Chapter Twenty-Five: It's Always Darkest Before…
"Tell her now, tonight, before it's too late…"
Those were Hawke's words.
Cullen paced across the battlements at Skyhold, brooding over those mysterious last words. Tell her what, exactly, he silently questioned for the hundredth time. Of course Hawke wasn't there to answer him; he'd been gone for a couple of weeks now. But those enigmatic words of his remained.
"…tell her…"
Cullen stopped pacing to brace, his gloved hands gripping the stonework while he leaned out over the lower crenel between two higher merlons. He was right above the front entrance to Skyhold, staring down the length of the bridge into the valley below where the main Inquisition forces were camped. It was an inspiring sight, how the army seemed to grow daily. Yet the view was lost on him, his focus mainly inward. On Hawke's warning. And on Peredura.
THAT part of the message he had been able to figure out; the only 'her' who would be relevant was, of course, the Inquisitor. But the 'what' still eluded him. And why would there be a deadline. Not to mention, he'd passed that deadline nearly two weeks ago back at Adamant Fortress right before he left for Skyhold and she left for the Hissing Wastes, so this was probably all a moot point.
Yet the words kept haunting him, almost as much as the woman.
Cullen closed his eyes, allowing his discipline to slip as he allowed the wind to ruffle his hair, and turned his thoughts—yet again—to Peredura. She'd been such a young and innocent girl when he'd first met her; he'd truly had no idea that day he'd saved her from being crushed by supply crates, that she was the Herald, she was so shy and unassuming and inexperienced. Yet she'd grown, learning new skills and discovering talents she never knew she had, finding out she had the strength within her to endure hardship, to be able to inspire others, and to become a leader and eventually Inquisitor.
And that was another matter that troubled him. She was the Inquisitor. He was the Commander of her forces. They shouldn't be fraternizing, not that they were fraternizing, well, they were… but not in that sense of the word.
Yet he… Oh, Blessed Andraste… He wanted to. Slipping away to steal a kiss, or 'accidentally' brushing up against her, or making some little comment that would sound innocent to others… even that private waltz they'd shared at the Winter Palace: all of it was very well and good and fun.
But he wanted more. He shouldn't, he damn well knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted… Pere.
How could he? How could he have her? With the Inquisition to look after and Corypheus to destroy, not to mention Tevinter blood mages roaming around doing Maker knows what, and red templars running amok causing fear and chaos, and demons spilling from rifts and… The list went on and on and on, leaving no time for each other, even if they both wanted to.
And that was another pickle for him to contemplate. Pere gave no sign, as far as he could tell, that she wanted more out of their relationship. Oh, she went to him when she needed comfort, and she sought out his advice, and she shared her thoughts and concerns with him, and more than a few of her secrets. And she would smile when she saw him, and touch his arm with empathy whenever he seemed to be having a minor relapse of his withdrawal, and on occasion he'd catch her watching him with a strange look in her eyes… But she never SAID anything.
Wait a moment, his brow furrowed, hadn't he just been thinking about the necessity of saying something to…
"Commander Cullen, Ser!"
"What!" he barked, opening his eyes and turning his head to look over his shoulder at the rude soldier who had just interrupted his thoughts. Whatever epiphany he'd been on the verge of discovering, had just flown away, far out of his grasp. And venting his spleen on the hapless woman seemed a fair recompense for her crime.
Of course, he barked a lot, ever since he'd taken himself off of lyrium, so the men and women under him were used to it. She snapped to attention, refusing to feel flustered or abashed for her actions, and delivered her message. "Spymaster Leliana has been receiving reports all morning, on the Inquisitor, Ser. She has requested your presence in the War Room. At once, Ser!"
Reports from Pere. His first impulse was to race off to the War Room, just to hear how she was doing, find out if she was enjoying herself, how much she had learned about scouting from Harding, what the Hissing Wastes were like… But of course that would be out of character for him; before he'd never hare off at the drop of a hat simply because Pere had sent a letter or two. Or more—in thinking back, he had noticed what seemed like a flock of ravens flying in overhead all morning. But no, he was the Commander; he had to act the part. So he would acknowledge the message, dismiss the soldier, and take his own bloody time getting to the War Room.
