Dragon 9:29
A crumpled piece of paper delivered by a raven
Our mutual acquaintance suggested that you might be able to help me with a delicate task. I'm dealing with a troublesome weed problem in my garden, and I need a very specific weed removed before I can proceed with planting new seeds. I believe your expertise in handling delicate matters will ensure that the removal appears entirely natural.
I'd appreciate it if you could let me know when you're available to discuss the specifics, as well as your preferred method of payment. I'm willing to be very generous…
***
Evelyn
The moment Miriam's blood hit her face, Evelyn was gone. Her mana—fueled by rage—pushed her right to the limit. Right to the edge of sanity.
Croft had warned her she'd lose comrades, but nothing prepared her for the first to be one of her best friends.
A cold sweep of Silence cut through her, but she barely noticed.
"Evelyn, stop!" The mage's eyes found Cullen, a void in her inferno. "Back it down!"
"He killed Miriam!" She seethed.
"And you think she would want you to kill him?!" At his words, Evelyn felt her wrath pulling back—even if his being right needled her—this was about Miriam. Seeing that she was thinking it over, he added, "She'd never want you to be branded over this!"
"I need to do this, Cullen! Don't stop me," she bit back.
"So this is personal then? You're just using your friend as a martyr." He was slowly closing the gap between them. He could grab her if he wanted to, but her aura was too hot. They both knew she was too powerful for him alone. "Evelyn, please. More Knights will be on their way! I can't help you unless you cease this at once!"
The war in her chest was tearing her apart. Miriam's bloodied form on the stone was unbearable, as was the monster, wreathed in flames but still breathing, who slayed her. Then there was Cullen trying to save her from herself.
Tears of pure hate began to fall, hot and bitter as forge-fires. She hated the hollow space within her ribs where a friend had been. She hated the monster who had carved that space. Most of all, she hated the logic in the words holding her back—the terrible, necessary truth that some justice is a pyre that consumes the one who lights it.
A sob tore from her, and she dropped to her knees, mana dispersing. Yet, she didn't hit the unforgiving floor. Steady arms encircled her. "I'm sorry." Cullen's words rang hollow.
Slipping from him, she crawled to her friend, who went to the Maker's side, believing she betrayed her.
Evelyn didn't look up when the other Knights arrived. She cradled Miriam's head, telling her everything she's been holding in, unguarded. The jagged scar Miriam had given flooded her mind with her haunting words.
Why do you always have to be the best?
The words sparked something in her. Lying Miriam back on the stone, she held her bloodied hands out over her wounds. "Because Miri," she answered her nagging question, "someone has to save your arse."
"Evelyn, what are you doing?" Cullen's voice came from beside her, but she ignored him, already focused on what needed to be done. "Evelyn!?"
Her breath hitched, and a soft teal glow, accented with desperate sparks of flame, kindled in her palms. Her eyes turned to hot embers as she unleashed the raw, roaring tide of her magic upon the healer's limp form. She poured all her white-hot rage, all her tearing grief, into a healing spell cast like a weapon against death itself. She forced life back into the stilling flesh, the mending bones, the silenced heart, with a violence that would have killed a living person—pushing the body to heal too fast, to burn through its own essence. But Miriam was already on the far brink, and so this furious, impossible spell was the only bridge strong enough to drag her back.
"Who—what is she doing?!" Senior Enchanter Wynne rushed in with the Knight-Commander in tow. Evelyn continued to ignore their commands as the older mage moved to kneel across from her. Her hands snapped reflexively up, but did not interfere with her spell.
"Knight," Greagoir directed the command at Cullen while gesturing sharply with his hand for other healers to attend to Evelyn's charred Sentinel, "report."
"In short, Knight-Commander, Ser Logan attacked Enchanter Miriam, confusing her mutation for blood magic. I do not know why he killed his fellow Knights. They were dead when Apprience Trevelyan and I arrived. I believe Trevelyan is—"
Wynne cut in, "She's healing her by force… extraordinary."
"Is it safe, Wynne?" Greagoir still had his hand on his sword.
"I can't say, but I would expect the only one in danger would be poor Miriam should the apprentice fail." Her words spurred Evelyn to push her mana harder.
