That one thin scar that cut through Etienne’s lips from when he got busted up in his first fight was Izzy’s absolute favorite. She found it added some intrigue to his handsome face. Even if he protested that it was the dumbest scar he’d manage to get, she still liked how charmingly roguish it made him look. Besides, it was impossible to miss the way he smiled when she’d press a kiss right over top of it.
His busted lip was far from his only scar. Each time Etienne returned from defending her honorable name, Izzy would lay him down in her bed and make him recount how he got each and every bruise. Most he didn’t remember, or chalked up to bumping into something while climbing, but there were a few dark and deliberate bruises from heavy punches that littered his ribs and made Izzy wince.
She kissed over them soft and slow. Though Etienne teased her for being a sap about it, she knew he didn’t mind. He gave her a small smile and let out a sigh of relaxation. It was nice, to be able to stop for a moment and catch his breath.
“Je t’aime.” He murmured, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair.
“Je t’aime aussi, mon beau faucon.” She replied quietly.
When he pulled his hand from her hair, she reached out to take it in hers. She brought his knuckles to her lips and kissed at the scrapes and bruises. When she finally let him go, he motioned for her to come cuddle up against him. They laid together in the last rays of the evening sun, watching the sky through windows and letting themselves breathe.
They were both still alive. Fuck the bruises, fuck the cuts, fuck all the battle wounds. They were both still alive, and that was all that mattered.
He winks at her just before lunging and lifting her into his arms as if she weighs nothing. The feeling gives her as much of a thrill as it did the first time he lifted her in the war room months before.
He carries her to her bed and throws her playfully onto her sheets. She bounces with a squeal. She’s never had the pleasure of seeing him so confident about wanting her. Perhaps he really did miss her desperately. How long has he been planning to take her this way, she wonders.
He begins stripping from his armor and Izzalea adores the sight. Layer by layer, he peels off his mantle, back and breastplates, gauntlets, bracers, and shirts until he is left barechested and grinning.
“Cullen,” Izzalea says in a throaty moan. “You surprise me.”
“Is this alright?” he asks, kneeling on the bed and leaning over her as she lies flat against the sheets.
“It’s more than alright. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
[Read Chapter 29 on AO3] or [Start from the Beginning]
-Izzalea-
The desert sun is hot and burning, even as it begins to set. Izzalea looks down at her ever darkening skin, her arms bare from discarding her tunics long ago. She should be protecting herself from the sun, but the days are so hot, and she sweats so much that she just cannot handle the touch of stinking, wet cloth anymore. She’s resorted to wandering around with the least amount of cloth she can get away with, loose sleeveless shirts with linen pants that she rolls up to her knees. She would refuse shoes, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that the stone is so bloody hot, so she fashioned together the lightest slipper-of-a-shoe she could dream up.
She wishes she could wear even less, but she’s still Inquisitor. She needs to be decent. But thankfully, in a keep made up of mainly fighters, there is an atmosphere of a brotherhood. A comradery that has helped her relax, even if just a little bit. No one gives her a second glance as she walks around, her brown skin showing and deepening under the sizzling sun. There are no faint-of-heart nobles poking around to be shocked and appalled at having just witnessed the Inquisitor’s unsheathed calves and forearms.
It’s the little things that are keeping her going and she has so precious few of those anymore. The lack of nobles squawking at her day in and day out is the silver lining to this entire wretched existence in which she’s found herself.
Izzalea leans on the walls on the ramparts and stares to the east. Adamant Keep is out there. It’s waiting.
She’d tried to talk to Clarel, she really did. She took a team to the fortress and called out for parley. As they approached the gates of the massive structure, however, arrows came raining down upon them. If it hadn’t been for a well timed barrier cast by Solas, she’d probably be dead.
Now, more Grey Wardens arrive at Adamant daily. Izzalea has scouts positioned outside the keep around the clock. Watching. Reporting.
Eerie lights can be seen in flashes from the center of the keep at night, and agents report fires of bodies being burned far from the keep’s walls. The dead are snuck out in the cover of darkness, taken far to another old ritual tower, and set ablaze. Clarel is definitely hiding what she is doing from her men.
People are being murdered for sacrifice every night . Corypheus’ demon army grows every night . And every night , Izzalea stares to the east, wishing she could stop it…
She will stop it, though. The Inquisition's ravens have been especially busy over the last two weeks, and now her army is marching across Orlias to meet her. They will stop this, together. They have to. There is no other alternative.
With the support of the Empress and the aid of Lady Seryl - who proved to be a very advantageous ally in supplying the Inquisition with new and stronger trebuchets - Izzalea’s army will lay siege on the fortress and stop the demon army by force.
Cullen is very confident that with their access to modern equipment, the walls of the ancient citadel will come crumbling down, giving them the ability to storm the keep and destroy Corypheus’ plans. She just hopes that the Wardens who’ve not been enslaved will see reason. She cannot stomach the idea of killing all of the Wardens in southern Thedas. No matter how misguided they are at this juncture, they are still Grey Wardens. They are still heroes.
Izzalea sighs as she stares into the dimming eastern sky. Cullen is out there. He is coming to her. She squeezes her eyes shut and mumbles a prayer to the Maker to keep him safe.
Amidst the endless letters sent by ravens, Leliana had slipped a note in one to warn Izzalea of Cullen’s condition.
“He is still functional, but his fatigue is worsening. He leans on the closest steady object whenever he stands and his skin is only growing more pekid. He tries to hide his weakening health, but he fails. I do not want you to be surprised when you see him.”
Cullen is deteriorating due to his lyrium withdrawals, and he is continuing to fight the battle alone. When he told her months ago that he’d stopped taking lyrium, he warned her that he could go mad or even die. She could tell quitting was extremely important to him, and encouraged him to stick to it. She’d hoped they could find a cure or something to help him, but she allowed her focus to fall. Now he’s growing sicker, and she can’t help him. He’s traveling across vast lands, he’s going to fight in a siege battle, and there is nothing she can do to bolster his strength.
If he dies, whether from the withdrawal or falling to someone’s blade due to his weakened state…
No.
She can’t think about that.
Cassandra agreed to watch Cullen, assess his progress - or lack thereof. She is a Seeker, if anyone knows whether or not Cullen can handle this, it will be her. They can meet before the battle and decide if he needs to stay behind, or stay in the very back while their army charges forward.
If he even makes it to her in the first place…
She scrunches her face and rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands. She has to stop thinking like that. The situation’s out of her hands right now. All she can do is pray that it won’t end in Cullen’s death. He will endure. He has to. Izzalea has enough to worry about without adding fears that the man she cares for may be taken from her.
The blasted mark on her hand decides that now is the time to spark and sputter, sending a jolt of bright energy against her face. Izzalea yelps and cringes from the pain. She forms a fist and considers smashing her stupid mark through the battlement walls. It hurts. A lot. It started its frequent pulsing as she entered the desert, and it’s only gotten worse as the days pass.
She’d hoped it would calm, hoped it was just a temporary fluke. At least mark isn’t growing, it’s just sparking, and ringing, and screaming at her all the Maker-damned time. She’s tried her best to hide it, because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s in pain. Her people can’t know she has a weakness.
She knocks her fist against the stone a few times as the stinging subsides, but she still hears its song in her ears. Her only break from the ringing is when she sleeps… if she sleeps. If it’s not the heat or green-glowing-torture keeping her awake, it’s her dreams. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to sleep. It’s become too much. She’s not completely sure if it’s him, or if it’s just nightmares. But it feels like it’s him, and it’s maddening. Night after night, since reaching Griffon Wing Keep, Corypheus has haunted her dreams.
She can’t see him, but she hears him. He taunts her. Twists her. Sets her soul on fire with anger. He threatens her and everything she holds dear. He won’t shut up. She screams that she’s not afraid, that he is revealing his fear of her by attacking her sleep.
