All Fall Down
By: SurreptitiousFox245
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or Elder Scrolls. All rights go to their respective peoples.
Quick Author's Note: I'm sorry this is late. It's been crazy, crazy hectic. I not only switched majors from history to sociology and added a criminology minor, I also found out a few weeks into this semester that I'm apparently president of my school's Model Arab League club (kind of a debate/international politics thing) and so have been...losing my mind. It's all good. Hopefully.
Anyway, this chapter was written through a block, so I'm sorry if it seems choppy or rushed or anything during certain parts. It's 3am here, so I'm almost positive I missed something while proofreading.
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter 19
"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough."
-Frank Crane
~Thedas – 9:42 Dragon~
A week passed rather uneventfully. And then two weeks, a month, two months, until you were sitting on month eight of captivity with no outward progress to show for it save some extra bruises and scrapes. You and Varric didn't know how, but Leliana had managed to set up some sort of escape plan from the outside several months back. There was no word on any other goings on of the outside word, nor when exactly this breakout was going to take place (all you got was a signal to follow from a planted guard neither of you ever saw again), and on top of that, you hadn't any idea where Solas and Blackwall were or if they had been contacted. The constant guard presence made that rather tricky. They could be dead and you'd be none the wiser.
Having been taught by Idgrod how to conduct your own interrogations from the captive's side of the table, you had expected the bi-weekly torture sessions to eventually give you some idea of what Ondolemar and Alexius were after. However, other than repeated questions by a faceless Venatori agent asking how Alan "knew about the ritual" at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, there was absolutely nothing up until they stopped bothering four months before. Ondolemar had made only a handful of appearances during your time in the chamber, and even that was only to stare impassively and to observe. What you'd extrapolated from his ramblings must have shaken him more than you thought. For all you knew, he was the one who told the interrogators to stick to the same monotonous question lest you draw secrets out of anything else. A smart move you supposed, if not utterly paranoid. It was just as well, considering their silence could tell just as much as their words.
Varric never said much about what happened when he was in those rooms other than confirm that he had been asked the same question. It didn't matter really if he preferred to fill your questioning glances with tall stories and funny anecdotes in place of answers. You let him ramble because you could tell what was done just by listening to how he moved afterwards. To a lesser extent, you could see it, and you couldn't blame him for wanting a distraction.
You may have harkened more during your time with Idgrod to use non-aggressive tactics when you had to question people, but that didn't mean you hadn't learned how to use them at all. Recognizing the marks of certain kinds of torture was a skill that didn't ever really go away. And maybe allowing the dwarf to lose himself in his stories instead of trying to figure out the nuances of this planned jailbreak you knew nothing about was irresponsible of you. Maybe coddling him as you were doing was a bit ridiculous—he was a grown adult and could take care of himself, had surely been through worse with Hawke. And besides that, it was months after they stopped taking him for interrogation, plenty of time to at least start to recover.
However, regardless of much you disliked him for apparently turning a blind eye to some of the Champion's less than savory methods, you were not as heartless as you liked people to think you were. You couldn't bring yourself to jar him back to reality, especially not after the red lyrium began growing inside his cell. With all it did to Kirkwall, seeing it had to have been rough.
Digressing, a routine of sorts had somewhat been formed with the guards. A meal was brought once a day, not the greatest quality and little more than scraps, but it was food so you and the dwarf took it without complaint. Twice a week, one of you alternately would be taken for questioning, the pattern you recognized as a Thalmor tactic based on the thinking that people tended to respond better to torture if they got some time to rest in between. Make the pain fresher by not giving them the opportunity to numb themselves to it quite so quickly. It was another psychological tactic to see on a comrade the pain that would be unavoidably inflicted on oneself. The Thalmor hadn't lost their love for mind games.
It was one of the rest days, sometime late in the afternoon, if not night perhaps. You were watching a sleeping Varric, able to sense more than see the crystals forming and growing underneath his skin. The lyrium hadn't spread to you quite yet—so far it was limited to Varric's side of the cell block, but it was only a matter of time. A part of not knowing how it would react to your physiology, to your magic, should it infect you was making the wariness of it more bitter. You were…afraid, wishing Leliana would enact her plan sooner rather than later, if only so you would be spared exposure.
