Chapter Forty-Four: Dispersion and Despair

"I simply abhor long goodbyes."

Dorian's comment, though spoken quietly, drifted the whole breadth of their little group. The Inner Circle, as Peredura liked to think of them, her closest friends, advisors, comrades, and occasionally rescuers. It had been too long since they had all been together at Skyhold, fighting against Corypheus. And now, this all-too-short reunion was ending.

Peredura smiled, a little sadly, and nodded. Cullen was at her right side, their hands entwined, their wedding bands pressed together. "I don't blame you," she hummed, resting her head against his shoulder, "And yet I'm hesitating, too."

"Says the woman who disbanded the one thing that drew us all together in the first place," Varric quipped. "So, now that there's no longer an Inquisition, what are you going to do with yourself?"

Though she faced the part of the sky with The Scar along with the others, her eyes saw something else. "Cullen and I are building the Sanatorium."

"Sounds like a lot of hard work," Rainier—formerly Blackwall—hummed. "Could you use a hand?"

Cullen took in a breath and turned his head to look at the man. "Thank you, Thom, we'd appreciate that." He gave a short bark of laughter, "Actually, we'd appreciate all the help we can get. Neither one of us knows anything about building architecture, only knocking it down with, say trebuchets."

"I, erm," Rainier stole a glance at Josephine, "I have another matter to attend to first, but I could come by in a few months, help wherever I can, for a bit."

"We'll look forward to it," Peredura pulled her eyes away from The Scar to look at him and noticed something odd. "Are you blushing? It's hard to tell, beneath all that beard."

Rainier straightened his back. "It's a warm day, and like you said, I have a lot of hair on my face. Just feeling a bit flushed."

"Before this gets out of hand," Josephine stepped in, taking him by the arm, "Why don't we get going? Wouldn't want to miss our boat."

"Boat?" Varric turned to face them. "You heading home, I take it?"

Josephine nodded, "Back to Antiva. Thom's kindly offered to escort me. But if we don't leave soon for the Waking Sea, then we'll miss the ship bound for home. Peredura," she paused to give her a hug, "Keep in touch. Promise?"

"Count on it," she returned the hug just as fiercely, having to drop Cullen's hand to do so, and with only one arm, but she managed it just fine.

"Oi!" Sera perked up as Josephine and Rainier began to walk away, "If you're handin' it out, I'll take a bit of that. Don't know when I'll get another chance, righ'? To get some? Get it?"

The Red Jenny elf snorted, while the former Inquisitor elf rolled her eyes. "Sera! You're such a tease!" Yet she hugged the other just as tight as she could, and whispered into her ear, "Stay out of trouble, would you?"

Sera's snort turned into a snigger, "Where's the fun 'n tha'?"

Peredura groaned, "Fine, then, just… don't get caught?"

She pouted at her friend's comment, "Like I ever!"

Cullen cleared his throat. "That reminds me…" He made a small grimace as he went to lean against a potted plant. They watched him bend over, remove one boot, and hold it upside down. After a few shakes, something small and metal dropped out of it, and while Cullen replaced his boot, Peredura bent over to pick it up. She held it in the palm of her hand, six pieces of metal that stuck out at right angles to each other. It reminded her of the caltrops Varric taught her to deploy, though this was smaller and not sharpened and far more toylike.

"A jacks?" she wondered aloud, "Or, erm, jack, jackstone, whatever." She gestured with her hand to Cullen. "Is this why you've been limping all morning?"

He stomped his foot, settling his boot and making sure there was nothing else inside other than his foot. "Found quite the pile of those things in both my boots this morning. I thought I'd gotten them all, but I must've missed that one." He turned on his most intimidating stare at Sera. "No idea how they got there. Do you?"

Varric's chuckle saved her. "I get it! Jackboot!" He started laughing so hard, he had to brace his hands on his knees, "Oh-oh-ooo! Buttercup! That's… that was… brilliant!"

There were quite a few stifled giggles in their dwindling group, but Sera's cackle as she raced away was unrepentant.

"Oh, Sera," Peredura smiled, watching her friend slip away and round a corner and disappear from sight. "I really do hope she's more careful."

"If it's one thing I've learned," Cullen opined, "Is that girl can take care of herself."

"I should get back to work," Leliana wiped the smile from her face. "Coming, Cassandra? The Exalted Council wants to convene this afternoon to discuss the logistics of dismantling the Inquisition Forces. Since Cullen has declined to attend…"

"I'm fully retired," he held up his hands, palms outwards, taking half a step back as if he felt the need to also physically distance himself from any responsibility, "As is Peredura. I'm sure Cassandra is more than capable of advising on military matters."

Her eyes narrowed, but as she couldn't find anything amiss or insulting with his statement, she decided to incline her head. "Then I will also say goodbye. I will miss you, Peredura."

"Oh, Cassandra, I'll miss you, too. But you promised to come visit us, right?" She wrapped her arm around the older woman, giving yet another hug.

"This time, next year," Cassandra affirmed, but returned the embrace. Next she stepped up to Cullen and held out her hand. "You owe me."

Cullen swallowed, feeling her hand tighten just a little shy of painful. "Again, it would seem," he agreed, remembering how she had not only kept his secret when he first tried to wean himself off of lyrium, but how she had watched him for any signs that his mind was slipping. He squeezed back, not too much, but enough to let her know her message had been received.

"Goodbye, my dear," Vivienne, too, was hugging Peredura. "Remember, chin up. Posture. Speak clearly and confidently, and others will follow you."

