A/N: This is a 3 part piece written in response to a lighthearted prompt on kinkmeme, The story itself took a darker turn than I expected at first, but I enjoyed writing this a lot. Would love to know what you guys think :) Part 2 and 3 coming soon!
Judgement
Chapter 1
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Who am I?
I don't recognize myself. I've lost sense of who I am. I've always believed myself to be a good and rational person – someone who looked at situations from the outside with a critical eye. It's why I've always believed in the judgments I've decided in this throne, why I've never doubted my decisions. Now, things are different. There's a demon within me. At least, that's how it feels. This anger, this darkness inside me – I don't know where it came from or how I can harbor it. All I know is that I have to keep moving forward. Despite my fear and my confusion, I have to keep playing this game.
Who am I?
I watch the man kneeling before me with an icy gaze. I don't know why, but it pleases me to see him kneeling; it soothes the inner beast to see the blood and bruises beneath the thick chains around his wrists. I'm furious. I'm burning with a fire that I feel could never be quenched. What's wrong with me? My limbs are numb, and my head is spinning. It takes all of my strength to remain sitting upright. None of this feels real. More like a nightmare. It's been this way since we returned from Adamant. The events that transpired there still haunt me, memories circling before my eyes like heartless specters who revel in my torment.
At the heart of it all is this man – this monster. Through trickery, manipulation, and lies, he's caused unimaginable damage. The Wardens are lost, their oaths broken, and their Order torn apart from within. Will they ever be able to pick up the pieces? I fear not. In response to this understanding, my heart clenches, withering like a dying plant trapped beneath a rain of acid. It hurts. It hurts! Creators take me. Mythal curse me. Dread Wolf eat my soul. It's not just pain. It's so much more. Guilt, regret, a hollow ache in my chest where my heart should be. So hollow – like someone's punched a hole through my torso. I wonder if it's still there - my heart. My fingers press against my chest, massaging leather and metal. I can't feel it. Does that mean it's gone?
Who am I?
"Inquisitor?"
Is that who I am?
I turn my attention to Josephine. She's looking at me with expectation. How long has she been calling me? Respond. Talk. Give an order. That's right. I should say something. This shemlen travesty – this circus – must go on.
"Proceed," I command, my voice tight and unwavering. Josephine nods and reads off the prisoner's crimes, but there's no need. His actions will forever be branded into my soul - into the very heart and core of Thedas. Nothing will ever be the same. As Josephine reads from the parchment in front of her, the list seems to go on and on. My fingers twitch. I feel the magic singing in my blood – calling to burn this man alive. I could turn him to ashes in an instant if I choose. Wait. No. The sudden bout of cruelty terrifies me. I don't understand it.
I haven't understood many of my feelings since we returned to Skyhold and this man was marched in here. It's been close to an hour now, and all I've been able to look at is the nape of his neck. I envision his execution and imagine swinging my Inquisitor's sword, feeling the vibrations in my fingers as steel rends through flesh and bone. The spray of blood will no doubt be magnificent. Will he feel it, I wonder? Will he feel the breeze of my sword? Will there be a moment in which he'll see the world tilt and shift as his head goes flying? My mind rebels against the image. Horrifying. Sickening. Barbaric.
No.
Justice!
Yet, would it be enough? Could a quick death compensate for all the souls he's led into oblivion? In the end, he was just a pawn in the hands of a greater evil. Not that this excuses him or the atrocities he's made good people commit. It wouldn't bring back all the Wardens we've lost. It wouldn't cleanse those of the Order of the blood that now stains their hands. It won't reverse time. My chest hurts again – the wound there festering and rotting. My vision blurs, my mind floating in a haze. I'm scarred, and no healing magic in the world could ever cleanse the poison in my soul. Cutting off this shemlen's head won't heal my wounds. It won't erase the memories of the Fade - the nightmare that we had to live through or the sacrifices made to leave it. It won't erase the screaming of my soldiers on the battlements. Those bloodcurling screams. Even now, Josephine's voice fades out and I can hear them; they are fighting in a battle that should never have happened.
