Chapter Forty-Six: Be Seeing You Again, One of These Days…

A/N: I'm really pushing now, and trying not to rush so fast that I skip something important, but wanting to keep up my momentum. :'D Also *spoiler alert* if you've read my other Dragon Age story, did you catch the hint in the title?

"Are you sure…"

"For the hundreth time," Varric fielded Abbets' question without turning around on his horse, "Krem and the other Chargers said the two of them wanted to take this last leg alone. We know where Dorian wants to cross the border into Tevinter, and we know Bull is going to be with him right up to the last possible moment. So, yeah," he finally did turn his torso to look up at Abbets, "They had to come this way, off the main road so they wouldn't attract attention, but an easy enough trail they could make good time. Krem agreed—this is the way."

Abbets' expression clearly stated that he wanted to argue some more, out of character for the usually taciturn solder, but he didn't get a chance. There was the sound of rustling bushes up ahead, and a moment later Fear came back down the trail from where he had been ranging ahead. He sat down on his haunches and waited, and the other two reined their horses in as well, all of them watching for Cullen to emerge from the undergrowth on the back of his own horse. Varric hadn't liked the idea of the former Commander taking a turn at scouting, but when Abbets started protesting firmly against it, Cullen had grown stubborn and insistent that he do his fair share of the work. Varric had no choice then—and no chance to tactfully change Cullen's mind—and reluctantly allowed him to scout ahead for any sign of Dorian and Iron Bull.

When Cullen did come into view, all but slumped over his saddle, Varric knew he should have put his foot down. Cullen was breathing heavy, the corners of his eyes tight with suppressed pain, but upon finding himself back with the others, he immediately straightened in his saddle and looked them squarely in the eyes, daring them to say anything about his obvious pain or fatigue.

At least he had taken the Mabari with him scouting.

"There's a small camp up ahead, two people," he reported, "But looks like a man and a woman. Neither of them are Iron Bull, at any rate."

"Should we go around them, do you think?" Varric asked. "If they're not whom we're looking for, and we can be fairly sure Dorian and Iron Bull wouldn't want to be observed by any other travelers, I think it's fairly reasonable to assume these two won't have seen our friends, or have any news of them. Probably best if we don't bother them."

Cullen was shaking his head. "The forest grows denser just past their encampment, making the trail narrower. It would take extra time to go around them. And given the time of day," he looked up at the darkened sky, the sun having set almost an hour before, "Or, er, night, it might be best to simply approach the camp, hope everyone's friendly, maybe share a bite or two with them. But mention nothing of what we're doing or where we're going. Damn!" he hissed, wrapping an arm around his side, "I never thought I'd say this, but I am regretting having to leave that carriage behind."

"It wouldn't have fit on the ship," Varric shrugged. "And speed is of the essence, so…"

Cullen nodded. After crossing the Waking Sea, they had left behind everything heavy, bulky, and superfluous, trusting a porter to deliver all of Varric's crates and trunks to his estate in Kirkwall, other than Bianca. They had purchased—thanks to Varric's deep coin purse—weapons and armor and minimal gear—very minimal, not even a change of clothing. Then they had taken the three best horses available and set off at a mile-eating pace across Nevarra towards Tevinter.

Now they were closing in, on Tevinter, on Iron Bull and Dorian, and—please, Maker, turn your kind eye this way—on Peredura and Nollatori.

"It's getting later each moment we delay," Abbets spoke softly. "Do we camp here for the night, or crash the two strangers' campsite."

Varric took one look at the pale and tight features on Cullen's face and made the decision. "We crash."

Cullen nodded in agreement. "One is in the camp by the fire, shirtless, which is why I took him to be a male. The other is circling around the camp, probably looking for firewood or something."

"You're making a lot of assumptions," Varric hummed. "Are you sure there are no signs of any other people about?"

"Not that I could see," he admitted, "What with the dwindling light and no moon out tonight. Let's say, I did not notice any other movement about the camp." He started his horse, trusting the others to follow, "Why do you ask?"

Varric shrugged, "Just a feeling. I mean, we're expecting to find Dorian and Iron Bull, but instead we find one shirtless assumed-to-be-male and another assumed-to-be-female who's not in camp, but circling it. Hey, that brings up another question: Why do you think the second person is a woman?"

It was Culen's turn to shrug, and if the sudden stiffness in his shoulders was anything to go by, the nonchalant movement aggravated his wound. Amazingly, probably due to years of practice as a Templar, none of the pain or discomfort entered his voice. "Smaller stature, slim, and he or she just…" he paused to lift a hand, held palm sideways with fingers stiff, and waved it left and right like he was following a snake or a river, "Flowed… around the trees and bushes. You know, gracefully."

Varric rolled his eyes behind Cullen's back. "Right. Just like a woman would walk," he leaned forward and dropped the level of his voice, "Or a thief."

Cullen pulled his horse up short. "I honestly hadn't considered that. But now that you mention it…" he stared off through the trees as if he could see the other form again. Catching himself, he squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Damn. I am getting tired. Losing my focus." He sidestepped his horse to allow Varric to pull up beside him. "What would you suggest, old friend?"

Varric thought the endearment was a bit out of place, but he did appreciate Cullen recognizing that his judgment might be impaired and for handing the decision-making over to himself. "Let's go in quiet. Slow. See what more we can spot between the three of us. Four, I mean; sorry, Fear."

The Mabari only panted.

"Weapons drawn?" Abbets asked, his hand on his hilt.

"No, not drawn, we wouldn't want a stray flicker of firelight reflecting off the metal giving away our location," Varric shook his head, "But be at the ready. If one or both of them are not friendly, or if there are more hiding in the trees…"

"We'll handle it," Abbets nodded, "Won't we, Fear."

The hound didn't bark, knowing that such a loud noise would be inappropriate at that time, but he did move to stand next to Abbets.

