Chapter Seventeen
Wynne has left the building.
The news is disturbing and sad and Solona feels helpless when Petra tells her. She slides deeper into the cooling bath and shivers as Petra describes the way the Wardens had swept in and saved the day. Saved everyone and then ran off with Wynne and the belief that they could save the world.
Solona thinks, but what about me? Who'll save me? Wynne had represented the last bit of possible knowledge about her missing magic and she is terrified.
Petra doesn't notice that Solona's hands are shaking when she reaches for the soap. Reaches and drops it. Petra merely hands the bar back to her and keeps on explaining about the great and might Wardens.
Petra perfectly describes the almost-templar and the hard-eyed woman who'd come in with Neria. She's been back in the Tower for six hours, if that, and she misses her friend's present like she misses him. Cullen . . . or maybe Shuul. She can't place a name or a face with the unseen dread that fills her full of loss.
And Petra rambles on. Solona listens with half an ear now, her mind more focused on this issue with her magic and Irving's apparent disregard for her dilemma. Oh yes, this little gem of information had spilled forth during her less than graceful breakdown in the First Enchanter's arms. But Irving had said nothing.
He did say that they had time. Time and things to do.
Petra mentions Anders and Solona's full attention snaps back to the woman sitting next to her bath. "What did you say?"
The redhead blinks at her before her face slides into a snide laugh. "You haven't heard a thing I've said, have you?"
Solona shifts and sits up in the water. It's too cool to be comfortable and she's ready for clean clothes and a bed. "I'm a little distracted. Please, forgive me." Petra hands her a towel and she wraps up before asking again. "You said Anders. Did something happen to him?"
The dorm is empty, everyone else off and about their evening activities, when the two women enter. Solona makes a beeline for her old bunk and sinks gratefully to the mostly soft mattress. The habit is laughable. Four months on the road and she still remembers what it means to be a good apprentice. Petra sighs as she leans against the bunk.
"I heard him yelling, after you'd gone into Irving's office. The templars shut him up though and dragged him up to the fourth floor. They're keeping to themselves for the most part. Did you know that for the first time in a long time the templars outnumber the mages?"
The thought is not all that comforting. She worries the edge of the cotton towel, thinking. Petra had detailed the mages that still live. Apprentices and enchanters alike. Keili did not make it. Her circle is truly broken now, scattered and dead. "Are they allowing visitors up there? I mean, could I go see the apprentices and perhaps Anders?" She isn't sure that her voice wavers as much as she imagines it does. If she can get up to the fourth floor, Cullen will likely be there. He wasn't in the halls earlier; no one was except for Petra and the little ones.
"I don't know. You'd have to ask the First Enchanter; maybe the Knight Commander as well now that I think about it."
Solona has no wish to talk to Greagoir about anything. She still remembers with jolting clarity how it feels to have her head bounced off the flagstones. And right after an insurrection . . . she's probably one of the last people in Thedas he wants to see.
"I'm glad you survived Solona. If it hadn't been for Loghain and his men we would have won that day. You had a really good plan." Petra's voice dips at the mention of Loghain. Solona remembers that Irving had mention what happened to Petra at Ostagar.
"I'm glad you made it too. I'm sorry you ended up with his men."
The redhead shrugs and straightens. "It's no bother. A face is a face, is it not? Scars add character, so I keep hearing. The important thing is that we made it and now we're two of the most experienced Enchanters in the whole of Ferelden." Solona doesn't particularly like the pride in Petra's voice. She would rather be an apprentice, still, instead of facing the task of putting right what has been destroyed.
"I'm going to head back to the library. We've got a lot of cleaning to do and the night is still young. Get some sleep."
Solona grabs Petra's hand before the other woman can walk away. "You didn't say anything about Senior Enchanter Silas. Did he survive the uprising?" She misses her mentor. Much as she misses everyone else.
