Chapter Thirty-Four: What a Day (Part II, Noon)
So, Cullen mused, staring at himself in the mirror, so she hadn't hidden his leggings after all.
He supposed it was his own fault, his assuming she had hidden them, after waking up in bed with only his briefs on, and no clothing in sight. And she had been very insistent that he stay in bed and rest and not exert himself. So naturally he assumed she had done everything she could to keep him there, including hiding his leggings. However, when she and Dorian had left to go fill in the templars and scouts on the plan to capture the mage, he had immediately gotten up and resumed his search. After exhausting every possible hiding place within the room, he had come to the conclusion the leggings were either not in the room…
…or in the dresser, in the drawer right beneath the tunics, exactly where they should be. Which is exactly where he had found them.
Nope, she hadn't hidden them after all.
For a fleeting moment he wondered if she had somehow manipulated him into thinking that, and thereby forcing him to push himself to search for them, walking around the room, exercising his weakened muscles rather than resting, her mothering and over-cautiousness serving to goad him in the opposite direction. But that would be giving her quite a bit of credit, planning and maneuvering him like that. No, undoubtedly she simply took advantage of an opportunity that he himself had created.
Not that it mattered now. She and Dorian had left him alone for hours, and he had made full use of the time, beginning with an efficiently thorough wash despite having only a small cloth and a single pitcher of water. Being a soldier, he had learned to make do with much less than that on occasion, so this was no hardship at all, almost a luxury, in fact. Critically he examined the final result in the mirror. His hair was freshly combed, the frizz tamed back down into a smooth wave once more. His face was clean shaven, though he had briefly—very briefly—entertained the idea of bringing back his goatee. There had been four days' growth on his face after all—he could have done it—but then he remembered how the damn thing itched so much, and he had no idea if Peredura liked facial hair, though he supposed if she didn't like it he could always shave it off…
He'd have to ask her, another time, perhaps, and then reconsider it, but not today.
Yes, he nodded to himself as he finished his self-inspection; a clean set of clothing went a long way towards helping him feel more like himself again. He stood at attention as he adjusted his collar and smoothed out a crease. A dark brown tunic covered his shoulders and torso, hiding the weakness and thinness after his recent "indisposition." The tunic was tucked into a pair of tan doeskin leggings, held in place by a belt cinched a bit tighter than usual, but again not blatantly so. He had held off adding a knife or any sort of weapon or sheathe or even a pouch to the belt, leaving him feeling somewhat naked and unprepared. Yet he knew even if—though he had no idea how such a thing might occur—but even if somehow they were attacked there, on their own estate, he wouldn't have the strength right then to wield any sort of blade. And the extra weight would not be welcomed, not yet at any rate.
Longingly he stared at the reflection of his armor, hanging from a dummy in the background, but again wisely chose not to wear it lest the extra weight sap his strength too quickly and cause him to show weakness in front of his men.
He did pick up his boots, though he didn't put them on. Stomping his feet to settle the boots into place would make noise, as would crossing the floor in them, and though he was fairly sure neither Peredura nor Dorian would hear him from within the office, he didn't want to take any chances. So, boots in hand, he padded on bare feet across the tiled floor as quietly as he could and, upon reaching the door to his office, opened it the merest of cracks with his free hand.
Peredura was in view, her profile to him as she stood behind his desk, Dorian on her far side. Cullen couldn't make out whom they were facing across the desk, but he did recognize the voices of Devensport and Rylen as the two men finished their report on the trap.
"…and then Abbets put the cuffs on him. It was almost too easy, once we found him," Rylen finished.
"He was right where you said he'd be, yer Worship," Devensport's voice was almost exultant as he chimed in. "Don't know how you did it, divined the location or a message from the Maker himself or just a bloody lucky guess. Ah, pardon the language, Ser. But you did it." He was grinning from ear-to-ear, unrepentant over the use of his vulgar language in front of the Inquisitor because of the euphoria he was feeling over their success. It had been an exhausting week, the endless and fruitless pursuit, the Commander injured and absent from his duties, the worry and guilt eating at them all like a cancer. Now that the damnable mage was captured and in chains, now they could rest and celebrate and maybe grab a moment or two of happiness. Even Abbets deserved that, Devensport reasoned, and set his mind to persuading the Herald of the same.
"It wasn't me, Devensport," Peredura waved aside the praise, addressing Devensport and Fergus and Rylen and another scout on the other side of the desk. "You did it. You and the others. You broke the spell and caught the mage and brought him back here. Alive."
"Yes, Ser, all of us," Devensport confirmed, shuffling his feet and daring to lean towards her, "If you get my meaning. Abbets himself put the chains on his wrists…"
"Yes, thank you, Devensport," she broke in over his words, "That was stated already."
"He's placed himself back under house arrest," Devensport continued undaunted.
Peredura was trying very hard not to notice that the door to Cullen's bedchamber was opened a crack—the damnable man!—and Devensport's unfailing loyalty for his fellow templar was not helping her keep her equilibrium. "Yes, that's fine. And our prisoner? I assume he's safely tucked away in the cellar—or do we have a dungeon in this place? Anyway, I want to have templars guarding him at all times. I'll want to see him later, perhaps in a day or two, but I think it would be best to allow him to sit and stew for a bit, make him wonder what's to happen to him, perhaps get him to think that we don't consider him so important that he must be dealt with immediately, that sort of thing. Where is he being held?"
"We have a dungeon, your Worship," Rylen answered, "And I believe five of your Honor Guard are currently standing watch."
"Cut it back to two. And keep them out of his sight. I want him unable to use magic, but the longer we can keep him confused as to why he cannot use magic, the better."
"Won't he know it's because a templar must be nearby?" the nameless scout wondered out loud.
"Possibly not," Dorian answered. "He is from Tevinter, after all, and back there our templars don't use lyrium. They're a joke, really, nothing more than dressed-up foot soldiers. He may have been here long enough to figure out your templars are different than ours, but possibly not. And if we do still have that advantage, we should press it. Besides," he paused to brush an imaginary dust mote off his sleeve, "We definitely do not want him performing magic, such as an invisibility spell, to make us think he's escaped or anything of the sort."
