He hauled the captive upright, propping him against the wheel of the wagon, and hunkered down beside him in the dirt. The captive was breathing in gasps, leaning away from him.
He took his own canteen off its clip at his belt and unscrewed the cap, while the captive watched him with wide terrified eyes.
He held his canteen to the captive’s mouth. Most of the water went down the captive’s chin rather than into his mouth, until he grimaced in annoyance and steadied the captive with a hand on his shoulder. He let him drink, slowly, mouthful by mouthful, until half the canteen was gone. Then he sat back on his heels and recapped it.
The captive whimpered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“Shh,” he said shortly.
The captive nodded, fervently, and sat silently, eyes down on the dust of the clearing floor.
He sat there and regarded the captive for another moment.
The bonds were cutting into his wrists – and really, was there any need to have them bound to his feet as well, that tightly? It would be impossible for the captive to uncurl completely, which seemed like needless cruelty.
He held up a finger at the captive, commanding his attention – even though he already had all of it.
“If you act up, or get me in trouble for this, I’m not doing it again, hear?”
“Yes,” the captive said, his voice a cracked whisper.
Cursing himself for a soft-hearted idiot, he set about untying the bonds around the captive’s wrists. He almost had to peel the rope out of a divot in puffy flesh, which turned his stomach a bit, but the captive only twitched and hissed an indrawn breath, he made no attempt to pull away.
He re-tied them, a little looser but not enough to get them over the hands, and gave the captive more slack so he could at least straighten his legs.
As he stood up to survey his work, the captive shifted and stretched his legs out, with another little hiss of pain. Then he looked up, and the gratitude in his tear-stained eyes was like a bonfire.
“Thank y-”
He grunted, not sure why he didn’t want to hear those words again, and stamped away. His stomach churned. There. Now I can sleep.
Everet returned to camp from his scouting mission and found the mage wasn’t tied up by the wagon.
Cursing under his breath, he went on a walk around camp. He’d thought it through, over and over, even once the certainty and decisiveness of lyrium had worn off, and his conviction hadn’t wavered. The mage might even be able to help him, but even if he couldn’t, Everet wasn’t leaving him here.
He eventually located the mage, unbound, on his hands and knees and spitting up blood into the dirt behind one of the tents, watched by a single templar.
“Hey, Everet,” the templar greeted him with a grin. Ser Renard. “What are you after? Tough day, need some stress relief?”
Everet nearly turned away in disgust. No, this was the plan, wasn’t it? It was good that it was Renard who was here, somebody else with even a scrap of morals might have objected. This was playing right into his hands.
The mage, sprawled on his knees in the dirt, flinched and drew himself into a huddle.
Everet let his head tilt to one side as if he was considering the idea, drawing his lower lip over his teeth.
“Well….” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe…”
The mage looked up with a start. His eyes fixed on Everet’s face, and Everet saw shock and recognition and blinding hope in them. Fuck, stop looking at me like that, don’t ruin it. He looked up, breaking the eye contact. I just need to get you alone to talk to you.
Renard laughed. “Maybe? Fuck, man, you’re never any fun. What’s stopping you?”
“Well, maybe if I could have him to myself,” Everet said slowly, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick, hoping his act wasn’t too obvious. He grinned, hiding the queasiness. “Why don’t you leave me to talk to him alone? I know you’re on guard but you could find something else to go and do, right?”
Renard looked surprised for a moment, and Everet held the grin, feeling sick, certain that Renard had seen through his act.
Then the other templar threw his head back with a great crow of laughter. The mage cringed into the ground.
“Hah! So that’s what your deal is, Everet, I was wondering! Finally got sick of sniffing around playing nursey and decided to just take it, did you? Well, this explains a lot!” He gave another snort of laughter, shaking his head. “Fucking hell. About time, man.”
Everet forced a laugh, his stomach twisting. He’d thought that was the interpretation Renard might jump to. He’d even been prepared with lines in case he was confronted about it. But this - this was the opposite of a confrontation! Maybe Everet was naïve, but he still had enough illusions left to be surprised, apparently. Urgh. How does the Maker not smite you where you stand for daring to wear the uniform of His soldiers?
“Didn’t realise it was that obvious,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair in what he hoped looked like a sheepish gesture. “But I don’t want you mangy lot around to watch, do I? Not into that. So are you gonna let me have him alone for a while, or not?”
“Fuck, sure,” Renard said, shrugging. “Long as you don’t kill him or break any bones, he’s all yours, do whatever.”
