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Well, it’s finally happened. They’ve figured it out. Two years, a handful of concussions, more scars than he can count, and suddenly it all means nothing. That’s Tevinter gratitude for you.
"Well, shit," he tells no one in particular. It’s just him and the healer in the tent, and the healer is lying unconscious on the floor. Krem knocked him out with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm after it become clear what exactly he was threatening him with. Perhaps it was hasty. Perhaps he could have persuaded him through some other means, but he was an ass, and Krem really wanted to smack him over the head with something heavy, so he did.
He's not usually so impulsive, but it’s not as if the situation could get any worse.
A curse on nosy healers and a curse on self-righteous arseholes and a curse on the dagger he didn’t quite manage to dodge. The healer hadn't even started to treat the damn thing, so Krem still has an open wound just below his ribs that's stinging more and more as the adrenaline wears off.
"Shit," he repeats fervently, scrabbling uselessly at the healing supplies next to him. He has a few minutes before anyone will come looking, and he needs to be gone before they can decide what to do with him - that is, kill him now, kill him later, or maybe go easy on him and let him waste away the rest of his life a disgraced slave. Choices, choices...
The worst thing is, it can't even be a secret. There's absolutely no way you can eat, sleep, fight and piss beside someone for two years and not know every dirty little secret they've got going. Especially the pissing. Krem's pretty damn proud of that one, it's nothing short of an art form, and as long as he's discreet about it, no one's like to think his stream of piss is coming from anywhere different than theirs. It just requires a little more effort.
But having said that, he can't always sneak off the few feet he needs to maintain the illusion, among other things. They have to know, at least a few. He was new at it once, and presumably clumsy, though he's a dab hand these days.
It sounds stupid, but he hopes they do know. It's incredibly foolish to wish for your most dangerous secret to be common knowledge, but he'd rather believe they knew and didn't give a crap, instead of being happily oblivious. He’d rather believe that every time they'd left him alone to shit or change wasn't just serendipity, but an act of acceptance and support. It happened too often. They had to know.
He picks up a needle, tries not to whimper, and twists awkwardly to reach his wound. Even if Krem was remotely skilled at this sort of thing, which he isn’t, the angle is impossible. It's not the sewing that presents the problem - he's the son of a tailor, after all - but he wouldn't know where to even begin with this. Well, he can bandage it up. That much isn’t quite beyond him. There's a pot of something awful smelling which he reasons must be medicinal. It can't smell that bad and not be, so he smears it on generously with a hiss.
Wrapping the wound is made trickier by the usual leather binding he wears around his chest, which presses a little too firmly for comfort against the raw skin. He debates forgoing it for the journey to save him some pain, but equally, fuck that. It might be more comfortable against his wound, but it would feel like they'd won. If he has to run, he'll do it as Krem, and this is Krem. He scowls. It's the breasts that got him in this mess to start with, and he fastens his leather vest with curt indignance, which does nothing for the pain.
"Andraste's tits," he hisses, then grins, amused with his own turn of phrase. He tilts his head slightly upwards as befits the act of addressing a religious figure. "Did you ever have this problem?" he demands, but there's no answer. There never is. For a woman so fond of all that bloody chanting, she's otherwise not very forthcoming.
She also probably had armour curved to fit her frame, so she's really not much use at all. Surely, he reasons, breasts are just as much of a nuisance even when they're wanted; you can hardly run into battle with your tits akimbo.
That thought makes him laugh, a little hysterically, and Maker - laughing hurts. He wheezes as he tries to curtail it, clutching at his side. He needs to get out, and he needs to find himself a healer with some degree of urgency. It's not much of a plan, but it's all he has and it'll have to do. He has a small amount of money and the clothes on his back and not much else, a small blade that wouldn't be his preference, but he can't afford further delay.
There's nothing for it but to put his armour on, or at least, the parts that don't give him away immediately as military. He rips his insignia off, trying to tamp down on how awful it feels to do that. He earned it. This isn't fucking fair.
He's quick and quiet, but camp is busy. He keeps his head down and tries not to limp, but he bumps into Coop near the edge, surprise written all over his face.
"Captain? You're supposed to be -" he starts, Krem shushing him hurriedly.
“Gotta go, Coop,” he says, not knowing what else to offer. “They - the healer -"
It's likely obvious that he's in pain, from the way he carries himself and from the way he grits out the words. Coop catches him by the elbow.
"Krem? You alright?"
He tries not to lean too much into the welcome support. "I gotta go," he repeats numbly, "I gotta -"
Coop looks at him, long and hard. "I can get you twenty minutes," he says eventually, releasing his grip on Krem's arm. He takes his pack off his own back, thrusting it into Krem's shaking arms, casting furtive looks around as he does so. Then, "go!"
It isn't shortage of time that stops Krem from thanking him, but a lack of words. He nods breathlessly, running clumsily away with a gentle shove to his back.
They knew. They knew.
Krem could lie down in the dirt and cry, he really could.
But he doesn't.
-
It's hot, and dry, and loose underfoot, and every single step is absolute fucking agony. How does one person have such bad luck?
