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kauriart · 7 years

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Journals of CSR Chapter 4 - The Commander

A Dragon Age Fic | Cullen x f!Lavellan | Read it on AO3

Cullen sits at his desk, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the last weeks worth of journal entries. Everything since arriving at Haven. Stolen moments, interrupted thoughts. Bits of his soul scattered across the page.

A handful in all. The accounts have been brief since the attack on the Conclave. Growing briefer as the magnitude of the trouble became clear. He’d managed a full sentence yesterday, before practically collapsing atop his journal. Wrung out with exhaustion. Swallowed by past failures. Choked by fading hope.

Day 14 Reports have been pouring in, or, stuttering in -- I suspect the supply lines have been compromised. Leliana seems tense, and even she can make no sense of what they suggest. Demons. Scattered across the countryside. We’ve no idea yet how they got there. I suspect the lack of proper circles has something to do with the matter.

There’s been no reports yet of abominations. But it is only a matter of time. Josephine insists that I remain positive.

I should thank the Maker for small favors, but I find it difficult to see the Maker’s hand in this terror. Cassandra asked me to keep faith. Her resolve is unshakable. She is everything I am not. I strive to follow her example.

Leliana fell asleep at the Chantry. She and Josephine have been--

Day 15 Demons.

How did this happen?

At least there is something to fight now. I prefer this to striking at shadows. Anything you can swing a sword at, seems less impossible to manage.

It would be easier with the lyrium, though. -- CSR

Day 16 Andraste watch over us all. A Pride Demon’s been sighted near--

Day 17 I do not know who started the rumor.

Yesterday’s entry.

Cullen stares down at the words, tapping a clean, dry quill at the edge of his journal. His brow furrows.

He barely remembers writing it. He’d gone to bed so late it had been nearly dawn. Wrapped in the scent of Elfroot. Nerves still jangling with the aftershocks of battle. Exhaustion, and adrenaline, and lust, tangling with the spikes of pain. He’d been certain sleep would elude him for some time, and yet…

He sighs, and dips his quill.

Day 18 The stability of the Inquisition -- a fledgling organization by any definition of the word -- has deteriorated rapidly. Much of our supplies, food, and medicines, (even common tools, and textiles) have been distributed to the nearby villages. The supply trains that were previously established have been delayed, mostly due to the condition of the roads, or lack thereof. Those not destroyed by the explosion, or the fighting, have eroded in the face of cowardice and uncertainty. The influx of recruits -- generously described as, a trickle -- has ceased entirely. And there has been a rash of desertions.

Our army is in danger of being downgraded to a mere gaggle.

Yet for all our lack, and losses, we have acquired a savior, of a sort.

Surely the Maker’s Chosen tips the scales more heavily in our favor than sacks of grain, or potions, or blankets, or supply trains. Or not nearly enough competent fighting men.

Clearly, my struggle with gratitude continues.

I know the power of words. Have seen words whispered in doorways and shadowed corners, and watched them fly, trampling armies, and alighting revolutions. Even Hawke was a whisper as much as he was a man. But it took the Champion nearly four years to gain his title. The Herald of Andraste -- as Cassandra’s prisoner is being called -- has been raised up from nothing in two scant days.

Even the ascension of Andraste herself was not so swift.

Josephine insists that nobility and common folk alike will rally around a hero, since one has miraculously manifested. I cannot say that she is wrong. However, this Herald is an Elf, a Mage, and uncommonly pretty.

Cullen’s quill stutters to an abrupt halt.

He frowns down at the page and re-reads the last sentence. Twice.

“Maker’s Breath.”

Absurd. He is absurd. Cullen sets his quill down entirely, and tangles his hands in his hair, breathing heavily through his nose. He drags the tips of his fingers hard against his skull, trying to stimulate his brain into being less… abysmal. He can feel himself flushing, and sends a brief prayer of gratitude to the Maker that he writes in the solitude of his cabin, and not at the makeshift field office near Haven’s gate.

He reaches crosses it out. Over, and over, and over again, until nothing remains of his unprofessional, and irrelevant observation.

-- uncommonly powerful. [He writes instead.]

Terrifyingly so.

Whatever magic had been tearing her apart has subsided, or so Solas assures us. He acquitted himself well in the battle, from what I recall. The more uncontrolled displays of magic, came from the Herald herself. She did close the rip tearhorrifying demon portal whatever it was.

I suppose she has earned our thanks, if not our trust. Though, there is still the Breach.

I have been getting headaches.

It is a selfish, insignificant trouble. Far outweighed by everything else that has happened. Still, I feel compelled to document the effects of lyrium withdrawal, or what might be lyrium withdrawal, as I have been unable to find any other reliable sources on the matter.

I cannot say if the headaches are due to lack of lyrium, lack of sleep, or stress. Surely, there has been little of the former, and an abundance of the latter. But they have been building, like thunder on the horizon, and it seems remiss of me not to address them. So I have. -- CSR

The War Room is as it has ever been. Grim. And entirely all business.

“How is she?” Cassandra asks when they all arrive. No need to ask who is meant by she.

“The same.” Leliana admits. “The mark on her hand remains stable. But she is still unconscious.”

“Yet still her fame grows.” Josephine adds. “The nobles whose correspondence has managed to get through seem surprisingly... unalarmed by our Elven Mage.”

“It is the same with the troops.” Cullen frowns, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Though in their case, I think it is more gratitude than a true lack of concern. The number of our soldiers lives she saved by closing that rift is… incalculable. Still. I would feel better if we knew more about her.”

“We’ve learned very little.” Leliana admits, crossing her arms, and glaring at the -- rather slender -- packet of papers before her. “Dalish born. Mage. Sent to the circle at Markham, in the Free Marches. Escaped a few years later, shortly before the circles fell. Has been living as an Apostate since then.” She sighs, fingers light against the parchment. “We’ve still no idea why she was sent to the Conclave, or by whom.”

Markham.

Cullen’s frown deepens. “Markham’s reputation is --”

“Well earned.” Cassandra asserts. “Though it was one of the last of the Circles to fall at the start of the war, so I cannot give credence to all the rumors.”

“Markham’s records were destroyed or damaged when the Circle did fall. So much of what it was or wasn’t may remain a mystery. But, if there is anything to be found of our Herald, my people will find it.” Leliana says firmly.

Our Herald.

A strained and uneasy silence falls over the War Table. Cassandra and Cullen share a brief, uneasy look.