"Very well," he nodded, and began waiting expectantly. The woman snapped off another salute and spun smartly on her heel to continue on to her next task. Cullen made himself stand there, counting to ten, before he gave one last glance out over the battlements. Another raven was winging its way towards the rookery at the top of the library tower. He took a deep breath, wondering what had happened that caused so many ravens to be sent, and who Pere had gotten to write all these letters for her. Only then did he turn and make his way, at a very dignified and measure pace, towards the main Keep.
He was the last to arrive, and was a bit surprised to see who all had been gathered. Usually only he, Josephine, Leliana, and Pere discussed matters in the War Room. But today Cassandra had been invited, as well as Varric and Solas. It reminded Cullen of the early days of the Inquisition, when they were using the back room in the Chapel down in Haven, and Pere would be standing off to the side trying to blend in with the wooden walls. He almost turned now to see if she was standing there, hiding like she used to, but the sober expression on Leliana's face made him pause.
"Commander, good. Now that we're all here, we can begin. I've been receiving reports from the Hissing Wastes over the past several hours. They are a bit jumbled as some of the ravens have flown faster than others, but I think enough of the reports have come, that I can start to tell you."
"Tell us what?" Cassandra beat Cullen to the question, but his mouth remained opened as he glanced back from Cassandra to Leliana.
When she paused, he felt as if a fist of steel had wrapped around his heart.
"We all know the Inquisitor went there after Adamant," Varric prompted. "Harding was going to scout the Hissing Wastes, and Peredura went with to learn how to scout. I take it, they scouted themselves into some trouble."
"Our little Peredura does have a penchant for finding trouble," Solas hummed in agreement.
"Will you two be quiet and let her tell us?" Cassandra ground out between her teeth.
Cullen still hadn't dared to speak; he barely dared to breathe. Though his left hand rested loose and limber across the pommel of his sword, his right hand tightened into a fist, the leather creaking, the stitching nearly popping, as Leliana began her tale.
"There are still some parts missing, but my scouts have orders to bring any and all reports from Harding straight here, so hopefully those holes will get filled in as we go. This is what I know so far.
"The Inquisitor was out scouting with Harding and another scout, Bostwick, when they came across two Tevinter Magisters, camped approximately fifteen miles northwest of the Inquisition base camp. The Magisters had with them a cage full of slaves, and they were using those slaves to perform some sort of blood magic ritual."
"We all know how Peredura would react to that," Varric interrupted. "I take it, she decided the three of them could handle two mages?"
"That was her intention," Leliana agreed. "With the element of surprise on their side and outnumbering the mages three to two, she felt it was an acceptable risk, that they could kill the mages and free the slaves. Harding agreed with her, and so they attacked. And they may have succeeded, if they themselves hadn't been surprised by a Tevinter patrol just returning from their own scouting mission…"
Peredura fired an arrow, kneeling down next to Harding, who was propped up against the roots of an ancient and long-dead tree. "How bad?" she asked, notching another arrow, trying to keep the Tevinter soldiers from flanking them.
"Just a scratch," Harding gasped, pressing her hand into the wound on her thigh.
"Bull shit," Peredura didn't even glance over at her. Things had gone badly, very very badly, and they would only get worse. And it was all her fault. If they had only stayed to their mission of scouting and returned to base camp with the location of the mages. The Iron Bull and the others would be arriving in a day or so, and together they could have come back here and easily destroyed these bastards. But how many of those slaves would have died in the time being? So instead, Peredura had allowed herself to narrow her focus, block out any other sights or signs which in hindsight she could now clearly see, and selfishly tried to kill the Venatori mages herself. That both Harding and Bostwick agreed with her course of action did not matter—she was the Inquisitor; she should have kept her head and considered every possibility, and not allow herself to become lost in vengeance.
"Inquisitor," Harding grabbed her ankle with her other hand, "Peredura, we all thought it was the right thing to do."
Her eyes dropped down to where they were touching, an eery feeling filling her from within, as if somehow Harding had read her mind. She brushed it aside and focused on the matter at hand. "Perhaps, but it was still foolish—of me—to allow us to try it." Peredura finally did look over at her, saw the paleness to her face, the sweat staining her hair, the labor of every breath, and knew what she had to do. "Get back to base camp, as quick as you can, and bring back help." She leaned back and took aim.
"What?"
"Keep your voice down," Peredura fired her second to last arrow. "They don't see you. With a little luck, they'll continue to overlook you."