"I won't be leading anyone any longer, Vivienne," she shook her head.

The mage gently touched her chin, lifting her face, staring into soft brown eyes that were beginning to water, "Do it anyway. It keeps you youthful and pretty."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come with me to Kirkwall?" Varric offered to Vivienne, "As Viscount, I could pull a few strings, call in a few favors, sweeten the deal…"

Vivienne laughed, effectively cutting him off, "As I said before, thank you for the offer, but no. I'll have enough on my hands already, what with the Inquisition disbanding, and finding a place for all the mages who had joined us. Besides, you already have that apostate mage on your staff. Goodbye, everyone."

"Goodbye. What apostate mage is she referring to?" Peredura rounded on Varric next.

"Hawke," he answered with a bright grin, "Who else?"

"So, you're headed back to Kirkwall, then?" Cullen asked.

The dwarf nodded, "Heading back by ship, like Josephine, but mine won't sail for a few days, yet. You know, you two could come visit, before heading off to your secluded love nest."

"It's not a love nest," he ground out, but Peredura giggled.

"What about you, Kid?" Varric turned to Cole next. "Where are you heading off to? If you've got no other place to go, you could always hang out with me in Kirkwall for a time."

"I think Varric's starting to feel lonely already, trying to get someone to go with him," Peredura's whisper was for Cullen's ears only.

"I… I don't think I'm meant to stay…" Cole's face disappeared completely beneath the brim of his hat. "I am grateful for all my experiences here, and I will never forget them or you," the brim lifted the slightest bit, and Peredura was sure she could see his eyes glowing from within the shadows, "But pain is coming. Great pain. I… feel I should be where I'll be needed most."

She reached out to set her hand on his upper arm. "Stay, Cole. Just for a few more days, until Varric leaves for Kirkwall, and Cullen and I leave for Ferelden. I'm…" she sniffed, "I'm not ready to forget you, just yet."

He returned the gesture, his pale fingers shaking slightly as they brushed her folded sleeve. "You won't forget me. None of you will. I'm always here," his hand moved to hover directly over her heart, "When I'm needed."

Then he turned away and was gone.

Varric blinked, staring at the spot where the Kid had been standing just a moment before. "How does he do that?"

"He can still make himself noticeable, or unremarkable, as he wishes," she shrugged. "I don't think he's gone yet, not completely, but he senses it is time. Speaking of which," she looked over her shoulder at Dorian, "Didn't someone say something about hating long goodbyes? And yet he's still hanging around?"

Dorian returned her look, deadpan, and kept the embarrassment from his features. "I was making my farewells, but then everyone else jumped up and started leaving, cutting off my grand speech and epic exit. Ah, well, such is life."

"You could always give your speech now," Iron Bull offered.

"No point," he responded, "Too small of an audience, now. No, I'm afraid you'll never know the empty pledges I was about to make, the angsty longing, the dashing and never-to-be-forgotten smile, the twirling of my robes as I spun away…" he ended in a sigh. "All my plans, all for naught."

Cullen stared at him a moment, then gave up and shook his head. "I'll never understand…"

"Come on," Bull strode up to Peredura and wrapped his muscled arms around her, "Everyone else is getting hugs. I want one, too."

She returned it gladly, telling herself she wasn't hiding her face in his massive chest until she got her emotions under control. "I've saved the biggest hug for you."

"What, not for me?" Dorian claimed her next. "After all we've been through? All the secrets and planning and advice and heart-rending…"

She laughed, "Yes, all right, I'll admit it," she looked him in the eyes as he pulled away. "I'd have never have gotten anywhere with Cullen if it hadn't been for all your help. Thank you, Dorian."

He winked at her. "Don't mention it. And by that I mean…"

"By that you mean mention it every chance I get," she rolled her eyes, "To everyone I meet. Get going, you oaf! Before you make me cry." She shoved at him, then made a swipe at her eyes.

Dorian laughed, but there was a bit of moisture in the corner of his eye as well. "I'm off! If you ever find yourself in Tevinter… well, you know the rest." He turned away, his robes spinning dramatically, and waved a hand behind as he walked off.

"Hey, Vint," Bull called, jogging a few steps to catch up with him, "Um, my Chargers and I could offer you safe passage to the Tevinter border, if you're, erm, heading out over land, that is."

Varric chuckled, watching them leave, "Who do they think they're kidding?"

"No one," Cullen answered, "But one must keep up appearances, at least until one can make things official," he looked slyly at Peredura.

She blushed.

Varric missed their exchange, watching the two star-crossed lovers depart. "I think that's one relationship that can never be 'official.' Think of the scandal. So!" He clapped his hands and turned back to the last two. "Anyone fancy a round or two down at the tavern? Maybe a couple of hands of Wicked Grace?I do have a few days to kill, before I have to leave for Kirkwall."

Cullen sighed, thinking he would like nothing better than to leave with Peredura right away, like everyone else, before something came up, or they got roped back into the Exalted Council, or some other mishap could befall them. Yet one look at her face, at the large brown eyes swimming with unshed tears, at the swollen redness of her lower lip, at the slight trembling of her shoulders, and he knew they were going to be spending the rest of the day in the tavern.

He sighed again and gestured to the dwarf, "First round's on you."

"Devensport has taken the Honor Guard back to Skyhold in preparation for disbanding them," Abbets reported. Suddenly he stopped and tilted his head, his hand toying with the mug of ale before him. "Seems strange, now—suppose they're no longer the 'Honor Guard,' are they?"

