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darlingrutherford · 5 years

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Once Upon a Time in Thedas Update

Because I’m writing these in short scene-based chapters rather than longer ones, I went ahead and put out the next update for my DA Cinderella!AU :)

Trigger warnings for this series for mentions and scenes of mental/physical abuse.

Once Upon a Time in Thedas - Chapter Two | Cross-posted on Ao3 | DA Cinderella!AU with alternate world canon | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | Mature rating for this chapter for minor mention of abuse, much less than the last chapter though |

The Royal Palace in Denerim was large. Much, much larger than the mabari pens Alistair had slept in as a child. His entire life had been a whirlwind - of vying for the attention of those who were supposed to be family, of trying to impress them and do what was asked of him so he could belong - he had even suffered through templar training at the behest of his Uncle, Arl Eamon, who had passed him off at the behest of his wife, only to drag Alistair back to run a kingdom he hadn’t been raised to rule. Being King wasn’t easy. Not that Alistair had expected it to be, but when Eamon had brought him to Denerim and presented him as the bastard son of the deceased King Maric, he had expected that maybe he would have at least been okay at it. Why else would Eamon have suggested him for the job if it hadn’t been true? ‘Bastard son of the previous King, half brother of the deceased’ didn't exactly flow off the tongue otherwise. Alistair felt at a loss, though, clinging to the advisors that had been appointed to him at every matter thrust his way. Thankfully, everything to fall in his lap had been apparently on the easier side of things - small squabbles between parishes, lands arguments between farmers, no all out wars or large dealings with other countries as of yet. Still, it seemed like quite a lot for only having been crowned for a week, and Alistair was already exhausted.

“Maker’s breath, is it going to be like this every day?” Alistair sat at the head of the table in the council chamber, groaning as he and his advisors finished combing the stack of papers in front of Eamon. It had been a long day - the same as each the past week - and his brain found itself wanting to quickly vacate his body. He felt little sympathy being thrown his way, since everyone around him had been more groomed into a life of high service than himself, though the sympathetic huff from the mabari at his feet did make him feel a little heard.

“You have only just ascended the throne, your Majesty,” Eamon said from his seat to the left of Alistair. “The people of Ferelden have been without a king for months while others vied for that power. It will take time to return to the peace we were once at.”

“In the meantime, there is one more item on our agenda for today,” Teagan spoke from the other side of Eamon.

“Fine, what is it?” Alistair asked as he picked up his cup, looking at the water as if hoping it would gain him a sliver more of energy.

“It is most important,” Eamon said. “As King of Ferelden, you must have a wife chosen.”

“A what?” Alistair sputtered as he choked on the water that had been halfway down his throat. The mabari perked his head up, tilting his head in concern with a whine. “Maker, I’ve only just… Right now?”

“Not this very moment, but Ferelden must have a Queen with which you can continue the Theirin bloodline,” Eamon said.

“First you’re talking about marriage and then you jump right to babies? I can’t decide that all in one day!”

“You needn’t decide at all. As your advisors, we have compiled a list of eligible women. We may decide which would be best suited to -”

“You can’t expect me to marry some random noble woman you chose from a list?” Alistair asked, interrupting Eamon in exacerbation. A few of the other advisors sighed, as if growing impatient with how long the day had dragged on. “Maker, I’ve… Everything in my life has been chosen for me, surely I at least should choose my own wife if I have to have one? And not from some… list. What if I don’t even like any of them enough to love them?”

“Love is earned in many marriages of birth,” Eamon sighed, his patience with Alistair clearly waning.

“No. I won’t leave something like that up to chance,” Alistair said firmly.

“And how do you expect to meet your perfect woman while you are spending your days in these meetings?” Eamon asked.

“We could throw a ball,” Teagan suggested. Eamon looked at Teagan in disbelief, as if his brother should have been trying to convince Alistair to allow them to choose. Teagan glanced at Eamon with only a hint of an apology, before looking at Alistair and continuing. “To celebrate King Alistair’s coronation, and to allow him to choose a bride. A three night event all eligible women may attend.”

“Three nights? Is that all?” Alistair grimaced. Three nights seemed barely enough time to get to know a person, let alone the woman he was expected to spend the rest of his life with and make children with.

