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A deep voice roused Cassandra from her sleep, a hand nudging her awake.
She groaned, blinking. She had fallen asleep at her… post, it seemed. Strange. As she looked around, she took in the strange sight of a Chantry office, sunburst banners and the flaming swords of the Templars looming over her. “Ozol?” She scanned the room for him, but only saw the helmeted face of a Templar.
She could barely see the eyes behind the helm, but she knew he was less than amused. “Void knows what you’re talking about,” he grumbled. “You’ve slept long enough.”
She stood, despite still feeling dizzy from sleep. Had she known where she was, it would be far from her to take orders from a Templar. But, the last she remembered, she was in the strong, warm arms of Ozol Adaar. And now her love was nowhere in sight. She was hardly as bullish as many thought. She knew when she was on the back foot, and was rational enough to act accordingly.
“There’s a mercenary company in the lowtown,” the Templar said, handing her a scroll. “Oxes.”
She squinted at him. “They are keeping cattle in the lowtown?” She huffed. “Are they mercenaries or farmers?”
“For the Maker’s-” He huffed. “Oxes. Giants. Whatever you want to call them.” He stepped back to the large, dark desk on the other side of the room. “Qunari.”
Cassandra swallowed. She gripped the scroll tightly in her hand. “And…?” She asked through her teeth. “Are they causing trouble?”
The Templar stared at her through the slit of his helmet. “You try going about your daily life when there’s ox-men beside you in the market. The guards are sick of listening to locals complain, especially with all those reports coming in from Kirkwall.” He sat down at his chair, armor rattling. “You’re a Seeker. I expect them to be gone by sunset. Where, I don’t care.”
Cassandra felt rage bubble up in her throat. “Consider it done,” she hissed. Wherever she was, whatever was going on, damn it all if a glib, piggish, vile-tongued man thought he had any right to command her. She stormed out of the office, resisting the urge to curl her lip and spit at the man.
She stepped out of the small chapel, blinking at the sun beaming down directly upon her. It was hot, a stark contrast to the wintery weather engulfing Skyhold. She pressed her lips together, worry starting to eat at her. She stood in a neatly trimmed courtyard beside a towering Chantry. It looked faintly Tevinter in origin, but the harsh edges had been softened by both time and human hands. There was an ornamental, almost Rivaini flair. Statues of Andraste littered the grounds, surrounded by vibrant, blooming flowers. The entire place smelled both of the sea and of summer.
I must find Ozol. She attempted to calm herself. She was further on the back foot than she realized if she had, indeed, been whisked away to a foreign land and lost all recollection of the last six months. Besides, if that damned Templar wanted her to engage with some Qunari, then she knew Ozol’s was a face far more trustworthy than her own.
She unrolled the velum in her hands, and let her eyes pour over its script. It told her of a band of ox-men mercenaries that had, in the last year, settled in the lowtown area, not too far from the docks. They, as according to the scroll, had been attempting to sow the seeds of their Qun amongst the people and had been menacing the locals—especially the local women—in the market. The Hercinia guards had finally had enough.
Cassandra’s eyes widened. Hercinia. That was where Ozol hailed from. “Thank the Maker,” she whispered. “And these mercenaries…” The Valo-Kas! She smiled, letting out a shaky sigh of relief. If anyone knew where Ozol was, it would be his men. His, as he so beautifully put it once, metallic little band of ducklings… and Shokrakar, were perfectly harmless, peaceful folk—so long as they weren’t being paid for their services. She glanced back down at the scroll. By the docks. All she had to do was navigate her way to the lowtown and follow whatever fishermen passed her by.
Squaring her shoulders, she set out, whispering a quick prayer of thanks to Andraste for delivering her, once again, into Ozol’s arms.
• ° • ♡ • ° •
She was stopped halfway through the market by a local. Most on the street had given her a wide berth, taking one glance at the emblem of the Seekers on her chest plate and stepping aside. She had hardly seen the man approach before he had his hand on her arm, and she fought the urge to instantly draw her blade.
