#reynolt's squad

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Oh man I've gotta ask about what would happen if Reynolt's squad was saved by the Dawn Squad. And if you up for it, could I request it as a prompt?

Let me just say this is an awesome prompt! Now let me apologise because I got carried away and now we have 5k+ words of whatever this is. 

Content warning for violence. The Venatori are not nice.

                                        _____________

It was unusual for Hanin to be called in for a briefing so soon after returning from the field. The Western Approach, unforgivable at the best of times, wasn’t a place where you wanted to send soldiers out without sufficient rest. To say he was perplexed would be an understatement, and as Hanin walked into the old inn that had been re-purposed as a command station, what he saw only added to his confusion.

“You sent for me?” Hanin glanced at Captain Hurst, who was in the process of weathering an agitated line in the floorboards. He paced back and forth, his heavy boots thudding loudly in the mostly empty room. No words needed to be spoken to clarify the gravity of the situation, and Hanin frowned, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”

“Ask him,” Hurst snapped, gesturing sharply to the other figure who had escaped Hanin’s notice until that point. Sitting by the desk at the back of the room, the man was hunched forward, his hands knotted in his thick brown hair. His uniform was torn and caked with dust and sand, and from what Hanin could see of his hands, they were crusted with what could only be dried blood. Despite being unable to see his face, Hanin recognised him almost immediately.

“Reynolt?” After exchanging a glance with Hurst, who just grunted and threw up his hands in frustration, Hanin decided to take control. He moved over to Reynolt, who had started shaking his bowed head, the movement so subtle Hanin almost missed it. “Tell me what happened.” 

Some part of him knew he should be softer; take pity on the man. But another part of him resented Reynolt so deeply for what he and his recruits put the Dawn Squad through that he just couldn’t bring himself to show any such mercy. He just didn’t deserve it.

“Those damn Venatori…” Reynolt’s voice was low and gravelly, like there was a hand squeezed around his throat. “They ambushed us. We were tired - unprepared. Got separated from each other. They…”

All while Reynolt spoke, a quiet, heavy sensation began to stir deep in the hollow of Hanin’s stomach. It rose and rose with each word until what Reynolt was saying - all of his curses and excuses - lost their shape, replaced by a deep, pounding thrum. The man was mid-sentence when Hanin finally spoke. The words fell like stone from his lips, cold and numb with the weight of realisation.

“You left them.”

Reynolt stammered to a halt, dark eyes darting up, almost seeming shocked by the statement of truth as though it was something else - a lie, an exaggeration. 

But it wasn’t. 

It couldn’t be anything else. 

“I… I had no choice.” Reynolt looked imploringly back and forth between Hanin and Captain Hurst, shame and indignation at war upon his face. “I-It was flee or be captured! And then what? There was nothing to be gained by—”

—“You left them!” Before Hanin even knew what he was doing, he had Reynolt by the shirtfront, the chair thrown aside as he grabbed the man and flung into the center of the room. Reynolt hit the floor hard, the sound of his armour striking the ground resonating with a sharp crack as one of the boards broke beneath him. 

“Lavellan!” Hurst’s alarmed voice barely registered. Hanin was already rounding on Reynolt, stalking forward as the man scrabbled towards the wall, eyes wide, boots sliding impotently, his left arm cradled to his chest. 

“Coward,” Hanin hissed. “Bastard. How could you leave them!?”

“Y-You think I wanted this? Fine! Call me what you want - I’m a coward and a bastard!” Reynolt’s voice had risen to a shout, something wild and hysterical shaking at its edges. “But if I wasn’t here, who the fuck would get them help? Answer me that, Lavellan!” When Hanin said nothing, Reynolt took a shallow, shaking breath. “No one. You know it and so do I. So save your fucking preaching and help me, damn it!”

“Help you?” Hanin snorted derisively and shook his head. “No. There is no helping you, Reynolt. You have proven that time and time again.” He turned sharply, attention snapping to Hurst. “My squad and I will mount the rescue. Have word sent to the stables. We will need gear and enough supplies for any potential wounded.”

“I’m coming with you.” Reynolt, who had managed to drag himself to his feet, now stood leaning heavily against the wall. ‘They are my—”

—“They are not yours,” Hanin interrupted, not even bothering to look at the man. “Not anymore. You have lost that privilege. I will see to it myself.” Moving towards the door, Hanin shoved it open roughly, the anger in the motion unmistakable. “You were their captain, Reynolt. If anything has happened to them… know that it should have been you.”  

                                                            ~

Venatori Camp - The Old Well

“I already told you I don’t know!” Laurent’s voice was high with fear, his blond hair matted with dust and blood from where he had been struck on the side of the head. “We’re just recruits - w-we don’t know the Inquisitor’s plans!”

One of the Venatori, called Terinius, stood over the kneeling man. Brenner could only watch as Laurent trembled in his shackles, his hands twisting behind his back, fingers knotting in nervous panic. His Orlesian accent, usually quite subtle, became much more pronounced when he was afraid. On a better day, Brenner might have held onto that as something to taunt him for later. But, as it stood, an accent was far from the most important thing to take away from this whole encounter. 

If they took anything away at all. 

“I am growing tired of your lies.” Terinius nodded to one of his steel-clad brutes, who stepped forward menacingly. “You are soldiers, are you not? What is your purpose in the Western Approach?”

“W-We’re just scouting.” Laurent twisted sharply, eyes wild at the edges. His gaze swept past Brenner to rest on Caldin and Varcette. “It’s the same as what they told you! It’s the truth, I swear it. Please…”

Sighing, Terinius exchanged a glance with the brute. “Very well. Unbind him.”

Brenner’s mouth dropped open at the same time as Laurent’s. What? That was it? Just like that? But as soon as the optimistic thoughts crossed his mind he knew they were foolish. Even as Laurent sobbed thank you’s to the man unlocking his shackles, Brenner felt his stomach sink to his knees. Panic quickly replacing dread, he turned to his other squadmates, praying to the Maker for a miracle and that even one of them would be conscious. But Caldin and Varcette had been the first interrogated. They had been dragged further into the camp for it. Apparently, after failing to break the two of them alone, they decided to change tactics. Put pressure on the interrogated and the witness.

Well the joke was on them. Brenner couldn’t care less about his squadmates. What mattered was that he got out alive. Whatever it took. 

A second robed Venatori arrived carrying a candle. Odd, given the sun was still up. Setting, yes, but it wouldn’t grow dark for another hour or two. Terinius nodded to the newcomer and smiled a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he turned back to Laurent. “Laurent, was it? I would like you to meet my associate, Darvaron.” The candle-holding man bowed his head to Laurent, who was about as confused as Brenner by this point. “Darvaron is one of our best, you know,” Terinius continued. “It is a shame that we have not been able to put him to use yet. No - a crime, really.”

Laurent’s hands were free from the shackles, but not for long. The brute, standing a good foot and a half taller, grabbed Laurent by the wrists. He twisted one arm behind the blond’s back, ignoring his strained cry as he forced the other out towards Darvaron. Laurent fought hard, but Terinius just chuckled as the brute stood like a stone golem, immovable. “Now now, don’t waste your strength. He is far stronger than a regular man; even one of his own size. Let’s just say I know his blood… quite intimately.”

“Gross,” Brenner muttered, then clamped his mouth shut quickly as Darvaron’s grey eyes flicked over to him. For a heart-pounding moment, he found himself locked in a silent, chilling stare with the Venatori, and it was like something was being… pulled from him. Right from the center of his being. Brenner felt his chest begin to tighten as breathing became difficult - near impossible. Spots formed at the edges of his vision, dark yet somehow bright all at once. But those eyes. Those grey eyes, like an empty mirror…

Suddenly, Darvaron broke the contact, his gaze returning to Laurent. The pressure in Brenner’s chest released like the snapping of a bowstring. Gasping, he sagged forward, focusing all of his attention on pulling in long, deep breaths, simply because he could. What the fuck have we got ourselves into? he thought as voices warbled nonsensically ahead of him. Maker, what he would give to go back a day. To be complaining in camp about sand in his shoes and the smell of Caldin’s sweat. Fuck, he’d eat the sand and drink the sweat at this point. Anything to get out of this place.

“Let’s try this one more time, yes?” Terinius’ voice drifted through the haze in Brenner’s mind, dragging his attention back to the spectacle before him. Laurent was still held by the helmeted brute, his outstretched hand trembling as Terinius gently - oh so gently - pulled off his glove. With another mirthless smile, the Venatori stepped back and gave a sweeping gesture to his companion, as though inviting Darvaron to step forward at a soiree. Taking his cue, the grey-eyed man moved to stand before Laurent. Brenner couldn’t see his squadmate’s face, but from hearing the hitching of his breath, he knew he was crying. 

Oh, for Andraste’s sake…

“Tell me,” Darvaron said slowly. His words dripped like sap, slow and sickly as he moved the candle beneath Laurent’s outstretched hand. He held it close enough that Laurent hissed, his fingers flinching upward. “What is the Inquisition’s business in the Western Approach?”

“I-I already told you. We all told you. We don’t know, I swear, we don’t know anything!” As Laurent spoke, his voice began to rise in panic. At first, Brenner figured he was just at his wit’s end - Laurent never really had much backbone. But then he realised that the candle’s flame was shifting colour. Ever so slowly, the golden glow began to change, blue tendrils mingling with gold, licking up towards Laurent’s straining hand. Darvaron kept the flame positioned where Laurent’s fingers met his palm, the brute’s grip unyielding as Laurent began to whimper. Then gasp. Then scream. 

The screaming...

Shuddering, Brenner had to look away. Had to. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to block out the sound as it rose higher and higher until the smell - Maker, the smell - hit his nostrils and it was burning skin and flesh. Retching, Brenner was forced to open his eyes again - to see Laurent’s hand dripping over the flame, flexing, curling, trying to escape the heat, burning both the top and bottom of his fingers as he panicked, wrist held in that immovable grasp. His voice broke - he screamed that he didn’t know. That he’d do anything! Begged for it to stop but it wouldn’t and there was something clear and thick dripping from his hand now—

—“STOP! I’ll talk - I’ll tell you everything you want! Just stop it!”

