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A Pentaghast understands dragons. Not always intellectually, though many have cause to study them these days. No—it’s an intuitive understanding, intrinsic, instinctual. Cassandra can feel the movements of the beast stirring in her blood before she sees them, and that awareness changes something in her. She moves faster and with greater purpose, barely feels the sting of claws or the heat of flame washing over her. When a powerful beating of wings knocks her off her feet, she rights herself in an instant, lets out a guttural shout, and dives back into the fray. It’s not the feeling the Iron Bull describes, not excitement or meaning or destiny, but it’s something slightly more than what she experiences with any other foe. Something potent.
Cassandra understands dragons. But she doesn’t understand them the way that someone who’s like a dragon inside and out does, horns and burning blood and all. The way the Inquisitor does.
On the battlefield, Inquisitor Adaar is a terror. She cleaves through dragonlings recklessly, the swings of her greataxe coming down faster and harder with time, even as the creatures bite at her and cough out their streams of fire and smoke. With each one that falls, it seems to spur her on, feeding her frenzy of bloodlust both mentally and magically. A terrifying thing to witness, but awe-inspiring, too, in its way. Even—perhaps especially—when she lets out a monstrous roar. The sound is enough to tear Cassandra’s attention away from the last dragonling in front of her, enraptured by the pure fury of it. She’s faintly aware of an arrow piercing through the small creature, and sees it crumple from the corner of her eye.
The dragonlings swarmed around Adaar have all fallen, and she charges headlong now at their mother, coated in gore, soaked with it to the point that it doesn’t quite matter where her reaver blood ends and that of the dragons begins. The high dragon turns its attention on her at once. Cassandra can tell from its posture what’s coming.
“Vivienne!” she calls.
The bright glow of a magical barrier washes over the still-charging Inquisitor barely a second before the dragon showers her in a jet of flames. Without pause, the Inquisitor runs straight through the spray and at the dragon’s breast, raising her axe behind her. She skids to a stop just in front of her prey, and Cassandra watches—her own heady battle rage giving her a clear, sharp focus, making everything go in slow motion—as the woman braces herself on her front leg, lets the momentum carry her weight, and swings her weapon over and down, burying it in the dragon’s flesh. Holding onto the haft with one hand, Adaar rears back and, in a flash that looks like erupting flames of her own, thrusts her other hand into the wounded beast, her spiked gauntlet piercing through the tough hide.
With a piercing cry, the dragon swipes her away, knocking her to the ground. If it cares at all about the blade embedded in its front, it doesn’t show it; just advances toward the Inquisitor, its growl a low rumble that would strike fear into the heart of any lesser warrior.
Not Adaar, though. And not Cassandra.
While the Inquisitor clambers to her feet, Cassandra runs at the dragon from the side. She slashes her sword at its flank and makes only the shallowest of cuts, but combined with Sera’s volley of arrows and Vivienne’s icy projectiles, it succeeds in drawing the dragon’s focus away from Adaar.
“Inquisitor, take your weapon!” Cassandra shouts. “Hurry!”
The last syllable hasn’t fully left her mouth when a bolt of lightning hits the dragon, then arcs through Cassandra’s blade and up her arm. The suddenness and strength of the jolt leaves her too disoriented to dodge the blow from the side that sends her toppling gracelessly to the ground, head colliding with something solid.
The impact comes with a sharp pain above her ear. Her vision goes momentarily black, and she hears everything as if from underwater, the sounds muffled and distant and strange, save for the clear and loud ringing in her ears. When her sight returns to her, the too-bright world is tipping violently back and forth. She squeezes her eyes shut to fight off the nauseating dizziness. Her sword’s been knocked from her hand, but she still has her shield, secured to her arm by hardy leather straps. That, at least, is something. When she feels a sudden gust of wind, hears the sound of gargantuan wings flapping, she brings the shield up in front of her face to shield herself as the dragon takes to the sky.
She struggles to clamber onto her hands and knees. While she’s struggling on her unsteady limbs, someone or something grabs her shoulder. She lashes out instinctively, deliriously, hoping to fight the offending thing away. Someone swears. Then indistinct speech.
“—frigging dragon, yeah?” she hears. Sera. Breathless, with maybe strain or exhilaration.
“I’m—” Cassandra tries to keep steady as Sera hauls her to her feet, grunting against the pain and discomfort. Her head aches to the point of distraction. “I need my—”
“Uh-uh, no time,” Sera cuts in. “Getting you out of here.” As she says that, the dragon roars from somewhere in the sky. Even that sounds muffled; Cassandra can’t tell how far away it is.
