Chapter Thirty-Eight: Pardon Me
Warning: This chapter holds graphic descriptions of violence and self-harm.
A sea of faces floated in awed silence, eyes wide, mouths slack, barely a whisper of breath to be heard within the War Room. They all had gathered there immediately upon Peredura's arrival, her inner circle of closest friends. All that is except Rainier, who was under house arrest down by the stables, and the Iron Bull, who was also discreetly tucked away in a small chamber under the Keep. Cullen was by her side, and though he had been a party to most of the mishaps, he remained quiet and allowed her to tell the tale in her own time and her own words. Harding had been excused from this meeting, but she and Peredura had taken the trip back to Skyhold as an opportunity to get the details on what had happened with Iron Bull. Fear, her Mabari hound, was currently assigned to keeping an eye on Abbets, who was ensconced in Cullen's office catching up on paperwork and reports and supply issues and the like.
Dorian and Sera had gotten to Skyhold ahead of her, but only by half a day. They had decided to take the opportunity to freshen up, rather than make a report to Leliana and the others only to have Peredura arrive and repeat the story a few hours later. Dorian had been lounging in a chair off to the side, affecting a pose of nonchalance, but as Peredura spoke, even he had decided to straighten up and pay attention. Sera was leaning with her backside against the war table, fidgeting with a bit of thread dangling from a sleeve, and looking like she wanted to punch something hard—in the face—or in the soft bits between the legs. Beside her stood Vivienne, her face impassive and revealing nothing of her thoughts, though the heavy rise and fall of her chest betrayed her ire. Cassandra was scowling, lips tight, looking as if she would spit nails any second. Josephine had at first been busily transcribing, wanting to get as much of the story down as possible, but eventually gave up and simply sucked on the tip of her quill. Leliana, like Vivienne, kept herself physically still with her arms crossed over her chest, but the tips of her fingers kept wandering to her knives. Solas looked torn, as if he wanted to go over to Peredura and offer comfort and support, but in looking at Cullen's closeness to her side, he knew his fatherly companionship was no longer the kind of companionship she sought. Cole appeared to be the only one completely untouched by the horrific string of misfortune that had befallen Peredura, but then again, he rarely looked upset over anything. Or happy. Or sad. Or excited.
It wasn't until a very droll voice intoned, "Fuck, but you do know how to put on a shit show," that the static silence shattered.
Peredura looked over to Varric, standing with his feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed in front of his massive—and massively hairy—chest, one corner of his mouth turned up with an ironic twist.
"Honest," he continued, "The stuff that happens around you, all the shit, all the mess, all the excitement… You just can't make this shit up. Believe me, I'm a writer, I've tried." He shook his head at her and again muttered, "Shit."
Peredura gave half a laugh, feeling a little sheepish, especially with all the eyes that had been boring into her for the past several hours. She covered her mouth, not knowing why she wanted to laugh, only knowing that she was feeling very uncomfortable, and laughing right then would be very inappropriate, yet it kept trying to bubble up from inside, and…
Cullen stepped up to her, his massive hands on her shoulders turning her around and guiding her face against his chest, his arms then wrapping around her to hold her close. The laughter broke free and quickly turned to sobs, all the pain and fear and excitement and anger and joy and more overwhelming her all at once. All the time she had spent over the past several weeks trying to remain brave, and strong, and wise, and composed… all the effort… all the energy… It drained out of her along with her tears. It was over. Everything was over. Yes, there was a bit of aftermath they had to deal with, but the excitement and danger were through. She was safe, at home, with her friends.
No one spoke. No one interrupted her miniature nervous breakdown. No one dared to move more than a slight shifting until her sobs settled down into manageable sniffs and heavy breaths. She pulled back from Cullen—Maker's Breath but she wanted to stay within his embrace—and sniffed one last time. Somehow, from somewhere, he magically produced one of his lilac-scented handkerchiefs and presented it to her. She gave him a watery smile of gratitude, dabbed at her eyes, then her nose, and finally gave in to a small blow. Finishing composing herself, she tucked the handkerchief away and turned back to the others. "Pardon me."
"Not at all," Josephine swept the spectacle aside. "That was quite a tale… no, saga you experienced. No doubt there will be long-lasting repercussions for quite some time."
"Not the least of which is trading Blackwall, excuse me, Rainier for a false Nollatori," Leliana hummed.
"Don't forget about Bull," Dorian added.
"Right, big scary grey-ass did go batshit crazy. Still hasn't spoken. Wonder if there's any marbles left upstairs." Sera thought she was being helpful and giving the Qunari a plausible excuse, but the worry that flashed over Dorian's features due to her words was expressively painful.
"Those matters, along with Corypheus and rifts and demons," Peredura acknowledged, mostly to take focus off of Dorian, "Should keep us busy through the rest of the year. All right," she cleared her throat and stepped forward, "Let's tackle them one at a time. How much progress has Morrigan made…"
Solas watched her closely, thoughtfully, quietly throughout the rest of the meeting. He remembered the timid little waif he met all those months ago, and found himself at a loss to reconcile her with the young woman he stood beside today. No, he corrected himself, he was no longer standing beside her, not as he used to. Cullen held that position now, the one who offered comfort, peace, safety, assurance, encouragement, advice… He stopped himself. He should feel happiness for her, that she had found someone to love and who loved her back, and though he himself had never loved her in that respect, he often looked at her as a kind of daughter. He should feel glad that she had found such bliss… but he knew the pain that would eventually come for her. For them both, if they kept to this path.
Yet he could no more warn her of what was to come, than he could feel joy over their newfound love.
"Penny for your thoughts," Varric hummed, suddenly at his elbow.
Solas looked down at him, raising an eyebrow and quipping, "They'll cost you much more than that."
"Hey, I'm good for it," the dwarf assured him, "I just got my latest royalty check. No, really, I did."
Peredura sighed, Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, and Cassandra cleared her throat loudly. "Right," the Inquisitor started before anyone else could, "I think that, after all that's happened recently, and all the hard travel, and the lateness of the hour, I think we should call it a night. As promised," she nodded to Dorian, "Chef is preparing something delicious for us all this evening. He was very eager to reach his new kitchens and begin, and since we've been up here for hours, he's had plenty of time to whip up some sort of meager feast."
"Seven courses," Dorian confirmed, practically launching himself out of the chair and onto his feet, "I left instructions. And a list of preferred dishes."
"We will reconvene tomorrow morning," she continued over his interruption, "After a hot meal and a good night's sleep. You don't have to attend unless you want to, but I'd like to find a solution to at least one issue. And I will take all the advice and insight any of you can give."