The flame snapped out of existence as though drawn back into the candle’s wick. Laurent’s screams continued for a few more seconds before the man went mercifully limp, his hand shaking, unable to bend or flex, blackened fingers twitching. The brute, seeing no further purpose in his task, dragged Laurent back towards the others and dumped him beside Varcette like a sack of spoiled flour. Brenner winced as that hand, the skin curled and cooked, landed in the hot sand. For a moment, all he could do was stare. All three of his squadmates were just lying there. So… still. 

Were they even alive? Surely they were alive.

They had to be. 

Didn’t they? 

Without realising, Brenner stared until that sickly voice, slow as treacle, drifted through the heavy air.

“Your friend did well, but I do not expect he could have lasted much longer.” Brenner swallowed and glanced back at Darvaron, whose fingers absently twisted the wick of the candle. The absence of any expression on the man’s face sending a chill down Brenner’s spine. “You said you would talk.” Those grey eyes flicked up - found him once more. “So… talk.”

                                                     ~

The Western Approach - Nearing The Old Well

“This has to be a fucking joke.” Cyrus glowered at Hanin’s back, their captain insisting on riding ahead of the group. As always. “Why did we have to be the ones to go bail those assholes out of trouble?”

“Probably aren’t many folks lining up for the job.” Lyrene shrugged, one hand on the reins, the other playing absently with her mare’s mane. “Besides, might be cathartic, seeing those snobby brats all trussed up waiting for a rescue.”

“These are the Venatori we’re talking about,” Ralon interjected pointedly. “For all we know, they’re already dead.” His nose wrinkled. “Maybe harvested for bodyparts or… skull staffs… or whatever it is that gets Venatori off, I dunno.”

Darren, who was riding a bit further back with the wagon, let out a shrill whimper. “Stop! That’s… I don’t wanna think about that.” He shook his head, as if to clear it of the image. Cyrus knew what the kid was about to say before he even said it. “I hope they’re okay. The briefing made the Venatori sound really bad…”

Cyrus grunted. “They can drop dead for all I care.” As usual, Darren had a way of killing the fun. He sighed tightly, nudging his horse into a canter, kicking up sand as he caught up with Hanin. They were supposed to be nearing the Old Well soon. It would be nice to know the plan. If he even had one.

“Got an idea of how we’re going to take down a bunch of Venatori?”

Hanin’s jaw was set in a tense, hard line. Cyrus could practically hear the creaking of the man’s teeth as they rode. “I go in first. You follow with Ralon. Lyrene stays back and covers us. If we are not outnumbered, Connors works with Darren to find the recruits and get them to the wagon. If we are, they join the fight and we keep each other from being flanked.” 

“Fine.” Cyrus paused for a moment, then huffed a sigh, “Look… I’m just going to say it. Why the hell did you volunteer us for this?”

They were quiet for a time, Cyrus’ attention lingering on Hanin’s profile. He had expected a reaction from Hanin. A reprimand. A sigh. But there was just… nothing. Just that same, quiet anger that seemed to be directed and nothing and everything all at once. 

“We have a duty to each other. It is as simple as that.”

“Bullshit. They wouldn’t come for us.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I do.”

Slowly, Hanin turned his head to regard Cyrus. There was something in the older man’s eyes. Something… tired. “I’m not asking you to enjoy it, Cyrus. I’m telling you to do it because it needs to be done. I know there is… friction between you all.” He ignored Cyrus’ derisive snort at the understatement. “And I know this is a lot to ask. But we march under the same banner. All of us. If we forget our duty to each other, everything will fall apart.” Shifting slightly in his saddle, Hanin returned his gaze forwards, gazing quietly at the horizon. “We do what is right, even when it is hard. Now go. Tell the others the plan. We’re almost there.”

Falling back with a frustrated sigh, Cyrus did as he was told and relayed the plan to the others. As predicted, there were no arguments. They all knew what they were good at, and now wasn’t the time to go changing things up. As much as Cyrus wished it wasn’t them rescuing Reynolt’s chuckle-fuck squad, he knew Hanin had a point. If they knew there was trouble and did nothing, what did that make them? Not a whole lot better than the people they hate.

As they climbed another sandy slope, the sun dipped low along the horizon. Given their proximity to the location Reynolt had given, they dismounted, tethering the horses to one of the sparse trees on the leeward side of the slope. Grabbing their gear from the wagon, they did a quick check of their armour and weaponry. Ever since Connors’ shield strap had broken mid-fight, Hanin had made it part of their routine. As Lyrene was testing her bowstring a shout, distant and desperate, broke through the air. 

Hanin did not need to give the order. All at once, the Dawn Squad was on their feet, and they were running.

                                                         ~

Venatori Camp - The Old Well

Brenner coughed painfully, wheezing, the sand and grit stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth as he tried to haul himself off the ground. He’d managed to last time. And the time before. But this time, when the brute’s boot connected, the bastard had misjudged. Aimed a little high. He’d felt something in his chest crack and now all Brenner could do was lie there, arms shackled behind his back, unable to do a damn thing to defend himself as a boot ground his face into the sand.

This was it. He was going to die.

The family name could go fuck itself. None of this had been worth it. 

“I would advise against lying.” Terinius’ voice was quiet, laced with a kind of scholarly indifference. Brenner sputtered and coughed, gasping shallow, painful breaths as the boot left the back of his neck. He turned his head and rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth, spitting blood on the sand before the Venatori’s feet. “Typical of a southern dog,” Terinius continued, shifting his boot casually away from the mess, “your kind have always been arrogant to a fault.”

Slowly, almost hauntingly, Brenner heard himself… laugh. It seemed distant at first - detached and breathless, catching on the back of his throat. Perhaps he was finally losing his mind. But so what if he was? Begging hadn’t worked; Laurent’s mutilated hand was testament to that. Silence wouldn’t save him, and lying just got him here, with a shattered rib and a mouthful of blood.

He might as well do what he does best.

“Y… You kiss your mother with that mouth?” He bared his teeth in a bloody smirk. “C-Careful. Your sister might get jealous.”

Terinius arched a brow. “Unwise, boy.”

Brenner chose not to heed the warning. “Must get you off, all this torturing and beati–” He broke off with a cough, cringing at the sharp pain as he pulled in a breath. But he pushed on. “B-Beating. Thought you were Venatori? Big, scary Vint mages. G-Gotta be an easier way to get what you want.”

Terinius seemed genuinely surprised by his change in tone. His brows almost disappeared beneath his crimson hood, although as he spoke Brenner seethed at the condescending amusement in his voice. “Well… it seems you have quite a bit more spirit than the others. I will grant you that, but it changes little.” He glanced to Darvaron. “Do as you please with this one. I recommend taking his tongue first, given his inability to use it wisely.”

It was, apparently, a good recommendation. As Terinius’ robed back swept towards the tents, Darvaron sighed and drew a small knife from his sleeve, the sheath concealed beneath the heavy fabric. It was narrow as a blade of grass, curved slightly along its length. Even from a distance, Brenner could tell it was the kind of knife that held a wicked edge. 

Shit shit shit shit.

“Y-You know… this would be more effective if one of the others was awake to see it.” Brenner knew the odds were slim, but Maker, he had to try something. “Scare them. They’ll talk, I swear it. Maybe they know something I don’t. It’s not like we tell each other anything. Don’t—”

Kneeling, ignoring his words, Darvaron grabbed Brenner by the arm, forcing him onto his back with a grunt. Cursing, Brenner glared up at those hollow grey eyes. They hovered inches above him, looking right through him, cold and empty. There was no anger. No frustration. Not even pleasure, which Brenner assumed might be what kept the bastards going. There was just… nothing. 

Somehow, that was even worse.

Sensing that any attempt at bargaining wasn’t going to work, Brenner forced a grin and spat a mouthful of blood in Darvaron’s sallow face.

“T-Take me to dinner first, prick,” he hissed, and did his best not to look at the knife as Darvaron swept a gloved hand over his face, smearing red across his pale skin. “Or at least clean your teeth before you go getting in my—”

Darvaron’s hand shot down to clamp around Brenner’s jaw, fingertips digging into the soft skin on either side of his mouth. He squeezed hard, forcing Brenner to open his mouth despite his struggles and cursing. The time for mockery was over - Brenner twisted, kicking out, ignoring the blinding pain in his chest as he felt his knee connect with the Venatori’s hip. The robed man grunted but somehow maintained his hold, the pointed edge of the knife now cold against Brenner’s lower lip. Refusing to hold still, Brenner felt a sharp sting and winced as the point cut into the side of his mouth. The next thing he knew, those gloved fingers were digging in, searching, prising open— he coughed and gagged, eyes watering, the scream at the back of his throat choked by panic as the knife started to slide under—

Something slammed into Darvaron, throwing the man sideways, ripping the blade away, leaving Brenner alone and shaking on the ground. Coughing, blinking through tears, he blindly pushed himself away, boots slipping hopelessly in the sand, chest screaming, arms held painfully behind his back. Someone… someone was on top of Darvaron; had him grappled in the sand a few yards away. The pair struggled and grunted, rolling, swinging at each other; Darvaron’s knife glinted as it slashed wide, just missing his attacker. A sharp blow to his wrist sent it spinning away, stabbing into the sand to Brenner’s right. 

The hulking brute, slow to react to the sudden change, drew his battleaxe and started to charge towards the pair. Brenner cried a wordless warning as the brute swung down like a headsman. A scream cut the motion short as an arrow pierced his wrist, followed quickly by a second that speared his hand before he even had a chance to react to the first. The brute reeled and roared in pain, axe thudding to the sand, missing his target by only a foot or two. For a second, Brenner thought the newcomers, whoever they were, might actually have the upper hand. However, thought immediately vanished as, in wordless horror, he watched the brute snap the first arrow, then the second, ripping the shafts from his flesh like large, inconvenient splinters. He reached again for his axe, but a second figure suddenly joined the fray, shoulder-charging the bleeding man, knocking them both off-balance. Planting himself between the brute and his weapon, this second soldier twirled his sword once, then fell into a defensive stance. The insignia on his helmet gleamed in the fading light. It was the insignia of the Inquisition.