“So,” Josephine’s voice is soft, and hesitant. “You believe?”

“I do.” Leliana says simply, tapping her papers back into a neat stack. She does not elaborate further.

“And you Cassandra?” Josephine asks.

“I…” Cassandra shakes her head, as if in denial, a furious scowl on her face. But she fists the hand on the tabletop, and says, “You were not there Josephine. The things she did… the things she can do… I do not know if she is Andraste’s Herald, but she has been touched by the Maker, that much I am certain of.”

Cullen feels that odd little urge to agree, and has to stop himself from nodding automatically. And yet… Seekers themselves are guided by the Maker’s hand. Surely Cassandra, of all people, would be able to see His will at work.

Still. He is not a Templar. And this Herald --

“Cullen?” Leliana interrupts. “You fought beside her at the Temple. What is your opinion?”

“Cassandra is likely right.” He frowns. “She -- the Herald and I -- have not even spoken.” “Your assessment, then.” The spymaster presses.

Uncommonly pretty. He thinks, closing his eyes. Storm powers. Hesitates between casts. Favors her right hand. Unreliable magic.

“She’ll run.” He says, instead. “First chance she gets. She’s an apostate.” He elaborates to the surprised faces around him. “The cost of fleeing a Circle high. Mages are often killed during recapture. If they are returned, they are considered for the Rite of Tranquility.” He touches the War Table with the tips of his fingers, almost gingerly. “The head of our Inquisition is made of up of the two of the highest ranking members of the Chantry, a former Templar, and a member of the nobility. She’s no reason to want to stay with us. And we’ve no hold over her, to force her to. It’s --” He shrugs, almost apologetically. “You can always tell the one’s who’ll run.”

Cassandra makes a noncommittal sound, but the line of her mouth thins out. “Then we must pray that we can convince her to stay. There are reports of more rifts."

“Two yesterday, another five today.” Leliana confirms. “From what we can tell, they are all like the one at the Temple.”

Cullen swears under his breath, though the news is not unexpected.

The second half of the council is nearly as bad of the first. There are shortages of nearly everything. Complications at every turn. Several soldiers abandoned one of the mass pyres they were forced to light, to deal with the dead villagers. Nearly an acre of timber was destroyed, along with a valuable sawmill, before they were able to quell the blaze.

Josephine reports that the Marquis du Rellio, one of the few nobles not taken in by the Herald, is demanding to inspect the Divine’s official writ for the use of Haven, or, failing that, for the Inquisition to quit the village entirely. And unfortunately, Justina’s written orders were destroyed at the Conclave.

“Coward.” Cullen growls. “Fool. We ought to do as he says. See how he fares against whatever demons still lurk on the mountainside, without the last remaining force this side of the Frostbacks.”

“Or we could simply dispatch the Marquis.” Leliana snorts. “Surely his heirs would be more… welcoming.”

“Leliana,” Josephine gives the seneschal a level, unamused gaze, “it has only been two hours since you last suggested that we murder someone.”

“It would save us a great deal of paperwork.” Leliana shrugs with one shoulder. An entirely Orlesian gesture.

“In fact, it would not.” Josephine sighs. “I will deal with the Marquis, and the paperwork. You refrain from murder, at least until after dinner.”

The council disbands, and Cullen lingers, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the knots that have formed from hunching over the map. They’d pinned a sheet of parchment to the table, outlining the devastation from the destruction of the conclave. It sits atop the map like a burn mark, a stain leaning against the foothills of the Frostbacks, a mere handbreadth away from Haven.

“It might have been worse, if not for the Herald, you know.” Leliana says softly. The others have left, and they are alone. She touches the map, almost reverently. “Cassandra might be wrong. It is just as likely that she tempered the destruction, as caused it.”

“It’s hardly worth convincing me.” Cullen says with an amused sound. “For better, or for worse, no one sees her as the villain any longer. Except Cassandra.” He adds for strict accuracy.

Leliana is quiet for a moment. “Cassandra grieves in her own way.”

“My condolences.” Cullen offers, softly. “I have not had the opportunity to ask… the Divine… How… Are you alright?”

“You and Cassandra were delayed by the storms.” She says, voice strangely even. “I lingered at Haven of my own choosing.”

Cullen nods. Guilt, is grief’s dearest companion, after all. “It is no doubt a waste of breath to tell you, that if you had gone to the Conclave, you’d likely be dead. The Divine was not unguarded. And, Left Hand or no, there is nothing you could have done to prevent such an catastrophe.”

Leliana meets his gaze, eyes raw and ringed with red. “I would not have tried to prevent it, Commander. I simply would have gotten Justinia out.” She looks down at the black spot map, at the harsh reminder of the destruction. “You disagree?”

Cullen frowns. “I’m thinking I would have made a very poor hand of the Divine, indeed. I could not have left all those people to die.”

She look she gives him is flat, but it glimmers faintly with amusement. “Has anyone told you that you are terrible at offering comfort?”

“No.” He says, “But I am. I’m sorry. And… I am sorry. Truly.”

They fall silent a moment before Leliana asks, “How is your arm, Cullen?”

It’s an abrupt change of topic, but he seizes upon it, instantly.

“Better. Thank you for your concern.” He touches the injury automatically, still heavily padded, and throbbing beneath his tunic. His shield had shattered when he’d fought the Pride Demon. Steel shards had sliced into his forearm, nearly to the bone.

She makes a thoughtful noise. “You ought to have Solas see to it. I know you didn’t take the Elfroot potion Josephine procured for you.”

He grunts, amused. “Tell your spies that one of my soldiers will walk with a limp, instead of never walking at all.”

“Solas.” She insists. “Then my spies will have no cause to worry.”

Cullen sighs, and stares back down at the map, grinding his teeth in indecision. He’d ordered one of his own Lieutenants to seek healing the day before -- the man was a Templar recruit who hadn’t managed to take his vows before the Circles fell. Fresh-faced and nearly squeaky with newness, he’d sneered at the idea of seeking help from a Mage -- do not Templars hold themselves above their charges -- and in return, Cullen had given him a blistering lecture about the purpose of the Inquisition, and battle readiness taking priority above all else in times such as these.

He does not, naturally, hold himself above following his own advice.

Still…

When he excuses himself from the war room, he finds himself meandering through the upper tiers of Haven, skirting around, but never quite making it to, the tiny storage-shed-turned-cabin they’d assigned to the Apostate. The other Apostate.