"Let's go, then," Varric nudged his horse into a walk, "Nice and easy. I'll go in first, Abbets and Fear behind me, Cullen bringing up the rear. We'll dismount and secure the horses when we get a bit closer to the camp, and finish the last bit on foot. More friendly that way."

Cullen swallowed and nodded, feeling the strain, feeling the anxiety, feeling the wetness over his wound, feeling the reins of his horse, and prayed by some miracle it would turn out to be Dorian at least in the camp.

His prayer was answered.

"Wha… ah, what do you want with me?" Dorian took a moment to swallow—carefully—his Adam's apple bobbing next to a knife tip, "You should know, I am a Mage. From Tevinter. Actually, I am a Magister. And if you don't let me go immediately, I shall become very cross!" False bravado usually served him in the past, but not this time. He gave a token struggle, but to no avail. The woman's right arm was snaked across his chest, holding the knife at his throat. The other arm had hold of his left elbow, pinching it painfully and pulling it up high behind his back. Her front pressed close against him, keeping everything tight and secure, and the knife's location ruled out any sort of surprise countermove he could come up with. He was completely at her mercy, whoever she was—where or where was Bull? Slowly, hoping he could placate her, he held his free arm up and away from his side.

The voice that answered him was very feminine, and oozing with disbelief. "Right, an important Tevinter Magister is traveling. At night. Off the beaten path." She leaned in very close to his ear, and he got the impression she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. "Alone."

He really wished he could stop the impulse to swallow. "I'm not traveling alone. My entourage will be meeting me just down the road, at the border. Then you'll see I am whom I say I am."

He heard the snarky scoff from behind him. "You make up worse lies than I do. Now I know how Jaxon felt all those times."

'Jaxon,' Dorian thought to himself, completely at a loss.

"Let's get down to business, shall we," the feminine voice continued, returning his attention to his current plight, "I already know you're a Mage. I already know you're from Tevinter. And I believe you when you say you have 'friends' who would go looking for you should you go missing." The knife tip shifted slightly, from his Adam's apple to his artery. "Because you are a Venatori, right? One of those blood Mages who followed Corypheus a few years back."

Dorian's blood ran cold, and though he could not give vent to his indignation physically, his voice did falter and stutter. "I… how dare you… insinuate…"

His protests stopped when he felt her mouth near his ear again as she whispered. "I don't like Venatori."

He tried to move, just a little, just enough to catch a glimpse of this audacious woman. Looking down, he could make out her arm clad in a deep blue silk tunic, and a bit of her hand holding the knife. Said hand was wearing what appeared to be a peculiar glove, but it must have been for fashion, as she was in no way weak or unsteady. Deftly her fingers shifted, as if she saw him looking and wanted to show off. She very quickly twirled the knife, the campfire catching on the blade, before she once again brought the tip back to his neck, precisely putting just the right amount of pressure—not enough to break skin, but enough to encourage him to return to keeping absolutely still and stop peeking. He stared up at the trees, feeling the heat from her body pressed up against him, and the buckle of her belt digging uncomfortably into his back. His arm, still held out from his side, was beginning to shake with fatigue.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he tried yet again to reason with her, to stall for time—surely Bull would be coming back any second with more wood for their fire and then he could deal with this bitch. "I mean, yes, of course I know you're talking about Venatori. But I am NOT one of them! And certainly NOT a blood Mage. A Mage, yes. And from Tevinter, undoubtedly; anyone could tell that from the cut of my robes and the tastefulness of my accessories. But I have never—NEVER!—dabbled in blood magic. For your information, I was actually a member of the…." The pressure of the knife increased, silencing his words, and the scoff that huffed over his skin made him clench his teeth. Bull better get his big gray Qunari ass back here soon or else….

"Oh, and I am just supposed to believe you? Because, what, you're going to pinky swear?"

Dorian could almost feel his teeth crack, he was gritting them so hard. "I swear it on the grave of my father! I am a Tevinter Magister. Dorian Pavus. And though I am a pariah, it's for my tastes in partners and NOT a taste for blood!" Now his arm was really shaking, with rage and frustration and the indignity of being caught off guard without his staff or his robes and wherethefuckisBull!

"Oh, sure," he could hear the eye rolling in her voice as she answered, "An impressive assurance, but how can I confirm…" Her voice trailed off, giving him his first glimpse of hope. When she spoke again, her voice sounded a bit less sure of herself, "Wait, you mean… that thing out there…?" Her voice rose up in tone towards the end, questioning, and for a brief moment he began to hope he had distracted her. The pressure of the knife eased a miniscule amount and he dared to take a full breath.

Then there was a rustle in the bushes to their side. Her instincts took over and she shifted slightly, putting the mage between herself and whatever new threat might be coming out of the forest. What she saw emerging from the shadows made her freeze in shock, and she breathed, "…bloody shite…"

A branch was brushed aside, and Varric came into view, his hands held away from his sides, holding his duster open and revealing the knives he wore at his belt. "Easy there, Button," he said as he carefully approached, praying she would recognize him, and praying her hand wouldn't accidentally slip, "You know me. You remember me, right? At the very least, you remember my legendary chest hair."

"Varric!" she exclaimed, the joy in her voice bright and loud and right in Dorian's ear, making him wince and want to turn his head away, but that knife tip had returned, dangerously close to his artery. He reconsidered when she continued in the same level of volume. "You old rogue! What in the bloody Void are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Looking for my friends," he nodded, dropping his arms and smiling up at her, "Dorian and Iron Bull. You seen a big Qunari anywheres around here?" He took a moment to look around the camp, as if expecting the other person to simply pop his head out of the tent.

"All Qunari are big," she scoffed, then jerked her head when there was more movement behind Varric. "Who's that with you? Not… not Hawke!"

Dorian could hear the venom in her voice when she spoke the name. He was beginning to think the infamous Apostate Mage of Kirkwall might be the reason she hated Mages so much. Having met the man, he considered it could be warranted.

