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Maxwell Trevelyan crouched on a cliff overlooking the battlefield. He nocked an arrow, targeting an archer across the clearing, and it struck true, toppling the man from his perch on the rocks.
Without pausing for a reprieve, he snatched another projectile from the quiver on his back. One of the bandit warriors was going toe-to-toe with Dorian and gaining ground fast. Max looked for an opening, finding it under the warrior's arm.
The bandit howled as the arrow struck a gap between the plates in his armor, cursing. “Maker’s balls, take out that archer!” he snarled, snapping off the shaft with a grimace. “What am I sharing loot with you idiots for?”
Dorian managed to sidle away, recognizing a losing battle when he saw one. That was, apparently, enough for his assailant to decide he wasn't worth the trouble, because he chose another target for his greataxe; Tobias's unprotected back.
Max's stomach dropped. “Toby, behind you!”
His brother startled, but he was too slow. He wouldn't be able to adequately block in time. And, judging from Tobias's grim expression, Max wasn't the only one who knew it. He had seconds to act.
There was no time. Max picked the first weakness he spotted and ran with it; an area of exposed thigh above the warrior's greaves. He held his breath. And, though it had been years since he'd had much faith in the Maker, prayed like hell.
Whether through divine intervention or sheer dumb luck, the arrow hit its target. The fighter stumbled and his attack went wide. Max heaved a sigh as he nocked another arrow, knees weak with relief.
...until he heard footsteps behind him.
Max spun around to see two bandits: a rogue and a warrior, climb up the cliff-side, and had just enough time to realize his mistake. Entirely too late, he remembered a pissed-off bandit screaming, 'take out that archer.'
Max was, 'that archer.'
Oh, shit.
He managed to fire another shot as his assailants rushed him, but his aim was off. It struck the warrior in the shoulder but missed his intended mark by inches.
Great. He tossed his bow onto his back and drew the daggers from his belt, grim. Hand to hand wasn’t Max’s strong suit, but he’d been making strides in that regard, of late. It would either be enough, or he would find himself very dead soon.
“Max!” His brother's voice – strained, panicked. The archer hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Tobias had his hands full, though clearly, he'd noticed his younger brother's predicament.
“I've got it!” he screamed, hoping the words weren't a lie. He ducked under the rogue's daggers, sweeping his legs out from under him.
The warrior who'd attacked Max, having recovered his senses, charged, blood spewing from the arrow in his shoulder. He cornered him, dangling Max high above the ground by his throat. The daggers clattered from his hand, skittering away harmlessly.
The massive hand around his throat tightened.
Max choked, clawing at the bandit's thick fingers with frantic desperation. Black spots danced across his vision.
A fireball slammed into the warrior's head, and he dropped Max like a sack of potatoes, howling.
The archer dragged in a gasping breath, rolling to his feet. He clutched at his throat, coughing, struggling to catch his breath.
“Max, hold on!” Tobias, raw with anguish. “Bull! I-I can't get to him!”
The Iron Bull answered, closer. “I'm on it!”
Somehow, Max managed to evade the rogue's daggers a second time, pivoting smoothly on his heel. It threw the bandit off-balance, giving Max the opening he needed to slip behind him. He grabbed his opponent by the hair, snatching up a dagger from the ground and burying it in his throat. The rogue went down, spraying blood in an arc upon the ground.
The warrior used his companion's death as a distraction, striking Max with his shield. It slammed into his face, flaying his cheek wide open. Blinded by pain, the archer managed to snatch up his bow in time to block another attack. The warrior's sword cleaved it in half, but it did change the blade's trajectory. It ended up embedded in the dirt rather than Max's sternum.
The warrior snarled.
Max was running out of options. Panicked, he tried to snatch one of the rogue's discarded daggers, but the warrior intercepted him. He grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back at an awkward angle.
Max felt it the moment the bone cracked, barely managing to bite back a scream.
Fortunately for everyone, Bull chose that moment to swoop in for a rescue. He cleared the edge of the cliff in one jump, cleaving the bandit's head off in one smooth motion. Poor sod never saw it coming.
The archer collapsed heavily into the dirt, heaving a shaky breath. He spat a mouthful of blood, gazing dazedly down at the puddle it left. Was that a tooth?
Max gingerly prodded the back of his mouth with his tongue. Yup. That was a hole, where a tooth should be.
Dorian and Tobias were busy finishing off the last few bandits. They were holding their own well enough that Bull had elected to make his way over to Max instead.
