Chapter Text
I.
There’s an itch digging in the back of Cahiral’s mind, a warning, something...blurred and distant, difficult to make out, to remember. Her body throbs, sore and weak, pins and needles dancing on her arms and legs and stinging as they crawl up her spine.
Was she drugged? Were they found out? Where was—damn why did her hand hurt so much?
A green light flashed somewhere in her periphery, making her eyes burn, flinching away from the source, her sharp gasp causing a sudden shift in the room, like collective hackles raising on edge. The familiar shriek of blades unsheathed makes her ears ring, difficult to pinpoint where the sounds were coming from.
As it would turn out, from all around her. Once the ringing in her head dimmed enough to open her eyes she saw the soldiers, three, with their blades drawn, faces hidden by helmets and scarves. Their breath just white puffs in the cold air and steely eyes narrowed at her. They weren't passive, their gazes accuse her of something, given all the simmering anger boiling just below the surface. One order and they’d run her through, no hesitation.
"Get the seeker." One voice growls and a guard steps away, letting his neighbor take his place, before turning and fleeing the room for, she guesses, her interrogator. The remaining two don’t say any more, on their toes, waiting for her to give them an excuse to put their blades to use.
Her skull still feels like cracking and when she shifts she notices the weight in her arms isn't just an effect of her body. Metal cuffs warmed by her own heat rest uncomfortably on her wrists, removing any use she could get out of them—though the bar itself wedged between would make a decent choke hold. The cell floor was of course uncomfortable, rough stone scratching against her feet, knees beginning to chill and the cold seeped into her bones now that she was conscious enough to appreciate it.
"Fenhedis" she swears, shifting on her knees and grimacing at the stiffness surging up her back, ache seeping into her shoulders and neck. How long had she been here? A couple hours? She can’t hear anything outside the cell, was the conclave over already? They must’ve blown their cover before they could get any good information, damn keeper wasn’t going to be happy about that. More so if the clan would have to prepare for two funerals instead of none. Cahiral wouldn’t put it past these humans, whoever they are, to kill their prisoners.
She’s halfway through surmising a plan to break out and find Rorie when the thick wooden door to the cell opens, creaking wearily on its hinges, hitting the wall with an echoing slam and revealing a woman with a severe scowl. It makes Cahiral’s skin crawl. The guard who ran to fetch the woman trailed behind her, giving the others a hand signal, making them take a step back, sheathing their swords and giving the interrogator and her prisoner space.
Cahiral studies the… Templar? She certainly wasn’t a sister or mother of the chantry, and the elf wasn’t adept in human insignias such as the eye emblazoned on the breast plate. What had the guards called her? A seeker? Some other human organization, surely. Either way, Cahiral shifts on the balls of her feet, ready to move if the need arises.
There’s an etched scar in the woman’s cheek and a polished sword at her hip so she’s seen action and knows how to handle herself. Ready to handle Cahiral in a way that will get her the answers she wants.
A smart reply worth a smack is on Cahiral’s tongue before the woman speaks up, accent foreign though it sounded vaguely Orlesian, a twinge of something else beneath it.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.” She paces, sending all of Cahiral’s senses on high alert when she stops behind her, hanging in her blind spot. Even though she knows it’s an interrogation tactic, it works, the hair on the back of her neck standing on edge. She tightens her jaw, steeling her glare when the woman circles back around to her front, that scowl deepening when her subject doesn’t immediately answer.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? All the lives you’ve taken?”
“Lives?” Cahiral blurts before she can school herself, “What are you talking about?”
“So she speaks!” A snarl curls the seeker’s lip, baring her teeth “The conclave is—” she sucks in a trembling breath, “The conclave is destroyed… whatever you and yours did, it killed them all. You and your friend were the only survivors.”
Friend. That’s the word Cahiral latches on to, everything else can wait. “Where is he? Where’s my—?” Brother is too close to home, would give her interrogator something to hold over her, something to threaten. Not that the fierceness of her expression gives her away, “—friend.”