"No…"
"Bostwick is already dead," Peredura ducked as a bolt of magic flew wildly over their heads. "And they know someone's here by this tree, so they might believe there were only the two of us out here, Bostwick and I, scouting, and not look for any more soldiers. Stay hidden in these roots while I draw them off. Once you're clear, make your way back to base camp and return with more men. I'll keep them occupied for as long as I can."
"No, Inquisitor, you go, I'm injured, you'll make it there and back faster than I…"
"They've already seen me," she repeated, firing off her last arrow, "I won't be able to slip away."
"There are blood mages here. You don't know what they'll do to you."
Yes, I do, she thought to herself, far more than you could ever imagine. But instead of revealing her secret, she continued to reason with the dwarf, "It's dusk, shadows are forming, that'll help you remain undiscovered. I'll lead them on a chase off to the north, that should keep them from looking in your direction, too."
"Inquisitor…"
"Oh, that reminds me," Peredura looked down at her chest, ripping of the badge that marked her as Inquisitor, "Here, take this, keep it safe for me. We wouldn't want them to discover who I am, just in case they do capture me."
"I… I can't…"
"You must," Peredura hissed, pressing the insignia into Harding's hand, "That's an order, soldier. Understood?"
Harding swallowed, tears filling her eyes, but she managed to choke out, "Yes, Ser!"
Peredura gave her a brave little smile and a nod of encouragement. "Remember, wait until I've drawn them off before you start. Good fortune, Harding."
"Good fortune, Inquisitor," Harding whispered in answer, shifting backwards into the roots.
Peredura didn't waste any more time. She bounced up to her feet, craning her neck to get a clear look at who was coming towards them, and to give them a clear look at her. Then she crouched down, narrowly missed being hit by a better aimed bolt of magic, and raced off towards a rock outcropping.
She knew her chances were slim to nothing, but she had to try, she had to do what she could to improve Harding's chances… and perhaps, on some deep and tormented level, she felt if she was captured, that whatever happened would be just and fair and in payment for any past mistakes. She reached the outcropping and ducked behind it, gasping for breath so loudly she almost missed hearing the arrows striking the rocks around her. But she did hear the noise, and it gave her an idea. Being an archer herself, she knew it would only take a second or two to have another arrow ready after firing the first. If she could get them to fire again, she could use that preciously short time to peek around and make sure no one was searching for Harding. She dropped her bow and took off her helmet, waving it around just far enough to get noticed.
There was another volley of arrows, as predicated. She was moving almost before they finished landing, stretching her neck out to see the scene around her. Only one soldier was near the tree where Harding was hiding, but he wasn't looking at the tree, fitting another arrow to his bow and aiming at Peredura. There were others, nine in all, spreading out to surround the pile of rocks where she was hiding. She ducked back down and stuffed her helmet back on, giving herself until the count of five to catch her breath. It appeared Harding would be able to get away after all. Now all Peredura had to do was buy some time.
Time. Right. As in, time to start running again. There was a cliff face not too far away, perhaps another mile or so, that would provide plenty of cover and give her ample opportunities to allow the Tevinters to catch glimpses of her. She only needed to keep them interested and following her and not doubling back to stumble across Harding by accident. The cliff was too far away for her to reach in one sprint, but then again, she didn't want to reach it too quickly. She looked over her shoulder, as if she could see through the rocks to where the Tevinters were trying to outflank her. Then she jumped forward, sprinting for a small patch of scrub brush nearby, her arms pumping with her legs as if they could claw through the air and pull her along faster.
An arrow smacked against the armor covering her back, striking at an angle and bouncing harmlessly away. She didn't allow herself the time to react to her near miss, diving for the short bushes and rolling along the ground until she was crouching. After a gulp of air, she pushed herself to her feet and raced off in a slightly different direction, though still somewhat north and away from Harding. And again she dove for cover as a bolt of magic flew a little too close, exploding the sand into dust to her left. Mindlessly she settled into a rhythm: gulp a lungful of air, sprint, dive for cover, gulp a lungful of air, sprint, dive for cover, gulp, sprint…
Another arrow, this one tugging on her leggings. Again she didn't let herself dwell on how close it had come to penetrating her skin, seeing her goal before her, an ancient tree uprooted from the ground, it's massive root system exposed, plenty of cover, just a few more strides…
Something solid hit her shoulder, something she never saw coming. It knocked her off her feet, sending her twirling in mid air, a look of shock on her face as her downfall came into view—a red templar. Then the vision of corruption was swept from her sight as she finished her spin, falling to the ground and landing hard, face down in the gritty sand.