Coop's pack has food and water and a little bit of money, but money can't buy you anything when you're miles from civilisation, and water doesn't have the medicinal properties he desperately needs. Still, it's much appreciated, and Krem will probably never see him again but he owes him. Can he get word back? Ask someone to buy Coop a few rounds for him?
It's all pointless speculation when his chances of making it through the next twelve hours are looking slim. If the wound doesn't kill him then he still has to contend with the forces catching up with him, Coop's distraction notwithstanding.
He bends over, hands on his knees, and allows himself a moment of despair and self-pity. Just one. Every inch of his body aches and sometimes it feels like he might never catch his breath, might never catch a break or get a chance to build a life he's allowed to live.
These past few years, he’d come to believe - to hope - that this would be permanent. He had friends. He was happy.
He thinks of the way Coop handed over his pack with unhesitating kindness.
It’s different to the last time, because he’s a soldier now, and he has a weapon and supplies and he can look after himself a little better. He’s come a long way from the terrified runaway in his father’s stolen clothes, and he’ll be damned if he lets them take that away from him.
If he’s estimated correctly in his rushed departure, he’s still ten miles from the border, where there was a small cluster of buildings marked on the map he saw of the area. He has a good memory for this sort of thing usually, but the panic makes him doubt himself. Ten miles amounts to around four hours at the pace he’s been holding, which is far too slow for someone on the run for their life, though he’d struggle to manage much faster. Every movement burns his side.
He pushes off from his knees, forcing himself to stand despite the searing pain. Fuck ‘em. He’ll do it in three.
-
There’s a tavern, mercy of mercies, and it’s cheap and a little on the side of run down, which is ideal. It’s quiet and unremarkable, and so is Krem, hunched over and covered in dust. He doesn’t dare reveal his injury lest they turn him away - dead bodies are bad for business, and even worse for the nerves of the elf that cleans the rooms. Not that Krem is planning on becoming a dead body, but it looks bad.
Really fucking bad, he thinks, as he peels off the dressing in the privacy of his own room. It doesn’t smell too great either, and that’s what worries him most. He’s smelled that smell before, too often for comfort, though always on others. Others who hadn’t fared quite so well. It’s not an encouraging smell.
He washes it, wraps it in clean bandages, and assesses his situation. It’s not good, but it’s a little better now he has a bed and hot meals and enough coin to last a week. Assuming he can avoid detection, he can safely stay here for a few days to recover, cross the border proper when he’s stronger, and then - well, that’s something he’ll have to consider at some point. Until then, his most pressing problem is his injury, and it’s that which he intends to tackle first.
Once he's back downstairs, his plan is to move discreetly from table to table, see if he can find someone willing to help him. He hadn't thought quite this far ahead, and it only occurs to him once he's buying a drink for a friendly looking Antivan that the placement of this particular injury will require an accompanying explanation. The very thought exhausts him.
The Antivan is the only one he dares approach, if he's honest. There's a group of shifty looking tradesmen in one corner talking in hushed voices, a lonely drunk in the other, and near the bar, a mismatched bunch of travellers well on their way to drunk, accompanied by a Qunari, no less. He keeps looking across at Krem, which is very unnerving. He meets the Qunari's gaze determinedly, refusing to show any weakness.
He's twenty minutes in and about five minutes away from dropping a casual request for elfroot into the conversation when the door swings open behind him, and - oh, shit - he'd know the clink of that armour anywhere.
The barkeep jumps to attention, and Krem nearly spills his beer down the Antivan's fancy doublet.
"We're looking for a runaway," the Tevinter Lieutenant announces, sounding bored and frustrated. "Combing all the taverns on the border until we find them."
A polite but unhelpful hush falls over the room, all eyes on the soldiers. Krem angles himself half towards them, lest he seem disrespectful, but keeps his face carefully in shadow.
"Might I remind you," the soldier says sharply, "that it is an offence to harbour deserters -"
"What do they look like?" The barkeep jumps in, desperate to seem compliant.
The soldiers cast each other unsure looks, and Krem almost laughs. Typical. They haven't a bloody clue.
"Woman," one grunts, and Krem's face burns. He clenches his fists. "Badly injured, probably won't get far."
Krem holds his breath, but there's an unsure murmur, and no one says anything. He lets go of the knife he wasn't even aware he was clutching.
"Ring any bells?"
"Oh, we've had nothing like that," the barkeep says, clearly relieved, and the soldier shrugs, slapping some coins onto the bar.
"Might as well get a round in while we're here."
"Of course."
At that, the Qunari snorts with displeasure - he doesn’t look like the diplomatic type, somehow - before looking straight at Krem, piercing and direct. I know, it says, but not much else. I know your secret.
Krem stares back, more dumbstruck that defiant, and moments pass. Lifetimes. He’s a Qunari, he’s not to be trusted, he’s going to turn him in -
- but finally, he looks away with another displeased noise. “Fuckin’ Vints,” he mutters, and turns back to the bar.