Her interrogator sneers, shaking her head and turning on her heel, back to her bound prisoner and waving her hand in dismissal, “He is safe… for now-“
“Cassandra!” One of the guards shouts in alarm, almost drowned out by the snarl that makes the seeker twist back around in time for the elf to ram into her, the poorly aimed head butt cracking against her teeth and making her senses sing. The seeker struggles to get space between them before she manages to launch her elbow in to the prisoner’s face, throwing her back on to the floor; the healers said she wouldn’t have the strength to do anything drastic, dammit.
“Get back, get back!” Cassandra shouts, blocking one of the guards from attacking the downed elf, shoving him away. The other two follow orders quickly, stepping back outside the torch light, waiting for the next excuse to launch into action. Wolves, the lot of them.
Cassandra wipes her mouth, tasting blood from the split in her lip, minor bruising, nothing fatal. The prisoner however was worse for ware, already weak, arms trembling as she picks herself back up, nose cracked and bleeding as she turns a fiery glare up at Cassandra, opening a mouth of bloody teeth.
“I don’t know you.” She growls low in her throat, baring her teeth, “I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done, but don’t you dare-AH” Searing pain suddenly shoots up her arm, that green light from before flaring all around her, the bones in her hand try pulling themselves apart, her hand racked with violent spasms until it suddenly flickers out and she gasps, breathing hard and letting her arms drop, the awkward cuffs clanking against the stone.
Cassandra considers her for a moment, immediate anger diminished, figuring her prisoner's been punished enough for that foolish attack.
“My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, you are my prisoner and you will answer my questions.” She grabs Cahiral’s arm plagued by the glowing shard, gauntleted fingers digging in bruises, “Now explain this.”
Cahiral grimaces, trying to wrench away, but the—the thing in her hand has drained her even more than she was, allowing this Cassandra her small victory.
“I don’t know what that is or how it got there” she gasps borderline strangled whimper. Every breath feels like fire and she seethes when Cassandra releases her.
“You’re lying!”
“Elgar’nan ma halam”
Cassandra sneers, the foreign language making her itch, “No matter, we will figure out what it is you’ve done, the only reason you’re still here is because we need you.” At that the room freezes to a stop, shocked at Cassandra’s own confession.
“I—never mind. We’ll get more out of you once we’re through with the other one.” Cassandra quickly turns away to hide her blush, gesturing to the guard who first retrieved her, “Watch her—don’t touch her.” she orders and stalks out of the cell, slamming the door shut. Maker preserve her.
Cahiral watches the Pentaghast go, blinking in surprise and looking down to her wounded hand, at the gnarled green break in her skin. It sparks slightly between the cracks like lightning, but it doesn’t burn. Instead it feels… bottomless, like a cold abyss. Whispers slither up her arm, pleading, promising—she jerks away and closes her eyes, shaking her head and clenching her jaw till her teeth ache. Later.
She’d think about that later, right now Rorie was safe, somewhere, and she’d fooled her interrogator into revealing prime information. They needed her, and most likely, they needed Rorie too—whoever ‘they’ were and for whatever reason. The guards couldn’t touch her, ordered explicitly not to.
So she wonders what would happen if she screamed.
The first thing Rorie notices, besides the absolutely roaring headache, is that he’s lying flat on his back on a stone floor that digs into his skin like gravel. It’s cold, settling in his lungs as he takes a deep inhale and he shoots up to cough violently. His throat heaves, choking on air as if he hadn’t breathed it for weeks. A bitter taste close to a health potion sits thick on his tongue—had there been an attack at the conclave? The last thing that comes to mind is the curling of Cahiral’s hand on his elbow and... where is she?
