Chapter Text
A cold, heavy and suffocating fear took over Josephine’s body, when she saw only three figures emerging from the eluvian. It should be four. It was always four. Four brave heroes coming victorious back home. “Where’s Mahanon?”, she yelled, without recognising her own voice - resonating foreign and too high pitched in her ears, more noise than words, not unlike words spoken in the empty halls of Chantry that always get distorted into meaningless murmurs. It was only then when she finally noticed the limp body hanging on Bull’s shoulder. She hoped more that reason allowed for it that they wouldn’t bother bringing back a dead body. (Of course that they would, to burn him on a pyre, to not leave the hero’s body to demon possession and play - the last and only way to honour someone. The last act of mercy). No, he couldn’t be dead. No yet. Not like that. Not after all of that. But she couldn’t not notice that the companions’ faces were grave.
“We need a medic! Now!” Dorian ordered the scouts around, carefully avoiding Josephine’s eyes. A medic. Not dead. You don’t call medics to tend to dead bodies.
Iron Bull lied down the Inquisitor carefully - much softer than anyone could expect from such a mountain of muscle. “Here, Boss,” he said, taking leave. Mahanon’s face was as white as a sheet, with a slightly purple undertone. The lips blueish - just like back at Haven. But this time it was not the cold, but blood loss. The blood was everywhere - red and fresh. His whole left side covered, his armour was sticky from it. All seemed to be coming from a single wound - the missing arm covered in a bandage of fortune. Far from enough for such a wound.
Josephine took her belt off and, determined, she knelt down next to the Inquisitor. She could do something to help before the medic came. Anything. She unfastened and took off the left side of the armour. What was left of the arm was not a nice sight. The heavy iron smell of blood hit her. She winced - this will take time to heal. It was not a clean cut by a blade; it rather looked as if it was torn from the inside. Probably the Mark, she thought. Mahanon had been looking sick for weeks by now. She fastened the belt above the wound. The Inquisitor grunted. The sharp pain anchoring him back into reality.
“Josie…” he muttered, not fully understanding why he was seeing her. He just remembered being lost in the crossroads a minute ago. Josie shouldn’t be at the crossroads… Or maybe he got back, but how? It did not matter! “I have to stop…”
“Talking. You have to stop talking and moving. Shush, you’re in good care, keep your strength.”
“No… I…” Focusing was hard. He felt his consciousness slipping away, the world turning hazy and blurry again. “I’ve got to stop Solas. Where…” And he drifted away once again.
Josephine looked up to Dorian. “Solas? What?”
“Later. It is a long story. He hasn’t told us all the details.”
The medic ran into the room followed by scouts and a nurse with basic supplies. He assessed the damage quickly. “We have to stop the bleeding before we move the Inquisitor. Everyone move away from him and leave him some breathing room! Out.”
The medic did not like to have the recourse to magic, trusting his hands and tools over spirits, but it was an exceptional situation. He called upon small spirits and lend their forces to the patient, to at least superficially stop the blood loss.
Josephine went outside with Dorian, Bull and Cassandra. They were all still unusually silent - a surreal picture, especially for the usually chatty and exuberant Dorian.
“On Maker’s sake, what did happen?” Josephine’s usual calm demeanour was gone as well. “Did you run into a whole Qun battalion? Why is the Inquisitor the only hurt person here? Weren’t you supposed to keep him safe? Was it the Mark? What was that about Solas?”
“In order, let us explain, Lady Montilyet,” Dorian interrupted her, for the first time meeting her eyes. “The Qun thread is under control. I don’t think that any Qun batallion could defeat our Inquisitor.”
“Unless maybe a dreadnought,” Bull interjected, weirdly compelled to defend his people’s strength.
Josephine signed, not giving more attention to Iron Bull. “Not the Qun. So who?”
“I don’t know the details… But it was Solas,” Dorian answered.
“Our Solas? Did they fight to death? Why?”