“You okay, boss?” The Iron Bull regarded him kindly with his remaining eye, pulling Max to his feet.
“More or less.” Max grimaced, cradling his wounded arm against his chest. “Thanks for the save.”
“Don't mention it. Nice moves, by the way."
Max scoffed. “All I did was get my ass handed to me.”
Bull laughed. “Well, yeah, but it's just good that you're trying.”
Max grinned, a bit drunkenly. “Leliana's been helping me in her spare time. Did you know she's a master archer?” The archer made a gesture before remembering that would jostle his injured arm, and he winced, hissing.
More footsteps pounded on the cliff-face. Tobias scrambled up ahead of Dorian, clattering toward them as fast as his armored legs would carry him. Suddenly, there were hands roaming over Max. Over his face, his jaw.
Then Tobias took hold of his injured arm, and Max's vision went white.
“A-Ah, ouch. Toby...”
“Be still. Let me see.” Tobias tilted his chin up gently, examining what was likely going to be an impressive scar, extending from the side of his face, down his cheekbone. Max could feel the blood, dripping hot from his chin. “Sweet Andraste, that will scar for certain.”
“At least it won't stand out.” Max giggled, delirious. His split cheek protested the movement. “Now I've got one on each side.”
Tobias gave him a look – sharp, admonishing. His eyes were wild, glistening in the mid-day sun. “I find extraordinarily little amusement in this, Maxwell. You could have been killed.” His voice trembled around the words. “What in Andraste's name were you thinking?”
Max blinked. “What was I thinking? We came upon bandits. They started a fight. Then they targeted the annoying archer with the projectile pieces of metal. I fail to see how their actions are my fault.”
“They caught you unawares, you should have been more mindful! Particularly when the brute with the giant axe ordered his compatriots to 'take out that archer'! What part of that was unclear?”
Max scowled. “I was a little busy saving your ass!”
“You're the Herald of Andraste. You can't put me first.”
“You can't expect me to stand by and let a man the size of a small building slice you in half, you bloody hypocrite!” Max blew a breath between his teeth, hissing when he realized what a terrible idea that was. It stung the gaping hole at the back of his mouth.
That pain paled in comparison, however, to the agony that ripped through him when Toby's grip on his arm tightened. His brother remained fixated on his cheek, and the bruises forming around his throat. He didn't seem to notice Max's distress, or the telling way he clutched his arm.
The Iron Bull definitely had. He looked ready to step in. His eye drilled into Max, questioning.
“Hate to interrupt this heart-to-heart, gentleman,” Dorian quipped, picking a piece of gore from his mustache with a disgusted grimace. “But might I suggest having this conversation elsewhere? All that noise is going to draw attention, and I'd rather not get into another fight just now.”
“We should get back to camp,” Max ground between his teeth. “I'm a liability like this.”
“We need to get you a new bow anyway. Maybe have that arm looked at,” Bull replied, casually. Deliberately.
Tobias blinked. He glanced down, paling when he finally noticed the way Max cradled the appendage. “Oh. Oh, Maker's mercy, forgive me. What can I do?”
“You could stop yelling at me, for starters. And please, please let go. That hurts.” With a detached sort of shame, Max realized he'd groaned –all but whined out—the words.
“Shit.” Tobias dropped his arm so fast, it looked as if he'd been burned. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, dear heart. Bull, my good man. Cover his other side if you'd be so kind?”
If Max hadn't been in so much pain, he might have felt bad about how thoroughly miserable Toby looked. Also, he would have taken a moment to marvel at the fact that his brother even knew expletives, never mind using them in actual sentences. What would the nobles back in Ostwick say?
Bull clapped a hand on Max's shoulder. “Let's go get you cleaned up, boss.”
Max nodded minutely. Nausea churned hot in his gut, cold sweat breaking out on his brow. He clenched his lips tightly together, allowing the two warriors to sandwich him between them. Dorian took the lead, scouting ahead for enemies.
His brother's aggressive worrying was the least of his problems. Max squeezed his eyes shut, counting breaths evenly through his nose. Despite his best efforts, however, not much time had passed before he knew it was inevitable.
Max thought of the wound splitting his cheek. Dreaded what vomiting would do to it. Still, he didn't have much of a choice. His stomach lurched.
Max raised a palm, halting their advance. He broke from Toby's grip and dropped to his knees in one smooth motion, barely managing to get out of range before ejecting the contents of his stomach. He braced himself with his good arm, though it was so shaky, he barely managed to avoid flopping into his own vomit.