Krem sucks in a breath, furious and terrified all at once, and bids a hasty farewell to his Antivan acquaintance. Why wouldn’t he turn him in? Is this how he pisses off the Imperium in his own small way, or is Vint business Vint business, and something he doesn’t concern himself with? Will he want something from him later, use it as blackmail?
He knows nothing about the Qunari, not really - not when he thinks about it. Enough to fear them, but not quite enough to know if his fear is justified.
Whatever his intentions, Krem is basically fucked. He can’t very well continue looking for a healer, they all know exactly what to look for - and he’ll stick out a mile. He’s going to die alone in a grubby tavern, he thinks blearily, he’s going to die in his bed with a fever, or by the bar fighting men who were his peers a handful of hours ago.
He can’t think straight, his head is pounding and everything reaches him in echoes and flashes of colour. He’ll climb out the window, that’s what he’ll do. Scale the wall and make it to the next town, crawling, if he has to. He can’t die here. He hasn’t come this far to die here.
He’s nearly in the corridor when he stumbles, clutching at the wall as his legs decide that they’ve had enough. It would have gone unnoticed were it not for his Antivan friend letting out a concerned cry, which is what alerts the soldiers.
They work it out before he can even get to his feet, hauling him forcibly across the room.
And he fights. Oh, he fights. He reaches for his knife, and slashes blindly at someone’s arm before they wrestle it off him, and then he fights tooth and nail, feverish and desperate and with absolutely nothing to lose. There are four of them and one of him, and he’s in a poor way. It’s not pretty.
They drag him into the back room as he thrashes and claws at them, and his stomach lurches as the full range of horrors awaiting him truly sinks in. They won’t want to kill him, it won’t be their orders, but he’s going to make them. He doesn’t want to live through this. The blood is rushing in his ears, and he can barely make out what they’re saying to him. He counts that as a blessing, though he can guess easily enough at the general gist.
He’s on the floor, everything screaming in agony, when the Qunari appears. Krem squints up at him, thinking for one mad moment that he’s about to join in.
“Hey,” the Qunari says pleasantly, like they’re having a friendly conversation over a few beers. “How about you leave my friend alone?” Friend ?
The soldiers turn, and Krem takes the opportunity to kick one in the ankle, rather foolishly. He’s running purely on terror and hate, and he just wants to hurt them with whatever failing strength he has left, blindly and vindictively.
The soldier lashes out at him even more violently, and through the haze of pain he can hear the Qunari bellowing, “hey, hey! ” Why does he even care? Why is he here?
The Qunari is throwing punches now, and Krem scrabbles at the table leg, trying to haul himself up. He’s mostly forgotten, which is unsurprising when your other target is a hulking, horned giant with an axe strapped to his back. The bleeding mess on the floor is, understandably, the lesser threat. For once, he's happy not to take it personally.
Krem intends to exploit their distraction, bleeding mess or no bleeding mess, and he grabs a bottle from a nearby table, smashing it over the head of one of his assailants. It works; two down, two to go. There’s a tiny flicker of hope in his chest, he might even survive this -
The Qunari roars in obvious pain - he can’t see what happened, but there’s blood, and the soldier not cowering before him turns to Krem, crushing him against the wall. Krem struggles, gets a few kicks in, but it all goes a little hazy from that point, the forearm against his throat pressing dangerously close to too much.
Next thing he knows, he's on the floor, all four soldiers down, and the Qunari crouching beside him, looking rather worse for wear. He's pressing a rag to one side of his face, but Krem can still see his grin.
"Not bad, kid," he says, almost proudly.
Krem laughs bitterly; it comes out in a painful wheeze. "Not how I'd put it."
"Considering you're dead on your feet, I'd say so." He waves away the ministrations of a man to his left, who's fussing over him with some salve. "I'm fine, clean this one up."
"Your eye -"
"I'm fine," the Qunari says, though he evidently isn't. The rag is bloody, and he winces as he shifts it. "Name's Bull, by the way, this is Stitches. You just tell him where it hurts, he'll fix you right up."
"Everywhere," Krem croaks, still finding himself reluctant to show his full hand.
"I'll bet," Bull says with a chuckle, Stitches starting to examine Krem's face. "They kick you out for being a woman, huh? You got guts, they don't like that sort of thing." He shrugs. "Their loss."
"Not a woman," Krem grits out, Stitches poking at his side with a frown. Fuck it, he hasn't exactly got a choice, and they've helped him this far. He gestures at his injury with a grimace.
"My mistake," Bull says, never looking away with his one visible eye. "Sorry, kid." It's the only time Krem will ever hear him apologise.
Stitches peels back the bandages, and Bull lets out a sympathetic hiss.
"Ain't that a beauty," Stitches says cheerfully, but Krem can see right through his fake bravado. It's bad, it's really bad, and he doesn't need to look at anything other than Bull's face to know it.
"Dalish," Stitches calls, "I know it's not your thing, but I could really use some magic right about now."
"Magic?" An elf behind him folds her arms. "I don't know what you -"
"Not now, Dalish," Bull growls, and she starts at that, unfolding her arms nervously. "Not the time to get cute about it."
"Right -"
"I refuse to die here," Krem says, barely managing an indignant whisper. "I can't die here."