How…?

A shout pulled Brenner’s attention back to the more immediate fray. The man on top of Darvaron had managed to free one hand and was grasping for one of the blades at his side. He found the hilt but the Venatori kicked and twisted, throwing him off-balance, his grip slipping down the sheath. Seizing the opportunity, the Venatori growled something in a language Brenner didn’t understand, then struck his opponent in the chest with the flat of his palm. There was a crack like thunder and the man, as though kicked by a horse, was hurled backwards by an unseen force. He slammed into the ground beside Brenner, grunting, the sand mercifully dulling the impact but knocking off his helmet. With a pang of horror, Brenner finally realised who it was.

“C… Cyrus?”

That bastard Orlesian? What was he doing here? 

Did that mean the others…?

“Shut up and stay back.” Without even looking at him, Cyrus struggled to one knee, drew his blades, and charged right back towards Darvaron. Brenner stared after him, numb. Speechless.

They… came. How was he ever going to live this down?

                      … live. 

Maker, he might actually live.

Cyrus’ blades flashed - glanced off a blue barrier that shimmered around the Venatori. He ignored the setback and swung around, striking again and again, forcing Darvaron back one step at a time. 

Why would they even come for them?

“Hey, company - head’s up!” 

Brenner knew that voice, sounding from somewhere up the slope behind him. It was that elf - Lyrene. The other two Venatori had emerged from the tents - Terinius and the gladiator. Brenner had fought the gladiator earlier, before everything went to shit. His head still throbbed from where he’d been struck by the back of his mace. Ralon, who Brenner now assumed was the one fighting the brute, yelped something in Antivan - a curse, perhaps - and circled quickly to get the newcomers in his line of sight. There was no way he could handle all three of them. Brenner grit his teeth and pulled at his shackles, hair falling into his eyes, the metal biting into his wrists. 

Shit! Come on… come on…!

Suddenly a figure, clad in full plate, crashed down the slope and into the camp, his heavy footsteps leaving deep gouges in the sand. A golden blade arced through the air, slamming into the gladiator’s side, knocking him off his feet, the momentum of the return sweep carrying him around to face the shocked Terinius. 

That blade. 

He knew that blade.

Captain Lavellan faced off against the Venatori mage, and for the first time there was something akin to fear on Terinius’ face. A dose of his own poison. In that moment, Brenner didn’t even care that it was the knife-ear Captain delivering it. 

At Hanin’s back, the gladiator staggered and began to rise, mace clutched tightly in hand. Before he even took a step towards the Captain three arrows, seeming to appear all at once, made short work of his exposed chest. The gladiator stumbled - looked down at himself - weapon slipping from his grasp. He heaved once and seemed surprised as he coughed a mouthful of red down his chest. Then, with no sound and no warning, he crumpled to the ground.

Something about the way the man fell, silently with those three arrows jutting from him, hit Brenner harder than any boot to the face. It was sharp and visceral, like coming out of a trance. He suddenly gasped in an agonising lungful of air - breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding - eyes darting between the fights, the bloodied sand, his fallen squad, the dying body of the gladiator, blood bubbling from his lips. Brenner felt his own breath stutter in his chest and, mindlessly, he struggled to move, to free his hands.

Do something, damn it! 

Cyrus cried out, reeling away as Darvaron threw a handful of red-hot sand in his face. 

What was he supposed to do?

Ralon dove under the brute’s battleaxe, only to be grabbed and hauled off his feet, boots frantically kicking up sand as they left the ground. An arrow immediately ripped past, missing only by a hair as the Antivan tried to twist free of his opponent’s grip.

No way - not like this. He wasn’t going to sit here and wait for them to fail!

Captain Lavellan advanced on Terinius like some kind of creature from the rifts, unstoppable and seething with an anger fiercer than Brenner could even begin to understand. The Venatori chanted, unseen magic ripping stone from the nearby cliff and sending them hurling towards Hanin. He ducked the first - slapped the second aside with his blade. But they kept on coming, and his advance slowed as he was forced on the defensive.

Maker, this wasn’t… h-how was he supposed to…?

“Hold on - I’ve got you!”

Brenner suddenly felt a pair of strong hands slip under his arms, hauling his upper body out of the sand. He screamed hoarsely at the movement, his chest exploding with pain so intense that he retched and almost threw up what little he still had left inside his stomach. The person holding him froze - Brenner vaguely made out, through the high ringing in his ears, something that sounded like a flurry of frantic apologies. But there were more important things.

“S-Stop,” he managed to rasp. “The others… Laurent… he’s bad. He’s…”

Whoever was holding him nodded, turning slightly. “Can you get them, Connors?”

The woman, who Brenner had not even realised was there, peeled away towards his fallen squadmates, but the arms holding Brenner upright didn’t leave with her. Maker, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. It was pathetic, but he didn’t want to be alone. Not again. Not even with people fighting just a few meters away. Just being held, it was… he needed it. After everything he’d seen… everything they’d been through…

Laurent is going to lose that hand. 

There’s no way he won’t.

I can’t breathe. 

Caldin and Varcette haven’t moved. 

Not once. 

What if they’re…?

Brenner felt a giddy, panicked laugh break past his defenses. It shook him from somewhere deep inside - rang though his bones.

“Are you okay?” Whoever was holding him stopped, sinking lower in the sand. They had made it to the base of the slope.

Brenner could barely bring himself to dignify that with an answer.

“Am I –? Do I look okay to you?” Shifting, gritting his teeth through the pain, he tried to wrap his arms around his chest but, of course, remembered too late that he was still shackled. “Damn it - get these things off me!”

“I can’t yet.” The apology was clear in the young man’s voice, but that didn’t make it any better. “I’m sure there’s a key here somewhere, but it’s not safe yet. We’ll find it soon - don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen.”

About to snap like an over-pulled thread, Brenner was ready to launch into a scathing tirade at being told not to worry. But that voice…

Oh for Andraste’s sake, it was that blond kid.

The fucking farmboy.

“S-So what? You’re going to protect me?” Brenner wanted to laugh again. Maybe cry. Maker, a part of him was desperate to insult the boy - revert to anything that felt even somewhat normal. But for whatever reason, be it blood-loss, pain, or plain exhaustion, he just… couldn’t. Instead, his voice failed as a shiver wracked his body. Somehow, as it passed, it seemed to take the last of his strength with it. With a kind of muted humiliation, he felt himself slump back against Darren’s chest, unable to support himself. To the boy’s credit, he caught him without even hesitating - seemed ready for it, even - and mercifully said nothing about it. Just for that moment, Brenner let himself feel how surprisingly solid Darren was against his back; how the arms that held him up were strong but somehow careful. Gentle, even. 

… Why? 

He’d never gone easy on any of them. He’d never even wanted to.

For a second - just a fleeting second - Brenner almost understood what the others saw in Darren. Maybe even what they all saw in each other. 

But that feeling, however strange, was quickly overtaken. The pain, returning sharp and vengeful, seemed to bleed out from his chest to the rest of his body, filling him with fire. The fighting, the fear, the humiliation, the anger, all rapidly slipped though his clenched fingers. The last thing he remembered was Darren’s voice, thick with concern, and the sensation of being held as the world gave way to darkness.

[lavellanlove]

5 and t for the writing prompts!

5t = “You’re better than this” + injury (re: Writing Prompts) 

You sent this without a pairing. As if I would have a choice:

Maleus Abano x Cyrus du’VoliseIn which Cyrus' old habits are unexpectedly challenged.

—

One of the reasons Maleus usually enjoyed his trips back to Skyhold was how peaceful it was. Most nights, generally seemed so focused on enjoying the respite from the broader threat for there to be much turmoil.

Tonight was not one of those nights. From the moment he walked in the gate, he could tell Herald's Rest was in an uproar, even more than usual. Angrier.

Heart immediately racing in panic at the conflict, but also compelled to see if there was anything to be done, he inched closer to the perimeter, and realized quickly it was centered around two men.

"Fuck you, you snide prick. Say that again." The dark-haired man looked barely restrained, hands clenched tight, almost snarling his words.

"I said, your little Squad of rejects are shit on the boots of the real soldiers. That's why you need captain knife-ear to protect you," Reynolt smiled, knowing Captain Lavellan was indisposed, stepping in close. "You and the blonde boy who looks like he's about to wet his-"

A protective shove sent Reynolt staggering back, but he grinned, plausible deniability covered, and went in with a hard right hook to the dark-haired man’s face.

That’s when Maleus realized with horror who he was fighting. Cyrus.

As the fight went on, it took all he had to try to push through the crowd. It was pointless. No one was moving, and he couldn't get through...and Cyrus could be hurt...

Exasperated, he pulled a pouch from his waist band and untied it, flinging gold coins liberally across the bar and into the crowd. "Next rounds on me!" he yelled.

In the commotion of people rushing to the bar and clamoring for coins, he made a beeline for Cyrus, pulling him swiftly away from Reynolt and out the door.

Not wanting to go too far without checking to be sure he wasn't too hurt, he tucked behind the building then turned to face Cyrus, both hands resting gently on his arms. "Are you alright?" he asked, frowning at the bleeding lip.

"Maleus?" Cyrus asked, tone coming off irritated but in reality more embarrassed. "What're you doing here?"

"I got your letter. But perhaps I should be asking what you are doing here."

"Was just there for a drink. That bastard Reynolt decided to talk shit."

Maleus sighed, and sat down right there in the grass, patting the space beside him. "I know. But you know he does it because he knows he can get a rise out of you. And well..."

He wanted to say he thought Cyrus let him, but that perhaps sounded harsher than he intended. "Is this what you meant at the embassy? About 'living up to expectations', since you presume people are going to treat you like shit anyway?"

Cyrus huffed, raking his aching hands through his hair. Perhaps he was too drained to protest, or perhaps there was just something about Maleus that made it hard to want to snap back.

"Fuck, I don't know...maybe."

He almost left it at that, but a twinge in insecurity compelled him to rationalize. "But you don't know that guy. He's always got it out for our Squad, no matter what we do or don't do."