“We don’t know! Lavellan went there alone!”
“Why would you ever let him go alone into danger?”
“We wouldn’t if we only could! He crossed the eluvian and it closed behind him with no warning!”
“How?”
“I don’t know! I am no expert of old elven magic! Don’t look at me like that… He is my trusted friend. I am angry at myself for letting him cross it first!”
“What happened next?”
“The eluvian stayed closed for long minutes, it felt like hours, and then it suddenly opened again. We ran into immediately and we found Lavellan lying on the ground, wounded, no arm. He kept rambling about Solas when we took him, but unfortunately he did not make much sense.”
“That is all?”
“Yes. All I know.”
“Cassandra? Bull?” They both nodded. Josephine crossed her arms. “It doesn’t make sense! I… Will he make it?”
“I have seen many soldiers survive such kind of wounds on the battlefield,” Cassandra said softly. “The odds are good, Lady Montilyet.”
“Though, he lost a lot of blood,” Dorian added gravely. “Unfortunately it took us longer than I expected to find our damn way back. Inquisitor made it look so easy to navigate, but it was a nightmare in reality. I should have been more attentive to when he was guiding us. It was my job as a mage. I… I am so useless.”
“Boss is hard to kill, Dorian. He survived an avalanche. He’ll be fine.” He made a pause. “And I think it was an elven thing, you couldn’t be quicker. That place was confusing. Nauseating. All wrong. Boss seemed to not be affected at all.” Iron Bull shook his head with disbelief.
Dorian looked at all of them one by one. “Sorry, I need a drink. You know where to find me.”
Once the Inquisitor was stable enough, the scouts carried him to the operation room. Much better light there than some random dusty chamber. A few grunts of protest came from the barely clinging to life patient. Difficult to kill this one. The medic was suddenly more open to believe all the crazy stories about what the elf survived, including an avalanche and a trip into the Fade.
The medic assessed the situation again. The spirits made a good enough job or reinvigorating the weakened body. That said, it was not the usual kind of patients he treated. It was the first time ever he treated a non-human. Most elves couldn’t afford his services, while the dwarves preferred to keep to themselves. He hoped the elves were close enough to humans, as all of this knowledge on the matter came from a Tevene book about elven biology that focused way too much on the bloodstream and “therapeutic” blood letting than it was comfortable. Not that Tevene science wasn’t impressive - he just didn’t trust them on this particular subject. Whatever books said, one was sure - blood goes inside the body and skin should cover muscle and bone whatever it is a human, elf or dwarf. It will have to be enough for this surgery.
The arm was not in a jolly state. He ordered the scouts to get off the armour and dirty clothes from the patient. That is something they teach in Tevinter and Nevarra - keep your hands, tools and patients as clean as possible to not let the bad spirits in. He cut deeply into the flesh and sutured back all the salvageable skin, muscle and bone into an upper arm. He had to cut above the elbow, which he abandoned the idea of saving once he counted at least six pieces of shattered bone. It would have never healed as it should and it left more skin to use. He judged his final result as not a bad job, considering the extensive damage. It looked like the damage after a particularly nasty spell - maybe they had run into a saarabas.
The worst job done and the patient stable, he had yet to examine the rest. The shoulder was dislocated. He popped it back in. He noticed how the skin was covered by a webbing of fine scars. Some of them looked fresh. He traced its origin - the scars seemed to be crawling down in the direction of the missing now hand. The Mark, he realised. It was supposed to be a gift from the Maker, wasn’t it? Why did it hurt this poor fellow so badly then? Curious, but it did not need his medical attention.
He sent a quick look at the pointy ears and the unsettingly humanish, but still inhuman face. He remembered what his Tevene teacher (an eccentric old healer who never told him his reasons to leave his country of origin) used to tell - never trust an elf, they’ve got lying in their blood. What if this great Inquisitor, this acclaimed hero, was lying about the Mark? What if it was never divine in origin? What if it was some foul elven magic at play from the start? He chased this thought. No, it did not matter now. He had a patient to save and it was his job. There were other people to judge him.