"That's the spirit," he hears Bull says, and wonders vaguely why Stitches is apologising. The shooting pain in his side answers that question, and his body finally does what it's been wanting to do for the past ten hours: gratefully black out.
-
It's light when he next wakes, groggy but warm. He's a little light-headed, which tells him that he either lost a lot more blood than he thought, or that someone finally gave him something for the pain. Or both.
Either way, he feels great. Warm and soft and clean, and nothing's trying to kill him. It's hard to care about anything beyond those basic facts. He barely even cares where he is, beyond hoping he can stay there.
He doesn't open his eyes immediately, drifting slowly into a pleasant sort of drowsy consciousness. He can hear voices.
"You need to stop picking up strays like this, Chief," someone says. "I can't patch everything up."
"Sure you can," Bull says, and there's the sound of Stitches being clapped on the back. “You did great.”
Krem stirs, opens his eyes with a concerted effort, forcing words from his cracked throat. "So I'm not dead?"
"Not for lack of trying," Stitches mutters, and Krem laughs. It doesn't hurt so much.
Bull grins at him, genuine and infectious. He has a bandage over one eye, and a few matching gashes across that side of his face. Krem can't help but feel a little guilty.
"What happened?"
Bull follows his gaze. "He paid for it, don't worry." His grin turns vindictive. "I charge premium for my eyes."
Krem winces, hesitates over an apology (he's a Qunari) and gratitude (he's a Qunari) and settles on, "I owe you."
"You don't owe me shit," Bull says, suddenly fierce. "Unless you want to," he adds, back to friendly and amused, quick as that. "Found these on one of our friends downstairs." He waves some papers in front of Krem's face. "Cremisius Aclassi, huh?"
"Krem."
"Krem? I like it. Short and snappy." He gestures to himself. "The Iron Bull, that's me. Stitches you've met, you were mostly unconscious - Dalish helped. Best not mention it, she's kinda funny about the whole magic thing. The rest are downstairs, and together, they're the Chargers."
Krem snorts. "Bull's Chargers?"
"Got a nice ring to it, right?" Bull beams at him before looking down at the papers again. "So, Captain Aclassi - soon to be lieutenant, I see - two years of service, various commendations, glowing reports from everyone -"
"A valued member of the Tevinter forces, clearly," Krem says drolly, "or did you miss the part where they tried to arrest and execute me?"
Bull leans forward. "But you're good."
"At hitting things? Yeah, I'm good. It's the rest they've got a problem with."
"And you enjoyed it?"
"I - yeah." Krem chews on his lip. "I did."
"You like to fight? You want to do it again?"
"Why does this feel like a interview?" Krem demands, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Is it?"
"If you want it to be," Bull says, watching him with one sharp eye. "I could use you."
"And work for the Qun?" Krem shakes his head. He feels like that's a bad thing. He feels like he should feel like that's a bad thing.
"Not directly." Bull shrugs expansively. "I work for the Qun, yeah, but you work for me."
"Doing what?"
"Fighting stuff, mostly." Bull grins. "If we're lucky, dragons."
"Lucky?" Krem squints at him. "You're having me on."
"Nothing like a good dragon fight!" Bull's face lights up. "You ever fought one?"
"'Course not!"
Bull's expression is gleeful. "You wanna?"
Krem finds himself speechless, torn between an instinctive 'no' and a growing interest that takes him by surprise. He’s - he's a Qunari -
"How about it, Krem," Bull says, "you rest up for a bit, we smuggle you out before any more Vints come knocking, and you do a few jobs with us. See how you like it." He grins, friendly and warm, his face swollen from the beating that was meant for Krem.
He's a Qunari.
It's the way he says 'Vint', like it's nothing good, but like it's not Krem, either. The way he called him friend and then took a flail to the face, like he'd do the same for any stranger he met in a tavern. The way he apologised.
Bull is still watching him, grin spreading. "What d'you say, kid?"
"Sure," Krem says, unable to fight his own growing grin. "Why not?"
-
Stitches does a magnificent job with his side, but even bound carefully and with a plentiful supply of elfroot to chew, it fucking stings. They cross the border quietly at night, Krem cursing under his breath in a steady stream.
It's further than he thought he'd get a mere forty-eight hours ago, and it's a lot less lonely, the Chargers bickering good-naturedly in the background.
And there's Bull, giving back as much lip as he gets, commanding respect without asking or even trying. He seems relaxed enough at a glance, joking and amiable, but he's wound tight as a string until they leave Tevinter territory, muscles bunched and his one eye flickering back and forth. He stays close to Krem, who hides his discomfort as well as he can, but Bull has seen beneath the dressing. Even if he hadn't, Krem suspects there's no fooling the chief.
“Time for any last goodbyes,” Bull says conversationally, downplaying any significance such a sentence might have with a small shrug of the shoulders. “Any family you want to get word to?”
“No,” Krem says shortly, allowing himself a backwards glance nonetheless. “Haven’t seen them in years.”
“Sure,” Bull says, and leaves it at that. His fingers twitch towards his axe with less regularity. “In the Qun,” he says, almost hesitant, “we have people like you.”
