(clafount: Actually, no, she has no chapters. It was a conscious decision I made way back in the beginning, half to keep her actions unpredictable, and half because I'm not sure I could write her POV correctly. It's the same case with Sten, though he's mostly the latter.)
126. Returning Victorious (Kind of)
The first one to greet them, as they ducked through the servants' entrance of Arl Eamon's estate, was Hugo. The dog bounded up to them, painted with a combination of greens and oranges that was absolutely garish, and Percival resolved to later ask Garott what in the Maker's name the dwarf had been doing with his dog.
For now, though, they had a destination, as evidenced by the familiar weight curled up in his arms. They'd wrapped the elf in a blanket. Fin was simply too swollen to be able to fit into anything else right now.
"Hugo," Percy said. "Find Wynne." The mabari barked happily and jetted off through the estate's halls, and the four of them followed behind at a trot.
Percival himself was barely holding onto his reaction from the experience... the need to thrash and scream and kill the bastards who had done such awful things to him... but this helped. A comrade in need kept him focused and grounded.
They turned into the great hall, where their other companions appeared to be reporting to Eamon. Fergus stood off to one side, near Teagan, and Riordan... and was that Anora? Percy felt a spike of rage, but he recalled his friend in his arms, and kept control.
"You're back," Eamon said, a relieved smile breaking across his face.
Percy ignored it, more focused on the elderly mage standing near Sten and Oghren. What were they all wearing...? Ugh, no matter. "Wynne, Finian requires healing."
Wynne's brows rose, but she nodded. "Very well. Bring him to his guest room, and I will tend to him as best I can." She started off in the indicated direction without further hesitation, and Percy followed.
"Percival, we've much to discuss about the Landsmeet," Eamon said.
"Later, Eamon."
"It must be addressed as soon as-"
"Later."
"Percival, this cannot wait."
He stopped in the doorway and spun to face the older noble. "No, this cannot wait. One of my Wardens is down, Eamon, and that takes priority. Ergo, we will discuss. Politics. Later."
Not waiting for permission, he stormed down the hallway, Garott's appreciative chuckle trailing behind him. Zevran slipped ahead, helping Wynne turn down the bed that the elf had been using during his stay.
"Gently, now," Wynne said as Percival laid him upon it. She hummed thoughtfully as she took in his battered form, paying special attention to his mangled hands. Finian, for his part, reached out to Zevran, who met him halfway, and the look they shared was far too private for witnesses. After ensuring that Wynne had everything she needed, Percival left.
The others had gathered in the corridor outside: Garott, Oghren, Sten, and Morrigan. Hugo licked Percy's hand.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Can anyone explain why Anora is here and not at the palace with her father?"
Garott shrugged. "Switched sides. Again."
"'Tis apparent she did not wish to be at the mercy of her father at the moment," Morrigan corrected. "A sentiment I can certainly understand."
"As can I, given recent events." Percival sighed. "Very well, let us go discuss politics an hour after escaping prison."
"If you want, boss, I can create a distraction so you can escape."
Percival allowed a smile at Garott's offer, the tension to easing out of his limbs. "Tempting, but I'm afraid duty calls." He paused. "I think I could do with a bottle of wine, though, once this discussion with the wayward queen is over."
Garott chortled and saluted. "Coming right up." He bobbed off and Oghren trailed after him, never one to turn down a trip to the wine cellars.
"You don't trust her," Sten's voice rumbled once they had turned a corner.
Percy sighed and allowed himself to lean back against the wall. "I don't know her. Cailan was always the bright, flashy one everyone paid attention to. Anora was always much subtler, and I never paid much attention to her the few times I encountered her before."
Morrigan arched a brow knowingly.
"Come now," Percy replied to that expression. "She was the queen. Even I knew she was off limits."
"Good," Morrigan said disdainfully. "As far as I'm concerned, that woman is too crafty by half."
Percival found himself relaxing. "I find I'm rather fond of crafty women." He arched a meaningful look at her, making her scoff with little bite.
"That is because you are a fool." She paused, and a smile quirked her lips. "Although I must say I approve of the way you dismissed the old arl just now."
"He's not going to let me hear the end of it."
"No, I suspect not." Morrigan turned to him, and set about dusting off the tunic they had found for him during their escape. As she straightened his collar, she met his eyes with a meaningful look. "However he reacts, remember that you are the one in control here, not him."
"He only means to settle the civil war, Morrigan."
"All in aid of your endeavors against the Blight, which means you are in charge. What is more, you are a far better man than he." He jerked back, surprised to hear such words from her, and she tugged him back and continued fussing with his collar. "Don't fight; 'tis truth. And I will personally strike down any man who would claim differently."
The last of his tension left him under a rush of gratitude. After everything he'd done... what he'd been before and what he was now... he could not express what it meant to hear those words. "Thank you, Morrigan."
"Why thank me? 'Tis fact." She stepped back and crossed her arms, and he wondered if Sten would mind if he pinned her against the wall in front of him.
Perhaps later, over that bottle of wine. Duty first.
Percival drew himself up and took a breath. "Very well. Let us go." He started down the hallway, Morrigan and Sten in tow, to do battle against the likes of Arl Eamon.
Not for the first time, he envied Marnan, that she didn't need to deal with this anymore.