"Exactly," she agreed. "Keep him under guard, but without his directly seeing them. And only two, but rotate them frequently. I'm sure every single one of my personal Guard will wish to have a chance to watch him."
"A few have done more than that, your Worship," Rylen advised, a bit of disapproval in his voice.
"I don't know what you could mean," Devensport protested, though thanks to the tone of his voice no one was believing him. "Sure, I mean, yes, the mage was a bit unsteady on his feet during our way back here, and he might have stumbled once or twice and landed on the ground. Face first. Hard."
"Nasty tumble, that last time. I think he broke his nose, Ser," Fergus' grin was demonic.
Peredura barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. "As I said, I'm glad you managed to capture him and bring him back here ALIVE." The stress she put on that last word was monumental, and sobering, and even Fergus straightened up. "Thank you, gentlemen, for your report. You have your orders. The rest of you can get some rest. Dismissed."
Devensport cleared his throat and shifted his feet, "But, Ser, about Abbets…"
"You have your orders. Dismissed," she repeated, staring at Devensport while the others left.
"You should know, he's not been well…"
"Dis-missed!" She almost barked, not quite doing an imitation of Cullen, though she was beginning to feel the irritation. At both men. The crack around the bedchamber door had widened a little bit during the last moment or two.
The templar refused to budge, however, waiting until he heard the door close behind the other templar and scouts before he tried yet again. "Ser, permission to speak freely." He eyed Dorian meaningfully.
Peredura didn't answer right away, didn't even flinch her eyes away from Devensport. As the silence grew, Dorian realized he was going to be forced into speaking, though he had no idea what he should say. "What? Oh, ah," the mage blinked and cast about for something—anything—to make an excuse, "I'll, uh, just step out for a moment, see if anybody, um, needs anything, or something like that, shall I? Excuse me!" he finished in a huff and, with a flippant twirl of his robes, spun to stalk out of the office.
She continued to remain silent, even as Dorian left and smartly closed the door behind him, even as the other door cracked open a little bit more, even as Devensport remained at attention, shoulders back, chin up, impersonating a statue while waiting for her permission to speak out in Abbets' defense.
She tried not to, damn it, and she knew she shouldn't, but her eyes flickered towards the bedchamber door. Yup, it was open a good inch or more now. She looked back to the desk and leaned forwards, placing her hands on the surface. In the brief glimpse she had made out a sliver of Cullen's form, from combed hair to a hazel eye and down past a clean shaven cheek. He was even fully clothed—except for a bare toe sticking into the light coming from the crack. Typical male that he was, he had been pushing himself while she had left him unattended, cleaning up and getting dressed and even coming back to work, albeit stealthily. All the while completely ignoring her advice.
Inwardly she smiled over Cullen's progress, though outwardly she remained somber and serious as she faced Devensport. She was fairly sure, from the position and angle where he stood, that her Guard was unaware their conversation would be overheard, though she suspected he would not mind. She let out a weary, heavy breath and settled herself down into Cullen's chair.
"Permission granted."
Devensport started to open his mouth.
"Though this is quite out of line. I mean, what is that expression? No one speaks of the suffering of templars."
He snapped his jaw shut again, but only for a heartbeat. "It bears mentioning, regardless, yer Worship. Abbets is a veteran of many years, must be decades. And distinguished service, all of it above reproach, above and beyond the call of duty. Most of the younger ones, myself included, we look up to him, ask for his advice, his guidance, in just about everything. And he's never steered us wrong before. One mistake shouldn't ruin a man's whole career, his whole life! What kind of message would that send, if you take the best of us and toss him into the gutter for messing up once? A man we look up to and respect, thrown out like trash. For our sakes as much as his, you must show him mercy!"
"I can appreciate his wisdom and experience being a boon to others," she allowed, not showing any sign she had been moved by his passionate speech, "But I already know all this. I know of his record. I know of his skills. I know how the rest of you rely on him for guidance and direction. But, unfortunately, all of that has no bearing whatsoever on his recent actions."
"Well, then," Devensport remained undaunted, trying a different tactic, "Did you know Abbets and I, we were the first, your first guards, even before you woke up in the Chantry cellars, right after the explosion that killed everyone at the Conclave and opened the Breach? Lady Cassandra said the Inquisition couldn't spare any templars to watch over you, even though the healer feared something magic-related might happen concerning your Mark. But Abbets and I volunteered to stand guard over you during our off-duty hours. We gave up our spare time to be there, for you, way back then. Did you know that?"
She swallowed, remembering that time less than fondly, how her body struggled to deal not only with opeigh withdrawal but also with the Mark embedding itself to her hand while her mind tried to recover from what had happened in the Fade. It was no wonder, then, that her voice was very soft and small as she answered, "I did not."
"And later," he pressed, taking a step forward, far enough that she began to fear he would discover the other door was open after all, "When some people started calling you the Herald of Andraste while others still feared and blamed you, Abbets and I often found an excuse to be close to you, within shouting distance at least, just in case someone might try something, so we could be there to help."
"That I do remember…"
"We've even failed you before, your Worship. Remember the day you got a riding lesson from the Commander? This very same mage even, he kidnapped you and tried to steal you away from us."
"Yes, Devensport, but that was different…"
"No, it wasn't. Excuse me, Ser, but it was no different. We had orders to move off, yes, orders from the Commander himself, and we obeyed them, but we knew we should have stayed closer. We should not have gone so far. We should have stayed close enough to see you two, though far enough away to pretend like we didn't see anything, if you catch my meaning," he slyly leaned his head forward and tapped the side of his nose. "Like that first time, just a few nights prior, up on the wall? After Krem had taken your hound hunting? You and the Commander, well, you know."
