A/N: Slight spoiler alert for those of you reading my other DA story. Sorry. But, really, knowing how I write, could that part of DAII have turned out any other way?
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Guilt We Carry With Us
Taking Adamant Fortress was hard.
Not from a military standpoint, certainly. Commander Cullen was well versed on the theories of war. And the fortress itself, though it had stood the test of time, could not withstand modern day siege equipment—it was simply too old.
No, taking Adamant was hard not because of the fighting, but because he had to let Peredura go.
"I'm stymied here, Commander!," she ground out between her teeth, an arrow in hand and notched to her bow, but pointing uselessly to the ground. "I can't fight like this. I need to be able to see!"
He lifted his eyes briefly from her face, the same moment raising his shield up, almost as if he was putting his arm around her instead of blocking a wayward fireball. She gave him a fleeting smile of gratitude, but quickly returned to her, well, adamant expression from before.
"I understand," he allowed, stalling for time, though he knew it would do no good. Now that the danger had passed, he lowered his shield and glared over the rim of it, only to discover it had been one of their own who had cast a spell haphazardly into the melee. This fight was going to get sloppy, if the Inquisition's forces didn't settle down and follow orders.
"And we're too exposed down here," she added, driving her point home. "Staying on the ground will not work, not for me. We're taking fire from both sides!"
"I concur, but…"
He never got the chance to finish his thought. There was a loud crack, a burst of light and fire above their heads but off to the side, and another chunk of the outer wall came loose. Without a thought, Cullen wrapped his arms around her and spun their bodies, placing his back to the danger. Small bits of debris flew up into the air, exploding from the rubble on the ground as well as from the chunk of wall. Cullen felt something strike the back of his head, making the metal of his helmet ring like a belfry, the force of the impact causing him to stagger a few steps forward. But he kept his feet. Looking up, he saw Dorian standing not too far away, his staff in hand, having finished casting his spell just in time to save Cullen's brains from splattering the inside of his helmet.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Dorian beamed at them as he and Blackwall finished racing up, the other companions in tow. "And what I really mean is, mention it all you want, provided you give the proper embellishment. I did just save your life, after all."
He ignored anything irrelevant to the matter at hand—Dorian's ego could get stroked later—right now they had to finish taking this fortress. He turned back to Peredura, still within his embrace, and by the look on her face still determined to fight. Knowing he had no choice—and hating the fact that he had no choice—he offered, "If you need height, get up on the walls."
She shifted her gaze from his face towards the top of the ramparts. His gaze, however, remained firmly fixed on her features, watching her suppressed fear tighten the corners of her eyes, and the heavy way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She did have that fear of heights, but she was the one complaining just now about not being able to see. "What about the trebuchets?"
Another explosion of rock and fire and dust struck the courtyard, but it was further away this time. Yet Cullen continued to keep himself between her and the danger, at least for as long as he could. He knew he'd have to let her go eventually, but for this moment, while they were standing face-to-face, he would keep her safe. "I've already given the order; they should cease fire soon. But it looks like the heaviest resistance is up on the walls. Hawke's there already with Bull and Varric; but even so, he's going to need all the help he can get. So go, help him take the ramparts."
"What about you?" she pressed, her soft brown eyes coming back down to lock with his hard hazel. Her expression changed as well. It was one thing to face soldiers and mages and demons and fire, but it was quite another thing to face a fear you could not name, that had no form to wound or sword to block. He knew, because he was facing the same indescribable dread.
He gripped her hand, "I'm a soldier, first and foremost, Inquisitor," he used her title, adding an even deeper meaning to his words, "I have a job to do. So do you. Go and take the walls; I'll stay down here with the others and clear out the ground floor. We'll meet up in the main courtyard, as planned."
She hesitated, only a moment, before she bit her lip and nodded. "Keep Dorian and Vivienne with you." When he opened his mouth, she quickly overrode any objections before he could voice them. "I'll take Solas with me; between him and Hawke, I'll have two very capable mages to watch my back. You should have the same."
He nodded, mostly to appease her, but also so she would allow him to speak. "I was only going to say, take Stroud and Cassandra with you, too. No arguments."
She wouldn't have argued over taking the Seeker with her, not if that little smile of relief on her lips was anything to go by. At least she had stopped chewing it. Mindless of the others, she reached up on tiptoe and tapped their helmets together, unable to kiss him due to those same helmets. "I'll meet you in the courtyard. I promise."
"See to it," he growled, but she was already turning away, pulling from his grasp, racing off to a nearby stairway leading upwards. "Solas! Stroud! Seeker! Go with her! Blackwall!" he turned away, trusting the others to follow his orders, and waited for the Warden to reach him. "Blackwall, the Inquisitor is joining Hawke and the others on the ramparts. It's just you and me taking the rest of the fort."
The stoic Grey Warden looked around, his face expressionless beneath the overgrown black beard. "How do you want to split it up? You go left; I go right?"
Cullen smiled, a grim and anticipatory smile, a smile one gives to someone else who understands on him on a level that cannot be brought into words. "Sounds about right. Take Cole and Vivienne with you; I'll take Dorian and Sera. We're all to meet, the Inquisitor as well, in the central courtyard."
Blackwall nodded, "I remember where it is." He turned away then, Vivienne skipping over a wayward chunk of debris to keep up, Cole seeming to materialize out of nowhere to reach his other side. "For the Inquisition!" he cried, brandishing his sword. A cheer rose up, echoing his words, and a fair amount of soldiers raised their own weapons as they raced after him.
"You lot!" Cullen pointed at the next wave of forces coming in through the door. "With me. We will circle around to the west before coming back to the center of the fortress. Leave the buildings untouched; we'll clear them out later and find any stragglers. Our main focus is to reach the courtyard. And remember," he shifted the grip on his sword, needing to remind himself as much as the others, "We're not here to kill Wardens, but to take them alive. They've been cruelly tricked by Corypheus; it's not their fault they turned to blood magic. So try not to kill unless you absolutely have to. Understood!"
It was a command not a question, but the soldiers answered in the affirmative as one voice, "Yes, Ser!"
Cullen was pleased with the discipline and order the soldiers showed; if only the mages with them had as much self-control.
Speaking of which… "Why do I get the feeling that little speech wasn't so much for their benefit, as yours," Dorian's dry hum penetrated his helmet, but he chose to ignore it.
