Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

Mistake

The campfire flickered as Fen'Asha gathered her senses.

The wolf sniffed her and seemed to grin, a wet tongue panting. It strode away and she followed, with the other wolves looking at her. There was no sound apart from the crackle of the fire and her footfall as she walked across the blood-soaked grass.

Dead bandits littered the ground, tangled in gnawed arms and legs. Throats had been gnawed open, limbs had been chewed. Some of the bandits seemed to have died from pure fright, their eyes locked open, mouths agape in bloody shock.

Fen'Asha bowed at the wolf as it turned and faced her again. She looked to the shadows of wolves as they lined the camp, shadows against the moon. It reminded her of Solas' mural.

She looked down at herself, her tattered clothing barely clinging to her blood-spattered body. She was quite the picture and she noticed bruises on her arms and legs. She feared what her face looked like and touched it, fingering the tenderness around her eye and wincing.

She was glad the bandits were dead.

She also needed a change of clothes, so she searched the corpses for something suitable. She settled on a body near the tent, one still wrapped in a rough tunic. He looked to be missing a leg, but that would have to suffice. She approached and tugged at the hem, towing part of the tunic loose. The movement was enough to send the corpse tumbling to the grass, which freed up the rest of the garment. She pulled it off and expertly shed her own ragged blouse before replacing it with the tunic. It was stank of dead man's grime and sweat, but it would have to do. It slipped from her shoulder, revealing yet another bruise in the firelight.

Her pack had apparently been torn apart by the bandits, with her supplies strewn over a small table on the other side of camp. She gathered what she could and put it in a coarse sack.

Fen'Asha spotted her horse in the darkness with the help of the wolf, who padded up to the steed and pawed at the earth beneath it. The horse wasn't spooked in the slightest and it bowed its head in greeting.

She shook her head. Was this some kind of dream? She searched the sky.

The wolves gathered in a circle and followed her up the trail, with the big wolf jogging in front. He led the way, head tall, eyes blazing. They continued for days. She grew accustomed to their presence, never feeling fearful of their fangs or flashes of animal brutality.

It felt familiar. It felt like home. It felt like the Conclave, the Inquisition or Solas never happened. She was one of the pack again. Hunting with them again. Resting with them again. She could stay with them forever, among their soft fur, bloodied jowls, flashing fangs, and howls.

But all too soon, Skyhold loomed. It was then that the wolves drew back, watching her from the bushes by the side of the road. She watched as they faded, yellow eyes melting back into shadows, white grins drawn inside dark mouths.

Cullen was the first to see her. He saw her enter, nearly lifeless on her steed with her arms and legs hanging at her sides. He called to her from his position on the ramparts and Skyhold erupted into action, troops and mages and merchants and horsemen running to her side. A gruff man pulled her down from the horse, took her to the most immediate medic.

Cullen scampered down, joining the throng as people knelt and prayed at the sight of their Inquisitor.

She was rested on a blanket, outside the mouth of a tent. Her eyes stinging in the sunlight, her bones aching by now. Whatever energy had sustained her in the wild was subsiding quickly.

"Maker's breath," said Cullen. He held her hand. "Inquisitor..."

She attempted a smile. "Solas and I...."