Chapter Thirty-Seven: To Serve
Devensport exited the room, his face bright red, but a smile marring the embarrassment on his features. He left the door partly open behind him, took three steps across the hall towards the Commander's Office, and nodded to Delonce.
"I'm to replace you for the rest of the shift," he informed her.
Delonce looked at him only slightly confused. Devensport outranked her, so she was used to him giving her orders, but this was different. She and Fergus were a team, especially here in Val Royeaux where there were only a handful of them to make up the Honor Guard. To have someone else take her shift left her a little concerned. Being a soldier first and foremost, however, meant she would obey orders. With only that half-moment of hesitation, she stepped away and turned a bit, vacating her post but keeping an eye on it until someone else could fill it.
Devensport marched up to side of the door opposite Fergus, cleared his throat, straightened his spine, spun around to face outwards, and assumed the post. He was all business, face expressionless, shoulders back, one wrist resting nonchalantly on the pommel of his weapon. Delonce noticed a twist in the fold of his cloak just above his shoulder and reached out one hand to straighten it for him. He didn't nod nor flinch nor in any overt way acknowledge her assistance, but she knew it was appreciated and gave him a dimpled smile and a wink before she moved back. It was just in time, too, as she heard behind her the swinging and creaking of a door opening fully. Thinking it was time for her to leave, and she truly had no reason to remain in the hall now that she was unexpectedly off duty, she turned to head back to the barracks. As she did so, her gaze swept past the recently opened door, and she caught a glimpse inside the room where Abbets had been staying. Years of training and discipline kept her from reacting at first—it wasn't until she had taken at least three steps down the hall before her eyes grew wide. To her credit, she managed to keep her footfalls in an even staccato as she marched down the hallway, yet it was all she could do to reach the corner. Once safely around and out of sight, she could no longer restrain herself. Pressing tightly against the wall to offer as small a profile as possible, she cautiously allowed herself to peek.
Nope, she absolutely positively undeniably could not help herself.
Commander Cullen stepped out of the bedchamber, in full uniform with his armor gleaming in the lamplight, hair slicked back under rigid control, posture tall and proud. Without a word he marched up to the door of his office and entered, no knock or cough of preamble to announce his entrance—it was his office, after all. The Inquisitor's voice was just barely loud enough to travel down the all and reach her ears.
"Ah, Commander, glad you're here. There's this report from Leliana that I'm finding a bit puzzling."
Whatever else the Inquisitor might have said next was drown out by shock. Delonce nearly gave up her secreted hiding place when she saw another person emerge from the bedchamber, confirming the miracle she had glimpsed earlier. The second man stepped into the hallway, pausing to take a few deep breaths as if the mere act of standing was leaving him winded, before closing the door behind him.
His uniform was new to him, very dissimilar to the uniform of the Honor Guard, and it helped to make him look like a different man. The style and cut was closer to that of what the Commander wore, a deep red jacket with gold braid, and dark leather pants tucked into black boots polished to a mirror finish. Unlike the Commander, he wore neither armor nor cloak, nor carried a weapon at his side. His hair seemed grayer than she remembered—or had they all been wearing their helmets so much lately she couldn't remember the color? Despite all the changes, all the differences, Delonce could not deny what she was seeing—the second man was indeed Abbets. He marched as briskly as the Commander across the hall, looking neither left nor right even as he passed the Honor Guards, and entered the office through the still open door.
The Inquisitor's voice sounded bright and welcoming and not at all surprised by this new presence, as if she had been expecting him—as if he had been doing this regularly for months. "Abbets! Glad you have joined us. There's a matter I'd like to discuss with…"
The office door closed, silencing the conversation.
Delonce came back out from around the corner, retracing her steps.
Fergus stepped back from the door so he could stare at it, his eyes wide.
Devensport's head nearly rocked off his shoulders as he looked between the two of them, his smile back and wider than before. "I know, right? I saw it. You two have just seen it. But we can't fucking believe it, can we?!" He almost crowed with triumph.
Fergus was shaking his head, looking like he was not at all sure if he wanted to return to his post to stand with his back to it. "When you told us the news yesterday, I thought it was just a sort of… I mean… I didn't really believe it. I thought, well, because it had been so long, you just wanted to say something to keep our hopes up. Something to that effect. But now…" He shook his head again and swallowed audibly.
"Merde," Delonce mumbled beneath her breath as she reached her two comrades. "I saw Abbets standing when I passed his door," she thumbed behind her at the bedchamber across the hall, "But I couldn't believe it. I had to come back and see it with my own eyes…" her fingers swung around to gesture at the office door, "Abbets… not just alive, but moving… walking… talking—well," she wrinkled her nose as she reconsidered, "Not talking, I suppose, he never talked all that much. But everything else… He HAS recovered."
Devensport was back to smiling and nodding, all teeth and clanking helmet.
The unseemly noise finally snapped Fergus out of his shock. He cleared his throat and moved back to his side of the door, eyes front, stance at the ready.
"Oh, right," Delonce shook off the surprise and delight, too, and returned to business. She looked at Devensport, briefly smiling as he had yet to completely wipe his smile off his face. She scratched at an imaginary itch on the side of her nose while she composed herself, before gesturing to their side of the doorway. "Ser, shall I finish my shift?"
"What? Oh, no," Devensport waved her off, stepping back to stand guard with Fergus. "Lieutenant Commander Abbets meant it. I am to take the rest of your shift today. I've been demoted," he stated this last bit with pride, something that might have been half a chortle burped in his throat. "Something to do with 'actions unbecoming of a superior officer,' or talking out of turn, spreading gossip, something of the like." He leaned over to whisper to her, "But absolutely worth it." Fergus gave another cough, reminding them that they were supposed to be on duty.
Delonce rolled her eyes for an answer, realizing Devensport must have just been 'demoted' because he had told everyone that Abbets had survived his withdrawal. She doubted his lowered rank would last very long—the Commander and his newly appointed Lieutenant Commander needed to show a firm chain of command was all—and Devensport's actions were not the proper actions of a Captain. She did feel, though, if she had been in his boots, she probably would have done the same thing. Even months ago, when the rumors started that Commander Cullen was attempting the feat, there had been a lot of silent understanding but not much hope among the ranks. Yet when the Commander had come back from his secret mission, alive, whole, sane, and free of lyrium…
And now Abbets…
"Don't mind saying," Fergus hummed, "If given the chance, now that there seems to be some sort of method or treatment that works," he shrugged, "I would consider it."
"What?" Delonce asked, her neck almost snapping when her prim and proper partner spoke out of turn, "You'd give this up? The power? The responsibility? The family—your brothers and sisters in the Order?"
Fergus shrugged, "I only ever joined because I never liked mages much, even less so now." He turned hard eyes to her as he finished, "So yeah, if I was sure there would be a way to do it, I'd give it all up in a heartbeat. Right now."
