Chapter Text
The only good thing about the fog, perhaps the only good thing about fog, was that it made him as hard to see as it did his enemies. Under normal circumstances, Jean-Marc would have preferred a good line of sight on what danger of the hour was threatening him - after all, it was much harder to land a blow on something you couldn't see- but, balls deep in the insipid Ferelden countryside, soaked through from a constant deluge of rain and estranged from his Order was not ‘normal’ circumstances. The fog might hamper his depth of vision, but at that moment it gifted Jean something he had not had for several weeks; an advantage.
The dwindling glow of a campfire seeped through the cloud. The narrow ravine he had been traveling through had ended, widening out into a small clearing but still with steep rock on either side. Edging forward, Jean took cover behind some small shrubs. They had set up their camp, just off the path, some 30 feet from where he crouched. He couldn’t make out much. All he could see was the fire and the outline of a cart. He could hear little, thanks to the whistle of the wind as it raced through the narrow cliffs. Jean had no intention of disturbing these people. He would have to make his way around them if he were to continue his way. But there was no way to tell if they felt in kind about him.
Northern Ferelden still had problems with lawlessness, even since King Theirin’s wide reaching reforms, and Jean was not about to let some backwater fools thwart the ground he’d worked too hard to claw back. It had taken him 2 days to flee across the Waking Sea from the Marches to the port at Highever. Krennick’s machinations had forced him to give the bastard a clumsy slip by backtracking east along the coastline. The extra 4 days of travel had taken him further from his goal, further from Hawke, and dwindled his supplies. His reward; the tiniest sliver of grace against a man who would sooner burn down an entire forest than waste time searching the trees. Jean was not, by nature, an arrogant man, but if Krennick hadn’t stopped him, neither was an inconveniently placed encampment.
He skirted his way around the edge of the camp, taking advantage of the darkness and the fog. The steep walls of the ravine extended round in a wide arc. He hugged the walls. As he reached a halfway point, there was a muffled yelp from the direction of the cart. Jean froze. He turned his head to see where the noise had come from. If it was a Mabari, that was trouble, Fereldans and their blighted dogs. But instead of a snarling beast, he locked eyes with an adolescent boy, not 10 feet from him, lying and gagged under the cart. The boy stared up at him with hope in his eyes. It was the kind of hope that did not bode well.
For a moment Jean stared at him. The fog had dissipated just a little, and Jean could now well make out the cart under which the youth was lying. Scattered around the flickering fire were the dark masses of sleeping men and swords. There was a groan and Jean spied the outline of a man on watch as he yawned, sitting on the far edge of the fire.
Bandits then.
He glanced up at the glow of the setting moon. Time was short. The boy didn’t look that worse for wear. There was bruising around his eyes and a little blood around the corner of his mouth. He seemed to Jean perfectly capable of making an escape, given a helpful nudge. Jean crept forward and pulled out a small knife from his belt. He placed it in the boy’s bound hands.
“Wait a while, then free yourself,” Jean whispered into his ear, “do not follow me.”
He made to move, but the boy wriggled and grunted as if trying to say something. Jean lunged forward to cover his mouth. He glanced over at the man on watch, but he was still yawning away.
“Be quiet!” Jean hissed. The boy stilled and fell silent. Slowly, and with a meaningful glare, Jean removed his hand. The boy stared at him urgently, and when Jean leaned back, he grunted again. With a silent sigh, Jean loosened his gag a little.
“Make it quiet and quick.”
“Take me with you!” the boy murmured through the fabric, “please!”
“No.”
The boy stared at him in disbelief. Jean avoided his gaze, instead glancing over to the bandit on watch.
“No? What? Please Ser Warden!” he implored, glancing at Jean’s armour. “Your accent, you’re not from here, but I know this land very well, you probably want to get to Crestwood yeah? I can help you!”
Jean paused, glancing back at the boy. Crestwood? How the hell had he gotten so far south? If what the boy said was true, his knowledge would be a significant help. But as a rule, Jean did not trust the word of prisoners, even those captured by bandits. Nor was he inclined toward an accomplice foolish enough to get himself captured once already.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I cannot help you further. You’d best wait for a suitable moment to free yourself.”