“Give me a healing potion,” Cassandra says roughly.
“What?” Sera squawks. “You’ve got a frigging hole in your head! Potion’s not gonna do shit for that!” Her voice, too, is oddly quiet. Cassandra can barely make out the words.
Electing not to reach up and feel the gash Sera’s talking about, Cassandra says, “Potion. Now.”
Grumbling, Sera digs through her belt of potions and grenades, the sound of clinking bottles just barely audible to Cassandra over the dragon screeching in the distance—then less in the distance.
“Ah shit,” Sera hisses. “Piss. Wank. Vivvy! Give us something!”
An aura of cold radiates just above them. It’s one of Vivienne’s ice walls, Cassandra knows; she can sense the magic flowing out of it, thick and slow-moving, sickly sweet. Like syrup, she thinks a bit feverishly. The weight of the magic presses down on her. Even as she hears— feels —the dragon spitting flames at them overhead, all she can think about is how desperately she wants to reach out to where the magic is and force it away, snuff it out like a candle. It’s a basic, instinctive need. Every inch of her body demands that she quell this oppressive force. But she can’t and shouldn’t, and that realization is maddening.
“Right, here,” says Sera.
A glass bottle is forced into Cassandra’s hand. She pops the cork, then opens one eye just enough to see the potion in front of her before she knocks it back. Elfroot and embrium, and just a hint of honey.
In seconds, the fog dulling her senses lifts somewhat, her hearing returning to her fully. She opens both eyes and the world has righted itself. The pain in her skull is still there, throbbing terribly, rhythmically, like a war drum, but less so than it was before.
The jagged wall of ice arching above them is still intact, albeit barely. Cassandra can feel the magic weakening in the wake of the dragon’s attack. If the creature strikes again, the ice will be destroyed in an instant. It isn’t safe to stay here.
“Cassandra, darling, are you alright?” Vivienne calls.
“Yes,” Cassandra replies. “Wounded, but fine.” She looks to Sera. “Where is the Inquisitor?”
“Dragon,” says Sera, who’s still rummaging through her things. She holds up a cloudy grey flask and squints at it, then puts it back away before pulling out something else.
Cassandra huffs. “What is that supposed to—”
“Means exactly what I said, yeah? She climbed up, grabbed a horn, dragon took off.” Sera snort-laughs. “Stupid, right? Looked good doing it, though.”
“That is—” Cassandra stops, speechless. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Before Sera can reply, the thunderous clamor of beating wings sounds nearby, then there’s an earth-shaking rumble as the dragon lands heavily on the ground somewhere on the other side of the ice. Cassandra runs out to investigate at once.
True enough, the Inquisitor is clinging tightly to the dragon’s head. It thrashes and snarls, clearly trying to shake its passenger, but Adaar remains latched on, unmoving. Cassandra doesn’t know whether to be impressed, horrified or worried. She settles for a combination of the three.
“If anyone wants to kill this thing,” Adaar bellows, “now would be an excellent time!”
“At once, my dear,” Vivienne answers.
Cassandra sighs.
“Better run off and save your Inquisitor,” says Sera.
“She’s not—” Cassandra lets out another sigh. “We need to disable it first. Aim for one of the hind legs.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“It’s only a scratch.”
“If I were bleeding even half as much as you are, would you let me get away with calling it a scratch?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I’m being ridiculous?”
“When the two of you are done squabbling,” says Vivienne, “I’d like to take a look at that wound myself.”
“I’ll do it,” says Adaar.
“Darling, I appreciate the offer, and I’m sure Cassandra does as well—”
“I do not,” Cassandra interrupts.
“—but this requires a delicate hand.”
“What? I can be delicate,” says Adaar.
A beat of silence.
“Alright, fine,” she mumbles.
Vivienne probes at the gash in Cassandra’s head gently, but the wound is tender, and the touch makes Cassandra suck in a sharp breath nevertheless. She clenches her jaw, balls her hands into fists, wills herself not to flinch. She’s a Seeker. She can endure pain.
After a moment, Vivienne hums and says, “We’ll need to clean this up first, then apply pressure to stop the bleeding. That’s all we can do with what we have, I’m afraid. With any luck, the healer at the Crossroads should be able to tend to it.” She excuses herself to fetch the medical supplies.
“It’s better than nothing, at least,” says Adaar. She gives Cassandra a considering look. “So what happened?”