Peredura shook her head from where she sat next to Cullen. It was a few days after the annulment of the Inquisition, and every day she and Cullen could be found at the tavern with Varric—only in part to spend time with their friend; the other part to stay as far away from the Grand Council as possible so as not to become sucked back in. Today, though, their group was slightly larger with Abbets, Fergus, and Delonce joining them. Fear, unfortunately, had been relegated to the front porch, as the barkeeper couldn't tell a Mabari from a mutt. "No," she answered Abbets' question, "Or rather, yes, they are no longer my Honor Guard. But I'm still hoping some of them can be Templars again?" She lifted her voice at the end, making the hope a question, as she looked across the table at Delonce.

"Some of us already have, Madam Inquisitor… erm, I mean, Peredura." Now it was Delonce's turn to shake her head. "Excuse me, but it's going to be hard to get used to using your name, rather than your former title. Sure, there are going to be a lot more returning now, all wanting to come back, all at once," she leaned in, "But we do need every hand we can get. I think most of them who want to return, will be allowed back in. The trouble will be processing so many at once. The paperwork will be a nightmare!" She looked askance at Cullen. "We could use someone who is experienced, say, someone who loves reading reports. And organizing them. And whose office door is always open. And is a workaholic. And never sleeps, or if he does, he sleeps standing up."

Cullen was shaking his head before she ever got going. "No."

She shrugged, unrepentant, "I had to try. No, honestly, I really did have to try. The Knight-Vigilant knows of your reputation, Command…er, um, Cullen. He made me swear to extend an offer to you. Not as a Templar," she lifted a hand before he could retort again, "I know you've left that life behind you. But even as a civilian, working with us, figuring out the logistics as you did when the Inquisition was first formed and then started to grow…"

"No," he repeated. "Tell the Knight-Vigilant I'm flattered by the offer," he looked at Peredura by his side, his left side, and took her hand in his, "But I'm spoken for. And I have my sanatorium to establish."

"Of course," she inclined her head.

"You could take Fergus with you," Abbets offered. "He's fairly good with the books."

Fergus' face started to heat up, and Varric had to step in. "Not too bad an attempt, there, Abbets," his voice was slightly muffled by his mug as he took a sip. "Only a little heavy handed."

Delonce, sitting next to Fergus, could feel the heat boiling off of him. She kept her gaze studiously focused on the table, exactly as Fergus, as fearful of catching his gaze as he was of hers. "I wouldn't say no," she offered as a balm, "To any help we can get. But, well, I thought you'd rather stay with Com… um, Cullen. Help others who are no longer… Templars." Now it was her turn to burn bright red.

"It's a bit more than that," he answered, speaking down into his mug, "And yet, it is simply just that. If you can follow that."

She peeked out of the corner of her eye at him, and a small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. "Sometimes, it just works out that way. Not really what we'd like, but probably for the best."

He nodded, letting out something that was part a deep breath, and part a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I figured it would be." He took a healthy swallow of his mead.

"Well, um" Peredura hummed, kind of at a loss, thinking that Delonce and Fergus had sort of been talking about something other than Templars returning to the Order. Knowing whatever it was that it was none of their business, and wanting to change the subject, she turned to the man on her left and asked, "Varric, have any plans for Kirkwall?"

"What?" he blinked, but his quick mind caught up with her change of topic. "Oh, no, I don't. But Hawke does. Tons of them. In fact, he's probably started on a few while I've been away. Sooner I get back, the better. You know what a mess of things he can make."

"I most certainly do," Cullen finished his mug. "Gave me quite a few headaches, those years spent in Kirkwall. Always knew if Hawke or one of his companions showed up, trouble wasn't far behind."

"Or it had already happened," Varric confirmed. He finished his own mug and set it down with authority. "There. That's it. Time I get going."

Peredura turned mournful eyes at her untouched tankard. She supposed it had been a bit of a rebellion on her part, not drinking her ale, as if she could keep everyone there until she finished. But Varric's departure wasn't up to her, or her drink, but up to the time of day and the schedule of the coachman. She sighed, finally touching her mug but only to push it away. "This really sucks."

"All good things must come to an end, Snowdrop," Varric stood and walked over to her. "Bad things, too, if you think about it. But I'll tell you what," he set a hand on her shoulder, a warm and comforting weight, "I could simply leave. Now. Walk out that door behind you while your back is turned and you'd never have to see me go." He felt her shoulder lift and fall with her heavy sigh.

"Cassandra was the first," she said quietly, her voice thick with unshed tears. "The first person I met. Then I noticed the guards behind her, Abbets and Devensport. But you," her eyes lifted up to slip a watery look at him over the top of her shoulder, "You and Solas and Cassandra," her voice choked for a second, "You three were… my first… companions…"

"Ah, shit," Varric sighed, seeing her completely break down, "I can't bear to see a girl cry." He wrapped his arms around her, easier since she had remained sitting, and endured a few moments of her sobbing against his chest. He caught Cullen's eye and quipped, "You got this?"

"I do." In one fluid motion, Cullen stood and pulled Peredura from Varric's embrace into one of his own. He set a chaste kiss on her temple and coaxed, "Come, my love. Dry your eyes. It'll be all right."

