Chapter Twenty-Seven: Defeated by Three Little Words
They were traveling far too fast to make idle conversation, not that Cullen was in a very talkative mood. He'd explained the situation, briefly, to the score of templars and Stitches before setting out from Skyhold. Since then, they'd pushed their mounts hard, racing to Val Royeaux. He felt guilty for the strain it put on the horses, but as long as the animals could keep the pace, and Fear didn't fall behind, he would continue to race.
The soldiers didn't complain, not that soldiers ever did—especially templars. These were men and women who had regularly watched over Peredura ever since Haven. These were seasoned veterans, skilled warriors, strong in their faith, and willing to make sacrifices for others.
And Cullen knew every single one of them by name. Abbets and Devensport had chosen well.
Stitches, on the other hand, was not a templar. And he did have opinions, and voiced them, with no regard for rank or discipline. However, Cullen did listen, seeing as the healer only commented when the horses were showing signs of fatigue, or Fear was having trouble keeping up—if he allowed anything to happen to that hound, Peredura would never forgive him. So whenever Stitches would make some sort of dry comment, Cullen would call for a rest, and they all would dismount and find someplace comfortable, and Fear would flop down on the ground beside him exhausted.
It was during one of these rests, three nights into their journey, while Fear lay beside him in a deep sleep, the hound's maw drooling on his thigh, that Cullen finally realized the truth. He'd been thinking—about Peredura, of course—about the danger she faced on what seemed like a daily basis. About the mark on her hand and the rifts and demons. About Corypheus and the rogue mage still at large—Maker damn him—and archdemons. About the time they fought a dragon, and how she'd feared for his safety, and how he'd feared for hers. About Adamant and how he'd had to trust her to do her part while he did his part. About her latest run-in with Venatori and how they'd left her to die.
And that was the point. She could have died. She could have died a dozen times over these past few months… a hundred times over… and he, Cullen, had never once told her how important she was to him…
As his thoughts came crashing to a staggering halt, overwhelmed by the abrupt realization, his hand paused its movement, the nails still buried in the short fur of the mabari. He had been absently stroking Fear's head, offering what comfort he could to the hound, hoping to keep any nightmares at bay. But his own nightmare suddenly flooded his thoughts. What if, somehow, someday—and it was quite possible—Peredura were to be killed? She'd be dead and gone, forever out of his reach, never to hold her again, never to steal another kiss, never to press himself against her and FEEL ALIVE.
That's what she'd done for him, more than helping him through his withdrawal and offering comfort and support when the days got rough and the temptations and shakes and visions seemed unrelenting. More than giving him something to fight for, someone to believe in, a cause to follow and a purpose for his life now that he was no longer a templar. More than these silly games of flirting that they played, the stolen kisses, the accidental touches, the comments laced with secret meanings. He had been all but dead himself to the world after Kirkwall, ever since Kinloch really, doing very little more than going through the motions, a sad and hollow mimicry of a man. But she had breathed life back into him. She had awoken him from his coma. She had broken down the barriers and found a way into his heart and made it beat once more.
She had made him…
"Ser?"
…love her.
"Ser!" Devensport repeated when it seemed as if his Commander hadn't heard him. He was fairly certain the man was awake, but then again, he remembered hearing stories of how Commander Cullen could sleep standing up with his eyes wide open, so he wouldn't be surprised if the Commander was indeed sleeping while propped up against a tree. He thought about reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder and give a gentle shake, but then thought better of it when he saw the Commander's fist clench. "Ser…?"
Cullen needed time, he wanted time, to let the realization sink in. Maker's breath, but it was staggering to imagine that she… that he… but Devensport's pestering was insistent. Cullen relaxed his fist and set it back on Fear's head, though the mabari was already alerted that something was up, his eyes open and watching and waiting. "Yes?" He was fairly proud of himself, for not having shouted at the man, in fact, for sounding almost calm.
Devensport straightened back up, not wanting to crowd the man, now that he had his attention. "Abbets' returned from scouting. Said he found a stables not too far ahead, where we can change to some fresh mounts."
Cullen nodded, giving the hound's head a final pat, before dislodging it and forcing himself to his feet. "Excellent. We will be able to push a little harder again. Might make Val Royeaux by sunset tomorrow."
"Yes, Ser," Devensport agreed.
"Well, don't just stand there, get everyone saddled up. The sooner we get fresh mounts, the sooner we can pick up the pace."
Devensport snapped a smart salute and spun to carry out his orders. Cullen didn't watch him, however, knowing he was able to trust the men under him to do their duties and follow orders. Besides, there was a rather thick skull pushing at the back of one knee, almost collapsing him to the ground once more. "Sorry, Fear," he sounded only a slight bit contrite as he apologized to the hound, "I know you're tired and need to rest. But we need to get there. I… need to get there… to see her… I," he paused, still somewhat amazed and a bit in shock over what he had just discovered, but… "I know, now. I know what it is that I need to tell her. And thank the Maker," he swallowed, the words never more sincere and heartfelt, "Thank the Maker, it's not too late."
Fear tilted his head, considering, but what was going through his brain was a mystery Cullen would never fathom. Suddenly he jumped up on his hind legs, placing one paw on Cullen's thigh in what could be taken to be a comforting manner, somewhat like a friend setting a consoling hand on another's shoulder. Then he dropped back down onto all fours and padded over to Cullen's mount. The well-trained and seasoned horse eyed the mabari with respect and did not show any fear of him, but it also gave him a bit of extra space.