"No, not Hawke. This is Abbets," he thumbed over his left shoulder, "And the Mabari is Fear."

She gave an appreciative chuckle. "That's an awesome name for a hound." She was beaming now, beginning to look eager and excited, yet her hand never wavered. "Anyone else? Merril, maybe? Or even Isabela? Don't play her in cards, by the way, she cheats." She said this last into Dorian's ear like a whispered confidence.

He didn't shake his head, for obvious reasons, but he did answer. "I'll keep that in mind, should I ever meet her. Do you think you could, erm…" he gestured vaguely with his fingers at his throat, "Perhaps ease the pressure? Just a bit?"

"What? Oh!" She almost started, then remembered she had a very sharp knife in a very delicate area. "Right. Sorry. Got a bit mixed up for a moment." She pulled the knife away from his throat but didn't sheathe it. "So, you're really friends with this one here?" Her question was directed at Varric, and her knife was directed at Dorian.

"Yes, that's Dorian Pavus, a Tevinter Magister, and my friend."

She made a small face, pursing her lips and looking him over, as if trying to find anything to like about him. "Hmm, I guess you're not the blood Mage, after all. But still, Varric, no accounting for taste." With a flourish of the dexterous fingers within her gloved hand, she sheathed her knife—finally. Dorian visibly relaxed, all but collapsing as he stumbled away from her and towards the safety of the others.

"I swear, young lady," his hurt eyes looked back at her while he rubbed at his throat, "You've given me fifty gray hairs in the last few minutes." Dorian's arm snaked out to grab his robes and swirl into them. "Well, you know my name, and the others, what about returning the favor?"

"'Lady' isn't too far aff the mark," Varric answered for her. "Dorian, meet Hrodwynn of Kirkwall, Maeve of Edmonte, Lady Rogue, and the only thief who ever cracked a Siggerdson—twice."

She gave a short bark of derisive laughter. "Three times, thank you very much!" She flicked her gloved hand through her deep red hair.

"You had help that third time, if memory serves."

She stuck her tongue out at Varric. "A mere technicality. No, wait," she tapped a fingertip to her deep red lips, "Actually, I had finished with all the cracking, only the door was rusted shut, but since the lock was picked… Who goes there?" She stopped her banter and half crouched, knife suddenly back in her hand, as she looked up at the next intruder exiting the darkness of the forest.

Cullen finally reached the others, winded, drained, feeling as if his head was detached from his shoulders. Before he could summon the strength to answer, there was a young woman at his side, her slight frame surprisingly strong as she guided him closer to the fire. "Here, sit down, yes I can see you're hurt, I'll take care of it in a moment. Varric?" She put all her questions into that one name, her tone demanding all her answers at once.

"Come now, Button, you remember Cullen. From Kirkwall? The Gallows?"

She stood back and squinted at the man she had helped to sit down on the ground. She even tilted her head, but honestly his face was not too famliar to her. She gave a little shake and turned back to Varric.

"Picture him with a steel helmet and a steelier gaze."

At his obscure hint, she returned her attention to the man and stared harder, and after a brief moment she exclaimed, "Andraste's knitted knickers. It's Captain Curly! Sorry, Ser," she did a clumsy bow, remembering belatedly he was a Templar, "Didn't recognize you out of uniform."

"I'm not a… Captain…" his automatic denial was weak, made weaker by his condition, but it was her words that stopped him this time. "Wait. What did you call me?" He turned his head to look up at Varric, eyes narrowing dangerously. "You gave me the nickname 'Curly,' or at least I thought you did. But now I seem to remember back in Kirkwall a roguish little girl, another of Hawke's companions, who cheekily called me that."

Varric shrugged. "What can I say? The name suits you, so I modified it, just a bit. You weren't a 'Captain' any longer, but 'Commander Curly' would've been too much of a mouthful, so 'Curly' it is."

"I wasn't a little girl," Hrodwynn sniffed, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared down at her soon-to-be-patient, "Just… young… and short for my age. And you," she rotated to Varric next, "The least you could've done was give credit where credit is due, but I'll accept your flattery now."

"Flattery?" Dorian hummed.

Varric sighed wearily, "Plagurism is the highest form of flattery. And yes, Button, it was an excellent nickname—I honestly couldn't help myself, it was so good."

She beamed at him. "You're welcome."

"She reminds me of a snarky little elf we know…" Dorian groused, "But without the arrows."

"Sara," Varric answered her questioning look, "A long story. Speaking of elves," he put his hands on his hips and started looking around again, "I don't suppose Broody's here too, is he?"

"Vishante kaffas!" Dorian threw his hands up in the air. "You and your bloody nicknames! Doesn't anyone have any normal names around here?"

Hrodwynn ignored the Magister, "Yeah, sure, he's here. Just a bit further down the road. Got a…" the color completely drained from her already pale face, "Oh, bloody shite! Come on! No, not you, Captain Curly, you stay put by the fire. You, Abbets, was it? You and the Mabari stay with him. Varric, Dorian, come with me." She turned and started down the road, confident they would follow her.

"What's the hurry?" Dorian asked. After finally getting his robes straightened, he didn't fancy a run through the trees and risk a stumble or a fall, but thankfully she kept to the trail.

"We heard there was a blood Mage around these parts, went looking of course, and found you," she indicated Dorian, "But we also discovered a big ass—and I mean big, even for a Qunari, with horns like a bull—rummaging through the forest about a quarter mile distant. He stayed to deal with the Qunari while I went to the camp to deal with you. But since you're not the blood Mage we were looking for…"

"I most certainly am not any blood Mage!"

She waved his denial aside, "And Varric, you said something about a big Qunari earlier."

"That's right. Our other friend, Iron Bull. He and Dorian were supposed to be traveling together."