Corypheus is nervous. He should be.
But the lack of rest is catching up to her. Her emotions are getting harder and harder to control. Every time she shuts her eyes he’s able dig past her defenses a little deeper, screw with her mind a little further. He’s trying to break her, and she’s terrified that it’s working.
So she doesn’t sleep. She barely eats. She just paces, and stresses, and writes to Skyhold.
Her mark flares up again and she yells out in frustration, punching the sandstone wall as she does.
“Inquisitor?” she hears Solas ask softly behind her.
Izzalea spins and blinks, trying to control her breathing and forcing her heart to stop beating like a hummingbird’s wings. She hadn’t heard him approach. “Solas,” she says, clutching her chest. Her nerves are so shot. She shouldn’t be this easy to sneak up on.
“You need to let me look at that,” he says and points to her fisted hand. It aches and green glows from between her fingers. “It’s been hurting you consistently for a while now. You aren’t hiding it from anybody.”
She grunts and tries to think of a lie, but she’s so tired, she just…can’t. Her shoulders slump forward as she places her hand in his palm, mark glowing and facing up.
“I was hoping it would just kind of…knock it off, eventually.” She sighs her words, shoulders slumping forward even more. She sounds stupid. Her logic has definitely been flawed, but Solas is kind and doesn’t chastise her.
He peers at the mark for a moment, then waves his hand above it. Blue and white glyph-type markings appear in the air over her hand and the pain lessens. The mark still sputters, still sings, but the sharp ache that shoots up her arm every time it acts up subdues. She flexes her fingers and turns her hand around, inspecting it like it’s the first time she’s seen it.
“What did you do?” she asks softly, bewildered and thankful.
He smiles and touches her cheek where the mark struck her earlier. She feels his healing magic mend a cut she didn’t even know was there, and with a cloth, he wipes a bit of blood and sweat from her face.
“I cannot make it stop, but I can at least try to aid against the pain,” the mage says as a white light from his fingers cleans the cloth, leaving behind no trace of grime. He carefully folds it and slips it in his pocket.
“I’ve been speaking with the other mages,” Solas continues. He places his hands behind his back and paces past Izzalea to peer out into the horizon toward Adamant. “Aurora confirms it wholeheartedly. The Veil is particularly thin here, feels as if it is stretching thinner every hour.” He turns his steely gaze back to Izzalea. “There is a powerful entity lurking in the Fade. I believe it is the cause of your mark’s…malfunction.”
“Fabulous,” Izzalea huffs, sinking her back again the crenelation. She wonders if that is why Corypheus has also been able to invade her dreams.
Solas turns back to stare into the void. “I believe it to be a fear demon, growing stronger every night. It feeds upon the fears of the forces within Adamant, the forces here...” Solas pauses and turns his head to his shoulder with downcast eyes. “And the fears in you, Inquisitor.”
Izzalea starts to object but he cuts her off.
“You’ve become ragged,” he says, a slight harshness to his voice. “You need to rest or your defenses will continue to strip until you are left with nothing.”
“I’ve just been having a hard time sleeping, that’s all,” Izzalea says.
“I can provide you with an enchantment that will allow you to sleep through the night.”
Then she’d be trapped with Corypheus’ threats all night long. That’s not something she’s interested in. “Thanks, Solas, but--”
“I apologize, I suppose that sounded like an offer,” he says as he turns back to her. He takes her hand in his, firm but not hostile, and presses a rune into her palm. His eyes stare into the depths of her sleepy soul. “It is a demand.”
She allows her eyelids to drop, too exhausted to put up a fight. Plus, she knows he’s right…
“I could join you in the Fade if you like. Similar to how we walked through Haven after arriving in Skyhold.”
She wonders if he is testing her. Could it be possible he knows about her nightmares? She can’t risk him hearing Corypheus. She can’t risk anyone finding out she’s weak. “No…No thank you, Solas,” she says finally. “I will take your enchantment, but will be fine dreaming alone.”
“As you wish.”
When she makes it to her quarters, she places the small rune that Solas gave her under her pillow. She is going to have to risk listening to her enemy for an entire night to even attempt to gain an amount of strength back. Who knows, maybe Corypheus will be busy tonight…
Staring into a looking glass on a table next to her bed, she sees how haggard her appearance has become. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin is drooping, and the undersides of her eyes are puffy and dark. She looks terrible. Weak. All she can think as she stares at her reflection is, failure .
“Get your shit together,” she mutters to herself with determination and a deep frown.
She sits on the edge of her bed and whispers a prayer to the Maker. She asks him to protect her tonight, to keep the nightmares from unfolding for one night. That’s all she needs. Just one night to regain some strength, some sanity, and perhaps she can find a way to fight back tomorrow.
She blows out a small candle by her bed and takes one last glance through an east facing window. She sees a faint flash of green far off in the distance, and her heart sinks. If she is going to stop this madness, she needs to be strong.
Lying down on her bed, she nuzzles her head into her pillow and above the rune. With a deep breath, she closes her eyes allowing herself to drift into the Fade.
When Izzalea opens her eyes, she’s in her room at Skyhold. The air is so much thinner there. It feels cool and refreshing on her seared skin. She sits up from her bed and looks around with a smile. It feels good to be back here. She’s missed this room. She feels safe here.
She hears the clatter of his boots on stone, and quickly, the golden curls of his hair appear through the railing as Cullen climbs the final steps of her tower’s staircase.
She feels elated to see him. Maker, he’s beautiful. What a sight for her tired, sore eyes. Izzalea rushes from her bed, running with barefeet slapping against cold stone. “Cullen!” she yells in jubilation.
She practically knocks him over when her body collides with his. He laughs and holds her tightly. “Good morning, my love,” he says between deep, breathy chuckles. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, I believe so, the best I’ve had in a long time,” she says with a smile and backs out from their hug with a long toe-to-fingertip stretch. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“As am I,” he says with a wicked smirk, his scar curling in that enticing way that it does. “I missed you desperately, Izzalea.” His voice has grown darker and her chest flutters.
“Oh, have you?” She smirks back.
He winks at her just before lunging and lifting her into his arms as if she weighs nothing. The feeling gives her as much of a thrill as it did the first time he lifted her in the war room months before.
He carries her to her bed and throws her playfully onto her sheets. She bounces with a squeal. She’s never had the pleasure of seeing him so confident about wanting her. Perhaps he really did miss her desperately. How long has he been planning to take her this way, she wonders.
He begins stripping from his armor and Izzalea adores the sight. Layer by layer, he peels off his mantle, back and breastplates, gauntlets, bracers, and shirts until he is left barechested and grinning.
“Cullen,” Izzalea says in a throaty moan. “You surprise me.”
“Is this alright?” he asks, kneeling on the bed and leaning over her as she lies flat against the sheets.
“It’s more than alright. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.” She feels dizzy. Her heart beats with so much excitement that it’s spastic, made even more spastic when she feels his hand glide up the length of her inner thigh. She gasps and heat pools in her smalls. She looks into his gorgeous, golden, smoldering eyes. “Cullen…”
He leans down and brushes soft kisses against her lips as his hand cups at her heat over her pajamas. She moans and press her hips forward to rub herself firmer into his palm. Cullen smiles and leans back, breaking their kiss. Izzalea bites her lower lip, overcome with warmth and feelings about how much she adores this man.
Just as she is feeling compelled to tell him how she feels about him, how much he means to her, a deep furrow appears between his brows. He looks at her with such deep concern that it’s worrying. Attempting to speak, only husky grunts crack in his throat. The pulls his hand that was seated between her thighs and knocks his fist against his chest. Panic then sparks in his eyes just before they roll back, only showing white while his eyelids flutter wildly. Cullen slumps, rolling backward onto the bed next to her.
