, the pain, you don't want her to be awake for."
"Do we take the thing out, then?" Oghren wondered.
"I'm not sure. I'm just not …" Sigrun stopped, putting the back of her hand up to her mouth. Her shaky breath told Alistair of the emotions she was struggling to press down. "Sophie's better at healing research than I am." She leaned over the woman, looking into her slack face. "We're going to be the end of each other, remember? You aren't allowed to leave me this way."
"She's not leaving," Alistair said with as much force as he could muster, though his voice sounded strained and weak. "She's too damn stubborn. That's part of why I fell in love with her. She never just lied down and gave up. You aren't about to start now, love."
The sound of approaching feet brought their heads up to see Varric, Isabela, Fenris, and finally Hawke come into the clearing. Alistair felt some relief as he caught sight of Hawke. It had been over two years since he had seen the man, but he knew of the stories well. The Champion of Kirkwall was a mage, a damn powerful one at that. He straightened up, looking desperately to Hawke.
"Please, help her."