Chapter Text
There was a moment of confusion when Ella forgot exactly what it was she was trying to do. Fighting through the haze of drugs that always seemed to leech its way into her mind, she looked around at the throng of bodies once more, pressing against each other in a lively and artificial display of friendship. Orlesians. She hated Orlesians. Her head pounded. No, she decided. At this particular point in time, she was inclined to hate everyone.
Guard duty, that was it. Definitely. There was a tug at her collar, not on it but in it in the usual uncomfortable manner. It told her to stay close to the man. She forgot his name. It didn’t really matter; they were all the same. All the same, all the same…
Ah, crap, she was drifting again. The collar reminded her to focus with a painful jolt, and she resisted the by now familiar urge to rub her neck. It would do more harm than good, she knew.
The man was moving again –Marcus? Magnus? Mark?- and so she moved too, a shadow, but better, because she had knives and fists and teeth. Shadows didn’t have those things, oh no, because they were shadows and shadows- Dear god that stung. A growl stirred in her throat as the collar attempted to zap her back into focus. Right. Guard duty.
She scanned the room with a practiced eye, picking out the mercenaries from the politicians, the mages from the Templars -mages? Ella bristled. No one had told her about mages. Actually, she mused, no one had told her anything. Funny how that worked. Through the drug-induced fog, she could barely remember murmurings of a Conclave, something to do with the mage-templar war. She hadn’t really cared to lock it into place in her memory; clumsy, but it hadn’t seemed important at the time. Perspective, she reminded herself. Need to keep perspective. Of course it was important; it was a war for fuck's sake.
She moved closer to the man –was it Martin? Maybe it was Martin- and tried her best to appear disinterested in the conversation around her. Scraps reached her and were dismissed; formalities, inquiries into health, the family, etc. Unimportant. All the while she kept one eye on the crowd bustling around them, up into the temple for the Conclave to start. A horned head emerged, leading a group of what were clearly mercenaries. They didn’t need to blend, didn’t want to. It was always better for them to be seen, always better to avert the conflict before it happened, especially if you were that big, that imposing, that obviously and logic-defyingly strong-
Another zap. Ella managed not to wince. She, on the other hand, well, she was a completely different story. When shit went down, and it always did, you could count on Ella to keep you alive and the other guys… not alive. Damn, these drugs were really doing a number on her. What did they give her? Didn’t they want her in fighting condition? They should have known that she didn’t need the drugs anymore; the collar was enough.
She glanced at the man –you know what? Going with Martin- and saw with narrowed eyes how he glanced worriedly in her direction, hands wringing, his obvious discomfort betrayed by the very quaver in his voice. Pathetic. The Game would eat him alive. And yet he must be a noble, or at least the son of one, in order to warrant her protection. He must have ordered the drugs; extra guarantee of safety and all that. Why hadn’t he just hired mercs, then? Ella earned another zap, which she admitted was deserved. She was way off task, and they were already under the gaping and admittedly impressive arches of the temple.
The crowed thinned slightly as people took seats and order could reign in the rabble. Martin sat in an unobtrusive spot, near enough to hear but not quite close enough to be of notice. Ella allowed herself to wrinkle her nose in frustration before positioning herself right behind him, hands hovering over her knives with as much nonchalance as she could muster; an impressive display. She had had a lot of practice. Now, what she didn’t understand, she decided after the long list of introductions and formalities and 'thank you's began to grow tedious, was why she was guarding someone so obviously unimportant? His family must be very wealthy, if there was no non-monetary gain to be had here. It just seemed so out of character for her master to put her in this position. Oh, maybe that was it. Did he want her uncomfortable? There were other ways to do that…
Her eyes darted up as she caught a flash of movement. A man rushed out of the room, hurriedly pulling his cloak over his head. None of our business the collar seemed to hum, a warning in its tune. Ella was inclined to disagree. Everything here was her business, it was only natural as a-
“Guard,” hissed Martin. Ella smoothly leaned over, offering an ear. “I want a drink.”
Internally, she sighed. Normally this display would warrant some suspicion, but given that this was about the 27th time this overgrown child had asked her for something so mundane she was willing to bet that he honestly wanted refreshment. She stared at him, hoping that he would be a tad more specific.
“Are you deaf? Now.”
Pursing her lips, Ella stood. She repressed the desire to sweep into an obnoxiously elaborate bow and decided that she would instead bring him the most alcoholic beverage she could find. Maybe drunkenly rambling in front of the representatives of Orlais and Ferelden combined would teach him some manners. Or get him executed. Either way.
It was surprisingly difficult to navigate the temple, and the potent although admittedly fading drugs combined with the exhaustion of standing on watch through the night for the last few days meant that she soon found herself very, very lost. Almost hopelessly so.
The collar tingled on her neck and she could almost hear its laughter. Yeah, alright, laugh it up, she thought irritably. We’re in this together. The tingling lessened, but it did not completely die down.
Room after room revealed nothing of interest save broken furniture and dust that hadn’t been swept in centuries. Immediately Ella was struck with the realization that a drink should not be this hard to find, but there was nothing more to do. So she kept wandering aimlessly, hoping to find something that would point the way. Suddenly, she heard voices.
Thanking every god that came to mind Ella went off at a brisk trot towards the sounds, slowing down slightly when she realized that the voices appeared to be raised. A fight? She drew a knife. The collar started, sputtered, shocking her with a million pinpricks of electricity. What did I do? It did not respond, instead seeming to be struggling with something. The hair on the back of her neck tingled, rising ever so slightly. She could taste magic on her tongue. Shit. The collar never seemed to do well with a sudden influx of magical energy.
