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Interlocking

Chapter Twenty Six: Why

"There was nothing won here tonight." - Krem and Harding find each other in a world torn apart. A story told in brief glimpses.

Adamant is a hollow victory for Krem.

There is the victorious shout of the Inquisition soldiers, the slow and dying silence of arms and siege weapons, the soft, barely-there breath of relief that washes over the survivors.

But Iron Bull is gone. Lost somewhere in the Fade with the Inquisitor.

And Harding lies somewhere broken, bleeding, maybe even dead.

No. There was nothing won here tonight.

Krem is frantic as he rushes toward the temporary tent set up for the wounded. He does not even look to the dead slowly being piled on the far side of Adamant's outer courtyard. He cannot. Not yet. Not until he knows for sure that she is lost to him.

The Inquisition forces are not in disarray, but they are limping, and disheartened, and without direction when they learn of the Inquisitor's disappearance. Cullen rallies the troops as best he can, directing wounded to a makeshift tent just outside the fortress and positioning the remaining regiments around the Wardens of the inner Adamant courtyard. They can only wait in the dark, smoke-filled night for the return of their Inquisitor.

Krem cannot allow himself to think of Bull's fate. He can only take one loss at a time, or he will break. He makes his way to the healer's tent, his eyes searching the prone bodies of soldiers littering the blanketed ground, the mage healers and herbalists rushing around the wounded, milling through the thin spaces between cots and spread furs along the sand. A small, ash-covered elf rushes past him and he grabs her by the elbow, a short yelp of surprise escaping her lips as she jerks to a halt, her wide blue eyes looking up at him.

"Harding," he pants helplessly. "Scout Lieutenant Harding. Is she here?"

The elf grips a bundle of bandages to her chest and shakes her head. "I don't…"

"Is she here?" he demands, his eyes pleading on hers, his fingers unconsciously digging into her arm.

She winces slightly and points a finger across the small field of wounded. "Ask Healer Slater. He might know. Now please," she motions to the groaning man lying close by their feet, gripping his mutilated arm.

Krem swallows and releases her silently, already moving toward the other side of the tent, sifting through the rows of soldiers lying helpless and bloody around him. He finds Healer Slater kneeling, hands spread over an unconscious woman with sandy blonde hair and pale skin. Krem blinks in surprise when he realizes the woman is missing her right leg from mid-thigh down. He is flooded with a dangerous fear suddenly. The bright glow of Slater's magic rescinds from his hands as he sighs and nods to a stout dwarven man beside him. The woman is carted off and Slater stands, tiredly, achingly, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Krem makes it before the dark elven mage quickly, and Slater turns to find a long bloody gash along his arm, the dark promising bloom of a heavy bruise above his brow, the wild needy look in his eye. Before Krem can speak, the elf raises his hands as though in a surrender and addresses him. "I can't take you right now, messere. I have more pressing cases. Please, the herbalists can help with the pain until a healer is available."

Krem shakes his head quickly, his breathing labored, the throb of his own injuries distant to his mind. "Scout Harding," he begs. "Have you healed her? Is she…?" He cannot finish.

But Slater recognizes the desperate haggard look of fear in Krem's face and waves a hand to follow him, milling his way through more wounded until they reach the edge of the tent where Harding lies unconscious and blanketed on the dark sand. Krem rushes to her immediately and kneels beside her, one hand reaching into her hair, the other slowly pulling the blanket from her.

He has only a moment to breathe in quaking relief at the sight of her softly rising chest, when Slater speaks behind him. "I'm sorry."

Krem's heart stops its frantic beating. It simply stops. He is all trembling skin and deafening silence. He cannot bring words to his chapped lips, cannot stop his hand from its tight grip in her hair.

That soft and fragrant hair matted in blood and dirt and ash.

There is a sigh behind him as Slater continues, moving to walk around them and kneel on the other side of Harding. "Her scouts got her here in good time. Had they not been so quick, or had that Qunari not applied that poultice, we'd have lost her for good. But…"

Krem's eyes flicker in hesitant recognition when the elf says 'Qunari'. "What are you saying?" His words are a croak as he glances up to catch the dark elf's hazel eyes.