Krem can’t keep the iciness from his voice. “People like me?”
“One who is born one gender, but lives as another.”
“Right.” Krem’s annoyance bubbles up and bursts out of him, perhaps disproportionately. “You beat the shit out of them, too?”
“No,” Bull says, very quietly. “We don’t.”
“That’s nice.” Krem says, anger still flaring in his chest. “Good for you.” What does he want, a fucking medal? To one-up Tevinter at Krem’s expense?
“I meant no offence,” Bull says, with a gentleness that belies everything else about him. “I only mean that - it doesn’t matter. Not to me. To us.”
Krem swallows back the bitterness in his throat. “Right.”
Bull nods, falls respectfully silent at his side, where they trudge for several minutes without saying anything.
“I appreciate it,” Krem says eventually, faltering a little. “I should thank you.”
“It’s basic decency.”
Krem huffs a frustrated breath. “You lost your eye.”
Bull shrugs at that, but there’s no bitterness in it. Then he grins, gestures at his face. “Patch looks pretty badass, don’t you think?”
“Very,” Krem says, wrong-footed and bewildered by this strange giant of a person, but undeniably comfortable. He likes him, he thinks, and the thought is unexpected. “Thinking of getting one for myself, actually.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Bull says, laughing. “You’ve been in enough scrapes for one week. You’re under strict instructions to keep out of trouble.”
“Says the one smuggling me out of Tevinter.”
“See? I’m keeping you out of trouble. The Imperium is a magnet for that stuff, you gotta get out."
“Trouble finds me,” Krem tells him, his tone joking but the sentiment deadly serious. “Can’t get away from the damn thing.”
“Then you’re in the right company,” Bull says, with a grin that says he means it. “Won’t be long,” he adds, glancing down at Krem’s side. “How’s it going?”
“You mean my papercut?” Krem says, which gets a laugh. “Just peachy, Chief.”
The word slips out, easy as breathing, and Bull smiles, wide and surprised.
“Don’t you go bleeding on me again, Lieutenant,” he replies, and it just fits. Krem isn’t used to fitting anything much at all.
-
They travel slowly, with frequent and prolonged overnight stops across Nevarra, which Krem knows are for his benefit, and wants to feel guilty about. This is difficult to put into practice, however, when the Chargers receive each tavern visit with such unbridled delight and enthusiasm.
Orlais is their destination, Bull explains, over his sixth pint of ale that night, which Krem has been firmly denied. Stitches’ orders, until he heals up some. They have a job lined up with some nobles in the west, bandits or somesuch, and there’s something else Bull needs to do over there, something for the Qun. Krem finds he doesn’t care to press, and that he doesn’t even care to know. It’s Bull’s business, and against his better judgement, he trusts him. The Chargers trust him. Just point him in the direction of a fight, and he’s good to go.
His side aches less these days, the flesh knotting together tentatively day by day, and with it, he feels more and more at ease.
And then there’s the Chargers, who parted seamlessly to slot him into their dynamic, easily and without reserve. He’s used to people like them, and he understands them, better each day. Skinner throws the word ‘shem’ around like Bull throws ‘Vint’, and it’s a weapon and a curse at the right time, but never at him. Stitches is gruff, and grouses at him constantly for undoing his handiwork, but being underappreciated is part of his act, and Krem learns to indulge it. He wheedles for another ale, makes a show of being a dutiful patient, and Stitches sighs and grumbles before giving in ungraciously. Krem never has the ale in the end. It wouldn’t be right.
Dalish is soft with hard edges, caring but carelessly dangerous, and she teases him in her lilting voice without any trace of cruelty. Sometimes, when they’re alone, she will breathe on her hands, frost crackling from her breath, and press them to his forehead. He still runs a little hot on the bad days, when they’ve walked too far and his side feels tight. He knows better than to mention it, even to thank her. He closes his eyes, and wonders what kind of life he leads that he lets magic get so close to him. A life he never thought he’d see, probably. There’s a strange freedom in coming back from the almost-dead, in looking at the things you were taught to fear and thinking: fuck it.
Rocky likes to sing, loud and bawdy - they all do, but Rocky is the loudest - and he likes to talk, in a neverending stream of consciousness that can be difficult to follow after a few beers. Grim likes to listen, and that’s the hardest, because Krem doesn’t know what to say. He ends up talking about the army mostly, and it stops hurting after a while. Betrayal fades into pleasant nostalgia, and then further into a mere memory of something he used to be.
But what is he now? A Charger? Or a glorified tag-along with a hole in his side? He knows it to be the second, but it feels like the first.
Bulls calls him Lieutenant, and they all follow suit, and he beckons for him occasionally to pour over maps, discuss bandit locations and tactical positions. Krem can do this, and he’s good at it, but he itches to do something, something tangible, and Bull can see it.
“Heal up first,” Bull tells him, eyes amused. “Then you can hit stuff.”
Bull, who drinks the most and laughs the loudest, who shows up late in the mornings after emerging sheepishly from a room that isn’t his, still pulling his boots on. He’s not like any officer Krem’s ever known, but he’s all the better for it.