Petra cocks her head. "From what I understand he died on the way back to the Tower from Ostagar." Solona lets her hand fall back to her lap and the red-head exits.
Of course he died. Everyone has died. She doesn't even bother putting on pajamas. Hair damp, heart aching, Solona pulls back the blankets and slips underneath. Hopefully everything will look less dismal in the morning. She doesn't really think they will, but she can hope all the same.
It is hours later when she is startled awake by a sharp snort and unsteady exhale. Her eyes pop open when she registers what the sound is; someone close to her is snoring. The room is inky black and she wonders at the rarity of this. This room had always been lit, however faintly, by candles at all hours. Tonight, though, she can't see her hand as it pulls away the covers. Her feet swing to the floor and that same hand comes up to rub lightly at her forehead. She is sticky with sweat and her clammy hands do nothing for the damp skin of her face.
She had been dreaming of Ostagar. It hasn't happened often. The fact that her first night back to the Tower she can see lifeless eyes and rivers of blood even as her eyes adjust to the darkness only make her shake her head. She is not panicked, nor is she afraid of her dreams. They create a strange sort of dead space in her head that clears as the room comes into view.
The snoring man inhales deeply once more and she can see a shape now, a few rows away. The outline of the man with his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm makes her pause when she remembers she's completely naked. Were this six months ago she'd think nothing of it. The girls never really bothered with modesty, not here. Now, though, she pulls on the light sleeping gown that Petra had given her when she'd first arrived at the Apprentices Quarters after her chat with Irving.
The fabric is soft and smells dusty but its clean. Solona relishes the brush of worn cotton against her skin as she stands and stretches out her limbs. Her body still feels tired, screaming for the relief of sleep, but her mind is still running a horror show of dead soldiers.
She should eat. Food will calm her; remind her body that its safe now and she has all the time in the world to sleep and relax. Her great trials are over, so it would seem.
She has no shoes to speak of; her own vanished while she'd been in the bath along with the stained and torn robes she's worn since Ostagar. Rather, she enjoys the cool stones under her bare feet as she leaves the Quarters and makes her way to the kitchens.
The halls are dimly lit as well but the light bounces off the curves and creates a tunnel of lamination. She would know the path to the kitchens without the candles but she's grateful for the soft comfort they provide. She is used to the sounds of wildlife and the wind in the trees now. Utter silence and total darkness make her uncomfortable.
She encounters no one as she crosses the main lobby. Bran isn't posted at the door and while the pile of Templar armor remains, the Quartermaster is missing as well. She is not perturbed by these facts; it is the heavy piece of wood that bars the door that makes her pause. They are, all of them, barricaded into this building. She is grateful for the dim lighting; she can feel the dry blood, the leaking magic of it, make the air heavy with its presence. Her feet carry her faster to the side staircase and the back entrance to the kitchens on the lower level.
It's true she hasn't been down here often. The kitchen is housed two doors down from the dungeons. As a child she had been horrified at the stories the older apprentices whispered in the dark of night and when she'd finally braved the evening watch to sneak out with Jowan to filch some food they'd head the tortured screams of someone. The both of them had run all the way back up to their dorm. Jowan had held her as she had shaken until the morning and sometimes when she remembers this she realizes that he had been shaking as well. The dungeons are likely to be empty, Anders will be kept up on the fourth floor most likely so the Templars can keep a close eye on him, and she is not afraid.
Tonight - - this morning - - there are no screams and no guards and she slips into the kitchens with no problems. The place smells like bread and stew. These are a Templar's favorite things to eat she thinks. She finds a loaf and hops up on the table to partake in her impromptu meal. As she munches away, feeling not quite at peace but relaxed at long last, she contemplates.
She wants to find out what happened to Cullen. Good or bad, she needs to know. She is almost positive she loves him. She needs closure, if he didn't make it through the siege. If he did . . . she needs him. Like she needs air.