"Is there anything you would like to say in your defense?" Josephine prompts. At last, the Mage raises his head. The defiance hasn't been beaten out of him yet. He smiles and spits something about attaining eternal glory through death. He rails and rants at me until the Templars at his sides force him to the ground and subdue him. There's no doubt in his voice. This lunatic is convinced that he's serving a higher purpose. He doesn't regret all he's done. Perhaps if he did, I would have been tempted to be lenient. However, seeing the malice on his face makes me feel like I've swallowed tar. My throat constricts, and as I look into his remorseless eyes, I hear the screams again. I see blood staining both Warden armor and the flag of the Inquisition. I see a massacre. I relive it all again.
And again.
And again.
What's happening to me?
"Inquisitor? What is the verdict?" I sit back, pressing my shoulders hard against the throne. Death would be too swift - too merciful. I want this man to suffer; I yearn for it like I've wanted nothing else. Taking a moment, I look around the room. I already know what my companions would want. We've been together long enough for me to understand them. They would not approve of what I have planned. Perhaps they might even confront me about it later. At this point, I don't care. It's hard to really care about anything right now. Maggots grind and chew at the wound in my chest; maybe if I scratch it enough, the pain will stop. I don't flinch when I feel the sharp points of my gauntlet pierce the leather there and saw through skin. Everything feels far away.
Until I look at Varric.
Then it all comes into focus.
The choices. The sacrifices. The consequences.
"Tranquility." My voice rings out across the hall. "A Mage's crimes," I say as I rise to my feet. "A Mage's punishment." I look at Josephine. She's shocked. Most of my companions are. Some of the nobles gasp. There are Mages here, too. Our allies. They frown when they understand that I'm completely serious. No one questions me, however. They wouldn't dare. The Templars haul the man to his feet. At last, he's afraid. At last, I see something besides cruelty in his eyes. The ache in my chest is momentarily soothed.
"It...It will be done, Your Worship," Josephine bows. I don't look away from the prisoner. Something inside of me thrills to see the desperation flooding his face. Let him choke on it. Let him drown in it. Let me revel in it.
Who am I?
Dread Wolf take my soul.
"I want to watch," I tell the Ambassador. "I will preside over the ritual myself." The Ambassador's eyes widen. I watch her struggle for a political way to dissuade me. She's confused; for good reason. If I don't recognize myself, she likely doesn't understand what's happening, either. And she's not the only one. Whispers break out in the hall. No need to explain why. I already know. This is starting to sound personal. This is starting to look like raw vengeance. I am the Inquisitor. I am Justice in these parts of Thedas. To say what I've just said makes me seem like nothing more than a bloodthirsty and vengeful soldier.
I don't care.
Let them whisper. Let them sneer at me.
I want to see this man's soul leave his body. I want to see him lose himself for all eternity. I want to observe as every shred of him is wiped from the face of this earth. And then – then, perhaps I can do more. Perhaps I'll use my daggers on him. Make him scream. Will a Tranquil even react to pain? It could be an interesting experiment. The pain in my chest recedes as I imagine carving my vengeance into him. Not just for me, but for all the people he's killed. For Thedas. For the Wardens who have sacrificed so much. For the nightmares my friends had to face within the rift. For her.
For Hawke.
And for him. For Varric.
"Inquisitor," a hand settles on my shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. "Please, a word." I see the criminal being dragged away, kicking and screaming. No time for pleasantries. My feet move to follow, but something stops me. A firm hand around my wrist; the grip is painful, almost bruising. "Inquisitor." I whirl around and see Cullen, his face grave and dark. I watch the nobles clear out of the hall, note the displeasure on our allies' faces as they shuffle outside. After they're gone, I let Cullen tug me into the hall that leads to the war room. There's accusation in his eyes – a palpable aura of disapproval surrounding his every move.
"Not now, Commander," I protest. "I have somewhere to be." He stops, his head snapping around to look at me.
"What in the Maker's name was that?"
"What was what?" I ask in a low monotone.
"That! Your behavior back there. You weren't acting like the Inquisitor, but like some sort of tyrant." He rubs his temples. "We do not use Tranquility as a punishment," he growls. "We are not Templars or the Chantry." When I see how deeply he means what he says – the disappointment on his face – the pain in my chest returns with a vengeance. A rock crushes my lungs. I can't breathe. Legs wavering, knees weakening, I sag against the wall. My vision darkens, and I shake my head to clear it. My lips form words:
"Execution would have made him a martyr to a false god. Imprisonment would have been too kind for all the lives he's taken. Banishment is not an option, as he will simply crawl back to Corypheus."