Before the boy could speak again Jean leaned forward and rebound his gag. He spluttered and grunted, and Jean thought briefly of knocking the fool out before there was a grumble from the other side of the cart.
“Cut it out little courier.” It said. “You’ll wake the whole camp.”
The sound of footsteps grew until the pair of boots attached to them stopped on the other end of the cart. Jean shook his head slowly at the bound boy, willing him not to make any more noise. Mercifully, and after a long, tense moment, the bandit hmphed in satisfaction and moved back to his spot by the fire.
Jean retreated from the cart.
The boy stared at him as he did. He scowled in that way that foolish children always do when you tell them they can’t do something. It seemed to Jean almost laughable when the boy began furiously working at the binds of his hands. This would be his reward. He cursed his own misguided sense of charity. The boy was making actual noise now. Jean needed to run, and quickly. He retreated from the camp, backing up against the steep rock and behind the thin shrubbery. The fog was thinner again. He could now make out the man on watch easily as he tramped his way back toward the cart. He was a wiry, grizzled sort, with his fair share of facial scar. The man was too distracted by the inept attempt at escape taking place under the cart to make him out among the shrubbery.
“Oi, cut it out!” the man snapped in a hushed tone. “Raynor’s gonna be pissed off at both of us if you wake him up. You want to be target practice boy?”
There was a muffled yelp, then a grunt of surprise and a crash. Jean watched in anguish as the bandit slipped backwards and into the fire, coals exploding from the force of his body. Yells and cries of confusion erupted from the bodies around the fire as they jolted from their sleep, the hot coals spilling into their bedrolls. The bound boy, no longer bound, lurched out from under the cart, making a beeline for Jean. Jean grit his teeth in anger. Abandoning any hope of stealth, he made a dash around the camp.
“The kid’s escaping!”
“What?”
“He’s got an accomplice!”
Paying no mind to anyone except himself, Jean reached the other side of the path and sprinted down the rest of the ravine. After a minute it opened onto a small lake with a ruined parapet in the middle. The sky was still dark, and the fog had not yet lifted, but his view was clearer than it had been in the ravine. Jean pulled up for a moment and glanced around. There was a small bridge to the left.
Before he could take a step, something crashed into him from behind. He stumbled and fell into the shallows of the lake. A body fell onto him. The boy yelped as he crashed into the water.
“Get off me!” Jean snarled, pushing the boy off him. He stood and shook himself off. But it had begun to rain. The wind was picking up, blowing away the fog in the valley. Jean splashed through the shallows and over to the bridge.
“Don’t leave me!” The boy cried. Jean could hear him scramble to follow him.
“They’re going to kill me, they said! Take me back to Caer Bronach and kill me!”
“I’m going kill you after that stupidity back there,” snapped Jean. He pivoted, shoving the boy again. He stumbled backward, startled. Behind him, the shapes of the bandits emerged from the fog of the ravine. “I’m not your saviour boy, save yourself.”
“But you’re a Warden!”
Jean stared at him for a moment. Warden indeed. The boy did not understand what was at stake if Jean or the information he’d gathered could not reach the right people. He grasped a hand to the precious leather pack slung over his shoulder. There was a shout. Jean glanced over the boy’s shoulder again. The bandits were drawing closer, swords in hand.
“Do not follow me.”
He turned and ran across the bridge. The sounds of pounding footsteps followed him. The boy or the bandits, it no longer mattered. He needed to get away from them all.
He reached the other side. A sickly green glow emanated from the fog to his left.
A fade rift. It was perhaps a good 100 feet to the west.
Struck by a sudden idea, Jean veered toward it. If he could set it off, it could provide enough of a distraction for him to escape. He had encountered them before. Sometimes passing close by was enough to trigger a cascade of demons to appear from the fade and attack the nearest living creature. As far as distractions went it was a good one, if not ruthless. It might catch the boy. But the boy was the reason Jean was in this mess. If he had not followed Jean, like he’d told him not to, he’d be fine. The weight of the knowledge on his shoulders-the weight of the bag around his chest-overshadowed any guilt Jean felt at this potential outcome.
No boy was worth the fate of the Order.
