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Returning to Skyhold from Adamant is a walk of shame. It is, at its core, humiliating to Kathima. A defeat. Though they did well, they did what they set out to do… The sag in Varric’s shoulders as he walks far ahead of the group, alone, is enough to tell her she didn’t do well enough. The fear in Arzy’s eyes, no matter how much she tries to hide it, is enough to shut Kathima right up, not a peep coming from her the whole way back. It’s not like she isn’t afraid, upset, angry , either. Hawke could very well be dead. Probably is. Though Scarlett had insisted it be Alistair to leave with Kathima, it doesn’t sit right in her stomach to have agreed, to have left her behind. Maybe if they’d tried harder, worked together, they could’ve found another way, another… Something .
Instead, she’s here, the weight of another loss on her shoulders–another widow, another sisterless brother… This weight is almost too heavy to carry. Kathima feels as though she’s carrying hundreds of pounds of regret with her. And… Isn’t she?
Days on end of travel does not do well for her, staying so silent. She wants to talk, wants to explain how she feels and lament and cry and hold someone, but… Everyone seems so preoccupied with themselves, which… She can’t blame them for. Once more, the Herald of Andraste must be an unbreakable beacon of faith and strength.
Not even Arzy, her port in these storms, wants to talk to her, or touch her, and… She understands, even if it kills her. She aches alone at night, barely sleeping, and she gives reassuring smiles in the morning. She wonders if Arzy is just politely waiting to leave her at a more opportune time, or if she really does just need the time to herself. She’s not sure it’s her place to wonder at all, but... Kathima wouldn’t blame Arzy if she didn’t trust her anymore.
Kathima is not sure she even trusts herself. It’s not like anyone really trusts her , anyway. They trust the Herald. The Inquisitor. They don’t trust Kathima . They don’t trust the girl who still cries all of the time, the girl who is so afraid of being hurt that it’s exploitable , the girl who is carefree and loves to live her life at the tops of trees. They don’t trust the girl who accidentally stumbled in on a world-altering disaster, they only trust the woman who stumbled out of it by Andraste’s hand. They trust the woman Kathima could be–the Herald, the Inquisitor, a hero, a prophet’s song–but they do not understand that she is no more than a scared little girl.
But if they want the Herald of Fucking Andraste, the fucking Inquisitor, a damn hero, a bloody tune to hum to, they will get one. What Kathima wants is irrelevant, she’s learned. Her judgements, they hold weight. Her wishes do not. She needs to learn to separate them and getting rid of loose ends is a great way to start. She is a tool. Nothing more.
Still… The road is no place to have that kind of discussion, to break Arzy’s heart. To ask her why she even loves someone as foolish as her in the first place. To tell her to pursue what’s real, what’s right in front of her, what she deserves. And… Maybe Kathima is overreacting. She hopes to everything there is that she is reading too much into it. That Arzy just needs time. The road is no place for any of the emotions (and wounds) any of them are dealing with right now, and… Kathima hates that they aren’t just back at Skyhold where they so desperately need to be, for every single second she is not there.
This feeling alone is what carries her forth–knowing that not only will the people who are physically hurt get the treatments they desperately need, she will get the emotional release she so badly needs when she is alone. When they finally make it through the mountains and reach the bridge leading up to Skyhold, Kathima breaks off from the group into a run. She doesn’t care. The tears she’s been fighting–for well, she isn’t sure how long, but a while –start to well up in her eyes, and she wants to be alone when she breaks.
As soon as the door to her quarters is closed, she begins to cry–really cry, anyway, the tears had started falling some way up the stairs, and the Creators only know how much her face had given away beforehand. She manages to get all of her windows and balcony doors shut before the sobs really begin to tear through her chest, which is good. Kathima falls to the floor, not in a dramatic display but in a pathetic heap, weeping into her hands. She tries to hold back the sounds that rip through her, she really does, but it doesn’t take long before the weeping turns into wailing .
It’s there she stays to cry for far longer than she thinks herself allowed, just shaking and sobbing as hard as her little body will allow, until her cries finally start to subside. Partially from exhaustion, and partially because Kathima becomes more and more aware that these are not her tears to cry. Eventually, she composes herself enough to stand and throw her armor to the side, to put on something resembling clothing, to wrap a blanket around her shoulders, to curl up in the corner with a book she’s been meaning to read.