“You here to do something about ‘em?” He asked, voice a harsh whisper. His breath stank, challenging her to pull away, even if he was dressed in the fine clothes of a wealthy merchant.
“What I am here for is no concern of yours,” she said, yanking her bicep from his grasp. “Now, let me on my way.”
“We’ve been askin’ for ages,” he said, as if he hadn’t listened to a word she said. “Guards don’t do shit about those ox-men. But you will, eh?” He grinned at her.
She made a disgusted noise and stepped away. “I do not have the time for this,” she spat. “Leave me to my work.”
His smile didn’t leave his face. “My thanks, ser,” he said. “Maker smile upon you for finally taking a stand against those bloody heathens.”
Before she could strike him down, she walked on, heartbeat pounding against her throat and ears. Indignation on both Ozol’s behalf and her own burned hotter than the summer sun.
Heathen, she thought bitterly. The echoes of her own words tasted like bile on her tongue.
She walked faster. Ozol had already lost enough of his men in the Conclave. She had no intention of letting some ignorant guard rob him of any more.
Her eyes rapidly scanned each doorway, seeking out any that could potentially belong to the Valo-Kas. She racked her brain, aching to recall anything Ozol had told her of his old home. Things that hung in the windows, on the door, the colour of the paint.
The sound of glass chimes caught her ear. She whipped her head around, searching for the source. The hot, summer wind stilled for a moment before it blew again, bringing with it the scent of the ocean and the sound of the chimes.
A bright red door was nestled beside an alleyway. An archway had been carved out of the stone above it, clearly chiseled by a careful, yet amateur hand. Glass windchimes, made of broken pieces likely collected from the beach, rang prettily in the breeze. Thick rugs, well-worn yet still playing host to vibrant, geometric patterns, hung from the windows. A line of sun-bleached blue paint told passersby where the home ended and its adjoined neighbor began. A few people walked by, talking in both Trade and what she assumed was Rivaini.
She glanced at the windows again and saw the shadow of something large peering down at her. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare, but, as soon as she got a better look, whomever was staring at her had slunk back into the shadows.
She wasn’t getting anywhere by standing around outside. She took a breath and walked up onto the small stoop. An aged, brass knocker was fastened to the door—a bull, whose oversized nose ring glittered brilliantly in the sun. She smiled at it. Leave it to Ozol to pluck the symbol of an ox from human hands and turn it into a sweet-faced, brass greeter.
She grabbed the ring and knocked.
After a moment, the door hesitantly opened.
Towering before her was Ozol, and yet… She took a step back, eyes wide.
It was Ozol—there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it was him—but it wasn’t the version of him she had come to know. His hair only brushed against his shoulders, no longer falling as a beautiful white waterfall down past his chest. His freckles were more plentiful, his horns not yet reaching the width of his shoulders. He, too, took a step back away from her, his beautiful silver-blue eyes going wide with an emotion she hadn’t seen on him in a long time.
Fear.
He raised his hands up halfway, giving her a nervous smile. “Mar-hurt,” he said. His accent was thick, words hardly Trade. “Kith out, but take job?”
She blinked at him. “I-” She hadn’t a clue what to say. Her head was spinning. Ozol had been—was—the most brilliant man she had ever known. Perfectly eloquent, wise, able to spin poetry out of thin air, words so beautiful they rivaled the finest of silks. “I mean you no harm,” she said, speaking slowly and as clearly as she could. “I was sent-” She gestured to herself. “On behalf of the guards.” She gestured to the paper in her hand.
Ozol seemed to recognize the word guards with perfect clarity. Sweat started to bead on his face, but he smiled, stepping aside. “Come,” he said, indicating for her to walk inside. She did as he asked, her armor rattling angrily and drowning out the soft tinkling of the chimes. “You mar -take boots,” he said, shaking his head and waving his hands slightly from side to side to get his point across.