She could feel the heat stealing across her cheeks and forehead and chin, remembering the first time she and Cullen had kissed! Perhaps they hadn't been as inconspicuous as they thought. "I, the Commander and I both appreciate your discretion…"
"We've never spoken of it, of course, yer Worship. None of our business, is it? Who you love? Or the fact that you speak Tevene fluently?" He tapped the side of his nose again, "Or that you keep your ears covered? That's what I'm saying, Inquisitor; we know, but we keep your secrets. Because we're loyal to you. We love you, Abbets and I… in a sense. I mean, not like you and the Commander, um," he sputtered briefly while he tried to think of a proper analogy, definitely not wanting to give her the wrong idea, "More like, well, family, like your big brothers, or uncles fond of a favorite niece, that sort of thing."
She squinted her eyes shut for a moment, wanting to bite her lip, feeling a bit overwhelmed with all the recent revelations coming up in this conversation, "You… know I'm… you and Abbets… that I'm…"
"Elven, and from Tevinter, yes, Ser. Of course, Ser. We're not idiots." He inclined his head, sniffing a bit as if horribly insulted. "Commander doesn't promote idiots, not for something as important as your personal Honor Guard, would he? Good judge of character, he is. Smart as a whip himself."
"Ahem, yes, I see, and the rest of my Guard…?"
"Oh, no, yer Worship," he tried to put her mind at ease, "They haven't figured it out. Haven't had the chance to, have they? No, only me and Abbets have spent so much extra time with you, gone on so many of your more, shall we say, personal errands, we're the ones what's had the time and chance to figure these things out. Least ways, none of the others ever act like they know. But all of us," he reached towards her, half offering his hand to her, half wanting to touch her, "All of us in your Honor Guard love you, Inquisitor. All of us are loyal to you. All of us," he came another step closer; now he would be sure to see the door was open, "Each and every one of us, would give our lives for you without thought, without hesitation, without regret. Surely you know that."
She looked up at him, daring herself not to blink. "I know that, Devensport. That's why I trust you all, so implicitly."
"All? Even Abbets?" he pressed. When reason hadn't worked, he turned to playing on her emotions, on her fondness for them all, hoping to soften her up a bit. If this didn't work, there was only one last card he could play. He held his breath as she responded.
"I'm… still fond of him, of course I am," she allowed a smile to grace her lips for a moment before she grew stoic once more, "But he kept this from me," she pressed one hand against her chest. "From all of us. And in so doing, he betrayed my trust. He betrayed Commander Cullen's trust," her hand flashed towards the door before she thought better of drawing attention over there. "He betrayed your trust," she gestured to him, "The trust of all his fellow templars, fellow Guardsmen. That…" she pointed firmly onto the top of the desk, "That must be dealt with. Surely you can understand that."
"I do," Devensport swallowed, feeling defeated. "I only wanted to say my piece, that's all, and reassure you, no matter what the outcome, Abbets will continue to keep your secrets. You can believe that. It's simply the kind of man he is. Wouldn't betray you, not for all the money or power in Thedas. Couldn't, on account of he loves you. I hope you see that."
"I do, Humphrey, thank you."
He reacted strongly when she spoke his given name, tearing up and shifting a bit from foot to foot. "Well," he paused to sniff, fighting off the flustered feeling and trying to remember what it was he wanted to say, that last card he had wanted to play, "Well, then, I, ah," he swiped at the tip of his nose with the sleeve of his tunic, stalling, but the words wouldn't come just then, "Right, that's said, and that's that. I guess I'll be on my way, now, yer Worship."
"Yes, Devensport, dismissed," she nodded, feeling the weariness return, and waved him off.
He got as far as the door before he remembered. He stopped just in time, his hand on the latch though the portal remained closed, and used his final ploy to help his friend and mentor. "He's been having visions." He didn't turn around, finding it easier to admit this to a piece of wood rather than another person, even if she is the Inquisitor—that was the expression, as she put it: no one speaks of the suffering of templars. "Mostly at night, but some during the day. I've tried to be there for him, help him when I can, prompt him when he needs it, but he's a private man, prefers to handle matters himself, and not rely on others. I know he's been cutting back on his dosage, hoping that what worked for the Commander would work for him, but it hasn't, has it?" He half-turned around to deliver his last shot. "I think that's why, right before we left to capture the mage this afternoon, that's why he took a full dose of lyrium, to be at his best, and not let you down again."
He thought he heard a muffled, "Maker's breath!" coming from the other door, along with a thud that sounded like something heavy hitting something fleshy. Peredura jumped up at the sound, feigning a cough as if trying to cover up the noise. "Ahem, erm, excuse me, Devensport, but…" he watched as her gaze fell across the other door just in time to see the tips of some fingers beckoning her over, "Oh, kaffas! Fine. Just…" With a frustrated harrumph she turned back to him, "Devensport, would you mind waiting outside in the hall for a few minutes?"
"Of course, Inquisitor," he inclined his head to her and turned away again to open the door, but not before he saw her make for the other door. So, the Commander was still alive, he reasoned to himself, that was good to know. And he must be up and about, if he was at the door listening in, so he was recovering. But for Andraste's sake it would be good to see the man, just for a moment! He came to attention out in the hall, his back to the door, but following his Commander's example he had left it open just a crack.
Dorian was still out there, in the hall, picking at a fingernail, one foot cocked against the wall while he waited. The two men nodded to each other, but neither one offered to start a conversation, Dorian pouting and Devensport trying to hear what was being said.
"Yes, I know this needs to be dealt with, and we have the mage in hand, so there's nothing else pressing or important that requires our attention more, but are you sure you're ready for this?" her voice drifted out to Devensport's ears.
There was a reply, but he only caught the masculine tone of it before she answered, "Oh, all right," her tone sounded properly disgruntled, "But at least put your boots on. Wouldn't want you stubbing another toe. Devensport!"
"Ser!" he sounded almost excited as he answered and stepped back into the office. He was quick, quicker than Peredura and Cullen, as he was able to catch a glimpse of the Commander just as he was ducking back inside the other room.