The fortress quickly fell. Not that there wasn't fighting; there was more blood and death than he would have liked, but not all of it was of their doing. The Wardens put up a fair amount of fighting, even killing their own and using the blood to bind demons to them. It was hell, a hell that Cullen had seen before, a hell that he had miraculously survived, a hell he had never expected to experience ever again…
His hands began to shake as his thoughts spiraled down that path, out of control, swept along by a powerful rip current. It would be easy. It would be all too easy. If he only had a little bit of lyrium. He was sure his templar powers would come back to him. Then he could do it himself. He could counter their magic. He could deny them all access to the Fade. He could leave THEM weak and groveling and helpless…
He ground his teeth together and tried to persevere, tried to remind himself that he was part of the Inquisition, he was part of a larger cause, he was not alone this time…
Yet it was all too familiar, all too similar to the last time, battling blood mages, trying to fight his way through them to reach their master, to reach the one who had tricked them… seduced them… betrayed them… Uldred at Kinloch or Erimond at Adamant… It was all the same… It was always the same… Magic never changed…
"Commander!" a voice called out. He spun, searching for whatever danger was about to overcome him, but it was too late. An ice wraith had already cast its spell, the sharpened spikes of ice streaking through the air directly for his chest. He couldn't even raise his shield before he was struck, solidly, directly over his heart. He staggered back beneath the force of the blow, the lip of a well catching the back of his knees, arms flailing as he fought for balance, but amazingly his heart kept beating, undamaged, within his chest. He tucked his chin and stared, more than a little wide-eyed, as the frost and ice shattered apart and off to the side after striking an almost invisible barrier of protective magic. The next moment, he saw an arrow arc gracefully through the air, and gruesomely buried itself up to the fletching in the throat of the demon. The stream of ice stopped as suddenly as it had started, the demon collapsing in on itself and dissolving into dust, leaving Cullen to remain standing alone.
Alone. Suddenly, his helmet was too tight, the air too dead. He needed to feel—to assure himself—he was not trapped within some tiny enclosed space. He fumbled with the straps and buckles, his sword and shield hindering his endeavor, building his frustration. His fingers felt thick and awkward as he all but tore the fasteners apart in an effort to take off his helmet and BREATHE.
"Gotcha, ice-tits!" the irreverent quip penetrated the fuzz around his brain. He pressed his shaking hands against his thighs and blinked, clearing his vision in time to see Dorian come up to his side, and Sera hopping down from the crossarm over the well. The two of them stood to either side, flanking him, halfway between protecting him and joining him. He looked from one to the other and felt… well, felt gratitude, and not a small amount of sheepishness. No, Adamant wasn't the same as Kinloch, not quite anyway. This time, looking at Sera, he was not alone. This time, looking at Dorian, there were mages on both sides.
His voice was heavy and thick, almost unable to speak—not because the dry desert air was filling his lungs with dust, not because what he wanted to say was distasteful, but because he actually, honestly, felt it so strongly.
"Thank you."
Sera smirked at him, "Sounded like it hurt, sayin' that, dinn't?"
"Sera," Dorian's voice had a warning tone to it. He could see the pain on Cullen's face, and imagined the battle he fought within himself while fighting this battle without. And he could also see the tide turning, the man winning his struggle against his internal demons. A heavy hand clapped his shoulder, and he absently wondered what had happened to the Commander's shield.
"We should get going," Cullen commented, sounding like himself again, picking his sword up and making sure there were no nicks or dings in the metal—he'd chastise himself later for having let it fall to the ground during a fight. "The Inquisitor has already reached the courtyard. No doubt Blackwall is near there, too. If we don't hurry, we'll miss all the action."
Dorian knew Cullen had kept careful track of Peredura's progress along the ramparts, as had he kept track of Bull's position, and both of them for the same reasons. "Lead on, Commander," Dorian swept with his hand, "We've got your back." His words were as heartfelt as Cullen's had been, both men exchanging a look almost too personal to share.
"Wha'? Did I miss som'in?" Sera asked.
"No, you didn't miss a thing, Sera," Cullen dead-panned, turning back to give her a nod of gratitude as well, "You hit the demon squarely."
"Too righ', I did. Your knickers can thank me later." When he stared at her, not quite following, she added, "Fer keepin' you from soilin' 'em. Honestly, don't know wha' she sees in you, you're so dense…"
Cullen wisely gave up the conversation at that point.
They hadn't made it much further before all three of them realized they were too late. Cullen didn't know which chilled his blood more: the unworldly cry of the archdemon speaking without words of horrors unimaginable, or its hideously black shadow streaking across the sky to block out the sun. But archdemon or no, he did not cease fighting, he did not cease his struggle to reach the courtyard, to return to Peredura's side. After all, fear was only an emotion, he told himself, something intangible, but something that could be dealt with. Something he had to deal with. For her sake. For all their sakes. Looking around at the men and women following them, he knew what he had to do.
He stepped forward, sword raised, the weak sunlight magnified by the blade, and cried, "For the Inquisition! For the Herald of Andraste!"
The fearful silence that had fallen over the soldiers at the sight of the archdemon was replaced by the heartening cheer as they took up his cry.
"Do you ever get the feeling," Dorian leaned across behind Cullen's back to comment to Sera, "That we're surrounded by bloodthirsty savages?"
She fitted another arrow to her bow, her large eyes even wider as she followed the archdemon flying overhead. "Nope. Jus' been thinkin', pisspants, friggin', fuckballs, shittyknickers, too big for britches… What's that one you use, fishy cough-ass?"
"Vishante kaffas."
"Tha' too!"
Cullen heard their exchange, heard the fear in both their voices, the fear that hadn't been satisfied with his rousing, though short, speech. "Yes, that particular demon is rather large. Almost too large to miss, but then again, I've seen you shoot."
"What are you tryin' to say, jackboot?"
There, he'd replaced her fear with a little hurt. Now to inspire her. "I'm just saying, no matter how large it is, I still don't think you could hit it."
"I could too!" she snapped back, striding up to him and standing on tiptoe, an arrow shaft gripped in her hand, the head just inches from his eye. "And a sight more than you could, I bet."
"That's hardly fair," Cullen refused to back down, but he did eye the arrowhead warily. "I'm not an archer, Sera; you'd have an unfair advantage."
"Well, I'm not matching you sword for sword, or, er, thrust for thrust. I don't know how to use a weapon like the one you've got." She didn't quite snicker, but at least she was making an attempt at innuendo. He felt heartened for her sake, but continued to press, seeing as she had returned to eying the demon.