Everet let his breath out. “Thanks, Renard, I’ll owe you one,” he said lightly. “I’m gonna take him down the hill a bit, that all right?”
“Yeah, sure, Bryce is on watch, just give him a wave.”
“No!” the mage gasped, from near Everet’s feet.
Everet forgot himself and looked down. The mage was looking up, straight at him. Filthy hair falling into his face, eyes wide and filled with disbelief shining behind it. What parts of the face that weren’t bruised or swollen were smeared with days-old blood.
“Oh, hello, he speaks,” Renard chuckled. He grabbed the mage by the hair and yanked him upright, choking for breath with his head pulled back and his throat bared.
“No,” the mage wheezed. “No, you wouldn’t – you wouldn’t – S-ser, please, you can’t mean - ”
“Hasn’t done that in a while. Likes you, eh, doesn’t he?” Renard said, giving Everet a slow, dirty grin. He let go of the mage’s hair and shoving him forward to land in the dirt at Everet’s feet. “You gonna be able to handle him by yourself?”
Everet rolled his eyes and made a gagging noise. “If I can’t handle one little mage, fuck it, just bury me already,” he said dismissively.
He bent over, grabbed the mage by a handful of his torn clothing, and hauled him to his feet as Renard laughed.
“No,” the mage wept. “No. This can’t be happening. No!”
“Go on, get him out of your system,” Renard said, punching Everet in the shoulder. “Have fun!”
“Will do,” Everet promised, giving Renard a strained smile and trying to bundle the mage up into his arms. It was working, he was so close.
The mage struggled in his grip, kicking, trying to drop to the ground, putting up more of a fight than Everet had seen him do in days. He yanked the mage’s arms up behind his back and shoved the mage forward with a silent apology in his head.
Pushing the mage ahead of him, Everet made his way out from among the tents and headed for the edge of camp. A few people glanced up, and then away, disinterested.
“Don’t, don’t, no, please, you can’t! You can’t!”
Trying to be firm but not cruel wasn’t working. Everet was trained in restraining people, obviously, but he’d never tried to hold someone thrashing this desperately, and guilt was probably making him indecisive. He gritted his teeth, twisted the arms.
The mage gave a choking cry of pain and stumbled forwards. Everet remembered, too late and with a pang of remorse, that he’d said he had a bad shoulder.
“Maker damn you, hold still,” he hissed in the mage’s ear. He still had to get past the perimeter guard, he couldn’t let the act slip yet. “You’re – ouch, damn it, you’re making this worse.”
“Ple-ease,” the mage sobbed. “Don’t. Please. No! No!”
Everet gave Ser Bryce a terse nod on his way out of camp, prepared with more sickening lines in case he was challenged. He wasn’t. Then he just had to drag and haul and manhandle the sobbing mage down the slope, booted feet slipping in the leaf litter and turning on stones, arms aching with the tension of pulling his captive.
About halfway there, the mage… gave up was the wrong word, probably, but he tired. He stopped resisting, and let Everet drag him, no more words and pleading, just hoarse, desperate breathing.
Everet felt dirty. He wanted to take a hundred baths, scrub Renard’s dirty laugh and go on, have fun and will do out of his skin and his hands and his hair. He knew nothing like that would help. Andraste, Maker’s holy bride, forgive me, it will be worth it, if I can just talk to him and get us both out of here, he won’t mind once he knows what I’m doing, Andraste let it be worth it!
Finally he found a dip in the ground with trees above it that would shield them from view of the camp, while still giving Everet warning of people approaching. Everet bodily picked the silent mage up, carried him the last few steps, and despite his attempt to be careful, dropped him like a sack of grain into the hollow.
The mage lay on the ground, limbs sprawling, hair trailing in the dirt, and made the most horrible noise that Everet had ever heard in his life. A long, low, uneven sound from the back of his throat, complete helplessness and despair, as he pressed himself into the ground.
Everet was jolted into action by the need to get him to stop making that sound.
“Hey, hey!” he said, dropping to his knees. He looked up anxiously, scanning the horizon. Nobody in sight. None of the others could see him. “Listen – listen to me, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Hey. Hey, can you hear me? I’m not going to hurt you, I would never. Andraste, I’m sorry.”
The mage stirred, head shifting and lifting up. The noise stopped, and there was just hitching breath, and a frozen gaze fixed on his.