“Would you like me to remove my shoes?” She asked, stopping herself before she could address him by name. Whatever was going on, she assumed that sticking only to what had been yet established was wise. A pit had formed in her stomach. She recalled several mentions of the ordeal at Redcliffe, conversations between Ozol and Dorian about magic powerful enough to bend time. Perhaps the universe had corrected itself in a sudden snap, ripping her back to the Thedas of perhaps a decade prior. She glanced at Ozol, at his worried face, and felt her heart squeeze. There was none of the love she had grown accustomed to in his eyes. Only now that it was gone did she realize how much her heart craved it.
“If you desire,” he said, smiling nervously, gesturing to her. His speech was slow, as if every word had been found after a hasty search through a book.
“I will not dirty your floors,” she said, leaning down to untie and slip off her boots. She placed them carefully at the end of a row of well-tread footwear, each of them nearly twice the size of hers.
“My thank you,” he smiled, clearly blending the two expressions of thanks he knew. If nothing else, it was earnest. “Desire tea?” He asked.
“That would be lovely, yes,” she said, giving him a small smile.
He looked unsure of how to receive her expression, clearly picking up on her unease with perfect clarity. “We do rug today,” he said, leading her through the small entryway and into a living area. He waved his hands slowly, palms face-down. “Floor like desert.” He chuckled. The sound made her heart flutter. Despite the awkward way Trade fit in his mouth, his laughter was still so similar. She fought the urge to lean against his side and breathe in his familiar scent. “Desert, less sand.” He pointed to himself and mimed the action of sweeping. “When kith out.”
She could hear the version of his voice that she knew ringing clearly in her head.
I promise that the place is usually far more beautiful. But, as it happens, the rugs are being cleaned today. It’s like a desert in here, is it not? With less sand, I hope. I sweep while the rest of my company is away. I would never get a chance to, otherwise.
She paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. It was strange to be the one to pick up the mantle of conversation, to not be able to let his low, smooth voice wash over her. “Have you been in Hercinia long?” She asked. He came to the city a few years before the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall, did he not?
“One,” he said, holding up a finger. He led her to sit down on one of the sofas. It was legless, resting entirely on the ground, its back propped up against the wall. She couldn’t help but recall the way that Ozol and the Iron Bull cringed each time they sat upon a wooden chair, as if anxiously waiting for the day it gave out from underneath them. “Live here.” He pressed his lips together, as if trying to recall some prepared statement. “I have… honest job. Do paper for Valo-Kas. Keep… organized.” He swallowed. “Valo-Kas good, ah, group. We take good job. Mar-coin for us.”
Cassandra stood, almost reaching out to touch him, to reassure him, to steady his panic as words started to fail him. He was drowning in the sea of his ineloquence. “Please, Ozol-”
He took a step back, raising his palms toward her, eyes wide and wild with fear he was unable to suppress. “Yes, yes, Özil, name, sorry- sorry mar-” He let out a string of words she didn’t know in Qunlat. “Ah, vashedan!” There was a creaking from upstairs, and Ozol’s breathing became harsh, shallow. He let out a string of frantic, order-like words in Qunlat, and the noise stopped instantly. “Will mar-hurt,” he breathed, staring back down at Cassandra. “You- you good man, mar-reason.”
She blinked at him. Man?
He cringed. “Wo… man?”
Ah. She nodded.
He pressed both hands to his lips, as if desiring nothing more than to never speak again.
For a moment, the world around Cassandra seemed to blur, to shift as if it was lurching to one side. She shut her eyes against the sudden wave of nausea, hoping that, when she opened them again, the sickly hue coating her vision would have vanished.
A harsh, low voice shook her back to reality. “The beresaad has arrived!” Barked a voice from the entryway as the door opened and rattled against the wall.
Ozol glanced down at Cassandra, hands still firmly clasped over his mouth. Please, please, blame me not for what they say, his eyes seemed to beg.
“Özil, are you-?” A large, well-muscled Qunari man stopped, dead, in the threshold between the entryway and the parlor. “Oh, shit.” He stared at Cassandra before his eyes flickered, briefly, to Ozol. “Did you seriously let a Seeker in here?” He hissed.