"It seems we're at an impasse, then. What do you think, Dorian?" Cullen turned to him and gave him a meaningful stare.
"What? No, no, no, Commander, I'm with Sera. I couldn't match you thrust for thrust, either, oh, well, you know what I mean." Dorian ducked his head, pretending to be looking at a small skirmish off to the side, praying the heat he felt stealing across his cheeks wasn't showing.
Sera gave a breathy sort of snigger, still encouraging, but Cullen kept his attention on Dorian. "I've seen you fight, Dorian. You're very accurate with that staff of yours. I'm sure you could easily hit that archdemon with your spells far more often than Sera could with her arrows."
"What?" Dorian turned back, blinking at him. He saw Cullen widen his eyes, making a small flicker of movement towards Sera, until Dorian finally turned his head a little further to look at her. She was still toying with an arrow, her eyes refusing to leave the demon flying overhead, her stance shifting from foot to foot. "Oh, right, well," he caught on and started to play along, "I'm a man, you see. And a Tevinter. I've had more formal training than Sera. It wouldn't be a fair match."
"What!" now it was her turn to feel indignant. She finally tore her eyes away from the demon to flash them at the two men. "I don't care how much schoolin' you got. Training don't make you good; good makes you good."
"Succinctly put," Cullen hummed, but Dorian was taking the lead.
"You think you can actually hit that thing? You? With those scrawny little sticks of wood?"
She gave him a tight grin, "I bet I could put innit a sight more arrows than you could, silky under-britches! Or rather, we'll count bolt," she swished her arrow in her fingers, "For bolt," she tapped it against his staff, grinning like a fool. "You in?
He made himself glare a moment longer before he answered, "Loser buys supper at the Herald's Rest, when we get back to Skyhold."
"You're on, Vint! But we're both buyin' the drinks, you know, so we can 'ave twice as much," she cackled, lifting bow and arrow and searching the sky for the demon, but now with an entirely different look in her eyes.
"You know," Dorian leaned in close, his voice so quiet it carried no further than Cullen's ears, "For an elf, she can pack away quite a lot of food. This little bet is going to cost me a fair amount of coin, when I lose."
"So," Cullen breathed back, making sure she couldn't hear, "Don't lose."
"I thought that was the whole point, letting her win the bet so she'd feel better about herself."
"No, the point was to use the betting to distract her from her fear. Besides, she's a woman; she'll know it if you throw the bet."
Dorian hummed, "Yes, quite, good point."
"And if you're that worried about it," he offered, "Dinner's on me."
Dorian beamed at him, "Well, Commander, since you insist…" He twirled his staff in his hands, and almost negligently, without looking, fired off a spell that landed squarely on the archdemon's flank.
Cullen inclined his head and returned his focus—his sole motive—to reaching the central courtyard before the archdemon could hurt Peredura. Less of the Wardens were fighting now, too confused by the sudden appearance of the archdemon and beginning to question and doubt what their leader Clarel had been telling them. Cullen strode through the Wardens, ordering them to stand down and surrender, as Inquisition forces moved in behind him to take possession of the captives.
"Ser!" a soldier raced towards him and saluted, "Message from Blackwall for you, ser."
Cullen hated to stop for anyone or anything, the need to reach Peredura almost overwhelming but, as he had stated earlier, he was a soldier first and foremost, and the military training was too had to ignore. Besides, the soldier had come from the direction of the main courtyard. He nodded, "Go ahead," hoping for once he would hear good news. The hope was in vain.
"Ser, Warden Blackwall said to tell you, the Inquisitor's chasing Erimond and Warden Clarel, up the main tower. But a rift's been opened in the main courtyard, and demons are attacking. He's, Warden Blackwall that is, he's left most of his men to fight the demons, while he takes a small force to catch up with the Inquisitor. He offers the suggestion that you focus on the demons. In the courtyard. Ser."
The recruit stood there, shaking, knowing he had just given his Commander an order, even if it had originally come from someone else. And the darkening expression on Cullen's face confirmed his displeasure. He could hear the leather of the Commander's glove creaking as his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"Suppose it makes sense," Sera frowned, "Blackwall bein' closer 'n all. We'd never catch up in time. Still, would'a like to 'ave finished that bet, right?" she elbowed Dorian.
He gave a long-suffering sigh, indulging Sera to keep her from fearing, while at the same time hoping Cullen would see the logic in the situation despite his personal feelings. "We could always count the number of smaller demons we kill, if you truly need to have our little competition."
"Ha-ha! Game's a foot, or a hand, whatever you prefer," she shrugged, then shoved against Cullen's shoulder to get him moving. "Come on, lion face, let's get going. The demons aren't gonna kill themselves. But if only they would, right? Right?"
Cullen came out of his dark mood, not entirely, but far enough to see reason. "Right. We'll hold the courtyard, keep the demons from overrunning the fortress we've worked so hard to take ourselves. Sera," he turned to her first, "Take a group of archers up those stairs there; find a way to the rooftops. Surround the courtyard. Fire on anything that isn't worldly."
She snapped a mockery of a salute, which was sincere on her part, and answered, "Arf! Arf! What?" she blinked at Dorian after he started shaking his head, "He's the one what's started it first, barkin' orders at me."
"Just get going, Sera," now it was Cullen's turn to sigh heavily. She laughed, gleefully, even as she turned to race up the indicated stairs. Assured that she was safely out of harm's way, at least as far as the demons would be concerned, he turned to his other side. "Dorian, stay with me. You're one of Peredura's closest friends; she'd never forgive me if I let anything happen to you."
"Same here, Cullen," he countered softly, using his given name and dropping all pretense of formality. Then a thought occurred to him and he had to ask, "You're not worried about Sera then, on those rooftops, with an archdemon flying overhead? Or, knowing how you two feel about each other, did you send her up there on purpose?"
Cullen's lips twitched, not significantly, but it had almost been the beginning of a smile. "I assure you, I also have her safety in mind. I doubt the archdemon will take notice of us, not when it has the Inquisitor to deal with. No, the best place for Sera right now, is where she can fire her arrows and throw out insults from a superior position."
"That is right up her alley, isn't it?" Dorian agreed. "Well, then, let's not forget, right up your alley is going right down the throat into the belly of the beast, isn't it? Shouldn't we get going?" he gestured towards the courtyard.
Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I was waiting for you, Altus, and your spell."
"Ah, yes, of course," his face contorted slightly in concentration as he used his will to call on the Fade and wrap Cullen, and himself, in a protective magical barrier. "After you, Commander."
The battle in the courtyard was, again, all too familiar, especially as of late, thanks to the countless rifts opening up all over Thedas. The demons seemed to be never-ending, a river of them appearing from the rift, each one they struck down being quickly replaced by another. When the Wardens offered to join them, the ones who had capitulated, Cullen quickly and wisely accepted their assistance. He began to feel hope again, that the tide would turn yet again, that they could persevere and win the battle…
It was Dorian's scream that alerted him, surprisingly enough, rather than the earthshaking rumble of the tower falling apart.
"Buuuuuullllllllll!"
Cullen looked up to where Dorian was staring, and felt his heart cease beating. In an infinitely long moment of torture, he watched as love died, as hope was snuffed out, as courage fell, as even prayer became vain and the Maker proved impotent. Disbelief wrapped protectively around his senses like a numbing salve, but he bitterly shoved it aside and forced himself to look and see and KNOW what was happening! There, high above, there were the tower had just collapsed under the force of the archdemon's dead weight, there were seven bodies—seven people—plummeting to the ground, plummeting to their deaths.
Peredura was in the lead.
She had lost her helmet, her long brown hair whipping behind her like a banner, her arms and legs flailing as if trying to find a grip on something, anything, that would halt her fall. But she was surrounded by nothing but air. All too soon her form grew still, very still, as if accepting her fate, as if surrendering herself to an abrupt and bloody end.
Then it happened. Even from this distance, he could see the flash of green, followed by the odd reverse-thunder of a rift opening. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, the bodies popped into the hole in reality, and did not pop out the other side.
Movement at the corner of his eye reminded him that he was not alone. Cullen's hand flashed out, palm open, to slap against Dorian's chest.
"Get off of me!" the mage slapped back, trying to get past him. "I need to…"
"To what?" Cullen asked, his hand now fisting the front of Dorian's robes. "To race up there? To jump after her? After him?" He moved around until he and the mage stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye. "Maker knows, there's nothing I want more than to follow after her. But it's too late now."
"Don't say that!" he choked, shoving futilely at the Commander's shoulders. "He can't be… they can't be…"
"Dead?" Cullen finished, since he was unable to do so. "No, they're not dead. Didn't you see it? Pere opened a rift, right beneath them. They fell through that, into the Fade, all of them, including Bull."
Dorian knew he was right, but it was hard to accept, hard to believe that the tragedy that had nearly happened, hadn't happened after all. Yet Cullen was in the same boat as he, having just watched someone he deeply cared for almost die a gruesome and harrowing death. He gulped down air, trying to calm himself, feeling like his heart was fit to burst, a moment ago nearly stopping dead, now pounding like a racehorse. His shoving at Cullen's shoulders turned to gripping, to an overwhelming need for assurance. "They… the rift… you saw it?"
"Yes," he didn't loosen his grip, not quite yet, studying Dorian's expression as he continued, "Pere opened it just in time. They're safely in the Fade."
Hysterical laughter bubbled in his chest, but Dorian fought it back. "Safe, did you say, in the Fade?"
Cullen felt his trembling, and his struggle to control it. "She's been inside the Fade before, and she's come out of it, remember? Back at the Conclave. She can do it again, especially with all those she has with her, Hawke, Stroud, Solas, Varric, Cassandra," he softened his voice as he relaxed his hand, "And Bull. What we have to do, is secure this rift here, maintain control over the situation, so that they have something to come back to."
Dorian swallowed, nodded, and let go of his shoulders. "You think they'll come through this rift, back to us?"
"It's what I would do," he shrugged, "I'd find the other end of this rift—provided it's reachable in the Fade—knowing that it opens up into this courtyard, rather than randomly opening up another one of their own to lead them Maker knows where back here in Thedas. And if… when they do come through here, it wouldn't do to have them come back to even more fighting, now, would it?"
Dorian gave a weak smile. "Oh, I don't know; Bull seems to appreciate it when we leave him a little bit of fighting. You know something, you slipped just now." He swung his staff and fired a spell at a demon somewhere off to the side.
"Oh?" Cullen indulged him, just to keep him talking, to keep him—and himself—from worrying. He swung at another demon and wondered where he had dropped his shield, or his helmet for that matter.
"You called her 'Pere.' At least twice. A very intimate term for our mighty Inquisitor. One would say, almost an endearing term."
Cullen blew an exasperated breath out of his nose before firing back, "And you screamed Bull's name."
Dorian chuckled, "I did, didn't I? Very well, we'll share this little secret; we've done it before, after all. But I assure you, Commander, that was the first time I've shouted his name," he fired another bolt of energy, "Though I don't intend for it to be the last."
"I really didn't need to know that," he grunted, picking up a discarded shield and returning his focus to the fight.
He wasn't sure how long it had been, a few hours certainly, but the day wasn't quite over when there was a change in the courtyard. The number of demons was dwindling, the reinforcements slowing to almost nothing. Cullen dared to hope, something he found himself doing more and more often since meeting Peredura, hoping that the battle was nearly over, that this was a sign the others were returning. And at long last his faith was rewarded.
"Varric!" he shouted the moment the dwarf popped through the rift. He was quickly followed by others, Cassandra, Solas, and Bull. At the sight of the big gray qunari, Dorian gave a strangled cry of joy and raced forward.
"What's this?" Bull asked, surprised to see the man rushing towards him, and even more surprised when he was answered with a right hook to his chin, a blow he hadn't anticipated as it came from his blind side.
"THAT'S for jumping off a tower and plummeting to your death!"
Bull blinked the stars from his eyes; he hadn't had his bell rung like that in years, something that made him even more interested in Dorian, if that were possible. "Er, I'm not dead," he very cautiously pointed out, rubbing his jawline—damn, he was gonna get a bruise—and smiled despite the ache.
"I know that, you big lug," Dorian's voice nearly cracked with relief. The next moment, as if suddenly realizing they weren't alone, he cleared his throat and asked, "Oh, um, where are the others? Peredura and that Kirkwall mage and that other…" he wrinkled his nose, "Warden?"