"That was fast," she eyed him narrowly, but he refused to look abashed or give any indication that he had been eavesdropping, or hoping for a sighting of the Commander, or anything of the sort. "Never mind. Have Abbets report to the Commander's bedchamber as soon as possible, with Fear in attendance. Is that understood? My Mabari is to come here WITH him."
She seemed very, and strangely, insistent that her hound stay with Abbets, but Devensport didn't question it for long. She was willing to speak with him, both her and the Commander, and that was a good sign. He at least would be sympathetic to what Abbets was going through. That was all he could hope for. Now, if he could just break Abbets out of his own self-defeating, self-destructive funk that he was in before reporting up here, the old templar might just have a chance. "Yes, Ser! And," he flashed her a grin, "Thank you, Ser. Thank you very much. Both of you!" he called the last, sounding a bit hopeful, to the other door that was now partially opened.
There has half a second before Cullen's head and one shoulder appeared. "You have your orders, soldier. Quit stalling and carry them out!"
The familiar scowl was there, as was the harsh and barking tone, the cold and glaring eyes, the firm and decisive and commanding presence. Devensport barely kept the relief he felt from knocking his knees together and sending him to the floor in a shocked faint. Whatever mysterious and sudden illness had taken control of Cullen after the attack—surely there had to have been more that went on than just a dart to the chest to have taken him away for so many days—but it was over now. The Commander was recovered. Devensport snapped off a smart salute that encompassed them both. "Sers!"
Then he was gone.
Peredura stared after him a moment before turning away with a shake of her head. "That was odd. Like he was stalling, waiting…"
"Until I stuck my head out," Cullen offered. He was hopping on one foot, trying to get the other in a boot now that the templar had left.
Peredura gave a breathy sort of laugh. "Suppose that was it. You have been out of commission for four days. A sighting of the Commander, as strong and grouchy as always, was all he wanted."
"Not quite all," Cullen countered, settling his boot on his foot while reaching for a coat. Briefly he lamented no longer having the new forest green one that matched his eyes so nicely; Peredura had seemed fond of it. But it had been ruined that day between the rain and the dart and the blood. The red jacket he pulled on now was older, not too old but comfortably worn in, and the color reminiscent of his days as a templar. Fitting, in more ways than one.
Peredura came into the room behind him, "I've left Dorian in charge again, told him what we're doing, so we won't be interrupted from that end. Are you sure you're up to this?"
He paused, hating to admit that he was feeling a little over-exerted after such a brief burst of movement, so he focused on fastening his jacket closed. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? We'll be sitting down, discussing matters, not galloping through the countryside on some random quest."
His fingers were shaking, but hers were cool and steady as they covered his. Deftly she took over the job from him, and kept her gaze focused on his chest and the toggles. "I know, but we haven't discussed—between us—what we're going to do about Abbets."
"There's nothing to discuss," he said softly, bending his face down to inhale the lilac fragrance in her hair. "There is only one course of action to take. We both know that. Abbets knows it, too."
"I suppose…" she shrugged. "Do you think he can do it, though?"
"He'll have to." Cullen's voice fell dark and horrible like the headsman's axe. She swallowed, nodded, gave his collar a bit of a tug, and brushed some small speck off his shoulder.
"I think you'll do. For now."
"I'd feel better, more official, if I had my armor…"
"Absolutely not!" she scolded, his suggestion serving to lift the bleakness from her features. She stared up at him with shocked eyes before seeing the smirk on his lips, giving away the fact that he was teasing her. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, "Oh, Cullen."
"There's my Pere," he pressed his forehead against hers, taking hold of her hands in his and cradling them between their chests, between their heartbeats. "It will be all right, my love. You'll see. It's been done before, after all; I'm living proof of that."
"That's true." Neither one brought up the fact that he was, so far, the only one who had ever survived lyrium withdrawal.
"By the way," he continued to distract her, in part to put her in a calmer mood before Abbets' arrival, and in part to keep her from mothering him, "I didn't know you knew Devensport's given name."
"Humphrey Devensport?" she walked over to the chairs on front of the hearth, cleared of all the reports now that they had discovered the mage's location. She began arranging them carefully, one facing the fire, and one to the right of the first chair though at an angle. "Of course I know his full name. I know all their full names. I figured it was the least I could do, get to know these men and women who keep putting their lives at risk to protect me."
"Fergus?" Cullen challenged.
"David. Very dull."
"Delonce?" He watched her pick up a third chair and carry it over to the first two, He made to take it from her, but she held him off with a glare. "Aribella. I think it's a pretty sounding name, matches the pretty dimples in her cheeks."
"Never noticed them," he quickly, and wisely, hummed. "All right then, Abbets."
"Oaf!" she huffed, setting the chair down to the left of the first and facing the second. The three chairs made three sides of a square, with the fireplace at the top. "I sometimes wonder if his parents didn't like him very much. Albert Abbets, of Abbeywell."
Cullen gave a chuckle at that, thinking the name was a bit comical, but there's no telling what goes through the parents' heads when it comes to picking out their children's names. What makes sense to them might not make sense to others. "That is quite a mouthful."
"Kind of like, Cullen Stanton Rutherford? Now there's a mouthful." She settled a table in the middle of the little group, and then went to fetch a pitcher of water and glasses.
"Ah!" he cried, faking hurt and hardship. "You've no idea of my suffering. I've had to live with that name for almost thirty years. Thank the Maker I've never had children, though."
"Oh?" she wondered what he could mean by that.
"Think of it, the temptation to name my firstborn son Cullen Stanton Rutherford the Second?"
She giggled, almost dropping the glasses. "That would be worse."
"What about you?" he asked. He waited until she sat in the middle chair, facing the hearth, before he took the chair at her right. "I've never asked what your family name is, or even if you had a family name."
"I… ah…" briefly she nipped her lip, "I don't know, not really, I mean, I don't remember… exactly…"
"I know you were young when you lost your parents," he reached out to touch her knee, belatedly realizing he might be bringing back some painful memories, "But surely you remember something, remember being called by a family name, or someone calling your father Mr. Something-or-other?"