"The bird's song is melancholy, though it is about joy."
"What was that, Cole?" Vivienne asked.
The strange boy shrugged his shoulders. "That is how he feels."
Peredura looked at him for a moment, completely lost, but inclined her head, "Thank you, Cole. Come on, let's go eat!" She left the War Room so quickly, practically pulling Cullen along with her, that she missed the haunted look on Solas' face.
Leliana held back a moment, as did a few others, Cassandra, Josephine, and Varric. "Well, certainly took them long enough."
"Took who what?" Cassandra asked.
"I was beginning to lose hope," Josephine opined.
"What hope? Who are you talking about?"
"I wonder who figured it out first."
"Figured what out?" Cassandra ground out between her teeth.
Varric chuckled and took her—carefully—by the arm. "Never mind, Seeker," he began while escorting her to the door, leaving the other two ladies to their delightfully juicy gossip, "I'll explain it to you when you're older."
Peredura was holding Court. It was not a part of being Inquisitor that she even remotely enjoyed, or took any sort of satisfaction from, but she did it nonetheless. From time to time, people had disputes that needed resolving, and they knew if they came to her, each side would be given a fair hearing. So she listened, and she judged, and she ruled. Thankfully, most matters brought to her directly involved the Inquisition, and she felt more confident about having a say in those cases. Sometimes, however, there were disputes between farmers regarding where the border was between their fields, or a landlord charging too high a rent.
Sometimes, as in this case, the matter was very special.
"Your Worship," the crier near the annex raised his voice for all those assembled in the Main Hall, "Announcing Ser Artois, personal assistant to the Governor of Val Royeaux."
She had been bored and tired before, but she immediately sat a little straighter on the uncomfortable stone throne, eyes bright, mind sharp and ready for any tricks. "Approach," she commanded, inclining her head. The masked vassal stepped up, four men handling a large wooden crate behind him. He stopped a good distance from the base of the steps, not willing to get too close, but wishing to show respect. The men set the crate down next to him and hurriedly stepped back.
Those in the crowd closest to the box stepped back as well, and a murmur arose, rippling around the Hall. At first Peredura wondered what it was about the crate that could cause such a stir. The next moment, a strange smell wafted up towards her nostrils, making her wish for one of those lilac-scented handkerchiefs. The stench was emanating from the box. She cleared her throat and acknowledged her guest, "Ser Artois. Have we met?"
"Er, once, your Worship," he bowed, "In Val Royeaux. I was out of place then, and I beg your forgiveness, as well as your patience, for both what I had to say then, and what I have to say now. I am, after all, only the messenger."
Yup, this was going to be very unpleasant. "Very well, Ser Messenger," she leaned back a little and steepled her fingers, affecting a pose of mild interest, "You may address the Court."
"There's no easy way to do this, Madam Inquisitor," he bowed again, "So perhaps I'll come straight to it. The Governor does not wish to wait, but would prefer to exchange our prisoners now. In a show of good faith, he sends your prisoner to you first, in full confidence that you will honor the contract you signed."
Cullen liked to stay near her, should she have a military question during these sessions, so he was immediately at her elbow. "You do know what that smell is, don't you?" he queried in a low hum that barely reached her ears.
"I'm afraid so," she answered him just as quietly from behind her raised fingers. The next moment she lowered her hands, lifting her face so that everyone in the Hall could hear, and answered the Orlesian, "Very well, present the mage, Maximillius Nollatori."
"Ahem," Artois coughed. The porters had left a crowbar on the top of the crate, which he used now to open the front. A corpse in tattered mage robes spilled out, poorly preserved and rancid with petrification. A gasp ran through the crowd, those closest once more covering their noses and turning away, one or two racing off to find a chamber pot or bucket or perhaps fresh air. The head had become separated from the body, and rolled across the floor to the base of the steps leading up to where Peredura sat. It came to rest face upwards, and even though it was half-rotted, she could tell it was the face of the mage they had left in the dungeons of Val Royeaux. She found it difficult to pull her eyes away from it, the macabre scene, the head perfectly positioned to be almost staring at her. She had to keep composed, however, especially in the presence of de-composed bodies.
When she could finally look away, she saw that all eyes were now upon her. No doubt everyone was wondering how she would react—would she retch? Would she become angered? Would she call for the Governor's head? To her credit, she did none of those things; even though she wanted to become angry, she reminded herself that that corpse was not the real Nollatori.
And she had just been given an answer to one of her many problems.
"Send for Thom Rainier, the man also known to us as Blackwall."
Her voice rang through the cavernous chamber, clear and strong and undeniable. Several soldiers started off, she hoped more to follow her command than to escape the odor. Cullen leaned imperceptibly closer to her and hummed, "Surely, you're not going to…"
"Remember that last clause in the contract?" she turned her head slightly to speak with him, her lips barely moving. The acoustics of the Hall were such that her voice could easily carry from the position of the throne, so she always had to be careful when she wished a private word during one of these sessions. "The one the Governor insisted upon? Have it ready, I may have to read it to our friendly messenger to get my point across."
"I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor," he inclined his head. He took a few steps and came up to Leliana; she wasn't always present at these Courts, but she was there today. Cullen spoke quickly and briefly with her, and Peredura could tell by the smile on her face and the quick wink she sent her way that the Spymaster had caught on, and she approved. Leliana slipped away through a side door and returned moments later, just as Rainier/Blackwall was being marched into the Hall.
Peredura was thankful the guards hadn't put shackles on him, despite his status of being under house arrest. She had given him some limited space within Skyhold to move about—he seemed most at ease around the stables and the horses therein—and there had always been at least two guards keeping an eye on him. Not that she believed he would try to escape; he had surrendered of his own accord back at Val Royeaux, so he obviously accepted his fate—she was more fearful he might take matters into his own hands and harm himself.
Two guards led the way, two behind, Thom in the middle. They marched steadily, those in front eyeing the crate but knowing they had to perform their duty and stand near it. Thom seemed more somber than ever, if possible, and stayed in step with his escort. He had taken the time over the past couple of weeks of confinement to clean himself up a bit, repair the tattered bits of his armor, even trim his beard. Yet his face looked more gaunt than before, leaner, and she briefly wondered if he was eating properly.
They reached Ser Artois and his crate with its poorly preserved present. The guards moved to stand at Thom's sides rather than before and behind. Peredura waved them away, it wasn't as if he could escape the Hall with so many people about, or threaten her with Cullen at her side, or even harm himself as he hadn't been allowed to carry his weapons, so the guards were not necessary. The soldiers nodded and accepted her dismissal, returning gratefully to their posts at the door.