“It is either that, or our list,” Eamon sighed. Alistair paused, leaning back as he mulled it over. It wasn’t ideal, but, then, was any of this? Everything, from his title to the clothes he wore, had been chosen for him. If they would allow him to choose this, to choose a person who he could perhaps love enough to be a true partner to him, well, he supposed he would have to take it.

“And I get to choose anyone there?”

“Yes, but you must choose on the third night,” Eamon said firmly. “If you do not, we shall choose for you.”

“I want any woman allowed to attend, regardless of status.”

“Regardless of -”

“My own mother worked in the kitchens, or so I was told,” Alistair interrupted Eamon. His voice was more stern, unwilling to budge. Why should he limit himself to nobility, to people who would only want to be there for the chance to be Queen? He was sure it would be difficult to find anyone who didn’t have that as their number one priority, but perhaps then he would at least be able to find someone who meshed with him well. Someone he could have actual conversations with, rather than constantly bringing up the affairs of state and other subjects that bored him to no end.

“Very well,” Eamon grumbled in defeat. “We shall draw up the plans for the ball. Let it be held the third week of Harvestmere. Unwed ladies of all status shall be interested to attend. By the end of the third night, King Alistair will announce his choice, or we will, if none are chosen.”

“Does this mean he gets to choose one as well? Are you inviting all the eligible mabari in Ferelden? Since Bryn is King of the Mabari, and all,” Alistair joked. The mabari at his feet barked loudly and enthusiastically, his little tail wagging wildly. Eamon only groaned, muttering under his breath as Teagan choked down a laugh.

Two weeks had gone by since Lana had been locked in the closet by her mother. The offense had cost her an entire day, as her mother grew more and more frustrated with Lana's ‘outbursts’ of magic. Since then Lana's days had been rather uneventful, back to her normal routine, with some minor changes. As part of her punishment, Lana's mother had confined her to her room when she was not finishing her chores. She had been careful as ever, and spent as much time as possible in her room near her sunny window, knowing that if enough time went by of her behaving her mother would eventually allow her outside again. This particular day Sister Leliana had come by, and together they sat on her bed with legs crossed as they spoke with hushed tones.

“It's not right,” Sister Leliana was saying. Lana's hand was in her palm, and her fingers delicately rewrapping the bandage on Lana's pinky finger. The finger was slightly off-set and swollen, even after the two weeks had passed. Lana winced slightly at how tight Leliana was tying the bandage, although Leliana had assured her she knew what she was doing.

“Sister -”

“Yes, that's right. I am a Sister, and I say it isn't right. This isn't what the Maker wishes for you, Lana,” she said softly. She tied off the bandage gently before continuing. “Many parents must deal with the change magic brings to a family, but she needn't break your finger for it. It is vile… You should let me reset it. It is not healing correctly.”

“It hurts too much… I don’t want to upset her by being too loud.” Lana had spent the past two weeks being as quiet as possible. If she upset her mother now, she wasn’t sure if she would even be allowed the window in her room going forward.

“Maybe one of these days I will happen to stop by when she is not here. Then we may set it correctly.”

“You aren't like the other Chantry Sisters who have checked on me in the past,” Lana said with an appreciative smile.

“Want to know a secret?” Leliana smiled as Lana nodded. She leaned in closer, whispering more quietly for emphasis. “I wasn't always a Sister.”

“Really?”

“I was a bard.”

“What?” Lana clapped her hand over her mouth as the word burst loudly from her tongue. The two of them laughed quietly.

“It’s true. In Orlais, for some time. I traveled all over, performing at great palaces and learning all their secrets. I have seen enough to know the good of mages. I know you did not deserve this. The Maker knows too, I am sure.”

“Tell me about Denerim, please,” Lana asked as she wiped her eyes. Compliments were difficult for Lana. She appreciated every word, more than Leliana could know, but there was always a part of her that refused to believe it. Her mother had spent Lana’s entire life telling her just the opposite. How could it be true?

“Of course,” Leliana said with a smile. “Did you hear the King is to pick a bride? They will be holding a grand ball for his decision. Three nights, of parties, and music, and all the women for him to pick from.”

“Maker, that would be a wondrous sight,” Lana sighed with a smile on her face. Her eyes trailed up to the roof as if picturing it. “Can you imagine? All the ball gowns, the dancing, all the people. I wonder if there will be other elves there? What kind of food will they have? Have you been to such a thing before?”