Well, Cullen thought to himself, even if Fear hadn't understood everything he said, he had understood enough. "Right. Time's wasting. Let's get going."
Val Royeaux. There it sat, sprawling on the horizon like a lady in her boudoir, pure and pristine, elegant and rich, and distant and unattainable. It seemed so tantalizingly close, yet Dorian knew they had to be a good hour or more from reaching it. This was the hardest part of their race, to be so close to the finish, to be able to see their goal, and to have to ignore the weariness that suffused every single muscle, even their bones, just so they could reach it.
His attention wavering, he stumbled on a rock, gasped, and nearly dropped his side of the cart.
"Easy, man," Bull reached out, tugging Dorian upright by his robes, "We're almost there."
"How…" he panted, but shook off Bull's touch and resumed his pulling of the cart, "How… can you… just… ugggggggghhhhhhh!"
They had ridden the dracolisks hard, to the point where the animals had both given up. It was wrong, it was cruel, but they'd had no choice. They did leave the mounts near an Orlesian farm, hoping the new owners would take better care of the animals than they had, and continued on foot.
It was slower going with the two of them now having to pull the cart, but they hadn't the coin to buy fresh horses.
Bull didn't bother trying to answer his question, his eye seeing further and sharper than Dorian had seen. "Ah, Dorian…" he started, and stopped, suddenly.
Dorian pounded onward a few paces before it registered that Bull hadn't finished his sentence. "What?" When the qunari didn't answer right away, his weary-befuddled mind began running through the standard list of dangers. "What is it? Peredura? Did the spell wear off? Or are we under attack? Is it a bear?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Bull shook his head, slowing his pace to a stop and allowing Dorian the chance to catch his breath. "It's just, well, ah…"
"Wha…?" Dorian hadn't the strength to finish the word this time. He'd been staring at the ground beneath his feet, his only concern staying on the road. Now that they had stopped, he had the chance to look up at Bull and see where he was looking further down the road. Dorian followed his gaze, though it was another few seconds before he saw what Bull had seen. In a panicky squeak, he gasped, "Soldiers!"
"Friendlies," Bull assured him, "Inquisition. By the looks of the uniforms, I'm guessing some of Leliana's spies, erm, I mean, scouts. And they've brought a carriage for you and the Boss."
"Thank the Maker." Relief flooded through Dorian, taking away the fear and anxiety, along with the strength in his knees. His legs buckled and dropped him onto the road. Despite the city being so close, despite help finally arriving, he had nothing left. "That's a sight for sore eyes. We made it!"
Bull didn't try to pick him up, much less force him any further, and set his side of the cart down on the roadway. Their guys would be here soon; they'd help take the Inquisitor into the city. Dorian and Peredura would be safe now. And that meant that he could… but he shouldn't… and yet he wanted to… "Dorian, I…"
The mage's dark brows curled as he looked up at the big gray beast beside him. "What is it?" But the giant didn't answer him, not verbally anyway. Dorian studied his posture, the way he tensed his shoulders, the way he stared at the help arriving, the way his lips mumbled calculations of time and distance without a breath.
Fasta vass, he was exhausted, but he struggled to his feet, bracing his hands on his knees, tilting his head to look back at him. "Bull?" The qunari turned towards him, his expression flooded with pain, torn between duty and personal desire. But Dorian had the wind in his sails now, he knew he could ease Bull's suffering with a single command. "Go."
The man trembled, but didn't move.
"I wish I could go with you," Dorian continued, trying to sound unconcerned as he pushed off his knees to lean against the cart, "But I've already slowed you down enough as it is. It's alright. We're alright. The scouts will be here in a few minutes, far too short of time for anything dangerous to happen to us, even with Peredura's usual bad luck. So you've done your duty to the Inquisitor. Besides," his gray eyes gave a mirthful twinkle "You know Blackwall isn't going to wait for you. You better catch back up to him, if you want to join in on any of the fun."
Bull growled, low and dangerous, like a wolf giving warning before defending itself, but all the heat and anger was directed inward, at his inner turmoil, his duty to see Peredura to safety and his desire to rain vengeance upon her tormentors. He pulled his gaze away from Dorian to look back at the scouts, then turned slowly in a circle to make sure there were no nearby dangers, before settling his gaze on Dorian's face once more. The indecision, the strife he was suffering between his obligations and his desires, continued to flood his features. "Dorian…"
"Don't get all mushy on me now, you big gray lump of nothing but muscle and rage," he patted Bull's cheek, feeling like he was getting a bit mushy himself. Must be the exhaustion speaking. "Go. Hurry. Before I change my mind."
He hesitated, only a moment, staring into Dorian's veiled eyes, catching a glimpse of what has hidden deep inside. Then he cupped his face and pressed their lips together, short, sweet, and far too brief.
Dorian had closed his eyes, purely on reflex, instinctively wanting to focus on the sensation, so he didn't see Bull pull away. He didn't see Bull turn and start racing off, back the way they had come. Nor did he want to. He held himself still for a minute or longer, waiting, before he risked opening his eyes and turning around to check on Peredura. He could not have watched Bull leave.
Cullen's steps were heavy as he climbed the stairs. "The men are exhausted and need to rest; make sure there are others there in the stables to care for our horses."
"Already done, ser," the scout, racing to keep up with him, acknowledged.
"And they'll need a hot, freshly cooked meal, something hearty."
"Being served as we speak, ser."