Bruises, a lot of bruises. No broken ribs. No broken bones at all. A cut on the side. Not too deep, but a few stitches couldn’t hurt. The elf was in a surprisingly good state - there was usually more injuries from a lost fight. Maybe they had been lucky and escaped just in time.
He called the nurses to him. “Wash the Inquisitor from all that blood and grim. Put him in a clean gown. Ah, and yes, give the armour to the scouts for cleaning, disposal or whatever they want to do.”
“Yes, sir!”
The medic sit down, tired from all the sudden chaos. He observed the nurses taking care of the unconscious Inquisitor with an usual reverence, maybe mixed with some kind of light fear. They probably saw a sacred man in front of them. He couldn’t see it. Not without the signature armour he wore. In his mind, he was that armour, he fused with the symbol - it never was the person behind all that. That person behind looked way too mundane. He wouldn’t have recognised him if they crossed paths. If not for the vasallin standing out, it was not a particularly memorable face. Thin, grey and tired. The great Inquisitor. The saviour of Thedas. A tiny and wiry man - maybe even smaller than the medic himself who was always rather on the short side. Why do we always imagine the heroes standing tall? Any Templar or warrior must be towering over him. He tried to imagine that man leading them just like in the stories he heard. He failed to. Even the gown the nurses put him in seemed too large.
Maybe he got it wrong - maybe this was actually what people loved. A mundane person standing up to great evil? A simple person with noble goals and against great odds? Maybe this made the story so captivating to common folks - anyone could become more and heroes could rise from the most impossible circumstances.
The Inquisitor was carried into his chamber to rest. He lied motionless drifting in and out of consciousness in the ridiculously huge Orlaisian bed, drowning in the sheets.
Only the closest were allowed to visit, but the first to come was the diplomat. The medic saw how she put her hand on his forehead - a gesture of tenderness rather unusual for a strictly professional relationship. He heard a few gossips on their subject, but tried to not give it much attention until now - probably there was some truth to the rather colourful stories.
“The Inquisitor has got a fever,” she assessed, trying to hide the worry in her voice.
“The elves run warmer than humans,” the medic commented.
“Not that warm.” She sent him a judgemental look.
“A light fever is normal after a major wound on the battlefield.”
“When will he wake up?”
“Sometimes he mutters a few words, which is a good sign. I don’t know how much blood he lost before getting to me. A lot for sure. We have to let him rest and sleep as much as possible.”
“Right, should I know anything else?”
“The surgery was a success. There is no other grave wound than the amputation. He will be weakened for the weeks to come, but the long-term prognostic is good.”
Josephine nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’ll take my leave if I may, Lady Montilyet.”
“Of course.”
Josephine sat down on the border of the bed. He was alive, it was what mattered. He couldn’t die as hero; he gave them already more than enough. Let others be heroes, for a change, she thought angrily. It is not that those saved people cared much about being saved. It would had been way too convenient for all those politicians and Chantry people to bury the Inquisitor as a hero. They wouldn’t have to give him anything more than a burial pyre and a statue, would they? They would love it. A clean ending. That is why most Chantry heroes always die. A good hero is a dead hero - no more questions and uncomfortable truths. It becomes political.
She took his hand, cold due to the fever. It was also about herself - they were supposed to travel home and finally build something together in peace. Something more personal, something that for once wasn’t about the Inquisition, Chantry and fighting demons. Something mundane. A break, they all needed a break. They deserved their happy ending. Enough was sacrificed.
“Please, don’t be an idiot. We’ve got a home to go to.”
“Sorry…” he breathed out, the voice tired and barely audible.
“I should let you sleep, shouldn’t I?”
“Josie?” He slightly opened his eyes. “Uh, too bright…”
“I am here. I’ll just close the curtains.” She also took a glass of water on her way back. “Do you want to drink?”