“What?” A second voice came from behind the first man. “A- a Seeker?” A second Qunari, slightly shorter and portlier, all but elbowed past the first, staring dead at Cassandra with wide, red eyes. “Ah, hello, ser,” he said, bowing and elbowing the other to bow, as well. “I hope our friend here has not caused you too much trouble.”
“None at all,” she said, words coming slowly. “We have been… making conversation.”
The taller of the two new Qunari looked perplexed. “In Trade?” He paused for a second. “In Trade, ser?”
“Yes,” she said.
He chuckled. “I’m impressed.” He nodded. “I’m Meraad,” he said. “This is Kaariss.” He gestured to the Qunari beside him. “We’re both mercenaries of the Valo-Kas. Well, one of us does more of the fighting than the other. Sure you can guess which one is which.”
She smiled, shaking her head. Knowing that these were Ozol’s men melted away any apprehension she would have otherwise when in a room surrounded by nothing but towering Qunari men.
Kaariss looked over to Ozol, eyebrows furrowing as he took note of the way Ozol’s hands were still clasped over his lips. He hissed something in Qunlat.
Slowly lowering his hands, Ozol said something back. Both Meraad and Cassandra’s eyes flickered between the two, and Cassandra was unsure how much less of the conversation she was understanding than he was.
Kaariss listened to a long string of words from Ozol’s lips and sighed. “He has asked me to deliver a message on his behalf,” he said. “My deepest apologies for my earlier behavior. I am new to your country and your language is yet to taste familiar upon my lips, even if I have come to appreciate its sweetness.”
Meraad snorted. “Really, Oz?”
Ozol threw the other Qunari a light glare and kept speaking.
“Please,” Kaariss said, clearly translating on Ozol’s behalf, “tell me if you desire tea. It shall be made. Food, as well. I have learned several recipes while here in your lands. My friends can tell you what we have to offer. You are as welcome in this home as any other, ser. We wish none to be a foreigner, all are welcome.”
Cassandra felt her face warming. There was her familiar poetry, even if it wasn’t coming directly from Ozol’s lips. “Any tea is fine. There is no need to inconvenience yourself on my behalf.”
Kaariss passed her message along to Ozol in their native tongue, making him smile.
“Will be done,” Ozol said, bowing slightly. Once he stood back up, he turned and disappeared through a doorway, into what Cassandra presumed was a kitchen.
“So,” Kaariss said, sitting down on the sofa. Cassandra and Meraad followed his lead, the two Qunari sitting on one side of the horseshoe-shaped sofa, Cassandra on the other. “I assume whatever you’re here to tell us isn’t anything good,” he sighed.
She swallowed. “I was sent here on behalf of the guards by the… Knight-Commander.” Details felt fuzzy in her mind. She gripped the velum, still firmly in her hand, tightly. The words ox-men, written by official hands, burned into her palm.
The two Qunari looked at each other, worry in their eyes. “Please,” Meraad said. “I’m vashoth.” He put a hand to his chest. “My parents fled the Qun to make a better life for themselves amongst your people. I hardly even speak their language. This city has been my home my whole life.” He swallowed. “Shit, whatever you think I am, I’m not.” He gestured to Kaariss. “He and Oz left the Qun behind. All of us did. We aren’t here to invade.”
Kaariss nodded. “I-”
He stopped as a sound of something shattering upstairs rang out in the house. In a flash, Ozol ran from the kitchen, blowing through the parlor and up the stairs like his hair was on fire.
Meraad stood, his ocean-blue eyes wide. “Oz!” He looked down at Cassandra. “Sorry, he-”
Ozol yelled down something in Qunlat.
Kaariss cringed, but spoke in a tone that Cassandra knew, instantly, were relaying Ozol’s words. “Please, do not mind the woman with cut horns. She is frightened of strangers and such unannounced visits. She is simple, but kind.” He gave Cassandra a nervous smile. “Not all of us are mercenaries,” he said. “Özil left the Qun with a woman. She needs… tending to, at times.”