“Coward.” He mutters to himself. “Fool.” And, marshaling his courage -- or his sense of recklessness -- marches purposefully towards the cabin. He knocks sharply at Solas’ door, still hoping to find the Mage without. But the Elf’s steady voice bids him enter, and so he does.

The cabin is small, and dark, and odd-smelling. The little table in the corner is so crammed full of bundles of herbs, that he wonders if the apothecary uses it as a storehouse. The chair on the other side of the room is piled with books. A row of lit, and half-burned candles -- clearly lifted from the chantry -- line the small headboard. Solas himself is seated on the bed, comparing a long, leafy plant with a sketch in an oversized, decrepit looking tome.

“Commander Cullen.” He looks up. “Your arm?”

Cullen nods, a frown already pinching between his brows. He has to steel himself not to draw away from Solas when he reaches out, laying a long-fingered hand on Cullen’s arm. He feels an exploratory pulse of magic shiver through his limb. It’s not an unpleasant feeling in and of itself, but it sets his teeth on edge. “If… if it’s no bother.”

Solas gestures to the bed. “You’ll need to remove the bandages, if you can.”

He’ll have to practically strip to the waist to do that.

Cullen silently curses, but pulls off his gloves and begins to unbuckled his vambrace and breastplate. Every hair on the back of neck stands on end, as he removes his armor, piece by piece, until he is in his shirtsleeves. Alone, and unarmored with a known apostate. Words like death wish and unconscionably foolish float around in his mind. They sound unsettlingly as though they are spoken in Meredith’s voice.

The Mage tactfully keeps his back turned while Cullen undresses. Busying himself with setting his tiny workspace to right.

Cullen carefully rolls up the sleeve of his tunic. There are hundreds of things he’d rather be doing, he nearly stands and see himself out, but just then, there’s a brief, frantic knock, and the door to Solas’ tiny cabin bursts open. The Herald rushes in, door shutting behind her with such force, that three of the candles extinguish.

Cullen scrambles to his feet, half-relieved, half-alarmed. “You’re awake.” He says, inanely.

She looks as wrong-footed as he feels, and rather worse for wear. She’s noticeably thinner, and there are deep circles beneath her eyes and a sharp crease between her brows. “You.” She says breathlessly, going utterly still for a heartbeat. She glances at Solas, but her eyes keep sliding back to Cullen as if torn between the pair of them.

“I…” She hesitates a moment longer before turning to the other Mage, and presenting her marked hand, palm up as if in supplication. “Take it.” She says without preamble. “You have to take it.” The panic in her voice is clear.

Solas’ lips thin out at her request. Cullen can see him grinding his teeth, the small movements making the muscles in his jaw leap. “If I was able…”

“Please, you have to.” She repeats, desperately. “I can’t… and Varric said --”

“I tried.” Solas admits quietly, gently folding the fingers of her hand closed. Little erratic sparks of magic flutter between their closed fists. “Believe me.”

Her fingers tighten around Solas’, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “Can… can you remove it without magic, then? Cut it out?” She asks, voice low. “Off?”

Cullen sucks in a low, shocked breath, and Solas meets his gaze briefly over the top of her head.

“I can’t have this in me.” She insists, her gaze is hard and focused, on the near-side of crazed. “I can’t. Please.”

The other Elf lets out a small sigh, and traces a line with his finger halfway up her bare forearm. Presumably, where he’d make the cut. “The magic that made this is… old, and complex. It will very likely kill you, if I tried to remove it by force. And even then…” Solas pulls his hands back with a small shake of his head. “I am sorry.”

She nods, mutely, backing away, fisting her marked hand against her abdomen, as if trying to staunch a mortal wound. Her eyes dart around the room, wide, and blank. Cullen can see the tide of panic well within her. Sees her try to swallow it down, teeth clenched. Her expression hardens a little, and for a moment she seems almost resigned, but then, all at once, everything cracks.

She falls to her knees. Folds in on herself. Presses her hands over her face, as though trying to physically stave off the the tears, but it’s too much to contain. Grief and terror simply pour out of her. The mark on her hands flares erratically, bathing the tiny room in harsh green light. Cullen flinches, expecting screams of agony, but there are only the soft sounds of someone’s heart breaking wide open.

It is far, far worse.

Cullen’s hand twitches, fingers reaching towards the figure upon the floor. Someone should… But not him…

He glances at the other Elf.

Solas’ features are absolutely rigid. The light from the mark catches in the hollow of his eyes, and for a moment he’s nearly skeletal. Ragged, and empty. He looks ancient somehow. Brittle. Worn. His head tilts, just slightly, jaw clenching. It's the only way he acknowledges the woman keening at his feet.

The Herald makes little noise as she weeps, though her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs. Cullen kneels slowly beside her, carefully adjusting his sword belt so he doesn’t stab either of them. He glances nervously at Solas, but the Elf is still being no help at all. So he reaches forward, and awkwardly pats at the Herald’s forehead. “It’s alright.”

She startles at his touch. Pale blue eyes wide, and watery. He starts to pull back, a stilted apology already forming at his lips, when she leans into his hand. Breath catching on a tiny sigh.

All the air in his lungs comes out in a startled rush, and he leans in a little too, stroking the tangled hair off her brow.

“I’m sorry.” He offers hoarsely, then grimaces.

Rutherford, you are terrible at this.

“I--” Hesitation. Then the dam breaks again. Her expression crumples, weight shifting towards him, and all at once she’s in his arms. Sobbing, face pressed into the curve of his shoulder. His arms tighten around her instinctively, but he’s not sure what he should do, or say. He glances at Solas for some sort of intervention, but the Apostate remains still.

“I’m sorry.” He says again. It is better than nothing. Barely. But it is all he can say.

She tangles fistfuls of his tunic in her hands, trembling. The sound of her cries ebb and flow, broken by the breathless catches in her breathing. Cullen holds on, and tries to remember to make soothing noises. He has no experience with this -- has never held anyone dissolving in tears before. But he thinks of the kennel master he knew in Honnleath, a tall man, strong, and whipcord thin, and remembers watching him soothe an agitated mabari bitch struggling to birth. Owens, had been the man’s name. And Cullen remembers how he’d held on, arms strong, yet gentle, and stroked the mabari’s flank as she whined and whimpered.