"We were," Dorian stumbled as he predicted but caught himself in time, "We are. By the way, what are you three and Fear doing out here…"

"Not now," Varric panted, "We'll share stories back at camp, after we've rescued Iron Bull."

Dorian sniffed. "I doubt this 'Broody' you're referring to is any match for Bull."

"He's more than a match!" Hrodwynn countered, but Dorian took it as pride or love for her companion.

Until they rounded a corner and saw him. The Iron Bull. Still as a statute.

"Fenris!" Hrodwynn called out, "It's me. It's all right. I've got Varric here. These two, the Mage and the Qunari, they're with him."

Bull continued to remain absolutely still. Dorian wasn't even sure he was breathing. Then from behind him a mop of ghostly white hair moved out of the shadows of Bull's shoulder. Part of a face appeared, with a single jade green eye, all surrounded by a magical blue glow. "Varric!"

"The Blue Wraith?!" Dorian gasped, as Fenris fully emerged, the lyrium infused in his flesh fully invoked and shining brightly.

Bull gasped, too, feeling Fenris' hand ungrip his heart and slip out of his body. He couldn't stop himself, he had to look, to pat down his chest and his back, to make sure there wasn't a hole left behind that his heart might slip out of. "That… That was…"

Varric ignored him for the time being, more focused on reuniting with an old acquaintance. "Careful, Broody, you're almost smiling. And sounding happy to see me."

Fenris immediately cleared his throat and allowed the lyrium within him to fade. With a face devoid of all emotion, he inclined his head to Varric. "Excuse me, I meant to convey how surprised I am to see you again. Last I heard, you had joined another group of ne'er-do-wells, the Inquisition, I believe."

"Ah!" Dorian pushed past Hrodwynn's shoulder, practically throwing himself at the Qunari. He stopped just short of him, belatedly remembering they weren't alone, and settled for a swipe at the other's massive bicep. "I thought… with how still you were standing… I didn't know what to think!"

"It's a little hard to move when someone's got their fist inside your chest, around your heart. Hey, how did you do that? That was… pretty cool!" Bull's smile was wide, happy at seeing Varric, and seeing Dorian, at simply being alive.

Fenris had been walking towards Hrodwyn. He turned just far enough to invoke the lyrium in his forearm and hand and bragged, "It's… all in the wrist."

Varric groaned. "Since when did you start cracking jokes. Some of Button's snarkiness must be rubbing off on you."

"Oh, I get it, now," she was standing with her head tilted, staring at Dorian and Iron Bull. "How did you put it, your 'taste in partners'?"

"Partners?" Bull asked, putting his hand over his heart, thankful it was still there for him to do so, "Does that imply more than one?"

"You big oaf! You know you're not my first. Nor am I yours."

"Oh, but you are mine, Vint," Bull rumbled low in his throat, wrapping his arms around Dorian aggressively.

"Not here, ox man, we have company."

Bull laughed, full and hearty, "Can't help myself. A brush with death works wonders to get my blood pumping. So, I take it we're all friends here, of a sort? Maybe we should head back to camp, then, and get a little something to eat. I'm starved!"

"Oh, my pack! I need my medicines," Hrodwynn exclaimed. She raced off towards the nearby ditch where she and Fenris had hid their packs.

"Your medicines?" Fenris was immediately on the alert, and close on her heels, "What happened? Are you hurt? If anyone touched a hair on your head, friend or no…"

"Not for me, love, for Captain Curly." She checked that her pack was secure, that no animal had gone rummaging through it or anything, and cinched it up tight. "You remember him, back in Kirkwall, the Captain at the Gallows, with that unruly mop of curly blond locks…"

"Sounds like the Commander," Bull hummed, turning back to Varric "But it can't be…"

"Oh, it is," Dorian confirmed, "And that mongrel of a mutt of theirs, but Peredura wasn't with them." He too turned to look at Varric, "Where…"

"Who…"

"Why…"

"How…"

They began talking over each other, and Varric felt a monstrous headache rapidly growing. Knowing it would hurt, but doing it anyway, he let out a shrewd, high-pitched whistle that brought everyone up short. In the silence that followed, as all eyes settled on him, he gave a brief synopsis of events. "There was a fight when Nollatori kidnapped Peredura back in Halamshiral. Cullen was injured, but the wound won't heal, so if you have any special tonic in there, Button, I'd appreciate it. And we need your help, Dorian, finding them. We think Nollatori is heading for someplace in Tevinter."

Dorian blinked, Hrodwynn and Fenris shouldered their packs, and Bull's face grew as dark as a summer thunderstorm.

"Right," Varric nodded, pleased with himself that he had gotten them all to shut up. "Let's get back to camp first. Then we'll make introductions, trade stories, and figure out what we're going to do."

"Dammit!" Bull rumbled like distant thunder, "It's only been a week or two. How could she have gotten into so much trouble so quickly…". He looked like he wanted to punch something, and a nearby tree took the brunt of his outrage as he nearly put his fist through the trunk.

Hrodwynn walked up to him, oblivious of his towering ire, and placed a cool hand on his arm. "If she has friends as fierce as you lot, she'll be all right soon enough. Want me to take a look at that?"

His vision cleared of the red rage, and he blinked down at the young woman. "What? Oh, this?" He lifted his beefy gray hand, "Nah, it's nothing. Sometimes I just need to punch something before the berserker in me takes over. Come on, back to camp. The sooner we get the details, the sooner we can mount a rescue."

"That's the spirit," she patted his shoulder and allowed him to pull ahead as they returned to camp. Her slower steps drew Fenris to her side, and she leaned over to whisper to him, "Varric really does have a gift of finding the oddest bunch of characters to be friends with, doesn't he?"

Fenris wisely chose not to mention their own friendship with the dwarf.