"Huh, I don't know," Bull answered, turning his good eye back towards the rift. "They were right behind us…"
Again Cullen's heart stopped, this time at the ominous undercurrent of Bull's words; and again it started beating when the rift began to shift and crackle. Maker's breath, but this single mission was taking years off his life! He waited, expectant and confident, and watched as both Hawke and Peredura tumbled out of the Fade and back into existence. Hawke, of course, landed with a grace and elegance and style that had always been a part of the bloody git's legendary trademark. Cullen wouldn't have been surprised if he finished with a bow to a round of applause.
Peredura, on the other hand, stumbled and lost her footing and clumsily landed on her hands and knees. Hard. She didn't cry out, however, her face somber, even to the point of becoming expressionless, as if she was trying desperately hard not to show any emotion, for fear that all her emotions would slip out of her control. He knew that look, and immediately knew that something momentous had happened in the Fade, something that shook her to her very core. Her very private, gentle, fragile core.
He ached to go to her, to hold her and tell her everything was alright, to promise to protect her and care for her… But he knew she needed this, needed to find the strength within her self, needed to learn how to stand on her own two feet, as she was standing now. She dusted off her clothing and hands, which brought her attention to her mark. Without turning, without looking around, she simply watched the mark glow as she invoked it, watched the green strands of light twist and slither around her hand. She didn't hear the demons cry out as they died, she didn't see the rift close behind her. But she did know, on some level, that the day was won.
Yet the nightmare was far from over.
BREAK
Hours later, well past sunset, Cullen paced through the remnants of Adamant Fortress, searching. Not for his helmet and shield, as he had told the others, but for Peredura. After coming back through the rift, after deciding the fate of the Wardens, after explaining—far too briefly—what had happened in the Fade… as soon as she could manage it, she had slipped away. Cullen alone had noticed it, the moment she left, but he had been far too busy carrying out her orders to break away himself. Oh, he had delegated a fair amount of the work, certainly, but even delegating took time, and explanations, and planning, and coordination…
Now, however, he had made good his own escape, and was stalking the ramparts, one eye out for crumbling stonework, the other eye out for a sign—a glimpse even—of dull brown hair blending into the shadows.
Which was probably why he didn't see Hawke until it was too late.
"Knight-Captain!" the unflappable apostate called out to him, flashing him a charming grin of gleaming white teeth from behind a precisely trimmed beard, a perfect contrast to his exactingly mussed hair. "Excuse me, I mean Knight-Command… er, no, it's just 'Commander' now, isn't it? There's no 'Knight' part, not any longer, not since you've stopped taking lyrium, at least. May I simply call you Cullen, since we're currently not in any sort of military exercise? Less cumbersome, and all that." He didn't seem to mind the fact that Cullen didn't break his stride, falling into step at his shoulder.
"Hawke," he acknowledged, wondering what the former Viscount and Champion of Kirkwall would want with him. "I'm sure, like Varric, you'll call me whatever you damn well please."
Hawke gave a warm chuckle at that, unperturbed by his abrasiveness. "Too true, Cullen; you know me too well. Walk with me for a bit, would you?" he gestured the way Cullen had been going.
"Again, am I going to have a say in the matter?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
Hawke's easy laugh was wasted. "Well, I see you haven't changed much, just as surly as ever. And the way you handled the Wardens back there, it was good to see you haven't lost that sense of duty and fairness you were renowned for back in Kirkwall."
Cullen wasn't sure he wasn't being made fun of. "Is there a point to this?" he groused, his focus more on the shadows, both the ones on the ramparts, and below in the courtyards and walkways of the fortress. Peredura was too good at hiding, and blending in, when she was of a mind not to be found.
"Just making conversation," Hawke didn't seem to take offense at the lack of attention he was receiving, but he did skip around to block Cullen's progress, a hand on the former templar's arm. "Please, Cullen, talk with me for a moment. It is such a beautiful night." He gestured off to the side, towards a part of the bulwark that was overlooking a wide staircase leading into a courtyard with a well.
Cullen sighed, thinking he might know where this was headed; Hawke's reputation was not as discreet as he liked to think—not after what had happened with Anders. "I'm not interested in you, Hawke, if that's what you're implying…"
The laughter that broke over his words sounded only a little bit forced, a little bit pained, a little bit forlorn; all these emotions echoed in Hawke's golden eyes. "Sorry, Commander, if I gave you the wrong impression. I know you're not my type. Besides, you're already spoken for, if I'm not mistaken."
"Wha… no, I… who… where did you hear… why would you think… I've no idea what you're talking about…" he sputtered in a rather unconvincing manner.
Hawke decided to let him off the hook, for the moment. "As I said," he gestured to the low wall again, "Talk with me for a while? That's all I ask, just for a little bit of time."
He didn't want to, but he did know Hawke—not all that well, but well enough at least to know that the man wouldn't intentionally waste his time. "Alright," he sighed, giving in, and striding forwards to stand at attention and stare blankly out over the wall.
Hawke didn't try to laugh again, thinking he had probably lightened the situation all he could without breaking the man. He moved to Cullen's shoulder, standing close without crowding him, and commented, "It's been quite a day, hasn't it? And only one day, I know, but it seems like ages since I last stood here on these ramparts. Actually," he glanced around them, shifted a foot to the right, and continued, "Come to think of it, it was more over here. And I was facing this way, when I killed a demon, right on the very spot where you're standing."
Cullen had watched him move, and dropped his gaze with his pointing finger to see the pile of dissolved demon beneath the heel of his boot. He lifted his foot, made a bit of disgusting noise over the mess, and began to scrape the boot against a bit of debris. "That must have been fairly close."
"It was," he agreed, "A last-second, him-or-me, barely-had-time-to-swing-my-staff fight. And hardly any time to relish my quick brush with death before the next attack. Ah, but now look at it." He returned to the ramparts, bracing his hands and overlooking the small courtyard. He turned his face just so an errant breeze could tussle at his black locks, messing them further. "Look around us. Such a pleasant evening. Quiet. At peace. A dramatic change from earlier, wouldn't you say?"
"I suppose," he allowed, "Especially after what you must have been through, in the Fade."
A slight grimace cracked his features, before he could hide it. "That's what I've always admired about you, Knight… erm, Cullen, you never mince words. Straight and to the point. But I'm thankful; I do want to speak with you about what happened in the Fade. I just couldn't seem to find a way to bring it up."