"But, Tranquility?" Cullen repeats, a frown digging lines into his forehead. "This goes against what the Inquisition stands for." He grimaces. "And then saying you want to watch? I don't understand. This isn't like you…"
"You suggest I let him go, Commander?"
"No, but…"
"Then give me a suggestion or stop questioning me," I threaten. He straightens his shoulders and purses his lips.
"I suggest an execution – swift and clean."
"What?" I'm displeased, taken aback by the mercy of this idea. "You heard him. He wants that, and I refuse to give that bastard what he wants." My voice lowers. "He's a monstrosity that cannot be allowed to do any more harm. He's destroyed the Wardens, killed so many innocents, and caused so many more to suffer. He's…" I stop, hearing the fury in my voice escalating. My eyes sting. Creators, no. Surely not tears. Not good. I can't break down here. I stop talking, afraid that if I say one more word, I'll make a fool of myself.
"All of that sounds personal," Cullen protests. "As the Inquisitor, you can't judge using such bias." My hand comes up and I massage the pain in my heart. It's getting worse beneath Cullen's scrutiny. I've always wondered why he hadn't been made the Inquisitor all those months ago. Or Cassandra. Even Leliana. Why me? What made them think I could handle these decisions? What made them think I was the right person for this job? All I've ever known is the forest and nature. I miss the simplicity of the hunt; I miss the days of bounding through the wilderness without a care. I miss the challenge of carving my own bow from wood and ironbark. I miss praying to my gods for guidance.
Who am I? What have I become?
The question breaks whatever hypnosis my mind has been under. All thoughts of vengeance dissipate. I suddenly don't care how the man will suffer. I don't care how he'll look when he's cut off from the Fade. I balk at the realization that I was about to order soldiers under my command to allow me to watch as a man was tortured. Stars above, I would have done the deed myself if I could. The thought is as damning as it is toxic. I turn away from my Commander – shame flooding me. All I want is to be alone – to go to my room, collapse into bed, and give into oblivion. I need time. I can't process all of this right now. I can't breathe anymore. The fire inside me is so intense now that I feel I might be burning alive.
"I've made my decision," I tell Cullen and move to leave. He makes a sound of frustration and slams his hands against the wall on either side of me, trapping me in place. His larger body looms over mine. He's done this a few times when we kissed, but there's nothing intimate about this moment. There's only the pain – the horrible agony in my chest. And the screaming in my ears. I can't let him see me like this. Not Cullen. He loves me for my strength, and I fear that if he sees this broken thing that I'm becoming, he will lose all respect for me entirely. If he hasn't already. He leans down, and his voice gentles. He isn't speaking to me as the Commander now, but as my friend.
"It doesn't have to be now. We can hold him in the cells for a time, wait a few days, then order an execution instead. It wouldn't set a precedent for a judgment to be changed. Can't you see that – " His voice grinds to a halt. One of his hands slides under my chin, turning my head aside. "Maker, you're bleeding…" I follow his eyes to my chest. My gauntlet has torn through the hide and scales of my armor. I pull my hand away to see that the sharp articulations of my glove are tipped with red.
"I suppose I am," I reply listlessly, not really caring. "Must be a wound from the battle." That's when Cullen looks at me; really looks at me.
"You're so pale. Are you alright?" he asks, his voice softening further. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have rounded on you. I just…"
"It doesn't matter," I shake my head.
"Yes, it does. Have you been resting? You look exhausted."
"I am. Tired, that is. I'm going to go now, Cullen. I'll be in my quarters, and I don't want to be disturbed." I don't wait for him to reply. Ducking under his arm, I make my way to my room. I don't mean to shut him out. Creators know that that is the last thing I want to do. There's still so much that I don't understand about my love for him. A human. A shemlen. By all logic, we shouldn't be together. Yet, I ache for him. At night, I yearn to have him by my side. When I'm away from him, I feel so lonely – like the entire world is a massive empty nothing without him beside me. So why am I running now? I know that if I ask, he will likely give me some of his strength. He will likely find a way to comfort me. But that's weakness, isn't it? A man like him wouldn't respect that. A man like him needs a strong woman, and I can't be that right now.