“Cullen?!” Izzalea shrieks and sits up. She shakes him by the shoulders, “Cullen what’s happening? Cullen, wake up!”
He doesn't respond aside from low, disconcerting gurgling sounds, his mouth open and jaw loose. Izzalea continues to shake him, screaming for him to wake up, when he suddenly starts convulsing. His body springs into vicious shudders and jerks, limp and shaking violently at the same time.
Izzalea screams, “No! No, no, no, no, no!” She doesn’t know what to do, how to stop his fit, how to save him. She needs help. She starts to get up to scream from her balcony. Scream for healers to come quickly, when he stops. Just as suddenly as his convulsions began, they stopped. His body lies still. Terrifyingly still.
“No…” Her voice cracks. She rushes to feel a pulse, something to tell her he is still alive, but he isn’t breathing, his heart’s not beating. “No, Cullen,” she cries, tears streaming down her face, her body aching and trembling. “Please, wake up.” Her voice is only a crackling squeak of a sound as sobs overpower everything else. “Help,” she cries through the choking tears, but no one can hear her, no one can help. He’s gone.
The lyrium…
It must have been the lyrium…
Why did she encourage him to quit when she knew he could die? Now he’s gone.
“This will happen to your precious commander.” The voice rings in her ears so loudly that it’s almost deafening. “He is dying. Now . As he marches to your aid.” The booming voice of Corypheus echoes against the walls. “And Calpernia is watching. She is waiting for him to fall. When he does, Herald, she will be there to bring him back.”
“What are you talking about?” Izzalea calls out in anger, wiping her eyes of salty tears. It is then that she hears the tiny tinking sounds. Millions of tiny little tink-tink-tinks echo as droves of small red creatures pour from every opening, every crack, every crevice in her bedroom walls. A tiny army of red lyrium creatures. Like small lyrium spiders. They flow as if one unit from the walls and toward the bed.
Izzalea growls and crashes against them, desperately trying to protect Cullen. She throws her feet, her fists, anything , to push them back or crush them. Her body bloodies against the sharp rocky creatures. There are too many of them. She’s overrun. The creatures cover Cullens body and begin eating and tearing away at his flesh.
Izzalea screams in horror. “Stop this! Stop this, you monster!” She jumps off the bed, backing away as Cullen’s body is destroyed right before her eyes.
This isn't real, she tells herself. Corypheus trapped her in another nightmare. He is feeding off of her fears about losing Cullen to lyrium. She needs to calm down. He can’t be allowed to manipulate her like this. But seeing Cullen ripped to shreds is too much. It’s too much!
“Imagine the crippling effects to your Inquisition, once I have your commander. I believe he is much better suited helping Calpernia than your ridiculous Inquisition, don’t you?” The voice roars like violent thunder in her head. The mangled body on her bed starts to move.
Cullen sits up, the tiny red creatures forming large crystals of lyrium that jut from grey, decaying flesh. His eyes glow with a bright, radiating crimson and he stands, glaring into her.
Cullen begins taking slow, ragged steps toward her and she backs up faster.
“Cease your ridiculous plot to undo me, Izzalea, and I will stop torturing your dreams. Submit to me, and I will make you a General. I will save your precious Cullen, and you will only know glory. For that is what you want most in this world, is it not? Your pride hunts for glory. You feed off it. I will bestow it upon you. You need only submit.”
“Never!” Izzalea screams at the top of her lungs. She rushes to her wardrobe and with a powerful shove, knocks it down toward Cullen. It was an attempt to slow him down, but the tiny red lyrium creatures encircle the wood and cut through it like a sharp dagger through soft flesh.
Izzalea backs up onto her balcony. She’s trapped. She can’t wake up. And she has no idea what this monstrous version of Cullen and the army of lyrium creatures are going to do to her.
“You are a fool, Herald. Your Maker will not save you. His prophet will not aid you. They are gone. The heavens are empty. I will be your God. There is nothing you can do to stop me. I will find your Commander at his weakest moment, and I will make him mine. And I will destroy you.” The voice booms from the skies. He is everywhere. There is no escape.
Cullen walks out onto the balcony, hands outstretched to rip her apart. Izzalea screams and trips against the the stone railing behind her, flipping her off the edge.
She falls, and falls, and falls. She falls for longer than ever seemed possible, the air whipping past her as the skies and air laugh around her. Cullen leans over the edge of the balcony smiling at her, and she falls.
Just as trees come into her periphery and she knows she is about to hit the ground, her eyes snap open.
Izzalea gasps for air and jerks up from her bed, her eyes wide and blinded by the early morning sun coming through her windows. She pants and gasps for air. Her body is trembling. Her clothing and sheets are soaked through with sweat. Her heart is racing so fast that she fears it will trip on itself and stop completely. She hears it beating in her ears along with the screaming song of her mark.
She pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. She rests her head between her knees, trying desperately to regain control of her body. Slowly, she catches her breath and slowly, her heart rate slows to a less life threatening speed. As the panic subsides, the realization of what she just dreamt sets in.
If you asked Étienne, he’d happily tell you that the relief of finally being home paled in comparison to the joy he felt when he locked eyes with Izzy for the first time in months.
As soon as he met her gaze, he let his bags fall to his feet and brought his arms up to catch her. True to his prediction, she had launched herself into his tight embrace, wrapping her legs around his hips and laughing all the while. All Étienne could do to maintain his balance was to twirl them around. He clutched Izzy tight to his chest and buried his face in the crook of her neck, taking in the sweet scent of her favorite perfume.
“Hello, mon cœur.” He murmured against her skin, once they’d finally stopped spinning.
“I’ve missed you.” She whispered back.
“Really? I could hardly tell.”
“Étienne, my love, my heart, my darling, stop being a smartass and let me enjoy this.”
Summary
Back from the bog, but a leader's work is never... fucking... done.
[Read Chapter 21 on AO3] or [Start from the Beginning]
-Izzalea-
As they approach the gates and bridge to Skyhold, Izzalea is overcome with relief. She silently thanks the Maker and Andraste for bringing them home, relatively unscathed. She has her troops, they put an end to a tyrant, and they all survived that blasted bog.
As they trot their horses across the bridge toward Skyhold’s gates, a bell rings in announcement that they have arrived. Izzalea’s heart jumps as she hopes her commander’s handsome face will be waiting for her on the other side.
She tried to not dwell on how much she missed him while she was away. It took nearly two weeks to rescue her men and come home. They were far slower in the journey back to Skyhold due to the condition of some of the more frail soldiers. Izzalea wanted to ensure their safe return however, so everyone traveled slowly in one large group. She was desperate to not let her impatience show to the men, but all she wanted to do was get back to the keep and run into Cullen’s arms.
Izzalea’s nerves are shot. With all of the death and decay, the horrendous weather, the near constant fighting, and all of the emotion that affected them on this trip… she wishes she could take a break and sleep for days. But she knows that she cannot. There is too much that needs to be done.
When she found Warden Alistair in Crestwood weeks ago, he had shared such an unnerving tale. When Corypheus became active, all of the grey wardens in Orlais began to hear ‘the calling.’ It turns out, that when the darkspawn taint in the warden’s blood becomes too much, they have fitful nightmares and hear voices. Like a kind of unspeakable song. It tells the wardens that the blight will soon claim their lives. It urges the afflicted underground, to the deep roads. Once there, they will never be seen again. They leave to die by combat with the never ending numbers of darkspawn that reside far beneath the surface. Choosing a glorious death, rather than become darkspawn themselves.