There was the solid thud of a heavy body hitting the ground next to her, and a hand as cold as the rocks around them gripped the back of her neck, nearly snapping it. She didn't dare move, allowing only a small cry for the pain and surprise, and waited for her fate.
"What have you caught, my pet?" a man's voice cooed. "Easy, boy, don't kill it. Let us have a look, first."
"It's the other Inquisition scout," another male stated, "Look at his armor. Lightweight. Flexible. And the empty quiver. This is the one that was firing at us earlier, alright."
"Turn it over," the first one said, "I think we'll discover something interesting about this one."
"Oh?" the second man hummed.
Peredura felt the pressure on her neck let up, but she had no time to enjoy the reprieve. The corrupted templar seemed to be fully enthralled to the mages, as it flipped her over so they could get a good look at her. First she feared they might have somehow discovered a clue or two to her identity, allowing them to realized they held the Inquisitor herself as their captive. But their reaction was far more blasé than anything she could have expected.
"A woman!" the second mage announced. Then he looked at the first mage, the first man who had spoken, and the lust was obvious on his voice. "Nice…"
Peredura wanted to gag, but the templar's hand on her chest kept her from convulsing.
"Well, well, well, what shall we do with you?" the first mage hummed. He looked around at the others, four archers and two swordsmen, and all males— the red templar didn't count. "Any suggestions?"
"We can't allow her to return to their camp and report what she's seen. We don't even know what she's seen," one of the swordsmen answered.
"Good point. First, we should find out what she knows. Then we'll kill her."
"I have an idea," one of the archers piped up, "Let's torture her."
"What does it matter what I know," Peredura spat at them, "If you're going to kill me anyway? I'll never have the chance to report on anything."
"Ah, but where's the sport?" the first mage answered. "Where's the entertainment? Besides, it'll be a good opportunity for my apprentice here to practice his skills."
Peredura laughed, putting as much bravado as she could scrounge into her voice. "He does look a bit… inexperienced."
"Why you… bitch!"
"Easy, my friend, easy," the first mage held his apprentice in check with a hand to his chest. "She's only trying to rile you up, in an attempt to make herself feel superior to you, to all of us. It was a nice thought, but pointless. You will be raped, my dear girl," he leaned over her, "And you will beg us to kill you, before the night is done, before we all are done with you. Now," he leaned back and leered at the others, "Who wants to go first?"
"Oh, please!" she scoffed, her voice drowning in sarcasm. "I beg you, spare me the boredom."
"I guarantee you won't find this boring," he snapped back at her, hissing his words.
"Won't I?" she countered, trying to stall, trying to figure a way out of this, trying to make their intended act appear useless and impotent. "It's so obvious. You all are men, I'm a woman, so of course all you can think of to do is to stick your cocks into my cunt." She lifted her head up to look the mage directly in the eye, enunciating each word precisely, putting all the contempt she could muster into each syllable, "How. Boring." She let herself relax back against the stones and the sands, feigning a lack of concern, "Tell you what. I'm a bit knackered after all the running I've just done, so I think I'll take a little nap. Wake me when the real torture starts, would you?" She relaxed her features and closed her eyes, folding her hands over her stomach and ignoring the templar's hand on her chest, composing herself as if she truly was going to nap.
It almost worked. The first mage hesitated, his blood riled up, his hand starting to glow with magic. But then he caught himself, regained control of his emotions, and let the magic dissipate. The laughter he gave was almost sincere. "Again, another nice try. I'll give you credit for being brave, but bravery alone won't stop us. Giddon," he said to his apprentice, "You can have the first go. If she speaks again, cut out her tongue. It's not like she'll be needing that mouth of hers any longer."
Peredura swallowed, clamping her lips closed lest the Venatori think to cut out her tongue anyway. But she wasn't done fighting them yet. She couldn't be. She'd bite and kick and scratch and make them pay for every moment. Briefly she considered using the Mark on her hand, opening a rift, using it to fight them, but there were two things preventing her from doing so. The first of which was, some of them were moving away, no doubt setting up a perimeter in case there were any more scouts out there, and those men moving off would be too far away to be affected by the rift.
