43: What the Eyes Can't See (Part XIII)
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."
― Emily Dickinson
On the fourth day news of the Inquisitor's arrival, announced for the following night, reached them. There still were no updates regarding the Chargers. Almira held her stubborn vigil at the gates, along with Stitches. Lord Pavus and the others had been summoned to the War Room and she wondered if engaging one's efforts and energy elsewhere would be better than remaining in that holding room, in an interminable wait…And yet, she couldn't make herself leave for more than a few moments at a time. She thought of the job she no longer had, since she hadn't reported in for several days.
"Why don't you go back to your quarters?" one of the gate guards suggested, surprised at always finding at least one of them at their relentless watch during his shifts. "The messenger already came today—nothing else will be arriving," he explained.
Stitches glanced impassively at Almira.
"Hot tea?" he suggested, ignoring the guard.
"Yes," she agreed. "I'll be right back."
The guard was wrong.
One of the captains arrived at the gate early in the evening.
"I have a report for Commander Cullen," the man said imposingly, dismounting from his horse. A soldier was dispatched towards the main hall, running as quickly as his legs could carry him.
The captain acknowledged them with a curt nod as he removed his visor and gave the reins of his horse to a groom.
"Where you riding in from?" the head guard asked.
"Gherien's Pass," the man announced.
"Isn't that where the Inquisitor is right now?" the head guard asked interestedly.
"She sent me here," he declared.
Almira sought Stitches' hand and squeezed it tightly.
They all waited in awkward silence, watching as the captain engaged in mundane tasks: he drank some water, entertained some small talk about the weather at the foot of the mountain, and little else of any interest. It felt like an eternity before Commander Cullen appeared at the gates.
"Captain Fielding," he said formally.
"Commander!" he saluted stiffly.
"Let us go somewhere we can talk,"
"No need, Commander. My message is not of a confidential nature per her Worship's instructions."
Both Almira and Stitches sat up, clasping each other's hands.
They watched as the man unfurled a sheet of parchment.
"Inquisitor Trevelyan is delaying her return to Skyhold by two days to afford members of her party time to rejoin her."
Almira leapt up, tugging Stitches' arm over her shoulder.
"She has requisitioned a healer escort to be dispatched, as there are injured."
She felt Stitches' arm tense.
"She has been contacted by the leader of the Chargers, the Iron Bull, and it is at his behest that she is delaying her arrival and requesting the healer."
Stitches smiled broadly at Almira. She felt a flutter of hope, but her worries still hadn't dissipated.
"Very well, Captain. I will make the appropriate arrangements," Commander Cullen stated.
"Does your report include a roster?" Stitches ventured.
The man bristled at being spoken to out of turn.
"It's all right; he is one of the Chargers," the Commander quickly explained, browsing over the report. "And no—it doesn't. The Inquisitor was rejoined by Blackwall and Varric and contacted by Bull…But there is nothing here regarding the Chargers other than a request for healer assistance."
Almira pat Stitches' arm. She knew he was cursing himself for not being able to be there.
"Any casualties?" he asked more directly.
"It doesn't say," the Commander told them earnestly.
Almira waited the two longest days of her life, it felt.
She leaned over the ramparts' walls, trying to look farther down the road leading up to Skyhold. The tower sentinels had told her to scram after she kept calling out to them every few minutes to ask whether they saw any activity. She found herself distracted and unable to concentrate on anything. It was just as well: she had ample time on her hands, since she was unemployed.
The activity in the tower's guard house indicated to her that something significant was unfurling beyond the fortress' walls. She raced to the ramparts once more and was able to see, in the distance, a small cloud rising over the road.
"The Inquisitor!" someone called down.
The fortress leapt into activity like a well oiled machine. As she saw riders approach ahead, the Inquisition's banners bold and clearly visible from a distance, she also saw the lines of soldiers assembling behind her in the courtyard. The riders' armor glistened in the clear sunlight, their standards bobbing alongside them like gold scepters.
Almira felt at once impatient and nervous, dreading and hoping, her senses in turmoil. It wasn't until the troops approached the gates that the soldiers barked at her to get off the ramparts and go to the courtyard like everyone else. She wouldn't be able to see anything, she fretted, skulking down the stairs.
She wouldn't be able to see him.
She hated everyone right then. More specifically, everyone who had come to gape at the Inquisitor and the soldiers arriving because she was sure they were all just there for the excitement and pageantry. She elbowed a path, jumped up and down in the crowd, her neck stretched taut and her eyes keenly seeking familiar faces. When she finally pushed herself to the front of the line, she met with mounted Inquisition soldiers, the horses snorting, raking their hooves over the cobblestone and shaking their heads, eager to be stabled after their trek up the mountain. She dove once more into the mass of people and traveled back towards the gates, towards the main courtyard. Only then did her eyes finally glimpse a familiar sight.
It was the Iron Bull—she could see his large back half covered with inky black markings as he gesticulated animatedly.
"—to the quartermaster," he completed, as she approached, her speed increasing with every step. "So just file it tomorrow and let's call it a day."
"What about our drinks?" she heard Skinner's unmistakable accent.
"In good time," Bull complained. "Give a man time to take care of his business first!"
She watched as Lord Pavus hurriedly approached the group from the opposite direction.
"And here comes the man's business," Dalish teased, and Almira heard hearty laughter erupt as Bull grumbled at them.
Almira climbed up the training ring's fence to see better. She spotted Stitches, already there, standing beside Dalish.
"If you're not going to help, you shouldn't get in the way!" she overheard her say crossly to him as he smiled knowingly. "Isn't it enough that I have to haul all this equipment, now I have to haul your incapacitated arse up the stairs?"
She winced, still searching the group, doing her headcount, her heart pounding, until her eyes rested on the familiar armor she knew so well, its wearer standing with his back turned to her.
Krem. He is alive.
She slipped down from her vantage point, her legs suddenly weak, unsteady, from the rush of emotion. Taking in a deep, shaky breath she began to maneuver through the row of people again, ignoring the protests and cries of surprise as she determinedly elbowed and pushed the bodies blocking her aside until she broke through to the front.
Krem had been speaking to someone, his brow furrowed, until he caught sight of Almira standing among the crowd. His expression softened and he excused himself. She watched with a mix of gratitude and relief as he smiled warmly at her. She noticed him glance down while reaching into his armor, in deep concentration as he appeared to be rummaging for something until he brought his hand up again.
He extended something towards her: it was the checkered cloth she had given him, billowing in the slight breeze.
Almira raced forth, crashing into him, holding him tightly to assure herself that he was real, truly there.
He came back to me. He's here. He's safe.
She felt his large arms enfold her and clasp her just as tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his face buried in her red hair; and in that way they remained, for a while, long after most people had left the courtyard.