Across Worlds

Ch 4 -Rescue

Wren woke up in the cell again, unsure how she had gotten back there. Her left arm still burned in agony. She gingerly propped her back against the wall, making herself as small as she could. Her clothes were damp and filthy and her hair dirty and tangled in its braid. How long have I been here? she thought wearily.

She couldn't help the brief snort of laughter that bubbled up and escaped her lips at her next thought, If only Tiffany could see me...I really look like a neanderthal now.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion that clouded her mind she thought she heard the sounds of fighting from down the hall – metal clanging together like the clashing of swords, roars of effort and grunts of pain – but they were gone so quickly that she thought for sure she must have imagined them.

But then there were voices, "Spread out and search for survivors," a man's voice ordered.

Great, she thought, now I'm hallucinating.

The murmur of voices continued to echo off the walls and get closer, and a brighter light started to stab her eyes. She raised her right arm to shield them, hearing another man call out, "Inquisitor! Over here!"

There were hurried footsteps and then the same voice that ordered the search said, "Maker's breath," in dismay. "Varric, get the door."

"Got it."

As her eyes adjusted, she was able to make out a short, stocky man working lock picks in the cell's door. He had reddish-blonde hair that was shaggy enough to be pulled back into a half ponytail. Small gold hoops hung from his ears and a scar ran across the bridge of his bulbous nose. The man that had spoken stood behind him with the torch and Wren found it too difficult to look at him through the glare of the light.

She heard the click of the lock and the grating of metal against metal as the door opened. She couldn't help but cringe backward and further into the corner, hiding her face in the crook of her elbow as her breath came faster with anxiety. Please, God, no more, she thought, knowing that her body couldn't take another round of beatings.

"It's all right," the man said soothingly. It was the tone Wren took with skittish horses at the barn.

She dared to glance in his direction. The one he had called Varric was holding the torch outside the door and he now stood inside the cell, blocking some of the light so that Wren could see him more clearly. He was tall, well over six feet, and had a lithely muscular build under the light armor he was wearing, like that of a gymnast. His face was mostly obscured by a helmet made to resemble a dragon – the head of the beast on the brow between his eyes, with a ridge of spikes over the top of the helm representing those that would go down the dragon's back, and the wings making up the sides that covered and protected the face.

He raised his hands slowly, showing he was unarmed, and brought them up to lift the helm off. He was probably a few years older than her and short brown hair cut closer on the sides than on top stuck to his head with sweat. Gray-blue eyes, the color of a sky streaked with storm clouds, met hers. He had a Roman nose and bow-shaped lips, with strong cheekbones and a clean-shaven square jawline.

At least my hallucinations are handsome as hell, she thought wearily.

He took a slow step toward her, repeating, "It's all right. You're safe now."

She tried to keep perfectly still, but realized she was trembling and couldn't seem to stop herself.

The man squatted down in front of her, still keeping distance between them, but looking her more evenly in the eyes. "I'm Evan Trevelyan. It's okay. We're here to help you," he said, indicating his companions with a gesture, but not breaking eye contact with her.

She took a shuddering breath before saying hoarsely, "You're not...red. Like them."

A flicker of surprise crossed his features. "No. I'm not with the Red Templars," he said adamantly. "I'm with the Inquisition trying to stop them."

Inquisition! The word rang in Wren's consciousness. So, these are the people the red knights wanted information about.

Evan had paused, casting a brief glance over his shoulder at Varric who gave him a slight nod of encouragement. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked gently.

What the hell have I got to lose? At least they bothered to ask my name. And they haven't started beating me for information yet, she thought morosely. "Wren. Wren Thomas."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Evan's mouth. "Pleased to meet you, Wren. Although I wish it were under better circumstances."

She couldn't help the huff of laughter that escaped her, "You and me both."

He smiled more broadly, his face brightening in an open and friendly manner. Wren found herself being put at ease by it as he extended a hand to her. "I'm going to help you up now. We need to get you back to our camp where there's a healer."

She nodded, too exhausted to protest, and placed her left hand into his right. His eyes flicked to the burn wounds along her forearm and briefly darkened with anger as he pulled her gently to her feet, putting her arm over his shoulder and wrapping his other arm around her waist to support her. They made it outside the cell, but dark spots danced in the corners of her eyes and she felt herself swaying and about to fall.

Evan's arm tightened around her and before she could say anything he swung her up into his arms bridal style to carry her. She managed to keep her arm around his shoulders to steady herself as they made their way through the structure.

The air started to get less stale and she could hear the crashing of the waves on the shore. It was dark when they got outside, so Wren could barely register their surroundings. She thought she smelled the familiar scents of leather and horses as Evan briefly set her down and let someone else support her. The next thing she knew she was settled side-saddle in front of Evan, a warm woolen cloak that smelled of cedar and lavender wrapped around her. He settled her in the crook of his left arm, her head resting against his chest, as he gathered the reins.

"Everything will be all right, Wren. I promise," he said, making a clucking sound to his horse and urging it forward. The familiar rocking motion finally lulled her into unconsciousness.