“There, now...” Cullen says, running his hand lightly down the Herald’s arm. “It’s going to be alright.” He whispers quietly. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

His back aches, and he leg is falling asleep, but he doesn’t let go. He’s not sure how long they sit as they do, crouched on the floor of Solas’ cabin, his arms folded around the Herald, muttering softly into her ear. But after a time he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s asleep.” Solas remarks quietly.

She is. The terror and grief having burned through whatever internal reserves she’d managed to restore.

Cullen moves slowly, careful not to wake her. She stirs, briefly, the hand in his tunic tightens for a moment, and he feels… well, he feels rather foolish, and he can tell the tips of his ears are glowing pink. She’s heavy and warm in his arms, and completely wrung out. He shifts from foot to foot, trying to adjust her so she’s less awkward in his arms. “I should take her back to her cabin.” He says, voice low. “I’ll… I’ll send someone to collect my things.”

Solas nods, and helps him to the door.

Once outside, Cullen pointedly ignores any attention they draw, taking the shortest path back towards her cabin. He hopes whatever rumors this act inspires is a boost to morale, and doesn’t merely become fodder for one of Varric’s ridiculous stories. He’s practically at Haven’s center, where the Dwarf is ever so casually positioned to soak in the Inquisitions atmosphere, when he feels the Herald stir against him.

The dark sweep of her eyelashes flutter open, and she shifts a little in his arms, body going rigid for a moment, before settling. Her marked palm rests against his shoulder, the magic caught inside it, flashes erratically. He flinches away a little, remembering the torrents of raw, uncontrolled power she’d wielded.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, frowning.

“No… not anymore.” Her voice is soft, and thick, heavily creased with exhaustion. “It’s… just warm, and… see?” She presses her marked hand against his chest, just over his heart.

He takes a startled breath, steps faltering.

It is warm. Alarmingly so. Like a tiny furnace nestled in her palm. And it… throbs. A heartbeat. A tiny, shockwave of power rippling across her skin. It’s disquieting. Makes every hair on the back of his neck stand up. This close he can smell the magic within her. The scent of lightning under her skin. Like ozone and warped metal.

Worst of all, the strangeness of the magic calls to the lyrium wrapped ‘round his bones. He can feel it plucking at him, trying to stir something within. It’s an unpleasant sensation, just this side of actual pain. Like pressing your thumb against the edge of a dull blade. A lingering sense of danger.

“Yes.” He croaks, then clears his throat, fighting for composure. “I see.”

If the Herald notices his discomfit, she doesn't say so, simply lets her head drop back to his shoulder with a heavy thump. “I don’t like it.” She says after a moment, voice tremulous. She tucks her face against him, a little. As though trying to hide any tears that may be welling.

He nods, agreeing. But honesty compels him to add: “I do not know what we would have done without it. Our soldiers… the rift. For what it is worth… thank you.”

She says nothing, but the breath gusts out of her on a sigh. He can feel it, a breath of air against the bare skin of his neck. Warm, and close. He can almost feel her lips against him. It makes him stumble, just a little, and her hands tighten against him.

And if he feels the heavy thud of his heart in his chest, it is all the fault of the mark in her hand.

By the time they reach the tiny cabin where she’s been quartered she is asleep once again. There is little in the room, just a bed and the sour smell of elfroot. He lays her carefully across the quilt, and wonders absurdly if he ought to remove her boots. But the thought of undressing her, even a little…

“Maker’s Breath.” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

In the end he simply flips the edge of the quilt up over her. Leaves word with one of the aides who miraculously appears just outside the Herald’s cabin. Then he walks, very calmly back to his own little cabin on the other side of Haven. Sits at his desk, ignoring the untidy pile of letters littering the surface, and buries his head in his hands, where the scent of lightning lingers still.

The Herald sleeps on and off, for two more days. Solas tends to her, and assures them all it is merely exhaustion. But Cullen knows it is more than just fatigue. It is the thing on her hand. Shoving around. Making space for itself inside her. He can only hope it is not too greedy. When she wakes, she wakes to a new world.

She is the maleficar who destroyed the conclave, no longer. Instead she is Andraste’s own Herald, with the might of the Maker in her fist. And she is miserable.

Skittish.

That is the word that sticks in his mind whenever he thinks of her. Whenever he sees her. A glimpse, caught here and there. The shape of her beside Varric’s fire as he breezes past, en route to the training field. The flutter of her long, dark hair as she lingers at the doorway of Solas’ cabin. The Dwarf and the other Mage are the only ones she seems to speak to, and it is another two days before she agrees to stand before the council.

Now he wishes they had waited longer.

Her appearance is much improved. The dark circles beneath her eyes have faded a bit, and she’s lost the most ragged of her edges, and that disquieting sense of being consumed from within. She looks pale, but perhaps she just is pale. Her eyes dart around the room as though she’s not sure where she’s supposed to look.

A Mage, cornered. Cullen finds it difficult to keep his hand off the pommel of his sword.

Cassandra says nothing, but the corners of her mouth are tight. Lips pursed, as if it is the only other expression she can manage, save a scowl.

Josephine, at least, smiles. “Herald. We are --”

Something flickers behind those pale blue eyes. “I’m leaving.” She says, quietly.

He meets Cassandra’s sharp and disappointed gaze. He had warned them.

“Why?” Leliana asks. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

“You said I’m not a prisoner.” The Herald reminds her, tightly. Her marked palm is fisted against the table top, knuckles white.

“You aren’t.”

“Then I can leave.” She insists. “I’m leaving.”

Josephine makes a small sound of distress. “Will you not consider staying, at all? Even for a short time? You have become a beacon of hope for so many, Herald. Already, Thedas looks to you. There is so much you could accomplish.”

She looks at the Ambassador as if Josephine has just sprouted wings. Equal parts startled, and horrified. A tiny flutter of green magic escapes her fist.

“Our soldiers believe you have been sent by Andraste herself. The Maker’s chosen.” Leliana says. She doesn't say that she believes it too. “Yours is not an ordinary magic. You can seal the rifts. There are many of them. You are needed.”

The Herald makes a choked sound. “No God in their right mind would choose me.”

Cassandra makes a thin sound of agreement.

The Herald glances up, and for a moment her expression relaxes into something almost resembling ease. But she is resolute.

They try. Josephine, and Leliana. Even Cassandra, offering a halted, and slightly blistering admonishment that she ought to think of the lives she might save. They are passionate. He’ll give them that. For nearly an hour they circle the Mage, reasoning, cajoling, failing to notice that the Herald is becoming more and more withdrawn. Answering with shorter, and shorter sentences. Refusing to meet their gazes. Tears spark on her lashes, but do not fall.