The campfire was crowded that evening. Varric talked while Fenris cooked, a simple but tasty rabbit stew. Hrodwynn was trying to focus on her patient, but the storyteller was too irresistible, even the parts she already knew, like the bits about her and Fenris and Kirkwall. But when he moved on to the Inquisition, and this Peredura who wrangled together such a mash-up of companions… yes, it sounded much like Hawke in that respect, but only in that respect. Hrodwynn felt a lot of kinship with Peredura, this young woman thrown into the midst of chaos, a young woman who had to make her own way, to find herself, to grow and mature and even find love.

That Hrodwynn's patient was the subject of that love also amazed her; she didn't think Captain Curly had a tender bone in his body, much less an ounce of feeling—or any inclination to 'be' with someone. Yet the wedding band on his finger kept catching the firelight, reinforcing Varric's story. And that haunted, longing look in his eye, the look of a man who had lost a part of his soul, his being. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder and returned her attention to the story.

Then Varric brought in the part about the blood Mage and how Peredura had been abducted, and she felt her blood run cold—damn, but she didn't like coincidences. Slowly, as if fearful of doing it, but knowing she had to, she raised her eyes to Fenris and found him looking at her across the flames. Their gazes remained locked, their breaths steady, their faces draining of any emotion or tells, until at long last the Thedas-renowned storyteller came up to the present.

"So that's where we are now, battered, unable to track Nollatori any further, and trying to catch up to Dorian in the hopes that he can help us—or at least get us into Tevinter and then pointed in the right direction."

Dorian swallowed, "Of course. You can count on me."

"And me," Bull rumbled. "I don't care if I have to wear a harness and pull a carriage, I'm coming with you!"

Hrodwynn cleared her throat—of course Peredura's friends and husband would race to her rescue, but she and Fenris had other reasons. "Yes, well, suppose it's our turn now. Don't you think, luv?" She inclined her head to Fenris, and all eyes turned to him next.

Fenris returned the nod. Then he looked to Dorian as he began talking, "You called me the Blue Wraith, a title I earned while taking out every last living relative of my former master, Danarius. But it's not just Danarius' line we hunt. Now that they're gone, we've turned our attention to blood mages in general. The conflict between Corypheus and the Inquisition has been very good for business, encouraging them to work out in the open where we can find them."

"We?" Varric repeated, looking over to Hrodwynn. "You're helping this lunatic?"

She sniffed, twirling that dagger of hers in her nimble fingers, and pouted. "The first time I let him go off on his own into Tevinter, the git had a fabulous adventure without me. I'm not letting him do that again. Never! Again!" She emphasized those last two words with her knife before using it to stab the last piece of rabbit in her bowl.

Fenris coughed. "Yes, well, it is easier with two of us. The other evening, we were in the tavern the next town over. Just by happenstance, we overheard some mercenary bragging about how he and his crew had just survived an epic journey. He described all sorts of dangers, bears, avalanches, stormy seas… typical tavern talk. But it all started with the abduction of a young woman and a fight with her guards that ended in an explosion. The description he gave of the fight sounds fairly similar to yours, but with a few different embellishments."

Varric looked taken aback, "Hey, I don't appreciate the competition."

"I assure you, your title is secure, Varric. He had none of the self-control of adjectives nor the mastery of cadence as you do. But he did let a few things slip. Mainly, that he and his crew had been hired by a blood Mage. Even mentioned his name."

"Oh, vishante kaffas, don't tell me," Dorian groaned dramatically. "Nollatori."

Fenris nodded.

Varric blinked. "Well, shit…"

"Hrodwynn and I had no idea how much of the mercenary's story was true, but if there was a blood Mage in the area," his lyrium began to glow, making the other's think it was some sort of subconscious response to his deep-seated feelings, "We wanted to kill him. Now, it appears, we all have good cause to join forces. You to get back your friend, Hrodwynn and I to kill another Mage."

"Did the mercenary say where he parted ways with Nollatori?"

Fenris turned to Cullen to answer his question, "At the place where this trail crosses over into Tevinter."

"If he's supposed to be in Tevinter already," Dorian's voice was only slightly pouty, glaring between Hrodwynn and Fenris, "Then why by the Golden City did you attack us? Me?"

Fenris shrugged, "Simply being thorough. We were surprised when we came across this camp and discovered a Mage. More surprised to see a Qunari lurking nearby. We both felt it prudent to check matters out just in case. After all, Nollatori could have delivered the woman to someone in Tevinter, and then slipped back across the border for more mischief. And we really don't want this Mage getting away." He looked over to Cullen, "Especially after learning what he's done. So, I went to keep the Qunari 'occupied' while Hrodwynn here went to interrogate the Mage."

"From where I stood," Dorian rubbed at an imaginary scrape on his neck as he gave her another glare dripping with venom, "You weren't interrogating me so much as tormenting me. I tried reasoning with you, remember, but you refused to believe to me. To even listen to me."

Hrodwynn shrugged unrepentantly, "Like he said, I was simply being thorough."

The corners of Fenris' mouth curled upwards ever so slightly. "You'll have to forgive Hrodwynn. She can be a bit enthusiastic at times, yes, even overzealous, but she was never going to kill you. Scare you, absolutely. Intimidate you, most definitely."

"Make you piss your knickers," she snarked, "That would've been a bonus."

Fenris indulgently acknowledged her interjection with a brief glance in her direction. Then he leaned in closer to Dorian, his lyrium slowly raising in brightness, "You were never in any real danger, because I'M the one who does the killing."

Dorian swallowed, again, for what had to be the umpteenth time that evening, and nodded his understanding. "Yes, of course, that honor would be reserved for you. But we're all friends now, right? Good friends?"

"Absolutely," his tone lightened as he leaned back and the lyrium faded, "Any friend, well," his pause to reconsider was very brief, "Almost any friend of Varric's is a friend of mine. And Hrodwynn."

"Yeah," she shrugged a shoulder, "Suppose so." She looked around them, "Right, well, that's settled, then. We all are going to band together to rescue Peredura and kill the blood Mage. Start at first light?"