And then you were guilty because why were you hoping to be spared it and not cursing the spymaster's name for failing to be quicker, for both your sakes? Physically, you may end up suffering more, you may not, but the dwarf had more scabs on his mind that red lyrium was ripping off and irritating. He arguably was suffering the worse of the draws.
Then you cursed your sympathy. Why should you care? He was associated with a person from a long list of those who were the reason why you shouldn't give a damn. You joined Idgrod because it was the right thing to do, and then Ondolemar swiftly crushed that endeavor. You went with the Sabrae clan, cared for its members like family because they had cared for you, and then Hawke turned around and slaughtered them like animals, not even giving them a proper burial. And again, you joined the Inquisition because sealing the Breach was the right thing to do. And where had that gotten you? Tossed hopelessly in a cell by a resurrected nightmare from your past you hoped to never have to face, waiting to be corrupted and able to feel the Breach expanding by the day, the only hope of stopping it probably dead...
This was what caring got you. This was what trusting got you—three walls, some bars, and little else.
"Hopes dashed, damned, decayed. Weighing the worth and wondering why it's weak." Startled at the voice coming from behind you, you scrambled around only to come face to face with a rather large hat and wide, child-like blue eyes. "But it's only lacking because you make it lacking. Your mind thinks the pain will be less that way. It isn't."
"What…?" Sputtering with your back against the bars, you conjured flames and held them ready. They were weak. Incremental as it was, you were already suffering from the collapse of the Veil, the outpouring of Aedric magic. "Who are you?"
The boy—for that was what he seemed, a boy—blinked at you like he couldn't quite understand why you were asking the question you were asking. "My name is Cole. I came to help. Your hurts are loud, lusting for closure. It's worse with the Veil sundered. I was having trouble hearing you from Therinfal, writhing in red; I didn't mean to scare you."
Now you blinked with no small level of confusion. "Therinfal? As in Templar-controlled Therinfal Redoubt? You...," and at this you grimaced as your mind tried to actually process the mess of (rather crafty) alliteration the kid was spewing, "heard me all the way from there? What are you on about? How did you even get in here?" You would have called for the guards had you not been completely revolted at the idea of asking the vile creatures for help.
"Your hurts are loud," he said again cryptically, as if the phrase was more than sufficient to explain what he needed to explain.
You scrunched your brow up. "But what...?" A crash of a door sounded from down the hall, causing you to whirl towards the end of the block in a knee-jerk reaction. Cole remained unfazed, like he had expected the noise as a draft blew pale hair into pale eyes set in a pale face. You kept your gaze on the door to the cell block, debating on whether or not to rouse Varric.
The boy across from you said simply, "They're ready."
When you turned irritably to shout at him that he wasn't making sense, you were startled to find he was...gone. You furiously rubbed at your sore eye sockets, blinking back the fuzziness and pressing your hands and legs more firmly to the flagstones. However, the space remained empty where you swore there had just been someone. That was...could that have been...? Were your eyes finally starting to completely play tricks on you now?
SLAM! The door suddenly burst open in a frenzy. Your attention was jerked away from the back wall to face the figure hurrying into the room who you could actually see, so the disappearing Cole was further made weird. Varric leaped awake with a colorful curse that you couldn't help but second. Your other senses were dulling due to both the Breach and more frequent use of your eyesight, but you probably would have been at least tentatively aware of any commotions warranting such an entrance. The two of you had already been fed for the day, and you couldn't hear a riot.
Everything quickly spiraled into more confusion when the newcomer stopped just inside the threshold to regain his bearings. The child's build was a bit slighter than you remembered and even meeker, but the daggers were the same. The red hair was the same. The countenance was the same. You shot to your feet with dizzying speed. "Will?" You were less questioning and more accusing, untrusting. Dissociated he may have been, but Varric still had presence of mind enough to pick up on this, and he defensively pulled his hands away from the cell bars accordingly.