His eyes open only to darkness, torchlight flickering above him in a brazier, the gentle crackle of consumed wood accompanying the silence of shadows—every small sound was too loud, the wheezing in his lungs, a creaking door far off, whispers, so many whispers just behind him, above, all around him. Then, all at once, they become muted, like screaming through water, only leaving the burning in his hand, growling like fire and… glowing?
“Good, you’re awake” a lilting voice says from the shadows and the whispers cut off instantly, making him stiffen and look up. A woman steps forward, half cast in darkness like it makes a home on her pale skin, calculating blue eyes watching him.
“We were wondering when you would,” her hands are folded behind her back as she walks, pacing around him, the chainmail she wears gently swishing with every step, “I have questions, answer them honestly if you would, I’ll know when you’re lying.” Her voice circles him, then suddenly she’s in front of him, moving like darkness, making him jump, a swear on his tongue that he bites down on.
The shadows must be playing tricks on him. Might be the fact that his vision blurs on every painful inhale, that the walls are closing in and his wrists chafe on the sharp cuffs digging into his skin. The shadows taunt him on the edge of the firelight, the woman's armor flickering, molten metal sliding past him and making his stomach twist in nausea, panic rising in his lungs. He’s trapped.
Trapped or not, he swallows to calm his racing heart, reaching out to his magic and relieved when he finds the familiar lull of it in his veins, a small comfort in the face of all these unknowns. He raises his chin and sets his jaw, giving the woman cloaked in black all the indignation he feels writhing in his stomach.
She smiles, knowingly, and leans away, lifting a hand like a signal to unseen figures. That's when he notices there's more than just the two of them in the room. Metallic footsteps pace then step forward to light the other torches, bathing the cell in warm fluttering light, illuminating the shadows as she gives up her charade.
Three soldiers surround him, swords at their hips, protection against a helpless prisoner. Helpless as far as they are concerned. He pulls his magic into his fingertips, fire in his chest and lightning curled in his throat waiting to be spoken. If they were going to kill him, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“The conclave is gone,” that brings his attention back to his interrogator, “Everyone who attended is dead, everyone except for you, that is.” Everyone? But… hadn’t Cahiral been right behind him? She’d found him in the crowd, hauled him off into a corner to argue the merits of leaving a damn note and running off to play spy.
Her words, not his.
That argument comes back to him so clearly, he remembers the snow on her cowl, her fierce eyes absolutely incensed and her fingernails digging into his skin as she pulled him away from the proceedings—he still feels the pin pricks of her touch, ghosting the crescent shaped bruises. Then there's running, someone chasing him? But everything else is… everything else is blank, and it hurts to think any harder on it.
But Rorie would remember something like that, an attack that would take Cahiral from him. He can’t ignore the sudden emptiness plummeting in his stomach, a swallowing cold that threatens to consume him, freezing his breath as it leaves his lungs—it’s not possible, she wouldn’t do that to him... she wouldn't. If anything he'd be the one doing it to her, dying on her watch. This though, this is impossible, it has to be, and it shows on his face.
“You don’t believe me.” The woman observes, having watched his thoughts run past him in quick succession. His conclusion is stout disbelief, which is surprising to say the least. She pauses as she thinks, all calm and collective, sure of herself in as much a way Rorie isn't.
He's about to tell her off, tell her she's lying and there's no way when a fierce pain coiled in his hand suddenly snaps and he doubles over, gasping for breath when it’s stolen from him. The mark on his hand, its grown, wide and fierce like a gaping maw, sparks of green light shooting through his veins and there’s a sharp scathing pain, too many teeth piercing into him. As quickly as it comes, it’s gone, a dull throbbing in its place radiating from his hand up to his jaw, pounding in his ears and making his bones ache.
He’s left gasping, pressing his forehead into the cool floor, sweat beading his skin as the green light sputters out. It’s taken everything out of him, trembling and breathing hard, the world pushing down on him, unable to pull himself back up—one of the soldiers grabs him by his shoulder and hoists him to his knees none too gently. He tries to swear at the soldier but his throat closes on the word and all he manages is a raspy growl.