Cassandra nodded. His saarebas. “I will not stop him from attending to someone if they need it,” she said, furrowing her brow. But why-? She tried to keep her face from betraying her as she answered her own question. Ah. I am a Seeker. Sent on behalf of the Templars. To a home with not only Qunari, but a mage inside it.
The stairs creaked as Ozol led a woman, clearly quite a bit older than him, down them, holding her bleeding hand. Her whole form was stooped, her posture dreadful, her hair falling past her shoulders in dozens upon dozens of tiny, black braids. Her horns were nubs, only a few inches long, and her skin was a brilliant copper-gold but marred with heavy scarring on her forehead. The lower half of her face was covered by a veil that Cassandra knew, by instinct alone, served to hide the scars around her lips. She looked over at Cassandra with wide, frightened, perfectly brown eyes. Even at a bit of a distance, Cassandra could tell that her irises were blown wide.
Ozol said something in Qunlat, prompting Kaariss to translate once more. “She stumbled into a bowl,” he said. “I had been gone from her side too long, and she had grown fearful. I will bandage her and return. Please, do not worry for the sake of another.”
She frowned as Ozol disappeared into the kitchen once more. To hear the sentiment of I am fine, do not worry yourself with me come from another’s lips on his behalf felt… She swallowed. Too often, she had accepted that, when he told her not to worry, that she should not. She pressed the velum to the base of her stomach. She resolved to, whenever she freed herself of whatever was happening, never again listen to him when he told her not to worry on his behalf. To not fret nor fuss whenever the weight of his responsibilities attempted to drag him down.
There was a moment of silence in the parlor that dragged on and on. In the kitchen, Ozol hummed out soft words in Qunlat, the usually harsh language turned sweet and calming on his tongue. Beyond the open windows, the chimes of beach glass sang in the summer breeze. Cassandra and the two Qunari listened to him as he hummed, as he spoke and coaxed out soft hums from his saarebas in return. Mama, she recalled. Ozol called her Mama.
Eventually, there was the soft shuffling of pots and the clinking of delicate porcelain. Ozol walked back into the parlor, a pot of tea and a tray of cups balanced on two steady hands. He kneeled in front of the small, round table, pouring the tea. He handed a cup to her, his massive hands dwarfing the fragile pottery. “Welcome,” he said, voice soft.
As she took the cup, their hands brushed. She dared to linger on the contact, pressing a palm to his beautiful, silver forearm. “Shaathala, Özil,” she said, smiling down at his stooped form.
He looked up at her, and Cassandra felt the world pitch to the side once more. “No,” he whispered, and the world went black.
• ° • ♡ • ° •
She was shaken out of sleep by the bed shifting beneath her, the soft flesh she’d used as a pillow roughly throwing her to the side. She grasped at the sheets before she consciously knew she needed to, preventing herself from tumbling to the floor. As she looked up, she saw Ozol curled forward, the Anchor sparking. His lips were set in a grimace, face twisted with pain. The bed was hot, sweat rolling down his skin and soaking into the sheets. Long, pale silver locks swung beside his face, obscuring his profile. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Ozol?” She sat up shakily, wiping the sleep from her eyes. The harsh light of the Anchor burned against the darkness of Ozol’s chambers. The fire had gone out as they slept.
He grit his teeth, hissing in Qunlat. She made out the word saar. Dangerous. A warning. Stay back. He stood, shaking, and stepped over to the basin he kept not too far from the bed. He shoved his hand in the water. Instantly, a cloud of steam bloomed before him, the scent of something alien filling the room. The scent of the Breach. Slowly, like iron cooled by a smith, the angry, green lines following his veins up to his shoulder dimmed and retreated down to his forearm. Moonlight began to reassert itself, coating his bare, silver skin in its cool glow.
After a moment, his breathing began to truly slow. The worst of the pain had passed. Either that, or he had grown capable of hiding it.