The half-elf, however, was trembling. He didn't answer right away. Not that it mattered—after his display at the windmill, you didn't trust that any face he wore was genuine. Will was likely a slave; you didn't dispute this. But you had seen and heard of slaves going to extraordinary measures to please their masters, and playing a game with captors wasn't necessarily above their repertoire.
"I—," he floundered for a moment, tone hushed. "I know you probably don't trust me."
"Really? Whatever gave you that idea?" you grit through your teeth. Varric resigned himself to watching the spectacle with his head bobbing back and forth between the two of you. If he recognized Will from those months ago, he didn't comment on it.
The half-elf winced. "I'm sorry! Really. I didn't have a choice then, and there's not much of one now! I need you to trust me."
Coldly, you sneered, "Trust you about what?"
A scraped, bony hand shaking with either nerves or adrenalin slipped into a pocket and pulled something out in a clenched fist. Striking blue eyes were blown wide with whatever emotion was causing him to tremble as he took a few hesitant steps and offered what he was holding to you. For your part, you eyed him distrustfully. A flame was reignited and held ready in one hand, sputtering weakly, but you cautiously extended the other one to have a large, round-ish trinket dropped into your palm.
The flame cut out almost instantly as you observed what you had been given. It was a simple medallion in the shape of the Inquisition's crest, a flaming eye impaled by a sword cast in wrought iron. An identifying symbol. Your hazy eyes shot up to glower at the half-elf.
"Prowler?" Varric's voice was tentative, not wanting to interrupt but feeling your extended silence demanded it.
Will took a quick step back and nodded at you, ignoring the dwarf. "Look at the back." You flipped the heavy iron piece over and, after a few moments' scrutiny, found a small seam along the oval. Digging a chipped nail into it, you pried the back off to show a compartment within which rested a key.
A key.
A bloody key.
Your eyes shot up again to stare at the slave, this time in confusion. "What's the meaning of this?" The blood on the metal was dry and flaking, but there was no mistaking that the key had blood on it at one time. None stained the clever container save bits that had fallen off within the compartment, but it was clear the thing, marked along the top with Redcliffe's symbol, was acquired in a struggle. Will, conversely, looked nothing like he had been in one.
"It should fit the locks," Will said nervously. He was alternating his attention between your frozen form and the door as if he expected something to happen but not sure from where it would come.
"Why?"
Varric, tired of being so blatantly disregarded, reached stubby hands out to curl around his cell bars. "She's got a point, Blue-Eyes. You're with Alexius." You shot him a glare. For Gods' sakes, don't nickname the boy!
Will let out a cross between a whine and a nervous whimper. "Because your spymaster asked me to!"
You started. "Leliana?!"
"Yes!" Will looked relieved his point was beginning to come across. "Her! I was promised freedom in exchange for joining the Inquisition and getting you four out of here. I don't expect you to forgive me, but if you're going to come, we need to leave now."
"You're the signal." Realization dawned on you suddenly at Varric's little epiphany. You wanted to correct that the vanishing boy, Cole, had been the signal, but a part of you wanted to keep the blond a secret for now. An ace up your sleeve, if one would go so far as to call him that. There had obviously been some changes since you'd been gone from the outside world.
Will shuffled. "Er, yes, I suppose so. I was told to bring that to you, but we really need to get moving before the guard gets back. Your spymaster retrieved the mage and Warden already and is meeting us elsewhere." It was...such a gamble. You gripped the key tightly in your hand and studied Will carefully. His brown hair was a disheveled mess and he was wearing dirty, worn clothes typical for a slave or poorly treated servant. It was quite the contrast to the appropriated scout armor he had donned the last time you had seen the kid. He had lines on his face no child his age should ever have to earn, but there was no deception that you could see. Then again, you were essentially eleven years out of practice.
Varric sighed. "There are simpler ways to trick us." You bit your lip and gnawed on it for a minute before heaving your own breath.
Shoulders slumped, you inserted the key into the lock. A few screaming hinges later, and you and the dwarf were free of your confines, though Varric was a little...glow-y from the lyrium exposure. Damn, you thought, it looked worse up close. And resisted any of your pitiful attempts to probe it with magic.