"It is something to think about," Devensport nodded, sensing the sudden tension and easing past it, "I mean, who wouldn't, especially someone in our position, former Templar, no longer in the Order, but still chained to lyrium, needing to trust others to keep us supplied and sane. Seems a nuisance, doesn't it? Sure, I could see the attraction. But not me—not yet, anyway. There's still Corypheus to consider, and his army of Venatori mages and Red Templars and demons. No, the Inquisitor continues to need every single one of us to protect her, so I'm staying and I'm doing my duty for as long as I can. I know Abbets…" he caught himself, realizing he was about to say too much. He coughed and finished with, "Well, he had his reasons—as did the Commander—and I don't fault either of them for doing it. But for myself, I'm going to serve for as long as I am fit and able to do my duty. Speaking of which…" he lifted an eyebrow to Delonce.
"Right, you're on duty, which means I'm off duty. Have a pleasant day, gentlemen," she flashed a very becoming smile at the other two before spinning on her heel and heading off, her mind already working on plans for spending her unexpected free time.
Devensport gave a soft, indulgent chuckle. "Good kid, that one. She's going to go far."
"You'd really stay, Ser?" Fergus asked, hesitantly. "I mean, now that this… if we're sure… one really can…" he swallowed and looked up to stare hard at the older former Templar, "You're going to keep taking lyrium?"
Devensport paused, looking at Fergus with a cocked head as if studying a splinter embedded in a fingertip. "'Course I am. I've got no reason not to, and every reason to keep taking it, to keep guarding the Inquisitor, to keep serving the Inquisition. Duty, Fergus, duty and calling. Calling and duty. Go hand-in-hand, they do. So long as I can serve," he came to full attention, staring at the opposite wall once more, "So long as I am not suffering with fevers or visions or shakes, so long as I am able, I'm going to remain. But what's best for you, well, for each of us, we've got to decide for ourselves, right?"
Fergus nodded absently, his brow furrowed.
"Whatever made you become a Templar in the first place, whatever made you decide to leave the Order and join the Inquisition, whatever keeps you at the Inquisitor's side," Devensport peeked at him from the corner of his eye, "That's what you've got to consider."
He saw the furrow in Fergus' brow deepen, and he wondered what had happened to set the young man on his current path. He knew it wasn't his business, and even though his curiosity was burning from within, he let the matter drop. Fergus seemed focused on some inner turmoil, some deep struggle that was causing… well… a crisis of faith, he supposed. Whatever it was, the man was going to have to deal with it himself. Devensport could only lead by example.
He returned his focus to his post and kept watch over Peredura, the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor.
The occupants inside the office had no idea of the discussion going on in the corridor, just as those outside would be oblivious to theirs. Peredura was gesturing with a clipboard as Abbets crossed the threshold. "…like to discuss with you. Please, come in," she finished her greeting just as he closed the door behind him. With the eyes of a mother cat looking over her newborn kitten she studied the freshly appointed Lieutenant Commander. He was sweating profusely, his hair already damp at his temples, his chest lifting with every heavy breath. He tried to conceal it by pausing at the door, keeping his hands pressed against it discreetly behind his back, but she could see his muscles were already shaking. Even the color of his skin seemed a little too gray for her liking, and his eyes a little too red and moist.
But he was upright, breathing, and ambulatory—she had to give him that.
"Yer Worship," he nodded to her, not trusting himself to do any more than that, such as bowing. Keeping his balance was proving quite a challenge for him. He knew he should step away from the door, but without a destination in mind he was afraid he would fall.
"Al-, ah, Abbets," Peredura corrected herself, knowing it would make him scowl if she used his first name even in the privacy of Cullen's office. Of course, considering how often soldiers and scouts entered his office without knock or any sort of warning, it wasn't really that private a place after all, and therefore probably wiser to maintain a level of formality. She motioned to a second chair at the side of Cullen's desk, one Dorian had brought in for his own use, with extra padding in the cushions and a spare pillow. Though the mage loved to lounge in it, often slouched sideways with a leg draped over one arm, it seemed a bit too luxurious for the old soldier, but it was all she currently had to offer. "Sit down, please, before you collapse."
He gave a single nod and carefully released the door, his stride steady and measured as he crossed the office. The chair looked disgusting, soft, overly pampering—but right then he wanted nothing more than to reach it. He barely acknowledged it when his thigh bumped the edge of the desk, and Peredura's hand flinched as if wanting to help him. Thankfully, the Commander stood impassive, allowing him the dignity of setting his own pace, his own limits, just as they had agreed upon a few moments earlier in his bedchamber. His destination at long last achieved, he gripped the arm of the chair a bit harshly as he turned and sat down, refusing to settle back into the alluring cushions.
"Now, tell me," Peredura had waited until he sat down heavily and exhaled deeply. She noticed his alert posture, and knew she couldn't make the man relax and rest, but she was still going to give him a piece of her mind, "What in the name of Andraste's wedding veil are you doing out of bed!"
"Language," he had the gall to sit there, trembling and sweating with exhaustion, and chide her, "Use curse words only when warranted."
"Oh, this is warranted," she crossed her arms and stood above him, or at least before him, considering that Abbets was still very tall even while seated. "I repeat: What are you doing out of bed? Stitches said you should stay there for at least five days, preferably a week, allowing your body to rest and recover…"
"More like imprisonment," he mumbled under his breath so low that the only one who heard him was Cullen.
"You are to have soft rolls and hearty broths until your stomach is able to handle more substantial foods…"
"No better than bread and water."
This time Cullen had to hide his smile behind his gloved hand. He was fairly certain Peredura had heard him, too, but she seemed determined to ignore the snarky comments.
"You can move about the room if you have a personal reason to, but honestly you need to regain your strength. This is too soon, Abbets. What if you had collapsed out there, in the hallway, in front of the others? What if you pass out here, or someplace else? What if you faint while there's no one else around to help you? What if you hurt yourself when you fall, or land on something and break it or an arm or a leg? What if…"
"Lots of what if's, Yer Worship," he nodded, "But none of that happened. I got up, dressed myself, and came to work. Nothing more."
"But, Abbets, what…"
"If something happens," he interrupted her, much like a father with an argumentative child, "Then I'll deal with it. Can't do otherwise; not like I could fix something before it's broke. Right," he shifted into an even straighter posture, if that was possible, and looked at her expectantly, "Now that that's settled, there's work to do."