"The hound will need a bit of nourishment as well, real food, and none of those fancy Orlesian treats made from Maker knows what," he scoffed, reaching the landing at the top of the stairs and pausing as he tried to determine which hallway to take. "No, he will need fresh water, and fresh meat, the bloodier the better."
"Ser," the scout repeated, gesturing which direction they should go. He gave up trying to explain how matters were already being taken care of. After all, the Commander was only performing his due diligence, seeing to the needs of his troops. He hurried after Cullen as he stalked down the hallway. "Ser, would you care to inspect your chambers, Ser?"
The man thought he was being considerate, but Cullen's own comfort and rest was furthest from his self-tortured mind. "No, I most certainly would not. I must see the Inquisitor, first. Which room is…?"
"I said, no, thank you very much, but we'll have our own healers look after her."
The words were sudden, bursting from around a corner, as if someone had just opened a door, spilling the argument out into the hallway.
"But, ser, I am from the Grand Cathedral. I've tended to the Divine herself. Surely you cannot object to my qualifications."
"I can. And I do."
"But… but the Chantry mothers sent me personally. They know they were wrong about the Inquisition. They only want to help. That's why I'm here. To offer my services as a form of apology."
"Apology accepted. Now, there's no more reason for you to stay…"
"What's going on here?" Cullen rounded the corner and stalked up to where Dorian was standing in a doorway, blocking it, preventing another man from regaining entry. His hands were up, open palmed and facing the healer, looking like he had just shoved the man—and was ready to do so again should the need prove necessary.
"Commander!" the relief in Dorian's voice was as thick as the emotion and exhausting that painted his features. "Am I ever glad to see you. Be a good fellow and use your blade thingy and send this quack packing, would you?"
"I'm not a quack!"
"It's called a longsword," Cullen also corrected Dorian. He finished approaching, however, and pointedly sided with him by standing next to him in the doorway—Maker, but it was nearly impossible not to sneak a peek inside to see her! Instead, he forced his broad back to block the view, his wrist resting negligently on the hilt of the massive weapon as he turned to face the healer, "And you are dismissed."
"But, ser," the man sounded half-exasperated, half-pleading, "I was told the Inquisitor was not well, that she needs a surgeon…"
"We've brought our own," Cullen stated, simply, cleanly, and finally. When the healer looked as if he would sputter more protests, Cullen shifted his feet, standing a little taller, his hand slipping from resting on top of the hilt, to encircling the sheath in preparation for holding it steady to draw the weapon.
"And I'd like to see my patient, if you three wouldn't mind," Stitches' voice joined the discussion, coming around the same corner Cullen had just passed. He barely kept himself from starting at the suddenness of Stitches' arrival; the Charger must have been only a few paces behind him, foregoing the fresh cooked meal and long-overdue rest, possibly as concerned for the Inquisitor as the rest of them. "You, go away," he wiggled a few fingers at the other healer, immediately dismissing him as irrelevant, refusing to give the man enough credit to even argue with him. Then Stitches turned to the two men standing in the doorway, making parting motions with his hands, "And you two, step aside."
"Of course," Dorian quickly agreed, moving out of the way by stepping into the room in front of Stitches. Cullen was fast on Stitches' heels, all but slamming the door behind him, effectively ending the scene with the Chantry's healer.
But the scene he walked into was a nightmare—the nightmare he'd been fearing all through his journey.
The drapes were opened partway, enough to flood the room with the late afternoon sunlight. The furniture was dark and sturdy, the room intended for someone masculine no doubt, but efforts had been made to soften the furnishings. Someone thoughtful had brought in flowers, a dozen or so bouquets littering the dresser and tables and furnishings, adding bursts of color wherever one looked as well as a subtle floral fragrance. A fire was merrily roasting in the hearth, adding soft light and softer warmth to the room, the crackling sound gentle and comforting and lending a feel of home. There was also a massive bed in the center of the room, piled high with feather pillows, a thick and silky comforter folded at the foot and ready for use.
Despite all of this, Cullen felt his as if he had just walked waking into his darkest nightmare. Peredura lay in the middle of the bed, still in her stained and travel-worn clothing, still in her splints and padding. She looked thin and frail, smaller than ever, more a toy than a child, a broken toy that was in dire need of mending. She was so hurt, so battered, so STILL—she might very well be dead. He stayed back beside the door, wanting to go closer, but also afraid of having his worst fears, his worst anxieties, confirmed.
Harding had passed along a brief description of how Peredura had been found, trussed up in ropes, hanging from the massive roots of an ancient and uprooted tree, left there to slowly strangle to death. He half listened as Dorian repeated the same information, but with quite a bit more detail, including her complete inability to make any sort of movement after they had freed her, while Stitches began his examination. Maker help them… Maker help them all… if Peredura's neck had been broken… just far enough… though not to kill her, but to leave her paralyzed…
His thoughts didn't center on the Inquisition, like how would they be able to continue to close rifts, much less defeat Corypheus, if she couldn't even raise her hand. No, his thoughts were more focused on her, on them, if she could never again lift her hand to stroke the stubble on his cheek.
If she could never again feel his reaction, how she had brought him to life, whenever she was near him.
Maker help him, it was selfish, and he knew it, but at that moment, all he wanted was for Stitches to say…
"Stop moving around so much, young lady, I'm not finished yet."
Cullen blinked, not daring to trust his ears, but he did manage to finally relax his grip on the door handle behind him. Without that anchor, without that self-imposed restraint, his body began to drift forward of its own accord, and he took his first step towards the bed.