Maleus shook his head. "But goading him into a fight? You're better than this, Cyrus. You're better than him."

"Am I?" he snapped, no bite left behind it.

"Absolutely," Maleus replied immediately. He reached over, resting a hand on his knee. "And you don't deserve to be hit. So stop...doing this to yourself!" Softer, more weakly, he added, "...please." After all, it hurt him to see this, too. For reasons he could hardly describe.

"I get that you're upset about your father. Shit, I would be too. I never even got my hopes up for justice, but if I had, and then it was gone, I can imagine how devastating that'd be."

He reached over and brushed Cyrus hair back from his face, fingers lingering there over his ear before he pulled away. "You said nothing changed, that nothing good came out of it. But it did. The Lorvains' claim is satisfied. You are safe. And that isn't nothing."

Maleus’ throat felt thick as he swallowed, staring into those pale blue eyes, still bleary with pain. "Not to me."

Wordlessly, he stood and turned, offering Cyrus his hand. "Come on. Let's get you inside. Get that lip cleaned up, then maybe have that drink you wanted in better company."

[reluctantwrites]

Surprise Guests

@carverly this was just the sweetest prompt and I couldn’t resist! It got quite long though, so be forewarned! (Approx 3500 words, most under the cut)

When a bad bout of the flu swept through Skyhold, no one expected it to hit Cyrus so hard or so suddenly. What had begun with a simple case of the sniffles and drowsiness progressed rapidly throughout the day’s training.

Maybe it was just bad luck, in the end. Admittedly, that wouldn’t surprise Cyrus, given his track record. He had been feeling light headed when Hanin brought them out to the field for riding practice, but of course, he had said nothing. In the end, he’d probably spent a total of five minutes in the saddle before his vision began to blur, the pressure in his head mounting, the world darkening at the edges. It had been pure instinct that had driven him to tug on the reins, slowing his mount. At least, when he blacked out and tipped from the saddle, he had not been moving quickly.

Unfortunately, that did little to soften the fall.

The journey from the field to the infirmary had passed in something of a blur. Part of Cyrus was grateful for that, given what he had overheard from the healers when they thought he was asleep. Apparently, Hanin had carried his half-delirious ass across Skyhold. In that instance, being barely conscious had actually been a blessing. Otherwise, Cyrus might have outright died from the humiliation of it all.

Well, at least he had some time alone to lick his wounds. Nurse his pride. Do… whatever it was people did when stuck on bedrest.

Heaving a deep sigh, Cyrus winced as he shifted, trying to change position on the narrow bed. He had done a number on his left side, according to the healer that had been tending to him since he arrived. Turned out falling from the saddle, even when the horse was barely moving, wasn’t exactly a great move, healthwise. Cyrus had asked if that was her professional opinion, and naturally, he had yet to receive a second visit. He supposed that was fair. It wasn’t like he was going to keel over and die if he was left alone.

But still…

Hanin would come to see him. The fact that the abnormally large elf wasn’t already clanking down the corridor to darken his doorway was actually something of a surprise. Then again, no one knew he was conscious.

Then again, maybe he was kidding himself to think that even mattered.

It was fine. He didn’t need them, or anyone. He certainly didn’t give a shit when people walked past his room to visit someone else further down the hallway. So what? No one really wanted to visit someone in the infirmary, and Cyrus sure as shit didn’t want them there, congregating like it was some kind of pity-party.

It was fine.

Hanin did come to see him, about an hour after he woke. It had been a simple, sombre affair. The disappointment had practically radiated off him. It took everything Cyrus had to meet his eye and nod when Hanin moved on from the simple questions (How are you? Do you need anything? Are they treating you well?) to things that were a little more difficult to stomach (Why didn’t you say something? Do you realise how badly you could have been hurt? Did I do something to make you not trust me?). The last one sank to the pit of Cyrus’ stomach like a stone. All he’d been able to say in response was a feeble it’s not that.

He could tell from the look on Hanin’s face as he left that he didn’t believe him.

Just like that, Cyrus was alone again. At least, until a different healer came to see him. This one, an older man with a grey-flecked beard, asked him more questions he didn’t know how to answer; ones that were somehow even worse than what Hanin had subjected him to.

Would you classify what happened as an accident? “Yes.”

I see. Are you experiencing any disagreements or tensions with anyone who was present when you fell? “I… no? No more than usual. What is this?”

Protocol, for people who visit the infirmary multiple times in a short time-span. Is there anything you want to report about your Captain or squad? “What? No. They had nothing to do with it. This was my fault, okay? Lay off.”

Were you aware you were ill? “Yes. I just said it was my fault. Do you need me to repeat it again?”

Do you often place yourself at risk, rather than seek help? “I… no? Yes? I don’t fucking know. What’s with all this shit? Just let me rest. I’ll be fine if you stop interrogating me.”

Very well. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing you want to say? Your name will not be disclosed. “You know what? Sure. How about this: fuck off.”

Even after sleeping well into following day, Cyrus remained bothered by the conversation. So what if he’d gone to the infirmary a few times? It was for different shit, and it was nothing to do with Hanin or the Dawn Squad. Once had been because he cut his hand cleaning a knife in the kitchens. Another was when he’d tripped carrying a bunch of wood up to repairmen on the battlements and hit his head. The most recent one, sure, had been after Brenner, one of Reynolt’s asshole recruits, gut-punched him after an evening at the Rest. He would have let it go if it hadn’t left him with trouble breathing.

Then more Cyrus thought about it, the more he had to admit it probably looked suspicious.

But the idea that he was being mistreated by his own squad? By Hanin? It was ridiculous. Sure, they had their differences, but in the end, they were a team. When he was with them, he knew he didn’t have to spend all his energy watching his own back. It was the safest he’d ever felt. In truth, sitting alone in the infirmary made him more anxious than recovering in the barracks. After all, there was nothing stopping someone who had a bone to pick with him coming over for a ‘visit’.

While Cyrus mulled over that unsettling thought, there was a sudden knock at his door. He jolted, pre-emptively on edge, part of him convinced that Brenner would be waiting for him, grinning the way he had after he’d sunk his fist into his gut. But instead, Cyrus was greeted by an unexpected sight.

“Hey.” Ralon raised a hand in a half-wave as he stepped into the room. “Heard you were up. Figured I’d drop in after lunch. Check if the healers had strangled you yet.”

Recovering and snorting dryly, Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Kind of you. Well, I’m alive. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ah well, can’t have everything, right?” Casually, Ralon snagged one of the stools by the wall and carried it over, settling with a sigh at the side of Cyrus’ narrow bed. “So… you all good?”

Cyrus arched a brow. “You really going to pretend Hanin didn’t tell you?”

“Alright, you got me.” Ralon grinned and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just wanted to hear it from you. Plenty can change overnight.”

Despite shaking his head and looking away, Cyrus had to admit, Ralon had a point. He hated when Ralon had a point. “I’m fine. Just… weak, I suppose. From the flu and shit.”

“Sure. The flu.” The Antivan winked conspiratorially. “Pretty nice to have an excuse for those noodle arms for once, huh?”

“Oh fuck off. Noodle arms. Could still strangle your stupid ass with them.” Sure, they were taking shots at each other, but there was surprisingly no venom in the exchange. That was… different. Ralon just laughed in reply, and Cyrus found himself slipping into a chuckle of his own, which inevitably descended into a coughing fit. “Fuck,” he rasped after a few painful spasms, reaching out to accept the cup of water Ralon had hastily poured for him. “T-Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. Can you imagine if you died on my watch? Hanin would kick my ass back to Antiva.” Smiling, Ralon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So, what? You’re not going to ask why I’m the one sitting here?”

Mid-drink, Cyrus just gave a small one-shouldered shrug, eyes watering, chest sore from coughing. “Figured Hanin told you to check on me,” he said eventually, resting the empty cup on his lap and clearing his throat. “I’m surprised he didn’t send the kid, though. He’s usually the one who draws the short straw.”

To Cyrus’ surprise, Ralon let out a sudden, weary sigh. “Okay. Look. How about you cut that shit out, yeah?” Slowly, he reached out, taking the cup from Cyrus’ lap and setting it back on the side table beside the pitcher. “No one sent me, and it’s not a chore.”

Cyrus frowned. “Then why ask me that shit in the first place?”

A slow smile spread across Ralon’s face. “It was clearly my unique and creative way of letting you know that the others are late. Like a bunch of assholes.”

At that, Cyrus’ frown just deepened, confusion washing over his face. “Ralon, the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about us, Prickles!”

The sudden voice from the doorway snared Cyrus’ attention, his blue eyes snapping in the direction of the sound. And standing there, sure as shit, was Lyrene, Darren, and Connors. Lyrene winked as she strode into the room then paused and let out an appreciative whistle as she eyed the space. “Damn, Cyrus. You paying extra for the private room or something?”

At the suggestion, Cyrus felt his cheeks grow warm. “With what fucking coin, Lyrene?”

“Hanin probably scared the healers stiff, so they set you up in a nicest spot they had.” Ralon seemed delighted by the prospect, his eyes taking on that twinkling, mischievous look. “Well, that’s something to look forward to, I guess, if we ever faint on horseback.”

“I do love special treatment,” Lyrene agreed as she perched on the corner of Cyrus’ bed. “Sorry we’re late. Darren got distracted.”

At mention of the boy, Cyrus shifted and glanced across to where Darren was busying himself by the side-table, blocking what he was doing with his body. Cyrus was about to ask what the hell he was up to when the blond straightened, nodded, and stepped aside. There was a kind of quiet shyness to the moment as Darren revealed a small arrangement of flowers. They were all familiar; he must have picked them on the way to the infirmary.

“Before you say anything,” Darren said quickly as Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, “I just figured, you know… the infirmary’s kinda… well, it’s not the nicest place. I remember when I was here last, I missed going outside, and it’s warm enough now that flowers are blooming so…” The boy’s nerves got the better of him and he just gave the vase a sheepish look. “If you don’t like them, I can get rid of it.”

“No.” Cyrus’ voice was hoarser than usual. Luckily, he could blame it on the coughing fit. “They’re… fine. Just leave them, now that you’ve put them there.”