"It's brought up now," Cullen turned his full attention towards him at long last, "So speak. What happened in there? Peredura didn't say much about it in her speech…"
"Peredura," Hawke repeated, a slightly teasing tone to his voice, a damnable eyebrow raised questioningly, "Not 'her Worship' or 'Inquisitor,' but Peredura. Interesting slip of the tongue there."
Cullen fixed him with his best glare, but he only waved it off.
"Relax, Cullen, I'm the last man alive who would judge someone else concerning their choice of lovers." Hawke's jovial mask finally fully slipped away, for more than one reason, as he continued, "And, no, she wouldn't have told everyone what happened to her—to us. It's bad enough we all had to share in it with her."
"Share what?" he pressed, decidedly ignoring the enigmatic jibe about lovers, but Hawke didn't answer. Instead he shook his head and pointed off to their side.
Cullen turned his head to follow the gesture. There in the courtyard below, just coming into view, was Peredura. She stepped out of the shadows of an archway and seemed to be unaware of him, of either of them. She was walking slowly, meandering through the rubble, with her arms wrapped around herself and her posture slouched. She paused beside a broken chest, the toe of her boot absently pushing around bits of debris and broken shards of glass, and never once looked up. Something must have caught her eye, however, because in the next moment, she gave a small cry of triumph and made for the well. There she dropped to her knees, digging through the debris until she brought out Cullen's helmet. She held it to her bosom, her fingers stroking the cold metal cheek guards as if she were stroking real flesh and blood.
"Tell her. She needs to hear it, from you. Tell her now, tonight, before it's too late."
Cullen started at these words, ripping his eyes away from her to stare at Hawke. "What…?" but he was already speaking to the man's back, as Hawke made for the stairs. He hastened after him, partly to catch him and ask him what he meant, partly to stop him before he drew the attention of Peredura. But it was already too late.
"Inquisitor," the mage called out, only a little louder than necessary, but he wanted to make sure she didn't have an opportunity to pretend she didn't notice them and slip away before they could reach her. She gave a guilty start and spun, coming to her feet, one hand holding the helmet while the other flew to a knife at her waist, all in one fluid motion. He coughed, descending the last few steps into the courtyard, and said in a softer voice, "Excuse me, Madam Inquisitor, I had no intention of startling you."
You had every intention of startling her, Cullen thought to himself, still following behind Hawke. He was no longer trying to stop him, but was now committed as Peredura noticed them both. He briefly locked gazes with her, becoming captivated by her wide, doe-like eyes. Her cheeks blossomed into a rose red, muted by the moonlight, and she sputtered, "I, er, no, I wasn't… I mean, um, good evening, Hawke." She glanced again over Hawke's shoulder, her voice catching and growing breathy as she finished, "Cullen."
Hawke graciously ignored the all but palatable emotional tension in the air. "The Knight-, erm, that is, Cullen and I were just out for a bit of a stroll, taking the chance to catch up. You do know, he and I knew each other in Kirkwall."
Peredura blinked, tearing her gaze from Cullen's face, and tried to keep up with the conversation. "Oh, um, yes, Varric's told me stories about Kirkwall. But the stories he tells are so fantastic and imaginative, sometimes it's hard to remember that the characters in some of his stories are real people. Like Cullen. And you, of course," she added almost as an afterthought. She shifted her feet, fumbling with the helmet, and kept glancing off to the side as if looking for someone to rescue her, or someplace she could run to hide.
"Yes, I remember one tall tale in particular Varric liked to tell about me, something to do with fighting a dragon wearing nothing but my knickers."
Peredura's giggle was spontaneous, though quickly choked off, as her nervousness fell before the brunt of Hawke's easy charm. Her cheeks still red, her hands still fidgeting, she nevertheless managed to tease back, "Actually, I was thinking of the one where the dragon bit you in the arse…"
"Yes, well, quite," he coughed this time, quickly cutting her off. He rubbed at the break in his nose and finished in a rush, "Perhaps some of his stories may have a kernel or two of truth to them." He saw her trying to hide her giggle behind her hand, and felt a little better knowing his embarrassment wasn't in vain—a very little bit better. "Speaking of stories, did Varric ever tell you the one of what happened in Kirkwall? When the circle fell?"
Now it was Cullen's turn to feel uneasily, glancing to the side and pressing his hand against his thigh, willing it to stop shaking. Maker's breath! He did not wish to relive that day, not after having had a day like today. But he was trapped, unable to slip away, a captive eavesdropper on their conversation.
"He, ah, may have told it to me once. But it's such a dark story, and he knows I prefer the ones with humor in them."
"Don't we all," Hawke agreed with her, growing unusually sober. He walked over to the well and leaned against it, a well-practiced stance, one that showed off the musculature of his arms and the length of his legs. "But it's the dark and serious stories that are the most important, that remain with us, that we can learn from, like the one from today.
"Do you know," he continued, not allowing her to interject, not that she knew what she was going to say, only that she knew she didn't want to talk about today. It seemed, however, that Hawke had something else in mind, as he continued to commandeer the conversation. "Do you know, the man who blew up the Chantry that day, the man who started the whole mage rebellion, do you know who he was?"
"An apostate," she answered, sounding like a student answering her teacher in the classroom, "A runaway mage. No one knows his real name, he was simply known as Anders. He was also a former Grey Warden, and became possessed by a spirit, a demon, and it drove him insane." Her words stopped, silenced by the stricken look on his face.
"I suppose… that's as accurate description as any. He was all that, yes," he sighed, offering his profile to her as he stared off into space and added, "But there was so much more to him. He was also my lover. My love. The only man—the only person—I ever loved more than myself."
Cullen of course knew this, but Peredura hadn't, not if the expression of shock and pain and horror on her face was anything to go by. He supposed that would be one part of the story Varric might leave out, showing an unusual modicum of good taste on the dwarf's part. And possibly because, at the time Varric told her the tale, he like everyone else thought of Peredura as an innocent human girl and too young for such concepts. Yet she had been, as she was now, mature enough to understand exactly what Hawke was telling her. The Champion didn't give her time to consider all the implications, however, clearing the lump out of his throat so he could speak again.
"Nearly half of Kirkwall was destroyed that day. Scores of people killed, hundreds more wounded. People I knew, people I cared about, people I… well, let's just say, no one was left untouched by that event. I, especially, lost the trust and respect of more than one close friend, thanks to my association with Anders. Even after I… Well, at least Anders is at peace, now."