She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and threw her hands up as if she was disgusted with him. Truthfully, secretly, she was pleased at his rate of recovery, but some little voice in the back of her head told her not to let him know that. So far Abbets seemed to respond well to restrictions, limits that he could push past, turning simple tasks into achievable goals that bolstered his confidence. Continuing to play her part, and thinking to give Abbets an ally, she rounded on Cullen next. "You!" She waggled a finger under his nose, and almost started giggling over the sudden wideness of his eyes. Desperate to keep up appearances, she walked into his personal space, forcing him to back away and helping her keep her back to Abbets lest that smile slip out and ruin everything. "You put him up to this, didn't you. You helped him, planned with him. You were only supposed to do a quick check on him this morning, but instead you two conspired together, admit it."
"You make it sound like an escape attempt," he tried to calm her down with a little humor—a very little amount—raising his hands palms open in a hope to placate her. He wasn't sure, but he thought he caught a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the meaning of which escaped him. Not knowing what she was about, though positive that he didn't want to be the target of her anger, he tried changing tactics, "Besides, Abbets was already washed and dressed by the time I got to his room this morning. I figured, since he had made such an effort, he should receive some sort of reward."
"Reward? Work is a reward?" Though her tone overflowed with disbelief and her arms were crossed over her chest in a stance of disbelief, the smile tugging on one corner of her mouth gave her away. Cullen began to suspect she was playing, but before he could react someone else spoke.
"Better than lying there, confined to quarters," Abbets defended himself, causing both of them to turn around. Peredura's smile vanished, replaced with shock, brought on by the dark look marring his features and the unrelenting force of his next words. "No one around. No task in need of doing. Nothing to do but think, only there's nothing to think about. Nothing to distract yerself from… the visions. You were right, Commander," he nodded to Cullen. "They are less vivid and easier to dismiss now, without the lyrium. But at night, the dreams…"
"The dreams are the worst of it, yes," Cullen quickly agreed, almost as if he was trying to keep Abbets from talking about it, "But that's only at night. And as this is the day, and as you said you need a distraction—something to think about, and as we have more than enough reports that need going over, and since you are already here and able…"
Peredura huffed, remembering she was supposed to be playing the part of the antagonist, someone for Abbets to struggle against, and pretended to grudgingly give in, "Not so sure about the 'able' part, but he is present and willing. And he'll probably need a good hour or more of resting before he tries to return to his room. All right," she picked up a stack of reports and set them on the edge of the desk next to him, "Fine. Here you go. Work. But tomorrow…"
"Tomorrow you will report here at dawn," Cullen headed her off. To her, it sounded like he was taking the role opposite of hers, of Abbets' co-conspirator, though with a sternness the old soldier should appreciate. "You will be in full uniform, but without armor or weapons; you won't be doing any heavy duty while we're here in Val Royeaux, so you won't be needing them. You will, however, be expected to put in a full day's worth of work."
Peredura liked how he phrased that, not necessarily a full day, but the equivalent amount of work; that would give them an option to excuse Abbets early if he became overtaxed. In looking at the old former Templar, she could see that he instantly saw the loophole as well, but kept his protests to himself, so hopefully that meant he would behave himself.
She had no idea that this was the very thing the two men had discussed and settled upon just that morning. Both men exchanged a look, wisely and silently agreeing not to let her know that.
"One more thing, Abbets," Cullen eased himself behind his desk and sat down, leaving the Inquisitor as the only one standing. He set his hands before him and laced his fingers together, preferring to look at them as he prepared himself to share something personal. "After my withdrawal was over, I left Skyhold and was completely on my own for several weeks." He paused to take a heavy breath, the memories of his solo excursion bordering on nightmarish. "That's not something I would recommend. Those were hard times, made unnecessarily harder by my own stubbornness and self-imposed retribution to make myself suffer for any damage that I had done during my withdrawal—wrong-doings I neither had control over, nor the ability to fully recall. There was no need for me to go through all of that—just as there's no need for you to go through anything like that. If you become ill, or fatigued, or too unsteady on your feet, say so. You have had a longer road to recovery than I had, so do not feel ashamed to admit you've reached your limit. Understood?"
Abbets swallowed and nodded twice before lifting his eyes to the Commander. "Aye, Ser. But… Ser, did I… do anything that…?"
"No," he answered before Peredura could respond. "There were times you were out of your mind with fever and delirium. You shouted at demons that weren't there, and spoke to that young lady from your youth, but you did nothing wrong, nothing hurtful, to anybody. I swear this to you."
Peredura thought about objecting, thinking of how Abbets had called her Missy and all the angst she endured because of that, but quite honestly she had encouraged that delusion. True, Cullen and Devensport had also wanted her to do so, but she could have chosen to walk away and no one would have blamed her. She had willingly played the part of Missy, so she couldn't really blame Abbets for her bout of tears through half of last night. Letting go of her own guilt—after all, she had given Abbets the chance to say goodbye to his love, even if only in his fever-driven delirium, and helped him close an old wound—she walked over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I swear it, too."
"Thank you, Ser," he looked first to Cullen, then up to her, "Yer Worship, but you weren't there."
"I was," she admitted to a small part of the whole, "Just when your fever broke and you began to wake up. Don't you remember? You scolded Cullen and I for kissing."
"I did… what?!" He looked alarmed, as if they told him he had danced naked in front of his Knight-Commander. "Wait, you did… what?"
"It doesn't matter," Cullen chuckled at the redness spreading over the other man's features. "The important thing is that you survived the withdrawal. Now, you will have to survive each day as it comes. And that stack of reports," he pointed to the offending pile of clipboards. "They aren't going to read themselves."
"Ser!" Abbets sat up straight in his chair once more and picked the first one off the stack.
Before he could start, however, the door was flung open and a dwarf burst in. She was dressed in a scout's uniform, which wasn't out of the ordinary for the normal type of unexpected guests entering Cullen's office at all times of the day or night. What was unusual was that this one was stained with dust and debris and other obvious signs of hard travel. She stumbled up to the desk, focused on her goal despite being weary beyond measure, before she fully registered everyone in the room. "Commander! Oh, ah," she blinked, seeing first Abbets in his char, and finally the woman she was standing beside. "Peredura!"
"Harding!" Peredura answered, so overjoyed at seeing her friend she ignored the informal address. Her head lifted up expectantly, but the doorway behind the dwarf remained empty. With a tight little knot of foreboding growing in the pit of her stomach, along with a matching furrow on her brow, she craned her neck to look out into the hallway, but it remained empty save for her two Honor Guards. She caught herself before she stepped around Harding, it wasn't as if anyone of Blackwall's stature could hide behind the scout, and instead asked, "Where's Blackwall?"
Harding was trying to catch her breath, chest heaving, eyes tearing, mouth open and gulping like a fish out of water. She reached a hand towards the Inquisitor, thought better of it, and instead lunged in the other direction for the desk. She took another two lungful's of air, swallowed, coughed up some dust, and pulled herself upright before answering. "Arrested. Right after we got here. They took him into custody and let the man with the noose go free. He said he was… someone else… some Thom something-or-other. No idea why he did it, just walked right up to the scaffolding and…"
"Harding!" Peredura barked, and the other woman jumped to attention. When she was sure Harding was done babbling, she went up to her and put her hands on her shoulders.