She gets through maybe two pages before she hears a distant knock. She walks to the top of the stairs, then calls down, “who is it?”
“Josephine.”
Kathima walks down the stairs to open the door herself, instead of just calling for her to come in. Josephine thanks her with a small smile, and holds out a mug of tea.
Everything in Kathima tells her to turn it down, she doesn’t deserve it, but she’s got a feeling that’s the same part of her that’s nagging at her to break up with the love of her life, so she ignores it and she takes the mug. Josephine is good at diplomatically bending the truth and pretending to like people, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to lie to Kathima’s face like that. “Thank you,” she hums. “This is… Very kind of you.”
“It is the least I can do,” Josephine hums. “You look like you could use some company and alone time equally. Please, let me know which it is?”
“I… Want to be alone,” Kathima admits, “but… But I shouldn’t be. Will you come sit with me for a while?”
“Absolutely.”
Kathima leads the way up the stairs, and Josephine carefully follows. Kathima walks out to the balcony after unlocking the door she’d closed in her hysterics, and she balances the mug on the fence as she leans on it, overlooking Skyhold. Josephine does about the same, though her mug stays in her hand. Kathima realizes how bad it could be to drop hers from so high, so she, too, holds onto it after.
The air is crisp and clean and exactly why Kathima likes being up so high. As much as she hates how fancy her room is, she loves it for that. She inhales deeply, then exhales a long sigh.
“I can imagine you are… Quite upset,” Josephine starts. “Though I’m sure that is not even the beginning of it. I just want to offer my companionship. Whether you want me to listen or distract you is up to you.”
“I… Don’t know what I need,” Kathima divulges in a whisper. “I feel like such a useless child, coming up here to cry when… When…” She gestures with the hand not holding her tea to Skyhold’s courtyards. “So much is happening down there. Every day.”
“So, go down there and get your hands dirty.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Josephine chuckles. “ Everyone down there could always use help. The healers, the merchants, the barkeeps, the soldiers. Everyone. You just have to know where to look. I think you, personally, would be most effective with the healers, though. They’ve been running low on elfroot salves, and you’ve just brought in many still wounded from Adamant. There are definitely hands needed down there.”
“You’re… So right,” Kathima looks at her with a soft smile. “Thank you. I should… Get down there and help.”
“Not yet,” Josephine shakes her head, raising her mug. “Drink your tea first. Let the ginger and chamomile calm you down a little. You’re shaking, honey.”
“R-Right,” Kathima whispers. She turns and sinks to a seated position with her back against the fence. Josephine kneels next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, and squeezes it. Kathima brings the mug to her lips and takes a hesitant but eventually deep drink of the tea that was cooled by the mountain air.
“Good,” Josephine hums. “You keep doing that. Do you want me to stay?”
Kathima nods, closing her eyes as the tea settles in her throat. It feels nice. Josephine settles next to her, and takes a sip of her own tea. “Thank you,” Kathima says after a while. “How did you know I needed this?”
“There are plenty of eyes and ears around here, as much as we try to hide our true selves, we are seen,” Josephine hums.
“So, then… People saw me crying,” Kathima mutters, hanging her head in defeat.
“Just a few. But… It is not only that. When I heard what happened… I just figured you’d need a friend.”
“Thanks,” Kathima whispers. “I did. I do.”
“I will stay here as long as you’d like me to,” Josephine replies.
Kathima nods, and in silence, the two of them drink their tea. Eventually, though, Kathima wants to get up and on her feet, so she does. She helps Josephine stand after that, and Josephine takes Kathima’s mug from her.
“I’m going to get changed,” Kathima says, decisively, “and go help with those salves and wounded.”
“Good,” Josephine smiles softly. “You know where to find me if you need me. Oh, and… You may want to look in a mirror, first.” She parts from the room after a moment more of lingering, one more kind smile.
Kathima is confused until she does look into a mirror. Her eyes are puffy and what little makeup she’d put on this morning to hide that she’s barely been sleeping is streaked down her cheeks. She sighs, finds something to clean her face off with, and then begins to dress properly. She puts on a jacket and a scarf over her clothes, then slides on a pair of boots. She heads down the stairs and she walks out to the tents where the wounded are.
“Hey,” Kathima says softly, once she has the healer’s attention. “Need any help?”