Shadows fell over Max, blocking out the sun. Vaguely, he realized Bull had shifted in front of him, protecting him from view.
Someone crouched beside him. When he finally managed to open his eyes, the sight that greeted him made him cringe. Max hadn't entirely managed to avoid hitting Tobias. His brother's greaves were splattered with blood-red vomit. Or was it just blood? Hard to say.
“Sorry. I-I'm sorry.”
“Don't be daft. You've done nothing wrong.” Tobias pushed the sweaty hair back from his forehead. His hands were gentle, though his eyes were hard. “I allowed this to happen.”
Maxwell blinked dazedly. "...what're you talking about?"
Tobias had adopted a bland expression, one Max recognized as a mask he used at court. “Never mind. Come, we're nearly there.”
The remainder of their journey back to camp passed in a haze. The pain made it hard for Max to focus. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and the entire right side of his face felt every inch like the open wound it was. He kept pace as best he could, moving mechanically along with the others.
Time seemed to jump rather erratically. When Max next stumbled his way back to awareness, he was startled to find himself seated on a cot in an Inquisition tent, without a clue as to how he'd come to be there.
“...my Lord Herald?” One of the medics—a kindly old man with a heart-shaped face—was trying to ask him a question. Judging from the worry on Tobias's face, and the amusement on Bull's, this likely wasn't the first time.
Max blinked haltingly. He turned his attention toward the medic, feeling as if he were moving in slow motion. “Hmm?”
“Are you hurt anywhere other than your face, your throat, and your arm?”
Max frowned. “I don't think so.” He mulled it over, giving a drunken shake of his head. “Lost a tooth, though.”
“And how is the pain? Scale of one to ten, ten being the highest.”
Oh. That was an easy one. “Twenty.”
Bull laughed. Dorian frowned so deeply, his eyebrows formed a solid line, and Tobias honestly looked like he might be sick.
The medic patted his shoulder. The good one. Max appreciated that. “I've got a little something that might help.”
Yes, please. What a nice man.
He must have said the last part out loud, because the medic laughed good-naturedly. Max was so content to hear that it would stop hurting soon, he sort of quit listening to everything else. Eventually, someone helped him drink the worst-tasting concoction he'd ever had, and before he knew it, he was sliding down the cot, boneless.
Despite whatever herbs were in the pain-relief tincture, Max slept fitfully. The discomfort was present enough that jostling his wounds tore him from sleep. He'd groan, try to roll over. Sometimes, someone would run their fingers through his hair, or they'd take his hand, and he liked those times. It almost made the agony worth it.
Max didn't awaken in truth until the sound of murmured voices roused him. A deep, gravelly baritone Max recognized as Bull's filtered across the tent.
“It wasn't your fault. Shit happens.”
Tobias—Max would know that sigh anywhere—responded, morose. “You're kind to say so.”
“You don't believe me, though.”
A bitter chuckle. “Certainly not.” The words were filled with so much self-loathing, they startled Max further awake. He cracked an eye open, grimacing when the candlelight hit his face.
The Iron Bull regarded Tobias steadily. “He's gonna get hurt again. Doesn't matter how many bodies throw themselves in front of him. Eventually, something has to get through.”
“Yes. I understand that, but this level of insanity can't be normal.” Tobias threaded his fingers through his hair. “Every time my back is turned, he's tangling with bandits, demons, holes in the sky. Venatori mages who throw him into deadly time-loops. This can't keep happening. I won't allow it. I won't just take all of this rubbish at face-value and watch him leap into the fire time and time again.”
Bull's reply was kind, if blunt. “Hate to break it to you, but you don't have a choice. If there are rifts, he's gonna be out there closing them. And you know, this whole...repentance thing you're doing. It's a little overkill. Whatever happened between you two, he doesn't hold it against you.”
If Tobias was surprised by how much The Iron Bull seemed to know, he hid it well.
“Of course he doesn't.” Toby barked out a humorless chuckle. “Why does he have to be so...”
“Forgiving?” If Bull hadn't sounded amused before, he did now.
“Yes. It'd be easier if he hated me. He'd certainly have cause.”
Max groaned. “Oh, for Maker’s sake.”
Bull eyed Max knowingly. He'd probably noticed the instant he awoke by some act of magic, or Ben-Hassrath bullshit, but Tobias blanched, looking thoroughly abashed.
“I'm so sorry, my dear. Did we wake you?”
“Yes,” Max murmured. He managed to wrestle his good arm out from under the covers, beckoning to Toby. “Come here.”