“I have, yes.” Leliana smiled. She watched Lana for a minute, her face never changing from one of wonderment as if she were still imagining it. “Would you like to go?”

“Me? A mage?” Lana laughed incredulously.

“Why not?” Leliana asked. “I would be shocked if you were the only mage in attendance. Many mages are not kept within the walls of their home as you are, Lana.”

“I… Don't think my parents would allow me to,” she said. The smile faded from her face, her eyes moving to the bed. “It would be nice, if only to see it once. But, I haven't even been to the marketplace since I was a child. And I would stick out like a sore thumb among all their graceful clothing in my own.”

“What if someone were to give you clothes for it?” Leliana raised her brows suggestively. “You must live a little, Lana. I worry what will happen to you if you live your entire life cooped up in this home.”

“Not everyone has grand lives, I’m afraid… It's not a life meant for me. I'll just have to dream about it.”

“Don't give up on your dreams,” Leliana said with a sparkle in her eyes. “You never know when they'll come true.”

#dragon age #cinderella!au #alistair theirin #suranistair #leliana #alistair x surana #dragon age au #fanfiction #lana surana #ao3 #my work #my ocs

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january-warlock · 6 years

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Here’s one of the commissions I did for oblivianrose; they were happy enough for me to write a sequel, which I’ll post after this one.

Ships: Josephine/Inquisitor, Hawke/Anders, Alistair/Warden

Summary: Three of Thedas’ biggest power players-the Hero of Ferelden, the Inquisitor, and the Champion of Kirkwall, meeto discuss the future of Thedas’ mages and how to proceed with the lingering threat of the Chantry.

“Presenting Warden Commander Neria Surana, and the Champion of Kirkwall, Mara Hawke.” Josephine, her hair braided back with bright red flowers in it, was at the far right. Leliana was on the left, her face shrouded by her hood.

Inquisitor Kirstin Trevelyan was at the center; her silverite dagger was at her waist, and she still carried the smell of dragonthorn and royal elfroot that she used in her flasks during battle.

Neria’s years and experience showed on her face; they’d painted lines around her mouth and eyes, but she still carried a spring to her step. She was dressed in her Grey Warden silver and blue armor, with her grimoire that had a bright green tree on its cover at her hip.

“I don’t really go by ‘Champion’ anymore.” Mara said. She had her mother’s orange hair, her sharp blue eyes, and high cheekbones. “It’s not even Lady Hawke, technically.” With the dissolution of the Circles, all mages were now apostates, and with Hawke’s involvement with the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry, she was now a fugitive and had lost all claims to her title and estate.

“I’ll help if I can, Inquisitor. After you saved Alistair and Hawke in the Fade, I’ll do what I can for you.” Neria wasn’t sure how Kirstin had done it; she’d somehow fended off the massive fear demon with the Anchor, ripping it apart piece by piece, and allowing those with her to escape. And that was what convinced Neria to temporarily stop her search for a cure for the Blight to assist the Inquisitor.

“I appreciate it, Warden Commander.” Remembering the training provided to her by her own family and Josephine, Kirstin gave a low bow. “I appreciate your time and willingness to speak with me. You’re both here because we have all declared support for the mages of Thedas-a topic I’m sure is sensitive to both of you-and unfortunately, that support has angered many.” Those had been Leliana’s words, and she’d decided now, while they had the support of Orlais, was a good time to remedy the situation, lest it turn volatile. “And I’d like advice from all of you on how to handle the situation, in the Free Marches, Ferelden, and Orlais.”

“Silence the largest opponents in Orlais.” Leliana said. “A quick knife from behind makes no sense and prevents anymore.”

“Perhaps a reminder of the Chantry’s wrongdoings before we jump to the assassins?” Josephine said, giving Leliana a hard look. “The templars made a grand show of knocking a Chantry woman in front of the nobility, and the Chantry itself was more preoccupied with consolidating its own power before helping the commoners.”

“As for the Free Marches, remind them of Kirkwall, and its Circle.” Mara said. “And that if the Chantry had done its job, the rebellion and the Mage-Templar war wouldn’t have happened.”

Kirstin kept her posture straight, but she couldn’t help her sense of discomfort. She herself, with no magic to speak of, had never been subjected to the horrors of the Circle, her younger brother had, and the thought of him being thrown to those wolves made her skin crawl. “Is bringing up Kirkwall really the smartest move?” She asked, looking to Josephine. “A mage blew up their Chantry. That’s been the main point of any who speak out against mages.” Kirstin could see Mara’s glare out of the corner of her eye, but kept her focus on Josephine.