Because of this, Warden Commander Clarel spoke of a blood ritual that she claimed would end future blights. Desperate to fulfill the purpose of the grey wardens before all would succumb to the calling. Alistair protested her plan, and instead of heading his advice, the wardens turned on him. Claiming that he would have blight consume the world, rather than do whatever it takes to stop them. He was able to get away from their grasp in order to find Hawke and then Izzalea… warning them that the wardens are gathering in the Western Approach.
Alistair believes that it is Corypheus who is causing the unexplained calling, tricking the wardens, for a purpose that is yet clear. Does he want them all dead in the deep roads? Or is it something else?
Izzalea clutches onto faint hope that she will have at least one night in her own bed before she leaves for the desert. However, she will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this warden mystery, and find out how and why Corypheus is involved.
The gates open and there is a large gathering on the other side. Healers and maids rush to the arms of the recovered soldiers, quickly taking them to the healer’s tower for rest and inspection. A group of stable hands stand at the ready to take the horses to the stables for the same. Izzalea hops off her horse and nods her thanks to the stable boy who takes Ebony’s reigns. She pats the steed lightly on the hip as she is escorted away, thankful for the fearless aid Ebony brought.
“I am pleased to see you returned,” a delicious Ferelden accent thrums from behind her.
Cullen.
Without a care for who sees her blatant display of affection for the Inquisition’s Commander, Izzalea swings her body around, and wraps herself around him in jubilation and relief. He catches her in his arms and hums satisfaction in her ear as she buries her face in the mane of his cloak. She inhales a deep breath of his scent. Her chest warms, she could almost cry from the feeling of alleviation. The abundant stress that her body accumulated on the journey melts away in Cullen’s arms.
“Maker, bless…” Izzalea sighs into his collar. “I am so happy to see you.”
Cullen squeezes her tighter and kisses the side of her head lovingly. “I read the report you sent in, it sounds as if you had a miserable trip.”
She pulls away from him just enough to catch his eyes in hers. “Dreadful, yes. But Successful.” She smiles and reaches her lips to his cheek for a feather soft kiss. “I will tell you all about it later? Over wine? Please let there be wine.” Izzalea looks into his golden eyes with eager happiness.
He returns a smile, breaking their embrace so that he can take her hand and place a delicate kiss upon her glove. “It would be a pleasure, Inquisitor.” He smirks at her in that way that he does, his scar twitching, his eyes sparkling coyly.
“Inquisitor…” Leliana clears her throat to grab Izzalea’s attention.
She drops her hand from her Commander’s touch and feels a light flush spread in her cheeks. She had almost forgotten that they were not alone. Izzalea stretches her shoulders back and stands taller, firmer… more professional. She clears her throat to shoo away any lingering desire from her voice, calling upon her deeper, more serious tone. “Yes, Leliana?”
The spymaster begins deadpan and dark, “We need to see you in the war room… immediately, I’m afraid.” Izzalea senses a twinge of worry at the end of Leliana’s sentence, her eyes and lips fall, her brow crinkles. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
“Of course, lead the way.”
--
“My scouts rushed tirelessly to the Western Approach, Inquisitor, and what they have found is not good. Along with the wardens, there seems to be great deal of demon activity in the region, though we are not sure why.” Leliana is icily sober, arms crossed, standing at the end of the war table.
Rolling her eyes, Izzalea grunts, “Great… blood rituals and demons. Just… Flippin’ fantastic.”
“The scouts found an old warden hold, Griffon Wing Keep. With the help of Bull’s Chargers, they managed to secure the hold from the Venatori that inhabited it.” Cullen adds without reserve. He stands across from Izzalea on the other side of the table, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Groaning, she rolls her neck, pinching and tugging at its stiff muscles. “Venatori, too. This is just peachy. So, there definitely is a correlation between the strange warden behavior and our favorite darkspawn magister,” she grumbles.
Cullen continues, “I sent Knight-Captain Rylen yesterday, with a squad of troops, to occupy the keep for your arrival. We can use it as a base of operations in the area while you get to the bottom of whatever is happening out there.” He hushes his tone with concern, touched by tender worry, “At least then, perhaps you will be safer… with strong walls surrounding you.”
A sheepish smile spreads on Izzalea’s face. It does not matter how much danger she faces, it seems Cullen will always worry for her. And with their newly affirmed feelings for one another, he is allowing himself to be more forthcoming with his affections. His caring nature makes her heart feel as though it is blossoming within her.
She tries to think of who would be the best team to bring on their mission, given the new information. “I think we should bring Dorian. With the Tevinter presence in the region, he will be of great use. Cassandra’s Seeker abilities should help against both Venatori mages and the abundance of demons. Warden Blackwall should accompany us as well…” Izzalea taps her fingers on her chin in contemplation. Most of her inner circle would be beneficial to have on hand. With so much uncertainty as to what lies in wait out there, along with the sheer distance from Skyhold to the desert, she wants to ensure she has the right team at her disposal.
Leliana thumbs the marker representing Griffon Wing Keep on the map. “Perhaps you should bring your entire inner circle. Since there is a large strong hold waiting for you… If the relations with the wardens turns undesirable, it would be best for you to have as much force with you as possible. There is a very large fortress, Adamant Keep, nearby where my scouts have seen a majority of the warden activity. There is no telling how many are in there, or what they will do.”
Nodding in agreement, Izzalea claps her hands once to symbolize the end of their planning. “Alright, let’s inform everyone and get to work preparing for departure. With such a large group, I want to make sure we bring enough supplies. Let’s use the rest of today and tomorrow for preparation, and I will leave with my team at dawn the following day.”
All are in agreeance, so Izzalea dismisses the meeting before setting off to see Dagna and Harritt in the undercroft. She needs to ensure that they can make all necessary repairs the inner circle’s armor before they set out. They will have a lot of work to do in a very short period of time.
Harritt is going to be so, very cross with me…
--
Leaving the undercroft, with a twinge of shame after being scolded mercilessly by her blacksmith, Izzalea emerges back into the great hall only to find Dorian walking hurriedly towards in her direction.
“Dorian! Make sure you get any repairs needed for our trip to Harritt now, or else...” Izzalea shivers and bites her lip, “Or else, he might skin me…”
The mage scoffs and grins, holding his hand to his chest in feigned offense, “Oh Izzy, all of my gear is in tip-top shape. Fear not, my ravishing fire-haired beauty.” As she sighs in relief, the mage continues, “I do need a minute of your precious time, my dear Inquisitor. I want to suggest an additional member for our entourage.”
“Seems like everyone is pretty much going already…” Izzalea tilts her head and stares quizzically at the raven haired mage.
“Ah yes, well… this person is not usually a fighter.” Dorian leans against the wall beside them, crossing his arms with nonchalance, as he tends to do. “Her name is Aurora. She is a mage who works in the library. I would like to bring her along. She has some life experience with both demons and wardens. I think she can help me… and you of course… with research and information at the new keep.” He musingly strokes the curl of his mustache and peers into the distance, “I also get the sense that she is a deeply powerful mage, though she tries to hide it.”
“Interesting. I don’t want anyone coming along who cannot take care of themselves. Are you sure she can fight, if needed?”
“Oh yes, I believe so. I think she can fight with a vengeance.” He wickedly smirks at her.
“Alright… Well… As long as she is not a burden. I put her in your charge, Dorian.”
“Understood my dear, I shall not let you down.” He mockingly assumes a military posture and salutes, grinning at her before turning back toward the doors to the library. He slowly slinks and sashes’ down the hall, as if giving everyone within its walls a chance to appreciate his visage.
Movement of two soldiers marching down the center of the hall grabs her attention away from musingly watching Dorian leave. Josie hurries down between the men, her shoes click-clacking on the stone in an amusing flurry. She diverts to Izzalea’s direction as the two soldiers take flanking positions to her throne.
Izzalea gets the sudden feeling that something has happened that needs her immediate and official response, a feeling that brings her a lot of dread and irritation. Her expression flattens as her ambassador draws near. “What is it, Josie?”