The scout blinked, swallowed, and then smiled, "Thank the Maker, you're all right. Back at the camp, you looked so broken, but there was no time, and they rushed you off, and I…"
Her words couldn't continue, but Peredura smiled and finished, "It's good to see you again, too."
Tears burst in the dwarf's eyes, but she was smiling. Suddenly the two women were hugging each other, tight, for a long time. The two men exchanged bewildered looks behind their backs, shrugged, but did not interrupt.
Finally Harding coughed, surreptitiously wiped her eyes, and started fidgeting as she spoke. "I, erm, have something of yours…" Harding brought her hand to a pocket, and when she pulled it away she was holding something metallic. "Kept it safe for you," she hummed as she pinned the Inquisitor insignia back on Peredura's shoulder.
She barely spared it a glance, her focus on her friend. "Thanks, I knew you would. Well, um, now, I guess," Peredura pulled back and cleared her throat, "Um, right, that's out of the way, so tell us what happened from when you got to the city; we'll deal with the other matter concerning The Iron Bull later. For right now, tell us what happened to Blackwall."
Harding took a deep breath, "Shortly after we entered the city, we passed by a scaffolding where a man named Mornay was being executed…" Briefly she told the facts, as little as they were, to the small audience. No one interrupted, no one even moved, until after Harding stopped talking.
Peredura had been chewing her lip through the recital, but when Harding finished, she had a plan ready to set into motion. "Cullen," she started, her voice strong and confident and commanding, "I need you to go to wherever they're holding Blackwall—Thom Rainier—whatever whoever wants to call him, and find out all you can. See if you can get a chance to speak with him; or better yet, arrange it so that I can speak with him."
"I could handle that, Yer Worship," Abbets volunteered before Cullen could take his first step.
"No, you will remain here," Peredura pointed him back down into his chair. "This is your job now, as Lieutenant Commander, to handle the daily administrative matters—hold down the fort, as it were—and leave the emergencies to others. But," she gave him a little smile as if to soften the blow to his pride, "I will need for you to send for Dorian."
"Done," Abbets shoved himself to his feet and moved, slowly but steadily, towards the door to speak with Devensport and Fergus outside.
Cullen had started to follow Abbets eager to find out for himself what was going on—as if they needed any more entanglements with the Orlesians, but stopped suddenly when he reached the door. He turned back to look at the two women and asked, "What about Bull?"
Peredura was shaking her head. "Never mind about The Iron Bull. He isn't our concern right now. But Blackwall—or Rainier—or whoever he is—he needs our help, right here, right now. We need to focus on that."
"Yes, Ser!" He snapped off a salute and headed off, not hurrying or rushing, but with strong and purposeful strides that left no doubt he was not going to stop until he had completed his mission.
Cullen was so unstoppable that he nearly ran down Dorian. The mage nimbly jumped aside, muttering something about juggernauts under his breath, before turning back to the still open doorway of the office.
"Dorian!" Peredura exclaimed. "I had just sent for you."
Abbets, who had just ordered Fergus to find a servant to summon Dorian, gave the Guard a small shake of his head before turning and following the mage into the office. He started for his chair, overstuffed as it was, but hesitated when he saw Dorian claim it for himself. He thought about leaning against the wall, but a stern look from the Inquisitor made him change his mind. He saw her eyes flick to the chair behind the desk and—like a reluctant child sent off to bed—he sat down in it. He was beginning to suspect the role of Lieutenant Commander was going to take some getting used to.
"Glad to have saved you the trouble," Dorian smiled, relaxing and throwing one arm behind the back of the chair. "I had heard that Harding was here, so I thought I'd invite myself to the good Commander's office and hear what she has to say. Speaking of which, why did the Commander race off so? And where is Blackwall? Wasn't he supposed to be with you?" He leveled a long finger at the scout.
"Cullen's handling that matter," Peredura interrupted before Harding could answer, "And I'll explain later. Right now," she turned to Harding, her voice softening, "Tell us about The Iron Bull. What happened when he got back to the Hissing Wastes?"
Harding swallowed, gave a half cough, and had to clear her throat. Immediately, Peredura was pouring and offering the other woman a glass of water. She took it, nodded her thanks, and drank almost half the glass before she started yet another tale.
"Ahem. Blackwall and Sera, along with most of us scouts from the camp—myself included—tracked down the Venatori who had, erm, left you to die." It was obvious Harding continued to hold herself accountable for what had happened, but she would have to deal with that on her own time. Peredura gave her a brief wave to ignore that bit and continue. "Blackwall… Rainier…"
"Continue to call him Blackwall," Peredura suggested, "At least for now."
"Right. Like I was saying, Blackwall is a genius at tracking people. We found them after just two days. By then, though, all the slaves had been killed, bled to death for whatever rituals those bastards were practicing."
Dorian glanced at Peredura out of the corner of his eye, but all he could see was the clenching of her jaw and a thick swallow. He knew she had originally intended to save those poor souls, but quite frankly he knew there had never been any hope for any other outcome. Unable to ease her self-imposed torment, he returned his focus to Harding and her story.
"That actually helped us, as they couldn't use blood magic, at least, to fight us. But Andraste's knickers, that Red Templar was a nasty son-of-a-bitch," she paused to shudder, "It took some doing, but in the end Blackwall managed to subdue it with a handy length of chain. Didn't incapacitate it so much as tied it up so it couldn't move. Sera got one mage by firing an arrow in his ass… um… I mean… ah… backside. The other mage went down when one of the scouts flanked him and threw a rock at his head, knocking him out. The rest of the soldiers quickly surrendered at that point, since the Venatori were already out of commission. Anyway, we chained them up in the same chains they had used on the slaves, and started marching them back to camp. That's when Bull caught up with us…"
Harding stopped to shudder, looking like she didn't want to go on. Like any good soldier, however, she knew she had to continue. Taking a sip of water, she forced herself to speak. "It was… I don't know how to describe it. Horrific? Bloody? Just awful?"
"Stick with the facts, Harding," Peredura suggested, "Who did what and when. That's all you have to do."
Harding shuddered, "Easy for you to say that, but you weren't there. You didn't see it happen. Or have to remember it, kinda like seeing it again, isn't it?" It wasn't so much a question as a request for confirmation, yet she continued her gruesome tale. "Bull came charging down a sand dune, full speed, screaming at the top of his lungs. He headed straight for the prisoners, and frankly we all jumped out of his way! It was like… I don't know…" she shook her head, "Like he didn't see us, or if he did see us he didn't care whether we were there or not. He made for the Red Templar and… we had the creature wrapped up in so many chains it couldn't defend itself… Bull just… grabbed the chains and… links went flying off… the other prisoners were screaming… Bull took hold of the Red Templar's arm and just…" she mimicked the motion with her own hands, her eyes glazed and distant as she relived the nightmare, "Twisted and popped it right off its body… then another limb… then the head… blood and shards of red lyrium and… I don't know what else to call it… gore was spraying everywhere… he ripped it apart into so many pieces…" Harding seemed to come back to herself then, lifting her eyes to stare directly into Peredura's face, "…With his bare hands!