"If this is a trap..." Threat hanging in the air, you didn't need to finish as the slave nodded vigorously his understanding. Without another word, the three of you darted out into the abandoned, crumbling hallway.
You had a distinct feeling that silence would have been preferable to the subtle humming that permeated the lyrium-infested dungeons of Redcliffe Castle. Long tendrils of angry, pulsing red crystals punched through the stones in random corners, crawled up like roots across broken flagstones, and reached into dark, abandoned cells as if searching for a corruptible presence that was no longer there. Disconcerting didn't even begin to cover how unnerving walking through those corridors was. Varric was just as affected, if not more so, and Will looked depressingly numb to the whole thing.
There were, however, no guards patrolling the hallways. You didn't know why that was, but you could hazard a guess that it was Leliana's doing. If she was involving herself directly in this jailbreak attempt, then diverting the guards away from the cells would have been the first thing she would do if total subterfuge wouldn't work. It was part of the reason why the redhead terrified you so much—diversion was exactly what you would have done in her place after buying off a few insiders to coordinate the nitty-gritty details. She thought too much like yourself for comfort.
Varric had fingers tangled around your forearm, though whether it was for stability, guidance, or reassurance, you didn't know. You had explained that with so much skin bare, you could see relatively well if you put your mind to focusing on the task and didn't need a guide, but with all this lyrium around… Varric was a strong dwarf, but even the strong had their limits. He didn't show any signs of wanting to talk, either, so you geared yourself for being the mouthpiece between the two of you. "Has anything happened since we've been here that we should know about?"
Will didn't break his stride, just scoffed in a manner surprisingly derisive for a slave. "Should know or want to know? None of it is anything you want to know."
"If we want to be able to help Leliana in any capacity on getting out of here, we should be informed," you grumbled, "pleasant truth or not."
Helping, Varric over a particularly large tendril of lyrium, you heard Will sigh from behind you. "It's bad. Very bad. Without the Herald to close the rifts, the Breach has spread a lot."
You nodded, conjuring another weak flame. "I could tell that much, it's screwing royally with my magic."
"Remind me later to ask you just how you have magic, anyway," muttered the dwarf suddenly, and you flashed him what you hoped was more of a cheeky grin and less a pained grimace. You never had explained that fully, had you?
"Didn't you know, Tethras? A magician never reveals her secrets."
Though he chuckled, his face still turned a little dark. "Yeah, I think those are what got us into this mess in the first place, Prowler." You smiled small. His point was clear—if maybe there had been better dialogue, better understanding between the Chantry and the mages, maybe there would never have been a rebellion in the first place. Then again, you were from a world where magic was just inherently understood as a natural part of things. Feared, maybe. But definitely not to the extent that it was in Thedas.
"I feel it was more miscommunication, but I digress." Nodding at Will, you let the adolescent peek cautiously around a corner before ushering you and Varric into the room beyond. "Is there anything else aside from the Breach expanding?"
Will did a cursory sweep of the room, storage by the looks of it, to ensure it was empty, and you did one of your own just to be safe. Call you paranoid. "Yeah. Empress Celene…she was assassinated, and then Orlais was invaded by a demon army." An assassination made sens—
…wait…what…?
"A demon army invaded Orlais?!" you sputtered while Varric blinked, leaned against a wall, and slid down it. "Please tell me I misheard you. You didn't just say demon army, did you?"
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, grimy face pulled into a grimace. "That was the general reaction. It was definitely a demon army, led by the Elder One. Hunker down, this is where we're meeting the others."
You answered a bit dazedly. "I'll stand, thanks. How did this Elder One get a demon army? Better yet, who the blazes is this guy?"
"I don't know," admitted the slave with now small amount of paleness to his face. "I've never seen him myself. Not a lot of people have. But I don't think he's human. At least not anymore." Not anymore? You filed that tidbit away for later contemplation.
"What's Alexius' role in all this? Or Ondolemar's?"
Will shrugged. "Puppet? Maste—er, Alexius is, at least, because of his son. The guy who looks like you, though…"
The boy suddenly looked stricken, and you took a few shuffling steps towards him. "What? What about him, Will?" Will's tongue darted out to lick his lips, a nervous gesture, and it was then that you noticed just how…lost he looked.