“The goal here is to erode the support of the Chantry, and increase the support of the mages to strengthen our own.” Josephine said. “Our ties to the mages of Thedas are bound in steel, and the Chantry will not take kindly to it.”

“We don’t have to remove the Chantry.” Leliana said, her face close to a glare. “They’re at a weak point, and with Orlais’ support behind us, they’re no threat.”

Neria looked across the table at her old friend; they’d fought side by side during the Blight, and despite Neria’s unending hatred for the Chantry, she’d found Leliana’s views interesting, and it had opened up her own. But that hadn’t changed her opinion of the institution itself. “The Chantry’s been a threat to Thedas since it’s conception, and not just to mages.” Neria’s elven ears poked through her orange hair; she remembered what it was like to leave the Circle, see the alienage, where elves lived in ghettos because of the Chantry, and the Dalish, who lived as nomads unable to find a permanent home because of the Chantry. And that the racism she experienced in and out of the Circle was also the fault of the Chantry’s.

“If it wasn’t for the Chantry, the Qunari would never have invaded Kirkwall. Elthina did what she always did, and turned a blind eye to Petrice, who instigated the Qunari.” Mara said, putting her hands on the war table. “I can put a message out to the Free Marches. The Chantry stood back and did nothing while innocent people suffered for over a decade, and not just the mages. Remember the late night raids on their families, executing people who supported the mages? Bullying the nobility to keep a new Viscount from being elected?”

“With all due respect, Lady Hawke, we’re aware of your relationship to Anders, the one who destroyed the Chantry in the first place. And we know that people know that you didn’t execute him when you had the chance.”

Mara opened her mouth to speak, but Neria cut her off. “I can’t blame her. Elthina got what she had coming, and the Chantry has nothing and no one to blame but its templars and its own inaction. Like how it did nothing during the Blight. The templars were more concerned with saving each other and murdering mages than anything else at Kinloch Hold.” Neria remembered the smell of blood and burning corpses, as the templars cowered behind a massive door, and Alistair had muttered “that cowering was definitely the templar ‘plan b.’” “I was there, and I remember every detail.” She looked over at Mara. “Did you know that the Chantry was busy looking for donations instead of helping the people of Lothering?”

Mara nodded. “I remember that the templars abandoned it.”

“If the mages of Thedas are going to have a future, the Chantry can’t have a say in it.” Neria said. “Your brother is a mage, ask him what he thinks.”

Kirstin didn’t have to. She knew her brother’s feelings on the Circle; he’d been rowdy and difficult, a frequent runaway, pushing his limits to see what he could get away with it. And he hadn’t been quiet or lighthearted about it when they finally met up again at Redcliffe. “My brother and I have already talked about at length on his time with the Circle.”

Leliana said nothing, and Kirstin let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, all of you, for your advice. I appreciate you taking the time to meet me, and I hope we’ll be in contact again soon.” Kirstin bowed again, and waved her hand. “You’re both dismissed, I need to discuss things with my advisors.”

---

Mara waited for Neria outside of the war room. The light coming in from the broken windows gave Neria a wondrous glow behind her. “Thoughts, Warden Commander?” She asked.

“My thoughts are that the Circles do not work. They’re not about helping mages, or anyone. The Chantry cares about the Chantry, and everything else is a smokescreen.” Neria tapped her staff on the floor. “And as grim a prospect as my future is, I’ll take a death fighting darkspawn that at the hands of a templar who didn’t like being told no.”

Mara nodded. She’d seen the collapse first-hand; things in Kirkwall had been far from fine, but those in power had been content to stand back and watch the fire burn, until something they cared about got caught in the blaze. She and the Warden shook hands before going down the hall together, but not saying a word.

Back in the war room, Kirstin faced Leliana and Josephine. “So we have our plan, then?”

“I’m not convinced going against the Chantry isn’t a mistake.” Leliana said. “If we can reform them, use our position to strengthen theirs, repair their relationship to the people, a reformed Chantry in our debt would be a powerful ally.”