Krem owes him, whatever he says.
-
They’re halfway across Orlais when they hear it, echoing off the rocky cliffs. It’s a shriek, piercing and shrill, and Krem instinctively winces, crouching slightly.
“The fuck,” Skinner says, “was that?”
They all murmur in agreement, except Bull, who presses his lips together for a moment. “Quiet,” he orders, and they obey, proceeding in uneasy silence. They group instinctively around Krem, who finds it simultaneously endearing and frustrating. He’s recovering from a wound, not made of glass, and he’d tell them so if they weren’t creeping along so quietly. Besides, he’s sore today, and stiff, and he feels a little better to know they have his back.
The shriek comes again, and Bull groans. “Shit.”
“You know something we don’t, Chief?” Krem says, hand on the sword he’s barely held in far too long.
“I know it’s big,” Bull says, “and while that’d normally be a good thing…”
“If you’re telling me that’s a dragon,” Skinner says fervently, “I’ll cut off your -”
“Alright,” Krem says loudly, hand on her shoulder. “No one’s cutting off anything, you hear? We just need to keep quiet, stay together, and keep moving -”
The shriek echoes even closer.
“You never said nothing about a dragon,” Stitches says irritably.
“Nah, it’s not a dragon,” Bull says, still managing to sound a little disappointed. Krem bites back an amused grin. “Only a wyvern.”
“Only?” Stitches hisses, as Krem cuts across him.
“A wyvern? You’re sure?”
“Sounds like,” Bull says, “I didn’t expect any, but you know Orlais…”
“Oh, Orlais,” Skinner says, elaborately sarcastic. “Wyverns popping out of every fucking nook and cranny, that’s Orlais.”
“Enough,” Krem says, hand still on her shoulder. “We keep moving.”
He’s a stranger, and an unknown, and they’ve never seen him even swing a sword, and most of all he’s Tevinter, but they listen.
For all the good it does.
They’re barely ten minutes further along when they hear it again, and Skinner’s groan sounds like how Krem feels, but he shushes her anyway. It’s undeniably closer, and this is undeniably happening. Bull shoots a pained look at Krem, and it hits him - it’s him they’re worried about. They don’t think he can make it. He pulls himself a little straighter, his borrowed armour a little loose in all the wrong places, and looks Bull right back in the eye, defiant and proud.
“Never fought a dragon before,” he says, “I could use some pointers.”
Bull reaches behind for his axe. “Wyvern’s not a dragon.”
“Nah,” Krem says, the bluster coming naturally to him. “It’s practice.”
Bull’s grin is slow and reluctant, but it’s there, and as long as he’s grinning, Krem feels like he can do anything. Behind him, he can hear Skinner drawing her bow, and the dull thud of Dalish’s staff as it hits the ground.
“We’re not going looking for it,” Bull says warningly, the anticipation palpable. “Not this time. But it might come looking for us.”
It does, within seconds of Skinner’s derisive snort, and it’s not alone. They appear as if from nowhere, gliding on ragged wings from the cliff above with more shrieks that set Krem's nerves on edge.
“Oh look,” Dalish says faintly, “it’s brought a friend.”
“Dalish, Rocky - with me,” Bull orders, a look on his face that is not entirely dissimilar to glee. “Krem, you’re with Skinner and Grim. Stitches, make yourself useful.”
And this - this Krem knows, Skinner and Grim turning their faces towards him expectantly, hands on their respective weapons. He’s sore and he’s stiff and he’s in no shape to be fighting, but he’s alive. It’ll do.
So he barks out orders, and they advance on the smaller of the two wyverns, Grim first, Krem behind. He’d take point normally, and he feels awful that he can’t, but his foremost aim is to come out of this still alive. Grim seems to understand.
Skinner squints down an arrow at the wyvern, the action strangely amateur. Krem's only ever seen her use daggers, and he must look a little cautious, because she grins at him. "No worries, boss. I've been taking archery lessons from Dalish."
"I fucking hope not," he mutters, but his fears are unfounded. She's messing with him, her first shot landing sure and swift exactly where she wants it. Krem has never commanded many ranged soldiers before, and the possibilities intrigue him.
“Skinner, the eye,” he hisses, and she shoots it in the eye with a cackle. Her arrows fly fast and thick after that, the wyvern thrashing about blindly. It’s perhaps more dangerous for that, and so Krem shakes his head when she aims for the other. Once it figures out it can still see, it calms a little, favouring the side with better vision. It has a blind spot now, and that’s where Krem stands, waiting for opportunities to drive his sword into its more tender areas when Grim distracts it from the front. He daren’t put too much effort into it, and he can feel his wound reopening, he can feel the edges pulling -
It’s starting to struggle now, Grim wearing down its defences and tiring it out.
“The other eye, now,” Krem yells at Skinner, and she nods, hitting it on her first attempt. She’s good. As it rolls its head back, Krem sticks his sword into its belly, and Grim goes for the head, slicing it clean off. Krem shouts wordlessly in victory, breathless and exhilarated.
“Nicely done,” he says, and there’s barely time for Skinner to punch him fondly in the arm before they’re dashing across to the chief.