"Thom Rainier, Blackwall," she called down to him, her voice barely able to keep steady.
"Inquisitor," he acknowledged, though he didn't raise his eyes up higher than halfway up the dais. He stood still with his hands clasped before him and his shoulders slumped, but other than his poor posture, he gave no sign that he knew he was standing next to a putrid, rotting corpse.
"The Governor of Val Royeaux has called for your return. He even sends his prisoner to me first, as a sign of good faith that I would…" she turned to the messenger, "…what were the words you used? 'That I would honor the contract I signed.'"
Ser Artois swallowed, but nodded.
"I see no reason to do so, when he himself has not kept to the agreement."
This time the gasp racing through the onlookers was from surprise. It was a bold statement she had made, a dangerous one, but with Leliana at her side, scroll in hand, she knew she would resolve this to her satisfaction.
"Your Worship," Ser Artois swallowed again and bowed, deeply, praying he wasn't fucked. "I beg your pardon, but I implore you to explain. The contract calls for the exchange of prisoners…"
"…once I am through with my prisoner," she finished for him. "I made this bargain because this man before us swore an oath to serve the Inquisition. Look around, Ser Artois—the Inquisition is still here. So long as Corypheus survives and there are rifts to close, the Inquisition will be needed. Until that time, he will serve.
"There's another point to make as well," she continued, leaning forward slightly on the throne. "What happened to the mage?" It was very tricky here, and she had to be extremely careful not to call the corpse Nollatori lest someone decided to claim she knew the mage was an imposter. She could feel the headache beginning at the base of her skull, right in the back center, but she would navigate through this for Thom's sake.
"Oh, ah, your Worship?" Ser Artois seemed taken aback for a moment. He looked down at the remains and stumbled through some sort of explanation. "Oh, um, well, we didn't realize Nollatori was, I mean, yes, we knew he was a mage, of course we knew that, but we didn't realize just how well he could make himself disappear. The guards changed shifts, and in the space of one turning away and the other approaching, he cast a spell and made it appear that he was not in his cell. That he was gone."
She lifted an eyebrow, "You had a Venatori mage in your dungeon, and you didn't think to keep a Templar handy, just in case." She remembered Ser Artois now, the pompous ass who burst into Cullen's office and demanded to speak with her. Even though he had asked for her forgiveness, and it was very petty on her part, she did enjoy needling him just a little bit. "What happened next? I take it the guards decided to unlock the cell and check it."
Ser Artois' face was slightly flushed with embarrassment, but thankfully nothing showed through his mask. "They did, Madam Inquisitor. They thought perhaps there may be a loose bar or stones or something that would have allowed the prisoner to escape. There was straw on the floor of the cell, and one of the guards saw some strands moving when there was nothing there to make them move. He reacted, as he was trained to do, and drew his weapon. In doing so, the edge of the blade somehow nicked the mage's neck, though they couldn't yet see the mage. Blood began spurting out, apparently from thin air, and the guard swung at it. Immediately the prisoner became visible as his spell broke when his head separated from his body." He paused to swallow and seriously reconsider his position as personal messenger. "This was not done on purpose, I assure you, the Governor had every intention of handing Nollatori over to you, but…"
"Leliana," she broke over the top of his words, effectively silencing him, "You have the contract there. Please, would you be so kind as to read aloud the last clause, the one crammed in right above the signatures of myself and the Governor."
She made a show of unrolling the parchment, clearing her throat, and taking her time finding the correct paragraph. Peredura thought she might be overplaying it, but also couldn't fault her if she wanted to have a little fun—Peredura had done just that herself.
"'If the prisoner of one party dies or becomes unavailable to be delivered alive and whole, the other party is no longer under obligation to return their prisoner and may do as they see fit, this contract becoming null and void.' I see your point, your Worship. One prisoner is dead, definitely not alive nor even whole," she looked pointedly at the wayward head. "The contract is irrevocably null and void."
Peredura wanted to smile—she had won!—but kept her elation to herself. The audience was buzzing with conversations, nobody bothering to keep to whispers. She let them go on for a bit, her attention more on her friend. For the first time since he turned himself in, Thom had an expression on his face. She wanted to think it was hope, but beneath that beard and mane it was a little hard to tell. When he lifted his eyes to her, she gave him a brief smile.
"Ser Artois," her voice was a little quieter than before, but the crowd immediately hushed, those damnable acoustics making it almost impossible not to hear her, "As you heard, the contract is null and void. I am under no obligation to you, to the Governor, to the citizens of Orlais, even to Thom Rainier. You are dismissed."
"But, your Worship! The contract was supposed to mean if Rainier was killed, not the mage…"
"Then it should have said as much," she again interrupted him. This time he wisely chose not to argue with her. "If the Governor wanted to be that specific in the contract, he should have had those exact words put in there, and he definitely should not have signed it! As he left the wording so vague and open for interpretation, I have interpreted the word 'prisoner' to mean just that, 'prisoner,' either mine or his. His prisoner was delivered, yes, but neither alive nor whole. Therefore, the contract is null and void. Therefore," she rose up from her throne, she hated that pompous, massive, stony-pain-in-her-butt, and descended the stairs to stand before her friend. "Therefore, I am free to do as I see fit.
"Thom," she addressed him personally, as a friend, "You joined the Inquisition, but it was under an assumed name, a Grey Warden named Blackwall. I'm not sure if I have the power or right to force you to continue impersonating a Grey Warden, but I am sure that I don't want to do any such thing. Even though it will cost us certain advantages, the act would be deceitful and underhanded and that is not the way I want people to see the Inquisition. On the other hand, I could turn you over to the Grey Wardens, make you become one of them, as had originally been intended, and then have you return to the Inquisition with all the advantages that implies. But I really don't want to make you do anything that isn't truly in your heart. Instead, I am allowing you to start over.
"Thom Rainier, as Inquisitor, leader of the Inquisition, and Herald of Andraste, it is within my power and rights to grant you a full pardon of ALL your past wrongdoings, both here and abroad, in every nation, beneath every authority, within every Court." She put her hand on his shoulder, holding his gaze, "You are a free man, Thom, to do as you wish."
His lips parted, a breath slipped in, and his voice intoned, "Pardon me?"
"Yes," she nodded, smiling again, "I just did." It had been a long discussion with her and Leliana and Josephine and Cullen, long and heated and frustrating, but Peredura stood her ground—she was not going to continue the deception of Blackwall now that it was known to her. She also was not going to force him to do anything, even joining the Grey Wardens as the original Blackwall had intended, just to restore the Inquisition's access to certain treaties. No, she wanted to pardon him, to truly set him free, and Josephine quickly agreed she had that power, they only needed the opportunity.