Anyone else might have been offended by such a begrudging response, but very few people knew Cyrus the way the Dawn Squad did. Darren’s face lit up with a smile so warm Cyrus felt like someone had brought a piece of the sun into the room. Maybe it was the stupid flowers, or the fact that everyone had come to see him, but he felt… good. Better than he should, at least, all things considered.

He had barely recovered when something was being pushed insistently into his hands. Turning his head, Cyrus cocked a curious eyebrow at Connors, surprised she had even bothered to come in the first place. “That is for rest,” she said, nodding to the small pouch. As Cyrus raised it to his nose and sniffed it tentatively, she continued. “Herbs. Brew them into a tea. I will have the healers bring you hot water when we leave.”

“You mean when we leaf?” Ralon grinned as the entire room descended into a chorus of pained groans. As Cyrus lacked the strength to do it himself, he was grateful when Lyrene reached over and swatted Ralon for the terrible pun.

“Anyway,” Darren said softly, settling down beside the bed, “I’m glad you’re not hurt. The Captain was really worried yesterday.” He hesitated, his words faltering, gaze sliding away. “We, um… all were.”

Cyrus watched Darren for a moment, and then relaxed into a tired half-smile. Reaching up, he ignored the pain in his arm as he roughly ruffled the kid’s mess of blond hair. “Yeah, well, I’m fine, alright? So stop worrying.”

“Oh, sure, we’ll stop worrying,” Lyrene drawled, crossing her arms and fixing Cyrus with a hard look, “when you stop giving us shit to worry about. You scared the crap out of us yesterday. What if you’d broken your neck?”

“Then I would have broken my neck.” Cyrus didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to people calling him out on shit like that. “Guess I got lucky.”

“We all did.”

Cyrus turned, the sharpness of his expression melting away when he met Darren’s gaze and the kid smiled at him. “I’m serious,” he insisted, arms folded on the edge of the bed as he knelt beside it, “you scared us, but you're okay. That’s what matters. Just promise you’ll look after yourself. Please?”

Please? The room had descended into a strange, not quite awkward silence at the end of Darren’s request; a silence the rest of the squad let hang in the air until Cyrus was ready to break it.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Cyrus cleared his throat, glancing away. “I’ll be more careful.” The silence returned, this time verging much closer to awkward. Trapped in the thick of it, Cyrus finally broke and groaned. “You’re not all going to sit there looking at me like that all afternoon, are you?”

Exchanging glances, the others laughed, the mood lifting as they rose from their various positions. Lyrene stretched, wandering towards the door. “Nah. Wouldn’t want to torture you, Prickles.” 

Ralon winked and reached out, grasping Cyrus comfortingly on the shoulder. “Rest up. It’s not the same without your constant bitching. I’m having too much fun.”

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Cyrus replied, but a flicker of a smile gave away his true feelings as the group bundled up and bustled back out, almost knocking over one of the roaming healers. After they left, Cyrus’ gaze lingered on the doorway, a strange warmth alight in his center of his chest. Slowly, his attention drifted across the room and came to rest on the small cup of flowers. Dandelions.

He never realised how much he liked dandelions.

Cyrus had dozed off after drinking Connors’ tea, which was not nearly as horrific as he had been expecting. Feeling warm and hazy, he sighed, grateful for the thick blanket draped over him and the soft fur pressed against his hand…

Brow twitching, Cyrus opened his eyes, blinking away the echoes of sleep. It fled him in a rush when he realised what was beside him.

“Hey, you...” he mumbled. His fever had worsened, it seemed. He was lucky to have gotten the sleep he did, thanks to Connors. “What’re you doing here, boy…?”

The mabari whined, nosing against his hand, his large brown eyes so heart-melting that Cyrus shifted as best he could to scratch him behind the ears. A second mabari was also in the room, settled by the foot of the bed. She gave off the air of being older and wiser than her needy counterpart, who panted happily at the attention, tilting his head into the scratches.

“How’d you two get in?” Cyrus asked foggily. He wasn’t expecting an answer, which made it even more shocking when he got one.

“With great difficulty, so ah, try not to make too much noise, please.”

For a second, Cyrus stared in shock at the mabari he was scratching. Then his gaze drifted up to the doorway. A blond man stood there, broad-shouldered and sporting about two day’s worth of stubble. Halfway in the corridor, his blue eyes flicked back and forth, keeping watch for any prowling healers. After a moment, he spared a glance over his shoulder and gave Cyrus a kind smile. “They missed you, yesterday. It’s hard to say no to those faces when they want something.”

“Trevelyan?” Cyrus shook his head to clear it, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up. A flash of pain lanced up his left side and he gasped. He almost abandoned the motion but the mabari he’d been scratching put his front paws up on the bed, leaning forward. With his help, Cyrus was able to haul himself into a sitting position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would your dogs miss me?”

With a final nervous glance, Jaime turned his back on the corridor, leaning against the doorframe. The look he gave Cyrus was as soft as his voice when he spoke. “I know you come down to the stables to see them in the evening.” He raised a hand when Cyrus stiffened. “Easy. It’s alright. I’m glad you do. They like you so much they’ll wait there even when it’s cold out, and you’ve never let them down.” He smiled at that, his gaze endlessly fond as it shifted to the two mabari. “Justin and Helen are picky, but Maker knows they chose you. They were so upset last night that I had to bring them here today to prove you’re alright.”

Justin gave a soft bark of agreement, leaning forward to nose at Cyrus’ cheek. Despite his state, Cyrus laughed weakly, reaching up to scratch the large hound’s face. “You missed me, huh? Well, I missed you too… Justin and Helen.” As he said the names, he fired an accusing look at Jaime. “Really? Those were the ones you went with for a couple of dogs?”

Laughing, Jaime just shrugged. “It suited them. They’re as good as people to me.”

Thoughtfully, still scratching Justin’s cheek, Cyrus’s gaze lingered on the two mabari. Eventually, he let out a soft huff and nodded. 

“Yeah. Better than people.”

It was the following morning, when the worst of his fever broke, that Cyrus awoke to the smell of something warm, fresh, and delicious. Stirring, confused, he rolled onto his side and came almost face-to-face with what appeared to be a pie of some description. Filling spilled down slightly on one side, the pastry so overfilled with berries that it could barely contain itself. Baffled, Cyrus looked around, relieved when he found a note wedged under the pie dish.

Cyrus,

Captain Lavellan mentioned you would not be assisting me in the kitchens for evening clean-up due to illness. I hadn’t realised you were not well. I hope it is nothing too serious.

I visited this morning but you were fast asleep and I felt it best to let you be. But if there is a cure for anything, it is my famous wildberry pie! Do try to eat it while it’s still warm, dear – and not all at once. I know what you soldier-types are like when it comes to food!

You rest up and take care of yourself. Let me know when you are well enough to keep me company in the kitchen, and don’t you dare come back a moment sooner!

Druselle (your favourite cook)

Stunned, Cyrus stared at the note, then the pie, then the note again. He’d always thought Druselle just put up with him during clean-up duty. It was just one of his chores; it wasn’t like he wanted to be there. Sure, he never skipped out, but so what? It’s not like he’d done her some huge favour out of the goodness of his heart. He barely even spoke to her, most nights, content to work in silence and just get the job done.

Maybe that was what she liked about it.

It was strange. Of all the people who had visited him, there was just something about Druselle’s pie and letter. It was something so unexpected that it hit Cyrus like a falling tree, leaving him bone-weak in his bed, the piece of paper held limply between his fingers. He’d always assumed that people just… didn’t like him. That it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. It was like he carried some kind of mark that only other people could see, labeling him as undesirable. A thing to be avoided.

But Druselle, the cook who had probably shared two words with him over the last couple of months, had got up in the early hours of the morning, when the sky was still dark and the birds were fast asleep, to make him her famous wildberry pie.

Sniffling, Cyrus shivered and reached up, swiping at his eyes, careful not to get tears on the paper. A tremulous laugh rolled up the back of his throat and stuck there like a stone, choking off sound for a moment as he marveled at his own ridiculousness. There was nothing to cry about. It was just a pie.

But, as Cyrus reached out and broke off a piece of the crust, the pastry buttery and still warm to touch, he was forced to admit a fundamental truth.

It was so much more than that.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

"I didn't lie about anything. I swear I didn't" for Darren?

“I didn’t lie about anything. I swear I didn’t!” Darren’s voice trembled as he spoke, and for a moment Hanin found it impossible to put aside just how young he was. How inexperienced.

“I understand you want to protect he others,” Hanin continued slowly, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the room, “but this is serious. Commander Rutherford wants answers, and so do I.”

“W-Why from me?” The boy was rubbing his hands nervously along the tops of his thighs, the chair squeaking slightly with the force of the motion. “I wasn’t at the fight. I didn’t see anything.”

“You and I both know the others talk. And we both know you would have heard that discussion.” Hanin paused and turned to face Darren head-on, bringing the full force of his disappointment to bear. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

Darren’s mouth opened and closed, the aborted beginnings to several sentences struggling and failing to find purchase on his lips. “I don’t… they just… it wasn’t… they didn’t mean…”

A tight sigh from Hanin cut the boy off. Being a Captain wasn’t what he had expected. The petty squabbles between squads was one thing, but his own lying to him? He had to draw the line. “I need to know what happened. I can’t help any of you if I don’t. You and I both know the others won’t say a word even if it means making their own lives easier.” Hanin leaned against the hearth with a heavy elbow, fingertips rubbing his eyes. “Be strong for them. Don’t leave me in the dark.”

When Hanin glanced at the boy from behind his hand he witnessed the sagging of his shoulders, the descent of his gaze to the floor. Part of Hanin hated himself for putting so much pressure on the weakest link, but sometimes it just had to be done. At the end of the day, Darren’s conscience would get the better of him. That much, Hanin knew.

“It was Captain Reynolt, sir.”

That caught Hanin’s attention. His brow snapped into a frown. “I was told it was a disagreement between your squads.” No one had even mentioned Reynolt.