Everet held his hands up, palms out, fingers spread, a wordless promise. I’m not touching you, I won’t hurt you. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound as gentle as he could. “I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you alone so I had to pretend. It’s okay, you’re – ” He choked on the words you’re safe. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The mage’s expression shifted, became radiant with understanding. “Oh!” he exclaimed, his voice shaky and very quiet. “You – you brought me here – to talk? Without them hearing?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Everet said, dizzy with relief. “Keep your voice down, all right?”
The mage sat up in a flurry of limbs, pushing his hair out of his face, covering his eyes with bloodstained hands. “I should have known!” he gasped into his hands. “I should have known you wouldn’t – not you. Oh, Maker!”
And then he folded over, almost double, and burst into tears.
Everet flinched back, startled – but the tears were quiet ones, the mage nothing but a ball shaking with almost silent sobs. He eased himself down to sit in the leaf litter, not too close. Time to see if this plan of his actually had a chance of working.
Everet sat in front of his tent, cleaning his sword. He focussed all of his attention on the sword, getting tiny flakes of rust and dirt and blood out of the edges of the fuller.
A cry of pain came from the group of templars gathered in front of the next tent over, followed by gales of coarse, mocking laughter. The rhythm of Everet’s hand faltered for a moment, then continued.
“Come on, mage, is that all you got? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
A thick, meaty smack of fist against flesh, a choked sound that Everet almost couldn’t hear, wished he couldn’t hear. He resettled his blade on his knee, eyes fixed on a speck of dirt.
“Throw him here. Haha, didn’t like that, did you? What were you saying, before? Talk away, I’m listening!”
The captive didn’t respond. He’d started out talking, earlier in the evening, protestations of innocence, pleas for mercy. That had stopped now.
“Cat got your tongue? Come on, get up. Get up, piece of shit.”
A harsh laugh, words of encouragement, and a wordless wail. Everet’s eyes darted over, past the next tent, almost without his volition, to see the mage being dangled in the air by a grip on his upper arm, feet kicking a few inches off the ground in the second before he was dropped and fell to the floor in a bloody heap.
Everet yanked his eyes away. On the pretext of getting his whetstone out, he shuffled his position around so he was facing away from the scene before he bent his head over his work again. That way his eyes wouldn’t betray him by looking up.
A clink of metal and a thump. More laughter. Everet was biting his lower lip so hard it was painful, focussing on keeping the movement of his hands steady, unhurried, methodical.
The next noise was closer than the others. Everet jerked upright with a hiss of annoyance, but then fell silent as he saw the hand hit the dirt, not far from his boot.
His eyes travelled, unwillingly, down the back of a fine-fingered hand, knuckles bloody, down a wrist still puffy with rope-burn and a pale outflung arm, to the limp body of the captive mage. He’d been thrown, or pushed, and now he was lying prone in the dirt choking for breath scant inches from Everet’s feet.
He looked up further, to see the handful of templars – his brother templars – suddenly looking at him. One was falling about with laughter, leaning on his polearm; another cocked his head and made a polite ‘after you’ gesture towards Everet.
“Didn’t see you there, Everet,” he said, a cruel grin splitting his face. “You’re quiet. Guess it’s your turn – toss him back here.”
The mage sobbed, fingers curling into the dirt, one arm rising to fold protectively over his head.
Everet put his blade down, very slowly. He felt sick. He knew what he ought to say. He ought to stand up, tell them all “I don’t find this kind of game funny, there’s something wrong with you”. Then he ought to pick the mage up off the ground, tie him back up securely but not deliberately painfully, and put him back beside the wagon where he had been before the others had taken it into their heads to have their ‘fun’.
He wished he had the courage to do that. But he didn’t. He could too easily hear the question that would be asked next, what are you then, weakling? mage sympathiser? You want to get what he’s getting?
So instead he stood up, got his foot underneath the captive’s shoulder and kicked, nudging him over onto his back.
He was kind of hoping the mage wouldn’t realise he was the same person that had loosened his bonds last night. But the mage cowered, and looked up at him, and past the blood and rapidly swelling bruises he saw those eyes flicker with recognition and appeal.
Sorry. Sorry. Maker’s breath, I’m sorry.
He bent over and grabbed the mage by the robe, hauling him upright and setting him on his feet. He gave the mage a backhanded slap – hopefully something that looked and sounded dramatic but didn’t hurt as much as the alternatives – and shoved the mage over, back to the rest of the group. He watched long enough to see the captive’s knees buckle and drop him into the arms of the templar who’d told Everet it was his turn.
Then he sat back down, feeling lower than dirt. He ignored the laughter and calls from the others, picked up his blade and whetstone and returned to putting an edge on it. A templar without a blade was scarcely a templar at all. And that was what he still was.