Then came the corpse in a crate.
"I… I don't know what to do."
"Take your time, Thom. You have that luxury now. Think about what you want to do with your life, what do you feel called to do, what do you dream of achieving, and follow that." She took her hand off his shoulder and turned towards the hapless Ser Artois. "I could have sworn I dismissed you and your case. Oh, and your crate with its contents. I would strongly suggest you leave." She took a step towards him. "Quickly."
Artois sputtered but formed no actual words to address her. She ignored him, as walking down from the dais had brought her closer to the smell, and continued her steps to move past Artois. She made for a side door that led towards the lower regions of the Keep. She had set one man free today; perhaps she could perform a miracle and set another free.
The Iron Bull sat on the floor in the center of the room, cross-legged, his arms resting on his knees and his head bowed beneath the weight of his horns. It wasn't a prison cell he was being held in, but a small supply room with a stout door and three guards outside. He could hear Krem out in the hallway, chatting with his guards, probably planning some sort of daring rescue attempt, but he was not in the mood to be rescued.
Nope, he was in the mood to get drunk. Like, blindingly drunk. Passed-out, under-the-table, wake-up-in-a-stranger's-bed kind of drunk. Briefly he thought about Dorian's bed, but quickly gave that up as a lost cause. After learning what he had done, he was sure the mage would no longer even consider a big gray brute like him.
If he even had ever considered him.
Krem's voice took on a different tone all of a sudden, excited perhaps, definitely insistent. He wondered who could be out there, but figured he would find out soon enough. Besides, the words weren't penetrating the solid door, only the pitch and rhythm. When a new voice answered Krem's, his head lifted up slightly and he spoke his first word in weeks… "Boss?"
As if summoned by his voice, the door opened and there she stood, Peredura, framed perfectly in the light coming from the hallway. Quickly he lowered his gaze, not so much from the blinding light stinging his eyes, but also out of shame. She stepped into the room and turned her head just far enough to speak with the guards. "Why has he been kept in the dark?"
"We, ah, didn't think it would be wise to leave him with a flame that he could use to set fire to something."
She turned sideways in the doorway so they could see past her and into a room that had been emptied of almost everything except the Qunari. "All he has in here is himself, a bucket to shit in, and a tin platter of untouched food. You really should eat; you're looking very lean." She said this last to Iron Bull, but he did not react. She sighed, rubbed at that knot of tension that was coming back at the base of her skull, and held out her other hand. "Give me a lantern."
"Ser, I do not think that would be wise…"
"I'm not asking, soldier," she raised an eyebrow at him, knowing full well he had the rank of sergeant on his shoulder, not that of a common foot soldier. "I would have a lantern, and privacy. No one is to enter, no matter what you hear or see, until I open the door."
It was Krem, however, who passed her the light. "Thank you, your Worship," he said quietly, "I knew you would listen, like you did before, the only one who would listen to me back at Haven, the only one who's willing to listen now. Thank you, your Worship, thank you. You'll be all right now, Chief, just wait and see." He said this last bit louder, but if Iron Bull heard him, he gave no acknowledgement.
He gave no movement at all, barely even a breath's worth.
Peredura resisted the urge to sigh again, the lamplight swinging as she shut the door and moved further into the room. She could hear the guards outside arguing, and someone tried the door handle, but the portal remained closed behind her. One of them, at least, could follow orders. She set the lantern down and herself next to it, sitting much the same as Iron Bull, legs crossed and arms relaxed. The room was small enough that if the door did open, it would hit her in the back, but any closer and she would be knee-to-knee with the Qunari, and she did not think he would allow that, not yet, not until she cleared up what was the matter with him.
He continued his impersonation of a statue.
Peredura tilted her head, tried to catch his eye, tried to get a peek at his face underneath his bent neck, but he was determined to remain shut off from her. She hummed a little, straightened her own neck lest that nasty knot grow, and chewed her lip. "…maybe…" she sighed, as if she had been having a conversation with herself and that lone word found its way past her vocal cords. She shrugged and began unbuttoning her jacket. "It's worth a shot, isn't it?" She took off her thicker outer jacket to reveal another thinner jacket beneath. She began removing that one next, revealing yet another layer of a thick, knitted sweater. When that came off too, Iron Bull managed to stir, perhaps a bit uncomfortable, but she was done disrobing, keeping her long sleeved tunic on her torso.
"Wow, okay, yup, it's a bit chilly." She rubbed at her arms a moment before getting to work. "Brr… I remember, long time ago, back in Haven," she shook out her first jacket, wisely removing the Inquisitor badge, and spread it out over the floor, "I had a terrible, horrible secret that I needed to tell someone. You figured it out mostly, but you were a spy, so how could I trust you enough to tell you. Then you said the strangest thing to me," she spread the second jacket on top of the first before picking up her sweater, "You said, thanks to a really detailed report you once sent, you had been asked to never again report on anything that happened in bed. And we sat on my bed, and we talked, and that really helped me. Now!" she carefully placed the folded sweater at one end of the arranged jackets, "Which end do you want, the head or the foot."
He didn't move at first, and she started to pout. "Oh, come on, I know it's not much of a bed, but it should work well enough. Just sit here with me, you don't have to talk, but I am listening."
"I can't…" his voice was dusty from misuse, but he had to answer her—she put in too much effort for him not to try, "I literally cannot. If I lie down, I might not be able to get back up. These horns are heavy, and my neck is sore from sitting here for so long."
"Oh," she gave him a sympathetic pout, "The Iron Bull, I sometimes forget how awkward those things are for you. Come on," she dragged her bed over to the side, up against the wall, and began refolding the sweater. "Sit down there, we can still call this a bed, and we'll brace your neck with this." She wrapped the sweater, now in the shape of a tube, around his neck. With cool hands, she really was feeling the chill without all her extra layers of clothing, she guided him over to the makeshift bed, her gentle prodding and pulling accepting no argument from him.
He grunted when he set his ass down on the layers of jackets, and sighed when he leaned back against the wall and rested his head, the sweater warm and soft and supportive. "Thanks, Boss."
She didn't answer, merely sitting down next to him and waiting. He tried to ignore her, wanted desperately for her to simply leave him alone, to walk away and forget him in this room. But he knew how stubborn she could be, and determined, and the quickest way to deal with her was to just give her what she wanted. Yet…
"I don't know where to begin."