The Herald looks like she might say something more, but she doesn’t. Just turns, and leaves. The door to the war room bangs shut behind her with a thud that sounds like nothing so much, as failure.

Cullen watches her go from the hillside vantage near the training ground. It is early, his troops have only just begun to gather at the small training field besides the gates of Haven. No one else sees her leave. She carries her staff like a walking stick, and with her hood pulled up, she looks like any other road-weary traveler, and nothing at all like the prophetic Herald of Andraste. Her progress is slow. He loses sight of her here, and there through the trees, and, for a time, thinks she is truly gone before he spies her again crossing the bridge high above the frozen falls. She lingers there. A small dark fleck against the glittering ice.

He’s distracted momentarily by one of the recruits -- the fool keeps dropping his sword to readjust the weight of his shield on his arm -- but when he looks back, she is there still.

He watches her for nearly an hour. Ever expecting to glance back, and see her gone. But she remains, still as stone. Cullen stares at her unmoving form for precisely five more minutes, before calling to his Lieutenant to take over the drills, and heading down the trail after her.

It’s colder with Haven behind him. The woods, thin as they are, swallow him almost at once, and for a large stretch there’s only trees, and snow, and the swirling breach overhead. The bridge is set at an abrupt bend in the road, and when he rounds it, the Herald is still there, forearms braced against the rail, staring out at the empty, frozen lake.

He takes in her appearance. Dark leathers, threadbare cloak, a sac -- too small to carry much in the way of provisions -- and a short-staff, roughly crafted, and so ancient looking it’s likely to explode in her face if she actually tries to cast with it.

Cullen draws a breath, holds it for a moment, then lets it out with a sigh.

Her eyes flicker to him, then away.

“I have absolutely no idea what to say to you.” He shakes his head, disappointed by his own lack of eloquence.

She glances at him again, eyes sharp, searching for some sign of mockery in his gaze. “I am leaving.” She insists.

He nods. His fingers find the pommel of his sword. It’s a bad habit, and he forces himself to stand at the rail beside her. He can feel the cold of the stone through his gloves. “To where?” He asks.

She makes an aggravated sound, and brings the palm of her marked hand down on the stone rail. It makes a soft, impotent sound, and he remembers how she made the earth tremble with nothing more than her bare hand. Now it just seems small. Almost fragile. “I can’t stay here.” She says, voice tight. “And I can’t… go anywhere. There’s nowhere to go to.”

Cullen clamps his lips together so he doesn’t say something stupid, like the Alienage.

He knows it is likely a wasted effort -- he is less silver-tongued by half than either Josephine or Leliana -- but duty compels him to try. “You don’t have to go.” He says, haltingly. “The Inquisition is... very likely, all that stands between the world, and darkness. You could be a part of that. A large part, likely.”

“I’m not what you want.” She says, voice small. “Believe me.”

The omission tugs at something inside him.

“The Inquisition…” She makes a helpless gesture. He can’t see the flare of magic in her palm, the glove covers her arm, up to her elbow, but he can feel it. “You need someone strong, and brave, and I can’t bear --” She shakes her head. “All I am is scared. All the time.”

Oh. Oh of course.

Cullen frowns at his own stupidity. “How long have you been an Apostate?”

She closes her eyes, the breath rushes out of her with a soft sigh. “I’ve seen more people in the last day, than I have in the last five years. I haven’t spoken this much since…” She shakes her head, eyes still closed, as if shaking off bad memories. “I don’t know what to do.” She says, thickly.

“Stay.” He asks.

She makes a sound that bears the shape of laughter, but isn’t. “It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.” He looks at her. “I know the cost of conflict. I know what you will need to bear, should you choose to remain. And I have no good reason for you to do so. Still. Stay, please.”

Cullen does not know how many heartbeats they stand in silence in the drifting snow. But all at once she seems unable to hold his gaze. He’s certain she’ll turn and go, but inexplicably she nods.

“I’ll stay.” She agrees, softly.

Cullen closes his eyes.

Thank the Maker.

#journals of csr #my fic #dragon age #cullen rutherford #cullen x f!lavellan #cullen x lavellan #sorry this took forever #seriously #this fic is THE fic #but I feel like I shouldn't be writing it #and it is legit a wall to wall trope #but I fucking love this fic

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apprenticebard · 7 years

Text

This is part of a longer piece, but I think it works as a standalone scene, too, so here. Warnings for implied/discussed rape + depictions of violence. (It’s all stuff from the canonical city elf origin, and it’s less explicit than the game itself.) I’ll put it on Ao3 when I finish the rest of it.

---

The events of the morning fade almost too quickly. As soon as she gets over the initial shock of being conscripted, Aria Tabris is all questions, wanting to know everything she can about the Wardens. She exhausts Duncan's store of standard information by mid-afternoon, and then moves on to other questions—are there other elves in the wardens? Women? Dwarves? Mages? Are they paid for serving? Do they have professions outside being wardens? Not that it matters, but are any of them married? What do darkspawn look like? Are they really corrupted magisters, like the chantry says? Can they all use magic? Are the magic ones connected to the fade? Can they strategize, or is it all just rushing towards the nearest person? What about lower-level tactics, like parrying blows? If some of them can use crossbows, doesn't that indicate a level of intelligent thought beyond that of, say, cats, or are things like that more innate than learned when it comes to monsters? Has he ever stopped to consider the relative intelligence of cats, and how difficult it is to measure something like that? (He has not.)

It isn't until nightfall that the shadows press in around her and seep into her dreams. She wakes up sickened and disoriented, her mind clawing at images of Vaughan's face and Nola's corpse. She remembers the stench of death. The sick, slippery feeling of blood on the floor. The sense that her emotions were too large to fit in her body, as she became a shell devoid of anything but movement—beyond anger, beyond fear, beyond uncertainty. The way her ill-fitting, stolen armor glinted in the sunlight when she raised her hand, calm as a statue of a saint, and said it was my doing. She had not been afraid. She was not capable of fear, by that point. She'd been staring her death in the face, and she wasn't going to give death the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

Only she isn't dead, not yet. She clings to life like a sick person who, despite having no chance of recovery, has not yet actually vacated the premises. Sometimes death is lazy; sometimes the valkyries deliberate. Sometimes one is left between states, too weak to live and too strong to die (or, perhaps, the opposite).