“Can you explain what that is?” the woman frowns at him, gesturing to the mark on his hand, “What it does?”
He shoots her a look and a scowl of his own, “No.” her brows shoot up at his hoarse voice finally breaking his silence, past his tumbling breath, “I can’t.”
“You won’t?”
“I can’t” he snaps, annoyed, cradling his hand against his chest, the bulky cuffs wringing against his wrists already red and raw.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Hmph, that makes two of us.” he snorts, “You’re lying, there's no way... you’re just trying to dig up a worthless confession for some crime against your kind. Blame the knife-ear, right?” he spits, “That's how it always is.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, “Ah...you think this is because you are Dalish.”
“Isn’t it?”
“If only it were as simple!” Her voice lowers, filled suddenly with dark emotion, not rage, or frustration, but something far too close to devastating sorrow, “Maybe you truly don't remember, but the conclave is gone! There was an explosion at the heart of it, everyone there perished, Templars, mages, the divine. You are our only survivor, our only suspect. I can protect you for only so long before the people demand justice—” she’s cut off when a scream pierces the air.
It echoes off the walls, the nearly forgotten soldiers stiffening, eyes wide, and the woman immediately whirls on her heel to run out the door without explanation except an order told to the nearest soldier, “Don’t touch him.”
The shrieking persists, hitting him like a wave when the door's flung open, hope swelling through him faster than he can clamp it down. He knows that voice, hoarse and wounded, and it stings something fierce in his heart when his mind clicks and he recognizes Cahiral. As in supposed to be dead, Cahiral.
Anger quickly replaces the hope, burning through him, his expression darkening as he drags his magic to the surface. It’s a chore, but he manages. Ice clings to his skin, his breath hanging in the air in a shock of cold, barely catching in the withering torchlight. There was his friend, his sister, screaming like a sylvan on fire. Whoever these people were, they’d pay for this. Frost settles on the ground beneath him, veins of ice surge across the stone like roots through the cracks, spreading like blood in water.
The first soldier to notice the ice jumps back when it touches her boot, a sharp gasp wrenched from her mouth, panic making her voice crack, “Magic—!”
Leliana’s breathing hard as she runs, more from panic than exertion. By Andraste’s light what was Cassandra doing? She follows the shrieking straight to where the seeker was supposed to be interrogating her suspect, not torturing her.
She comes upon the cell, but Cassandra is standing outside the door, looking in, jumping when Leliana practically appears behind her, “Maker’s breath Cassandra-!”
“Leliana! What are you-?” Cassandra spins to face the left hand of the Divine, her eyes wide in surprise. There’s a cut on her lip that hadn’t been there the last hour they’d seen each other, but Leliana has more to worry about than that mystery.
“What are you doing? Your soldiers are-“
“They haven’t touched her, Leliana!” Cassandra snaps at the accusation “See for yourself.”
She gestures to the door where the screaming pauses only briefly for a deep inhale before a renewed scream bounces off the walls and makes Leliana’s ears positively ring.
The spy does as Cassandra suggests, leaning on the door to peer through the bars. She finds their other suspect kneeling on the ground, head thrown back and teeth bared in a hoarse scream, the soldiers around her staring at her in shock, but none of them have their weapons drawn—the mystery shard grafted in her hand isn’t even flaring.
“What is she doing?” Cassandra grimaces, covering one of her ears and raising her voice over the sound.
Leliana studies Cassandra’s prisoner, narrowing her eyes when the elf pauses for breath and spots Leliana through the bars, her shriek stopping to allow her a devilish grin, mischief in her silver eyes, the light casting shadows on the hollows of her face, painting her in black and fire.
Understanding hits Leliana like a charging druffalo.