Peredura stopped chewing her lip to offer a place to start. "Abbets mentioned something about Reavers. Is that what happened to you? I know you have come close to losing your head in battle, but…"
Iron Bull began shaking his head, felt a painful crackling in his neck, and reconsidered the action. He cocked one leg and rested his arm on his knee, his fingers dangling lazily, twitching slightly as he tried to explain. "No, I'm not… well… not officially, anyway. Reavers get specialized training and, um, let's call it… 'stimulants' that help them out. They're extra dangerous, far more dangerous than I could ever be. With a Reaver, the more they get hurt, the fiercer they fight. Me? I just like to fight."
"I see, well, not completely, but I'm glad you're not one of those Reavers."
He huffed, "So am I. Nah, I don't know what came over me. There was a lot of worry and effort to get you to help." He bumped his shoulder against hers and changed the subject. "Glad to see you're okay, by the way. We thought your neck was broken."
"Close," she admitted, trying to right herself after nearly being pushed over by his gentle bump, "But mostly I was numb from being tied up for so long, pins and needles, loss of blood flow, that sort of thing. So, you were tired and stressed after getting me to Val Royeaux. You've been that way before, when you ran for days to get to Haven with me in your arms nursing a broken leg. What was so different this time? What sent you over the edge?"
Iron Bull tapped his skull against the stonework, gesturing more and more with his hand as his emotions grew stronger. "Again, I'm not sure. I remember coming over that last dune and seeing the Venatori all chained up in a line, nice and tidy, and I… just… lost my shit. I had told Blackwall, don't start without me, just track them down and wait until I got back. I needed a really good fight to release all my energy and frustration and shit. I was spoiling for one. But despite all my efforts, I missed it. I was pissed!" He looked at her with his one good eye, glad that she had taken that side to sit down, and tried to explain. "I was so mother-fucking pissed off! I was going to—I needed to—kill someone. The first one I saw was Blackwall, but he was a friend, and even though he was the asshole who didn't wait for me, I knew I shouldn't go after him, so I looked for the biggest, nastiest, badass target out there. I swear, if a dragon had appeared right then, I would have taken that on with my bare hands!"
"Instead, you took on a Red Templar."
He kept himself from nodding this time. "Yup, and with my bare hands. And no, I hadn't forgotten that I had a battle-ax strapped to my back, but that would have been too quick, too clean. So I grabbed the motherfucker with my hands and I pulled his damn arm off."
Iron Bull's hands mimicked the action as he continued. "Gore burst out of it. Just a sort of 'pop!' I couldn't say I liked it, the sound or the sight of it, but it was satisfying on some level to cause that kind of mess. So I grabbed another part, I think it was the other arm, and 'pop!' again. Then again. And again.
"I just kept pulling, and the thing kept 'popping,' and I was… in a sort of… weird headspace. It wasn't good. I knew it wasn't good, but I knew I couldn't get out of it. Then when I ran out of limbs, I switched over to crushing bones, crushed them with my fingers and shook my hands and went back for more. Crush. Shake. Crush. Shake. Kinda like a rhythm. One. Two. Back. Forth. A nice, steady rhythm, like rocking back and forth, calming in its repetitiveness. It was working, I think, at least I'm pretty sure I was calming down. But then I ran out of Red Templar.
Peredura had remained quiet while he talked, her time as a slave to a blood mage lending her the ability to picture quite clearly the havoc he must have created. And it reminded her that she, too, had helped to create chaos.
"There just wasn't anything left big enough to crush. And I guess I felt kind of… I don't know… cheated. I mean, here I was, taking out my aggression and frustration and not doing it on my friend, and just when I think I'm almost done, I fucking run out. I felt gipped. And it started all over again, the frustration and the unfairness and the need to kill SOMETHING! I saw Blackwall again, and then Sera, and then one of the blood mages. Figured, of those three, the mage was the safest option. Soon as I turned my back on Sera, though…" he paused to rub at his backside.
Peredura gave a nervous sort of huff, "She had to use three arrows to knock you out."
He hummed agreement, "Yeah, figured that. I got three nice little holes in my pants, and matching holes in my ass. Nah, I don't blame her. Fuck, if I was there, watching me do that, I'd be a little cautious, too, and try to think of how to take me down without coming too close." He looked at her again, "I didn't scare Sera too badly, did I? I know she can get really pissy and dangerous when she's scared."
"She's fine, now," Peredura allowed. "We've kind of hit a lull in the action, so she's mostly just hanging around Skyhold and playing practical jokes on Cullen. They're harmless, at least nobody's been hurt yet, and it gives her a reason to laugh, and Cullen a reason to sound off."
"That's… good to hear. Thanks, Boss, I didn't want to talk about it, but I feel better now for doing so. Thanks for listening. And no matter what you decide to do with me, it's good to know I didn't hurt or scare anyone I care about. Oh, speaking of which, I should probably apologize to Blackwall in person. Sera shot me in the ass, so I think we're pretty much square. But Blackwall…"
"Oh, he's, ah, well, he's not really Blackwall. His name is Rainier. But he should probably tell you about that. Which he can't until I pardon you."
"Pardon…?"
"Yes, well," she shrugged as she looked up at him, "Why not? It's a sort of trend today. Then again, I don't think it's warranted. I mean, you didn't commit murder. Sure, you tore a Red Templar into a million gory bits, but they're not people. They were, once, but not anymore."
"I'm not so sure I follow you. It was a prisoner, a bound captive. It had no way of defending itself. And I…"
"It was a monster, The Iron Bull," she shook her head, "An abomination. It might have been a person once, but that person was lost long before you came across it. Killing it, however gruesome, was no different that killing a demon."
"You can't know that…"
"Oh, I can," she countered. "I've seen inside, seen a man in the middle of transforming into that… thing. You did it a mercy by destroying it."
Iron Bull's eyebrow lifted up. "I've been with you a long time, Boss, and I like to think I'm one of your favorites, that you take me along on almost every adventure," he patted her thigh, "Which I appreciate. But I don't remember coming across a half-transformed Red Templar…"
"You didn't," she moved his hand to his own thigh and thought he might have silently chuckled, "Or at least, not this version of you. It was back when we first met Dorian, and he and I got transported into the future."
"Um," he rubbed at his eyepatch, "I think I kinda remember hearing about that. You were pretty shook up over it."
"That's because I found you all, well, most of you, there in a dungeon, being force fed red lyrium. Your cell, I mean, the other you, his cell was right across from Cullen's… the other Cullen's cell. The other you told me how you'd watched what happened to him, the other Cullen, week after week, and how quickly he was transforming into a Red Templar, probably because he'd been a Templar and was already used to the lyrium. Anyway, I went into that cell, I couldn't help myself, I had to see it with my own eyes."