Throat bobbing, Darren shook his head, eyes still downcast. “I… no. I mean, it was, but Reynolt started it.” He pulled in a short, shaky breath. “The others said no one would take our word over his. They said to just… keep quiet. Hope it all goes away. I-I said I would, but…”

In that moment, Hanin was glad the boy wasn’t able to look at him. He might mistake the cold fury on his face as being directed at the Dawn Squad. By his sides, his nails bit crescents into his palms. “What did Reynolt do. Tell me.”

Whatever self-consciousness had kept Darren from speaking earlier cracked and shattered like glass beneath the weight of Hanin’s demand. “W-We were coming out of the Herald’s Rest, and he was outside, and…”

Hanin could barely hear over the thrumming in his ears. The heady pounding in his veins. “And what?”

Darren’s lower lip trembled. “H-He was drunk, I think. Started saying horrible things. It’s stuff we usually ignore. We’re used to it. But then… he started following us and Lyrene told him to leave and…” He shifted in his chair, a faint flush crawling up his neck, as though the memory triggered something shameful and humiliating. This time, Hanin just waited until he had collected himself enough to continue. “He said some really… awful things to her. About her. About… being an elf. And um… what her place was.”

Hanin could practically feel Reynolt’s windpipe crushing against his palm. “And what was that, exactly?”

Darren winced, cheeks reddening. “Um���. under him. But not because he was a Captain and she wasn’t. It was, um… m-more like…”

It took all of Hanin’s will to unclench his jaw to spare Darren the need to explain. “I know what men like him mean. What happened after that?”

“Cyrus punched him. Right in the face.” That information, surprisingly, came with much more ease. In fact, Darren sounded almost approving. Good. “We knew we were in trouble. People have been kicked out for just talking about assaulting an officer.” He looked up suddenly, for the first time since beginning his recount, blue eyes wide and panicked. “We were scared, sir. We didn’t want to lose him. It wasn’t fair! Ralon said he would’ve done it if Cyrus hadn’t. The stuff Captain Reynolt was saying… it was so rotten and crude and… we know he shouldn’t be talking to recruits like that. But Cyrus has been in so much trouble and we were afraid he might be…”

Hanin raised a staying hand, forehead creased in worried contemplation. This was serious, and it explained Reynolt’s squad’s retaliation the following day. Clearly the coward was too embarrassed to deal with the issue head-on, so he sent his recruits to pick a fight. Goad a reaction. Create a new precedent for Hanin’s squad to face punishment. 

And he knew exactly what would work.

“No one is going anywhere.” Hanin was surprised by his own resolve, despite knowing the decision was not ultimately his. All he knew was that he wouldn’t allow it to be made. Whatever it took. “I will deal with it. If another Captain is involved, it is my fight, not yours.”

Darren must have picked up on his certainty, because he relaxed almost immediately, a breath of relief practically pouring out of his chest. But the relief quickly morphed back into uncertainty. “Lyrene didn’t want this to get you in trouble, sir. She… said she was used to being treated that way. That it didn’t bother her. But it did. We all saw her face.” He sniffed slightly. “She’s just… always so fun and happy… I hated that someone tried to take that away.”

Hanin’s head was pounding. Creators, he could kill the man. Eventually, he nodded stiffly, levering himself off the wall. He crossed the space, resting a firm hand on Darren’s shoulder. “I don’t expect any of you to go up against a ranked officer. For the reasons you have already said. It is why you need to come to me if anything like this happens. Understood?” Darren sniffled and nodded. Hanin gazed down at him for a moment, then added, “Thank you, Darren. For telling me the truth. I know it was hard, but you have done the right thing by your squad.”

Darren gave another faint nod, seeming almost exhausted by the emotional ordeal. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. “Sir… what happens now?”

Hanin gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze, then headed for the door, expression growing colder with each step. He would do right by them. All of them.

“Now it’s my turn.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

"You look like you're going to tip over any second" with Darren and Cyrus

Darren & Cyrus, during Inquisition. Approx 1700 words.

In which Cyrus isn’t looking so good, and Darren is worried for a very good reason.

(TW: descriptions of a (borderline severe) asthma attack. It was as much a surprise to Cyrus as it was to everyone else). 

“You look like you’re going to tip over at any second.”

Cyrus’ chest felt tight, as though some unseen person hadhim in a grapple and refused to let go. “I’m fine,” he hissed, glancing aroundwarily at the group of soldiers accompanying them. Reynolt’s squad had beenassigned to the same mission. The last thing Cyrus needed was for any of them tosmell weakness. It was blood in the water to them. “Just… fuck off, Darren. Get off my case.”

Beside him, the blond hesitated, clearly unconvinced asCyrus almost stumbled over an exposed tree root, his reflexes too slow to avoidit, his pulse beginning to pound in his ears. “No. You’re not okay,”Darren insisted softly, leaning close, his hand coming to rest warily on Cyrus’elbow. Just in case. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wr—”

—“Cyrus. If you don’t tell me I’ll…” Darren trailed offuncertainly for a moment. But he swallowed and huffed out a breath, steelinghimself. “I’ll call the Captain over. You know I will.”

At that, Cyrus pulled to a sharp halt, turning to fix Darrenwith as forceful a glare as he could manage. It was remarkably hard, with hisvision blurring at the edges and his chest so…

“Darren. I… I swearto the fucking Maker… if you… so muchas…” He reached out, gripping the blond by the collar. Making a fist, catchinghis breath, he couldn’t seem to do either properly, his throat feeling unnaturally tight.“I-If you…”

Darren already had his arms in place to catch Cyrus when hewent down, the Orlesian’s legs buckling beneath him. He staggered and collapsedagainst Darren’s chest, words cutting off with a tight, quiet sound of confusion.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Darren did everything in his powerto channel the one person who had always brought him comfort: his ma. Her tone.Her warmth. Her innate sense of reassurance. He never forgot the way she hadheld little Cian as he shook and shivered through his final night. Even whenhe’d taken his last breath, his baby brother had never been afraid. It was hardto be afraid when you were safe and warm in her arms.

But, of course, Darren was not his ma.

Slowly, carefully, he sank to his knees, lowering Cyruswith him until they were together on the grassy ground. The Orlesian’s foreheadwas resting on Darren’s shoulder, his chest heaving in short, erraticmovements, the air seeming to whistle as it battled in and out of his lungs,his attempts to pull in air painful to witness. Eyes wide, barely containinghis panic, Darren raised an arm and waved to get the attention of hissquad-mates. “Hey! Stop – wait!”

“D-Don’t,” Cyrus wheezed, but he was barely audible now, asthough there was no air left to give the word shape. Darren knew Cyrus had beenunwell for the past few days, but this…

He could feel Cyrus’ attempts to breathe growing shorter andfaster as panic started to set in. Darren held him, trying to keep him calm –reminding him he wasn’t alone – but sensed that whatever this was, it wasbeyond his ability to soothe. He was useless to help.

But there was another person who could.

“Connors!”

It would have been only seconds but it felt like an eternitybefore Connors arrived, dropping to her knees beside them, her brow creased as she assessed the situation. With firm, clinical hands, she pushedDarren away from Cyrus, inspecting the Orlesian’s face, listening intently to his attempts tobreathe. He was shaking now, a light sheen of panicked sweat covering his skin. “Holdhim,” she instructed, returning Cyrus to Darren’s waiting arms as she slung herpack off her shoulders. They weren’t lucky enough to travel with a mage.Connors and her tonics was the best they could hope for.

With Cyrus gasping and wheezing in his arms, Darren couldonly pray to the Maker that she knew what to do.

“Keep him still,” she instructed, glass tinkling in her bagas she searched, her gaze flicking calmly over to Cyrus at intervals to assess his state, “andcalm, if possible.”

“Calm?” Darren squeaked. “H-How can I--?”

“Do your best.”

In truth, Darren felt like he was the one starting to panic. But he swallowed and held his friend, forcing the sudden urge to cry aside. Now was not the time for that. It wouldn’t help anyone. “I-It’s okay. You’re okay. Just… tryto take a deep breath for me. Like this...” He drew a long, slow breath in. “Can you try? Please?”

Cyrus’ body convulsed slightly – something like an abortedcough. 

Then everything just seemed to fall even further apart.

“S-Slow down, okay? Cyrus, you’ve gotta slow down.” Darren knew itwasn’t Cyrus’ fault. He was just babbling now, as frantic and scared as he’dever been when one of his friends got hurt. But this wasn’t like other times. This wasn’t some injury he couldput pressure on until someone smarter arrived to fix it. Maker, he wantednothing more than for someone to just make it stop – make it go away. But as therest of the squad drew near, Connors barked a sharp order for everyone to standback. To give them space.

That just left Darren.

Connors was doing something at the corner of his vision;mixing two vials together, if Darren had to guess. It was hard to pay attention.All he could think to do was rub his hand up and down Cyrus’ upper back, thegesture feeling impotent and pathetic in the face of his friend’s struggle to breathe. How it had all gone so downhill, Darren couldn’t begin tosay. He swore it had just been a bit of a cold the day before. It just… didn’t make sense.

“Lean him back. His face needs to be clear.”

Connors actually startled Darren, his attention had been so absorbed by the man in his arms. After letting out a small yelp, he nodded frantically, shifting his hands to brace Cyrus by theshoulders and reluctantly pushing him away. The man was pale and rigid, asthough every part of his body was focusing solely on the act of breathing in what little air it could. Connors moved closer, giving him another quick assessment, thenviolently shook the vial in her hand.

“Cyrus. Listen. When I tell you, you are going to try to breathein what is in this vial. As much as you can. Exhale through your nose.Understand?”

Weakly, shakily, Cyrus nodded. The fact that he was still presentenough to respond had to be a good sign, and it set part of Darren at ease.Well, a small part. 

Majority of him still remained sick with worry.

Connors stopped shaking the vial, inspecting it brieflybefore leaning forward until it was centimetres from Cyrus’ face. “On three,”she said calmly. Another nod from Cyrus. “One. Two. Three.”