"You mean, she can move? Her neck's not broken?" Dorian voiced the question that was pounding inside Cullen's heart.
"Oh, it's quite possible there is a break," Stitches pulled his hands away from the back of her neck, "Or more specifically a hairline fracture, in the bones right at the top of her spine, but it wouldn't have been severe enough to cause any lasting damage, not if she's able to move her hand like that."
All three looked to where Peredura was fidgeting, her right hand trying to get at the knots tied to the splints preventing her arms from moving. Her expression changed, growing pained, agitated, eager and frustrated, as she tried to communicate something she felt was of utmost importance.
"I said, stop moving," Stitches reached across and settled his hand over hers. His back and shoulder effectively blocked her face from Cullen's view, but in his mind he replayed the chewing on her lip, the wrinkling of her brows, the trembling of her chin.
"She's… but she… back there… she couldn't move… not her hands… she tried… I tried… back in the desert… Kaffas, we thought she was paralyzed!"
There was a wheezing sound, something akin to the wind as it blew through ancient and tumbled-down ruins. Cullen discovered he could see her face once more, and found himself standing beside Dorian at the foot of the bed. He didn't bother to figure out how he'd gotten there; he simply stood and stared at Peredura as she tried to speak, and he tried to figure out what she was saying. Stitches was closest, however, and he leaned over her, tilting his head to put his ear right above those quivering lips.
After a moment, he nodded, "Ah, I think I understand." Stitches leaned back and put a finger against her lips to silence her attempts at speaking. "Pins and needles, am I right?"
She blinked at him, twice.
"What?"
Stitches turned back to answer Cullen's question, and missed the expression that flickered across her face at the sound of his voice—though Dorian caught it. "That's what she's saying, er, at least, that's what she is trying to say. Pins and needles, you know, that painful tingling sensation you get when your hand or foot or something falls asleep? That's probably what she was feeling in her hands right after you cut away the ropes, numbness and tingling, probably didn't want to try moving her fingers lest the pain should start." He turned back to her once more. "Isn't that right, miss?"
Again, two very slow blinks.
"That means yes, two blinks yes, one blink no," Dorian translated, his own voice husky with emotions and relief. "Vishante kaffas, I… I'm sorry… so sorry, Peredura… I thought… we all thought… if we had known… realized… we'd never have tied you up again… not after what you'd been through…"
"Actually," Stitches had moved on with his examination, now that his patient appeared less agitated, "It's a very good thing you did keep her so still. If you hadn't braced her neck, well, jostling around in the back of that cart, or riding the back of a horse—anything jarring—might've finished what the noose had started. As it is, though," he smiled down at his patient, "Your neck's going to be fine. Front and back."
"Front…?" Dorian, again, asked, his voice escalating up and octave, sounding lost and confused.
"Larynx is crushed. That's probably what's been causing her the most pain, and keeping her from speaking. But not to worry, one healing potion and she'll be fine by morning. Easily fixed."
"Easily…"
"Ah, Commander, could you…?" Stitches spared a nod and a meaningful look towards Dorian, before turning back to Peredura. Cullen glanced over and saw the mage was as white as a sheet beneath his swarthy tan. The bags under his eyes made his cheeks look even more sunken. And the faintest tremble was running through his body, growing stronger by the moment, soon to bring him to his knees.
Leaving the room was the furthest thing from his mind right then, but he knew the mage was on the verge of passing out. Besides, he wasn't sure—no matter how good of friends the two were—he wasn't sure how Dorian would react if he should catch a glimpse of her ears, much less her scars. She had once been at Dorian's family's estate, after all, with her master to perform some sort of blood magic, and if Dorian had gotten as good a look at her as she had of him… if he remembered her as an elf… if he recognized the design of her scars as blood magic… "Right. Come along, Altus Pavus, we should leave. You've done your part, let Stitches do his."
"I… no, I… it wasn't…" Whatever he wanted to say remained a mystery. His silver-blue eyes rolled backwards as his knees lost the battle to keep him upright. Cullen was right there however and, without a thought or any hesitation, caught him before he could hit the ground, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other scooping up those unfaithful knees.
Cullen straightened back up and found himself at a loss as to what to do next. "I, ah," he started, stopped, looked over his shoulder at the door, then back to the bed. "I'll just, I mean, I should, erm," he tried again, only slightly more articulate than before.
"I can manage, Commander, thank you. Let me do the moving, your Worship, this one looks broken," Stitches barely spared him those first few words, focused on Peredura and carefully untying the splint around her left wrist. The girl herself was still once more, no longer trying to speak or move or gain their attention. Cullen looked up at her face and thought her eyes were either closed, or she was staring at him. From her position, flat on her back and unable to lift her head, it would be very difficult for her to see him standing there at the foot of the bed. But if she was looking at him…
"I'll be back in a little while."
Stitches might have hummed something, thinking the words were meant for him, but Cullen was watching Peredura. He saw her lips move, a little smile breaking through the worry and pain and fear. The fingers of her right hand also moved, a gesture much like she was timidly reaching out for him, or perhaps waving acknowledgement of his words. But the next moment her hand went back to resting on the bedclothes, and her lower lip to being mauled by her teeth.
Damn, but he'd have to break her of that habit.
First, however, he needed to get rid of some dead weight. He turned for the door, fumbling a little as he tried to open it without dropping Dorian. He managed it on the third try, though he did nearly brain the mage on the doorframe as he stepped out into the hallway.