Peredura stared, unable to speak, as a tear fell from the corner of Hawke's eye to disappear into his bearded cheek. She knew what Anders' fate had been, and whose hand had delivered the deathblow; Varric hadn't glossed over that part of the story.
"I worked hard, Peredura, I worked so very hard, to right the wrongs Anders had done. I tried to broker peace between the mages and the templars, but the mages would not listen. So I turned on them, on my own kind if you will, to assist the templars in restoring order. And after the rebellion was over and Meredith had been dealt with, I continued to try to fix the damage that had been done, as Viscount of Kirkwall. I even left for their sakes, did you know that? I left Kirkwall, rather than risk the Divine ordering an Exalted March against the city, just to capture me. I sacrificed everything! But I never made things right again."
"It wasn't your fault," she stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. "No one blames you. It was all Anders. He acted out of…"
"Anders and I were lovers," he countered, "No one else was as close to him as I, no one else could have seen the signs as I could have—as I should have. Insane or sober, I should have noticed something was wrong with him. And perhaps," his brows curved as he shrugged, "Perhaps I did see something, but chose to ignore it. Do you understand? Do you see the guilt I feel?"
"I…" she stopped as quickly as she started, biting her lip to keep from answering.
Hawke patted her hand, still on his arm, and offered a small smile. "No one blames me, that's what you said. But that's not quite true, because you see, I do. I blame myself. For something I had no control over." He tilted his head, peeking beneath her overgrown bangs to catch her eye, "Sound familiar?"
She didn't answer, but neither did she deny it.
"I'll be leaving for Weisshaupt first thing in the morning," he announced, "But I wanted a chance to see you before I go, to tell you… well, to help you understand something." He pushed away from the well, cupping her face in his hands, gently forcing her to look at him, "The guilt we carry with us, justly or unjustly, is of our own sentencing."
Hawke held her for a moment, staring into her eyes, making sure she didn't dismiss his words outright. When he deemed it appropriate, he nodded and let go of her cheeks. "As I said," he stepped back, retreating from her personal space, taking a moment to dust off his backside, "I must leave at first light," he adjusted his mace-like staff, shrugging to see it was still securely strapped to his back. "And I'd like a chance to see Varric before I do, so if you'll excuse me, Inquisitor, I'll take my leave of you now. Good night. And… good fortune."
She didn't answer other than to incline her head, absently dismissing him outwardly, while she focused on his advice inwardly.
Hawke didn't take offense over her preoccupation, but turned to leave without another word. As he passed by Cullen, however, he paused and gave him a meaningful look while mouthing the words, "Tell her," before disappearing into the shadows of the night.
Tell her, Cullen repeated silently inside his own head. Tell her what? What was this mysterious message he was supposed to have? What was so important? What was it she needed to hear so desperately? It seemed Hawke had been the one doing all the talking, and saying the right words, if the deep and thoughtful look on Peredura's face was anything to go by. So then, what was it that he could offer, that he could add, that he could say that was so necessary that it must be said tonight…
"I, um, I found this, your helmet," she offered up the armor without lifting her eyes further than his belt buckle. "When we came back from…" she gave her lower lip a quick little nip, managing to draw a drop of blood, "I mean, I saw, when we got back, that you didn't have your helmet on. And I remembered you were wearing it before we split up. So I've been walking around, backtracking your steps, trying to, ah, see if I could find it…" her voice dribbled off into the shadows.
Cullen absently took it, "Thank you," his mind still focused on what it was he was supposed to tell her. Surely everything essential had been told already, Blackwall taking Erimond into custody, the Wardens' surrender, and she finished the demons and the rift… As if sensing the silence was going on for to long, he blurted, "I also lost my shield."
"Oh? In this area, too? I'll help you look for it." Her words were eager, his suggestion seized upon like a wolf after the throat of a rabbit. Immediately she started rooting around in the rubble, overturning chunks of building, delving through remains of demons, her entire focus on finding his shield.
Well, he thought to himself, that was… erm… something… at least. She certainly sounded like she was thankful he had brought up his shield. But it was hardly important, hardly something she needed to hear now, tonight, before it was too late. What was it, he racked his brain, trying to remember what he and Hawke had been talking about, when the notorious apostate made his remark. Something about Anders? Or the Fade? It was probably some small thing, some small comment that slipped past unnoticed…
"Here it is!" she exclaimed, triumphant, her face lighting up with her success. Cullen pulled out of his musings to see her straighten up, his shield in her hands, a bit tarnished but other than that it was whole. Yet for once in his life he ignored his equipment, in favor of taking in the vision before him. Peredura's face was bright, her smile genuine, living in the moment of her discovery, of her success, of her little gesture.
And he responded. He responded as only a man could respond, his blood rushing through his veins with a purpose of its own, filling him and preparing him for… His breath, too, quickened, keeping pace with his heart, flushing his blood with oxygen, infusing his body with energy, with… desire…
Oh, Maker, could this actually be happening? To him? To them? Yes, he had come to terms with the fact that he had feelings towards her, and he had noticed before that being near her could arouse his long-dead libido. But this feeling tonight was more intense, more personal, like an ethereal fist was squeezing his heart with breathless intensity.
Something must have shown on his face. Before he could fully define what he was experiencing, before he could find the words to express it, he watched the expression on her face change as she caught his eye and then turned away. And he didn't want her to go.
"Pere…"
"Cullen…"
They spoke at the same time, and stopped at the same time, the heat stealing across their cheeks at the same time. He wanted to laugh, not because it was humorous, but because he felt so awkward just then, so uncomfortable, so lost. But, apparently, so did she. Finding an odd sort of comfort in their shared, um, uncomfortableness, he was the first to find his voice, "What is it?"
She gave her head a quick shake, "You were going to say something?"
"No, it's your turn to go first," he spoke gently, coming up to her side, and taking his shield from her lingering grip. Besides, he still needed to figure out what it was Hawke wanted him to tell her. "Go ahead."
Her fingers, empty of anything to hold, began picking and worrying at her lip, as if her teeth hadn't done enough damage. He moved to set his shield and helmet down, intending to free his hands so he could stop the destruction, but she was turning away from him.
"I know…" she breathed, letting go of her lip to hug herself again, "I know what you're going to say, Cullen." The words were pained, stressed, almost torn from her chest.
"You…" he swallowed, wondering how she had figured it out while he was still clueless, "You do?"