"Oh, I'm fine," she sniffed and leaned back, only a little bit because she really wanted to remain close to Cullen's supportive warmth. She set her shoulder against his chest and brought her arm around to dab at her eyes with her sleeve. "Don't know why I've been so emotional lately…"

"I can think of quite a few good reasons," Varric started ticking off on his fingers, "You've nearly died, you lost a hand, you survived an epic battle, all your closest friends have left…"

"Not helping," Cullen shook his head.

Peredura gave a small sound, something close to a laugh, but not quite there yet, "Actually, that does help. I suppose I do have a reason or two to be upset. All right, that's enough of that. Come on, everyone, let's escort Varric to the stables, so he can catch his carriage to the port." She gave one final swipe at the tears and marched towards the door, confident the rest would follow, as always, as if she was still the Inquisitor.

Outside the sun was bright, the street was crowded, and Fear gave a happy bark of welcome. Peredura bent over her hound, forcing the tears back, as she absently scratched behind Fear's ear. She needed just one moment more to get herself under control, and her four-legged companion's presence was always a great help in that department.

Behind her she could hear Cullen's somewhat exasperated breath and could imagine the twitching eyebrow and slightly curled lip as he voiced his disapproval. "Varric, you really have an uncanny talent for picking the seediest taverns to stay at in any city." He took a deep breath and turned around, trying to catch sight of a familiar landmark. "I really cannot get my bearings. Which way is it to the stables?"

"It's not a talent," Varric responded, sounding slightly annoyed or insulted, "But a necessity. At least it was a necessity, when I was younger and in need of a broader variety of 'friends' to help with… shall we say… unique circumstances."

"You mean Hawke and his companions," Cullen responded dryly, "Who all were they, now? An apostate mage, a Dalish mage, a Chantry Brother, a runaway slave, a shipless pirate, a spritely lockpick, oh—mustn't forget the Captain of the City Guard…"

Varric laughed, his smile broadening with memories, "Yeah, we were a motley crew. Kinda like another tight knit group we both were recently a part of…?"

Now it was Peredura's turn to laugh as she stood up from her hound. "That doesn't help your cause, Varric; you're the common denominator of both groups."

He shrugged, a little cocky, "As I was saying, I've always felt it's a good idea not to limit my options, to have lots of different kinds of 'friends,' then I'm sure to know someone who can help, whatever may happen."

"Do you happen to know a cartographer?" Cullen challenged, "Or perhaps a tour guide? I honestly cannot tell which way it is to the stables."

"Ho, ho, ho," he gave a mocking laugh in response, "Curly does have sense of humor. At least," he peered up into Cullen's deadly serious face, "I… think… you were making a joke. Ahem, anyway, it's not really all that far," he looked away to point down a side street.

Soon as he did so, Peredura had a clear view of Cullen's face and could see a very minimal wink directed her way. She turned away quickly to look in the direction the dwarf was pointing, hoping to keep the humor from her own features.

"We head down that way until we reach the side street there," Varric continued, obviously to the exchange behind him, "It's a shortcut I scouted out the other day. Less crowded, less businesses, and pretty much runs straight to the stables. The residents are kind of, well…" he shrugged, "Not the most friendly, but not very inquisitive, either."

"We aren't doing anything clandestine, are we?" Abbets' voice was tinged with disapproval.

Varric chuckled, "No, but, ya know, force of habit. I just like quiet, unobtrusive places without nosy neighbors poking into my business."

"We should get going, now that we know the way," Peredura spoke before anyone else could continue the discussion, "Come, Fear, walk beside me."

The Mabari needed no further prompting, his big, dopey face and lolling tongue looking up adoringly at her. When her steps started, so did his, paced perfectly to match her stride. Varric moved to walk on the other side of the hound, smiling a little to himself, and Cullen to the other side of Peredura. The last three followed behind a pace or two, more out of habit than any sort of need for security. Those three had been part of her Honor Guard, had kept watch over her, had protected her—those actions remained so deeply ingrained it was second nature to assume those positions.

Even with those three alert, even with Cullen and Fear and Varric flanking her, she never saw the ambush coming.

No one did.

The little group turned onto the side street, which was practically deserted as Varric had promised, and the dwarf's voice echoed a little bit as he made small talk to try to lighten the mood. "Hey, Curly, speaking of Hawke and his companions, remember the time when Hawke and Fenris found you loitering outside the Blooming Rose…"

"What's the Blooming Rose?" Peredura asked, eagerly seizing on a fresh conversation, especially one that sounded like it would turn into one of Varric's stories.

"A brothel," Cullen answered, his teeth clenched, "Back in Kirkwall…"

Nope, nobody saw it coming.

Fergus was the last to feel it, his steps just that bit slower than the rest, his heart still breaking over the loss of Aribelle. He had hoped, somehow, that they could have found a way to make things work between them, but it was apparent now that whatever he felt towards her, she did not feel the same, or at least not to the same depths as he. His toe scuffed a pebble, sending it skittering down the street ahead of them and into… a cloud of darkness?! His eyes lifted up, seeing the bodiless mass coming straight for them. He shouted a warning, too late it would seem, as the utter blackness came at them from the side, a blast of magic that engulfed Peredura and the others first, then Delonce and Abbets.

"Shit!" he cried, absurdly thinking to himself that 'shit' was an odd battlecry. The next moment he drew his sword and stepped forward, intending to rush towards the source of the power, at an angle to the funnel of blackness to remain outside and untouched by the magic. His aim was true, and within two steps he came close enough to the source to see the Mage. Then the sunlight glinted off an arm of steel, swinging directly at him. He didn't even have time to think as he ducked, the sword passing through the air where his head had been merely a heartbeat before.