“I am afraid we require your judgement, Inquisitor.” Her thick Antivan accent harbors aspects of doubt and bewilderment.
Izzalea quietly groans and rolls her head, neck, and shoulders to attempt at relieve the tenacious intensity of stress in her muscles. She truly cannot wait to relax with a bottle of wine and her golden lion. She needs a few hours of stress free companionship. Until then, duty calls…
Stoically, Izzalea approaches her throne and sits. Placing her elbow on the arm rest, she rests her chin on her knuckles. She gazes down the hall, waiting to see what new order of chaos will be brought forth. Her expression remains cool and flat, as the guards walk what appears to be an Avvar man to her throne.
He is in chains as if a prisoner and is dressed similarly to the Hand of Korth. However, where Korth wore red, this man wears blue. She cannot see much of his face, but what she can make out is an insolent glint in his eyes to match the twisted upturn of his lips. He softly chuckles to himself while looking around to see Izzalea’s throne, the hall, and the patrons within gawking at his presence.
Josie stands to her right with her clip board in hand. She gives her notes a quick once over before addressing the court. “Chief Movran the Under, your worship. After your return from the bog, we discovered this man attacking the… building… with a… goat.” Josie speaks slowly and in a way that is as if she doesn’t believe the words coming from her mouth as she says them. “He feels slighted by the killing of his son, the Hand of Korth, and his Avvar tribesmen. Who all attacked you first… What should we do with him? Where should he go?”
Izzalea adjusts herself in her seat, leaning forward to peer at the chieftain. Remembering that Abner had mentioned he was ‘not a bad guy,’ Izzalea tries to quell her temper as best as she can. “To answer the death of you clan, you attacked Skyhold… with a goat?”
Movran chuckles deeply and paces around in the small space the guards allow for him to move. “A trial? Unnecessary.” His voice is deep and calm, but rife with spirited arrogance. It actually reminds Izzalea a lot of her small Avvar scout. “You killed my idiot son. So I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your holdings with goat’s blood. But no foul! He was meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with your Inquisition. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat.”
He nods in compliance and softens the arrogance in his tone. “Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.” He chuckles to himself and it occurs to her he really does not seem to care that his son is dead.
With a flick of her fingers, Izzalea calls Josie closer. She leans in to lend her ear. Izzalea speaks low whisper, “Who was that arrogant lord I met at Therinfal Redoubt? The really uppity one who got us into that keep?”
She smiles secretively and whispers, “Lord Abernache, Inquisitor,” before backing up to her position beside the throne.
Izzalea looks back at the large Avvar man in front of her, “It seems as though we have an opportunity to expand our knowledge and diplomacy. I would like to connect you with one of our Lords. His name is Abernache. Educate him in your ways and customs. He will be a very difficult pupil. It will not be easy.”
Movran laughs loudly, “I will rename my youngest son Herald. He is another redhead.” He continues to chuckle to himself as the guards undo his chains and escort him out of the hall.
Izzalea slowly shakes her head and blinks her eyes at the man as he leaves. What a bizarre encounter.
Josie steps to her side again and leans in, in a hushed tone she whispers, “One other matter, while I have you Inquisitor? There was another Avvar man. His name is Amund the Sky Watcher. He claims to be an augur who met you while in the marsh. He would like to join the Inquisition as well. Claimed to be impressed with you and wants to lend aid however he can.”
Izzalea smiles. It seems her relationship with the Avvar may not be as tenuous as she once thought. “Oh, yes. I’ve met him. That’s great Josie, thank you. Send him to the healer’s tower. I am sure there is much they can learn from each other.” Josie nods before quickly walking away, down the hall, and back to her office.
The rest of the afternoon and evening Izzalea spends searching out and speaking with her inner circle. Ensuring that they assess their gear thoroughly and get any repairs to Harritt and Dagna post haste. Including, personally escorting Sera to the undecroft in order to facilitate the upgrades Sera's bow desperately needed, and putting out more than one fire of flaring tempers between her elven archer and her blacksmith (As well as witness adorable awkward flirting between Sera and Dagna between the elf's outbursts with Harritt). By the time she finishes, the dark night sky has consumed the daylight. Izzalea hears ten bells before she finally makes her way to the main building of the keep so that she can shrug up the stairs to her quarters.
As she climbs the steps in her tower, she hears a soft click and shut of her door behind her. Izzalea rolls her eyes and wonders who needs her now, at this hour. With a frown, she turns and look over her shoulder to finds the beautiful and bashful face of her commander. He smiles up at her, silently displaying a bottle of wine and two glasses for her inspection.
“Oh Cullen… I believe Andraste herself has sent you to me. You undeniable treasure.” Izzalea smiles and immediately relaxes her shoulders, feeling ten times lighter having seen his lovely face.
They climb the stairs and move the couch in her room so that it sits directly in front of her fireplace. The maids had already been in and started a glorious fire in the hearth. The room is warm and glows beautiful, relaxing, orange, red, and amber hues.
Cullen pours them each a glass of wine before sitting at the end of the couch. Izzalea takes her wine from his hand as she snuggles up beside him. He thankfully left his armor in his office, and instead, he wears an under tunic and his leather trousers. Izzalea easily leans herself into his chest and tucks her legs to the side, beneath her. He stretches his free arm around her shoulders and softly rubs her arm. She is content. Relaxed.
Staring into the fire, she says, “I know I said I would talk about the trip, but I’m just so fucking tired. I really don’t want to talk or even think anymore for today…”
He laughs a low breathy rumble, “Of course, Izzalea. Let’s just be, for tonight.”
“I knew you’d understand,” she grins. If anyone can fathom the importance of the precious few moments of peace people in their position have, it is Cullen.
They sit silently sipping their wine and gazing into the fire. She is so happy to just be in his arms. The simple act of breathing is coming easier now. She knew that she was tense, but Izzalea did not understand quite the magnitude until she was finally at peace.
Cullen’s lips press into her hair and she closes her eyes. He takes the now empty goblet from her fingers and sets it to the side. He wraps her in his large, muscular arms, and she feels the buzz of comfortable satisfaction tingle through her body. She revels in the peace that she feels within her.
“I am pleased that we have at least two evenings together before I leave you again,” she says.
Cullen brings his lips down to ghost them on her ear, causing shivers to tingle through her body. “I will miss you a great deal, Izzalea.” A low husk. Velvet desire. Her heart rate jumps from the way he says her name.
She tries to speak, but her breath hitches. Her voice comes out in not but a whisper, “I will miss you too, Cullen.” She wonders about all of the words they are not saying. It seems too soon. Yet, she cannot help but to feel resounding love when she thinks about him. Sees him. Touches him. Everything him.
Izzalea arches her neck to bring her lips to his. He leans down and kisses her tenderly, supporting her chin with a gentle touch of his fingers. She feels as if she is soaring through the clouds when his lips touch hers. She is blissful. Happy.
He gives her a light kiss on her forehead. Gingerly, they readjust so that her head is comfortably tucked under his shoulder and on his chest, both of them wrapping their arms around the other. The pair of fearsome warriors sit in quiet tranquility from their stressful lives. Listening to the cracking of the wood in the fire, they savor the warm glow. Here they aren’t the Inquisitor and Commander of the Inquisition. Here, they are not two highly-skilled, deadly fighters who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Here, in this quiet room, for this moment, they are simply two people.
Chapter Summary
Izzalea questions her silent, insolent scout, before finally making it to the stronghold that contains her enemies and stolen soldiers.
Note
For the Abner fans out there, this one is a biggie. Enjoy!
[Read Chapter 16 on AO3] or [Start from the Beginning]
-Izzalea-
She hates this place.