She unstoppered the vial and brought it quickly to Cyrus’lips. Struggling, he tried to do as instructed, breathing in the vapour thathad formed in the vial as the two liquids mixed. The first few ragged attempts looked so painfully hard that Darren had to glance away to stop himself from panicking. Connors, on the other hand, watched Cyrus intently, her gaze never waveringas her squad-mate choked and shuddered. Then inhaled halfway. Exhaled stiffly. Inhaled again. Exhaled.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

Suddenly, Cyrus spasmed and pulled away from the vial to cough; a hacking, wetsound. Connors slipped her thumb over the opening until he was done, thencalmly instructed him to keep going until there was nothing left, the liquids inside continuing to produce vapour as they mingled.

Astonished, relieved,Darren just knelt there in front of them, watching in utter awe as colour beganto return to Cyrus’ cheeks and lips, his shoulders and neck relaxing as hepulled the substance into his chest. Eventually, Connors was able to release the vialinto Cyrus’ care, the Orlesian no longer trembling to the point of incapacitation.It was only then, with her patient stable, that Darren caught her release a soft,slow sigh of relief.

For Connors, that was the equivalent of fainting.

“How did you know that would work?” Darren asked,shuffling back slightly as Hanin moved in to fuss over Cyrus, placing his large form between his recruit and Reynolt’s approaching squad like a barrier. Connors almost seemed likeshe wouldn’t answer for a moment, but after taking in the look on Darren’sface, she quietly relented.

“I didn’t. We were lucky.”

The confession was like a punch to the gut. Darren gawped ather, at a loss for what to say. To his surprise, Connors continued unprompted.

“Sometimes the airways close too much and nothing can reachthe lungs. We were lucky Cyrus’ condition was not so severe.” She paused, then added, “This time.”

“Shh!” Darren glanced warily over to where Cyrus was slumped nearby.“Just… don’t say that so loud, okay? He’d never admit it, but I think he’s scared enough right now.”Swallowing thickly, Darren couldn’t help asking one more burning question. “You... soundlike you’ve seen this kinda thing before. If he was… thatsevere… what would have happened?”

This time, Connors opted not to answer. She just gave Darrena long, silent look, then rose to her feet, dusting the grass off her knees. “Weshould rest for a time,” she declared to the gathering group, Reynolt’s squad havingfinally descended the nearby hill to gripe about the holdup. She turned and addressedthe rest of her statement to Hanin. “An hour should be sufficient, sir.”

His hand on Cyrus’ back, expression tense with worry, Haningave a single nod. Although he seemed reluctant to, he stood and strode overto deal with Reynolt, who seemed more than irritated by the setback if his scowl was any indication. Theirconversation was little more than a low, heated hum to Darren as he scrambledback over to Cyrus, slowing his approach to a tentative shuffle as he drewnear.

“Hey…” Darren mustered a feeble smile. “Feeling a bit better?”

Clearing his throat roughly, Cyrus spared him a brief glancebefore rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, kid. Don’t... give me that look.”

He still sounded breathless, but the eye rolling and snippy remark brought a true smile toDarren’s face. “Thank the Maker for that,” he said, then shifted to flop intoa sitting position by Cyrus’ side. They remained like that for a long while, therest of the squad moving over to back up Captain Lavellan as he attempted toreason with the stubborn Reynolt. Sure, stopping now would make them late toarrive at the next camp. Sure, it might get them in trouble for slowing down the mission…

… but, glancing over at Cyrus, who was clearly fighting a sudden anddevastating wave of exhaustion, Darren knew the Orlesian wouldn’t be gettingback up any time soon.

Which meant that neither would he.

And not a single member of Reynolt’s squad – or anyone – could change his mind about that. 

[thereluctantinquisitor]

So it’s common knowledge that Cyrus and Hanin slept together before the squad were formed - how did the others find out? And how did Hanin feel about finding out Cyrus was going to be under his command?

The others found out largely because some members of Reynolt’s squad discovered that fact and decided to use it as a tactic to give Cyrus shit. Although, in their (weak) defense, they did assume the Dawn Squad already knew about it. When they realised Cyrus’ squadmates had no idea, it just made it even better, because clearly it was a source of shame (which is not true, but Reynolt’s Little Shits will believe whatever they want). 

Hanin was surprised at first, when he found out he was to be placed in command of Cyrus. They’d stopped seeing each other after Haven, but he did worry that things would be uncomfortable. Hanin had no issue with it personally, but he also understood that he was the one who held the position of power in their new dynamic. It didn’t take a Crow to realise Cyrus already had some pretty severe insecurities around figures of authority. More than anything, Hanin was worried Cyrus expected him to abuse that power, which he would never do.

Hanin had intended to pull Cyrus aside prior to training and talk it through/make sure they were on the same page, but with losing the clan and just struggling to function most days, it slipped Hanin’s mind. He remembered on the dawn of their first training session, but it went without a hitch and Cyrus seemed to take no issue with Hanin as his Captain, so Hanin just let it go, figuring it might be worse to dredge it up if they had both moved on.

In truth, Cyrus was uncomfortable, but mostly because he was worried his squadmates would find out about their history and hate him/assume he would be given special treatment (a fear that left him when it was clear Hanin wasn’t giving anyone special privileges that were not also extended to the rest of the squad). But this was also Cyrus’ last shot at staying with the Inquisition, so he just kept his mouth shut and pretended nothing had ever happened between him and Hanin. If Hanin was better at reading people, he might have picked up on Cyrus’ actual feelings, but as it was, Hanin took him at face value and figured it was a silent signal to just move on. 

[thereluctantinquisitor]

👀

WIP: The Dawn Squad needing to rescue Reynolt’s squad (I will finish this before the end of the year, but it got loong, so have some of the start lol)

It was unusual for Hanin to be called in for a briefing so soon after returning from the field. The Western Approach, unforgivable at the best of times, wasn’t a place where you wanted to send soldiers out without sufficient rest. To say he was perplexed would be an understatement, and as Hanin walked into the old inn that had been re-purposed as a command station, what he saw only added to his confusion.

“You sent for me?” Hanin glanced at Captain Hurst, who was in the process of weathering an agitated line in the floorboards. He paced back and forth, his heavy boots thudding loudly in the mostly empty room. No words needed to be spoken to clarify the gravity of the situation, and Hanin frowned, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”

“Ask him,” Hurst snapped, gesturing sharply to the other figure who had escaped Hanin’s notice until that point. Sitting by the desk at the back of the room, the man was hunched forward, his hands knotted in his thick brown hair. His uniform was torn and caked with dust and sand, and from what Hanin could see of his hands, they were crusted with what could only be dried blood. Despite being unable to see his face, Hanin recognised him almost immediately.

“Reynolt?” After exchanging a glance with Hurst, who just grunted and threw up his hands in frustration, Hanin decided to take control. He moved over to Reynolt, who had started shaking his bowed head, the movement so subtle Hanin almost missed it. “Tell me what happened.”

Some part of him knew he should be softer; take pity on the man. But another part of him resented Reynolt so deeply for what he and his recruits put the Dawn Squad through that he just couldn’t bring himself to show any such mercy. He just didn’t deserve it.

“Those damn Venatori…” Reynolt’s voice was low and gravelly, like there was a hand squeezed around his throat. “They ambushed us. We were tired - unprepared. Got separated from each other. They…”

All while Reynolt spoke, a quiet, heavy sensation began to stir deep in the hollow of Hanin’s stomach. It rose and rose with each word until what Reynolt was saying - all of his curses and excuses - lost their shape, replaced by a deep, pounding thrum. The man was mid-sentence when Hanin finally spoke. The words fell like stone from his lips, cold and numb with the weight of realisation.

“You left them.”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

@carverly replied to your post “��”

Can't WAIT to read Hanin tearing Reynolt a new asshole for abandoning his own squad

hahaah yeah... Hanin is NOT impressed.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

"Great. Perfect. Nice. Fuck this." With Cyrus.

@carverly seems great minds think alike, right? lol

In which Cyrus isn’t sleeping and spends most nights anywhere but the barracks, and the Dawn Squad attempts an intervention. (1800 words)

For too many nights now, Cyrus had spent hours walkingSkyhold. Not openly or carelessly; the last thing he needed was to be writtenup as a recruit breaching curfew; but with a kind of half-formed consciousnessthat seemed to let him drift by others without turning heads. It made sense, hesupposed. Most people who noticed him made a conscious effort to look the other way. That wasn’t something he particularly minded; no, he’d worked hardfor that kind of reputation. But where it used to spark something almostprimal and satisfied in his chest, now he just felt… empty. Flat.

He had never wanted anyone to care about him. So why was itstarting to feel like such a burden?

Shaking his head, frustrated with himself, Cyrus finally madethe decision to loop back to the barracks. It was almost five in the morning.He would have to be up in less than an hour for training. It didn’t matter.It was all just the same thing, over and over. Stances and drills and spars. He could do it in his sleep.

Upon reaching the barracks he breathed out softly, checkingaround, not entirely sure why. Did he really give a shit if anyone saw him? They could talk all they want. Joke and make bets about where the Orlesian spends hisnights; which bed he crawls into. Some other squads had already started withthe rumours. In Cyrus’ humble opinion, they could all go fuck themselves. Hesure as hell wasn’t about to.

Pressing his hand to the door, he pushed gently, grittinghis teeth against the soft groan of the hinges as they relented. The cold airseemed to cling to the metal, making subtle entries near impossible. But mostof the squad were heavy sleepers, and if Ralon had ended up on his back, theAntivan’s snoring should mask the sound. Carefully, Cyrus let the door closewith a click.

When he turned around, four sets of eyes stared right back.

“We need to talk,” Ralon said. He had dark circles under hiseyes, hair mussed as though he had, indeed, been waiting for the door to giveaway Cyrus’ return.

“About what?” Cyrus’ fingers itched, wantingnothing more than to reach behind him for the handle of the door. Escape back intothe cold. “What is this?”

“Easy, Prickles,” Lyrene said, one leg swinging off the sideof her bed, the other tucked beneath her. Those eyes of her flashed like apredator in the dark. “Don’t look so spooked.”

Easy for her to say.Cyrus glared at the woman, jaw working angrily, chewing over all the words he wanted tosay but knew he wouldn’t. It was the exhaustion talking, mostly. He felt soclose to snapping that a single wrong word could send him toppling over the edge.