"Shit!"

Instinct and training kicked in, fueled with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Of course the Mage hadn't come alone, bringing muscle to protect him while he focused on his spell. Fergus cursed his single-minded tunnel vision and turned to face the closer threat. The attacker was a mercenary, her armor without badge or uniform, but her weapons were clean and well cared for. Not wearing armor himself, Fergus knew he would be in trouble if he tried to fight her on his own, but he had no choice. He raised his sword just in time to block another swing, and had to quickly lean back and out of the way of a gauntleted fist aiming for his jaw. He spun, ducking, and swung his sword at her legs, hitting her just below the back of the knee. He had meant to slice into the joint, where there wasn't anything protecting the flesh but heavy leather, but instead hit the armor over her calf. The impact was jarring, sending a shockwave up his arm that almost made him drop his weapon. The blow, however, was heavy enough to stagger his opponent and put her off balance, allowing him time to step back and regain his own footing.

This will take too long, he thought to himself—this was taking too long! He needed help with her, but he also couldn't get the others out of the black void on his own. He parried another series of strikes, trying not to fall for the rhythm she was lulling him into, and looked around for anyone, anything that could help him.

Then, miraculously, the funnel of black began to break up. It started to waver, shimmer like a heatwave, before chunks and tears began to fall away from it. "Yes!" Fergus cheered, already knowing in his heart he'd see Delonce at the center of the disruption—she was the only one of them taking lyrium, after all, the only one who was a Templar. The only one who could defy magic. As the black fell away, her figure emerged, standing straight with her feet braced solidly on the roadway, her hair caught by a breeze while her helmet rocked off to the side, as if she had just flung it away. In her hands she held her sword, the tip firmly planted between the cobblestones, the crossbars set squarely at the mage. Her expression was of towering ire, her eyes hard as flint, as her Templar power pushed and broke the Mage's connection to the Fade.

Fergus had been distracted too long. He didn't so much feel the slice as he felt the blow, heavy against his shoulder, staggering, sending him pitching face first onto the street. He tried to keep his feet, but Delonce's helmet was in his way and, tripping over the cast aside armor, he fell into her. She tried to keep her footing, her focus, gritting her teeth with the effort hard enough to crack. Abbets emerged from the black, followed quickly by Fear, then the others. She couldn't spare a sigh of relief yet, being only one Templar against the Mage—Blessed Andraste, please let there be only one Mage. With a feral snarl she put all her faith into one last push…!

Cullen found himself no longer engulfed by the senseless void. Immediately he reached out, searching for Peredura. They had been stupid. They all had been stupid and wrong and presumptuous. And he, his last act as Commander of the Inquisition, he had sent all her Honor Guard away. His groping fingers found her, a hip or a thigh he wasn't sure, but he grabbed her and rolled her and pulled her against him. He found her shoulders and sat her up, giving her a bit of a shake to make sure she was aware, and ordered, "Stay with me!"

Varric cursed, thinking of how his one-of-a-kind, faithful Bianca, had been sent ahead to the stables along with the rest of his luggage, undoubtedly already stowed on the carriage. He wasn't defenseless, however, and drew a pair of knives from his belt. He turned just in time to see a mercenary, sword raised, about to swing down on Delonce, Fergus tangling her feet and her focus on the Mage so she couldn't step away, she could't defend herself. He brought his hand back, thinking to throw one of his knives at the mercenary, when a knife suddenly appeared from a slightly different angle. The deadly projectile buried itself hilt deep in the mercenary's neck. Blood seeped out around the wound, but when the mercenary pulled the knife free, her blood pounded out freely with each heartbeat. Varric supposed it truly didn't matter whether or not the mercenary had pulled the knife out, as she was undoubtedly bleeding internally as well as externally and in a few moments would be just as dead. Dismissing her, he turned to look at Peredura, wanting to congratulate her on the excellent throw, but instead his eyes swept past where she and Cullen were crouched to the two men rushing at them from behind.

"Shit!"

Fergus wanted to laugh, thinking Varric's unorthodox war cry sounded familiar, but he was just beginning to feel the wound in his shoulder. He rolled away from Delonce's feet and groped for his sword, thinking he needed to stand if he was to be of any use.

Cullen was holding Peredura fast in front of himself while looking around, trying to take stock of the situation. Varric's curse drew his gaze in that direction just in time to see two more mercenaries coming up from behind Varric and Abbets, and shouted his own warning, "Behind!"

Peredura, her arm still extended after her throw, saw the archer behind Delonce aiming at their group. "Fear!" she commanded, pointing with her raised arm, praying her Mabari would understand which direction she wanted him to take.

A sword descended.

A knife was thrown.

An arrow was shot.

Everything happened at once.

Cullen saw the knife leave Varric's hand, saw that the trajectory it would take would be over their heads, and instinctively—without having to spare the time to reason it out—he knew there was more danger behind him. He grabbed Peredura again, wrapping her up in his arms, pulling them down to the cobblestones and spinning their bodies away from the threat.

Abbets heard his former commander's warning, his hand already reaching for his sword as he stood and spun in one fluid motion, a maneuver so ingrained that it belied his age, and raised the metal just in time to block the swing at Varric's skull.