“The Chantry’s been against us from the start, Leliana. And I believe in the Maker, but not the Chantry.” She sighed. “And they took my baby brother away from me. I missed out on his birthdays, watching him grow up, and he missed out a good portion of his life that he won’t get back.” She paused to gather herself. “But I shouldn’t let my personal feelings get in the way. What happens if we eliminate the Chantry?”

“We alone are an independent power in Thedas, which no doubt will make people nervous.” Josephine said. “If we do repair the Chantry, we could end up competing for influence, even if we’re the reason they still exist and every Chantry in Thedas didn’t end up with us using them to house refugees.”

“Table that suggestion.” Kirstin said, rubbing her temple, and feeling a headache coming on. “Either we further damage the Chantry’s reputation and use their buildings to help deal with the refugee crisis, or we tell the revered mothers to do that themselves if they want to fix their reputation.”

“We do have other leverage-the Chantry did nothing in the civil war, and with Orlais behind us,” They weren’t so much as “behind the Inqusition” as much as they were in the Inquisitor’s pocket. “One meeting with the Empress could shatter whatever support they have in Orlais.”

“I’ll draft some letters for Queen Anora, see what we want to do. But what about our mages?” Kirstin asked.

Josephine showed her the plans she’d drawn up a few hours before the meeting had started. “They’re safe. And if the Chantry goes, the reputation of mages will heal, with time. What we should do is have the mages interact with nobles and commoners alike. The healers could go to the Hinterlands, Crestwood, anywhere there’s a refugee situation, and show them the benefits of free mages. For the nobles of Orlais, show them the potential of mage scholars, and see who would be wiling to serve with their soldiers.”

Kirstin nodded. “I see. I need to think on this, see what direction would really be best.”

Kirstin left, closing the doors behind her and returned to her quarters, and set to burning prophet’s laurel for incense. As the sweet smell filled her room, she leaned back on her couch, her foot up on a stool, she undid her hair, enjoying the feeling of her hair no longer being bunched up. Hopefully, that would ease her headache before it turned into a migraine.

She was enjoying the warm, scented air and feeling her stress leave her when she heard quiet, light footsteps going up the stairs. For her brief training as a bard, Josephine hadn’t learned how to make herself completely silent.

“A copper for your thoughts?” Josephine asked, taking a seat next to her, and running her hands through Kirstin’s hair.

Kirstin let out a long sigh. “I’m just thinking. Life was a lot more simple a year ago, when I didn’t have to make decisions like this.” She laid her head back, enjoying the feeling of Josephine’s fingers on her head. “I can’t see the future, I don’t know what the right thing to do is.”

Josephine nodded sympathetically. “You must go with your heart, my love. It’s as you said, you can’t see the future; you can just do what you think is right.”

“That’s easier when it’s just me being effected, not all of Thedas.” That was the hardest part of being Inquisitor; each of her actions was like throwing a stone in the water, and it was hard to determine who would be effected by the ripples. She inched closer to the other woman, wrapping her arms around her. She took a deep breath, enjoying the feel of her head being on Josephine’s shoulders. “I should send up for some wine. And we take a moment for just the two of us.”

“There’s an Antivan vintage I’ve been meaning to share with you for ages now. Straight from the Montilyet wine cellar.” Josephine draped her legs over Kirstin’s. “Made from the finest red grapes in Antivan vineyards.”

“That sounds exactly what I need.” Kirstin kissed Josephine’s forehead, then the tip of her nose, her jawline, her mouth. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Well, that’s not something you’ll ever find out.” Josephine smiled as she leaned in to kiss the Inquisitor again.

---

Outside, Mara had bid a quick hug and goodbye to Varric, and slipped into a cloak that was large enough to hide her features. She took the long way around to the back of Skyhold, until she came to a steep cliff. There was a massive boulder at the end with rope tied around it. She’d gone in through the “front door” for lack of a better term, but she couldn’t risk anyone seeing where she was going-or with whom. Too many soldiers in the Inqusition loyal to the Chantry and the Maker. Tying a loop around her waist, she began the long scale down.

Anders was waiting in a small cave, bundled up with furs to ward against the cold. He’d aged a bit since Kirkwall; wrinkles more prominent around his face, his hair color starting to fade, but seemed so much healthier than he was in Kirkwall. Less thin, less on edge, despite being a fugitive wanted by half of Thedas. “How did it go, love?”