He surged forward. Weaving over the rocky terrain, the rift came ever closer. Jean willed it to spring into action, to not let the diversion be in vain. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck him in his left shoulder. A sudden impact propelled him forward. He stumbled, almost falling, but he regained his balance. He clutched at his shoulder. It took a half a second for Jean to realize that an arrow had split through his mail and buried itself deep into his left shoulder. Pain blossomed from the wound, like caustic lightening. He glanced behind him. Where was the archer? On the bridge, a young, sandy-haired man was reaching for another arrow. There was a cruel smirk on his face.
Jean angled his run. His heart pumped in his throat. It had been a lucky shot, nothing vital, but he couldn’t afford to push his luck.
Another arrow whizzed past him, nicking the skin on his neck.
For a moment Jean felt blessed relief, but then he realized, in alarm, that the arrow had split right through the middle of the green crack.
The rift ahead burst into life.
Green lightening-like tendrils exploded around him. It was too early, too soon. He needed to get the blighted thing between him and the bandits. He could not, under any circumstances, attract the ire of the demons too.
One tendril shot toward his chest. He jumped out of the way, rolling to one side. An unholy chorus of screeching pierced the air. From the earth monstrous shapes of the demons formed.
From a crouch, Jean looked around furiously. Demons were forming all round him, but there was a gap to the left. A steep cliff, covered in stones but climbable, offered him a potential escape. If he was quick, he might slip by. If he was smart, the demons would attack the bandits first. If he was lucky, the archer would be too distracted in the chaos to take another clear shot at him.
Jean didn’t trust his luck.
He slipped his hand into his pouch and pulled out an Antivan Fire grenade. It was the last of his coveted stock. Without a second thought he turned, lined up his trajectory and hurled at the bridge. Without waiting, he made a run for the slope. There was a piercing screech as the glass grenade shattered on the cobble and light erupted behind him. Screams filled the air and the demons, like moths to a flame, descended on the chaos. Jean didn’t look, he didn’t care to. Instead he ran, scrambling up the base of the slope, and climbed. The way was slippery, perilous. His feet struggled to find purchase. But he could not stop. The monstrous roars of the demons echoed across the valley, cutting through the howling wind and the rain.
Something grasped at his leg. Jean jerked and turned to see what was assailing him. Somehow, Maker knows how, the boy was scrambling up after him, both still alive and following him. He was tenacious, Jean would give him that.
“Let go of me!” Jean yelled over the sounds of carnage.
The boy shook his head.
“I’ll slip!”
“If you don’t let me go, we’ll both slip!”
Jean tried to kick out at the fool, tried to dislodge the boy from his leg, but the boy panicked. He grasped for a handhold. His hands clutched at the pack slung around Jean’s shoulder. Jean jerked backward at the sudden weight. Pain erupted from his shoulder as the strap strained against the shaft of the arrow still protruding from his flesh.
Involuntarily, his arm jerked backward, and he felt, almost as if in slow motion, the strap slip down his arm. For a moment Jean thought it had caught on the edge of his bracer. But then, under the weight of the boy, it slid down to the end of his hand and flew into the air.
The boy, now devoid of his lifeline, scrambled for purchase. He grasped at Jean’s legs as he fell backward.
Jean lost his hold on the stone. All at once, limbs and armour tangled together as he and the boy slid back down the slope, back toward the sickly green light.
They crashed into the stones at the base. Jean felt his knees twist as odd angles, slamming into the stones. His shoulder exploded into pain once again as the boy landed unceremoniously onto it at the base of the slope. He let out an involuntary cry of pain, and blackness encroached at the edges of his vision. Blinking, he pushed the sensation to the back of his focus. He took a deep breath, counting each rib as it expanded. When the sensation had finally receded, he turned himself into a crouch and whipped his head around to find the source of his ire. To his right, the boy was stumbling to his feet. Jean lurched forward, blinded by rage. He grasped the boy by his shirt. The boy let out a cry of pain as Jean slammed him into the dirt.
“I should have left you to die!” Jean spat, murderous anger coursing through his veins. He gripped harder at the boy, pushing him further into the mud.
The boy looked up at him, fear in his eyes. He let out a pathetic whimper. Jean’s chest heaved. He let out an angry sigh and released him.