Izzalea truly hates this Maker forsaken bog. Ever since she arrived, it’s been days of rotting corpse after rotting, fucking corpse. They seem to attack at every turn. Merely touching the waters surrounding her crew, wakes the undead that are lying in wait within. They’ve tried to avoid the water as best as they can, but at times it has been impossible not to walk through it, in order to get across channels, or washed out and flooded areas.
And the smell… Maker… the smell. Izzalea fears that the disgusting scent of death and decay will never leave her skin. She is obviously cursed to forever permeate her surroundings with a gut wrenching, reeking stink, and causing all in her path to wretch as she passes. She groans to herself at the thought, her stomach tightens and flips. She knows it is irrational, but the horrendous smell of rotting death is driving her insane. She is desperate to leave this marsh behind. Leave this muck and filth forever. Her desperation in turn has made Izzalea more determined than ever to find the abducted soldiers and get them home.
Izzalea rolls her neck in an attempt to release the tension building within it. She stretches and pinches at her shoulders, secretly wishing they could be massaged by a big, strong, pair of hands. Like Cullen’s hands. A smile spreads on her lips as Izzalea leaves the wretchedness of the bog, however momentarily, to envision the beautiful and handsome face of her commander. She blissfully imagines how firm and calming his touch would be on her aching shoulders. Like magical medicine, his presence would ease all of her tension. All of her worry. All of her stress.
Izzalea is snapped back to reality due to a particularly loud clap of thunder. The sound makes her jump, a quick, sudden cold sweat shimmers on her skin. She is never this jumpy, her frayed mental state is obviously taking its toll on her. She inhales deeply to calm her nerves, missing those brief thoughts of tranquility.
There has been one continuous storm roaring over the Fallow Mire ever since they arrived. Everything is waterlogged, everything is awful. But she must bring her attention back to the mission. She needs to focus. Izzalea must successfully complete this task, and she needs the assassin’s secrets to do so.
They learned that Abner was somehow kin to the clan that has their men. However, she has been tight lipped and unapproachable since her secret was discovered. What little of it was discovered, anyway. Izzalea can’t even tell what the woman is thinking. Is she scared? Is she angry? Is she forming a plan? Is she thinking anything? How is Izzalea to know what-in-the-void is going on when Abner, her Avvar expert, refuses speak? She is growing increasingly annoyed, impatient with the scout’s insolent behavior. Izzalea is the Inquisitor, after all, why is she not more forthcoming?
Izzalea watches as Abner moves about camp. Silently, the assassin helps pack everything for the day’s journey. She watches her act as if nothing’s happened. Acting as if a bomb of ‘What the fuck’ didn’t just go off in front of everyone. They all have questions. Izzalea sees it in everyone’s eyes. Hawke currently sits on a boulder on the edge of camp, paying far more attention following Abner with a discerning stare, than he is to mending his robes that lie in his lap. Everyone has been watching her, wondering what her story really is. What does she know? How is she related to these people?
Izzalea’s perplexed curiosity on the subject of Abner’s origins has been eating away at her. Observing Abner incessantly, she notes her movements, scans her features, looks for clues, but alas, she has come up empty. Abner looks nothing like the Avvar. For one, they are enormous, if the shaman they met is any indication. Abner is so petite by comparison. Izzalea cannot see how the women of these people could possibly be so small and still produce men of that size. It is baffling. Impossible.
Another loud, jarring, crack of thunder makes Izzalea tense her shoulders again. She’s got to get out of this pit, soon. Abner was sent here for a reason, she needs her to talk. Izzalea feels herself glare at the woman, her thoughts turning fiery. She will not have the reason for her being stuck in the misery wasted, just because Abner has specially guarded secrets.
The group is almost finished packing away camp, for hopefully the last time before they find the stronghold holding their enemy and their soldiers. Determined to know what she knows, Izzalea decides she has been kind to her scout for long enough. It is time for her to share everything she knows about the ‘Hand of Korth.’
Taking a deep breath Izzalea stands straighter and squares her shoulders. Marching over to Abner, she affixes her best Inquisitor face. Izzalea exudes seriousness and above all, authority. There is no time for sugar coating. “Alright, Abner. Tell me everything about Hand of Korth,” she says sternly as she stares into the young woman’s dark, impertinent eyes.
Abner is unmoved. Her eyes, mouth, and voice are all flat, unimpressed. “He’s an ass,” she says simply.
In no mood for the ‘run around’ from this woman, irritation seeps from Izzalea’s voice as she speaks through clenched teeth. “Would you mind expanding upon that, scout?” She sighs and crosses her arms. Acting as if she is annoyed that Izzalea is pulling rank on her. Why does she think she’s here?
Abner looks to be searching for the right words, or the information she will choose to share. “Okay…” she begins, her voice only moderately lifted, “He is one of the sons of Movran the Under. I doubt Movran has anything to do with this. He isn’t a bad guy, but his son is.”
She pauses a moment as she thinks of what to say. Scrunching her face, her eyes move rapidly in the distance, searching her mind. She sighs as if she is surrendering an inner struggle and looks at Izzalea with a saddened gaze. Izzalea’s chest drops Abner appears to have suffered a miserable loss. She softens her posture and waits for Abner to speak.
“Alright,” she begins with a sigh, slumping her shoulders forward slightly, defeated. “So… Ofred.”
“You mean, Hand of Korth?”
Narrowing her eyes, glaring with an intense frown, she clenches her fists. “No,” she corrects, “I will never call him that. His name is Ofred.” Abner loosens her fingers. Huffing a sigh of tension loose, she shakes a thought from her head. “So, here’s what you need to know. He is waiting for you, yeah? He won’t be waiting alone. He won’t fight with honor, either. That’s not his way. He will probably have archers posted all over the hold ready to make you a pin cushion.”
Izzalea nods and thoughtfully rubs her chin, gliding her gloved fingers over her mouth. Speaking through the leather with a concerned expression, she asks, “But why does he want me? Could he be working with Corypheus?”
“No,” she says plainly. The petite and willful scout takes a deep breath and stares up at Izzalea seriously. “Alright look… You believe that the Maker is the one true God, yeah? And Andraste is his bride? She fought for him and he rules everything?” Izzalea nods with a shrug as Abner continues, “Well, the Avvar don’t believe any of that. They believe that there are Gods in everything. The sky has a God, the forests have a God, the mountains have a God. That last one is who he named himself for, Korth - The Mountain-Father. Avvar regard the mountains highest in all things, so this twat is trying to say he is all high and mighty, too.
Where you come in, Inquisitor, is you have the title ‘Herald of Andraste’. That is very similar to his, but of the wrong beliefs. The wrong God. He scoffs at you and thinks he can prove to you, his Gods, his people, and your people, that you’re full of it… by killing you. He will then be reaffirmed as the Hand of Korth, and you will be nothing.” As she finishes she drops her gaze from Izalea and looks at the ground, kicking at it uncomfortably.
Izzalea chews on her lower lip. Squinting at nothing, she falls deep in thought, processing this new information. A crazy person wants to use her death as a message, and it has nothing to do with the real problems Thedas is in enthralled with currently. She should be focusing on Corypheus and his ever growing army. She should be focused on saving Thedas from a monster who wants to be a God, and burn her world to the ground. Instead, she is here. In a bog. Because some idiot wants to puff out his chest to his people. Izzalea quickly becomes consumed with irritation. He has disrupted the Inquisition for nothing more than his ego.
Placing her hands on her hips, Izzalea stares at Abner vehemently, “Alright, how do we stop him?”
Her eyes sparkle in the faintest way, and a smirk flashes across her face. “Let me handle him,” she says with a soft purr. “Have the mages control the archers, send Cole to dispatch as many of them as he can. I want to go in ahead of you. Keep Bull at your side and keep your shield up… and no matter what happens,” she glares a bloodthirsty glare, but not directed toward the Inquisitor. Instead, she stares off into the distance. “I want to be the one that gives that bastard his killing blow,” she says with all seriousness of a scorned woman.