"Commander!" the scout from earlier was a little ways down the hallway, lurking, or perhaps simply staying nearby should he be needed again, Cullen was too tired and distracted to care which.
"Is there a room for Altus Pavus to use," he asked quietly, pulling Peredura's door closed with the toe of one boot.
"I'm not dead," Dorian protested, weakly, "Stop talking as if I'm not here." He lifted his head, a bit wobbly, and blinked at the other two.
"Erm, well, ser, there's, I guess it'd be your room…"
"That'll do for now. Lead the way."
"I can walk," Dorian protested a bit stronger, and began writhing weakly in Cullen's arms. "No need to… carry me like a… like a… damned damsel in distress."
"I could have carried you like a sack of potatoes, you know," Cullen answered.
"Allow me to help, ser," the scout offered and stepped up to their side as Cullen carefully set Dorian on his feet. Those traitorous knees threatened to give once more, but with an arm wrapped securely over Cullen's broad shoulders, and the other draped over the scout's, Dorian managed to regain some of his pride.
A very small amount.
"Just through here, ser," the scout nodded towards the door across the hall and a few yards down. They managed to lug Dorian over to it and through the threshold, the mage's feet attempting to take steps but really just barely able to keep from scuffing the polished marble tiles.
"This is… my room…?" Cullen's astonishment was as thick as pea soup. He looked around at the grand furnishings, the frames covered in gild, the upholstery printed with bright floral colors, the fabrics soft and silky. This room was as feminine as the last room had been masculine.
"Well, ser, there was a slight problem," the scout hesitantly began explaining. "You see, this is Orlais," they resumed their course towards the bed, "And with the Game and all," they shuffled around until they could set Dorian down, "Well, we discovered early this morning, there was a hidden alcove in this room. With an Orlesian spy inside. Purely routine, of course, nothing personal." He straightened up, as did Cullen, both of them studying Dorian to make sure he would remain sitting, or at the very least not slide off the bed. "Still, he's been detained, ser, for questioning. But we wanted to make sure this room didn't have any more surprises, before we let her Worship use it, so we were making another thorough search of the chamber. Only she arrived a little ahead of schedule before we could finish. So we gave her your room, ser, and only just finished securing this room. We could move her in here now, I suppose, but…"
"No, no," Cullen dismissed the suggestion, "She's comfortable where she's at. Leave her be, at least for tonight."
"I second that," Dorian sighed, leaning to the side but putting out an arm to catch himself before he could hit the mattress. "Kaffas, but I'm knackered."
Cullen had almost forgotten about Dorian; he needed to get rid of the other man so he could ask the mage a question or two. "Thank you, scout, I can manage from here. See to those other matters we discussed earlier, and then bring the mabari up to the Inquisitor's chambers when he's finished eating. That will be all."
"But, erm, ser, would you want a room for yourself tonight? Surely you're not…" The scout stopped as suddenly as he had started, just realizing what he had been about to say.
Cullen pulled himself to his greatest height and fixed the shaking scout with his best glare. "No, thank you, but I will be standing watch over the Inquisitor tonight, should she need anything."
"Of course, ser, I didn't mean to imply… erm, I mean pry, that is… excuse me."
Cullen's lips almost twitched into a smile, watching the flustered scout beat a hasty and embarrassed retreat. But then Dorian spoke and reminded him of his presence.
"Thank you, Commander."
"For what this time?" he queried, trying to keep his tone civil and mildly curious.
"For bringing Stitches," Dorian stifled a yawn behind the back of his hand. "Excuse me. My only thought… our only thought… was to get Peredura to a healer, to get her neck looked at, so she could heal correctly. It wasn't until we finally got here… that I realized… her scars… e-e-ea-ears… yyyyhhhhhhhnnnnnngggggg!" He tried to fight off another yawn until he could finish his sentence, almost making it. "They'd be a bit hard to explain to an outsider, like that Chantry healer. I knew I couldn't let him examine her, but she did desperately need someone's attention. And then I saw you… and Stitches… thank the Maker you thought to bring him along."
"I'm fairly sure he knows all about her scars," Cullen agreed, "As I am sure he can be trusted, since he's never mentioned them to anyone." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, "Neither have you, until now."
Even though his befuddled mind was swaddled with exhaustion, Dorian could hear the cold and dangerous tone in the Commander's voice. But he was simply too tired to even attempt subterfuge. "Vishante kaffas, Cullen, yes, I remember her—and her former master—from Tevinter. I know her secret, and I've kept it and I'll continue to keep it," he gave up trying to remain upright and flopped down onto the bedclothes, groaning softly as he rolled onto his back, "Just as she's kept mine."
Mutually assured destruction, was the first thought that entered Cullen's mind; you tell my secret, I'll tell yours. Then the meaning behind the words sunk in.
Dorian had a secret?
Cullen hadn't realized he'd spoken that thought out loud, not until Dorian answered him, "It, well, yes, I do, one I suppose I should be ashamed of, or at least one that my father is ashamed of. That's why he called upon Vicici. The man did have a bit of a reputation for doing the impossible, and though no one ever actually used the words 'blood magic'—not in polite company at any rate—we all knew that's where he got his power. At any rate, father… shall we say, invited Vicici over for afternoon tea. That's when I decided it was time I left home."
"And when you first met Peredura," Cullen prompted.
Dorian sighed, realizing the Commander wasn't going to let this one drop, not until he had assured it posed no threat to his Inquisitor, at least. "Yes," he sighed, pushing himself up onto one elbow, trying to keep himself awake, "Though it took me a while until I recognized her, after I joined the Inquisition. The ears, or lack of them, threw me for a bit."