“I pushed for the Inquisition to weaken and eventually end the Chantry.” Mara said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “But the Inquisition is keeping the mages safe, and Lady Josephine is doing what she can to help them adjust to life outside the Circles, and get people to see what free mages could do for them.”

Anders smiled, kissing her forehead. “So, worth putting yourself in danger. If Cullen or any good Inquisition soldier saw me, they might just kill me on the spot.”

“But they didn’t see you, and nobody knows you’re here, not even Varric. But we should literally make tracks and keep walking. We should be in the Anderfels as soon as possible. I believe Neria and Alistair are headed that way too, but we’ll attract less attention if we split up.”

“And neither of them care who I am, or what I did?”

“Neria hates the Chantry as much as I do; she won’t say a word.”

She took Anders’ hand in hers, and when she looked into his eyes, for just a moment, she could see their past-the easier days in Kirkwall, when it was just running and killing, before the templars, and Carver joining the Grey Wardens, when things were not always good, but better. She wasn’t certain she’d ever see Kirkwall again, or that she even wanted to.

She didn’t know what was in their future; she didn’t think there would ever be a point where Anders wouldn’t be a wanted criminal, unless they went to Rivain, where the Chantry wasn’t welcome and mages were. But whatever happened, she would not be parted from him, come what may.

Neria stood in front of the former Grand Enchanter, Fiona in the library of Skyhold. She looked all of her years, lines in her dark skin, but she didn’t seem even slightly weary. Neria could see the fire in her eyes that inspired her to start the mage rebellion. “And you have no idea what made you stop being a Warden?”

Neria hadn’t heard of Fiona until a few years of her being in the Wardens had passed. But even then, she’d be astounded to learn that there was someone who avoided their Calling. “No. Whatever it was, it also meant that I couldn’t do the Joining again. And without my Warden capabilities, I returned to the Circles to free our people.”

“You lost your ability to be a Warden, but willingly returned to the Circle?”

“To help our fellow mages. I saw plenty of their cruelty firsthand, and I would do anything if it meant freeing our people of it.” She could see orange and red flicker across her warm brown eyes. Neria didn’t believe her when she said that didn’t know what cured her of the Blight, but she didn’t know her well enough to press it.

“Warden Commander, is it true that your friend Alistair is a Warden?” Fiona asked.

“He’s more than a friend,” Neria smiled. “But yes, he is a Warden. Why?”

“Nothing-just curious about the routes that life take.”

That was something Neria was curious about, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Fiona. Hopefully, we’ll see each other again.”

After saying goodbye to Fiona, she was on the outside of Skyhold, Neria had covered herself up against the cold as best as she could. With her business done with the Inqusition-for good, hopefully-this time, she was free to further pursue the cure for the calling.

She opened up her book filled with her notes.

After what occurred at our keep all those years ago, I’ve been certain that the Calling isn’t the death sentence we’ve believed it to be. My own knowledge of the Blight and Warden training is limited, but after my study of high dragons and the properties of their blood, I’m convinced that they would somehow be involved with a cure.

I’ve done several autopsies on their bodies, and each time, I’ve found cysts resembling the Blight, as if the dragons were guarding against its influence. I’ve tried using high dragon blood in my experiments, but no results so far. There’s some component or something else that I’m missing.

Hopefully, Weisshaupt would have what she needed. Perhaps something in the Archives that had been missed. But she wanted to go through Soldier’s Peak first, stop by its libraries and go over Avernus’ notes. He’d kept himself alive well past his prime, and, with her and Alistair’s Callings fast approaching, she was in constant fear. The Blight would not take them as it had so many others.

#dragon age #alistair x warden #josephine x inquisitor #hawke x anders #mage rights #my writing #commissions

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agent-kentauris · 7 years

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well...after like a week the idea i had while riding around the skies on the way back home is done! da:i modern AU. half the crew is on a plane to Orlais when our favorite resident inquisitor gets a headache, and everyone tries to remember what is important here. i suppose i’ll cross post it to ao3 in a minute, seemings as this sideblog was until recently entirely alpha protocol

She could barely make out the black, white, and red of the Inquisition emblem on the jet’s wingtip. The sun blasted through the window. Even through closed eyelids, the world was a dull blood color.

She sighed, put one hand on the shade’s lip and the other on her laptop’s lid, and slammed them both shut. Leliana’s dossiers were as dense and headache-inducing as they were-

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra stopped pacing up and down the aisle, slid into the leather seat across from her, and swiveled it around. “How are you feeling?”