She wants to find out what's happened to her magic and how she can reverse whatever . . . this . . . is. Not only because it's really annoying to relearn how to function in the world without her gift, but also because she is nothing without magic. Every day since she was brought to this place until Ostagar has been framed and defined by her ability. Every part of her hinges on this.
She takes a particularly large bite and chews thoughtfully while allowing that thought to simmer.
She supposes that she could at least assist in research of some sort. If this state is permanent. She thinks that she'll be able to find a place.
The thought scares her almost as much as losing her magic all together. Either she's become more adaptable or else she really has just given up hope.
Neither idea is terribly comforting.
She is finishing off the last of the bread when she hears the door scrape open behind her. She glances back to see the heavy wood cracked, but nothing other than darkness beyond. "Hello?" There is no answer to her tentative call. She hadn't heard anyone approach.
She jumps off the table lightly and is turning to investigate when something large, and solid, and decidedly male impacts her side. This immense object is just outside of her vision as it grabs both of her hands and jerks them around to her back violently. She cries out. There is rope at her wrist again.
She is bound and pressed against the wood table before she really fully understands what's happening. The sharp bite of edges hurt like the rope hurts and whoever is holding her reaches up with a hand and jerks her head back by her hair. Now she screams, outraged and afraid. She struggles with the man holding her, trying to grab onto something, anything, to hurt him. She's got nails; she can draw blood even from this strange angle. The man does not wear armor but she can tell he's not wearing robes either.
She's got her fingers inches away from a fist full of private parts and about to tear his balls off when he leans his head in close and starts to speak. "I knew that you were still here, somewhere. Hiding. We're never safe; not ever so long as there's mages alive in this damned place."
Every muscle in her body freezes and her breath leaves her in one quick exhale. "Cullen?"
Behind her, the man laughs darkly. When he speaks, his voice is gravel and poison. "What did I tell you earlier about using my name? Don't ever say my name. You haven't the right, demon."
Demon?Before? What in the Fade-
"Cullen, please, stop. It's me. I'm back. I'm so glad you're all right." She wants to sob with the relief at hearing his voice. And cry out in pain as he slams her against the table again. "Stop. Cullen-"
He whirls her around, a tug and a small shove and she sprawls back on the wood now behind her. The man in front of her is Cullen. Has to be. And yet . . . she feels like she's looking at a husk of the man that she's been traveling for weeks to get back to.
Because, honestly, she's come to grips with the fact that he is the only reason she's returned.
The shadows block most of his features but there's a hunch to his posture and a quirk to his jaw line that hadn't been there when she'd left. She's processing this revelation, of the utterly baffling difference between the man in her memory and the one standing before her, when he moves.
He's quick. He's always been quick. His hands are on her shoulders, pushing her back and down down to the flagstones. He raises a palm and slams it to her forehead. The dispel that he releases tastes like acid in the back of her throat as it pulses through her but it's ineffective as she has noting that needs cleansing.
"Cullen. Stop. Please, listen to me!" Panic is making her voice raged with fear.
He blinks, looking unsure. Perhaps he's surprised his abilities have had no effect. He tries again, grinding down onto her forehead now. The pull of the skin on skin contact hurts. The second dispel comes and goes and yet she still blinks up at him, tears in her eyes.
"Please." Barely a whisper now.
Green eyes, once turned happily towards her smiling face, are wide and flighty. He looks at every corner of her countenance, checking for something. He lifts his palm and grabs roughly at her chin, turning her face from side to side. "Show yourself demon." Gravel wears down to sand and the poison of his earlier words slides towards desperation.
"I am no demon, Cullen. It's only me." She can understand something has happened. Something monumental has created a crazed man instead of the shy and earnest soul that she holds so close to her heart. "What's happened to you?"
Cullen's face twitches. His eyes finally fixate on her own and he sees her tears, her plain terror, for the first time. His mouth works to form words but is seemingly incapable. "Talk to me Cullen."