But more importantly, she didn't want them to know she was the Inquisitor. They might not rape her then, they definitely wouldn't kill her, but they would hand her over to Corypheus, and she couldn't allow that to happen. If it came down to that or death, she would have no other choice, but until then, she had to stall for time. She had to find another way, some middle ground between torture and captivity, and so far the only idea she'd had was to goad them into beating her severely enough that she could fake death. Not the best of ideas, she knew, and so far it hadn't worked, the leader of this little group of Venatori too level-headed to fall for it, but she had to keep trying… something… anything…
"Take her hands," Giddon instructed the templar, "And hold them above her head. Don't let her go."
Peredura bit off the curse, realizing she almost swore in Tevene, as the templar's hands gripped her wrists like impassive iron chains. He held her fast to the cold desert sands, as Giddon loomed over her, his mouth practically drooling with anticipation. It was tempting, then, to give in and invoke the Mark, but her legs were still free. She writhed and kicked, swinging her legs up at him. He laughed and ducked, easily avoiding her clumsy attempts to hit him. Then he swung out his staff, using the blunt end of it to jab her hard, right in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Peredura gasped and convulsed, distracted with trying to re-inflate her lungs, and by the time she blinked her vision clear, Giddon was on top of her and between her legs, his hands reaching up to pull her helmet off her head.
Quite unexpectedly, she finally got her reprieve, her answer, her middle ground between Corypheus and death.
"Fasta vass, look at her face," Giddon almost gagged on the words, her helmet falling from his nerveless fingers. "What happened to you?!"
Peredura couldn't have known, would never have guessed, how her scarred face might look to someone who wasn't expecting it, especially in the reddish light of the setting sun, sweaty and smeared with blood and grime. Though normally one would assume that blood mages should be made of sterner material, she supposed the shock of it had caught him off guard. Quickly realizing what had made him hesitate, and eager to seize any advantage, she turned her cheek a little, not far, but just enough to catch a little more of the ruddy light, giving him a perfectly clear view. "What, don't you like what you see?" she sneered, curling her lips, knowing how such an expression would twist the scar.
He made a sound of disgust, leaning back from her. "I… can't fuck… that!"
The Venatori leader came back into her view, taking a long hard look himself at the side of her face. "It's only a scar." The words were matter-of-fact, but the tone of his voice was a bit too tightly controlled.
"But it covers half her face," Giddon objected.
"Then don't look at her face," his master suggested, "Or cover it up. Do what you have to, just finish the job." He smacked Giddon hard on the back, almost shoving him into her face. He barely stopped himself, his hands landing to either side of her head, his eyes squeezed shut tight.
Giddon swallowed, but the pressure was on for him to perform regardless of how he felt about her appearance. He tried not to look at her, especially as she continued to grin in such a grotesque and sinister fashion, jealously using what small advantage she had, but he couldn't help himself, his eyes kept flickering upwards, drawn to it like a moth to the flame. In an effort to focus his attention on something other than her features, he took out his knife and started slicing through the toggles on the front of her coat. Yet after every clasp was cut open, his eyes would glance up to her cheek, as if they had a will of their own.
And each time, she would leer even more.
His hand was practically shaking by the time he gripped the high neck of her shirt, the point of the knife threatening to draw her blood. She didn't move, staring at Giddon, willing him to peek at her just one more time, willing him to lose his nerve. But it seemed he finally got control of himself, at least temporarily. The fabric made a soft sound of protest as it tore before the blade.
Giddon made a soft sound himself, barely keeping his gorge from rising. "Vishante kaffas!" he swore, recoiling. The knife dropped from his limp grip to fall forgotten onto the desert sands. "Vishante kaffas! I… I can't…" he mumbled against the back of his hand, fearing he would vomit after all. He looked up at his master and demanded, "Fuck her yourself!"
The other mage growled, shoving Giddon harshly off to the side to see what the problem was now. Peredura lay still, no longer struggling against the templar, no longer kicking or writhing. Her only movement was her chest, rising and falling with her breath, but it was enough to move apart the torn edges of her tunic. The mage stared at her, more precisely at the scarring along her neck. It was growing too dark for him to see clearly, but he could well imagine—as Giddon must have just done—just how ugly and severe her scarring might be underneath her clothing.