Let’s see.

Rapid changes in pressure piercing her eardrums, and seeming disinclined to stop. Check. The barely muted thundering of the engines outside resonating through her bones and making her brain jump in her skull. Yep. Oh, and the painful memories of her day’s first meeting with the annoying and entitled royalty of Ferelden.

She glanced down at her watch. Just two hours until she got to repeat that experience, except this time, with half a dozen Orlesians.

But…she was the Inquisitor. This was her job, her life, her particular set of responsibilities.

She leaned over and flashed a brief smile at Cassandra, hoping that would settle the issue. For a moment, she thought she might be off the hook. Then she noticed Cassandra rolling up the sleeves of her black turtleneck and settling back into her chair. She meant business, and before the Inquisitor had a chance to protest, Cassandra got the rest of the present Inquisition involved with a sharp kick to the back of the seat in front of her.

“I put acetylsalicylic acid in the first aid kit,” Cullen offered quickly, sitting up and dropping a hand of cards on the fold-out table. Of course, he was prepared for this. That was Cullen for you. The only member of the Inquisition who insisted on wearing full formal dress attire on the flight, all of it, even the ceremonial iron shoulder pauldrons he had to strap awkwardly over the flared black Everknit wool blazer. Ceremonial pauldrons – a throwback to old Ferelden armor traditions, he claimed, as was the massive fur collar and cape.

“Inquisitor, it’s a part of my unif-” he’d started, running a white gloved hand over the angular pommel of his Inquisition hand-and-a-half-sword. She tried not to smile.

“No sword, and no cape. No room on the jet.” she told him.

“I could wear it. Then there would be room,” Cole said. And while Cullen whirled around, flinching at Cole’s sudden apparition, she lost her battle with the laughter brewing in her stomach. That fur…thing was in constant danger of falling off Cullen’s shoulders, and on Cole?

“Fine,” she choked out. “Fine.” Cole had worn it the entire ride to the airport, and through the veritable mountain of fur, you could barely tell he was beaming. The short, informative interjections about the thoughts of dying animals had, of course, put a bit of an unsettling slant on the smile, but…that was Cole for you.

“She doesn’t want your medicine, ‘Commander’.” And there was Dorian, right on que. He made lazy air quotes from across the table, as if he was any better. The Inquisitor tore her jeans up hiking up mountains, or dodging red lyrium JHP rounds, or getting clawed by Terror demons. Dorian, on the other hand, bought his that way. And the last time she tried to say something about it… ‘Vintage’ t-shirts or starched wool in the middle of a Val Royeaux summer – as far as she was concerned, Dorian had no call to complain about Cullen.

Dorian snuck a hand towards Cullen’s cards, turned up the corners and frowned. “Not with a mage on board. By the way, you’ve succeeded in ruining a perfect set of cards.”

“Inquisitor?” Cullen asked, hovering in between standing and sitting.

She shook her head gently, and let him get back to swatting Dorian away from his cards.

“Next time the Royans call us, let’s pretend they have the wrong number,” she groaned, and leaned back, ready to-

“Funning them? For real?!” Sera’s cry of delighted surprise was almost immediately replaced by a loud, high-pitched cackle of victory. She threw her hands in the air and her wireless controller slipped free of her grip. It tumbled backwards through the air, over the seat behind her, and straight into the palm Cassandra threw out in front of the Inquisitor’s face.

Banging her own head against the back of her seat would probably make the headache worse. But only probably. Worth a try, at any rate.

“Sera-” she growled, but Cassandra cut her off with a pat on the shoulder.

“I believe,” Cassandra called towards the arms frozen in mid-air, “that the winner hands over their controller, yes?”

The arms lowered a little bit.

“Well,” Sera began, swiveling her chair around slightly and trying to hide her eyes behind the dangling sleeve of her bright red crochet jacket, “I never said I won, exactly.”

“Move,” Cassandra ordered. Then she reached down, snapped open the catch on her black leather leg holster, and pulled out her pair of round, dark wire sunglasses. She twirled them around her pinky, then tried to hand them over. “Take these, and take a nap. We’ll wake you when we’re closer.”