Rocky is down, and Dalish is clearly struggling, sending weak bursts of ice from her staff.
“Poison,” Skinner snaps, sucking in a breath and pulling her bow taut. “Idiots got too close.”
“Easy to say from behind a bow,” Krem says, Skinner grimacing, and he nods at Grim, who’s looking at him as if for permission. It’s hard not to feel giddy at how easily they accept his leadership, it feels good. “Take the back,” he says, and looks across at Skinner. “It’s limping; focus on that one.”
“Chief’s on his own,” is all she says, and Krem allows himself a private groan. So much for staying out of trouble.
“I got it,” he tells her, and he’s scrambling across the jagged rocks after Grim cursing under his breath before he’s even really got a plan. Well, that’s not entirely true - the plan is to kill the damn thing, and hopefully not tear himself in two in the process. Stitches gave him stretches to help loosen the skin, keep it flexible as it heals, and he’s been neglecting them horribly. He makes a fervent promise to himself to do absolutely everything Stitches says, from now on. Diligently.
Bull is taking the brunt of it, but he looks delighted to be doing so. It’s the first time Krem has seen him actually swing that axe of his, and it’s every bit as magnificent as he imagined. This is better than half-watching him beat the crap out of the soldiers through a bloody eye and burgeoning concussion, it’s incredible.
Krem wouldn’t even need offer his assistance, not really, were it not for Dalish crying out suddenly. Bull’s head whips round, which is when the wyvern takes his chance - knocking Bull down with one scaly claw and shrieking its victory.
“The eye,” Krem screams, and he hopes Skinner can hear him, because he’s counting on that thing being distracted. It’s a little risky, the wyvern thrashing its head about wildly in pain, but Krem positions himself carefully and uses the wyvern’s own movement to boost his own weak swing, driving itself on his sword, right into its neck.
It takes another two additional hacking motions to lop the head off entirely, and it’s not Krem’s finest combat moment in terms of finesse, or technique, or - or anything, really, but it feels incredible. Just incredible.
Bull grins up at him from where he lies on his back in the dirt, still looking faintly surprised to find himself there. Skinner has Dalish’s arm slung around her shoulders as Stitches fusses over Rocky - but they’re all alright, everything’s fine. Even Krem, though he’ll see how he feels when the adrenaline kick starts to wear off.
“How was that for a warm up?” Bull says, Krem holding out a hand to heave him up. “You ready for a real dragon now, huh?”
“Give it time,” Krem says, unable to stop the exhilaration showing on his face. He’s an idiot, a bewilderingly lucky idiot. Running across Orlais from the Imperium with a dangerous Qunari, and now he wants to fight dragons. He has no sense of self-preservation. “Poison get you?”
“Nah,” Bull says, and nods his head at him. “I owe you.”
“We’re even,” Krem says firmly, and Bull slaps him on the back with a cheerful roar of approval. He doesn’t hold back, and fuck, it hurts. Krem winces and Bull withdraws his hand hastily with an apologetic ‘oops’.
Krem turns to find Rocky back on his feet, not too much worse for wear, and Dalish still leaning on Skinner, but her smile is back with full force.
Bull nods at her. “You good, Dalish?”
“Minor entanglement with a wyvern, Ser. Nothing to write home about.”
"Rocky?"
"It takes more than that to finish a dwarf off, Chief."
“I hate Orlais,” Skinner says with feeling, and Dalish laughs into her shoulder.
Krem grins at her. “Nice shooting.” Skinner makes a disgruntled sound, but he thinks she’s pleased somewhere under her layers of prickliness. “Got the bastard in the end.”
“Typical shem,” she says, “taking the credit after I’ve done all the work.”
“Don’t I know it,” Krem says, and gives her a little bow, playful and sincere all at once. “You saved my ass.”
Skinner’s smiles are always sharp, but he’s learning to see the warmth in them, too.
Bull beams around at them like they’re the best thing he’s ever seen, mismatched and bruised and falling to pieces as they are. “Let’s get you sorry lot someplace warm,” he says, and they’re only too happy to follow.
-
When Stitches peels back the dressing, he braces himself for the worst, but it's better than either of them expects. A little raw, yes, and one end is bleeding afresh, but it's all very superficial and even Stitches looks pleased.
"Nothing strenuous, mind," he warns, "not for a few days."
Krem promises dutifully, his heart leaping a little. It feels a lot like his luck is changing, and it's about bloody time. He cut the head off a wyvern and he's alive and -
- and amongst friends, against all odds, and feeling inordinately fond of them all as they ply him with ale and teach him their songs with drunken enthusiasm.
"You're a real Charger now," Rocky tells him, and they all raise their glasses to that, Krem grinning so hard his cheeks ache. There's a chorus of enthused assent, Rocky banging the table and Skinner smacking him on the back. Bull smiles his lopsided smile, and Krem hides his unexpected rush of emotion by taking a large swig of his drink.
