"He didn't know what was defeating him, but he sensed it was something he could not cope with, something that was far beyond his power to control or even at this point in time comprehend. "
Requiem for a Dream ~ Hubert Selby, Jr.
The sky was streaked with orange by the time they released Ava from the cell. The wind had died down and morning activity at the fortress was approaching a frenzied pace. Her body ached from the hunched position she had adopted for most of the night and the cold of the cell lingered even beneath her skin, as if irradiating from her bones. Seeker Pentaghast had ordered her immediate release. The templars minded her curt commands, but she could see them bristle. She had never met the Seeker up close before, despite the fact Adan often fulfilled armory requisitions for her. The woman was intimidating; she came across as impatient and unrelenting. The young guard they called Chauncey worked himself up into a dither thanks to a few glacial stares and brisk comments pointing out his ill-fitting uniform and his unfamiliarity with protocol. When she was finally brought in to speak to the Seeker, she was not sure what to expect and nervously found herself standing up as straight as she could. The Seeker asked her about the guard who had accused her; that had gotten some color to return to her cheeks. She animatedly told the Seeker about the night he'd burst into the dispensary, his reaction at her refusal to provide him what he wanted, how she had chased him away, and then how he had stalked her from the tavern, up to his tossing her over the staircase. She lied about the distance of her fall. She lied about where she had landed. So when the Seeker examined her while she asked her if she knew Cole, even going as far as describing his hat to her, she had replied honestly, albeit indirectly, with another question.
"Who is Cole?"
"So you don't remember," the Seeker exhaled. Ava didn't correct the misunderstanding.
She told her that perhaps they'd come back to talk more to her. She also told her the guard who'd accused her would be spending some time in his own cell until certain details of his story had been thoroughly examined.
"One more thing," the Seeker had called out after her. "Come tell us if you remember anything…"
Or anyone, was what she was implying.
Ava left quickly after that.
The door of the dispensary was locked and a growing pile of orders had been wedged beneath it. She dipped down and collected the bunch of papers, calculating how much of her morning routine would have to be pared down to fulfill them before flustered orderlies and aides came knocking. She reached for the heavy iron key in her robe's pocket and unlocked the door. Inside all was still. The fire had died down overnight and Adan had, as usual, left her a small stack of beakers, mixing rods, and measuring spoons to wash.
At least he held on to some hope that I'd return, she thought, contemplating the small mess of crusted, crystalized solutions clinging to the rods and beakers.
She sorted through the orders trying to decide which were the most urgent, deciding finally that none of them were life-or-death scenarios and that they would all have to wait until she had rested for at least part of the morning. Surely, Adan would understand, when—and if— he appeared. She hauled herself up to her modest bedroom, finding it quiet and gloomy as usual— the shutters boarded against the wind, the far corners housing a collection of random pieces of furniture in various states of disrepair. Her room, being one of the few on that side of the fortress the stonemasons hadn't had to repair extensively, had become a kind of repository for the odd assortment of belongings found in adjacent rooms: old crates and trunks, their padlocks rusted solid, wooden chairs with stuffed seats, their stained upholstery frayed, two armoires, their paint faded and peeling, the wood on one of them warped and a door missing on the second. The empty frame of an oval mirror acted as the lonely sentinel guarding the small cemetery of discarded objects. Ava started a fire and once it took, she made her way to her narrow bed, collapsing onto it, fully dressed. Something dug into her hip uncomfortably and she pat down her clothes for the offending item. It was the pebble, she realized, removing it from her pocket and placing it atop her nightstand. She closed her eyes and slipped into an exhausted slumber while wondering if he would come to her that morning.
Adan hadn't slept well. The pile of books next to his bed provided little distraction. He'd found himself rereading a sentence again and again, his mind chasing the tail end of worries. When the messenger finally came to him, he'd been up for an hour at least, fully washed and dressed. He'd received the news of Ava's release with silent relief, ready to shake his unease away with the unfolding of yet another day filled with requisitions, orders, and prescriptions to fill, until the messenger let slip something he had not known:
"And the man who attacked her will be held while the Guard looks into new evidence."
"What attack?" he asked, confused.
"That's all it says," the messenger confessed, showing him her note. It bore the spymaster's insignia.
An attack?
He remembered the torn hem and the disheveled figure she cut the previous night. Still, she had not confided in him.
Why didn't she tell me? he puzzled.
It nagged him the whole time he made his way from his quarters, through the maze-like stairwells and ramparts, down to the courtyard, to the dispensary. He was torn between his desire to see her, make sure she was well, and the need for an explanation and clarification.
The realization struck him, as he grasped the doorknob.
Why would she tell you anything?
You are nothing to her.
No one who matters.
He withdrew his hand as if stung and slowly began to retreat.
She can handle all the orders. I shouldn't bother her. Perhaps tomorrow, he told himself.
The unpleasant thoughts that mocked him since Haven, however, had been unleashed.
Cowardly, grotesque, weak.
He let his arms hang by his sides, defeatedly.
No one.
As he turned, he almost bumped into a young man in worn clothes, a gaunt face and the most limpid blue eyes.
"Excuse me, he apologized, edging past him, eager to lose himself in all the other matters that populated his list of tasks.
The young man observed him slip away.
I said nothing, why did I say nothing? Cole wondered, peering up at the shuttered window behind which he knew Ava rested soundly in an inky, dreamless, peaceful sleep.
He pierces himself with the sharp words and I let him twist the blade.
His eyes trailed after the fading figure of Adan.
Not rage, not pride, nor sloth, he gathered, mostly to reassure himself. Not fear, hunger, terror, envy, or despair, either.
He remembered the simple gestures that lured him out from hiding: watching her tend to the ailing and ill, threads of life fragilely tethering them to their broken and hollowed bodies, each gust of pain threatening to sever the connection; she did not shy away from them. As their bodies became hostile enclosures, as their bodies failed and evicted them, through pain and the indignity of trails of spittle, involuntarily emptied bowels, malodorous and pustulent wounds, she shepherded them to comfort, her steady hand, kind smile, reassuring voice, and infinite eyes.
No, none of those, he concluded.
He remembered the forehead against his shoulder, the delicate hand squeezing his. It had anchored him to her side, but why?
When it dawned upon him, he immediately made his way back to the main hall, panicked and uneasy.
I need Solas to help not make it so—Now.
I almost forgot one, he remembered, terrified.
Desire.