It wasn't so much a question as a suggestion. Cullen nodded, wearily, feeling like the weight of all of Thedas on his shoulders. "That would be best. Though I hate every delay, I…" he tried to stand up, intending to do the usual—assign a watch schedule, cleanup detail, head back to their horses for a bedroll…

Hrodwynn saw his face turn gray and without asking what was wrong or if he needed anything, she took his hand and pulled him back down to the ground. He landed with a grunt hard on his backside, leaned towards her a bit, then felt his neck grow wobbly and his head loll backwards.

"Catch him!" She tried, her hand still holding his and her other arm reaching out to protect the back of his head. It was Fear, however, ever present and alert for trouble, who took the brunt of Cullen's faint against his massive torso. Hrodwynn eased the former Commander off the Mabari and onto the ground, cradling his head, and smiled at the hound. "Nice one."

"What happened?" Cullen's voice sounded small in his own ears, but he cleared his throat and tried again. "I didn't…"

"No," Hrodwynn quickly reassured him, "Course not. Not you, Captain… erm, Curly. You didn't fully faint, just nearly so." She smiled reassuringly down at him, and felt better when she saw a bit of color returning to his cheeks. "Wow, nice blush. Is that what she sees in you, this Peredura?"

He didn't even groan for answer, but lifted his hand up to cover his face.

Abbets looked like he was about to say something, but Varric held up his hand and in an aside stated, "She knows what she's doing."

"Looks like I've put off tending to you for too long," she talked to her patient, removing his breastplate and other pieces of armor to get a good look at his side. "I thought, so long as you were conscious and sitting up and joining in the conversation, you must be all right for the time being. But, nope, you were just too good at hiding your symptoms. Must be that Templar stoicism."

"I'm no longer a… oh, never mind…" He gave up protesting when he saw the unrepentant grin on her lips; obviously, she was baiting him on purpose. He suffered her attention, allowing her to pull his tunic out of the waistband of his leggings and lift it up to reveal the stained and damp bandage wrapped around his torso.

"Let's get a look at this, shall we?" She hummed a little tune to herself as she took out that slim knife—Dorian swallowed—and quickly and efficiently cut through the soaked linens without touching his skin. Cullen watched her closely, but her face remained neutral as she poked and palpatated around the edges of the slice, giving nothing away of what she was thinking. "Okay, one question," she began, pulling back to give him, and the others, a clearer view of her face.

"Only one?" Varric quipped.

"Oh, it's a whopper, I assure you," she snarked in response. She turned her attention back to Cullen, noting the color of his skin and the greasy sweat beading on his face, "In the fight, when this Nolly-tolly what's-his-name stabbed you…"

"Nollatori," Cullen corrected her with gritted teeth, feeling heat surge through his veins over her childishness. Didn't she see how serious this was? "Maximillius Nollatori."

Her emerald eyes twinkled, and he knew she had baited him on purpose, again, "When the Mage cut you and then all the blood magic started up, could the knife he used have been enchanted? Maybe markings or runes on the blade? Or a material other than steel, like volcanic glass or something?"

He nodded. "There were markings on it, but nothing I could recognize. The healer Mage thought the same thing, too. She said she saw something like this wound before, on slaves who'd escaped a blood mage. One of them had cuts on his face that took weeks to heal. This, however, seems to be going on for longer. And," he swallowed, hating to admit it, but she needed to know everything if she was going to be of any help, "I'm getting weaker, not stronger."

"Ah-huh, okay, right," she nodded to herself, or him, or the others, or simply just liked to nod. "Fenris, would you look in my bag and pass me the little blue pouch tied with a red ribbon. Red, mind you, not pink."

"So very color-coordinated," Dorian commented.

"It helps keeps the potions sorted from the poisons," she shrugged, her focus on helping Cullen roll onto his uninjured side so she could get at the wound a little easier. "Hmm, right, nice and shallow, just enough to draw blood, but not so much as to allow the blood to flow excessively. Very precise."

"What do you think?"

She ignored Varric's question for the time being and took out a small stone from the pouch. She held it in her hands for a moment, closing her eyes and reciting something to herself.

"Do you think there's anything left in that? You've been using it for years."

She paused to glance up at Fenris before answering his question, "There's plenty of juice left in these old stones. Sandal is a very gifted rune-maker. Just watch."

She positioned her hands about a foot above the wound, took a deep breath, and said quietly, "This is going to sting a bit."

"Wha…?" was all the further Cullen got. She opened her hands, keeping the rune secure with her thumbs, but cupping her hands, directing the rune's enegy. She aimed the bluish light at his side, making a lopsided circle around the wound. At first there was only the blue light bathing the long cut, but then after a moment something began to emerge, something drifting up like dustmotes from the exposed flesh, something that coagulated and conformed, like wool being spun, and merged into an almost imperceptibly thin thread, a thread leading away from Cullen only to disappear once it was outside of the blue light.

On a heading towards the border with Tevinter.

"Bloody shite!"

"You've used that one, Button."

"Maker's Breath!" Cullen breathed, having watched over his shoulder and able to see most of what the others saw.

"That's more like it."

If Cullen heard Varric's teasing, he didn't register it. His wide eyes were staring at the magical dustmotes as they drifted up and away from his wound. "What is that coming out of me?"

Hrodwynn's skin was pale to begin with, but it grew even more pale before she could find her voice to answer. She looked him squarely in the eyes, knowing he'd appreciate a straight and honest answer rather than something veiled and sugarcoated. "Blood Magic. He is somehow still using your blood to power his spell. However near or far away he is, you continue to be bled for his purposes." She lifted her face to Fenris. "This one's a right piece of shit, Fenris. Good thing he's next."

"Can you…" Abbets, as transfixed as everyone else by the macabre scene, fascinated and nauseated at the same time, tried again to ask, "Can you stop it? Can you… cut it off? Break it?"