Somehow she staggers off her bedroll and manages to lean against the nearest tree. She hasn't eaten enough in the past day to vomit up much more than acid, but her whole frame shakes for minutes afterward. She makes very little noise while she cries. Eventually, she becomes aware that Duncan is watching her.

"I wasn't running," she bites out, when she can speak. "Just had to take a minute."

"Peace, Tabris," he answers. He offers her a canteen. She nods her thanks before drinking, though it takes another minute for her to finish centering herself. He waits.

"I don't get it," she says, at last.

"The world is a violent place."

"I know that," she snaps. "I meant you. Looking for recruits to fight the blight and save the world, I understand that. But why the alienage? Elves aren't even allowed to carry weapons. You can conscript anyone at all, and you pick the people who can't recognize the sharp end of a sword."

He is silent for a long moment. She senses that there is something he isn't telling her, but he takes the question seriously, offering her what he has, wisdom passed from the dead to the dying. "No man controls the circumstances of his birth. Whether he is elven or human, rich or poor, mage or not. The same cannot be said of heroism and nobility of spirit. They are often found in unlikely places."

"Maybe," she answers, but says no more.

The days that follow are calmer, as Aria settles into the rhythm of waiting for the last piece of death to set in. She does not complain, either about their pace or their less-than-appetizing travel rations. They pass through various small towns without stopping for the night, but they do buy more supplies, and Aria is allowed to spend some of her meager savings on a few balls of yarn. It's cold in the south, and she doesn't have much in the way of warm clothing. Besides, it keeps her hands occupied. As nervous habits go, at least knitting is a useful one. Duncan worries that it leaves her distracted and open to attack, but he gives her the choice up front, rather than issue a blanket ultimatum: either continue knitting and be on guard, or put the project away and focus on the road. She decides to continue, and later dodges his attack without trouble. The next day, he offers to pay her to knit a new pair of socks for him. When she protests that the offered price is too much, he laughs at her.

She doesn't think much about the fact that she won't be allowed to see her family until after the blight (if it is a blight), mostly because she doesn't expect to be here that long. She doesn't think about anything much, except the wardens and her yarn and the wedding that did not occur. Occasionally she finds herself holding Nelaros's ring in her hand, examining it. It's beautiful—not high-quality gold, even she can tell that, but it's covered in delicate designs that resemble wings, almost reminiscent of the patterns on her face. She supposes Nelaros must have been told about the markings before he agreed to marry her; perhaps he meant for the ring to reflect the same meaning as the markings, though he could not possibly have known what that meaning was. She closes her eyes and tries to remember his face. She thinks she sees it properly, handsome features blushing as he's introduced to his bride. Better this than the other image, the image of his dead body lying on the floor.

Aria opens her eyes. Soon, she knows, she'll forget what he looked like. Not much later, she herself will pass away. The ring and its markings will remain.

"There are rings in this world that contain great power," says Duncan, at one point. Her eyes snap up. His face is impassive. "However, I doubt that this is one of them."

"He's dead," she says, responding not to the words but to what she supposes is the question behind them. "He died for me. He knew he might, but he came anyway."

"And that was brave of him, certainly. But tell me, is it truly Nelaros you mourn?"

She hesitates. She thinks they would have been happy together, but she didn't know him, not really. Maybe she can't mourn him properly. "Second chances, maybe. He's not going to get one."

Duncan nods seriously. "Few people do, and yet here you are."

"Here I am," agrees Aria.

By the time they can see the broken stone walls, she's knitted one sweater, a pair of gloves, a hat, two pairs of socks, and most of a third. Her thoughts change again as they make their final approach toward Ostagar. She remembers Nessa's concerns about being surrounded by human men who haven't seen a woman in months. It is not a pleasant thought, certainly, but things could be worse. At least Nessa herself won't have to deal with Ostagar. At least Soris and Shianni and Valora and Cyrion are all momentarily safe. She supposes the human soldiers must have similar groups waiting for them back home. Human wives, human children, aging human parents. People who matter to them more than their lives. She tries to remember this similarity as she and Duncan draw closer to the high stone walls.

The fortress is massive, and visible from a long way off. Duncan's pace does not increase, but he walks with even more purpose now. When they do reach the fortress, a man in gold-colored armor greets them. Aria's never seen the king, despite living in his city for her entire life. She has no time to prepare herself—one moment Duncan is saying your majesty, and before she's had a chance to adjust to this, her king has fixed his eyes on her.

Some tiny sliver of her is excited, but most of her is convinced that this is a terrible thing to have happen. Ordinarily, when a nobleman deigns to notice one, this is a sign of pressing danger, and the best course of action is to be an unremarkable part of the scenery until he loses interest and moves on. What's the least-interesting personality for a female elven soldier to have? Too deferential and she could be marked as an easy target, too abrasive and someone could decide she needs to be taken down a peg. Cheerful nonchalance? They're all here to fight the same enemy, so maybe if she can make it obvious that she's here to do the same—

"Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?"

"Aria," she says, then blinks. "Uh, your majesty."

He smiles, but doesn't laugh at her. "I see you're an elf, friend." She swallows, unsure whether the friend part is meant to be taken seriously. "From where do you hail?"

"Denerim," says Aria, clenching one hand into a fist at her side. Calm. Stay calm, Tabris.

"As do I!" exclaims Cailan, delighted at this supposed similarity. "Are you from one of the alienages? Tell me, how is it there? My guards all but forbid me from going there."

"Uh." Her mind goes blank. There are a thousand good things about the alienage, and a thousand serious problems the king should rightly be informed about, but she can't remember any of them. She sees Vaughan, her sword in his stomach, staring at her, unable to comprehend the fact of his own death. Shianni, crying weakly, no longer begging for him to stop. Nola, slain and discarded like so much refuse. Nelaros's blood seeping into the rug.

"Uh," she says again, no longer remembering the question. Cheerful nonchalance. "I killed an arl's son for raping my cousin."

She senses rather than sees the men around her planning to smooth this offense over. What she sees, though, is Cailan's expression—not anger, not disgust, but shock. Now she feels guilty, like it's her fault for destroying whatever sanitized ideas he had about how his city holds itself together. Also, there are probably ways of saying that sort of thing that don't make her sound like she intentionally set out to commit revenge-murder, that make it clear that she killed him because he was still threatening to rape her. And now she can't say them, because everyone will tell the rest of the camp that the newest gray warden is some kind of psychopathic vigilante spree killer.