She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "I do. But I… I don't feel it…"
"You… don't?" that fist was back, squeezing his chest tighter than ever. Feel, he repeated silently in his head, feel what? What should she be feeling, that he would be telling her to feel…
"No, I… I don't… I can't… not right now, anyway." She took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving with the effort, and lifted her chin just far enough for the curtain of bangs to fall away from one eye, one eye that stared at him with watery intensity. "You don't know, Cullen, you weren't there. You didn't see… didn't remember… like the others did…"
He was still lost, adrift, tossed about by another mammoth wave on an ocean of confusion. "Ah," he stepped forward, his hand reaching out to her, wondering what in the Fade she was talking about.
"I… I remembered, Cullen," the words were coming faster now, tumbling from her lips like heavy rain, "What happened at the Conclave. The explosion. The blood ritual. What Vivianus was doing there—what WE were doing there. The nightmare demon had taken those memories from me, before I escaped the Fade that first time. But this time, the demon gave those memories back to me. Only everyone else there, Hawke, Stroud, Varric, Solas, The Iron Bull, Cassandra," the last name she spoke so softly, Cullen had to read her lips more than hear it, "They all saw those memories, too. My memories. They saw me, cutting myself, bleeding for Vivianus, helping him lead the Grey Wardens in the blood ritual, binding the Divine, holding her tight while Corypheus worked his spell. They saw it all, through my eyes, through my thoughts. And I… I'm so ashamed!" She sobbed so suddenly, spittle fell from her lips, her hands covering her mouth to hide her embarrassment.
"I'm so ashamed. I know now, why Corypheus laughed when he learned I was the Herald of Andraste. I know why Erimond laughed, too, when he first saw me. Because they recognized me. Because they could remember what I could not.
"That I didn't care," she swept on, her hand falling away, the fingers halfway between a fist and a grasp, trying to touch the intangible. "I didn't care what what was happening at the Conclave. I was shaking, hurting, weak from the blood loss… Vivianus had given me a healing potion, but that's all the time he could spare for me. His focus was on helping Corypheus, so much so that he had forgotten to give me my opeigh. And I needed it. I NEEDED the opeigh. I didn't care about the old lady. I didn't care what they were doing to her or why. I only cared about my fix. I tried to get Vivianus' attention. I even tried to reach into his robes and find the vial for myself. And that's when he struck me. Backhanded. Hard enough to cut my lip. To cause enough of a distraction that the magic restraining the Divine slipped, just for a moment, and she was able to knock the orb from Corypheus' hand.
"But I didn't even try to help her. I saw that orb, rolling towards me, and I knew I had to catch it. I was kneeling there, holding my face," her right hand reached up, mimicking the memory, cupping the side of her jaw, "And I watched that orb come closer. I knew that orb was important, and I thought—my only thought—was to grab it and give it to Vivianus and, maybe, somehow, he'd give me the opeigh in exchange. Or maybe I'd hold on to the orb until he handed over the vial, I don't know, I wasn't thinking clearly, I needed opeigh, and I reached out and…" her other hand stretched out in front of her, shaking so hard even her arm trembled.
The anchor on her hand glowed for a moment, as if it too was reliving that memory. The color, the light, or perhaps she somehow could feel the mark whenever it acted up, but something snapped her out of her newly-rediscovered memory. Her eyes focused on the sight, then her expression changed back to the one from before, the self-loathing and misery and horror. Her hands fell to her sides, her shoulders slumped, and her face fell.
"That's what the nightmare demon did to me, in the Fade, hurting me far more than any sword or arrow or spell. It gave back my memories—to all of us. They ALL know what I was, what I did, what I thought and felt and… And Cassandra… when she saw the Divine… when she saw what I did… or didn't do…" she bit her lip again, behind her hands, as if to physically keep the words inside, along with the painful truth, the disgust, and the remorse. Then she hiccoughed, let go of her lip, and dropped her hands. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and continued.
"So, you see, I do know what you're going to say. You're going to say, that was the old Peredura. I'm no longer that girl. That slave. I've grown and matured. Now I inspire people. Now I lead them. Now I stand against Corypheus. And I know," she finally looked back at him, "I know I'm different. But it's too new. It's too fresh, this old memory, it's too fresh in my thoughts. It feels like it just happened hours ago; I can't reconcile it back into my past. I need," a tear slipped from her lashes, in a slow free fall down her cheek, to dangle from her jawline, "I need some time, a little space, away from the Inquisition. Away from everyone who was there with me. Just away. I… I need to be by myself. To put my thoughts—my memories—back in order. Then, maybe, I won't feel so guilty.
"So I'm going with Scout Harding," she finished, "To the Hidden Wastes. I've already made arrangements with her. We'll leave at sunrise. Tomorrow. I… I need this, Cullen, please, try to understand. I know I'm no longer Peredura the slave, but I don't feel it, not after what just happened in the Fade, not quite yet. I just need some time. Please. Say you understand. Say this is a good idea, for me to go. Please?"
How could he say no? After all that had happened today, after all she had just confessed… "You know Cassandra doesn't blame you for what happened to the Divine."
Peredura's face looked down and away, her eyes squeezed shut tight, her lips pulled back in a painful grimace of frustration, her fists clenched so tight she might be drawing more blood.
"That being said, I understand. I do," he lied. It was quite clear to him, that everything she had done back then, was far removed from today; he didn't understand why she had to keep muddling things together. "Take however long you need. I'll handle everything else, the prisoners, the conscripts, the wounded, the equipment. I'll get everyone safely back to Skyhold. And," he put his hands on her shoulders, wanting to hold her, not trusting that she would allow it, but unable to continue standing there and not touch her, "I'll meet you there, when you're ready to come home."
"Home," her lips mouthed, barely a breath passing between them. She swayed a moment, he felt her rock in his hands; then she was leaning forwards, leaning into his embrace, burying her face in the fur of his mantle, digging her fingers into the thick fabric hanging down his back. "Oh, Cullen," she moaned.
He stroked her back, completely forgetting the mysterious message he was supposed to be telling her, and soothed her. "It'll be alright, Pere," he stood, as solid and strong as a mountain, and held her while she wept, at least for as long as he could. He knew he'd have to let her go eventually, but for this moment, while they were standing face-to-face, he would keep her safe. "Just give it some time. Everything will be alright."
A/N: Whew! Sorry, my dears, for this being so long, but there was so much I wanted to put into this chapter. Hope you don't mind the length *giggle-snort*