“I was careless,” says Cassandra. “It caught me by surprise, I suppose.” She doesn’t see the need to implicate Vivienne. It had been an accident, an error born of poor timing. The mage’s view had been blocked, and Cassandra’s blade had made contact with the dragon at the wrong moment. That was all.
Adaar frowns. Briefly, Cassandra thinks she may have seen through the partial lie, but the other woman only says, “I should have protected you.”
“You realize it is my duty to protect you,” Cassandra says dryly.
“It can work both ways.”
“Can it?”
“In theory, maybe,” Adaar says with a grin. Then, getting to her feet, “I’m going to help Sera scout the area. Could be something useful around here.”
“Wait,” Cassandra blurts. She feels her face grow warm. “I—what about you? Were you hurt?”
“Hm? No more than usual.” Adaar scratches at the side of her neck. “Few burns here and there, but a spindleweed salve should take care of it.”
“I see.” Cassandra hesitates. Something bubbles in her gut that isn’t nausea this time. The heat in her cheeks intensifies. “I could help you with it later, if you’d like.”
Raising her eyebrows, Adaar says, “So you can take care of me, but I can’t be concerned about you?”
“You’re the Inquisitor,” says Cassandra. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself.”
Adaar snorts. “Now who’s ridiculous,” she mutters, then sighs. “I’ll be back soon. Try not to get yourself injured any more while I’m gone.”
Cassandra sends a withering look to the Inquisitor’s back. “I’ll try.”
While being tended to by Vivienne, Cassandra thinks back on the battle. The Inquisition’s first dragon. They’ll be more careful next time, and better prepared—and Cassandra won’t let herself be distracted by the sight of Adaar viciously mauling an enormous beast, no matter how entrancing or ghastly it may be.
She thinks now about the stories she grew up hearing, the ones about reavers and their madness. And not only tales of Pentaghasts, but others, too. The worst reavers of legend. Ones like Ser Shius of Tantervale, a noble knight turned relentless killer, so infamous and despised that tales of his rampages have made their way into bards’ dramatic verses. And Cassandra wonders, briefly, faintly, if the people will someday tell stories about Inquisitor Adaar, once a hero, who eventually succumbed to the impulses within her that sang for blood. It doesn’t seem likely—hardly seems possible at all—but it could happen. Worse atrocities occur in Thedas every day.
Not worse to Cassandra, of course. But terrible nonetheless.
The dressing of the wound takes longer than she has patience for, and gives her too much time to stew in thoughts that aren’t necessary or wanted. Afterward, head still aching and exhaustion setting in, she thanks Vivienne for her help and busies herself with cleaning her sword. The nicks along the edge haven’t ruined the blade entirely, but she’ll need a replacement sometime soon. Something sturdier than onyx this time. Dawnstone, if they can manage it. By comparison, she thought the Inquisitor’s silverite greataxe didn’t look any worse for wear after the encounter. Not that its condition made it any less awkward to wield when Cassandra took hold of it.
When she finishes, she sits quietly in prayer and contemplation to center herself. Peace is fine when it has a purpose, when she feels in control of it. And time passes easily like this, seamlessly, like no time is passing at all. Here and there she makes out the telltale rustling of Vivienne gathering herbs—with her magic, probably, as she always does—and the sound is more soothing, for once, than distracting.
Then, after a short while, or maybe a long one, Sera and Adaar return noisily—noisy on Sera’s part, that is. At most the Inquisitor lets out a bark of laughter (too sharp, too abrupt, unable to be conditioned out of her despite Josephine’s best efforts). Cassandra opens her eyes when they approach and clambers to her feet. She thinks for a moment that she sees the tiniest smile on Adaar’s lips when their gazes meet, so brief and minute that she isn’t sure whether she imagined it. The possibility of it makes her heart flutter strangely.
“Found a boat with some stuff in it,” says Sera. “Loads of dragon shit everywhere, too.”
“It probably belonged to the Carta,” says Adaar. “Uh—the boat, not the shit.”
“What sort of boat?” asks Vivienne.
“Rowboat. It’s not very large, but it could fit seven or eight comfortably,” says Adaar. “They loaded it up with supplies. There’s a stash of obsidian piled up close by, too. Looks like they were getting it ready for transport across the lake.”
Vivienne makes a considering noise. Cassandra says, “Perhaps we should make note of it for the scouts who come to take care of the dragon.”
“I was thinking we could take the boat to Redcliffe and tell the Inquisition forces there,” says Adaar.