Tobias blinked, paling considerably. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough." Max patted the mattress drunkenly. "Come 'ere."
The smell of elfroot permeated his nostrils; his arm was bound, and his cheek was slathered in five pounds of ointment and gauze. Whatever the medic had given him for pain was wearing off. Max ached, and his head felt fuzzy, but there was still a definite lack of agony to contend with. That was a plus.
“You heard the man. I'm gonna go see what they're making for dinner,” Iron Bull quipped, throwing Max a wink as he left.
How did someone wink with one eye, anyway?
Tobias blinked, but eventually did as he was bid. He rose from his chair and approached the bed, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress.
“How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” Tobias fussed with the gauze on his cheek, inspecting it with a critical eye. “I don't think we have to change these yet.”
“Toby...”
His brother avoided his face, looking just about everywhere else he could manage. “Are you hungry? Thirsty, perhaps? It's a chilly night, I can grab more blankets if you're cold.”
“Toby, stop. Just...stop.”
Something flickered across Toby's expression. Something sharp and painful. “I'm sorry.”
Max groaned. “Stop apologizing.”
“What would you like me to do then?”
“I'd like you to stop throwing yourself on your sword. And I do mean that literally, and figuratively.” A careful balance of herbs and pain had loosened Max's tongue. Whatever inhibitions he'd previously had about speaking plainly were long gone. That, and Varric was a bad influence. All that 'talk about your feelings' encouragement from his friend was starting to rub off.
“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.” That bland mask of courtliness was back on Toby's face. Though they were no longer in the Free Marches, his brother still hid behind it whenever he wanted to feel safe. Max was far too tired and sore to put up with it tonight.
“Bullshit. Why are you doing this?”
Toby avoided his eyes. He gripped the bridge of his nose. “You know full well why.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His brother squared his shoulders. “The 'why' doesn't matter. I don't care if it kills me.”
“Damn it, Toby!” Max shouted, though his throat felt raw. “Why are you so determined to villify yourself?"
“I am a villain.”
Max rolled his eyes. “And they call me the dramatic one."
“What would you have of me then, hmm?” Tobias surged to his feet, clasping his arms behind his back. He paced a line in front of the bed. “How can I just forget?"
Max threw up his hand. “Forget what?"
“What do you mean, 'forget what?' I hurt you!” Tobias whirled on him. “I'm still hurting you! I can't even stop a man from choking the life out of you, a kilometer away! I'm just as useless to you now as I was back home.”
Ah. So that was it then. The silence between them stretched.
“I'm a grown man, Tobias. If I get hurt, that's on me and the people attacking me. No one else.”
“How can you be so flippant? You're the Herald of Andraste!”
“Stop hiding behind that title! If that's all I am to you, why are you even here?”
Tobias roared his frustration. “Fine, I don't care about the 'Herald of Andraste.' You, however, are my brother!” When he turned his eyes on Max, they were wild, suspiciously bright in the candlelight. “That didn't matter back home. I couldn't let it matter. What would people think?”
Max was afraid to speak. He sat frozen, watching his brother with barely disguised shock.
“I willfully ignored you. I allowed others to ridicule you. Our eldest brother targeted you, and I did nothing. I was a coward. A fraud. I loved you when it was easy for me. Then I showed up at Haven with my honeyed words, spewing apologies, and that's enough?”
Max’s reply was hushed. “Why shouldn't it be?”
Tobias looked at Max askance.
"I don't know what you want from me, Toby." Max grimaced, struggling to push himself into a sitting position. “You were an asshole, sure, but lots of people are. You're not special."
Toby snorted, stifling a rather unbecoming giggle.
“Maybe I was an asshole too, I don’t know. I just...never felt like one of you. And when mother and father finally tired of making an honest man of me, they swept me under a rug. By then, I didn't care anymore. There was something wrong with me. Something I didn't know how to fix, and I hated my life. Some days, I wished it would end.”
The color drained from Tobias's face. “You don't mean...”
Max smiled at him. It was small, sad, and they both knew what it meant. He could only nod.
Tobias was regarding him with wide-eyed horror. He covered his mouth, visibly shaken. “I didn't know you felt so terrible you might...” He cut himself off, as if he couldn't bear to finish the sentence. “Maker's breath. I didn't know. I swear, I didn't know.”
“I know.” Max shook his head. “I got as far as the port, once. That bridge off the Waking Sea. I didn't jump, obviously. I don't think I would have. I just...wanted to be nothing. Disappear for a while.”