Her words stopped suddenly, and Iron Bull put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse," she sniffed, but allowed him to pull her a little closer. "Red crystals covered over half his body, growing inward, transforming flesh and bone and organs into… whatever the hell it is. I could see through the crystal to his insides. He begged me to kill him, to end his suffering." She shrugged, "And I did."
He gave her a little squeeze.
"So you see, The Iron Bull, I do know what those things are, inside and out. I do know what you ripped apart out in the Hissing Wastes was not a person, hadn't been a person for a long time. It was more demon than person, and you won't stand trial for killing a demon in any Court, anywhere."
He hummed and made a face, "I suppose I can accept that. So, I'm a free man?"
She pulled away to look up at him. "The Iron Bull, if I can pardon Rainier for giving the order to massacre a whole family…"
"What?!"
"I can certainly pardon you for killing one single Red Templar."
"Wait, wait, go back. Who's this Rainier guy again? And what about the implications of my actions? I lost my head. Next time, I might hurt someone I care about."
She shook her head. "No, I don't believe that. First, you're not a Reaver. But more importantly, you didn't really lose your head, not completely. You said it yourself—you saw Blackwall, the one you were really mad at, but you did not hurt him. Instead, you looked for something else, a monster, something safe. You did that twice; honestly, I feel a blood mage is no better than the demons they summon, and if you had killed one or all of them, I certainly would not have lost a wink of sleep over it. No, The Iron Bull, you are still trustworthy." She stopped to laugh, "Kind of silly to say that about a spy, huh?"
He rolled his one eye. "Thank the Maker you thought to make a bed for us. No telling what my superiors would say if I had to report that!"
They both laughed.
"So, ah," he tried again to make clarification of what was going on, "We're good? I am free to go?"
"I've already said that, but yes, The Iron Bull, you are free to go. Though I would caution you regarding one little detail."
"Oh?" he had been starting to try to stand, but honestly his neck really was sore, and her sweater offered just enough bracing he was reluctant to give it back, so a little stall for time didn't hurt.
She knelt next to him, still on her jackets, and wagged a finger under his nose where he could see it, "If you dare tell Cullen, or anyone, that we were in bed together, I'll cut off your horns with a butterknife!"
He looked at her, taking her seriously at first, swallowed, then carefully nodded his head. She dropped her finger and looked like she might relax a little, but the next moment something incredible dawned on him and the corner of his mouth twitched.
She saw the subtle reaction, and a tiny ball of worry plopped down deep inside her. "The Iron Bull…?" she warned, wondering what sort of trick or game was up his sleeve.
He ignored her. He ignored the pain. He threw his head back and let out a tremendous "Whoo-hoo!" of triumph. She stared at him wide-eyed, having been rocked onto her backside by the force of his exclamation. She would not have been surprised if the guards had ignored her command and opened the door, surely the noise must have penetrated it, but her orders were being obeyed.
"Yessssssss!" Iron Bull's pain was lost in the force of his elation. He turned to her fully, her sweater dropping from his shoulders, and pumped his fist. "Yesyesyesyes! When did it happen? Must've been in Val Royeaux. Tell me, did he figure it out, or did you finally break down and tell him?"
"Who…? What…?"
"You and the Commander," he explained, his tone making it sound like it should have been obvious. "You two hooked up, got it on, did a little dancing between the sheets…"
He went on, but she couldn't hear him over the roaring in her ears from her blood racing to flush her cheeks with embarrassment. Feeling overwhelmed, she put her face in her hands and moaned, "Fasta vass…"
"Oh, come on now, Boss, it's not like we had a betting pool going about when the two of you would finally get laid."
She jerked her head up at him, thinking those words were a bit too specific, and narrowed her eyes, "You did, didn't you!"
"I'm not saying that," he held his hands up, trying to evade answering, "But a few of us have noticed over these past several months…"
"'A few?'" she repeated for clarification, but he didn't answer her.
"…and have been watching you two, and wondering when you'd figure it out. I think you had it in mind almost from the start, am I right?" He tapped her on the shoulder.
She grimaced, but whether from the tap or the opposite knock against the wall or the mortification was too hard to tell.
"The Commander can be quite stubborn. I'm glad you didn't give up. Ah, I bet he's a different man now, no longer all tight and anal after getting popped."
"Popped."
"He's probably more relaxed, approachable even. I bet he might even sit down and have a chat with me over a pint or two down at the tavern."
"Oh, Andraste's wedding veil, please, The Iron Bull, for the love of all that's good, please oh please don't talk with Cullen about this." She was clinging to his arm, her eyes imploring.
He chuckled, patting her hand, "Relax, Boss, we're still on the bed. I'm bound by secrecy, I swear it. I simply couldn't resist giving your nose a little tweak is all."
Her face went back into her hands.
"Now, before we leave, run this by me one more time: Who is Rainier?"
It had been a long day.
A very long day.
A very strange day.
A very draining day.
Peredura was out on the battlements, staring off into the growing darkness, feeling the biting breeze sting her cheeks. She had left the Hall early, not very hungry that evening, not after dealing with a rotting corpse and The Iron Bull's horrific tale…
…and all the memories that had been brought to mind, her memories, her personal experiences, of that other Cullen half taken over with red lyrium.
Of blood magic and cutting and craving and desperation and…
She shuddered, but it wasn't from the cold.
Earlier that evening, when she got up from the table after having only a few bites, she had vaguely noticed Cullen stood to go with her, though he had just refilled his plate. She had waved him off, making some sort of mumbled excuse that might have had a word or two in it, or it might have just been sound. She had walked outside, into an evening that was a little too cool for the season, and just started walking with no destination in mind. Her path was aimless, meandering, often starting and stopping for no reason. She knew there were two of her Honor Guard watching her—as always—but they kept a discreet enough distance from her she didn't have to pay them any attention. Nor did she pay attention to where she was going until she ran out of battlements, coming to that part that had crumbled and collapsed over the centuries. This was one of her favorite places to hide, far away from the Keep, tucked around a corner out of sight, quiet and free from local traffic and chance encounters. Alone.
Now she stood, staring into a void, not fearing the heights because she couldn't see them, her thoughts as dark and empty as the moonless valley beneath her.
Her departure from the Hall had not gone unnoticed, nor did her despondent mood. One person did follow her, tracking her steps, watching from a distance even further than her Honor Guards, waiting until she came to rest. He knew he had her pinned with no where else to go, that if he approached she might feel trapped, scared, angered. Yet he felt compelled to do so anyway. His steps were slow and measured as he approached her guard, not wishing to cause them alarm, and though they did hesitate at his arrival, they acknowledged that he had the authority and allowed him to pass.