"Come on, Miri," the pyromancer muttered. "Not like this. Please, Maker. Not while… I can still cast." The glow of the spell brightened and dulled sporadically.
"Evelyn, if I join my mana with yours, I can direct your healing efforts," Wynne suggested.
"No! What if you break the spell in the process? I can't chance it!"
"Trevelyan," Cullen's voice was steady but firm, "your mana wanes. Let Wynne help. We both know you're a terrible healer."
With a strangled laugh, her orange irises met the Senior Enchanter's, and together they began sealing the gaping wound.
***
Cullen
As he watched Evelyn and Wynne work, a strong, steady hand gripped his shoulder. Standing and back away from the mages, the Knight-Commander rubbed his jaw in thought. "Rutherford, I'd like to know how Ser Logan worked himself into such a state as to start killing. You say you weren't here?"
Cullen shook his head. "No, ser. I was in the hall with Apprentice Trevelyan."
"Why was she not in here with her Sentinel?"
"They seemed to have a disagreement on the training field that came to blows—not life-threatening, it was a clean spar, both sustained treatable injuries," he partially lied. "If I may, Ser Logan was treating the mage harshly, and his temper was up. And… we all know how Trevelyan can be—"
"Yes, yes, a hot head," he wiped a hand down his face. "I just fear his mind was failing him, and I didn't see it in time. The man has been in the Order since birth, practically took lyrium by the teat." He pressed his lips together and looked around, his gaze falling on Ser Miquella. "I'd better go question the Orlesian. In the meantime, I'm assigning you temporarily as Apprentice Trevelyan's Sentinel."
"Y-yes, ser."
The surprise in this voice was not lost on Cullen's superior, adding, "You handle her temper well. Consider this experience in case one day you wish to volunteer for such a post. I'll leave it to you to tell your charge of the change."
My charge, he thought, my charge is Evelyn Treveylan.
It was dangerous in so many ways, welcoming the feeling he had been trying to suppress to surface again. It was different now, though, because he was taking lyrium. The impulses that came with it were…strong. Still, he'd rather know for certain she was safe, and she was with him.
Swallowing thickly, he rejoined the mages. The First Enchanter had arrived, and he was carefully watching them work. Irving praised their work as well as discussed the intricacies of the spell with Wynne, but Evelyn remained silent. She took direction from the Senior Enchanter, but otherwise, she was deep in concentration.
The sight of Miriam fileted open affected him more than he cared to admit, but how could it not? They were friends. They were all friends still, despite recent events. "Do you need any assistance?"
Evelyn ignored him, gritting her teeth in concentration, but Wynne answered, "Lyrium would be appreciated, Ser. I'd like to try altering—"
"No." The cold menace laced in Evelyn's tone made the group freeze. The dried blood on her face and clothes made her look even more fierce. "We are making progress this way. Any alteration could kill her."
It was true. The flaps of skin and broken bone were slowly going back into place. Even Irving had joined to keep her heart pumping. The stone floor was caked with burnt blood, none fresh, which was also a good sign. On the other hand, Wynne and Irving were far more experienced in the field, which Cullen felt could only help.
"Evelyn, they know more—" Cullen tried to reason.
"No! She's not an experiment, this is Miriam!" The spell flared, forcing the healer's bones to crack back in place. The sickening sound echoed through the room, catching everyone's attention, including that of Ser Miquella, who slunk over to the group.
The man had the nerve to crouch close beside Evelyn—too close. "How is she?"
Evelyn bristled, her nose scrunching in disdain as her aura spiked.
Before she could lash out, Cullen pulled him up by the arm and stepped between them. He kept his voice low, pushing the man back further, "For someone who had taken an interest in Miriam, you don't seem very upset."
For once, the man showed his teeth, growling back, "Do not mistake my calmness for not caring. Or would you rather I start biting heads off like Evelyn?"
He glowered at the Orlesian. "You'll address her by her title and stay away from my charge."
Miquella sputtered a laugh. "Your charge? Since when?"
"Since the Knight-Commander assigned me to her just now."
Miquella ticked in an odd manner. His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped an octave, so much so that he swore he lost some of his foreign accent. "He should've put it up to volunteers, not given it to a welp with little experience." Something in his sudden change made Cullen's hackles rise in warning.