Duncan says something that sounds reasonable and diplomatic. Aria can't hear anything specific over her obnoxiously loud heartbeat and desire to sink into the ground, at least until Cailan addresses her again.

"Well, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar," says Cailan, somehow smiling again. The expression looks weirdly genuine. Are all human nobles that good at faking smiles? "The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their service."

"I—thank you, your majesty," she says, too startled to react any other way.

There is more discussion after that, primarily about darkspawn and Loghain—wait, the Loghain? She doesn't get the chance to ask. The king is busy, as she supposes he would be, and in a few more seconds, he and his men have returned to continue their duties. She and Duncan are left standing alone at the edge of the ruin.

"I didn't mean to say that," she says, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Such things happen," says Duncan, serenely. "As for the darkspawn—"

Her head snaps up again, eager to talk about this and not the other things. "Do you think he's right about it not being a real blight? Can the darkspawn do that, just come to the surface in large numbers without an archdemon to lead them?"

"There is an archdemon behind this," says Duncan, before she can ask anything else. "But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling." He goes on for a while, explaining that Ferelden will not wait for the Wardens in Orlais. Aria is sure she's missing something there, with regard to the political situation—she's vaguely aware of Orlais as the nation that once occupied Ferelden, the nation that Loghain (if it is that Loghain) fought to free them from, but she doesn't know how the Wadrens fit into all that, or how much they're meant to represent their respective nations. "We must look to Teryn Loghain to make up the difference."

"It is the Loghian, right?" she says, prompting Duncan to frown at her. "You know, the Hero of River Dane? He's here? What does he think of Wardens? Is he prepared for the darkspawn, or for an archdemon, if one appears? Is he—"

"Perhaps you can ask him yourself, in due time, but we have our own concerns to attend to. We should proceed with the joining ritual without delay."

There are, of course, more questions after that. She makes mental note of the answers: Secret, secret, confidential, secret, yes, all gray wardens have to undergo it, secret, she'll be told what to do in due time, no, she isn't the only recruit, secret, yes, it is dangerous, confidential, trust me, not something you need to know right now—

"Perhaps you'd like to explore the camp," says Duncan, motioning towards the rest of the ruin. It somehow looks even larger than it did from the outside, and all of it is constructed from stone. Say what you will of the ancient Tevinters, but they knew how to build. The Ferelden army seems to be occupying most of the space, but there are also tradespeople, animal pens, shopkeepers, at least one tent that seems to have mages around it, and probably a thousand other fascinating things that aren't immediately leaping out to her. "All I ask is that you do not leave it, for now."

"That won't be hard," she says, following him as he walks over the massive stone bridge and towards the main camp. It's so big, and so old. She feels like an ant in comparison. "Uh. Do you need me to do anything specific?"

"Eat. Get your bearings. Speak to the other recruits, if you wish. When you are ready to proceed with the joining, you should look for Alistair, another of the Gray Wardens here."

"Cool," says Aria, pressing her hands together for another few moments. "You don't, uh, have any advice, do you?"

"Prepare yourself. These are dangerous times," says Duncan, as the two of them return to solid ground. It is with this thought that he leaves her, surrounded by human strangers and the workings of a nation preparing itself for war.

Aria rocks on the balls of her feet and tries to absorb the entire area in a single moment. A fitting place for a dead woman, at least one whose body hasn't yet caught onto that detail. They're of a kind, she and the ruins, though the evidence of her life will pass away much more quickly.

But not today. Today there is work to be done.

#dragon age #my fic #the labors of aria #aria tabris #duncan #rape cw #death cw #this isn't abandoned at all it is my child #I don't even hate it #I was gonna wait to post the whole thing #but hopefully showing it to people will cheer me up a little

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aureasadrisit · 7 years

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how about a " 5 times they almost met up again after the circles fell / the civil war started, but just missed one another due to bad timing or other circumstances "

Five times ______ed ( accepting ) | @servesorlais

Arranging for the blood and for how the room would look had not been an easy manner, not human blood at least. Arranging for the remaining loyal templars to leave her was the hardest part, it broke her heart to know that they would blame themselves for what was to transpire there. There would be no corpse but it wasn’t needed either, assumed dead as was as good as dead when a pretty mage was involved and that was what Daph… Maxima was betting on. Her phylactery was accidentally destroyed a couple of months beforehand and she had yet have the chance of redoing it, with the whole mess and stress coming from Kirkwall and considering that she was always so well behaved, they simply added more templars when they could spare it. Sometimes, they simply called in favours to guards to hopefully protect their charges. She wondered if they understood how much worse giving their charges, most that did not know how to fight, to men and women like them? In the end, it didn’t matter, she made sure that the room looked the part. Her jewels gone but not to carry with herself, only a small backpack had been allowed, everything else was to make part of the play.

Her jewels would be sold, eventually, later. For now, they would be ‘stolen’. Her father, it still sounded so strange to call him that, had arranged for her transport, quite far away from there. A package a few months back had arrived with the clothes that she should wear and the papers to cross the borders. Doing such a thing to the room that she had always considered to be a home that she’d never leave made her feel that something had come out of place, she had not said goodbye to anyone, left no letters. Only an empty room with blood and burn marks, teared fabric. While that made her feel calmer, that she did not need to explain anything to anyone, ignoring the hollowness that clawed her lungs threatening to pierce through them was much harder.

As she crossed the streets with her face covered with a veil covering her face as many ladies would do when visiting the Chantry. She nearly froze when a group of chevaliers passed on the other end of the street, she did not alter her speed, nor did she look in their direction. They seemed distracted enough and the last thing that she wanted was to attract their attention. When she stepped in the carriage, only then does she look at them and she thinks she recognises the blond hair under the hat with the yellow feather, but perhaps she was simply imagining things. Her head shakes as her hands move directly to her cherry cigarettes and the full wine bottle that was displayed on the other side of the carriage.

As the horses are told to go, Maxima wonders if it was her eyes playing ugly tricks on her but Val Royeaux had never seemed so beautiful like on that night.

II.