And to approach the Inquisitor, unannounced, unlooked for, and quite possibly unwelcome.
"Your Worship."
Peredura gasped and turned, her eyes wide, one hand still resting on the crumbling battlements. She had been so deep in the darkness, so lost in the silence, she hadn't noticed anyone drawing near. Her surprise was bordering on shock; not only had her guard allowed someone past them, but of all people it had been…
"Thom?"
He didn't answer other than to incline his head. Then he moved to stand several steps away from her, turning away to look out over the darkness as she had been doing. He seemed unconcerned, even as her eyes darted around, to him, to her guards, to the unassailable neck-breaking rubble behind her, to the escape route he half-blocked before her. Could she make it, she wondered to herself, her body trembling as she contemplated the attempt. She swayed, almost as if her body was pulling her on its own accord, but in her mind she knew she would not make it. She was trapped. But for what reason, what purpose, she could not fathom. She and Thom had never been particularly close—oh, sure, he had been her first recruit, and mentored her in many ways, but she had never shared her secrets with him, not like she had with Cullen or Dorian or The Iron Bull—so why was he here? Now? Tonight, of all nights?
If she thought her movement had gone unnoticed, she was wrong. "You can leave, if you'd like," he said without turning his head, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "I won't stop you, Inquisitor." In fact, he leaned over onto the somewhat unsteady battlements, making more room for her to slip past.
Still, she hesitated. "Why?" she whispered, fearing the answer she already knew but could not acknowledge. "Why are you here?"
"Why are you?" He finally turned his face to look at her. "It's a chilly night, and we all know how much you hate the cold. Yet you're out here, unprotected from the wind, your hands and feet getting cold."
As if on cue, she shivered. "I…" If there were more words after that, either denial or affirmation, they never showed.
"Penance, then?" he suggested. "I turned myself in because another man was about to be punished for my wrongdoings. Are you doing the same, making yourself suffer out here in the cold, for something in your past?"
He had hit the mark so closely, that his words struck her physically. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat, feeling like she'd been knocked in the gut. She partway doubled over, lost her balance, stumbled backwards until she found the battlements behind her, and landed on her backside. The air whooshed out of her, her face screwing up in pain, but not due to physical distress. Her emotions played plainly across her features, the fear, the anguish, the pleading, please… pleasepleaseplease… just leave her, here, in the darkness, alone, deprived of sensory input, the closest she could come to that state since opeigh was no longer an option, just until she could once again lock up her secrets, her memories, into that tiny corner of her mind so they could be ignored while she tried to function as any other normal person…
"It doesn't work that way," again, he spoke as if he could read her mind. "You can't run from it. I tried, for years, but mine eventually caught up to me." He moved to sit down across from her, a little closer to the ruined part of the wall, leaving the way back to her guards, to the Keep, free and open if she should choose it. "But you already know mine. If you'd like, you could share yours with me."
She took a few shuddering gasps, wet and sloppy breaths that bordered on cries of anguish. "You… you don't know… what's there… in my past… what I've done…!"
He hesitated, just for a half a sob, before he reached out his hand and placed it on her booted shin, the only part of her he could reach physically. "I'm listening, your Worship."
Her laughter was full of self-derogatory cruelness. "'Your Worship,'" she repeated in a moan, "What a lie. Maker's Breath, if you knew what I'd done, who I really am, what really happened, you'd never use that title around me again!" She groped at the ribbon that held her hair back neatly and tightly against her head, and practically ripped the unoffending fabric away. Immediately the wind lifted the strands, parting them right at the side of her head.
Right where her ear was cut.
"I'm full of lies, Thom. I'm nothing but lies! I'm no Herald of Andraste—I was with those who meant to destroy the Divine. Vishante kaffas, I'm a Tevene. And I'm not even human! I'm elven! An elven slave of a blood mage, a Venatori, a man who was helping Corypheus insnare the Grey Wardens and use the Divine to give himself this!" She held up her left hand, the Anchor glowing in the darkness, casting eery shadows over both their features. She was panting, the force of her confession exhausting her, yet she continued. "I'm a fake."
Suddenly she held herself still, belatedly realizing how this might look, her holding her hand out towards Thom, the Mark pulsing menacingly, as if she was about to use it to open a rift and…
Kaffas, if her guards saw that, they might come to investigate and…
She dropped her hand, the otherworldly light immediately going out. She glanced over her shoulder, but there was no sign that her guards were approaching them. Safe, at least for the moment, she closed her eyes, dropped her head, and gave in to the tears.
A few heartbeats later, there was the sound of leather creaking, and the feeling of warmth as another's hand took hers. "You said," his gruff voice sounding unusually gentle, "As we were leaving Val Royeaux, that you had to believe a person could change, could be redeemed, or else there would be no hope for you. What have you done, that you fear is so unforgivable?"
Her lips pressed together and lengthened, stretching out sideways, not in a smile but in a grimace. "I did it," she confessed, opening her eyes, staring at her knee. "I blew up the Conclave." She didn't try to remove her hand from his, but used her other hand to wipe the tears off her cheeks. "I was… hurting so bad… I needed that opeigh… I would do anything for it… I've done… unspeakable… horrible… the blood… the demons… the… screams…" She finally lifted her eyes to his, and to his credit he did not flinch when he saw the depths of pain in the soft brown, doe-like orbs.
"You can't imagine what it was like," she continued. The dam had burst inside her, and the words were tumbling out of her like a flood, forceful, not to be thwarted, endlessly pouring. "For years, I was his favorite, his thrall. He would use my blood for his unholy rituals, but only the important ones. The most notable ones. If he had to punish someone, he would pick a slave at random and slit their throat, killing them and raising a demon to terrorize his victim. But when he wanted to do something special," she took a shuddering breath, "He would send for me.
"But it had to be with advance notice, because of the opeigh," she continued. "I kept trying to escape at first, you see, so he got me addicted to opeigh. I can't describe it to you, other than when I was on it, I could forget everything. My family. Any hopes or dreams I might have once had. And the nightmares he would create. I needed opeigh, not just because my body craved it, but because it helped me escape. It was the only escape I had. But whenever something important came up, Vicici would cut me off. He needed time for enough of the opeigh to leave my system, to clear my blood, before he could use it. I'd be in pain, shaking, fearful of what was happening, sickened by the withdrawal, and the only thing I could do…"
She pulled up the sleeves of her jackets and all her layers of clothing to reveal the skin beneath. Thom kept hold of her hand, refusing to abandon her, even though he feared where this was going.