"Ser Rutherford, the lyrium, if you don't mind!" Wynne called from behind.
Turning back once to Miquella, he leveled him with another warning glare before going to grab the vials off the shelf. Rushing back to the group, Wynne and Irving pulled away from the spell to drink theirs, but Evelyn was stuck in place.
He knelt beside her, whispering, "Um, how do you want to do this?"
"You're going to pour it in my mouth, Rutherford." She turned her body toward him. "Don't drown me, as much as you may want to." She parted her lips for him, and he fought himself to concentrate on the cold glass in his hands, not the heat creeping up his neck.
Clearing his throat, he began slowly pouring her sips. "I wouldn't be a very good Sentinel if I did a few minutes into the job, would I?"
She choked on the blue mineral. "You—what?"
He nodded. "That's right. Be glad the Knight-Commander assigned me and not Ser Miquella. He seemed rather upset over it."
She finished the rest of it, her posture straightening, and her aura warmed the room. "Believe it or not, I am glad it's you." They shared a knowing, yet awkward look. After a few clearing of throats, she added, "Why would Miquella want—shit, you don't think he still harbors feelings for me?"
"I do," Cullen growled.
"That—that lying, flaming sack of Bronto shit!" Her mana pulsed red hot, making him flinch back, and Miriam's body jolted.
"I'll keep him away from you. Just worry about healing Miriam."
"Thank you, Cullen." The intensity in her gaze was hard and resolute, yet he knew there was relief in it.
Soon, Wynne returned, and she and Evelyn were able to miraculously stabilize the mage. Her mending had only begun, but at last the pyromancer-turned-healer could rest and leave the job to trained healers.
Dragging her over to a cot so her own wounds could be tended to, the Knight-Commander returned. "Apprentice, I wanted to inform you, you'll not be charged for the injury of Ser Logan. He's expected to recover, though he'll be transferred to Greenfell Circle, where he can retire under Our Lady's grace." He looked between the two of them after a beat. "I hope you will break Rutherford in slowly. After the other Knights hear what you did to Ser Logan, I fear finding you an experienced Sentinel will prove difficult."
Evelyn's jaw tightened, biting back whatever retort she was thinking of. "Even if Ser Rutherford hasn't the experience of my former Sentinel, he makes up for it in his good sense and judgement."
The two Templars raised their eyebrows in unison. Greagoir cleared his throat. "Exactly. Now, I've questioned everyone, and it appears Ser Logan's mind betrayed him, for there is no proof of anything else."
A wave of heat, like from an oven, hit him from the side. Evelyn almost shot to her feet, but Cullen caught her shoulder, keeping her on the cot. She shot him a sharp glare and huffed. "Ser, he cleaved a mage in half. How can you say—"
Cullen stopped her before she could step out of line. "Ser Logan was in a bad way when we came upon him. It didn't seem like just a trick of the mind. I understand Apprentice Miriam's mutation is unsettling, but he was a veteran. He'd know the difference."
Ser Miquella moved into earshot, seemingly watching over Miriam. That pit in Cullen's gut opened again. He glanced down at Evelyn, whose gaze was burning holes in him.
He continued, but lowered his voice, "Are we sure no foul play was involved?"
The Knight-Commander looked confused. "What are you implying? Have you evidence of treachery?"
He and his charge shared a look. "No, Ser, but… that kind of rage was unnatural."
Greagoir didn't seem pleased by his pushing of the issue. "We will launch a full investigation, Sentinel, but do not speak of this to anyone. It'd be a shame to blacken a good Knight's name over speculation. Understood?"
"Yes, Knight-Commander," Sentinel and charge answered as one.
Leaving them alone, Cullen stepped in front of Evelyn, still watching the healers as they carefully moved Miriam to a bed.
"I didn't expect such a compliment from you—or at all." Cullen stared straight ahead, but he knew she was glaring at him.
"Don't let it bloat your ego, Sentinel, remember what the Knight-Commander said." She stood, throwing a bloody cloth on the cot. He turned toward her as she walked over to stand chest-to-chest with him. "I might be too much for you to handle." The smirk on her face lingered as she walked over to check on her friend.
The spark she ignited in him was undeniable, making him think: She would be safe under his protection, but could he protect her from himself?