She pulled out of the obscene fascination and smiled confidently. "Is the sky blue? Well, not right now, 'cuz it's night, but you know what I mean." She closed her hands, cutting off the blue light. Now that she knew what was going on, she didn't need it anymore, and the other's didn't need to be upset by it any longer. "Okay, this is going to hurt, I mean really hurt, and probably take a good half hour to get through. But without a Templar handy, unless one of you lot is holding back on me…" She looked up at the faces around her.

"Only former Templars here," Cullen assured her, "Two, in fact."

"Former…?" Her dark red brows scrunched as she studied him. "You mean, the rumors are true? You have managed, somehow, to stop taking lyrium but keep your wits?"

"He has," Abbets confirmed, "As have I and one other."

She blinked at Varric, "A very eclectic group, indeed. So, like I was saying," she took the proffered bag from Fenris and started rooting around in it, "A Templar would probably be able to easily break this off, now that we know it's still going on and what to look for. But since there's not one handy," she held up another stone and examined it before tossing it back in her satchel, "We'll just have to do it ourselves." She picked out another one, scrutinized it, and set it off to the side.

"Do what, exactly," Varric asked, curious and a little concerned for his friend.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Severing the connection between the Mage and the Fade by using Curly's blood against him. It's a bit tricky, and fairly uncomfortable, but infinitely better then slowly being bled to death." She saw and heard Cullen swallow and tried another way to explain it. "Listen, the wound isn't healing because Nollatori is connected to your blood, using it to fuel some spell, and he won't stop until he's either finished with his spell or, well," she glanced down at about the place where they all had seen that ethereal blood trail, "Out of fuel."

Cullen nodded his acceptance, having never felt more mortal than he did in that moment. He looked at the youthful face next to him, the bright emerald green eyes flashing with the firelight, and asked, "How?"

She smiled impishly at him and jangled another pouch. "Rune stones. Had a friend in back in Kirkwall. Sandal. He was an absolute genius at making these," she paused to tilt her head, "Enchantment, he'd call it. And Enchantment Soup, Enchantment Tea, I think once he made Enchantment Pie. Come to think of it," she fished out another one and placed it on the other side of Cullen than the first rune, "Everything to him was 'Enchantment,' except for that one time he said 'Boom.' Now, THAT one was a surprise. But I'm digressing. When Fenris and I first started hunting and killing blood Mages, we wanted to take extra precautions, just in case, ya know?"

She went about her work, chattering away about Sandal and rune stones, some funny little story about the Deep Roads, another about a stormy evening in Kirkwall, or a mine not far outside the city. All her pattering was entertaining, distracting, flowing easily from her mouth and into everyone's ears, especially Cullen's. He found himself easily lost within her little anecdotes, especially those involving places he'd been in Kirkwall, and so enthralled by her smooth voice that he stopped paying attention to what she was doing.

Hrodwynn, however, was paying very close attention to what she was doing. Each rune stone was precisely picked, and just as precisely placed, in a particular pattern around Cullen and his injury. Her mouth could ramble on for hours about nonesense, all on its own without her having to think about it, and allowing her to focus on her work. She didn't need hours, however, only half of one as she had promised. Once the runes were in place, she took out a vial and set a drop of whatever liquid was inside onto each stone. Then she held the vial over his wound, suddenly stopped midsentence, looked Cullen in the eye and asked, "Are you ready?"

He blinked at the suddenness of the change, "Wha…?"

In one fluid motion she tipped the vial and a thin tentacle of some sort of thick liquid oozed out of the bottle and landed on the leading corner of his wound.

He gasped, feeling as if a white-hot poker had touched him at the exact point the tincture did, but held himself perfectly still as the pain moved along his cut, one corner to the other, in perfect unison with whatever potion or mixture she was using. Then it was over, the pain fading away as quickly as it had struck. He took a deep breath, but could tell the wound hadn't been healed. He did feel… different… somehow… less tense or defeated or needing to persevere until his last dying breath. Instead, a little bit of hope began to steal into his heart, lifting his spirits and relaxing away the angst and the guilt.

"What did you…?" He started, but found he couldn't finished, not sure what to ask.

She smiled kindly at him. "Just a little concoction of mine. The runes have the power to sever a Mage's connection to the Fade, provided they're in close enough proximity. We're not close enough to Nollatori himself, but we are close to the blood, your blood, he is, excuse me, was using. This little potion," she rattled the restoppered bottle in her fingers, "Ties the runes to each other, and then to the source of the blood. Your wound. It'll heal now," she set aside the vial and picked up a poultice she had worked up earlier, "Pretty quickly, I should hope, or I've lost my touch. Few days, and it'll be nothing but a scar and a memory."

He sat up, feeling stronger already, and held his tunic out of the way while she wrapped his side. "I can live with that."

"I can see you already have. There's another scar on your other side, kinda making a matching set. How'd you get that one?" She was only trying to make small talk, but when he didn't answer right away, she knew she had hit a sensitive subject. "I mean, that is, if it's a good story, or anything like that."

He looked down and to the side. "I was hit with a dart full of opeigh. The tip broke off inside my lung, and the only way the surgeon could remove it was to cut it out from the side."

Her hands hesitated only for a moment before she recovered. "Like I said, nothing but another memory. You should get some rest. Perhaps in the tent?"

"Be my guest," Dorian nodded.

Cullen took a heavy breath, noting there was no more discomfort at his side, "I don't think I can…"

"Try," she countered before he could finish. She pulled him to his feet and pointed him in the direction of the tent. "Lie down, at least, and recover some of your strength. Who knows what'll happen next, so best to store up all the energy while you have the chance."

"I really…" he started to protest again, but Fear nudged the back of his knee, gently, encouraging him onwards. Cullen looked to Varric next, but he only shooed him on with his fingers. Iron Bull was holding the flap open while Fenris stepped out, having just set up a bedroll for him. He stopped at the entrance, one hand on the post, and looked around at them all. "I'm already feeling better. I could stay up with you all, for a bit, make a plan or two…"

"Bed!" Hrodwynn snapped her fingers at him and pointed to the tent. "Don't make me tuck you in." She left the end trail threateningly into the night.