“Try me again and I will kill you.” He snarled, getting to his feet unsteadily. Dull pain radiated from his knees with every step. He glanced around at where his pack had fallen. Dismay flooded him as he spotted it mere feet away from the centre of the rift, surrounded by at least 3 demons and twice as many bandits. The battle still raged, but the bandits were losing. The fire of his grenade still burned, covering the bridge. There was no sign of the archer.
The pack would be impossible to retrieve like this.
Jean reached across his chest and snapped off the feathered shaft. The movement drew a pain grunt from his chest, but he no longer cared. He threw the shaft to the ground with more force than was necessary and applied pressure to his shoulder to stem the bleeding. The last thing he needed to gift Krennick was a blood trail. With a last glance at the pack, Jean grit his teeth. He would have to return later. He would have to sacrifice precious time and risk capture. All because of his own stupid charity.
He looked around for an escape. His plan to use the bandits as a distraction had worked. The demons were taking no interest in him or the boy. He turned his head in time to see the boy scurry across the mud and cower behind a small stone wall. Finally, a sensible decision. Jean followed him and stumbled his way past the wall. He paused at the now telltale whimper of the youth. Jean looked down. The boy was scowling up at him, clutching an arm that Jean could now see was twisted at an odd angle.
“Thanks for nothing Ser Jerk.”
“What direction is Crestwood?”
The boy scowled at him, remaining tight lipped.
Jean grit his teeth. He pulled out his sword and bared it at the boy’s throat. There was just the slightest satisfaction in the fear that entered the boy’s eyes.
“Do not test me.”
The boy’s lip quivered, the satisfaction dissolved and fortunately, for both him and Jean, he pointed a shaky finger north. He opened his mouth again, but Jean did not wait for the reply. Without glancing back, he began trudging toward Crestwood.
After he was sure that the night and the fog had covered his passage, Jean slipped onto a path heading west. It was small, barely legible in the rain. But that was the good thing about rain; it hid tracks. This ‘Crestwood’ was a laughably terrible idea. He needed to stay away from as many people as possible. The boy would probably come to nothing. He might follow him, he might not, but no one could know where he was or where he was heading. No one alive was beyond Krennick’s interrogation, and Jean had not yet stooped so low as to resort to cold-blooded murder to cover his tracks. The bandits had been a necessary evil, but the boy? Stupid he may have been, but he was not worth the effort, nor the guilt. Jean should have never engaged with him. It was his own fault. There was guilt now, that he had not treated him better. Jean had panicked. He should not have panicked.
He shuffled along. His legs ached from the fall; his bruises grew as the adrenalin of the battle wore off. His knees felt swollen. The pain in his shoulder grew louder, vying for his attention. The rain masked the sounds of the rocky landscape around him. It felt like all he could sense was the pain. It was like nothing else. Maker, he was getting old if a blighted arrow and a fall were causing such grief. Still, he shuffled and limped until, exhausted and unable to ignore the pain any longer, he slumped down on a rock.
Just for a moment.
He tried to raise his arm. The pain prevented him from going much higher than the edge of his pectoral muscle. Though it had pierced clean through, he dared not remove the head, not yet. He could feel it poking out at the back, but he would need somewhere clean, or at least not covered in mud, where he could bleed out safely. It had been days since he had seen any kind of civilization, but perhaps, if he could find an abandoned house, or some ruins? He sighed. Who was he kidding in this shithole; it was dust or damp, or it was nothing. Whatever he could find, he would have to make do. He had one potion left. It would take the edge off. He reached into his pouch with his right hand and rifled around for the vial.
His fingers stung and he ripped his hand back. A shard of glass stuck out of his index finger.
He sat for a moment, staring at his bleeding hand, watching the deep purple of the potion, mix like ink with the rain and his crimson lifeblood. He watched as the rain washed away the mixture and he closed his eyes. The rain pattered over him. His body ached, his pains beating like drums in the Deep Roads. The whispers of the Calling, chattering incessantly in the back of his mind. And he wished, just for a moment, that he had never taken his Joining.
He pushed the moment away.
He sighed deeply, heaved himself onto his feet and continued into the night.