Varric seemed to notice it, too. "Blue-Eyes?"
"He—" A sudden, loud clanging followed by shouting stopped him before he could reply. From somewhere in his tattered clothes, he drew a rusty dagger and rushed towards a door on the other side of the room without any more prompting, nodding to a crate as he passed it. "Something happened. Your weapons are in there."
"Will!" you hissed, starting after him, but you were too late. The half-elf was already out the door and around the corner before you could take another step. Cursing under your breath about stupid suicidal teenagers, you motioned for Varric to scuttle over to the crate in question. It was one of a stack that looked reasonably defensible, so after fishing Bianca out for the dwarf, you gripped your reacquired daggers and pushed Varric to stay behind cover. You'd wonder how Will had gotten ahold of your weapons along with Solas' staff and Blackwall's shield later.
"Let's hope you haven't forgotten how to use that thing," you mumbled, perching close to the edge and peering around it precariously. Varric flashed you a halfhearted grin as he propped the crossbow's stock to level it, a sign he wasn't too sure about his aim, but was going to fight anyway. You appreciated the gesture as your own hands felt shaky holding the glass and metal pommels.
From down the hallway, there were obvious sounds of a fight, clanging of metal-on-metal, twang of a bow, war-cries. You could taste magic, both hazy, a mark of Aedric blood magic, and the earthy, aged touch you got from Solas. It hurt you to feel on top of the Breach, but some part of sensing a recognizable presence was comforting. It meant he was alive, and if he was alive, there was a good chance Blackwall was as well.
A shriek that you recognized as a terror demon (there had to be a rift nearby, or maybe the veil had just torn that much in the past months) broke the apprehensive calm before the first body, a Venatori foot soldier, stumbled into the room and dropped from an Inquisition knife to the chest. The soldier who had presumably delivered the killing blow followed quickly, torso gutted from wicked sharp claws. From there, utter chaos followed. You couldn't quite pinpoint just when you twirled your way into the fray—before or after Varric fired off his first shot? When the room was empty, or when it was so clustered with fighting bodies that you couldn't breathe without breathing on an enemy? Somewhere in between?
You lost count. A stab at a demon here, dodge a shade there. Twist, step, repeat. Battle was methodical, fluid. It was so much a part of you, this dance; you could never truly forget the steps regardless of how removed you became. Eight months locked in a cell could apparently prove that. Varric seemed much the same, if a little weak from lyrium exposure. Solas' spells felt amplified by the Breach, his staff just as graceful as before in how it swung through the air, and Blackwall's sword arm made up for in vigor what it had atrophied in strength.
Not to say the Venatori were falling easily—they weren't, and that was the problem. You, Varric, Solas, and Blackwall had no armor, neither did Will, and the Inquisition forces seemed worn down and as if they were fighting with second-hand or scavenged gear. The Tevinters on the other hand had shiny, freshly-forged, enchanted armor and blades that gleamed razor-sharp. If you had to guess, some looked Altmeri in style, so Ondolemar and what was left of the Thalmor probably had design input. Which meant that their weapons would be well-balanced, but just ever-so-slightly bottom heavy.
Ever-so-slightly, but bottom heavy enough to be exploited.
The grin that split your face with that realization was borderline feral as you went low and darted for a blood mage's knees at the last possible second. It took the man by surprise if his yell was anything to go by, and he dropped to the cracked stone with a thud! A quick flick of your left dagger slit his throat, and the unnamed Tevinter mage died before he really could register what hit him. One of his warrior allies noticed you then and tried swinging, but you used your knowledge of his sword's craftsmanship to your advantage to try twisting out of his way. One precise stab later and he dropped to join his comrade.
It took another few moments for you to register the pain. Fire racing through your veins took a few, sluggish moments to break through the barrier that was your adrenaline, but once it did, there was no denying it. You barely managed to stifle the cry of pain. Releasing your dagger and reaching down instinctively, your fingertips met metal still lodged in your side and covered in warm blood, and your eyes once you remembered to use them confirmed that a dagger you hadn't been aware of had been hacked into your abdomen just below your ribcage. How you missed the Venatori pulling it out of his belt, you would never know. How you let yourself forget you weren't wearing any armor, you would never know.