“Inquisitor? I’m sure you’re busy–”
“Please, no, I’m not,” she shakes her head. “I need to get my mind off of the things I’ve been busy with. So… Can I help?”
“Sure. You’ve got healing magic, right?”
“Yes.”
“What about your practical skills?”
“I know a great deal.”
“Good. I assume you helped at Adamant?” Kathima nods, and the healer continues, “you did good work. As far as triage goes, we have a few who just came in from scouting. Bandits caught them on the side of the road, but we luckily didn’t lose anyone. Those two over there, the stitches on their wounds are as good as nothing if they get infected before they get a chance to even close. The human was fine, but the elf was a little uncomfortable with the stitches. Be gentle, and… Well, get to work.”
“Thank you,” Kathima nods, moving to do just that.
It’s where she feels most useful, healing. It’s what she does in combat, and it’s what she’ll do now.
“Hello,” Kathima says, sinking down onto her knees between the first two men she needs to heal. The human sits cross-legged, and the elf lies flat on his back.
The elf just whines unintelligibly, but the human sits up more, straightening his back. “Inquisitor?”
“Yes,” Kathima hums. “I hear you’ve a nasty wound that needs some help. May I?”
“Please,” he holds out his arm to show a laceration on the outside of it.
“Bit of a sting, okay?” Kathima is gentle to take his arm in her left hand, and she uses her right to bring forth the tiniest bit of a glow, something to speed along the healing process just enough that there is no risk of the wound reopening or easily getting infected. “There,” she hums. “Sorry if that hurt.”
“Hurt a lot less than getting the wound,” he smiles sadly. “Thanks.”
“Of course. You should be good to go.” Kathima then turns to the other man, who seems a bit more dazed than the first. “May I see your wound?”
“On my leg,” he groans.
“What else is troubling you?”
“N-Nothing.”
“No, there’s something,” Kathima hums. “You’re green and your pupils are dilated. Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re not sure, then?”
“I don’t remember.”
Kathima’s frown deepens. “You don’t remember?”
“I blacked out for a minute. When I fell. Or maybe I fell because I blacked out. I don’t know.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Never. I think… The pain was just too much.”
“Alright,” Kathima whispers. She’s not one to tell a soldier they’re not fit for the job, but… Well, Cullen is. “What’s your name?”
“Zain,” he murmurs.
“Okay, Zain,” Kathima smiles, a reassuring little thing. “I’m going to heal that wound for you, now. It’s going to hurt, I won’t lie. But you can handle it, right?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Take my hand,” Kathima holds out her left, and he puts his hand in hers. With her right hand, she reaches down to the wound, and as she does, says, “you squeeze as hard as you need.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Alright. I’m going to start now. This wound is pretty big, so it may take me a moment.” He just nods, so Kathima starts. He grinds his teeth and squeezes Kathima’s hand harder than she thinks she’s ever felt it squeezed, but she manages to get the wound not only closed but fully healed. This is someone who would not admit to having an infection, she can tell, so she needs to just… Close that wound fully, even if it causes Zain to curse in pain. When she lets up on the magic, she says, “there,” and Zain practically collapses against the ground as his muscles relax.
“Th-Thank you,” he whimpers, even though it’s obvious he’s still in a great deal of pain.
“Your head is hurting you,” Kathima says simply. It is no longer a question, but an observation.
He just nods.
“Okay,” Kathima hums. “I’m going to check for lacerations. Do you think you could lift your head?”
With great effort, he does, and she feels around on his head until he winces and whimpers loudly. She spot she touches has a bump, but there is no blood. Better than it could be. “Okay, you can put your head down again. I’m going to get you something that will help with the pain, but it’s going to taste awful. You think you can keep that down?”
“I… Honestly don’t know.”
“You need to lay on your side, then,” Kathima says softly. She helps him to roll onto his uninjured leg (which conveniently faces him away from any other people), and says, “I’m going to get that potion.”
He just nods, eyes slipping shut. She stands up and slips into to the medical supply tent to grab what she needs, and the healer nonchalantly says, “the stitch kits are on the other side of the tent,” as Kathima roots through the herbs.
“I know,” Kathima responds. “The elf with the leg wound, Zain, he’s concussed. It’s bad enough it’s nauseating him, so I’m going to try and counteract some of the swelling with this,” she holds up the small pouch of herbs she holds.