“Damn” she swears, turning away from the door, the screaming hasn’t picked back up again, though she suspects it’s only a matter of catching breath. The elf’s ruined Leliana’s interrogation, losing her advantage over her own prisoner, making him think he was the only one left—that edge had given her honest answers, though he wasn’t so forthcoming verbally, realizing he was the sole survivor had made him vulnerable.
Now though, now she wouldn’t get anywhere, if he was stubborn before he’d be doubly so now that he knows his kin is alive and kicking.
Or, screaming, as it were, the elf letting loose a wail as if she was writhing in pain.
Cassandra grabs Leliana by the arm, hauling her away from the cell, down the hall where they can speak and actually hear each other.
“She hasn’t given me anything.” she says, giving the cell door a withering scowl, “She claims she doesn’t know about the mark or where it came from.”
Leliana sighs, dropping her head into her hand, “Mine said just as much. He was… resistant… If I’d just had more time—” she’s broken off when a soldier comes running from the opposite direction, skidding in her haste, ice clinging to her boots?
The both of them jump when she shouts up the stairwell to the chantry above, “Templar! We need a Templar!” then spots the two of them standing just down the way. She flings her arm back to the cell of Leliana’s prisoner.
“H-he’s a mage!”
“Oh sweet Andraste” Leliana bemoans, reaching to stop Cassandra before she can move to assist, “We don’t know how the mark will react to your abilities, we need both of them if we’re going to do anything about the breach. Let me handle him.” Cassandra scowls but doesn’t argue, turning back to her prisoner’s cell, “I’ll quiet her—gently, Leliana don’t give me that look.” She growls, turning away from her colleague.
Leliana shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose to collect herself before turning to run back to her prisoner’s cell, praying to the Maker that the mage hasn’t done anything drastic. By all accounts, mage or not, he should’ve been too weak to do much at all. She’ll need to have a word with their healers after this.
The door is frozen shut when she arrives, the wood groaning as it warps to the cold, spears of ice stretching between the seams and frost glistening on the hinges.
“Help me-” she wheezes between breaths to the soldier that fetched her, throwing all her weight on the door. It takes them both running into it before it gives, splintering where it’s frozen most, wood crackling like glass.
His magic is weak, thinning veins desperate to pull some kind of power together, dipping into his reserves to find them less than useful. Instead he’ll settle for terrifying the living hell out of the soldiers surrounding him, shaping the ice to his will with what magic he has, crawling across the floor like a living thing slinking in the dark.
Rorie’s not sure what he intends to do with them, doesn’t really care. Fen’harel could take their souls for all he gives a shit about them. But the aching in his hand makes him falter, flickering and stealing his breath away—he can’t keep this up forever.
Then the door smashes in, flooding the room with light and the woman from before snaps at him, eyes wide and fierce, but not afraid.
“Enough!” She barks, the cold air making her words weak and wheezing.
“Stop that and I’ll take you to her.” She is quick to promise him exactly what he wants, which should raise all kinds of suspicious flags but he can’t find the energy to be anything more than relieved, and maybe even hopeful, much as his cynicism tries to stamp that down.
“If you’ve hurt her…” Rorie snarls, releasing his hold on the ice around him, letting it wilt in favor of preserving what little energy he has left. If they’ve tortured Cahiral for a hopeless confession then Elgar’nan as his witness they’d pay for it.
“She’s no worse than you, I promise.” The woman insists, gingerly picking her way down the steps, ice crackling and crumbling beneath her feet. He realizes Cahiral’s screaming has stopped, anxiety settling on his skin at the thought that her silence isn’t breathing.
He has to see for himself, so he allows his jailor to approach, releasing the chains that bind him to the floor and helping him to his feet. He grimaces at how he wobbles, how even her surprisingly gentle touch stings like the burn of snow. He hates it, feels like he’s been bled dry so much so that every function is a trial, everything from breathing to walking sending needles across his skin. His magic can bolster him for only so long and even then, his little ice display did him no favors.