Finding a half-crumbled writing desk shoved up into a corner, you ducked behind it to nurse your wounds. Healing had always been your strongest skillset when it came to magic, but the magic wouldn't come to you. Between the Inquisition mages casting, the Venatori, and the Breach outpouring energy, you were effectively being stifled.
"Damn it," you moaned, peaking out around the desk only to pull back immediately with a yelp when you narrowly avoided getting a throwing knife to the eye. The rogue that followed it was covered head to toe in spiky, Tevinter style leathers. You could only barely make out his eyes beneath the cowl, a cold, almost soulless brown that glowed with the corruption you were beginning to think had infected everything.
He—or she, you couldn't tell—raised twin blades to strike. Your own dagger came up automatically, but the twinge in your bleeding wound caused most of the strength in the block to dissipate, and the other weapons ended up far too close to your nose for comfort. The Venatori glowered back. The two of you were hidden quite craftily between the desk and the wall. You wondered offhandedly how long it would take the others to notice you were missing. Too long.
'This is how I die,' you thought. The feeling was…detached. Maybe that was for the best. You certainly hadn't been detached when Nirn was crumbling, and that was shredding. Numb was good. It didn't hurt near as much.
SHINK! Blood dropped to the floor. For a moment, you felt a pang of satisfaction at realizing you were right—it didn't hurt, but then you noticed the eyes of your attacker again. Wide, glazed. Dead. And the rogue fell to the side in a heap.
Crouched behind your enemy was the vanishing boy from your cell, head tilted curiously and daggers posed from just yanking them out of the Venatori body. His floppy hat was more of a welcome sight than you cared to admit. "Cole?"
He didn't waste time with preamble, kneeling by your side immediately and inspecting the wound in your abdomen. "Sight and slips. You're relying too much on your eyes," he murmured, trance-like. "You don't fight like that anymore."
"What're yo—OW! Son of a…!" You screeched when, without warning, Cole swiftly grasped the dagger lodged in your skin and yanked it out with one smooth motion. Blood predictably began gushing from the wound.
You hissed through your teeth. "Smooth move! Now I'm going to bleed to death quicker!"
"Not if you focus," he insisted. "You're blocked by the Breach, but you can grasp through the magic."
Accidentally, one of Cole's hands brushed against your arm, and you jolted at the sudden wash of wrong. It was amplified, almost. Shit, what was the kid made out of? Pure magic or something? Actually, the idea wasn't half—
"Focus." His chiding sliced through your thoughts and re-centered them on the fact that you were going to bleed out if you didn't try to stop it at least. And what an embarrassing fate that would be, wouldn't it? A healer who survived the total dissolution of an entire world only to be done in by a tiny iron dagger and some blood loss? Pathetic.
It took a few tries, the effort painful but also somehow not as daunting as it was five minutes before. Soon enough, the weakest scent of burnt sugar began to emit from the stinging on your right side. A half-assed attempt at fixing it, but it would do for what you needed it to. At least you weren't bleeding out. Peering at the boy next to you, you watched a grin twitch up onto his face for a split second.
"You're welcome." His voice was airy, almost distracted. "Rest." And that was all you remembered as something gripped and pulled you down into the depths of unconsciousness.
Final Words: We have Cole! Kind of! I always was curious as to how Leliana got captured, and her trying to break the IC people who went with the Herald to Redcliffe out of the dungeons seemed like a reasonable way to go about it. Something goes wrong, they all get captured, BAM! Captured Leliana. Yay. Cole being in this was mostly me not being patient enough to wait until Haven to bring him in, so he gets a cameo here and possibly in the next chapter if I can pencil him in there. I love Cole. His speech patterns are so fun to write. So much alliteration. It's wonderful.
Anyway, I feel like this cuts off rather abruptly, but I couldn't think of any way to continue it without making it ungodly long, so I cut it here. I tried. Again, I was exhausted as I proofread this (probably not my best move), so forgive me for any errors that managed to slip their way past me. I'm sure there are probably a few.
R&R!
~SurreptitiousFox