“Good catch.”
“You need more hands here,” Kathima says simply. It is, again, not a question, but an observation. “You’re going to miss things like that, being the only healer. You need more hands.”
“...You are right,” she sighs.
“I know I am. I will arrange for that, okay? In the meantime, you send someone for me if you get overwhelmed and I’m here. I don’t want things like concussions flying under the radar.”
“Understood, Inquisitor.”
Kathima takes a moment to mix the ingredients together, then grabs an empty bottle, a heating flask, and tongs. She quietly leaves the tent and crouches next to the fire. After emptying the contents of her mortar into the flask, she pours some water in from her waterskin. Then, holding the flask with the tongs, she places the bottle in the fire. As the herbs dissolve, she gently swishes everything around inside of the flask. Once it is heated to her satisfaction, she balances the empty bottle on the ground, pours the contents of the flask into it, and then fills it the rest of the way with lukewarm water. Carefully, she picks the bottle up by its neck, and she swirls everything around inside once it is corked. She gives it a shake or two, then cleans up her supplies before bringing the potion to Zain, whose eyes are closed as he breathes shakily.
“Hi,” Kathima says gently, kneeling close to him again. “How do you feel now?”
“I’m…” He trails off. “Scared.”
“That’s okay,” Kathima whispers. “What are you afraid of?”
“T-That was my first mission, ever. I screwed up so bad.”
“No you didn’t,” Kathima shakes her head. “You were all ambushed.”
“S-Still, I could’ve–”
“There are a lot of things all of us could have done better in our pasts, Zain. Now all you can do right now is heal,” she speaks gently, but surely. Her words attempt to resonate within herself, but the nagging feeling that says ‘ that doesn’t apply to you–you killed Hawke ’ stops the sound from echoing too much. “Drink this potion, it will help, I promise.”
He nods slowly, even if he makes a disgusted face looking at it.
“It’s just some herbs,” she insists. “I know it looks gross. Plug your nose.”
Zain carefully takes the potion from Kathima, plugs his nose, and then does his best to down it. He gets a few sips in before he has to stop to gag, but he manages to get the whole thing down without throwing up, and for that, Kathima is grateful.
“Good, good,” Kathima smiles sadly.
“I’m going to get fired, aren’t I?” He frowns.
“I think the proper word is discharged ,” Kathima admits, “but… No. You aren’t. I will make sure of that. I don’t think you’re fit for duty, though, da’len. I believe you’d do much better helping out elsewhere. Somewhere less risky, somewhere where you can still make a difference.”
“I… Where?”
“Here,” she smiles softly.
“I don’t know the first thing about healing.”
“So you will learn. Once you are healed yourself, I will show you the basics of healing. You can handle a little blood, at least, right?”
“I can handle blood. I just can’t handle being the one bleeding.”
“You’re far less likely to get stabbed in a profession where daggers and swords aren’t involved, then.”
“That’s… True.”
“So?”
“I’ll… You’ll really show me how to heal? Aren’t you… Busy?”
“I need some time off to rest some wounds I got myself,” she admits. She doesn’t need to mention they’re emotional (save for the laceration on her back from an unfortunately placed attack). “So I’ll be at the keep for a while. It shouldn’t take me long to give you the basics of first aid, and you’ll have what you need to help out.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? Shouldn’t you just… Cast me out?”
“Nobody gets left behind,” Kathima smiles sadly. “Not if I can help it.”
Zain grins. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”
“My name is Kathima,” she hums. “Now, you rest up, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you, Kathima .”
She hums a pleased little sound as she smiles, then she stands. She makes her way to the healer’s tent to relay the news to relieved ears. After that, she starts towards Cullen’s office, though… She admittedly takes the long way, wanting a few minutes to compose how she’s going to speak to him. She lets herself in while knocking on the door.
“Hello, Inquisitor,” Cullen says from his spot at his desk, rooting through some papers. “Is there something you need?”
“Yes, actually. I wanted to speak about our recruits.”
“Oh?”