She ducked her head, and that old familiar gesture of her hair draping her face like a curtain made his heart ache with longing. "Smith?"
He hesitated. "Seriously? Smith? You are Peredura Smith?"
"Well…not really, I mean…" she flicked her head, tossing her hair up over her shoulder as she stared at the hearth and tried to explain. "They weren't normal elves, my parents. They weren't part of a clan, so we had no association that way. And they didn't live in the cities, so I can't claim to be from a particular place. My father had… what did Mamae call it…"
Cullen was entranced, enraptured, as he watched her eyes grow distant, as she lost herself in some fond childhood memory that had remained buried and forgotten for years, until just now, coming out of the mothballs to be shared with him and him alone.
"A wander lust, that's it. Father always wanted to roam, to keep moving, to see for himself what might be over the next hill. He said to me once that Thedas was so large, there was more to this world than could be seen in one lifetime." She flashed a smile at him. "But he was going to try."
"Sounds like an adventurer at heart."
"He was. He had done a fair amount of traveling before he met my mother."
"And after?" Cullen prompted, not wanting this surprising revelation of her past to slip away.
"Well, she once said that his courtship of her was the longest he ever stayed in one place, and that was three weeks. As soon as she agreed to his proposal, they were married and poof," she snapped her fingers, "Off they went, living out of their wagon, going from place to place, doing whatever odd jobs or work they could pick up along the way. Father usually worked with light metals; he even had a small forge that could be towed behind our wagon. That's why, well, when you asked me about what people would call my father, it was smith. Sometimes tinsmith. Or pewtersmith. But," she shrugged again, "It was always some sort of smith. So, I suppose, that's my family name: Smith."
"So, we should start addressing you as Peredura Smith?"
"Well," she gave her lip a brief nip, "Doesn't sound right, does it. Leastways, it's no where near a mouthful. Needs a bit more, I think."
"What, like Rutherford?"
She blinked at him, her cheeks bursting into flame, as she stammered, "What? Oh, ah, what do you, I mean, Rutherford? Peredura Rutherford? Is that what…? Oh…!" Quickly she looked away, realizing what she was about to say, what she thought he had been about to say, or something like that, but just as suddenly realizing she had to be terribly mistaken.
"What? Oh, ah…" Now it was his turn to turn bright red, ducking his head as she had done, far too embarrassed over what he had almost said—or the impression he might have given her—to look up at her, so he didn't see she couldn't look up at him, either. "No, nononono, I, I mean, well, that is, not like that, I mean, I suppose we could adopt you into the family or some such, though that would be awkward, considering our relationship, but no, I, that is, it's just such a long, full name…"
"Oh," she felt the heat burn even hotter as she studied the toes of her boots, "Of course, that's what you meant, something that's longer, that's a mouthful, like Rutherford, but not Rutherford, right, I knew that, something else."
"Yes, exactly, something… else…" The tone of his voice sounded a little hesitant, a little unsure, and perhaps a little disappointed over her sudden and conclusive dismissal of… well, he had no idea, but he did feel disappointed.
"How about… um, Pewtersmith? Peredura Pewtersmith?"
"Yes," he repeated himself, eagerly agreeing, not daring to look up yet, "That's a proper mouthful, isn't it? Shall I have Josephine draw up the paperwork when he get back to Skyhold, announcing it to the whole of Thedas?" He tried to move them past the awkwardness.
She laughed, a little breathy, and nearly looked up, "I think not. After all, I doubt it's my real family name, if I ever had one."
"Oh, quite."
"And besides, I have enough names already, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, her Worship, I don't really want another one just to tag on at the end of Peredura."
Again, Cullen felt his heart drop to his toes, as somehow the thought that she didn't want a name tacked on to the end of her given name making him feel, well, despondent. "Of course. I was only… well…"
A knock sounded on the door that opened to the hallway.
"Thank the Maker!" they both sighed at the same time. Then finally they looked up at each other to see they both had the same, dopey, funny little expression on their faces, both feeling somewhat guilty that they were relieved over the interruption.
"Um, your turn," she inclined her head to him.
"What? Oh, right, I should answer. It is my bedchamber, after all. Come!"
He barked the last bit at the door, and whoever was outside must have heard enough through the stout portal to open it an inch or so, allowing his voice to carry inside. "I was sent for, Commander?"
"Yes, Abbets," Cullen answered as he reached his feet. Peredura noted he kept one hand on the back of the chair to steady himself, but other than that he showed no sign of weakness. "Enter. We have much to discuss."
The doomed templar finished opening the door and stepped inside. Fear pushed in behind him and gave a decidedly happy and welcoming bark to the occupants of the room. Abbets was oblivious at first, his gaze downcast until he had closed the door, until he pulled himself to attention, ready to face his fate. Lifting his chin, his eyes aimed straight ahead at a distant wall, he presented himself for judgment "Abbets, Albert, formerly captain, reporting as ordered, Commander!" His gauntlet clanged as it slammed against his breastplate in salute.
Cullen shifted, and Abbets' eyes were drawn to that side of the room, but he didn't see the commander, only the woman who was quietly greeting her Mabari.
"Your Worship, I…" Abbets suddenly stopped, feeling the guilt beat down on his shoulders. He hadn't been expecting to see her. She shouldn't be here… she wasn't a templar… she wouldn't understand what was happening… what this all meant… And she had been the very one he was supposed to give his life for and hadn't, the very one he had failed! To see her in the middle chair, remaining seated as if residing over the coming proceedings…
He swallowed, words failing him, and felt his knees turn to water.
"Abbets…?" Cullen's voice barely reached his ears, they were ringing so loudly with the din of a distant battle, claws scratching armor, sword striking chitin, demon jaws snapping closed over flesh…
"Abbets?" Peredura called to him this time, but he grew even more lost. When she stood, understandably concerned over his sudden reaction and wishing to help, Fear immediately placed himself before her, facing the templar, his hackles raised and a growl of warning vibrating so low it could barely be heard, though it traveled throughout the room.