He grunted something in answer that sounded close enough to a yes.
She helped him drink. “Better?”
“Uh-um.” He blinked a few times, gazing at the heavily decorated Orlaisian ceiling. “How did I get here?”
“Bull, Cassandra and Dorian carried you back from the crossroads.”
“Oh.”He gazed for a few long minutes in silence, thinking. “I remember them yelling and arguing.”
“It makes a lot of sense. They always argue.”
He breathed out slowly. “Oh yes, they do.”
“Do you remember what happened?” She inquired, hoping that indeed he did. She did not know how to breach the subject of lost limbs and permanent injuries. That was not a part of diplomatic training.
“Uh-um.”
Josephine did not say anything more, she waited for him to say more.
“My arm is gone, just like that, by magic.” He tried to illustrate it with his hand, but he was yet too weak to move it. “I mean… Neat trick that Solas had. Back at Haven, he told me that it was impossible to separate the anchor without killing me, but… I guess he lied. Or maybe it was something new that Solas learnt.” He made a grimace. “Maybe I should be thankful for him being kind and considerate enough to wait to find a way to take the anchor only with my arm, and not my life.”
“Sorry, I am not following, my dear.”
“I… What matters the most is that the anchor is gone. Good grief. I think it was killing me, you know? I have been feeling quite sick recently…” Of course that Josephine knew. He was losing a lot of weight since a few months. She saw how he was carefully choosing his clothes and padded coats to hide his emaciated looking silhouette. How he was avoiding too much physical contact with her, so she didn’t feel the sticking out bones. How he grew isolated and spent more time sleeping. Of course that Josephine noticed it nonetheless. But he was also a proud man, so she avoided pushing him to much on the subject other than asking from time to time if he wished to see a medic. He always refused.
“Do you mean that Solas saved you?”
“No… His goal was not to help me. He just wanted the anchor.” He made a pause. “But he did not kill me to get it. Maybe it counts for something. I don’t know.”
They fell into silence for a moment. Mahanon felt himself dozing away. He had so much to do, but maybe not today.
“How are you feeling?” Josephine asked, breaking the silence.
“Weak, terribly weak.” His speech was slow and a bit slurry. “I mean way more than recently. I don’t think that I could stand up.” Very slowly he attempted to raise his arm again. It felt like filled with stones. Even the quilt felt ridiculously heavy. “No, definitely not. I hate being stuck in bed.”
“You had a major surgery. You’ll stay in that bed for some time.”
“Of couse.”
“What about pain?”
“Surprisingly manageable.”
“Then, it looks that the healer made a good job.”
“A mage?”
“A mage and surgeon. Or rather the other way around, he prefers to be referred as a surgeon.”
“I need to thank him.”
“You’ll have that opportunity.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I shouldn’t have let you go into the eluvians.”
“You had no way to know about Solas, Qunaris and other dangers.”
“You have been sick for a long time. And we sent you to unknown dangers without a second thought.”
“To be honest, I have been hiding how bad the anchor was making me feel. I know - highly irresponsible, but we couldn’t allow ourselves to show any weakness. Those vultures were only waiting to see me unfit to be the Inquisitor.” He slid his hand to find hers and forced an unconvincing smile on his face. “If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine own.”
“I knew that you were sick and I still supported your expedition. I said that it is an opportunity to show that the Inquisition is still needed. And what happened? You nearly died. How dumb could we be?”
“We had no freedom to refuse neither… There was no good choice.” He made a pause. “I survived. It’ll be alright.” He smiled more convincingly. “I won’t be making any uptight nobles happy by dying at a convenient moment.”
“It shouldn’t be like that.”
“There is nothing we can do… I assume that the Exalted Council will be soon over, if it isn’t already? What is their decision?”
“No, it is not over. And I will make sure that they will wait for you. This is the least they can do, Andraste be my witness.”