“Some of them… Well, one of them, anyway, but I could imagine there are more…” She trails off, trying to figure out how to phrase this. “I just helped a young soldier with wounds he should not have gotten on such a simple scouting mission. His name is Zain. I’m reassigning him to help with the healer. But… I don’t think I’m going to stop there, Cullen. You know just as well as I do that some people join up with the wrong intentions. Not that they’re bad people, but they want to be heroes, or they had no choice, or… There’s just so many reasons. And I’m not saying all of those people should be reassigned, believe you me, I know some people just need to be humbled. But… Some people just aren’t ready. Part of being a leader is admitting that, right?”
“Absolutely,” Cullen agrees. Good. That makes this… Easier.
“So, I need you to do that. You tell me when we have recruits that you just don’t think should make the cut. Be honest with yourself. I know having troops saves lives, but admitting when someone shouldn’t hold a sword does, too. I’m not accusing you of anything , Cullen, okay? I know you’re good at what you do. But I also know you’re good enough at what you do to recognize that some people aren’t . Some people aren’t made for it, and that’s okay. They’ll save more lives making salves and potions than they will going out and dying for no reason. Those who are really willing to make that sacrifice? Those should be the people out on the field.”
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do. By all means, I implore you to find areas for the strengths of those unfit. The Inquisition certainly is not lacking in need . But make sure you don't hinder the ones who are truly capable on the field too.”
“No, no,” Kathima shakes her head. “This isn’t all to say that I’m cherrypicking from your recruits. I trust you to make that judgement. I trust you to send people to me when they need to be reassigned. I also trust you to normalize that within your ranks–to let people know it is not shameful to be a medic or even a fucking chef if they want. People should be working where they will be most efficient.”
Cullen smiles, then holds his right hand out to her. She reaches and shakes his hand, smiling, too. “I appreciate this, Inquisitor. Not just the reassurance that I don’t have to turn people away entirely, but the consideration you’ve shown both me and the Inquisition’s recruits.”
Kathima nods as she pulls her hand away, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Cullen. Compassion should be our first priority within our ranks. I wish it could be our priority entirely , but unfortunately, we are committed to being a force of nature. Still… Even the worst of floods offer relief to soil too dry to grow life. Rebuilding will come when it can. For now… We do what we must.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Cullen agrees.
“I’ll talk to you later, then.”
“Any time.”
Kathima leaves quietly, closing the door behind her as she does. Up in the battlements, all of her problems seem so small. She stands and just watches over the mountains for a while, allowing her mind to wander to Arzy. She sighs. She needs to offer Arzy–and herself –the compassion she offers to everyone else. She shouldn’t go into their next conversation with the intention to ask something that would just hurt her. Why would Kathima sit there and argue that she is unlovable when Arzy looks at her as though she is a shining star? She’s obviously lovable. Everyone is. She’s always believed that. So why is she, of all people, special? She’s not. She’s not chosen by Andraste, nor is she chosen by fate, but she is chosen by Arzy. Arzy made, and makes , the conscious choice to love Kathima every day. Why should she squander that kind of deliberate love by thinking she is undeserving of it? Kathima loves Arzy with the exact same purpose. Is that not enough?
A distant, inconsistently repetitive whacking sound takes her out of her train of thought, originating from the courtyard. She raises an eyebrow and heads towards the source of the sound, and stops at the top of the steps when she sees–and hears –the source.
“You want to call me a coward?! You’re the one asking to be hit with a stick to get over what? A little trip to the Fade?” This angry voice comes from a very flushed and angry looking Arzy, holding some kind of staff with both hands that she’d just very obviously hit Iron Bull with, and is rearing up to do so again.
Bull begins, “better than–” then is interrupted by a grunt as she hits him. He finishes, “moping, like you.”
Arzy retaliates , “I’m not moping!” She hits him again.
Kathima wonders if she should step in, but… She’ll admit, she knows Bull can take it, and Arzy probably needs to get this out.
“Not anymore, thankfully.”
“I’m not scared of some fucking demon !”
With that, Kathima focuses on the steps as she walks down them. Not that she had a good view of them, anyway. She’s quiet, giving Arzy and Bull their space, but she does lean on the railing after reaching the bottom, to keep watching as Arzy continues. She gives a soft smile and wave when Bull acknowledges her, and then again when Arzy does. She doesn’t move, though, figuring it’s better they work out whatever they’re doing first. She’s silent, keeping to herself as they do, and when Arzy approaches, she can’t help but give Arzy the same smile she always gives her when she’s close enough to make out those beautiful eyes of hers.