"The first ones he made," she admitted, "The first cuts, over and over, never deep enough to do any damage, but enough to leave the marks, the design, all over my body, front and back. He'd have me stand there, stripped naked, bleeding for him, for his power and glory and fame. There was nothing I could do but watch, watch demons that would rip off a woman's head.
"One day," she backed away from one horror to face another, "One day, I surprised him. I was hurting pretty bad. It had taken a little longer to get everything ready, and I was further into my withdrawal than usual, and it was making me shake. I was in so much pain, so much anxiety, so close to being sick, I just wanted to get it over with, whatever was going to happen, I couldn't stop it, so why not just do it, get it over with, and get my dose of opeigh. While he was intoning his preamble, I disrobed myself, took his knife from his hand, and started."
Her face twisted and contorted into a freakish mash of fear and delight, of anguish and relief. "He seemed to enjoy my… initiative. Every time after that, he'd encourage me, prompt me to do it again, to show how willing I was to serve his will. Even to the point of getting me so far into my withdrawal I was close to losing my mind. But I would do it anyway. I'd take the knife. I'd stare at the tip if the blade overflowing with fear, knowing it was going to hurt…" she gasped, "My nerves were already on fire, but this was going to be worse—the pain of cutting was always worse. Then the blade would pop through, biting and gouging as I dragged it along my flesh, and my blood would begin to ooze out.
"Fasta vass," she swore, "How I felt when I began to see the red. I was… elated… overwhelmed with… something more than relief or joy… it was almost… triumphant. I bled myself. I did it, the pain passing and growing numb beneath my euphoria. I wanted to shout! Then I'd look up and see what he was doing with the power my blood gave him. I'd see the demons… the destruction… the horror and fear he made others feel… the power and authority he possessed… the magic bordering on miraculous he would perform… all of that came from me, from my blood. I felt ashamed. Every time. Every single time. Vicici wouldn't be able to do those terrible things without me, but I still helped him. I could have ended it. So many times I could have—should have ended it. I had a knife. Right there, in my hand. I should have killed myself and left him less powerful.
"But I didn't," she sniffed. "I couldn't. And really, there was no reason. It's not like I had much of a life, so what would I be throwing away? But I never did. Instead, I'd have to wait until he had enough, and then take the healing potion he gave me. And later, when my wounds would begin to close, leaving the scars slightly wider than they had been before… Ugh, the self-loathing, I was so weak, so worthless, so unable to change matters, to do anything but bleed, all for his glory. I couldn't even end my own life. Why? Because of opeigh…" she moaned the last word, all her angst poured into those two little syllables. "Because I needed the drug, more than I needed to end the cycle. I needed my fix, more than I needed anything else. I needed the blissful oblivion so badly I would sometimes try to take the vial from his robes.
"Then we were at the Conclave, with Corypheus, and the Divine. I had stripped, cut, bled, everything I was supposed to do. Vicici gave me the healing potion, and I started getting dressed, but he didn't give me the opeigh. He was too focused on the ritual. I NEEDED that opeigh! I was dying without it! So I did what I usually do when he forgets about me, and tried to pull it out from his robes. That distracted him, enough for him to kick at me and send me rolling away. It was also enough for his magical grip on the Divine to slip, and she swatted the Orb out of Corypheus' hand. He was angry, at her, at Vicici, and quickly they tried to regain control. But the Orb rolled towards me, and my only thought wasn't to help that poor woman. My only thought was they wanted the Orb, and I wanted opeigh. Maybe, if I give them the Orb, Vicici would finally give me the opeigh. So I reached out and," she pulled her hand away from his and turned it palm upwards, "When I tried to pick it up, this happened.
"Do you understand now? I'm no 'Herald of Andraste.' I'm no 'your Worship' or 'Inquisitor.' I'm an addict, who picked up a fucking piece of shit in the wrong place at the wrong time."
She dropped her hand to the stonework once more. Defeated.
Thom, however, was not defeated. "You've handed two out already today, why not one more?"
She looked up at him, her eyes still dark and haunted. "What?"
"You pardoned me today. You pardoned Iron Bull. Why don't you pardon yourself?"
She blinked. "Pardon… me…?"
"You're even easier than we were. Iron Bull was out of his mind when he tore apart the Red Templar, which technically speaking isn't a person, so yeah, he could be pardoned for that. I was in my right mind, however, when I gave the order to my men to kill a whole family. I was full of ambition and pride. I felt I needed to do this, to impress my superiors. I was wrong, and I've spent years trying to atone for that. I've changed. You saw that, long before I did, and you pardoned me.
"So why not pardon yourself?" he continued, taking her hands. "You weren't in your right mind when you were a slave. You weren't even considered a person, someone with the right to free will. This blood mage, Vicici, he got you addicted. He used your addiction to control you. You truly had no choice. In a sense, you could say you didn't exist during that time. Your life started, you were born, just a few months ago in Haven. And look how far you've grown. You're Peredura. You're the Inquisitor. Those aren't lies. Those are truths, truths others have seen in you, Leliana and Josephine and Cullen and the rest. Believe me, they wouldn't have made you Inquisitor, if you weren't ready and able to be the Inquisitor."
He leaned in closer, his gaze holding hers, and commanded, "Say it."
"I…" she started immediately, stopped just as quickly, swallowed, stalling for time but knowing she wouldn't be able to. "I… Peredura Pewtersmith, Inquisitor, pardon myself of all past wrongdoings…"
She broke down into tears. He held her, allowing her time and space to begin working out the pain. Carefully, he brought them both to their feet, just in time to see Cullen and Fear come around the corner and spot them. The two men locked eyes, and though anger and jealously flickered across Cullen's face, he quickly realized what the other man was doing. He gave a nod, acknowledging Thom's help, and kept his distance. Fear, too, dropped to his haunches and waited, stub of a tail quivering against the stones.
But after a few minutes, the Mabari hound grew impatient and a short bark slipped out.
Peredura jumped, startled, and stepped back from Thom to look around. When she saw her hound, when she saw Cullen, she gave a little cry and ran towards them. Cullen wrapped his arms around her, pulling her inside his warm embrace, burying his face in her windswept hair, closing his eyes and inhaling her essence. He had been concerned when she left the Hall in such a melancholy mood. He had grown anxious when he looked for her in her bedchamber with no success. And when Fear tracked her to the edge of the battlements, he was nothing less than fearful. Yet seeing her, alive, safe, though tearful, and then racing to his arms… all he wanted to do was hold her and reassure himself that she was all right.
He looked up when Thom approached and again inclined his head; there were no words that could express his gratitude.
As he passed them in the close quarters of the battlements, Thom unexpectedly quipped, "Pardon me."