"After a while, when he realized there wasn't a large enough chunk to grab and tear up, Bull turned to the next prisoner in line. Thankfully, by that point, Sera had managed to come to her senses and she shot Bull with an arrow tipped in a sleeping drought. Took three of those before he finally went down. And, well," she shrugged, "We didn't know what happened. We didn't know what Bull might do when he woke up. We didn't know what else we could do, so we chained him up, too, set him in a cart and made the other prisoners pull it. Sera said she would see them all back to Skyhold, along with about a score of scouts, so Blackwall and I came here to let you know what happened, not that we really know what happened, he just went… mad, I suppose. Didn't want to trust something that sensitive to a raven, so we came in person. Only then, well, Blackwall did what he did, didn't he, and now there's just me."
There were a million questions running around in Dorian's head, from what happened to Blackwall, to what happened when Bull woke up, but all that came out of his mouth was, "Wha…?"
In her heart Peredura agreed with Dorian's comment, but it was Abbets who provided the answer.
"Reaver," the old former Templar huffed, staring at the far edge of the desk. He seemed unperturbed that three sets of eyes had pierced him in his chair, and continued in a casual tone. "Seen quite a few Qunari like that, during the First Battle of Kirkwall. You could run one of those monsters through time and again, even pin it to a market stall or building, and it would keep swinging and biting at you til it bled out." It was one of the longest speeches Abbets had ever given. He might have realized this, and shifted in the chair as if suddenly uncomfortable, lifting his gaze to the others. When he noted three somewhat slacked-jawed faces were staring at him, he simply shrugged and ended with, "Not an easy sight to forget."
Dorian also felt the need to shift uncomfortably in his chair. Peredura swallowed as she tried hard not to think about that other Cullen half turned into a Red Templar. Harding simply agreed, "No, it isn't."
It was Peredura's turn to clear her throat. "Dorian," she turned to her friend, "I need to ask you a favor. Someone has to go and help Sera bring the prisoners and The Iron Bull to Skyhold. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a mess here in Val Royeaux with Blackwall calling himself by another name and then turning himself over to the Orlesian authorities."
"What?" He managed the full word this time.
She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "That's what Cullen was off to look into. They may want to keep Blackwall prisoner. They may even want to execute him; at least, they were willing to execute the other man involved."
"What?!" He sat upright in his chair.
"So, I'm going to have to stay here and clear that matter up first. But I can't leave Sera to manage things on her own—even with a score of scouts, she's still the one in charge of a caravan of chained Venatori blood mages and Tevinter soldiers… and one Qunari. That's going to cause a stir, no matter where she goes, how many backroads she takes…" Peredura took a deep breath, "Somebody's going to say something. I'm going to need someone with tact and diplomacy to handle any awkwardness that might arise, and Sera has neither."
Dorian scoffed, slouching back in his chair, now that he saw they agreed on something. "I'm glad you see that, too. I've always wondered why you keep her around."
Peredura gave a little smile, "She reminds me of something that could have been, if things had turned out differently. But as I was saying, I know this would be a great imposition on you, but please, Dorian," she walked up to him and her hand on his shoulder, staring deeply and pleadingly into his eyes, "Please, would you go meet up with Sera, help her with The Iron Bull and the Venatori? I'll catch up as soon as I can, I promise, and when we all get back to Skyhold I won't take you on any missions for a month so you can rest and recuperate. And," she leaned in closer, "I'll convince the chef here to relocate to Skyhold. Please say you'll do this for me? Please?"
He hesitated half a heartbeat. Truthfully, there was nothing he wanted to do more than reach Bull and learn for himself what had happened, if he was all right once more, or if he had gone permanently insane. Yet it was satisfying to appear to be hesitant, give the Inquisitor's nose a bit of a tweak figuratively speaking, before seemingly allowing himself to be convinced by her bribery. He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, and took another before he judged he had made her squirm long enough. "Oh, very well," he groaned, pushing himself to his feet and brushing off imaginary wrinkles and dust from his robes, "But I expect Chef to be racing ahead of all of us to prepare a seven course feast for our arrival. Will you be coming with me, Harding?"
"She just got here," Peredura answered for her, waving the scout to stand aside, "And needs to rest."
"I can't very well travel alone, unescorted, through the countryside. Think of my reputation."
"Take Devensport with you," Abbets suggested. "He's reliable, capable, and in need of something to occupy his time." The last bit might have been delivered with a bit of frustration or even a minuscule amount of malice, but the old former Templar was always so gruff that Peredura couldn't be sure.
Dorian, however, feigned insult, drawing all attention back to himself. "What? Just one soldier to protect me?" He splayed his fingers across his chest and pouted. "Surely I'm worthy of more respect than that."
"You deserve at least a squad for a proper escort," the Inquisitor played along, nodding, though she took his arm and started steering him towards the door, "But unfortunately I can't spare that many men. Besides," she leaned in closer and dropped the volume of her voice as if imparting a deep secret, "If anything were to happen, more than likely you'll be the one protecting him."
He snorted and covered it with a small cough lest the others catch on. "Very well," he answered in a normal tone, "I sense that time is of the essence, so I shall not delay you another moment. Good luck cleaning up your mess, my dear Inquisitor, you'll have to tell me all about it back at Skyhold. Ah! First one there gets to kiss the chef and set the menu!" he challenged and laughed teasingly, knowing full well she wouldn't kiss the chef, or any man other than her dear Commander. Of course, neither would he, but the reward of picking out the dishes for a full seven coarse meal was enough of an enticement.
"Good luck with yours," she took his hand, but held on a little too long. "Dorian," she started, stopped, bit her lip, and sputtered some more, "I'm sure… whatever happened… The Iron Bull is all right now. I'll deal with the consequences when I get to Skyhold; you just get him there."
Dorian gave a tight little smile. "Count on it."
Peredura stared through the bars at a man she thought she knew.
"…and called myself Blackwall ever since. There it is. You have it. My full confession."
Her ears were ringing—with the horrific confession, with the scratching of the scribe's quill, with the suddenness of having her world turned on its ear, with the cold and dark and dank atmosphere, with the uneasy sounds made by the other prisoners in the dungeon.
She hardly dared to breathe, to intrude upon or disturb the moment, the image of Blackwall—Thom Rainier—her friend!—with his head bowed and resting against the bars, his forearms laying upon a crosspiece, fingers loosely clasped almost as if in prayer.