Izzalea peers at the assassin, taken aback by her ferocious body language. Her jaw is set, she seems as if to be picturing the man, imagining herself killing him. Her breathing is heavy but slow. Her fists are clenched again, the leather on her open fingered gloves creak, the knuckles of exposed flesh glow white.
“Abner… How do you know this man? Are you Avvar?” Izzalea asks her hesitantly. She reaches out to the woman, to touch her shoulder in an attempt to retrieve her from her murderous thoughts. Abner snaps her eyes to Izzalea’s hand and backs away, returning her attention to packing camp.
Silently, she grabs her knapsack and readies her horse. Refusing to look at the Izzalea any longer. With cold, steely confidence, she says, “You have the information you need, Inquisitor. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep that bit to myself.”
“Alright, Abner. Thank you for the information,” Izzalea responds, deciding to allow the woman some privacy, for now. She leaves Abner’s side to ready her own horse.
--
“There are too many of them!” Solas calls out from the fray. He shoots a bolt of ice from is staff. It flies through the dark, wet air, sharply piercing into the skull of an undead horror. “We must make a run for the gates!”
Izzalea and her team explored and fought through the day, long into the night. It seems they have finally found the hold harboring the Avvar. However, the road to the gates is teaming with a never-ending mob of rotting, walking corpses. For every ten they kill, another fifteen seemingly spawn in their place. It is exhausting. At this rate, they will never make it to the captured soldiers. Izzalea cannot be so close to succeeding and fail now.
As loudly as her tired body can muster, which is just enough that they hear her over the roaring thunder and fighting, Izzalea cries out, “Everyone, run to the gates!”
Hawke flings a wall of fire behind them as they all race forward. They slam and shove past undead, only killing those they absolutely have to in order to advance. To Izzalea’s astonishment, as they make their mad dash, the gates of the keep’s battlements rise.
The Avvar have been watching them. They are ready.
They are waiting.
As soon as they arrive, stumbling, through the gates they begin to shut. The group kills a handful of undead that managed to follow them through, and then turn to face new enemies.
But no one is there.
Cautiously, Izzalea steps through the entry archway under the battlements, into the courtyard of the old, and until recently, long abandoned keep. She scans her eyes everywhere, looking for bodies or movement during flashes of lightning. The only constant light comes from the soft glow of the moon, softly illuminating the run-down keep through wild, whipping storm clouds. Izzalea detects no one, nothing seems to move. She feels an eerie chill spark down her spine as she wonders where the Avvar are hiding.
“Where are they? The cowards!” Bull hollers and grunts in frustration, slamming his axe into a rotten wood crate. He howls a booming, growling sound into the thunder, “Cowards!”
“They wait. Inside. Come to us,” Cole mumbles ominously next to her. Izzalea silently calls upon the strength of the Maker, calls Andraste to her side.
She can do this.
Izzalea glares in the direction of the doors that lead inside of the keep, feeling a proud smirk bloom on her face. With all of the pent-up rage within her for having to be in the blasted keep in the first place, she cannot help but be pleased that she’s finally arrived. Bloodthirsty rage bubbles within her, excited to sink its teeth into her enemy. “Let’s not keep them waiting,” she grins wickedly. Gesturing toward the door, Izzalea looks confidently into the eyes of everyone in her party. With determination, she says, “Shall we?”
She leads the group to the door assertively, but cautiously. Her shield raised, her eyes scan every inch of their surroundings as she sees them. Solas refreshes a barrier over everyone as much as he is able, without greatly depleting his energy. They enter the keep and creep through its halls. It is damp, dark, and smells of rot and mold. The only light comes from the glow of the moon and the thundering lightning. As flashes flicker through windows, crumbled walls, and portions of missing roof slats, the white light gives them a glimpse of what surrounds them.
Izzalea’s guard on high alert, she waits for something to strike from hidden in the shadows. They turn down a large hallway where she can begin to see the glow of torches or braziers in the distance. This must be the way. The Hand of Korth must be waiting for her down this hallway.
Waiting in that room.
Abner creeps up beside her and murmurs softly, “Remember to keep your guard up, the mages will control the archers, Cole will silently take down who he can. Stand firmly and confidently. I will sneak my way behind him, through the shadows.” Izzalea nods in agreeance. She wonders how Abner can be sure as to how their enemy will trap them. She hopes Abner is right.
Almost to the end of the hall, they stand in front of what looks to be a throne room of some kind. That’s when Izzalea hears a man bellow from within, “Is that you, Herald of Andraste? Come to prove your worth?” He sounds menacing and large, voice deep and booming. But Izzalea is not afraid. Hand of Korth will not intimidate her.
“I am here,” she growls as she takes slow, calculated steps to the room’s entrance. Abner silently slips into the shadows and sneaks into the room. Feeling the soft static of a refreshed barrier Solas placed over around her, she steps past the threshold. They enter a large mezzanine, with steps reaching balconies of either side of the room. Balconies holding groups of archers, whose arrows are drawn… and pointed at her.
Straight ahead of her are a few grand stairs leading up to a dais. Large, broken and tattered windows line the wall behind it. They flash and rattle with every roll of thunder and lightning. Standing on the stage is a behemoth of a man. His body covered in red and white paint, animal furs, and torn leathers. His face partially covered by a red hood, small cut-outs for his eyes, a larger opening draped, exposing his nose down to his chin. Large, threatening, ram’s horns loom from either side of his head. He holds an equally menacing mace, the metal head of which is reminiscent of a two-headed beast.
Izzalea glares at the man confidently, priming her stance for attack. He may think he is intimidating, but she has faced dragons. He is nothing.
The man roars in foreboding laughter, “Good of you to come, Herald of Andraste. I’ve been expecting you.”
Izzalea wants to keep him talking, giving Abner enough time to sneak up behind him. She will try her best to allow Abner the honor of killing the man… if she can. She is ready for the alternative, if the need calls. “Where are my men, Hand of Korth. Have you injured them?” she asks, hatred dripping from her hardened, set jaw.
He chuckles and swings his mace indifferently, “They are safe… for now. But I am afraid upon your defeat, all will die.”
Izzalea snarls at the titan, “Perhaps we should fight with honor. One on one.” She gestures to the archers lining the balconies, “Call off your dogs and fight me like a man.” However, this monster deserves no honor.
Suddenly, an archer yells from the balcony, “Behind you!”
Korth swings his massive mace around violently, but misses Abner as she leaps backwards. He stands there, stunned momentarily upon seeing the woman, but then begins laughing. He holds his chest in great amusement, body shaking as each sound roars through him. He calls back to Izzalea over his shoulder, “Perhaps I should be thanking you, Herald of Andraste. It seems you have brought home my insolent and treacherous little wife.”
Stunned in silence, Izzalea is unsure of what to think. Did he just call her his wife?
Movement in her peripheral catches Izzalea’s attention, pulling a glance to the balcony on her left. With everyone’s eyes now on Korth and Abner, Cole is able to begin backstabbing, snapping necks, and slicing throats of archers lining the left side of the room. With deadly accuracy, he silences each one, lightly eases their limp bodies to the floor without a sound. Izzalea snaps a look to the balcony on her right. Hawke and Solas have silenced the remaining archers, freezing them in place. Frozen still, waiting for Cole to send them to eternity as well.
No more warnings will be given to the distracted miscreant on the stage.
“I am not home to you, you foul bastard,” Abner growls between her teeth, a maelstrom of hatred swirls in her smoldering eyes. Body crouched in bloodlust, her blades drawn, ready to pounce on the man when given the opportunity. “I am here to kill you.”