Tobias didn't appear consoled by the words. On the contrary, he looked ill.
“It wasn't all bad. There were bright spots. Remember that time you slipped me out of Aunt Solange's evening ball early, so I could spend the whole night out in the stables, with the horses and the cats? And a particularly strong bottle of gin?”
Tobias's lips twitched. “Father still thinks I sent you off to polish my armor for that exhibition match the next day.”
“Or that time for...what was it, my sixteenth birthday? Mother, father, and Will went off to some important event, but you pretended to be sick, so you could stay home with me.”
His brother released a watery chuckle. “We talked and played chess all night.”
“Or when I ruined Mother's reception for that charity event, and Uncle Julian suggested they should send me off for templar training. I was far too old, technically, but they had favors to call in.”
Tobias grimaced. “That was beyond harsh. Will and I both fought it.”
Max smiled. “I remember. Father listened. Considering what's happening right now, that decision may have saved my life.”
Tobias still refused to look Max in the eye, but the stiff line of his shoulders loosened a bit. “I... suppose that's a fair point.”
“There we have it, then. That counts for something! No, you weren't always there, but you're here now. You're here, and you're trying. And that...” Max paused, choked up. “That means the world to me.”
Toby squeezed his hand. “You mean the world to me.”
“See? This is what I mean.” Max shook his head, incredulous. “How do you do that? Why are you so touchy with me?”
Tobias blinked, as if he hadn't considered it before. “It's important to you.”
Max had to fight back tears at the admission. “Would someone who wasn't worthy of forgiveness try to change his behavior, solely for his little brother's sake?”
“I... hadn’t looked at it that way.”
“I have.” Max squeezed his hand. “I forgive you. Why can't you forgive yourself?”
“I...” Tobias faltered. His eyes swam. “If it'll make you happy...”
“No.” Max's answer was vehement, quick. “This isn't about me. Stop punishing yourself.”
Tobias's shoulders bowed, as if a tremendous burden lay there. “I'll...I'll try.”
“That's all I ask.” Max shifted uncomfortably, grimacing. His body felt like it had been dragged across several miles of jagged rock.
“Are you all right?” Tobias sat bolt upright, as if a switch had been flipped. “I can grab the medic.”
Max and his pride warred for dominance in his psyche before another surge of pain from his wounded arm promptly told pride to sod off. “Yes, please.”
“I'll be right back.” Toby gave his hand another squeeze before rushing off outside the tent. Max eased himself back down onto the cot gingerly, wincing. Within moments, both Tobias and the medic from earlier entered the tent. The old man sat on the edge of the mattress while his brother hovered behind.
“How are you feeling, my Lord?”
“Like a giant bruise. Everything hurts.”
The old man chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That is to be expected. I'll change your dressings, then you can have another potion. Sound good?”
Max nodded emphatically. It sounded great.
He tried not to fidget or flinch as the medic went about his business, discarding dirty dressings, and replacing them with fresh ones. His eyes burned with how strong the elfroot smelled, permeating the air, but it soothed the wound on his cheek, so who was he to complain? Once those tasks had been completed, the old man helped him sit up, handing him a potion that – quite astonishingly – tasted even worse the second time.
Once finished, the medic smiled and excused himself, telling them he'd be right outside if they required anything further.
Tobias hovered by the bed, uncertain. There was something odd about his face. Pinched, almost. Like he was trying to mask his expression and failing miserably.
Max rolled his eyes, holding out his hand.
“Come over here. I wasn't done with you.”
Tobias obliged, with a bit of hesitation.
Whatever was in that potion made Max drowsy. He was already sinking. He sidled closer to Toby, grasping blindly for his hand. His brother took it without a word.
“Better?” Tobias ran his fingers through his hair. His voice sounded strange – oddly thick.
“Much.” Max relaxed into the covers, Toby continuing to pet his hair. He sighed; words slurred. “That feels nice...”
Tobias's laughter was genuine, if strained. “Are you drunk, Maxwell?”
“I think I am.” He chuckled, squeezing his brother's hand. “Stay with me?”
“Always.” Even in Max's current state, he was shocked to feel a kiss pressed against his temple. “I love you.”
Eventually, the herbs took full effect, and combined with his wounds, they began to drag Max under. For once, he didn’t bother to resist. He felt safe. Warm. He could trust his brother to watch his back.
And so, Max allowed sleep to claim him, body exhausted and hurting. But before he slipped under, he could have sworn he heard a sound suspiciously like weeping.