Fear took the matter in hand, or in his jaw rather. His mouth took Cullen's hand, teeth barely touching his skin, but with the Mabari's first step it was obvious he would drag Cullen into the tent if it became necessary. It wasn't, the reluctant former Commander obeying the silent orders of his hound.

It took a few moments, the rest of them muttering quietly around the campfire, soft voices talking about nothing in particular so as not to sound too interesting. After a bit, Fear's face appeared at the front of the tent, pushing the flaps open just far enough so he could see Hrodwynn. She looked at him, he dropped his head a little and returned back inside.

She tilted her head, a tiny furrow appearing on her brow. "Ya know what? I think," she pointed at where the Mabari had been while looking back at the others, "I think that dog just told me that Curly's asleep."

"Mabari," Varric correct her, "And he's a very intelligent one, too."

She made a small face, a cross between looking at something interesting and tasting a lemon. "I like him, better than Hawke's mutt, at any rate."

Iron Bull had been quiet for some time, looking at the elf and tilting his head this way and that, almost braining Abbets with his horns at one point. "Hey, ah, as a friend," he started, even raising his hand to get Fenris' attention.

The Blue Wraith lifted one ebony eyebrow, a dramatic contrast to his shock of white hair.

"Could I ask, if it's not too personal, how you got those markings?" He saw the darkening of Fenris' features and pushed on, "I don't mean to offend. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. It's only that, well…" his words faded as he stole a look at Varric.

"Yeah, Tiny, they are similar. I noticed it when she first showed them to us, all the way back in Haven. I think I mentioned Fenris then, too," Varric shrugged, "But maybe not by name. Broody, the woman we're trying to rescue, the one Nollatori abducted…"

"The one who became the Inquisitor, excuse me, former Inquisitor. See, I was paying attention."

"Yeah, good, well, I probably shoudln't tell you this, it's a closely guarded secret, only a handful of her closest companions ever found out, and Curly's going to be furious when he finds out I've spilled the beans, but it might help you help us find her…"

Fenris was rubbing two fingers at his temple. "Sometimes, Varric, your explanations cause me more discomfort than my markings. Just spit it out."

"Those markings hurt?" Again Iron Bull with his questions.

"You try being branded bone deep with raw lyrium in an ancient magical rite." Fenris' voice was deeper and rougher than Bull's could ever reach, as if he had screamed himself hoarse over days of unending torture.

"Our friend," Varric inserted himself before Bull and Fenris could start a fight, "Peredura, everyone assumes she's human. But she's not. She's elven. A former slave to a Venatori. He's dead now, but his name was Vivianus Vicici. A blood Mage so powerful it was openly known he could practice, but of course no one talked about it."

It looked like Fenris had stopped breathing. He turned his attention from Iron Bull to Varric, and even in the firelight Varric was sure he could see the color draining from Fenris' swarthy skin. "I know the name. He and my former master, Danarius, traveled in the same circles. Wait…" his eyes grew distant, as if he was searching back through the years of his memories for one specific time. With a snap of his fingers he came back. "Yes! I remember now. I served as Danarius' bodyguard; and he loved showing me off wherever he went. We were at Vicici's estate one night, for some sort of blood magic orgy, I hardly paid attention to those things back then. But I do remember the girl, a slave, completely devoid of any sentience of self or free will. She looked to be shaking and sweating and in desperate pain, but when Vicici began his blood rite…" he paused to shudder. "Even then, even though I was a slave myself at the time and had similar lack of free will beaten into me, even then I thought it odd how eagerly complicit she was acting. All Vicici did was hold out a dagger, hilt first, and this girl immediately dropped her robe—she was naked underneath—took the knife, and began cutting herself. Not too quickly, or too deeply, but very cleanly and precisely and as if she couldn't feel it. It was… unsettling." He nodded to himself. "The scars on her body, the lines and curves and markings, the ones she traced over and reopened with the knife, I noticed they were very similar to my own. Ancient markings, from ancient magical rituals. Could that… was that girl… your friend, Peredura?"

Varric let out the breath he was holding, feeling deflated, anxious, scared, angered… more emotions than he could catagorize at that moment—nor would he ever want to. Hearing of her childhood, well, that was no childhood, but of her past life, of her life as a slave, of how she acted and what she did and…. "Yeah," he scrubbed a hand over his face, "Yeah, that sounds about right. Vicici had convinced himself that her blood in particular was extra special when it came to fueling blood magic, more powerful or something. And now," he looked across at Fenris, "Nollatori wants her for her blood, too."

Hrodwynn had her chin in her hand, elbow balanced on a knee. She knew of Fenris' past, or course, and the type of Mage his former master had been, but they way he described Peredura… she had to swallow thickly before she could ask, "To what ends? What magical ritual or demon summoning does he hope to accomplish?"

Varric shook his head. "Maker only knows. At first, back in Haven, he was trying to kill her, make it seem like an accident, ya know? Then, after the Inquisition moved to Skyhold, then he started trying to abduct her. What changed his mind, or who, or why…?" He shrugged.

"Hey, uh, guys," Bull glanced over to the tent, fearful their talk might have awoken Cullen, "One thing: I don't think we should tell the Commander about, erm, what Fenris remembers from seeing the Boss, when she was a slave. He's got enough on his mind right now; why add any more worries about things he can't do anything about, ya know."

Varric nodded wearily, "I was thinking pretty much the same thing. Hate keeping stuff from him, but Curly can get a bit tunnel visioned when it comes to Peredura. If he starts speculating on his own, then maybe, but honestly, guys…" he stared moodily at the campfire, "Ignorance is bliss, and I'm feeling absolutely wretched."