"And when you did?" he pressed, "When you did recognize her?"
Dorian's eyes dropped to the comforter beneath him, embroidered a bright floral pattern. "As I said, Commander," it was formal now, any friendship between them set aside for the moment, the topic far too serious and potentially dangerous, at least from Cullen's point of view, "Peredura and I are friends, and we trust each other. And we both have secrets to keep, secrets that really don't impact the Inquisition in any way, but secrets we want kept, well, secret. I'll keep hers, out of loyalty; I believe I've proven my faithfulness, at least to her. And I trust," he emphasized the single word, "She'll keep mine. It's already made me the greatest pariah of Tevinter; I've no aspirations of adding the rest of Thedas to that."
"Do you mean," Cullen paused a moment, his brows furrowing as he worked it through, "Do you mean, that stuff between you and Iron Bull? That's what you're ashamed about? Your feelings for another man?"
Dorian's jaw dropped.
"Yes, I know, I do tend to get a bit focused on other matters," Cullen groused, "But that doesn't make me naive. I have noticed how you two act around each other. And if even I'VE noticed it," he pressed his hand to his chest, "Then you can rest assured, it's no secret."
Dorian tottered, just for a moment, a fairly mildly melodramatic response, before over-emoting a groan and falling back onto the pillows, his forearm shielding his face. "You've shamed me, Cullen," they were back to being friends again, he was fairly sure, and used the man's given name. "And here I thought we were being so discreet."
"I've seen the two of you in battle," Cullen felt rather smug that he had figured something out, and wanted to boast for once—just a little. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress. "Afterwards—and during, really, but afterwards your first thought is always for his welfare, as his is for yours."
Dorian's forearm lifted just far enough for one pale blue eye to peek at him, mischievously, "Much like you and Peredura?"
Cullen felt the sudden heat flare in his face, too late realizing that he was trapped. But it was true, and if anything, Dorian had proven his trustworthiness and loyalty and, most importantly, his ability to keep a secret. Squaring his shoulders, daring his own face to turn even more red, he admitted, "Yes."
Dorian found himself hard pressed to keep the smile at bay, though inwardly he crowed, Good for you, Peredura! "And have YOU," he pointed a finger at Cullen's chest, "Told HER?" his finger changed its target to the door.
"I, er, no, well, I've only just," he rubbed at the back of his neck, not able to meet Dorian's eyes, "I mean, we just got here, and there hasn't been time, and now she's so hurt, and I really couldn't, not tonight, perhaps tomorrow…"
"Tell her," Dorian stopped his inane prattling with a hand to his shoulder, "Tell her tonight. Right now. March across that hall, fling open the door, and declare your undying love for her!"
He hadn't thought it possible, but his face did turn even hotter. "I… I couldn't… I don't think… now's not a good time."
"Cullen," Dorian's voice grew soft, husky, overflowing with some long-buried, long-lost, though by no way diminished over time, emotion. "Trust me: Any time is a good time, to tell someone you love them."
He sighed, all but physically drooping. Never had a defeat weighed so heavily on his shoulders, but… "You're right."
"Good lad," Dorian gave his shoulder a final pat before relaxing against the pillows once more. "Now, if you don't mind, could we leave off any more conversations until tomorrow? Or the next day, preferably. I feel like I could sleep a full twenty-four hours! And I'm not going to feel a smidgen of guilt about soiling these sheets with my sandy and sweaty clothing…"
Cullen didn't answer right away, his mind reeling through all that had been said in the past few minutes. When he was finally able to look up, it was to see that Dorian was already snoring softly. He gave a weary sigh, wanting to return to Peredura's room, but also wanting to stall for just a little more time, just a little more courage. He decided to make Dorian a bit more comfortable, but after removing his shoes and unfastening a few belts and turning down the bedside lamp, there wasn't anything else for him to do. He pushed himself to his feet and left the mage to his slumber.
And returned to Peredura's room, not at all sure how he would do what he needed to do, but knowing it had to be done.
Peredura hadn't moved, not surprisingly, though now the comforter was pulled up to her neck. Stitches was hovering over her, carefully spooning what Cullen assumed to be a healing potion into her mouth. Neither one appeared to notice him after he entered, and though he could have slipped back out again—Maker's breath, but that thought was tempting!—he made himself approach the bed.
"Just finishing up, Commander," Stitches had noticed him, though apparently Peredura had not, as her eyes fluttered open at the words and began casting about for him. Cullen took a deep breath and started forwards, towards the bed, taking up a position near the side opposite Stitches where she could see him. He watched those soft brown orbs fill with relief and trust and need and more emotions than they could hold, the excess spilling onto her cheeks in the form of tears.
"She's in a bit of pain," Stitches continued; if he had noticed anything odd about their actions, he kept it to himself. "But I've mixed a little something in with the healing potion here to help with that. There you go, my dear, the last drop. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
She didn't answer him, obviously. She did, however, look as if she wanted to say something, or do something, or need SOMETHING, her lower lip flushed and swollen from all the chewing and the comforter moving as her right hand sought freedom from the bedclothes.
Cullen answered, in a way. He leaned over and set his hand over hers, touching her though the blanket, but it was enough to calm her agitation.
There was a strange sound at the door, and Stitches sighed as he stood up. "It seems you've got yet another visitor." When neither Cullen nor Peredura acknowledged him, he cleared his throat and proclaimed, "I'll just get that, shall I?" Again, no sign that either had heard him.