"What's… going on?" Cullen asked, shifting his stare between templar and hound. "Is he…?"
"NO!" Abbets screamed, his hands before him as if he held a sword. "You'll not have her! Begone, demon! I renounce thee. BE-GONE!" He turned to his left, as if tracking someone or some thing, and swung his imaginary sword as he lunged. Not encountering anything substantial appeared to throw him off balance for a moment, making him stagger and stumble. With wide eyes, blinking, one hand swiping at nothing on his face—clearing away imagined blood, perhaps? Peredura wondered—his other hand continued to hold a sword that was not there. "I care not where you hide, demon. The mage who summoned you is dead. Soon, you will be too…"
"He's in the grips of a vision," she answered, feeling a surge of adrenaline course through her veins as she watched, helpless, while he spun about seeking an enemy that was no longer there, hadn't been there for years, or perhaps had never been.
"Was I…" Cullen swallowed, not wanting to know, but having to ask, "Was I ever like this, during my withdrawal?"
"You weren't combative, not really," she allowed, "But you were convinced I was a desire demon, sent to torment you." Her voice was small in the room, and she decidedly left out the part where he had attempted to strangle her. Then she cleared her throat and grew professional. "We have to try to snap him out of this."
"I'm open to suggestions," Cullen's arms were pulled slightly away from his sides, as if he was looking for an opportunity to tackle the man. Fear wasn't blocking him, only Peredura. "The last time we experienced this, I was on that side of the withdrawal; I don't remember how you did it."
"Sheer dumb luck, mostly," she shrugged. "And Fear. He could always tell when you were more sane and I could approach you—or more insane and I had better stay out of reach. Sometimes talking helped, letting you sort of verbally work through your vision, until you reached the end of it or passed out or something else."
"You mean, letting me rant on and on about you being a desire demon?" He shook his head, trying not to feel guilt over something he had not been able to control, much less remember now. "I don't think that will help Abbets. His vision appears to be more, shall we say, physical."
"Let me try something," she hummed, making to take a step around her Mabari. Fear would have none of it, however, and almost gave her a warning snap as he repositioned himself. He was definitely not going to allow her anywhere near the man in his current state of mind. "Right, okay, I'll just stay here, then, Fear, no worries, you're a good boy. Abbets?" she called out this last, lifting her face with her voice, trying to reach him.
She thought he heard her, at least he turned his head in her direction, but whatever he saw wasn't her. "I'm sorry, missy. I've no other choice. It's the only way to end this… the only way to send it back…" His face was screwing up, his hands shaking, his breath heaving in and out of his lungs, as if he was bracing himself before doing something terrible and damnable.
"Albert?" she tried again, one hand reaching towards him, but trusting Fear and not taking the step closer she had been intending.
He was almost crying, his face reddening, his eyes watering, the corners of his mouth filled with spittle, his voice breaking as he mumbled, "…forgive me…" Shoulders rising and falling with each breath, he pulled his arms back, aiming his imaginary sword directly at her heart.
"I think you're going in the wrong direction," Cullen mused, studying how he reacted stronger to her softening tones, slipping deeper into the vision—and decidedly not liking the direction he was headed. "It's almost like you've somehow become part of his torment, same as you did for me, and a part of his vision that is pulling him further away. Let me try it now."
Peredura leaned back, taking half a step away from the templar, though her hound remained vigilant. Abbets had yet to lunge at her, his hesitation anything but reassuring, though she was sure Fear would stop him before he could finish whatever he might attempt.
"Abbets!" Cullen barked in his best Commander's voice.
The man blinked, started, his brow furrowed, arms dropping to his sides, and cast about for the source of the new voice.
"Templar Abbets! Report!"
That did it—mostly. Abbets snapped to attention, saluting, panting as if he'd been running for miles. "Ser!" he began, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his side as if favoring a bruised rib, his weight mostly on one leg. "I regret to inform you the apostates are dead. They wouldn't come, quietly or otherwise. They took a farmer and his family as hostages. They left me no choice, ser. It was a short but bloody fight at first. I managed to block them from using magic and took the first two out without much fuss. But the third," he paused to gulp in a lungful of air, "He used blood magic, ser, the blood of his fallen mages, and summoned a demon."
Peredura shuddered, being more than able to imagine the sights, the sounds, the smells… Instinctively she wrapped her arms around herself while she continued to listen to his report.
"I… I wasn't able to stop him, stop it, from killing the husband and wife. We were inside the farmhouse, too close of quarters, you see. The demon came after me, raked its claws down my side and hip," he briefly looked to where his arm was pressed against wounds that were not there, "Right through my armor. I pulled away and grabbed for the mage and threw him towards it, and it killed him. But that didn't send the damned thing back from where it came. Then the girl, a young woman, the daughter, I…
"No," his voice changed suddenly, becoming a whisper, as if he was voicing his thoughts instead of his report, "No, mustn't mention that, to anyone, ever, keep it quiet, the demon killed her, best use that, yes.
"I tried to push her out the door," his voice changed again, as he was returning to making his report, "But she wouldn't move. Soon as the demon finished killing the mage, it grabbed her. Bit her head clean off." His voice dropped to a whisper as he mumbled, "Yes, that'll do," before continuing with his narrative in a more normal voice, "So I ran them both through with my sword. Killed the demon at last, sent it back to the Fade. But no one else survived, ser. I know you wanted the apostates brought back to face the Circle, to face judgment, but I had no…" his voice softened yet again, "I had no choice… missy…"
Hands shaking, he brought them up to his face as he fell to his knees, "Maker… forgive me… I had no choice…"
Peredura watched Abbets for a moment, kneeling, hands clasped tightly before his eyes which were clamped shut, his lips moving and voice moaning through a prayer. When she lifted her gaze to Cullen, he was staring at the man with a similar pained expression on his face, his own lips moving with the same, though voiceless, prayer.
She gave them a moment but finally had to irreverently whisper, "Fasta vass."