Fear bounded, no more than three times, his massive and powerful body easily covering the distance to the archer. Too late to stop the arrow, he trusted his partners to fate and focused on his mission. On the fourth stride he leaped, over one hundred pounds of muscle and fangs and nails arching through the air. The archer didn't have time to move away before Fear took him.

Fergus, from his prone position, saw the archer and knew he had aimed for Delonce, the most obvious threat to the Mage, the mercenaries' employer. He couldn't stop the arrow, but he could stop her. He swung out his good arm and struck the flat of her sword, knocking it out of her hands. She staggered, not enough to fall but enough that the arrow missed her head. Before he could feel any sort of relief over saving her life, the blackness was back.

This time, he was inside the black. The silence was deafening, the lack of touch disorienting. He groped as if without hands, yet trying to find something, someone, anything to hold on to, anything to keep himself from being sucked into the vacuum of nothingness. He filled his lungs, trying to convince himself there was still air to breathe, and opened his mouth to scream. He had to have made a noise, he was almost sure of it, but no sound penetrated the black, not even his own.

He finally found something, the black coming and going in waves. He reasoned he had to be on the edge of the spell and continued to press forward, ignoring the pain that was beginning to sear the back of his shoulder as sensation began to return. He pushed himself further, reaching, searching, trying to find purchase on whatever it was he had found, straining to keep it from slipping from his grasp. The black simmered off, away from him, and he gasped, suddenly finding himself in the bright daylight.

And Delonce's lyrium kit in his hands.

He had no idea how he had found it, whether the Maker had divinely chosen to intervene or some random chance had knocked it free of Delonce's belt, but regardless it was in his hands. And he knew what was inside. And he knew how to use it.

His fingers thumbed open the clasp, not knowing if he'd be given the time to prepare a dose but knowing he had to try. Seeing inside, however, gave him yet another reason to love Delonce. Always one who liked to be prepared, she had a couple doses already mixed up, prepped, ready to use, just unstopper the vial and down the contents. He did just that, unthinkingly—after all, he had once been a Templar. He had once guarded Mages from themselves. He had once wielded power to sever their connections to the Fade.

The blue liquid spilled into his mouth, tasting of metals and mines and deep earth. Yet for all the heaviness of its origins, it was cool within his throat, cool and light, sweeping down his esophagus like a sea breeze. He imagined he could feel it hitting his stomach, rich and strong like a brandy, mixing with the ale he had recently ingested, roiling and surging and absorbing itself into his bloodstream…

It hit his system like a bolt of lightning, making him gasp and his body spasm with the surge. Immediately his eyes flashed open, no longer half-closed in blissful memories of a former life, but wide awake in the reality before him. And reality was what he held on to, reality and not the Fade, life and not dreams. He rolled onto his front, ignored the irrelevant pain in his shoulder, and gained his feet. The unfettered POWER of a Templar suffused his blood, bulking his muscles and flooding his mind with LIGHT. It was a rush, beyond any pump of adrenaline, or sexual climax, or triumphant battle. His thoughts sang with it, his body thrummed with it, his faith burned with it. He could sense, with an ability that was beyond sight or sound or taste or smell or touch, he could sense the Mage, where he stood, exactly where he stood, how he swung his staff or shifted his hands—when his face turned towards him. More importantly, Fergus could sense that tenuous thread, running between the Mage and the Fade, tying one to the other. So fragile. So delicate. So undefended.

So unnatural a connection.

Rising like a mountain out of the ground, born of an earthquake, bursting with lava, he stepped towards the Mage, his lips parted in a snarl of contempt just before he commanded, "CEASE!"

It was easy. As easy as, well, snipping a thread with a pair of scissors. It took absolutely no effort on his part to break the connection between the Mage and the source of his power. Without moving he set himself before the other, his power absolute, his strength indomitable. The black funnel once more was violently torn out of the Mage's grasp and shattered into dust, disappearing on the gentle breeze. He felt so satisfied, watching as the Mage gasped and staggered back half a step, as if physically affected by the disconnection.

"Kill him!" the Mage screamed, his finger pointed at Fergus like the Repaer's scythe.

All the mercenaries converged on Fergus. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered he was weaponless, having lost his sword in favor of the lyrium kit. Yet he held no fear in his heart. He was Templar. He was power. He was righteousness. He was the Maker's will incarnate. He would prevail, as it had been ordained that he would prevail. He must prevail. His spread his arms, fingers curved into claws, the snarl marring his lips turning more feral, almost welcoming the challenge of taking everyone on, unarmed, singlehanded—show them what a true Templar could do.

"Fergus!" Delonce gasped, reaching him, her sword in her hands. "Back-to-back!"

Fear, having dispatched the archer and therefore well outside of the spell this time, also came bounding back for the rescue. He was torn for a moment. He could see Fergus was weaponless, and Delonce only had her sword. Beyond them, however, he could see the Mage advancing on his partners, knife in hand, lifting up behind their unsuspecting backs. He barked in warning, left Fergus and Delonce to fend for themselves, and raced to save his partners.

Peredura felt the blackness lift yet again, and with it the feel of Cullen's arms around her returning. She wanted to sob, she wanted to sit there and sob with relief, but Cullen was standing up, pulling her with him. He was serious about her not leaving his side, and right then she had no intention of arguing with him. Seeing Fear's powerful body closing the distance between them, however, made her blood run cold—something more was wrong. She turned her head to look behind them and saw the danger that held Fear's attention. The Mage. He was lunging towards them, a knife in his hand, a knife of a kind she knew oh-so-very-well. She filled her lungs, not knowing if she was going to scream in horror or shout a warning. But she ran out of time.