Wait, a sudden influx of… that couldn’t be good. She crept forward, straining to make out what was being said and where the sound was coming from. Finally she reached a door that appeared to be the origin, but she still could not distinguish any words. The magic was definitely coming from there, though, a fact made painfully evident by the collar’s excitable shocking and burning. It almost sizzled when she touched open the door, throwing her off the slightest bit. Ella shook her head, fighting through the pain. She opened the door. The collar popped. She thought she heard herself shout, but that seemed ridiculous.
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As she awoke, she felt the chains on her wrist. Her initial reaction was panic, raw and burning at her mind, clawing at her throat. She forced it down, locked it in place with a will of hard steel. Think rationally. What’s the last thing you remember?
I… don’t.
She couldn’t remember anything, it was all a blur of color and sound that made her woozy. With that she realized that the drugs had all but worn off. The drugs… Ah, yes. She remembered. A little. How she had ended up in chains, however, that was another story. Ella decided it would be best to maintain the appearance of unconsciousness and hoped that her momentary lapse of control betrayed nothing to whoever had imprisoned her. Compartmentalize. Assess the situation, the damage.
All her limbs seemed to be in place, so that was something. Past that, well, she felt like shit. Bruised, battered, beaten to hell. It was not encouraging, especially seeing as how she couldn’t remember what had caused it. Slowly, carefully, she tensed and stretched her toes, her feet, her legs, working up muscle by muscle in a cautious and meticulous examination of her body. Her legs were not broken; left side was a little bruised, especially around the hip. Up her torso she felt that her ribs on her left side were sore and was sure that they had been broken, even if they weren’t now. All this indicated a fall, and a particularly nasty one at that. She was a little surprised; usually she wasn’t so clumsy as to take a fall on one side like that.
Apart from some bruising, her right arm felt fine. Of course it did, she reasoned. The fall was on the left side. Mentally readying herself, Ella began an assessment of the left arm. Shoulder was sore, and the pain around the socket indicated that it had been dislocated. Not anymore, though. Someone had popped it back in, which was mildly troubling because who would go through all that trouble just to chain her up again? Someone with an agenda, that’s who. She almost scowled, but remember just in time that she was still supposed to be unconscious. Instead she mentally worked her way down the arm, finding that, though it was sore, it was certainly usable. The fall hadn’t damaged it nearly as much as it could have. Bruising, mild abrasions, some stitching. Her wrist, now, that was painful. Broken? No, but throbbing in a way that was downright unnatural. Tentatively she focused on her hand, her palm-
It burned, it burned like someone had taken a metal rod, plunged it into flames, and was now pressing it into the center of her palm, twisting the white-hot metal until the flesh shriveled and died. Only worse, so much worse. Twisting, pulsing, raking up her arm into her lungs so that she almost couldn’t breathe-
Breathe. She did. The pain subsided to a dull throb, a thousand pinpricks that needled at her palm but did not bring the agony that was before. It was almost like her collar-
Her collar. It… was it working? She couldn’t hear it, couldn’t feel it past the rub of leather on her neck. Usually it pulsed, like a heartbeat, like it was alive, but now it felt…
“Dead. Everyone who was at the Conclave has perished. And here you are… alive.”
Ella started, looking up with eyes that were too-wide, too-afraid. The pain had clearly addled her senses and so she forced her face to smooth, dragged the flesh into a calm disinterest. Everyone... dead? She said nothing.
The woman grabbed her hand and Ella couldn’t help but wince. “Explain. This.”
Now Ella was vexed. Explain? How was she supposed to explain when she couldn’t remember a thing past that stupid Martin and his stupid drink? How was she supposed to explain when the damned collar wouldn’t even let her say ‘hello’? Effectively, she was a mute. Or at least… she used to be. The collar is dead. Could it be?
“I… I can’t explain.” Her voice was hoarse, weak and raspy from underuse but it was hers. There were no words for that. None. She felt like she could cry, if she had the energy to spare.
“What do you mean you can’t?” Anger, yes, that was anger. Raw and powerful. This woman, she had lost something, or someone. The Conclave. If what she said was true…
“What do you mean ‘everyone’s dead’?” she shot back. Speaking felt good; too good. The words tumbled out like she was afraid she’d be struck dumb any second. “That’s impossible. There were soldiers, mages, mercenaries… someone must have survived.”
“Yes. Someone did survive. You.” She nearly spat the words, and Ella recoiled at the sheer amount of venom in her voice. She forced herself to look up, to examine. Heavy armor, Seeker emblem –oh shit-, natural fighting stance… aggressive, straightforward, loyal? Loyal. She seemed… familiar somehow. Not in the way one would find family familiar, but in the way one sees a face in the crowd, thought that he forgot it, and then is confronted with that very same face later.
“You’re right hand. The Right Hand. Cassandra Pentaghast.” There was no question in her voice, or awe. It was a statement, a fact. As was: “You’re wasting your time. I remember nothing.”
“You’re lying!” Cassandra snarled, and had Ella might have seen her life flash briefly before her eyes had she been a different kind of person. A soft hand landed on Cassandra’s shoulder, and Ella got the distinct impression of a dragon being reigned in by a gentle touch. The Left Hand. She was easy to identify, once Ella’s mind was already there.
“We need her, Cassandra.”
They needed her? Ella did not like the sound of that at all. She panicked a little, fidgeting against the chains. She almost felt like she could get out of them, given just a few more secon-
With a loud and rather dramatic clank, Cassandra released her, helped her up. It was odd, thought Ella distantly, being face to face with someone so fucking important. “What happened? What do you think I did?” Ella asked.
“It will be easier to show you.”