Slater rubs a hand along his mouth, his brows furrowed tightly. He looks down at the pale, still dwarf. "I set her leg and shoulder but she lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much."

"What are you saying?" Krem repeats, a low, threatening growl. He clenches his jaw tight as he watches the healer before him.

Slater looks back up to Krem. "I'm saying we've done all we could. It's up to her now."

Something snaps in Krem suddenly. "All you could?" His voice is a dark rumble. "All you could? And what was that?"

Slater blinks at the man before him.

Krem motions at the healer and is filled with an unknowable ache, burning and demanding and relentless. It tastes strongly of regret. "You're a mage. Heal her," he cries desperately.

Slater's eyes are soft and knowing as he watches Krem. "It is not so simple. Something happened when the Inquisitor tore open the Veil. Our magic is..." He stops momentarily, thinking of the right words to describe the recent flush of unnatural power emanating from Adamant, the churning of magic in his veins that feels both familiar and frightening. The air is tainted in dark and twisting enchantment. "It's unpredictable, hard to navigate. Something about the rift and all those sick rituals the Wardens were doing, it's affecting us here, and likely in the Fade as well." He pulls his lips into a tight frown, sighing. "There are many we cannot wake."

Krem looks down at Harding's still form. She looks so vulnerable. So lost and fragile and small.

So small that Krem fears he might break her if he should try to hold her.

A flicker of desperate thought lights inside him and he turns his eyes to Slater, his brow set, his throat tight with hopeless recklessness. "Do you need blood?" he croaks. And something in him hates that he asks it but he cannot help the words as they leave him. He thinks of haunting, frightening times of his childhood in Tevinter. Thinks of the dark and powerful magic he has witnessed when blood had splashed freely along the streets. He pulls his hand from the blanket along Harding and reaches across her form to spread his hand, palm up, toward the healer. "Take mine," he offers without hesitation.

Slater pulls his features back in disgust and righteous anger, and he must steady that ready sting of words on his tongue when he sees the dark and desolate look in Krem's gaze. The warrior's eyes shift frenziedly between his own, his brow quaking, his jaw tight, the tears hot and unrelenting. There is everything desperate and impossible and painful about this man. Slater's anger at Krem's suggestion is tempered, mildly. He clears his throat and shakes his head, his words low and regretful. "It doesn't work like that."

"Then make it work."

Slater huffs. "Were blood magic something I even considered, it would not help. It is out of our hands now."

Krem grinds his teeth in helplessness and he pulls his hand back in hollow defeat. "But…but you're a mage." He cannot seem to relinquish the thought.

Slater sighs in knowing and soft sympathy.

Krem swallows tightly. "You can do so much. Just tonight, we've seen what magic can do. It has summoned demons. It has started this war. It has torn the fucking sky open. And you're telling me it can't heal her?" Somewhere inside, Krem is dying.

Slater puts a hand to his forehead and looks once more at the face of Harding lying between them. "I'm sorry. I've done what I can. Magic cannot save her now."

"But why?" His voice is a broken plea, his eyes on Harding's face, his whole body suddenly tired and heavy and defeated. "Why? How can magic kill so many, destroy so much and yet…not be enough to save one woman? Just one woman."

Slater pushes from his kneel and stands before them. He brushes the sand from his robes and looks out across the far stretch of dying soldiers. He swallows thickly and pulls in a deep breath. "It is true in all things, magic or not, that living is never so easy as dying. We wouldn't want it so bad if it were." There is something distant and aching in his words, and Krem can do nothing but sit in painful and powerless silence. He hears the shuffle of Slater's feet as the elf moves around them to head back to the other wounded.

"Now, we can only wait," the healer offers quietly, the light hope of an empty comfort lacing his words, as his hand grips Krem's shoulder in passing, and then is gone.

Krem pulls his hands from Harding and folds them tightly together. The sky crackles with Fade-touched magic. Adamant lies in dark wreckage behind him. Everywhere there is blood and broken stone and earthly ruin. Everywhere there are the heavy sighs of the living. And the dying.

He turns his lost gaze to Harding's face.

He can only wait.

He can only wait in halting, overwhelming agony.

Krem finally lets himself break.