"Come at me!" Fergus cried, his blood continuing to race with euphoria brought about from the lyrium. His eyes were practically shining with unholy glee, and flecks of foam began to form at the corners of his mouth. "I'll take you with my bare hands!" He stepped away from the protection of Delonce and reached for the nearest mercenary.

"Fergus!" Abbets cried, turning to try to protect the man.

"Peredura!" Varric's voice rang, throwing himself in her direction as everyone else focused on Fergus.

Too late, Cullen realized he had once again forgotten about the Mage. Too late, his head turned. Too late, he saw the Mage coming at them. Too late, he raised his hands and thrust his legs, propelling himself and Peredura out of the way. Too late, because though the blade missed Peredura, the razor-like edge of the knife slit cleanly through his jacket and into his side, breaking through skin just below his ribs.

Even as Fergus, emboldened by the rush of lyrium, swung and groped and wrestled with the mercenaries…

Even as Fear leaped into the air…

Even as Peredura finally screamed…

Everything suddenly stopped. All movement, all motion, the Mabari hanging in midair, Peredura halfway out of Cullen's grasp and heading backwards for the pavement, the tip of Delonce's sword just penetrating the flesh of a mercenary, Fergus' hands twisted into claws tearing across another mercenary's cheek, Abbets' sword sparking against another's, Varric inches away from reaching Peredura…

Cullen, his side sliced open, was at the crux of it all.

"Well," the Mage hummed, walking around him calmly. He gave a soft laugh, mildly amused, and knelt beside Cullen, his robes coming into the edge of view, "This is unexpected. Apparently," he dangled his knife, the edge coated with blood, in front of Cullen's face. Unable to move, even shift his gaze, he could only stare at the gory sight, "Apparently, your blood is strong, too, for magical use. Though not as strong as hers. Ah, you should have seen her," his other hand came into view and poised itself next to her suspended ponytail, as if he would stroke her long brown hair, "Back in those days, how patiently she stood by her master's side. How eagerly she would disrobe and reveal all of those beautiful, magical markings. How deliberately she would cut herself, retracing those marks and scars. How she would willingly wield the knife and bleed herself. All at his bidding. Ah…" he sighed again, rocking back a bit onto his heels. "Vicici was so lucky to have found her, all those years ago…"

The Mage's head moved. Cullen watched as the hood slowly shifted out of the way, as a swarthy face with lean and angular cheekbones and pockmarked skin came into view. As cold, dead, ice blue eyes looked directly into Cullen's eyes. "Now she's mine!"

Maximillius Nollatori. The name rang like a death knell through Cullen's mind, but he could do nothing about it. Other than Nollatori, the only thing moving was his blood, oozing out through the cut in his side. It wasn't soaking into his jacket, however, but almost evaporating as the Mage drew it to himself. Cullen could feel the blood magic, the power of it, drawing more of his blood out of him, the sting both emotional and physical. It was his blood, his own life, that was fueling the spell that held them all suspended. The Mage moved off, and Cullen found his sight filled with Peredura's face once more, her eyes half-closed and crinkled with fear, her mouth open and filled with her silent scream, her hair in its ponytail falling after her over her shoulder, almost as if reaching back up to him. Unable to do anything for her, for any of them, he strained his ears, trying to discern what was happening by the sounds around them.

"Ah, the bitch!" a man's voice snarled, "I'll kill her!"

"Leave her," Nollatori's voice commanded. "As satisfying as it would be, we can't spare the time. It took too long to capture her. Come on, I'll free the others, you clean up any sign of us, starting with him over there."

More footsteps, scrapes against the cobblestone, another hiss as another mercenary was freed from the magical stasis. A body was dragged through the far upper edge of his vision, probably the archer Fear had killed. Cullen tried, struggled, fought against it, fought to keep his blood inside him, fought to keep the magic at bay, fought to somehow find a way to disrupt Nollatori's power. But he was helpless. Helpless, off balance, partway between stepping and falling, his eyes on Peredura falling before him.

He could do nothing but bleed.

The Mage came back into view, his robes dark green and a darker blue, his staff varnished to a dull black. Cullen tried to swallow, tried to blink, tried to do anything more than bleed, but the stasis held. Nollatori swung the staff around so the tip was in view, glowing red and purple, pulsing with a heartbeat as it drew more and more power from his blood. Cullen stared impotently as the tip stretched out to hover a moment over Peredura's form, before it touched her.

Her scream picked up right where it had left off, her body too, falling the last few inches to land heavily on the pavement. Her breath oof-ed out of her, effectively ending her cry. She gasped, dragging the air back into her lungs, and flopped her limbs, trying to brace herself, force herself to her feet, move—anything! She was no longer a weak, cowed, brainwashed slave. She was a woman, skilled, knowledable, and empowered. She turned her face to assess the situation and prepare herself to fight, only to see the tip of Nollatori's staff hovering inches from her shoulder. Crying out a warning, having no idea that there was no one who could currently assist her, she tried to roll away. Immediately out of the tip of the staff came ropes, red ropes, snaking out to wrap themselves around her. She struggled, pushing with her right hand and kicking with her legs, until those limbs became entangled within the writhing ropes. Yet by some miracle her left arm stayed free. Feeling a bit of triumph she lifted it, intending to open a rift by invoking the…