He blinks, once. Then again. And then exhales a breath he's been holding for a long minute and all of the fight drains from his body. Hands fall, he slumps back and stares. "Lona?"
She attempts a reassuring smile and a nod. "Yeah. It's me. I'm back."
He spends another long moment just looking before he's on her again, teeth nipping and lips working and she's being kissed with every ounce of the man in front of her. She snaps out of her shock and starts to respond only to have him pull back with a shake of his head. "I can't- this-" He's stuttering again. He finds her gaze once more. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I just can't-"
And she watches him stand, swift as he can, and practically fly from the room.
She sits, still tied and thoroughly confused, on the floor of the kitchen and listens to his retreating footsteps. She stays that way for many long minutes before she can feel her feet again. Before her heart stops pounding in her ears.
Solona stands, shaking on her feet. She pulls at the ropes that bind her. They are tight on her skin. Thankfully, she's in a kitchen surrounded by sharp and pointy objects. She finds a knife and through a little creative maneuvering, a pricked finger, and quite a bit of colorful language she manages to cut free.
She should have run when she had the chance. She could have helped the Hawkes. They were genuinely nice people and she's quite sure Marian might be one of the best friends she's ever made in her life. Instead, she'd done the right thing. She's stuck back in the tower with a skeleton crew of people, no magic, and a bevy of seemingly insane templars. Oh, Cullen. What happened to you?
She feels dizzy and is allowing herself a chance to recalibrate to her settings when she hears the faint shouting from the corridor. It doesn't sound like Cullen, but then again, perhaps it is him. Maybe he truly has gone off the deep end.
She allows her curiosity to lead her, carefully and mindful of her uneven mental state, through the shadows outside the door and farther away from the stairs leading upwards. Towards the dungeons.
She realizes that they are keeping people down here, which is a shudder inducing thought. As she clears the last corner leading to the holding cells, the voice becomes clear and distinctive and she almost wants to groan. Of course it'd be him.
Ands sits in a cell made entirely of bars. The cell itself resides in the center of a large room with a good fifteen feet on each side of it. The bars go to the ceiling and even though the dim lighting down here she can see that he's been stripped of everything save for a loose pair of pants and a ragged shirt. They are not the same he's been traveling in. Oh no, those rags were actually well mended in comparison to what he's currently wearing.
As she appears in the door way, his shouting ceases, something about there being a fight, and his eyes narrow. "Oh, of course it'd have to be you. Were you making all that noise?" His words sound force, strained. Difficult.
She steps closer and doesn't answer. Rather, she inspects. She could have taken Anders and disappeared. He's got enough talent in disappearing and maybe with her strange run of bizarre luck she's had recently she could have managed enough talent to keep them from getting caught.
As she sees his face up close, free from the shadows of the torches on the wall, she swears under her breath and sighs. Dark bruises are blooming from both eyes and the split lip he sports can account for a good portion of the lisping. "Worked you over pretty good huh? And not a moment of healing to spare I suppose."
A curious cold settles in her chest; it feels like resignation.
She sits down, with her back against the bars of Anders's cage and leans her head back. He joins her after a moment's hesitation, leaning beside her the other direction. "Was that you?" she turns her head and raises a single eye brow. "The shuffle I heard. Sounded painful."
She shows off the rope burn on her wrists and smiles ruefully. "Seems much has changed since I was last year. Someone got a little handsy." Her voice cracks at that last bit and she lets out a weighted sigh.
Anders cranes to see her skin and mutters something under his breath that she can't quite hear. "I wish I could help but you know how it is with mage prisons. What with the Fade all cut off and super special shackles designed to pester and irritate." He holds up his own wrists, showing off a set of manacles. They're standard templar issue and will damped even the most powerful mage.
"We should have run. I should have- I should have considered everything before I came back here."
There's surprise flashing across his face and he chuckles ruefully. He opens his mouth but her desolate expression silences him and the two sit for a very long time, both lost in their own thoughts.
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