Maxima returns a single time to Orlais after the news of the War of the Lions breaks out. While to everyone around her, her interest is merely academic, almost a morbid curiosity of what might come from two people that in her very educated opinion should be helping each other instead of tearing themselves apart, to her it’s something quite different. Daphné would have stood behind Celene, if one was to chose between supporting Celene or Gaspárd, to sway the people’s opinion there was only one option that seemed good enough. Gaspárd was and had always been someone that only had war and honour painted across his forehead and the blood of those beneath him paid the price as he played conqueror, as he played with the lives of the Orlesian Empire just for the fact that he did not hold the title.

Returning to Orlais had drove her to a deeper and harder drive into the bottle than she had expected and to say that her head was threatening to explode after such a long ride to Montsimmard and rough sleeping was a misunderstanding. No one could deny who she was without getting a good fistful of what Livius had to say about what they thought. She did not want to be seen and that also meant that Livius was simply there to make sure that she would not get into trouble that she would not be able to come out of. Her clothing was far from what she loved to dress, leather pieces much similar to what she wore before when aiding Marius. She would have wore a closer attire to what the people in Montsimmard dressed but she needed to be able to get to her daggers fast when… if they needed to be used.

Livius and Maxima are standing by a small stall of food almost next to the entrance of the alienage. Despite the easy smile and the searing headache she can see that Livius knows how anxious and nervous she is to be there. They would not go into the alienage, her business was outside of it. Her hair is tired up, curled but hidden beneath a cowl, much like Livius’, face hidden by a scarf. She had forgotten how much she hated the cold. Two other men cross the same narrow street but Maxima’s eyes are glued to the floor and they do not move when her shoulder hits against the one closest to her, she does not even glance up even as she nearly trips on herself due to the strength of the other. Livius stops to look back but she doesn’t and continues her march down those streets that she knew far too well.

III.

“Lady Maxima, I think it is prime time to stop and get some rest.” Livius’ calm voice can be heard as he sits beside her on an empty table. She was the last one awake from it since the other three men and women had already fallen asleep with her heads on top of their glasses. When Maxima’s eyes move up to meet his the first thing that she wants to say is that she knows when it is prime time to stop and not him but she bites her tongue and instead drinks the rest of the glass while glaring directly at him. She would do whatever she wanted especially with the new knowledge that had gotten into her hands she thought that she damn well deserved to drink as much as she wanted. She should be happy, truly, but instead she felt petty towards the bitterness and anger that came from knowing that now she had more half siblings beyond the ones that resided in Tevinter.

No, now she had full blown elven half-siblings that would never know of their existence even if she had paid to make sure that they would remain safe. Well, as safe as money could buy considering in the shithole that they lived. She deserved to feel like she was fucking there, that she was just not some wild tale of a woman that got stuck between two families that wished that she never existed. Fucking hell, this is pathetic, Maxima since when do you care. So instead of letting her eyes water she would burn her whole throat down until she couldn’t feel anything else. She would rather die than to cry over that woman ever again. Bitch, never had enough patience for her, enough love for her but for fully pointed ear children she has all the time, patience and love to give.

“I am tired.“ she rises to her feet, even if she feels like she’s standing straight she knows best, especially how gelatinous her legs felt. Livius’ expression of relief was quickly washed over when her hands wrap around the half filled bottle and she starts making her way towards the stairs. Not before, of course, removing her shoes she didn’t want to end up with her ankle gone “Go pay the innkeeper, please, we leave first thing in the morning.“

She knew she would feel like death but well, she already felt pretty dead so feeling worse perhaps would aid her in increasing her self pity. As soon as her door closes another opens and a man walks out, grim expression when facing the snow outside. It doesn’t get better from this point onward, Michel and snow is the least of your problems.

IV.

“Oh, sorry dearest Josie, I was not aware that it was quite so late!” she gets up slowly from the chair next to the fireplace on Josie’s office, she would have died to have one like that in the small room that she was staying in. Skyhold nights were dreadfully cold, she guessed it was to be expected but they really didn’t need to chose the coldest part of Orlais, in the middle of the mountains, to have as their base, did they?

She hums saying her goodbyes, she guessed that she would need to freeze over making her way to her quarters. She hoped that Agatha had not turned into a Popsicle of white fur before she got there, or perhaps found a way out of the room to go steal from the kitchens. Despite seeing Livius’ expression of exasperation everytime he went to grab her being extremely amusing she could not allow the animal to continue to wreck havoc in the kitchens. The door is closed behind her and her fingers move to the interior of her pockets. The thing with Orlesian armour is that they were very noticeable that, Orlesian.

They were crafted in a way that they would be the center of attention, always even if your job was to be an assassin. So when the candle light shone against what she thought it was the shape of a lion her eyes nearly snapped at it, heart climbing its way up her throat at the speed of lightning as suddenly it seemed that the throne room was not so cold after all. Green eyes would have reached its destination had it not been for the Inquisitor’s voice “Lady Maxima, a moment, if you could!“

Her body turns immediately towards the door to the left of the throne, a large smile drawn on her lips as she approaches slowly. Please let it not be Agatha again, please, please, they indicate for her to follow him and they leave the room “Inquisitor, I always have a moment for you.”

There are very few things, in Maxima’s opinion, that could really change your way of seeing life. One, would be to discover that you have magic and that the rest of the world is not really appreciative of such a fact. Two, is the first attempt on your life that you survive and the aftermath that comes from it ( and how, after a while, your mind immediately jumps into action, even if your life is not actually in danger ). Three, to see the Orlesian Empress die before your very own eyes when the whole point to go to the Halamshiral ball had been to protect her. She was walking towards Michel’s figure, it had been… well, years really and considering how the night seemed to be coming to a close she had deluded herself enough that maybe.

It was a weight that had been removed from her shoulders, all the whispers and rumours that had surrounded his name. If Maxima was to be honest, she thought that he had died during the Civil War. It would not have been a nice conversation but maybe with the evening’s mood? Maybe? She wasn’t sure what she expected.

When the Empress’ voice rang across the ballroom though, she stopped, turning instead of meet her only to have her eyes widened and mouth open in horror as the events unfold right before her eyes and she freezes. Livius hand immediately wraps around her arm pulling her from the crowd and from the moment of dumbfoundedness towards the exists. How could this happen, how did the Inquisition allow it to happen?

#servesorlais #we let us be just to be ( michel )#and I will answer ( meme replies )#( this got long rip )#( wel p what else is new )#( and why was michel and friend 1 in Montsimmard? who knows )#( me while writing this: boy do I hate myself )#alcoholism tw #gendered slurs tw #( also the last one doesn't appl y for our current thread but like #*vague hand gesture* maybe for another timeline )

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