Cullen cleared his throat and looked up at her. "What was that?" he asked, moving to stand closer to her so they could converse without interrupting Abbets' communion.
"Oh, ah," her face burned bright red, having just cursed while two others were praying, "Nothing, erm, just 'what a mess.' You told me once," she quickly changed the subject, keeping her tone quiet and for Cullen's ears only, "You said lyrium, the visions it causes, are of a templar's worst memories, their worst nightmares. For you, it was the torture you experienced in Kinloch. This… this fight he remembers with the three apostates and a demon and the family," she looked down on Abbets, who continued kneeling and praying, "I remember Devensport telling me about it, right after the attack last week. He made Abbets out to be some sort of legend because of it. Yet somehow that must also be his worst moment, his hell to relive as the lyrium robs him of his sanity. How cruel a fate: to be praised and admired for the worst chapter of your life."
Cullen heard her voice break, and though he wanted to embrace her and comfort her, he had to remain focused on Abbets. "I remember reading about it," he spoke as quietly as she, not wishing to interrupt the other's devotion as it was giving him comfort and peace from the vision. "It's in his file. His Knight-Commander noted he acted exemplary and with high distinction, and recommended him for promotion, though Abbets declined. I thought it was simple humility that kept him from advancement, but now I think I'm beginning to see…" He knelt down until he was at eye level with the other man. "There's more to what happened at that farmhouse than what's in his report. Just as there was more that happened to me at Kinloch, things I could not speak of, to anyone," he glanced up at her, "Until you."
"Me," she hummed, her mind working fast, her voice remaining quiet, "I fit into your visions of the desire demons for, well, for obvious reasons. I wonder…" she paused to chew on her lip.
"Go on," he prompted.
"I wonder, could I… could there be something about me… something that reminds him of this incident? Could I be a sort of… trigger for his delusions, just as I was for yours?"
"Maker's breath," he cursed, and in the next moment mumbled, "Excuse me, Abbets."
The templar continued praying, not in the least distracted by the people or conversation going on around him.
Cullen took a heavy breath as he lifted himself to his full height once more. "You could have something there. He seemed all right enough when he first entered the room, but as soon as he saw you he started to shake."
"And every time I tried talking to him, tried pulling him out of his vision…"
"…he sank deeper into it." Cullen nodded. "It seems, my love, you have an adverse effect on us former templars."
"Perhaps… perhaps I should leave…" she left the sentence open, not wanting to leave, wanting only to stay, but if she was the cause of Abbets' distress, if she was making matters worse, then…
Fear's hackles went down and he sat back on his haunches, panting unconcernedly, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
"I think the moment's passed," Cullen noted the hound's reaction first. "Let's get to the bottom of matters first, then decide what course of action to take. Abbets?"
"Ser?" was the automatic reply. He unclasped his hands and opened his eyes, appearing somewhat lost as to how he had ended up on his knees praying. "Ser, Commander, I…" he looked from Cullen to Peredura. "Your Worship, Madam Inquisitor, how… I mean, excuse me, I don't know what came over me. I should, erm…"
"Come sit down," she gestured to the chair on her left. Cullen acted as if he wanted to take the middle seat, to move her further away from Abbets, but she gave him a brief shake of her head, and patted the top of Fear's head. The message was clear; the Mabari would keep her safe. "Come on, Abbets, your knees are too old for kneeling on the floor. Sit and rest a moment, then we'll talk. Would you care for some water?"
"Yes, Ser, no, Ser, I mean, thank you, Ser, but I'll get it myself." His hands were shaking, but he managed to pour himself a glass without spilling too much. Cullen poured out the other two glasses and handed one to Peredura before he sat. Abbets used both hands to hold his glass, and managed to swallow half of it, before he seemed ready and willing to speak. "I just, erm, had a 'moment,' didn't I, when I wasn't here."
It wasn't a question, and it was almost too painful to have affirmed, but Cullen nodded, "You had a waking nightmare, yes."
"Ah," he sighed shortly. "So… you know."
"We do," she confirmed.
"Oh," he finished his glass, unable to look at either of them.
"How long have you been having these visions?" she asked, gently, carefully, mindful of doing or saying something that would start another episode. Fear thankfully remained relaxed and calm.
"I… excuse me, Madam Herald, but I… I cannot… we do not…" he looked towards his commander for support, but there was none to be found. Cullen remained stoic and silent, allowing the Inquisitor to steer the conversation.
"No one speaks of the suffering of templars, am I right?" Peredura sighed, "I am getting so tired of hearing that. You do know that the Commander here has gone through lyrium withdrawal himself, right?"
"Well, yes, though no one's ever said as much. But we all know he did it," he turned to Cullen and nodded, "You lived through it, sanity intact and…" Words again failed him, making him drop his head in shame and guilt and failure.
"And who do you think it was who helped me through my withdrawal?" Cullen gestured to Peredura, going so far as to take her hand. "I didn't wean myself off of it slowly, though that is what I had been trying at first. No, the only way to actually free oneself from lyrium is to stop taking it completely—and never start again. But to do so is harrowing. The visions were so real, I was completely lost in them. For three days she nursed me, tended me, listening to my rantings and enduring my madness, until I finally came out on the other side of it, somewhat worse for wear, but alive and whole—and sane. I wouldn't have survived it without her."
Abbets couldn't answer that, his hands shaking so badly they threatened to drop the glass.
"I… we can help you, too, Albert," she offered, "The three of us."
"Three?" That got his attention, sparking his curiosity and making him glance up at them.
"Cullen, myself, and Fear," she patted the mabari's flank with her free hand. In response, he glanced over his shoulder at her, almost appearing to smile, before returning his attention to Abbets, tongue lolling as he continued to pant. "He has an uncanny ability to know when someone is sane and when they are, well, having difficulties distinguishing fact from fiction."