Stitches didn't take it personally, but went to the door and opened it for the four-legged beast, before the hound could tunnel his way through the door with his claws. Fear bounded into the room, overjoyed that he had slipped his lead, lost his handler, and found his way to his partner's room—both his partners. His bark, his happy greeting filled with his important accomplishment, was the only thing that could tear her eyes away from Cullen's face.
As if a spell had been broken, Cullen found himself able to breathe once more. Breathing and returning to his surroundings, just in time to stop the hound from leaping onto the bed—and onto his partner. "Right, Fear, listen up," he started, pulling his hand away from hers to address the mabari, "Peredura's going to be alright, but she's still a little sore right now. I'll let you on the bed for a few moments, only long enough to satisfy your curiosity, but then you'll have to get down, because she needs her rest. And don't jostle the bed. She has to remain very still, understood?" he waggled a finger at the oversized puppy.
Fear sat at attention, quivering from the tips of his folded ears to the tip of his stubby tail, but he would not move until Cullen gave him permission. When those three beautiful words came, "Up you go," he sprang onto the mattress in one leap, one very careful and gentle leap. Hardly a tremor stirred the bed as he made his way timidly to Peredura's side. He sniffed the air, smelling the high desert and the old tree and the blood mages and the ropes and the fear and the wounds. But when he nuzzled her cheek, when he snuffled at her ear, when her hand finally won freedom from the comforter and clung to the scruff of his neck, he knew everything would be alright.
"So, how is she?" Cullen asked softly, leaving the two on the bed and walking the Charger to the door.
"A little worse for wear," he admitted, "Broken wrist. Dislocated ankle. Shoulders were nearly dislocated, too. The neck's the most aggravating, with the slight break and the throat being crushed. But she should be fine by morning. I told her, though, not to try talking until lunchtime tomorrow; she'll probably be alright first thing in the morning, but I want to check on her first."
"I understand," he nodded, "I'll keep her quiet."
If Stitches had a response for that, he kept it to himself. "I also slipped a little something into the potion to help keep her calm. Nothing strong," he quickly assured Cullen, both men remembering the fiasco with the sleeping draught during her withdrawal from opeigh, "Just enough to help take the edge off any anxieties she may be suffering. She has been through quite an ordeal."
"I see," the muscles in Cullen's jaw flexed and bulged as a new thought came to him. He didn't know why he hadn't considered it before, other than he truly didn't want to give the thought voice, but he had to ask, he needed to know… "Had they… did you see any sign that the Venatori… did they… touch her…?"
Stitches knew what he was trying to say, "Not that I could tell, Commander." It wasn't much comfort, but it was all he could give, and it was honest.
Cullen understood, not quite relieved but appearing less homicidal nonetheless. "Thank you, Stitches. I'll stay with her through the night. Any special instructions?"
"No," the healer hefted the strap of his bag onto his shoulder, "Other than the obvious, keep her still and quiet. Good night's sleep should see to that. And I'll be back in the morning to check on her, before breakfast. 'Night, Commander."
Cullen acknowledged him, though vaguely. His eyes were glued to the bed where a girl, a young woman, was clinging desperately to her hound. He did hold himself back until he heard the door closed. Then he moved forwards to reclaim his place at her side. "You should get down now, Fear," he heard himself saying. "Let her get her rest. You can sleep on the rug in front of the hearth." It was as if he was being controlled by someone or something else, doing and saying what he ought to, what was required of him, while his mind whirled and spun in circles, trying to find the words, find the way, to tell her…
Fear didn't move right away, giving in to a small whine while he looked at this partner. When Peredura's hand gently patted his shoulder, a clear signal for him to follow Cullen's command, he gave in. Reluctantly. With a last nuzzle at her ear, one that elicited an indulgent smile and what might have been a bit of an airy giggle, he stood up and jumped down from the bed, bumping against Cullen as he did so and nearly sending the man off balance. Cullen steadied himself with a hand braced against the headboard and glared after the puppy, who very determinedly ignored him in favor of that promised rug by the warm hearth.
Realizing he wasn't going to win against the puppy, Cullen dismissed him and turned his attention back to Peredura. She was looking at him, staring at him with a strange mixture of emotions in her eyes. He could tell her now, he supposed, just blurt the words out, trusting Dorian's advise that any time would be a good time so why not right now? He took a deep breath, then another, telling himself on the third one he'd do it.
Peredura's hand moved. It was outside of the covers, as it had been scratching Fear, but now it moved as if to go back underneath where it was warm. "Oh, ah, here," Cullen jumped at the chance to say something, anything, as he obviously wasn't able to say what he needed to say, "Let me help with that." He started fumbling with the comforter, tugging it away so she could slip her arm back in. But she didn't do that, instead her hand finding his, holding on to the comforter with him, holding it several inches above the bed, open and inviting.
As Cullen told Dorian, he wasn't naive, he wasn't ignorant, he was simply more often than not focused on other matters so he rarely, if ever, caught these subtle signs. But he was focused on her tonight, on her and her needs and…
He saw the delicate flush of blood to her skin, the quickening of her pulse at her neck, the shortness of her breath hefting her chest.
He was also fairly sure she wasn't wearing much, if anything, in the way of clothing.
He stared at the blanket, at the soft darkness within, at the blatant invitation. He stared as a man would stare at a deadly poisonous snake about to strike, or at his deepest and most desperate desire come to life before his very eyes—or a little of both. Yet he wouldn't allow himself to move, he couldn't, not until he was sure he would do the right thing.