Some nameless Venatori soldier off to the side retched, the sound of his last meal splattering wetly onto the sand and rocks. Another soldier near enough to see her also made sounds like he wanted to join his comrade. The mage swallowed and held his gaze steady with a will of iron, but even he could not find it within himself to perform.
"It seems you will get your wish after all, dear girl," he graciously admitted defeat. "Something a bit more imaginative, isn't that what you wanted? Something that wouldn't bore you? Very well. Allow me to entertain you with something from my home country of Tevinter. It's a little rope trick I learned a while back. I guarantee, it will hold your attention for hours, the rest of your life perhaps. It's called, Jig on a Rope."
She barely controlled her nervous swallow, knowing exactly what he was talking about, being from Tevinter herself, but she couldn't let him know that. So she had to play along, she had to play dumb, she had to stall for time. "A jig? You and your men are going to play music, then? Blow on your staffs and beat your swords against the sand?"
He laughed as Giddon handed over a length of rope, unperturbed by her crude innuendos. "Snark away, my pet, while you still have the breath. Lift her up," he directed the templar, "And bring her to that overturned tree there. Those exposed roots should serve well enough. No, little girl, the jig is a dance you'll be performing for us. It's a mode of execution back home in Tevinter. Usually the condemned is stripped beforehand," his eyes swept her from head to toe, a slightly sickened look to his features, "But we'll allow you your dignity."
She didn't sass back at him this time, thankful for the small favor. If they had found the stomach to strip her, then they'd see her scars a bit more clearly and probably recognize them for what they were. Things would undoubtedly go downhill from there. Not that things were going all that great right at that moment, her hands being pulled behind her back and tied tightly together, wrists to elbows. But at least now, she had a chance.
"You'll be strung up in these ropes, partially hanging from them, trussed up like a bird for roasting. There will be one single rope beneath your feet," the templar lifted her up to place her on the rope, "Something for you to stand on, for as long as you can keep your balance. And you should try to keep your balance. Every little wiggle and wobble will affect the other ropes, tugging on them, pulling on the noose around your neck until you suffocate."
The noose was dropped over her face and tightened, the thick braid rubbing into her skin, already partially choking her airway.
"Of course, other things may happen first. Your arms may be pulled up and out of their sockets," he jiggled the rope in emphasis, "Or your ankles dislocated, which would make balancing all the harder."
She couldn't see them, but she could feel the ropes being tied around her ankles, the soldiers yanking on them and making her slide her legs apart, while she fought to keep her balance.
"Every little movement you make, will make your discomfort worse, all the while slowly suffocating you until you finally die. Or," he kicked the rope beneath her feet, nearly dislodging her precarious perch, "Until you fall off the rope and the noose snaps your neck. These are the choices you have. Step off the rope, and your death is quick. Stay on the rope, and your death is painfully slow. Oh, this is a favorite source of entertainment back home. We place bets on the condemned, who will hold out until the bitter end, and who will give in and end their suffering quickly. When there are a whole row of them, we will bet on who will die in which order. It's a grand occasion, especially if the condemned look like they're going to take all day. Even the children will sometimes come by and throw sticks and stones, trying to hurry one or two of them along."
Peredura closed her eyes briefly as the mage laughed. She'd seen such a sight, once, in the time before, while her parents were still alive. They were passing through a village where a local band of outlaws had been captured and condemned to such a death. And the children of the village had been throwing stones, just as he described. They'd even asked her if she wanted to join in the fun, but her father had refused to let her down from their wagon.
"But I'm not going to stick around to find out how long you will last. It really doesn't matter to me. Instead, I am going to leave you alone. To die alone. No one knows where to find you. No one knows they need to come find you. You will die out here, in the desert, tied to this tree, undiscovered. And who knows, your body may remain here for centuries before it's found; I've heard these high, cold deserts can have a mummifying effect on a dead body. I might come back, in a year or so, just out of curiosity and find out. That is, if I even remember you.
"Let's head back to camp," he finished, pacing around behind her and out of sight. "You still need to practice that ritual, Giddon. You haven't quite mastered the cadence yet. Luckily for you, there's still a few slaves left…"
Peredura didn't watch them go, she couldn't, as she was facing west and the last rays of the setting sun and they were heading back east and south. Even though they were heading towards Harding, she wasn't too worried; by now the dwarf would have patched up her leg and started for the main camp. No, she told herself, things were going to turn out alright. All she had to do, was stay awake and not slip.