Chagrin swept through her, leaving her devastated and defeated. The Mark was gone. No longer did she have the power to open or close rifts. No longer did she wield supernatural abilities. No longer did she hold the upper hand, as it were, with her unique advantage. The blood-red ropes finished their work, adjusting her limbs to be held tightly at her sides, one even wrapping around her neck a few times to strangle her breath and keep her quiet. She tried to move, she honestly did, but the magical bindings held fast. She was lifted into the air, her feet hovering a few inches off the ground, and made to turn slowly around to face Nollatori. Sneering with triumph over his capture of the prize, he deliberately raised his right hand to reach out and take her left…

"Your… your hand!" he gasped, staring at the place where her hand should have been, where his own hand hovered empty. "The Anchor! All our Master strove for…" He check her left side, patting it, as if she had slipped the end of her left arm into her jacket as a prank. Then he checked her right hand, just to see if maybe he had mixed up which hand held the Anchor. Finally, though, he had to admit it. "It's gone." For a brief moment, his voice sounded small and lost, and she began to hope the mental shock might throw him off balance enough to break his concentration and allow her to pull free…

Nollatori laughed. It wasn't the sound of enjoyment, or of humor, but of vengeful anticipation. "The Anchor would have made it easier to bring our Master back, but your blood is still rich with power. Even if I have to bleed you dry, I will restore our Master."

Cullen could no longer see her except her shadow, falling across the cobblestones where she had lain only a moment before. Nollatori's shadow was there as well, far too close to hers, but there was nothing Cullen could do about it. He could only stare as the shadow of the blade came back out and hovered near her right arm.

"What do you say, my little pet? Will you bleed for me? Will you cut yourself, willingly, as you did for Vicici? Will you give me the power of your blood to fuel my endeavors?"

Cullen heard her half-strangled sounds, saw her shadow writhe against the blood magic, and knew she was defying him. His heart swelled with love and pride.

"Body's dumped," a mercenary spoke as the footfalls of the others returned. "Left it in a side alley a ways back, set it on fire, shouldn't be anything of value left by the time it's discovered. You ready, Master Nollatori?"

The Mage didn't answer right away, his focus still on his prize, his new slave, his new bleeder, Peredura. When he did answer, his voice was deep and husky. "Yes, almost. One last thing," she watched him fumble within the folds of his robes, "Must make it just like old times, isn't that so, my pet?"

Cullen saw her shadow struggle even more, and he had to wonder what Nollatori was about. What would he be bringing out of his robes, that would make her fight so valiantly against unbreakable bonds? Then their shadows merged again, the Mage's superimposing over her own, and it hit him—the mage's lust for her.

He had promised her, so very long ago, Cullen had promised Peredura that he would hunt down Nollatori and kill him for what he did to her. But he had failed. He had grown lax. His attention and conviction had wavered. And now, the very Mage who had once taken advantage of her drugged and helpless state to rape her, was doing it again.

And again, all Cullen could do was bleed. He could hear her gargle, trying to speak, trying to defy him, and he fought against the image in his mind—was Nollatori really going to take here right there, in the middle of the street, in front of his hired mercenaries? In front of himself? Cullen renewed his vow to kill Nollatori, to hunt him down like a cur and cut him and make him bleed…

There was a small sound, like a little bell, and then a small glass vial rolled across the cobblestones and into his sight. Immediately Cullen realized he had been wrong—Nollatori wasn't raping her, he was drugging her.

Opeigh.

Oh, this was so much worse. If he could have shed a tear, he would have. Numbly he watched, waiting as the others did, for the drug to take effect. For the opeigh to rob Peredura of her will, of her thoughts, of her self. Slowly, inevitably like the tide, the opeigh wore against her entity, eroding it grain by grain, until there was nothing left.

Nothing.

"She won't be putting up any sort of a fight, now," Nollatori's voice was calm and confident, and in the shadow Cullen could see the ropes receding and Peredura's form settling on the cobblestones, upright but still. Two forms joined hers, one to either side, and Nollatori continued, "Take her to the horses. I've got one last bit of magic to work here, then I'll join you."

"You, ah, want me to stick around, make sure none of them try to follow us?"

Nollatori's shadow shook its head, turning to watch as other shadows pulled Peredura's arms and guided her away.

"No, go ahead, I'll be fine. Besides," Nollatori began to back away as well, "I wouldn't want you to inadvertently get caught in the blast."

Blast? Cullen barely had the time to think, to process, to plan. Nollatori was taking Peredura away, somewhere with horses, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. Not yet. Not until the spell broke. He tried to prepare himself mentally, remembering what his trajectory had been, how he should land to minimize impact, and then…

He felt it first from within himself, his blood, the life-circulating liquid being pulled and sucked out of his body even stronger, already tinged and tainted with blood magic before it left him, such a large amount…

There was the blast, an explosion of sound and light, coming from just to his side. Then a shockwave of pure power slammed into them all. It broke whatever spell had them in stasis, but it also sent them all spinning through the air. Cullen's whole body felt weak, limp, impotent. He slammed into something hard and unyielding.

And knew no more.

Author's Note: Yes, I know, I've been gone for far too long. The story could have ended on the last chapter—I've been working up to that beautiful moment for so long—but it would not be satisfying at all to simply write off Nollatori as "he disappeared." I'm trying to push myself to write, to finish, to wrap up this story with its "happily ever after" hopefully before the next game comes out :P

And, you know me, I would never post part one of a cliffhanger without having part two ready to go in a day or two.

Love you all!