"There," the woman next to her hummed, "I've finished. Please look it over, make sure I didn't leave anything out, or change your words or meaning in any way. Once you're satisfied with the accuracy, if you would be so willing as to sign it…" She held out her tablet to him, the pages neatly arranged and numbered, bearing his sins in stark black ink. He hardly glanced at them, only taking the parchment long enough to flip to the end and scribble some sort of mark.
"Well," the Orlesian scribe huffed, taking back the clipboard and gesturing with it, practically waving it right beneath his nose, "Well, indeed, that's rather uncommon. Are you sure you are willing to accept this as is?"
"What's the difference?" he shrugged, "I am to be put to death for my crimes; doubt a typo could make it any worse."
Giving up on him, she turned and swung the tablet of terrible tale at Peredura. "Well, then, what of you, your Worship?"
Peredura blinked at her, not quite understanding what she meant, so she wasn't quite sure how to respond.
The other woman sighed, rolling her eyes behind her mask, mistaking her confusion for reluctance. "You did agree to witness his confession. That means you will have to sign this as well. Friend of yours or no."
That last bit almost sounded like a threat—almost. Yet Peredura had given her word that she would stand as witness to Blackwall/Rainier's confession. It had been the only way they were going to allow her to speak with him. Still silent, she took the pages and stared hard at them. The penmanship was neat and clean and of a size easy to read, but her mind refused to allow the letters to form anything coherent. Mostly to placate the Orlesian, she made a show of reading over the tale, an occasional word popping out at her, just enough to refresh the horror of his past. She swallowed, clenched her jaw, and flipped the page.
When she got to the end, she hesitated a moment, staring at his signature. She could just make out the "Th" and the "R," but the rest was an eyesore jumble of squiggles.
She looked from the page to the man. Thom Rainier.
He wasn't looking at her, he was refusing to look anywhere but at his clasped hands. Even when her hesitation grew longer, the silence becoming at first obvious before turning awkward, he continued to avoid acknowledging her presence.
The scribe, however, did not. She gave a little cough, more as a gentle reminder than because of the dank atmosphere of the prison. To her credit, Peredura didn't jump, possibly because she was still so numb after hearing Rainier's confession. She had tightly wrapped herself in a little cocoon tucked away in the back corner of her mind to protect herself from his abhorrent crimes, and would continue to do so until she was somewhere safe—her emotions were still running strong and rampant. She blinked again, turned back to the other woman, and asked, "Where do I sign?" her voice seeming unnaturally calm given the circumstances.
"Just beneath his signature usually, if there's room, but honestly anywhere will do, your Worship."
'Worship,' she thought to herself. After remembering what had truly happened with her and the Divine in the Fade, she did not feel worthy of that title, and found herself wondering if perhaps Rainier felt the same way about 'Blackwall.' Picking up the quill, she very carefully and very neatly drew the letters for her name, adding the title of 'Inquisitor' almost as an afterthought.
The scribe took the pages back and confirmed everything was signed. "Peredura… Pewtersmith?" she was so taken aback by the commonness of the family name she actually spoke it out loud.
Peredura stared at her as silent as the stone walls surrounding them.
"Ah, that is, I mean to say," the other woman nervously tried to cover her slip, "Having confirmed both your signatures, I see that everything is in order. I'll deliver this to the Governor straightaway. Good day, your Worship."
Peredura didn't acknowledge her, thinking the day was not good, not anymore. It had started out very well with Abbets' recovery bordering on the edge of miraculous, but Blackwall… dammit!… Rainier's arrest and Bull's madness were leaving her feeling breathless and downtrodden and powerless and overwhelmed. She waited until the scribe left before turning to fully face her friend. They were relatively alone, except for the other prisoners, but with Blackwall/Rainier being a condemned man, the guards had placed him in the farthest corner of the dungeon, well away from the other inmates.
She could think of nothing to say. Neither could he.
Thankfully, they were not alone for long. Voices could be heard approaching, and her ears hungrily picked out Cullen's firm and confident baritone. There was another masculine voice, the two sometimes taking turns, sometimes talking over one another, as if in some sort of absurd parody of a duet at the climax of an Orlesian opera. She waited, as silent as Rainier, and allowed the scene to begin.
"Those are the terms. The Inquisitor herself agreed to them…" Cullen's voice became clear before the door opened.
"But I have no assurances!" the second male countered. Peredura could tell from his attire and ornate mask that he was the Governor of Val Royeaux. Apparently, he had yet to take notice of her as he continued, drowning out Cullen's answer. "The Inquisition is willing to exchange Rainier for Nollatori, yes, good, we are in agreement on that. But Rainier is your friend. A skilled soldier. No doubt you will be sending Rainier out on dangerous missions. What if he is killed, eh? What then? We want that man," he pointed a finger at the cell, which was behind the Inquisitor, but he had yet to turn around, "To stand trial. A public trial. He must be made an example of justice!"
Cullen coughed and pointedly looked over the Governor's shoulder. He only then thought to turn around and discover his audience.
"I would have thought a man of your stature," Peredura droned, "Would know better than to go around pointing fingers. However," she dismissed his rudeness with a gracious wave of her hand, fighting even harder now to keep her emotions tucked away, "I do understand your point—because I feel the same way about Nollatori. Oh, not that he's your friend, or that he might be randomly killed, but I do wish him to be returned to me, alive and well. I, too, wish to see justice prevail."
"Then you will keep Rainier safe? In a cell, perhaps?"
She looked at said prisoner, but he had not moved other than to breathe since signing his confession. "No."
His head came up a little.
The Governor took a step forward, and Cullen shifted his stance, noting the dangerous posturing of the Governor.
"You…" the Orlesian's voice was a low growl, "You… are toying with me."
"No," she turned back to face him, positioning Rainier at her shoulder, and felt the first bubble of emotions slip out of her control, "Blackwall, or Thom Rainier, or whatever other name you want to give him, this man here!" She swept her hand to her side and back, gesturing at the cell, "This man. He swore an oath to the Inquisition. To me personally! He swore to serve! I don't care what name or title he goes by," she looked over her shoulder at him and saw that his face had lifted a little more, just enough that if he wanted to he could raise his eyes and see her. The fact that he would not do so disappointed her, but she took what little progress there was and held on to it with hope, softening her tone and coming back under control. "This man swore to me he would serve the Inquisition until he died, or until the Inquisition was done and had no more use for him. I intend," she turned back to the Governor, "To see to it that he keeps his word. He will finish his service to the Inquisition. In whatever capacity fits best. That is my final word."
"And if he is killed? If this 'service' costs him his life? What then? Do you expect us to hand Nollatori back over to you, when we would get nothing in exchange?" The Governor would not back down, pressing his point, pressing for an answer. Or perhaps he was simply playing The Game and trying to get her to speak so she would lose face. Why, oh why, did she have to say it was her 'final' word?