“Redcliffe?” Vivienne echoes. “Whyever would we go there?”
“Plenty of reasons,” Sera chimes in. She ticks the items off on her fingers one by one: “Down to one healing potion, getting low on arrows, tired of walking, and the Seeker needs a bed to rest up. Inn’s better than a bedroll.”
“And we saw what looked like demons up the way we came,” says Adaar.
“Oh. Yeah, forgot about that,” says Sera.
Cassandra is in no condition to fight. None of them really are, with all the energy that was sapped away by that great beast. The lake is far and away the more sensible option. Still, Vivienne is clearly skeptical, brows drawn together and fingers tapping thoughtfully against her arm. Everyone looks to her, waiting on her decision.
“How certain are we of the integrity of the boat?” she asks.
Adaar shrugs. “It’s a boat. It hasn’t sunk into the water. That’s good enough for me.”
Vivienne sighs. “I suppose that’s the best we could hope for, under the circumstances,” she says. There’s a tiredness in her, too, just below the surface. The moment of deliberation was likely just for show.
“I have no objections,” says Cassandra.
“Good, so let’s get moving, yeah?” says Sera. “Dragon was fun, but I’m sick of this place. Just hills and trees. And I keep stepping in all kinds of shit.”
They start to move as a group, and Vivienne says, “You could take better care to watch where you’re walking, my dear.”
“That so? Well you could take better care to get—”
Cassandra tunes the rest out. She starts to mentally recite the Canticle of Threnodies, as she often does when Sera talks. It makes her less likely to develop a headache—or, in this case, could prevent the one she already has from getting worse.
She falls into such a trance that she almost doesn’t notice when Adaar looks back and catches her eye, almost misses the warm, glowing smile Adaar sends her, almost forgets to look away as heat blooms under her skin. Almost neglects to sneak a glance and find Adaar still smiling, lingering and perhaps a bit fond, so infectious she feels her own lips twitch. Almost ignores the way her heart stutters at the sight.
“I was worried about you, you know.”
It’s a hypocritical thing for Adaar to say, given the way she is, the way she fights. Cassandra tells her as much.
“The difference is that I need to get hurt,” says Adaar. “It makes me stronger. You know that.”
“I do,” Cassandra says grudgingly. “It makes you a difficult person to care about.”
“I’m sorry,” says Adaar, and seems to mean it. She doesn’t even tease Cassandra for the plain and earnest admission of affection. Maybe because there’s nothing funny about it.
There had been a healer in the village, an apostate from Denerim just passing through and helping where he could. The Maker looks on them favorably sometimes, at least. So Cassandra’s head is no longer bleeding, no longer throbbing with pain, and the burns along Adaar’s neck might as well have never been there at all.
Now, sitting at the edge of a small cliff with a view of Lake Calenhad and the castle in the distance, things are almost peaceful. There is no danger, except for the relentless hammering of her heart as it threatens to burst out of her chest, just from the simple gesture of a hand covering her own.
“But I do worry,” Adaar continues. Her voice is quiet, the way it is whenever she sheds the mantle of Inquisitor and returns to herself. She’s gentle in spite of every other thing about her: gentle despite her size, her toughness, the violence warring within her, and despite the importance of who she is and what she does. The horrible state of the world has not hardened her yet—has, if anything, made her brighter and softer and more deliberate. She says, “I worry about you every time I bring you with me, but I’m too selfish to leave you behind.”
“You don’t have a choice,” says Cassandra. “I refuse to let you put yourself in harm’s way without me there to protect you.”
“You know, Blackwall lets me be as reckless as I want,” says Adaar.
“That is precisely my point.”
Adaar sighs. “I should consider myself lucky that I have a valiant warrior defending me, even if it means I never get to have any fun,” she teases.
“You should,” Cassandra says earnestly. “Maker knows you wouldn’t take care of yourself if no one—what are you doing?” she blurts, seeing Adaar lean in closer. By now her heart is beating practically in her throat.
“I was going to kiss you,” says Adaar.
All Cassandra can think to say is, “Why?”
“Because it’s sweet that you care so much. And because I’ve wanted to ever since I saw you hack a dragon’s head halfway off with my axe.”
“I… see.” Cassandra can feel her entire body heating up with embarrassed anticipation.
“Is that okay?” asks Adaar, with a tone that implies it would still be fine if it wasn’t.
And Cassandra says breathlessly, “Yes,” and lets Adaar kiss her. And that, too, is gentler than she expected, but just as much as she would have hoped.