"The Hissing Wastes. Another desert; how delightful. I simply cannot wait for the sand to start finding its way into each and every uncomfortable crevice on my person."
Sera made a disgusted noise at Dorian's comment. "There's a sight I wouldn't want to see."
"Oh, don't worry, Dorian," Bull leaned down to rumble softly, and suggestively, "I promise to personally brush off every offending speck from every tender crevice."
"And there's one I didn't need," Blackwall uncharacteristically quipped. He strode around the others and addressed the scout standing at attention. "You, there, we've come to meet up with the Inquisitor. She around?"
"No, Ser," the scout saluted, instantly recognizing the group. The Inquisitor's closest companions were almost as legendary as the Herald herself. "She went out scouting this morning, with Harding and Bostwick."
"This morning?" Dorian queried, looking over at the setting sun. "That was quite some time ago. Shouldn't we be worried that she hasn't come back yet?"
"No, Ser," the scout shook her head, "Scouting's an irregular business. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes it takes a week. It all depends on what's out there to find, which you never can know until you find it. But I wouldn't worry about her; she's with Harding, the best scout I've ever known. If they're not back within an hour or two of sunset, then they've probably found a spot to camp for the night, and we'll see them shortly after dawn. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Blackwall and Bull exchanged a look that went unnoticed by the others.
Dorian nodded and slapped his hands together, already starting to shift sideways. "Lovely. Well, speaking of making camp for the night, we have come quite a long ways today, and I'm bushed. I think I'll get some sleep. And I see there are tents here for us to use; should keep the wind from blowing sand up my knickers," he eyed the tents enviously, already in his mind having claimed one of them for his own.
"You're not turning in yet, are you?" Bull protested. "It's still early, and the Boss might be back in an hour or so. I was thinking of playing a hand or two of cards, you know, to pass the time until we knew for sure she wasn't showing up until morning."
"Deal me in," Sera quickly accepted, "Provided there's a mug or two of ale wit' it, just to wash the dust off. Like silky-knickers said, been a long trip, ha'n't it."
"I'll play," Blackwall agreed, somewhat reluctantly. He didn't enjoy playing cards, but he did realize why Bull was making the offer, and he too felt the need to stay awake until he was sure Peredura was safe, "But I'll pass on the ale. Prefer to keep my wits about me, if I'm playing cards with you."
"Fine, stay sober and boring," Bull knelt down to rummage through his pack, searching until he found a deck of cards Varric had loaned him, "But until the Inquisitor shows up, I'm not on duty. And that means I can drink. You there," he nodded to the scout still standing nearby, "Break out a keg and a couple of mugs. You can get one for yourself, too, if you'd like to join us." He strode over to a small wooden table littered with maps and diagrams. Not seeing anywhere he could set them aside, he swept them off with one hand, which made the other two scouts hasten to pick them up before the wind could take them away. Then he straddled an overturned barrel and began to shuffle the cards. "So, who's in?"
After seeing Blackwall and Sera sit down, Dorian rolled his eyes and gave a long suffering sigh. "Oh, I suppose I could spare an hour or two, not to mention a few coins, just to humor you."
"Good! Now, where's that ale?"
"Coming, Ser," the first scout grunted, bent over a map he had stopped with his boot heel, "Just as soon as we collect a few things."
Bull pretended to only now notice the chaos he had created. "Oh, ah, sorry about that. Take your time. We'll be right here. You, ah, you might want to get that one over there, by the small bush."
The scout swore softly and started after the map, which was threatening to flutter away on the breeze.
"Did you do that on purpose?" Dorian asked, turning away from the scurrying scouts as he came up to the table.
"Maybe," Bull hedged. "Look, I just wanted a moment or two to talk, privately, about Peredura. I do not like the fact that she's not here."
"She came here to learn how to scout," Dorian countered, leaning on his staff, "Why would it be unusual for her to be out there scouting?"
"It's not, but, well," Bull shrugged, "You know her ability for finding trouble, or for trouble finding her. I just know I won't rest easy tonight, not until she's safely back at camp."
Dorian's shoulders slumped, seeing his dream of a peaceful night's sleep slipping through his fingers like the sand slipping inside his collar, and beneath his belt, and past the cuffs of his shoes. He gave another sigh as he sat down on an overturned bucket. "You're right, of course. Deal me in."