Ever her knight in shining armor, Cullen came to her rescue. "What do you propose?" he asked, shifting to stand beside Peredura, acting as her proxy. She kept her lips tightly sealed. It had been a long day, and she wanted nothing more than for it to end, for her to be able to lay her head against Cullen's shoulder and weep! Damn her emotions, but she would not allow another slip. As impassive as a statue, she listened to the two men hash out an agreement.
"If he dies," the Governor pointed at Rainier, forgetting his lesson on manners, "Then the contract is null and void. We will have no obligation to hand Nollatori over to you."
Cullen looked to her, not daring to ask, but hoping for some sort of sign that she was in agreement. A single, barely imperceptible nod, and the way her breathing began to calm and slow, and he had his answer. He turned back to the Governor and answered, "Agreed. You there, scribe," he pointed into the dark hallway beyond the door. "Add that clause to the contract."
The scribe, a different one than from earlier, was hustling forward while writing, the hasty scratching of his quill threatening to tear the parchment. "Here, Sers," he bowed, handing over the clipboard, "As you stated."
Cullen looked it over first, handing it to Peredura next. She was thankful he had done so; the scribe's penmanship was thin and interlaced with loops and extra flourishes, rather like a spider web. Yet if Cullen was satisfied with what he read, then she wouldn't have to try to decipher the words. Trusting him, she signed her name for the second time that day.
Actually, for the second time ever, as she thought about it, considering she had only just recently settled on a last name.
She handed the clipboard over to the Governor, who snorted when he read her surname. This time he remembered his manners, turning the unwarranted vocalization into a cough, and added his name beside hers.
"Take your 'friend,' Inquisitor," he sneered when referring to Rainier, "He knows he is on borrowed time; that shall be sufficient for now. And hand over Nollatori."
"As you say, Governor," Cullen again answered. "Guards, forward!"
Peredura continued to stand by and watch, praying she could keep herself in check, but so help her if that Orlesian made one more snide remark she was going to use the Mark and open a rift right beneath his feet and…
"Eh, eh, what's this?" the Venatori mage whined and struggled weakly as two of the Honor Guard brought him into the dungeon. "What are you doing? You should be taking me to the Inquisitor. She'll want to speak with me. She will! I know things about her! Things she wants to keep quiet! Take me to her! I demand it!"
"Oh, just shut it!" one of the former Templars had had enough and elbowed the mage in the guts, knocking the wind out of him, effectively silencing his ranting and giving everyone's ears a rest.
Cullen cleared his throat and gestured to the locked cell, "Your turn."
The Governor signaled, and an Orlesian guard stepped up, keys jangling as he brought them out. He unlocked Rainier's cell and reached inside, taking him roughly by the arm and jerking him out of it. He pulled with such force, Rainier was propelled forward and into the bars of the cell across from his. He grunted, his hands flying to his face, but otherwise made no protest.
"Turn around," the guard ordered. Rainier did so, his hands holding his face. The guard pulled one away to start placing shackles on his wrists, and Peredura got a good look at the blood flowing freely from his nose. "Other hand," the guard intoned, and Rainier took his hand away from his face. The flow increased, but even Peredura could tell it wasn't fatal. Sure, it would be messy, and bruised, but a little healing potion would fix it all up. Well, that, and a bucket of water. Perhaps a fresh tunic.
She wanted to race to his aid, to demand an apology from the guard, perhaps even the Governor for the rough handling his man was giving her friend—but then again, one of her guards had just punched the mage so hard that he had doubled over, so they might see these actions as equal and fair. It was getting harder and harder to keep silent, to keep from reacting, but she took her cue from Cullen, whose only reaction to the little tit-for-tat was the momentary tightening of a gloved hand on the pummel of his sword. If he could keep calm, so could she.
The mage was brought forward then, half dragged, half shoved, as he fought to catch his breath. "Ser!" he gasped when he saw her. "Ser! Tell her… tell… the Inquisitor… she will want to see me!" He tried to lunge for her, getting close enough to her face that she could smell his breath, before the guards secured their grip and dragged him past her.
They reached the cell, her guards removing the shackles before shoving him inside. The Orlesian soldier locked him in, and immediately the mage rushed the door. Predictably, he bounced back, and off, and landed with a whoosh on his backside. He laughed, coughed, choked, and rolled over onto his front to re-catch his breath. Now on all fours, he again rushed at the bars of his cell, screaming, "I know her secrets! I know them all! She won't wish me to tell! Get me out of here! Let me speak with her! She knows I know! She… I know… I know… I kn…"
His voice wound down into incoherent mutterings.
"Has he always been like this?" the Orlesian guard asked, eying the seemingly mad mage like he would a large cockroach, and wondering what he should expect while on guard duty.
"Yup," one of the Honor Guard answered, "Pretty much since we caught him. Keeps claiming he knows some sort of secret, but as you can see," he nodded at Peredura, "The dumbass looked right at her, didn't he, and didn't know who she was."
The Orlesian guard nodded, seeing that the mage must be insane if he didn't recognize the one woman he claimed to know so well, and looked back at his charge. "This is going to be a long shift."
"We recommend ear plugs," the Inquisition guard advised, "Or a muzzle. Rainer! Forward march!"
Cullen trained his soldiers well. Even without being ordered, the two guards took Rainer into custody and began marching him from the dungeon, knowing what was expected of them. Peredura watched the back of her friend's head until the black hair disappeared into blacker shadows. She wanted to walk with him, but knew how important appearances were to maintain. She would have to wait until her business with the Governor was finished and the bloody git was satisfied. She thought she must be vibrating with the effort to keep still, but remained silent and impassive and waited while the Orlesian looked over his new captive.
"You have killed many citizens of this city," he spoke to the mage, "At least a score that we can confirm so far. You will stand trial for each and every one. And afterwards, you will be returned to the Inquisitor here to stand trial for even more crimes. Do you understand?"
The mage stared at him blankly, spittle oozing from a corner of his mouth.
"You're, erm," Cullen carefully felt his way through what might be a touchy subject, "You're not concerned with his competency to stand trial?"
"Not at all," the Governor sounded quite pleased, now that he had his man, "Sane or no, he will pay for the crimes he committed. Might even make it more entertaining, for the crowd. Oh, speaking of entertainment! What would you say to a double-hanging, here in Val Royeaux—Rainier and Nollatori, side by side, criminals we will both judge and condemn to death. Think of the size of the crowd that would attract. We'd get people from all over Orlais!"
Her nostrils flared, her eyes flashed, and her lips parted. Game or no, she was going to give the man a piece of her mind…
Cullen stepped forward, effectively gaining everyone's attention and heading off anything unpleasant. "I have no doubt it would. If our business is finished here, we shall depart. It's late, and we have a long ways to travel."