The malevolent goliath of a man continues his looming laughter, “Oh, Abner, you always had such a mouth on you, my little half-ling princess. You never did respect the favor I bestowed on your tainted blood. You should have been pleased to have married a chieftain’s son.” Methodical, threatening, and malicious, he slowly paces towards her. Iron Bull and Izzalea gradually advance on him, approaching the dais, taking precautions to not make a sound in doing so.
“Because my love for you runs so deep, dear wife, I think I will keep you alive today. I will make you mine once again. And I promise you, my little half-breed bitch… the marriage will not be as amiable the second time, as it was the first.” He is growling at her, hunched forward, holding his mace as if he considers breaking her body first.
Abner screams in a bloodcurdling, murderous rage as she lunges at the man. Her action is far less calculated than Izzalea has come to expect from the assassin. She can only imagine that the fury within her has clouded all judgement. Izzalea panics for Abner’s safety and runs down the mezzanine toward the two, no longer concerned with the silence of her advance.
Izzalea is too late. Before she reaches the steps, Abner has leapt at him. He quickly responds with a colossal swing of his mace, connecting the head of his metal beast to her ribs. Upon contact her body is flung into the air, she soars backwards and lands limp on a pile of rubble with a broken thud. Izzalea is unsure if Abner is alive or dead. Her rage boils, surging through her. All she sees is red. Iron Bull booms with mountainous vigor, charging alongside Izzalea with the fury of a fiend.
Roaring with all of her might, Izzalea storms toward the monster. She slams her shield into the tough, large muscles of his back, the sharp, metal edges rip at his exposed flesh. These Avvar may be large, but they need more armor than paint, bones, and skins to protect their bodies from her.
The battle ensues with the speed of the lightning striking outside. An onslaught of screaming, bashing, striking, and parrying fills the cold, damp air. The Avvar spins while arcing his mace. Izzalea braces for the impact against her shield, calling upon all of her strength and training in becoming an impenetrable force. As his blow crashes into the strong metal between them, it sends shockwaves down her arm and into her shoulder. The pain is substantial, excruciating, but Izzalea is unmoved. A prideful, determined snarl spreads on Izzalea’s face.
Korth parries an attack from Bull’s axe at his flank, a distraction lasting just long enough for Izzalea to strike. She bares her teeth, screaming a guttural, primal sound as she lunges her sword forward. Piercing through his ribs, slicing through his flesh, the giant warrior’s blood sprays onto the front of her shield.
He howls in pain as he and Bull slam their weapons into each other again. The pain of his wound slows his skills, and he staggers back a few steps. Bull connects a blunt blow to the Avvar hard into the thick furs armoring his legs. Izzalea slices another deep swipe through his flesh, this time the cut spreads along his stomach. Their enemy stumbles rapidly backward, dazed and unable to breathe.
Bull and Izzalea creep in menacing pursuit, closing in on the bloodied, coughing, stunned form in front of them. Movement to her left captures Izzalea’s attention, as Abner is staggers toward the man as well. Izzalea motions to Iron Bull to halt his advance, allowing Abner her wish.
The Hand of Korth sputters and coughs thick blood. He sees Abner limping toward him, her long daggers in each hand. Blood drips from his lips as they curl into a sneering smile. He drops to his knees in front of her, spitting and gurgling. As he lands, Abner crosses her blades in front of her, slicing each one against his throat simultaneously.
Izzalea steals a glance behind them, to ensure the rest of her team is okay. She finds that there are no more archers, living, anyway. Solas, Cole, and Hawke stand in the middle of the mezzanine, watching Abner in astounded silence. Izzalea shivers with a sense of relief seeing that they are unharmed, and that the fight is over. They have won. Resuming her attention back to Abner, Izzalea witnesses the Avvar man slumped on the floor, dead, his blood quickly coating the stone below his body. Red and white pigments of his war paint mix with the deep, dark red of his blood, swirling together in a pool of death.
No one speaks in the hall, the only sounds echoing against the cold, wet stone are that of the ever-roaring storm. Abner stands completely and perfectly still, silently staring at the corpse lying at her feet. Izzalea worries about how badly Abner had been hurt. She had been limping and the blow she took was substantial. Nervous for her wellbeing, she softly calls out to her, “Abner…”
Slowly, Abner turns to face her. She is covered in the blood of her… husband. Her entire face, neck, and chest are glistening, soaked in gore. Her face is flat and emotionless. Her eyes are black and empty. She treads slow, jagged footfalls up the stage, walking past Izzalea to descend the steps, down to the mezzanine. Izzalea reaches out to her, but is ignored. She grows more and more concerned with not only Abner’s physical wellbeing, but her mental wellbeing, as well.
She staggers and trips on the stairs, toppling limply down to the base. Solas and Hawke surge toward her. “Lay her flat on her back,” Solas orders Hawke as he grabs healing potions from his pack.
Izzalea slowly approaches the scene. Overcome with worry about the woman she barely knows, her chest feels tight and heavy. Will she be okay? Even if she lives through this, did the Inquisition push her too far? Will her mind heal? Izzalea watches sullenly, while trying to also allow space for the mages to work.
Solas tips her head and aids her in drinking a potion. Hawke lightly touches her ribs, through her light armor, where the mace impacted her body. She screams a heart breaking, reverberating cry and recoils at his touch.
“Will she be alright, Solas?” Izzalea asks in a hushed tone. Her shoulders slump, she slowly eases into a crouched, sitting position on the steps. Her eyes never leave the young woman sprawled out on the stone floor. Abner’s breaths are heavy and labored. Her face cringes with each inhale.
“Yes. But she will need to take care for a few days.” He looks at Izzalea earnestly, but she stares blankly at the scout. “Inquisitor… do not forget why we came.”
Izzalea slowly lifts her gaze to Solas, eyes blinking. What is he talking about? Abner needs help. He scowls when she doesn’t speak or move, “The soldiers, Inquisitor. You must find the soldiers. I will heal Abner’s injuries, but you must go.”
Right. The soldiers. Solas is right. Izzalea shakes the daze from her mind and looks for Cole. He is beside her, because… of course he is… “Cole,” she says softly, voice croaking, “Do you know where they are?”
“Yes, they are close. Follow.” Cole says and rises to his feet. Izzalea mimics his movements, trailing behind the spirit as they exit the throne room. Bull rests a hand on Izzalea’s shoulder, striding beside her. She looks up at him as he gives her a sad, but encouraging, smile.
They follow Cole through the hallways as he senses the presence of their trapped people. Izzalea’s mind is buzzing with worry and exhaustion, a whirling dervish of emotion. What happened in there? What happened in Abner’s life? Are the soldiers okay? Will Izzalea be able to safely get everyone back to Skyhold? She is so very tired. Her senses fried from this entire experience.
She rolls her neck and stretches her shoulders again, an attempt to relax at least a small amount before the discovery of her men. They need to see her as a strong force, not a nervous and fatigued fool. Finally, they reach a locked door. Cole kneels in front of the lock while producing a small set of picks from his belt. He works the lock deftly until Izzalea hears a click.
The most beautiful and wonderful sounding click Izzalea has ever heard. She exhales a sigh of relief as she hears the voices of her people murmur through the door. Izzalea stands firmly, smiling while Cole opens the door and she sees their lost soldiers inside.
“Inquisitor!” one man exclaims upon seeing her face. Izzalea steps into the room, scanning over everyone to check on their wellbeing. At first look, they seem little rough, but very much alive. And that is lovely sight to see. She inhales deeply, releasing the days of worry she had accumulated within her muscles. Izzalea beams warmly at the Inquisition forces in the room.
“See, I told you she would come,” a woman announces proudly to the others.
If only for a fleeting moment, Izzalea shares in her pride.