“Ozol?” Cassandra tried to keep her voice from shaking. To see him in such a state was frightening. His own body was starting to betray him with frightening frequency. This was an enemy she couldn’t fight. She was paralyzed by it.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I do not know what happened.” His accent was thicker. Rougher.
Magic, she realized. That damned Anchor! She was not ignorant of the darkness looming in the Fade. Of nightmares. Of the manipulation of demons. The foreign sound of Ozol’s words betrayed him. The dream lingered on his tongue. “Come back to bed, my love,” she said, as gently as she could.
He sank down onto his knees on the floor. “I am not safe, Cassandra,” he hissed. “The last thing I need is to get anyone else hurt.”
She pressed her lips together, brow knotting. She moved to the edge of the wide, firm bed, tossing her feet over the edge. Her nightgown was disheveled, askew. She looked upon his nude form. She could still feel the bruises lingering on her skin from hours before. “And if I go into your arms willingly?”
“All the worse,” he said, leaning his head against the dresser.
She left the bed and took a few slow, small steps toward him before she, too, sank down onto her knees. “Tell me what you saw,” she whispered. Her hand hovered above his right arm, fingertips a mere inch from his skin, the shadows she cast interrupting the way the moonlight made the sweat on his skin glitter.
He turned to look at her, horns knocking against the basin before he could get his bearings. His eyes were more black than icy blue, his full, soft lips ajar slightly. “I saw you,” he whispered back. “Where you should never be.”
“I saw you in Hercinia.”
His nostrils flared, face hardening somewhat. “Before I knew you. Before I was meant to.”
She pulled back her hand, pressing it to her breast. “Do not grow cross with me,” she said. “I did not choose to step into your dreams. To be such a… voyeur.”
His face softened, falling into an expression of defeat. Of despair. “I should be able to control it,” he said. “This- this asala-taar,” he hissed, “should not be able to bring me to my knees so easily.”
She held her tongue and thought. It wasn’t the magic that vexed him. Not Ozol. “Asala-taar,” she repeated. “Tell me what it means.”
He swallowed. Water pooled on the floor, slowly seeping into the fabric of her nightgown as he fought to give thoughts a shape she would understand. “Meraad,” he said. “It means tide. The pull of the ocean.” His eyes left her face, drifting toward the moon hanging beneath the archway. “It was also the name of my friend.”
She nodded. The Qunari with ocean-blue eyes. The vashoth who barely spoke the language of his blood.
“I have told you before that shame is a useless thing. Used to keep your people tied down by your Chantry. To anchor you to a feeling of inadequacy, of lacking purpose. Use.”
“Yes,” she said. “You have.”
“There is a difference between shame and guilt.”
What a difference ten years makes.
“A hundred miles from here, his soul is rusting.” A tear rolled down Ozol’s face. Then another. And another.
She swallowed back the lump in her throat. With shaking hands, she unbuttoned her nightgown and let it fall from her shoulders, gingerly pressing an edge of the soft cotton against his cheeks. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“If he had not listened to me,” he said, voice thick with emotion as he grabbed at his bare chest, “then his body would rot. His weapon would have been but a tool. I made the songs of the antaam ring in his ears again. Breathed life back into the memory of his fathers.”
She lurched forward, unable to keep herself from grasping in the dim light for his broad chest, pressing herself between his heart and his hand. She began to choke. “There were times,” she said, feeling her own face grow wet, “when he would tell me he doubted in the Maker.”
Lingering was not a thing to do outside of Ozol’s arms.
“And I told him that he must keep his faith. That, without it, I would never see him again. I had longed for our ashes to sail beyond the Veil together.” She choked as she thought of Galyan’s body, buried beneath the rubble of the Conclave, unburned. Rotting. Not even the most skilled embalmers of Nevarra could allow her to crawl into his arms again.
Ozol held her tightly against his skin. He whispered Qunlat against her unbound hair. The words rose and fell, rhymed and drummed on in a steady chant. Prayers from somewhere beyond her conscious mind fell past her lips, the Nevarran ancient and yet achingly familiar.
Prayers for the dead needed no translation.
Neither did prayers for their forgiveness.