"As you wish," he found his manners and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Inquisitor, for being so patient and agreeable. Nollatori shall be returned to you after we have him tried and convicted—you have my word on that." He raised himself fully before finishing, "Make sure you keep your word."
Nope, those manners disappeared again. Cullen didn't respond, didn't acknowledge the Governor in any way. He turned back to Peredura and held out his arm. "Your Worship," his voice was smooth and calm, the tone filling her ears and slipping inside to her heart. She could feel the tension bleed out of her limbs—a moment before she was about to open a rift, just a tiny one, just big enough to startle him—as she lifted a hand to place it at Cullen's elbow. Side-by-side they left the dungeon, Peredura matching his steady and unhurried pace.
She waited until they were outside of the prison before she allowed herself to speak. "You forgot something."
"Oh," Cullen lifted an eyebrow as they walked the few yards down the street to her carriage. "Did I?"
"We were supposed recommend keeping a Templar handy, remember? Because he is a Venatori? And skilled with invisibility spells? Thank you," she said this last to one of her guards who had opened the carriage door for her. She didn't want to step inside, she didn't want to leave Cullen's strong and comforting side. She held on to his hand, keeping him close, savoring the warmth coming from his presence.
"Ah, well," he blinked and pretended to consider the matter, "He knows Nollatori is a mage. He knows Nollatori made a whole street disappear. And this is Val Royeaux—no shortage of Templars here. I'm sure he'll figure it out for himself. Shall we, Inquisitor. The day is almost done; we should make what use of what's left and begin our journey home." He lifted her hand to the handle beside the carriage door.
She made a small face. "I will be glad to see the last of Val Royeaux," she turned back to the carriage, the polished ebony wood with ornate gold trim outside and the deep cushioned velvet covered seats inside, "But… ugh!"
Cullen chuckled softly and handed her inside. "When we're well enough away from here, you can abandon this contraption on the side of the road and ride beside me. Tomorrow. Until then, Madam Inquisitor," he closed the door smartly and rapped the side of the carriage, signaling the coachman to start. She kept her eyes on him for as long as she could, and was all but certain that she saw him at least mouth the words, 'I am at your command.'
Oh, but that man could unsettle her in the most pleasant ways imaginable.
The seat across from her creaked, and she belatedly remembered she was not alone. Thankful that the lateness of the afternoon meant the interior was dimmed, she leaned back in her own seat and turned her attention to Blackwall—Rainier. He had assumed a similar posture as earlier, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, fingers interlaced as if loosely clasped in prayer, gaze glued downwards. At least the shackles had been removed, and someone had thought to give him a rag to wipe up his face, but other than that he was the same as he had been in that cell.
"So," he spoke, his deep and gruff voice rumbling around the interior of the carriage, "This is what you would use the might of the Inquisition for, an exchange of criminals. Murderers."
Peredura sighed, not quite ready just then to deal with him, but as they didn't think it would be a good idea for Rainier to be riding a horse where everyone in the city could see him—appearing as a free man surrounded by the Inquisition's forces—it was decided he would ride hidden inside the carriage with her. She studied the man, her friend, her mentor, and tried to remember what she had been rehearsing to say to him. "He isn't Nollatori."
Rainier lifted his head somewhat, "What?"
"Oh, he himself claims to be Nollatori," she clarified, "But I know what Nollatori looks like. I remember him from before, and that half-crazed mage back there is not Nollatori."
There was silence for half a moment as he processed this. "That's even worse, using subterfuge and dishonesty on top of the reputation of the Inquisition, all for your personal advantage."
"Well, as I said, he claims to be Nollatori. Whoever he really is, he is still a Venatori, a blood mage, one who has undoubtedly committed unspeakable atrocities and killed innocents in doing so. He's willing to help the real Nollatori escape, even if that means losing his own life. So, as Cullen pointed out, why not let him?" She was trying to get a rise out of him, hoping somehow to get through that painful self-inflicted prison he carried himself inside. Her cold-blooded cavalier attitude towards the moral implications of handing over the wrong man was a calculation intended to shock him. Yet she failed, as he continued to stare at his hands. Not ready to give up, she persevered. "He has done something to deserve being imprisoned and sentenced to death; even if he is the wrong man, he has been an accomplice to Nollatori's actions. Besides, this way the real Nollatori thinks we are fooled, duped into believing he has been taken care of and we are able to let our guard down. Instead, we'll be even more wary and perhaps even put a plan or two of our own together. Not ideal, but the Orlesians get a murderer to put on trial, and I get my friend back."
Silence again, before…
"I didn't ask to be saved. I was willing to pay for my sins. I still am. You should have left me there."
Tears slipped out of her eyes—damnit!—when she blinked. Quickly she swiped at them, lifting her face up as if that would somehow tip the rest of her tears back into her head. She took a deep breath, and when she felt under control once more, she looked back at her friend and began to speak.
"Not all that long ago, I was very young and foolish and naïve. I wasn't used to dealing with people, speaking to them, much less inspiring them to join the Inquisition, but that's what Cassandra and the others asked me to do. So I did. We got word of a man, a lone Grey Warden, who was wandering the countryside, helping people, teaching and training them so they could defend themselves against bullies and thieves. I was sent to speak with him, to try to convince him to join the Inquisition. And, amazingly, despite all my clumsiness with words and speeches and persuasive argument," she smiled at him, whether or not he would see it, he would hear it in her voice, "He agreed. He agreed to join the Inquisition—my first recruitment to the cause.
"But he was more than that. He was my mentor, teaching me the basics of tracking, of reading signs left by the passage of a single person or group. And what he taught me not only kept me alive after Haven fell, but helped me catch up with the rest of the Inquisition forces. For that alone, I owe him my life. Even more so, he taught me about using the lay of the land to my advantage and about strategic deployment. He even tried to teach me how to use a broadsword. And," she leaned forward and put her hand over his, "He taught me about compassion for others. He taught me how to care, and listen, and empathize, and consider all points of view, not just my own. He taught me how to study a situation before making a decision, and how to take responsibility for a mistake, learn from it, and move forward. He showed me how to be a better person, that one can change and improve and grow.
"And I don't care what he calls himself, Rainier, Blackwall, or just Thom," she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, "This man, this man before me, is not the same man who gave the order that massacred the Calliers. You," she emphasized the word, "Have changed. You have learned from a terrible mistake, and grown, and become a new man—a better man. You have been redeemed. I strongly believe that… I must believe that, or else…"
She dropped her hand away; besides, he hadn't moved to take it or acknowledge her warmth in any way. She looked away from him, not wanting to talk any longer, but those few last words just had to make their way from her lips.
"… or else, what hope is there for me?"
She didn't see it, her gaze now glued to the window and the scenery stained red by a setting sun, but…
Blackwall lifted his eyes up.