"Cheer up, magey-pagey, he might let you win tonight, you know, cuz he's got to keep playin', 'til Harry shows up, at least."
"There is that, yes," he forlornly pulled out his coin purse and dropped it lightly on the table.
"Then again, I don', do I?" she cackled.
It has to be well past midnight, Peredura told herself. From what she could see of the stars, she gauged half the night must have gone by already. It felt longer, and she prayed she wasn't underestimating the time in trying to compensate for her skewed senses, but there was no way she could be certain, not from the position she was in.
She was facing west, staring into the darkness where the sun had set hours ago. Behind her would be east, east and the sunrise, so she would know it was time when she started seeing shadows stretching before her.
Dawn. That was the time she was waiting for. She had spent the first hour of her torment calculating time, distance, difficulties. She and Harding and Bostwick—poor man—had traveled approximately fifteen miles north-northwest of base camp before they discovered the mages. She might have gone another mile or so, not much further, before she was captured. That would make it sixteen miles from camp. Alright, on a good day, with good light and without any injuries, she could travel four miles in an hour and not even break a sweat. That means base camp was only four hours away.
Of course, Harding had a shorter stride than she did, and was injured, and had to travel at night over unfamiliar ground full of pitfalls and rocks and enemy forces. That easily doubled the time it would require. Very well, it was eight hours to base camp.
But after that, after Harding reached camp, after she told the others where to find her, they'd race here on the horses, probably reach her in an hour, two at the most. Making the total time ten hours. Ten hours she had to stay awake, stay alive, before she was rescued.
At this time of year, it was ten hours from dusk to dawn. She was strung up at dusk. Therefore, she would be rescued at dawn.
She strained to lift her eyes up far enough to see the stars. As the night had worn on, the noose had inevitably tightened, the knot applying pressure to the base of her skull, making her tilt her head downwards just to relieve some of the pressure before it snapped her neck. It was now to the point where she couldn't lift her head without choking herself, or worse.
It had to be after midnight, which meant another six hours until dawn.
Six long hours.
There was a scurrying, scuttling sort of sound off to the side, and Peredura found herself hard pressed not to cringe or whimper. Every little movement, even too deep of a breath, would make the ropes shift and grow more taut. But that sound! Maker's breath! She knew exactly what was making that sound! Spiders! Big ones, too, probably in that hollow off to the side. There'd be some warmer air trapped in that depression, warm enough to keep the spiders nice and cozy for most of the night. But when that heat dissipated, would they leave their little valley and come out looking for more warmth? Could they sense the heat of her body from that distance? And if so, if they came out of their den and started towards her…
Oh, Maker, she prayed, help me. Give me strength. Give me courage. Make me brave, like Cullen. Oh, Cullen, she moaned silently in the vaults of her mind, Cullen, where are you when I need you? I never should have come here. I never should have left your side, or left without The Iron Bull or Cassandra or someone to keep an eye on me. Cullen, what would you do? How would you face this? How would you stay awake, stay so strong, so brave…?
But he wasn't always brave and strong, she reminded herself. She'd seen him weak during his withdrawal from lyrium. She'd even seen him fearful, when they were all but lost in the mountains after Haven was destroyed. What was it he had said, she asked herself, so long ago in Haven? What was it he had told her, about being brave, about facing ones fears, like spiders? It wasn't that bravery was the lack of feeling fear, more that it was doing what you have to do, regardless of the fear you feel. So regardless of the spiders, regardless of the threat of death, she had to stay alive. She had to stay awake and not tremble in fear and keep her neck whole until help could arrive.
Until the dawn.
Perhaps it was thinking about Cullen that brought it to mind, or remembering being in the mountains after Haven, or even simply a need to feel something other than fear, but the words of that hymn came to her mind. The hymn that Cullen had taught her as he recovered from his withdrawal. The hymn that Mother Giselle had led them in singing after Haven. The hymn that made her feel… warm… accepted… a part of something bigger than just her self, than just a group of people lost in the mountains, that just the Inquisition.
It was the hymn that called to her, tonight even more so, considering her current situation.
Her lips barely moving, and without even a breath of sound—her air saved solely for her lungs—she began to sing the hymn, privately, within the chambers of her heart.
Shadows fall and hope has fled.
Steel your heart; the dawn will come.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky, for one day soon…