If he leans too heavily on her, she doesn’t mention it, giving the soldiers an order to return to the Commander and aid him in the fighting. Had the conclave gone so poorly? Mages and Templars fighting on what was supposed to be neutral ground? If this woman was right, that there was an explosion like the one at the Kirkwall chantry, then all-out war wouldn’t be a far leap of judgment.
They’re halfway down a long stretch of cold corridor, empty cells on either side, when the thing in his hand starts flickering—he can feel it pulse in his grip, slithering claws tearing slowly across bones. He doesn’t realize just how woozy he is on his feet until he’s nearly collapsed, stumbling into the woman and unable to right himself. She gives him a look cross between worried and urgent, holding him up almost entirely on her own, pursing her lips and brow furrowing. She doesn't say anything, though clearly she wants to.
Rorie nearly manages to get back on his feet when a high pitched seething whine comes from an open cell door at the end of the hall and the mark flares back to life. He can feel it struggling against his fading strength, surging forward, trying to lead him onwards on fragile staggering steps, even with the hooded woman’s help.
He’s broken out into a cold sweat by the time they make it to the cell door and the mark flickers out with a snap, dying so quickly that it floods his body with relief. Half that relief might be at the sight of Cahiral, recovering from an identical mark that plagues her left hand.
She shakes, trembling from her own pain, dry gasping whimpers slipping from her throat. But when she looks up to see him she nearly jumps to her feet, weakness all but forgotten, her eyes wide and grin stretching her lips—blood on her teeth spilling from her nose making the woman holding him up gasp.
“Cassandra!” she turns a hardened glare at another woman standing there, likely the dealer of Cahiral’s own brand of interrogation. That woman throws her hands up in defense.
“She attacked me!” she begins to argue, but he ignores their heated bickering, relief making his limbs numb, or might be the cold, when he falters forward and Cahiral stands to lend him her shoulder to ease him down instead of collapsing on skinned knees.
“Lethallin” her voice is as hoarse as his, if not more so for her screaming. But it’s familiar, welcome, she’s a shred of safety in this catastrophe.
“Ah—ma serannas Mythal—ma eth? Dirthera melava suv?” she rattles off, desperate, eyes flickering over him, searching for any sign of harm inflicted on him.
“Lethallan” he snorts, shaking his head in exasperation, “Ame eth” he promises. Cahiral just fixes him with a disbelieving frown, “Ar tel harel”
He just brushes her off, wouldn’t be the first time she’s called him a liar, certainly won’t be the last, “Ma eth? Ma lin’al”
“Ras banal”
“Cahiral”
“Dir'vhen'an!” but she’s smiling despite her earnestness, laughing under her breath, seething at the wave of pain it brings. She’s paler than she should be and the smile barely reaches her eyes, tired and weary, deeper pain than just the physical seeping into her core.
She looks as bad as he feels… but there’s also no sign of torture besides the bloodied nose and he narrows his eyes at that.
“….why were you screaming?”
"Oh, right..." she bites her lip, looking away from him, "It... seemed like the best idea at the time."
"Elgar'nan—Cahiral! I thought they'd-" his throat stops on him and he sucks in a sharp breath, settling with a bitter scowl and flushed embarrassed cheeks.
Realization dawns on her, eyes widening "Ro... ir abelas I... didn't know where you were... They need us for—for something, I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn't even let her guards get the jump on me after I lunged at her so I figured-"
"Cahiral!" Rorie hisses, interrupting her and jerking away, scandalized.
"She threatened you." she squares her shoulders, fixing him with a stern glare. She doesn't hold the charade up for long, her resolve crumbling and she softens all at once. She leans forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder with a sigh cracking under the weight of the world.
He's never been entirely on board with the public displays of affection, especially here in front of strange shems, but... this was a special case, so he lets her, taking what comfort they can before they’re brought back into the fray.
“Vir eth” Cahiral mumbles, though it’s just sentiment at this rate. They’re both safe, for now, but not for long.