She sighed again, and instead of accepting them, stuck a thumbnail under the lid of her laptop. Sera’s controller – Cassandra’s now – knocked against the lid as she opened it.

“Five trips to Val Royeaux this month? Have some faith in yourself, Inquisitor,” Cassandra instructed in, she noticed, the exact tone she’d just used on Sera.

The Inquisitor pulled her thumbnail free, weighing options. According the thumping of her pulse against the inside of her veins, a nap might be a pretty good idea. Then again…

“The Council’s constantly shifting priorities-” she started.

“-Leliana has text alerts set up for everything major,” Cullen chimed in.

“Then I should be memorizing more masks-”

“Quick,” Dorian said, holding up a card against his eye so the red checkered back covered it completely. “Half-face pyrophite, covers one eye, three hook shaped flares on each side and inset with horribly bright green emeralds and LEDS – what family?”

“The Chevalaises, new money, anti-Inquisi-” she began reciting, automatically, then stopped herself and mentally cursed.

“Well…how about practicing name pronunciation? I suppose that can wait, too?”

Cassandra laughed out loud. “That one’s the easiest. Only pronounce every other vowel.”

The Inquisitor sighed again, more for appearance than anything else, and then pushed the laptop a token finger length away. “It seems I’ve been outvoted.”

Cassandra clapped her on the back, and for good measure, plucked the laptop off the table.

“At least,” she prompted, setting one hand down on the lid before Cassandra had a chance to steal it, “check on Cole for me. He’s probably-”

“-in the cockpit with Harding, I know. And-” she said, raising a finger at the next inevitable query- “I will tell them not to circle the city this time.”

“Fine,” she grumbled, then sunk back into her chair until Cassandra lifted the laptop and began making her way up to the front.

“Sera screen cheats,” she added, under her breath.

Then she leaned over and cracked the shade open just far enough so she could see the Inquisition emblem on the wing, if she squinted through the blazing sunlight. In this kind of sunshine, the lets-circle-the-city-for-effect kind of sunshine, in this kind of relentless light if the tips of the wings were hard to look at, then the tail of the jet would be impossible to see. Vivienne and Cassandra had conspired - never a good thing, in her experience - to inflict the emblem on the tail with flecks of Silverite infused paint and quite possibly a good dollop of magic. Even on cloudy days, you couldn’t glance at it without the afterimage of a sword and sunbeams superimposed on your vision for the rest of the day. On sunny summer afternoons, like this one, the emblem gleamed imposingly, fiercely, so intensely that you had to avert your eyes, which, she supposed, was the point. The Inquisition. The hard light of Andraste’s justice remade, streaking down from the sky, painful to behold and impossible to ignore. When we arrived, you were meant to know.

Or something like that, she thought. From the inside…

“Maker’s breath!” the ex-Templar cursed, and slammed another hand of cards down on the table, one pauldron starting to slide free of his shoulders. The Inquisition’s resident Tevinter mage laughed, stuck his feet up on the table so the light got caught up in his sneakers, and starting dealing again. Meanwhile, up front almost teenage elf pick-pocketed a forgotten pair of custom glasses from a pistol holder and put them on upside down, while Cassandra scowled and then went to check on an actual spirit and a dwarven pilot with a fear of heights. Gentlefolk of Thedas…the Inquisition.

“Cassandra?” she called up the aisle.

She turned mid-knock on the cockpit door.

“If our flight plan already includes circling the city…”

Cassandra looked at her blankly for a moment, then scanned the cabin and smiled. “I believe it does.”

“Then,” the Inquisitor offered, shrugging, “I guess my hands are tied.”

“I suppose they are.”

“Mmhm,” she mumbled, and finally let herself sink back into the leather for real. She let her fingers find their way across the armrest and up to the window shade by themselves. She let them push it up just a little, tiny bit further, stopping only when the sunlight wrapped around her shoulder and rested on top of her outstretched left arm. The headache wasn’t gone, but the sun seemed to be losing its bite as each second passed. It almost left soft, and gently warm on her skin.

She peeked through a cracked eyelid at the dark emblem on the wing. White of the Herald II’s metallic wings, black of the sword piecing down, red of sunlight through her eyelids. Her Inquisition. She made her shoulders relax, forced the back of her head against the seat. It would be there when she woke up, she reminded herself.

It always was.

#i will get back to the omega report soon!#promise #da:i #modern AU #off-topic writings

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