"If you're going to be a Charger," Bull says seriously, and for a moment Krem actually thinks he's going to raise a genuine concern, "you need to party like a Charger." There’s another rowdy cheer of agreement, which culminates in Krem finishing his ale in one gulp at their bellowed insistence. Even Stitches chants along with them, after a barely audible sigh of resignation.
“Just don’t tear your damn stitches,” he says with a shrug, “I’ll be too drunk to fix them.”
Bull hauls Krem to his feet and steers him towards the bar, and Krem feels pleasantly fuzzy at the edges. His side feels less like a reminder of how badly he fucked up, and more like a bruise you press to remind yourself it happened at all.
He drinks far too much, and he’s never been a huge drinker, really, because there’s too many things he needs to be aware of, too many things to keep tabs on. He hesitates a split second before his fourth pint, his mind reaching automatically for his caution, but he just can’t find it. What’s the worst that could happen? He gets too drunk, passes out and wakes up drooling on Bull’s obnoxious striped trousers? He’ll take his chances.
It's barely a hesitation, and he's taking a gulp almost immediately, but Bull notices. There's not much gets past him, Krem thinks, and it ought to make him nervous. He looks right back with raised eyebrows, and Bull grins, beckoning him closer. Krem shuffles along the bench dutifully.
“How’s Orlais treating you, Krem? Hope you’ve not been listening to our ray of sunshine over here,” he says, jerking a thumb at Skinner.
Krem grins down at his knees. “She hates it that much, huh?”
“She says she does, anyway. It’s where we met.” Bull casts Skinner a fond look. “Tried to kill me.”
“Sounds like her.”
“Doesn’t it?” Bull sounds delighted. “I didn’t actually found the Chargers, you know.”
“No?”
“Not like how you’re thinking,” Bull says with a chuckle, still looking round at his company like a fond parent. It’s both hilarious and endearing. “Bunch of forlorn misfits brought together by the big, bad Qunari father-figure, right? You’re assuming I rescued them all, huh?”
Krem shrugs uncomfortably; it’s exactly what he was thinking. “No?” Bull rescued him. It seems like the kind of thing he’d do, and they’ve all got an underdog story. It fit.
“I was a different person when I came to Orlais. I was supposed to find myself a company, but I don’t think this is quite what the Qun had in mind.” He casts a glance to one side, where Skinner is doing some kind of obscene demonstration involving a fork and a meat pie.
“I’m guessing not.”
“I didn’t want them,” Bull says, suddenly very serious. “Not at first. And I didn’t bust Skinner out the alienage, and I didn’t stop templars tracking down Dalish. They did that themselves.”
“You didn’t want them?”
“‘Course I didn’t. I was going to find a company that looked like what I thought it should look like.”
“Which was?”
“Well, it sure wasn’t - whatever the fuck Skinner is doing with that pie, and I don’t even want to know - and it definitely wasn’t a bunch of clueless miscreants, but here we are.” He beams at Krem. “If anyone was rescuing anyone, they rescued me, so to speak.”
Krem taps the side of his glass, cheeks pink. “Just me that needed rescuing, then."
“No,” Bull says, “you just needed a helping hand.”
“Sure.” Krem can’t quite shake the feeling of disappointment that’s settling in over him. “A helping hand.”
“There’s no shame in that,” Bull says fiercely, “that’s kinda the point; I couldn’t do this alone.”
“I couldn’t make it across the damn border without getting myself killed.” Krem lets his shoulders drop a little, frustrating creeping into his voice. “If you hadn’t been there-”
“You need to understand, Krem,” Bull says, “we don’t look like much, but they’re the best. I’m not keeping any of them around out of pity, you need to know that.” He looks right at Krem. “And that includes you, kid. I want you to stick around because you’re a great fit, and you know your stuff. I’m not here to give you a way out of a shitty life; that’s just one of the perks.” He leans back in his chair. “I’d lose my eye again if I had to, and I wouldn’t let them do that to anyone if I could stop it - but I wouldn’t drag their sorry ass halfway round Thedas afterwards, either. I like you. That’s why you’re here.”
Krem has a weird lump in his throat, which he pretends not to notice. “You’re alright, too,” he says, before adding: “For a Qunari.” Bull laughs, and he finds that he barely even notices anymore. Bull is just Bull, and he’d follow him anywhere.
“So what’s it gonna be,” Bull says, “you sticking around?”
If Krem was a noble, he’d do some shit like bow and offer Bull his sword or his service, or something fancy and pompous - but he’s not. He’s just Krem, and he’s a bit drunk, and besides, bowing would only hurt his injury. Instead, he punches Bull in the arm and tells him that he’s got no better offers.
It’s the same thing, really.
And then there’s more drinking, and more singing, and a lot more drinking, and he wakes up drooling on someone, sure enough. The sun is rising through the window, and his head is pounding, but it’s far too early to even contemplate moving. He’s slightly uncomfortable in a pleasantly squashed sort of way, Rocky snores as bad as you’d expect, and he’s pretty sure that’s Skinner’s elbow wedged firmly in the small of his back.
They’re a haphazard jigsaw of jumbled bodies, but he fits, somewhere between Rocky’s shoulder and Stitches’ knee, and he's not going anywhere.