The searing green marks engrained in their hands flicker and hum. A warning before the marks would surely flare up in full force, glassing over like crystal and dying back down to the needling throb that is quickly becoming familiar.
"Do you know what it is?" she asks, her voice strangled, something in her throat making her waver.
“No” He sighs, unable to offer much in information or comfort. Their keeper hadn’t taught Rorie anything like this, no stories mentioned it, and none of the rare texts they came across had any kind of inkling to what power has taken hold of the both of them.
The cell’s gone quiet, their interrogators had stopped their quarreling, sniping remarks between heated breaths, and now watch the two of them carefully. The one with the scar on her cheek scowls, waiting, while the other analyzes them, searching for information in their actions, trying to determine who they are.
“Aval’var halam” Rorie murmurs grimly, straightening his back doubt how much his body just wants to collapse.
“Tel’sahlin” Cahiral snips back, peeved but it’s an argument for another time, instead turning her attention to the two women.
“You look like you have words for us, Cassandra” Cahiral taunts, sounding innocent enough, but the grin on her lips and defiance in her eyes makes the armored woman stiffen, biting a sharp remark back.
“Tell us what you know.” She demands, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword—not a threat, but both elves hone on the movement.
“That’s not going to be a long conversation” Cahiral replies, goading, lifting her chin in challenge, straightening her shoulders and making herself appear bigger, something she’s always done on the battlefield to garner the attention of the enemy. But here in this cell, it’s to keep the threat off Rorie and he notices immediately, giving his sister a narrowed look of annoyance for it.
Cassandra clenches her hands into fists, reaching the end of her patience, until Rorie’s interrogator places a gloved hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
“We need them.” She reminds her colleague sternly, taking her chance to step forward and lead the interrogation in her own fashion.
“Do either of you remember what happened? How this all began?” Rorie can tell she’s being earnest, honest, no deception like she had before, playing him to her advantage. No more parlor tricks or acts of deception.
“I…remember running” Cahiral is hesitant as she speaks, choosing her words carefully lest they be used against them, “There were things chasing me… us?” She glances at Rorie for reassurance, relieved when he nods.
It’s fuzzy, but he remembers, the sound of too many feet chasing him in the dark. He can’t remember Cahiral being there… but she must’ve been if their memories are so similar.
“There was a woman” he supplies after her pause, turning back to their jailors.
“A woman?” Cassandra seethes, beginning to pace impatiently, reminding Rorie of a horse chomping at the bit.
“She helped us—reached out to us but then…” he grimaces when a shrilling scream pierces his memories, shattering them into nonsense, and then going blank.
“Nothing.” Cahiral supplies, looking like she’s suffering a similar lapse of memory, bristling as if waiting for the accusations to start flying.
Cassandra huffs in disbelief, shaking her head and turning away, gesturing to the other woman, “We will have to handle this later—Leliana, go to the forward camp, I will take them to the rift.”
The woman of shadows—Leliana—scowls at the seeker, but nods, giving the cut on Cassandra’s lip a contemplative look, then their charges, both of whom had given them considerable grief.
“Maker willing it will work” she murmurs to Cassandra before turning on her heel, leaving without so much as a glance backwards, her footsteps fading into the darkness beyond the cell.
The soldiers, silent as ever, shift uncomfortably when Cassandra takes a ring of keys from her belt, kneeling before Cahiral and Rorie both. She unlocks the cuffs with a clatter of metal, securing Cahiral’s wrists first with the rawhide chord from Cassandra’s belt before moving to Rorie.
Cahiral allows the man-handling, grimacing but not resisting, asking instead, “What did happen?”
Cassandra scowls at her as she finishes tying off the bindings on Rorie’s raw wrists, the mage seething under his breath but otherwise silent. The seeker looks like she’s about to snap, all bitter words and angry accusations—but then she softens, replacing all that anger with something far more devastating.
Something too close to heartbreak.
“It… will be easier to show you.”