"I…" he had to swallow before continuing, "I was wondering why he showed up, and stayed with me. Why he'd nudge me from time to time. Like he knew I was… well… whenever I started… when it started… the noises… the smells…"
On cue, Fear left Peredura's side to approach the veteran templar, butting Abbets' knee with his shoulder as he settled his head upon his thigh. Abbets gave a huff that could possibly be mistaken for a laugh or a snort, and set his hand on the hound's head, rubbing gently behind an ear.
"Just like this."
Cullen allowed them a moment to settle things before he asked, "How much of a dose are you currently taking?"
Abbets made a noise that might have been a sniff, but his eyes were clear as he lifted his face and answered, "I've cut back by a quarter of a dose. Not enough to be free yet of the hunger, but far enough that the power is…"
Words may have failed Abbets again, but they didn't fail Cullen. "The power inside you grows weaker. As it does, the hunger grows stronger. You try mixing the lyrium with water, or sipping slower, anything to trick your body into thinking that it's still a full dose," his hazel eyes were haunted as they held Abbets' gaze, "But the Hunger knows. It isn't fooled. And it seems to punish you for it, lessening your power and strength and abilities, leaving you weak and helpless, all the while it's feeding itself: the hunger, the pain, the emptiness."
Abbets nodded and dropped his gaze to Fear.
"That's why you were unable to stop the mage in the alley," Peredura hummed, "You've been trying to wean yourself off of lyrium for a while now, haven't you, but even at three-quarters of a dose, it's causing your abilities to fail."
"I… yes… Ser, I…" he fell back to nodding once more.
"As I said before, Albert," her voice was terrible in its gentleness, conveying a depth of meaning that went beyond her sincere offer, "We can help. We can help you through your withdrawal."
"You will have to do the work," Cullen continued. "Even though you'll be out of your head for most of it. But if you truly want this, if you truly feel this strongly that you must take yourself off of lyrium and leave behind your templar mantle…"
"I do, Ser," Abbets swallowed, "I must."
"You realize all you'll be giving up," Peredura pressed. "Not only your abilities as a templar, but your position in my Honor Guard. Every one of them is a templar, and must be a templar."
"But… the mage… we have him… you don't need protection…"
"I still do," she shook her head. "That mage was in league with my, erm, with the Venatori, and the Venatori are mages—blood mages—in league with Corypheus. And Corypheus is still after me, me and the Mark on my hand."
"So he might send more Venatori after Peredura," Cullen finished. "So long as Corypheus is out there, until we defeat him, she must be protected by templars. Is that understood?"
Abbets swallowed, staring at the hound beside him, a single tear spilling down his cheek. "I do."
She was amazed at how clear his voice was, at how willingly he accepted his fate, even though he was in the dark as to what they were actually offering him.
"But I'd like to continue with the Inquisition, if I may be allowed," he sniffed and lifted his face up to them. "Don't care much if I have to restart as a common soldier, just so long as I can stay. Please, Sers, don't send me away."
"Wouldn't dream of it!" Cullen snapped. "You, Abbets, have too many years of experience, of training, of skills beyond anything templar related. No, Abbets, the Inquisition is still hungry for manpower. And we're not finished with you yet."
He blinked at Cullen, "Ser?"
"It has, erm, recently come to my attention," he cleared his throat, hoping the heat he was feeling wasn't turning his cheeks red for once, "That there is a lot of work I do for the Inquisition. It was one thing, when we started back in Haven, for one man to manage the entire army. We only had a hundred or so soldiers, and more issues with problems than manpower. But our forces have grown since then, and our scope. We have missions going on all over Thedas, and new recruits coming in by the score. Not to mention the management of even more supplies… I deal with a mountain of reports every day. And every day, the mountain grows larger. It's become too much for one man to handle, not if I want to sleep or, erm," he shot a guilty glance to his left and the lady sitting there, "Take a moment or two even, just for myself, to relax or something."
"What he's trying to say," she came gallantly to his rescue, "Is that he needs a second, someone he can delegate to, someone who can cover for him back at Skyhold should he have to take a trip to, say, Val Royeaux to pick up a wayward Inquisitor." A smile tugged gently at the corner of her mouth.
"Ser?" Abbets repeated himself.
"I'm making you an offer," Cullen spoke succinctly. "Or, rather, we're making the offer. Make it through your withdrawal, come out the other side of it with your sanity intact, and there will be a position for you as my second-in-command."
Abbets didn't try speaking this time, knowing he'd only repeat himself yet again, his jaw going a bit lax instead.
"It won't be easy," Cullen continued, "And not just because of the amount of work, the long hours, the hard decisions, the occasional mess needing to be taken care of or mage/templar disagreement needing to be cleaned up. No, Abbets, if you make it, if you can take yourself off of lyrium—as I have done—then you will also end up suffering the same fate as I."
Cullen closed his eyes briefly, hating to open up and talk about it, but he wanted Abbets to commit to this knowing full well what he would be facing. "Every day…" he part sighed, part moaned, allowing his suffering to show, "Every day I'm surrounded by templars, I'm working with men and women who continue to take lyrium. Every day I see them use, and every day I remember how I once used. Every time I see them use their power, I remember the power I no longer possess, and I feel weak and useless without it. Every morning when I wake—the time of day when I used to reach for my kit—I feel the pull and my arm wants to stretch out, just to let my fingers touch it. I no longer have a kit," he lifted haunted hazel eyes back to Abbets, "But they do. THEY have kits. THEY use lyrium. THEY have the abilities I once had…"
Cullen's hand started to shake, but he forced himself onward. "Sometimes, if it's early enough in the morning, when the templars come into my office, I imagine I can smell the lyrium on their breaths. And I remember the taste. And my mouth waters, and I…"
Fear lifted his head far enough off of Abbets' leg to give Cullen a sympathetic whimper.
He gave the hound a small smile, appreciating the empathy, and continued. "I have to remain strong. I gave up using lyrium for the good of the Inquisition, back when there was no reliable supply, back when the Chantry might have used lyrium as an incentive to turn me against the Inquisition. And though that danger has passed, I continue not to take it… because of Kinloch… because of Kirkwall… because of the visions."