“We’re just… I’m worried about you.” Darren’s voice was alwaysthe softest, second only to Connors’ silence. He was the only one of themstanding, bare feet shuffling nervously on the wooden floor. “You’re always gone.”

“So what if I fucking am?” Cyrus hissed, gaze snapping between them.His own squad, ganging up on him. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but he felt betrayed. Stupid bastard. What didyou expect?

“Listen,” Ralon said, also getting to his feet. He movedinto a languid stretch, dark arms raised above his head, the hem of his shirt crawlingup to expose his hips for a moment. FuckingAntivan. “What you do in your spare time’s fine by us. Really.”

Confusion momentarily replaced Cyrus’ anger. Momentarily. “Thenwhat the fuck is this all—?”

—“So long as you’realso fine with it.”

Those were… not the words Cyrus had been expecting.Particularly not from Ralon, but it seemed he was speaking for the group becausethe rest of them nodded, Lyrene cocking her head, Darren looking at him withthose big, heartbroken eyes.

Fuck.

“Great. Perfect. Nice. Fuck this.” Cyrus turned and grabbedthe door, heaving it open roughly, ready to escape back into the cold.

He almost ran straight into Hanin’s broad chest.

Stumbling back, Cyrus felt his heart start to beatfaster. What was he doing here?

“… We told the Captain,” Darren said softly. When Cyruswhirled around, unable to keep the look of betrayal off his face, the boyimmediately dropped his gaze to the floor. “I-I’m sorry. It’s just… folks weresaying things, and you weren’t talking to us, so…”

“You. You had no right.” Cyrus’ hands curled into tight fists, eyes flicking accusinglybetween his squadmates. “None of you fuckers did.”

“Cyrus.” Hanin’s voice was stone. It had always been tooheavy to dismiss. It demanded Cyrus’ attention. “You are all a team. The Dawn Squad. What hurts one of you hurts you all.They were right to tell me.”

Turning, Cyrus directed his anger at a new source. One heknew could take it. He didn’t have to hold back. “Yeah? What about my right tofucking privacy? What about that? You want to tie a bell around my neck orsomething? Cuff me to a post?”

“We just want you to—” Darren began from behind him, butCyrus ignored the boy, surging onward. He was a storm. Lightning had finally cracked through the clouds.

“So you heard some fucking rumours and believed them instead of asking me?” Cyruslaughed, almost giddy with how angry he was. No, not angry. It wasn’t eventhat. He didn’t know what he was. “Whata fucking joke. What, you worried I’m screwing my nights away with someshit-for-brains from Reynolt’s squad? Well I’m not, but so what if I was? Our reputation can’t get any fuckinglower, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“No.” Hanin stepped forward, and Cyrus reflexively steppedback, cursing himself for it at the warrior hesitated. “Cyrus, we areasking you. Right now. That is what this is.”

Cyrus’ lip curled derisively. “It’s none of your fuckingbusiness what or who I do at night, got it?”

“I am your Captain,” Hanin continued, his voice turning stern. The rest of the squadhad wisely fallen silent. “Your well-being is my responsibility, Cyrus. You areas free to do what you please as any recruit, but you are suffering. We can all see that.”

“What, you going to stand there and force a confession?”Cyrus’ heart was racing. Run. Fight. Run.He didn’t know which was right – what to do. They were all staring at him, fivesets of eyes. Five knives in his back.

Hanin’s was the sharpest of them all. “If that is what ittakes.”

No. Not a chance. Cyrusfelt the fear melting into something else; blurring with it. Rage. Pure, bitterrage that filled his mouth; flooded his senses. “What, you don’t like the ideaof sharing? Is that it? Someone else taking a turn where you’ve been piss youoff, Captain?”

The look of shock on Hanin’s face would have registered as avictory on any other occasion. But not on this one. No, this time it was just that knife driving deeper into Cyrus’ chest. “What?” Hanin actually sounded hurt, but he didn’t lower hisvoice in shame like Cyrus had expected him to do. “Cyrus, you know it’s not that.”

Cyrus snorted derisively. “Do I?” He shifted, trapped between the silentjudgement of his squad and Hanin’s worried stare. He hated both equally. “Thenwhy the fuck are you here acting like—”

—“You’re not sleeping.” Hanin took a step forward, looming over Cyrus. “Doyou really think I can’t tell you’re dead on your feet during training? I’m not blind.”

Cyrus opened his mouth, but this time no words came out.Nothing. Just pathetic, trembling-hands silence. Coward.

“The rumours are what they are,” Hanin continued stiffly. “I don’tcare about them, and nor do your squad. We care about you. If you won’t talk to us, that is your choice. No one is goingto force you.”

It made no sense to be panicking, but Cyrus was. Quietly,deep down inside, there he was, sitting with his back to a heavy door,terrified as someone pounded on the other side.

“But speaking to someone… it can help.”Hanin moved closer, but it wasn’t like before. The warrior seemed to havebecome aware of his size; of his shape looming over Cyrus; and was trying with limited success to appear less of a threat. “It doesn’t have to be one of us, but at least let me find someone you willtalk to.”

Someone. To… talk to?Cyrus had never been good at talking things through. The fact that he wasgenuinely considering slamming his boot into Hanin’s groin and running for thedoor was testament to that. He’d had no friends before. And even if he had, theywould just judge him. Think him a fucking broken mess. They’d be right to.

But if it was someone else? Someone he didn’t know?Someone who he could just let all this anger out to? Maybe that…

Slowly, Cyrus felt the anger bleed away. He lowered hisgaze, trembling, suddenly exhausted by it all. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.” He swallowed tightly.“If it’ll get you all off my back.”

Hanin nodded, expression concerned. Then, carefully, he reached out. Cyrus let himplace a hand on his shoulder. He was too tired to do anything else. “Thank you.”Why the fuck was Hanin thanking him? “Now, get some rest. That’s an order. You’re dismissed fromtraining today.”

Cyrus’ gaze snapped back up. “But I—”

—“It is not a punishment, Cyrus. You need to rest.” Haninsqueezed his shoulder slightly in reassurance, and for whatever reason, Cyrusactually believed him. Or maybe he was just thattired. Letting go, Hanin stepped back and turned his attention to the others. “As for therest of you, I will see you on the training ground in half an hour. Understood?”

The Dawn Squad groaned a miserable chorus of yes sir’s, Lyrene flopping back onto hermattress dramatically, Ralon yawning as he scooped his hair into a ponytail,Connors sliding on her boots. Hanin turned and left, and Cyrusawkwardly made his way over to his cot. It was right beside Darren’s, and the kid watchedhim like a person who had just accidentally kicked his dog.

“Stop with that fucking look,” Cyrus muttered, sliding offhis shirt and bending to unlace his boots. “It’s pathetic.”

Darren was silent for a moment. But only a moment. “I’m so sorry,”he whispered, likely not wanting to draw unwanted attention back to Cyrusagain. “It wasn’t meant togo like that. That… wasn’t right. I just didn’t know what else to do, and Ithought…”

“Whatever, Darren.” Cyrus wasn’t in the mood to comfortanyone. He was rarely in that mood at the best of times. “Just go. If anyonehere needs to train, it’s you.”

It was far from the cruelest thing Cyrus had ever said tothe kid, but when Darren hurried away, glassy-eyed, it might as well have been.Not wanting to make things worse – not wanting to sit there stewing and blamingeveryone for what had gone down – Cyrus just dragged over the blanketand wrapped himself in it, back facing the rest of his squadmates. No one bothered himagain, and one by one, they drifted out of the barracks until Cyrus was finally alone.Alone to replay what had happened over and over again. Alone to relive thewords he’d said to them all – to Hanin– and regret them.

But it was done. And even though it was usually easier forCyrus to just blame himself, this time, it felt like they’d all fucked upsomewhere along the line.

Maybe that was what made it easier to just close his eyesand sleep.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

“ Say that again. Go on, nothing will happen to you, honest. " for cyrus?

“Say that again. Go on, nothing will happen to you, honest.” 

There was no honesty in the words as Cyrus stalked towards Brenner, hands curled into painful fists at his side. His heart thrummed out a furious rhythm in his chest, but it was more than rage. Something else played alongside his famously hot temper. A cold sweat. A piece of hard, inescapable dread. A stone of doubt lodged at the back of his throat.

Brenner’s mouth slid into a satisfied smirk. “Ooh, tough guy, huh? You play rough with him in bed, too?” As if to prove he was not afraid, Brenner stepped forward as well, closing some of the distance between them. “Always knew you had issues, Cyrus, but Maker, I didn’t think they ran that deep.”

“Fuck you,” Cyrus spat, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rising in outrage. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself at the smug bastard; pummel him into the dirt. But Brenner’s cronie, Caldin, was hovering right by the noble brat’s side, as usual. One on one, Cyrus could take Brenner. But adding in the hulking blacksmith’s apprentice?

It was a recipe for the infirmary. 

“Fuck you? Hm. Pass.” Brenner waved a flippant hand, pausing mid motion to assess one of his nails, as though it were more interesting than the conversation taking place. “Regardless, I’m not sure I could debase myself enough to match your… ah… interests.” 

Cyrus could just about kill him. People were starting to notice the exchange. It’s not like Brenner ever did this shit in private. Smug prick liked an audience. “The fuck would you know about my interests, asshole? You obsessed with me?” The look of shock on Brenner’s face at the accusation only served to fuel Cyrus. “Sure as shit sounds like you’ve given my sex life a lot of thought. Does it keep you up while you touch yourself at night?”

However, Brenner’s surprise was quickly replaced by the bastard’s usual smug expression. “Oh, not at all. I was simply curious…” He curled a finger under his chin, lips curling in cat-like satisfaction as he regarded Cyrus. “Do you call him Sir in the bedroom too, or does he actually let you use his name?”

In the end, Cyrus wasn’t sure what happened. He wasn’t sure when the laughter really began, or when it abruptly ended. He wasn’t even sure when he started losing.

All he knew was that when his fist finally collided with Brenner’s annoyingly perfect jaw, it felt so damn good.