"I dare not," he at long last declined, his reluctance making his voice thick and guttural. "I couldn't trust myself, not tonight, you need to keep still, and I…" He stopped himself, clearing his throat, keeping those particular words unspoken, instead tucking the comforter in at her side while leaving her arm above, "However, if you promise to lie quiet and get some sleep," he began taking off his gloves before working on the buckles to his armor, "I will stay here, on top of the covers, right next to you, through the night. Would that be alright?"
She blinked at him, two very slow and deliberate blinks. He gave her a smile and patted her hand before leaving the bed, though he could feel her eyes on him every moment they were apart, straining at the corners and never leaving his form as he stripped himself of his armor. He made quick work of it, efficient, propping the pieces on top of or against a chair near the hearth, draping it all with his mantle. His boots, too, were kicked off and plopped down next to the chair. He shrugged out of his jacket next and, after the briefest of hesitations, decided to keep his tunic and leggings on. Then he turned and came back to the bed.
Wordlessly, with the utmost care and concern, he settled himself onto the mattress, barely shifting it with his weight. He stretched out against her right side, propping his head up on one hand while the other took her free hand. He could feel his heart pounding, hammering against his ribs as if it would burst out of his chest, and wondered if she could hear it, too. "Pere, I have to tell you something."
Right, that was a good start—well, it was a start—but he needed to say more. Her doe-like eyes were open and wide and a little bit glassy; no doubt she was exhausted. She need to rest. She needed to heal.
She also needed to hear him say it.
"Cassandra wanted me to tell you, she doesn't blame you for what happened in the Fade, for what happened to the Divine."
Maker's breath! Why in the Fade had he said that!? It was the wrong thing to say, of course it was, he knew that it was, even more so when she rolled her eyes and looked away from him.
"I… I… I know, it's not something you want to hear, probably not right now, certainly not right now," he sputtered, wondering if he could somehow get things back on track. He squeezed her hand, and felt her grip tighten in response. "But she was insistent that I deliver the message. I promised her I would. And you know me, I'm a man of my word. If I say I'll do something, I will do it. No matter how impossible."
She smiled a little at that, and he grew a little emboldened at that. "Well, now that that's out of the way, we can talk about something else. That is, not really talk, I mean, I can talk, but you'll have to listen, because you can't talk, not yet at any rate. Maybe I should stop talking…"
She smiled, a petit gesture, but honest and open and…
When he looked into her eyes, those eyes, so full of something she wanted to say or do but in her current predicament she was helpless, helpless and silent and crippled and at the mercy of the situation.
At his mercy.
Hawke had told him to tell her that night back at Adamant Fortress, before she left for the Hissing Wastes.
Dorian confirmed that any time would be a good time to tell her. He focused on her face to help himself focus his thoughts
Her eyes were so full of… whatever it was… that it was causing her distress, actual physical distress; her inability to do whatever it was she wanted to do making her frustrated and anxious and tearful. He couldn't let her be like that, he couldn't let her suffer. He set aside his own anxieties and fears and did his best to ease hers. "I know," he whispered, leaning over her to press a kiss to first one eyelid, then the other, encouraging them to close. They opened—though slowly—as he continued, "I know, whatever it is, whatever you want to say or do but can't, it's eating you up inside. Don't let it." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she gave a slow blink in response. "I'm here, Pere. I'm here and Fear's here and we're not going anywhere." He tapped her lips with a kiss, somehow chaste and carnal at the same time. "It's over. Finished. You're safe and secure, and you'll be whole again by morning." Another kiss, and her eyes were even slower to open this time. "Whatever it is, it can wait until then, can't it?"
She blinked at him, once, which he thought should mean something in the negative. "It can," he affirmed, pressing his forehead to hers. "I know it can," he gave the tip of her nose a peck. "Because, Pere," he brought her hand up to his chest, up against his throbbing heart, willing her to feel it and understand. "Because I'm here, and we'll face it together. Whatever it is. You and I, because…" He closed his eyes, naming himself coward, but he simply hadn't the courage. Here he was, a man who had lived through a Blight, through the falling of not one but two Circles, who had battled darkspawn and demons and dragons. Who had survived withdrawal from lyrium, for Andraste's sake! And he was going to be defeated by three little words. Panting, feeling his pulse race, feeling his bowels turn to jelly, he gripped her hand even tighter and shut off his brain—apparently it was making things too difficult—and let his heart speak, "…I love you."
He waited, but there was no response. No breath of a scoff from her voiceless lips. No affirming squeeze from her hand in his. No response at all, actually. He opened his eyes and leaned back a bit, just far enough to see her face. "Peredura?"
Her features were relaxed, her eyes closed with slumber. For a moment he felt lost, even concerned… but then he remembered Stitches had slipped something into her potion; whatever it was must have relaxed her enough that she had at long last dozed off.
Cullen wasn't sure if he felt relief, or cheated. "Did you hear?" he wondered aloud, "Or were you already asleep? Or will you even remember any of this come morning?" He let out a very vocal sigh, but it didn't change matters. Peredura had slept through his proclamation of love.
"Still, I've said it once. And it wasn't that hard, surprisingly," he decidedly ignored all the anxiety leading up to the moment; the actual words hadn't been that hard to say. "I'll say it again. In the morning. When you're able to hear me."
He settled her hand over her chest in peaceful repose, and began the night's vigilance.