As I walk, my surroundings fall away. If someone calls my name, I can't hear them. My head is filled with memories again. The screams of the soldiers; the shrieks of the demons in the Fade; the way Hawke looked at me before she charged to fight against the monster. I made that choice. I could have chosen Stroud. He would have happily made the sacrifice. But Hawke had insisted. She pleaded for me to allow her to fulfill her duty, and I was too weak to deny her. We hadn't been close, but we were friends. We had so much in common, even with her human blood. She was strong and beautiful – incredible and unique. Beneath the moonlight, we talked for hours about our lives, sharing ideas and visions for the way the world should be. I respected her; I even envied her. And now, she was dead. I failed more than her and the Wardens that day. Varric's loss was greater than mine. I'll never forget his face – the expression that twisted it when he found out.
The climb up the stairs to my quarters is slow. My legs are trapped in molasses; my body feels heavy. I'm hot – so hot that I wish I could jump into a frozen pool. Anger stirs in my core – fury at the injustice of it all. I'm stopped at the door by a familiar face. It's a serving girl. I see her lips move, but I can't hear what she says. The roaring in my ears is too loud. I don't resist when she takes my hand and leads me inside. She points to a bathtub standing in the alcove in my room; steam rises from the water within. She says something else, then leaves.
I walk to the tub and wave my hand over it. The steam disappears, replaced by ice. This was a gift from one of our allies in Antiva. It's made of some sort of white material that's heavier than limestone or rock. The sides are decorated with inked illustrations of shells and conchs. The tub's legs are shaped like lion paws, complete with claws that help keep the structure steady. I take a deep breath and smell the scent of flowers and herbal oils. Taking long soaks in the hot water has become one of my habits and rare pleasures. My smile is bitter. Perhaps now it can serve me in a different capacity.
I kick off my boots and peel off my tunic, but that's all I bother to take off before I sink into the enormous tub. At first, I gasp as the frigid water closes around my body. The cold stings the scratches on my chest. Now that my tunic is gone, I can see that I've clawed apart the area pretty thoroughly. My clothing sticks to me like a second skin, the cold sending sharp pinpricks of discomfort into my muscles, but the sensation quickly dissipates. It's not enough, in fact. That fire is still burning in my veins – the desire to carve even a fraction of my pain into that prisoner's flesh. Could I make him regret what he's done? Could I make him atone? Disgusting. The thought that I'd be willing to try frightens and sickens me.
This isn't who I am.
Seeking to put out the fire in my blood, I sink deeper into the water. This tub really is too large. I'm sure that two or three people could fit in here, and with me being so small, I can easily stretch out. I do so, floating on the surface before letting all the air out of my lungs and submerging myself entirely beneath the icy water. I'm a proficient swimmer. Back during my days with the Clan, I used to go to the lake and swim for hours at time. Holding my breath is no challenge. Beneath the water, my mind seems to clear somewhat. The roaring stops; the screams cease. Finally, it's quiet. I float in darkness, basking in the silence. I don't want to remember anything of the past several days – not Adamant, not Hawke, not the Wardens, and especially not the disappointment in Cullen's eyes. Have I failed in my duty? I'm supposed to be just and fair. I'm a Mage myself, yet I sentenced a man to Tranquility – the rite that terrifies all Mages no matter their origin. Did I fail the Inquisition? Have I become a monster, too?
When I feel that I might drown if I don't get some air, I finally break the surface. Desperate to look at my reflection, I roll out of the tub and walk to a full length mirror situated next to my bed. My sodden armor is emblazoned with the Inquisition's insignia – an emblem we've been working to promote as a symbol of true justice and order. It doesn't belong on me. Not now. I've soiled it with my actions and my failures. Unsheathing the herbal cutting knife on the small of my back, I tear through as much armor as I can. What I can't cut, I rip off until I'm standing naked in front of the mirror. The scratches on my chest contract strongly with the palor of my skin. I drink in the sight.
Who am I?
I don't know any more.
The room fades away as the battle replays in my head. Cullen's commands. Trebuchets firing. Hawke's determined face. And then the killing starts. Not of our enemies, but of Wardens – the only humans I've ever truly admired. I grew up on stories of their sacrifice. My Keeper disapproved of my curiosity, but every chance that I could, I would go to nearby shemlen settlements and lap up stories of the mighty Wardens – of the Hero of Ferelden. Their ideals had always seemed nobler than many. And now…now, I've killed so many of them. I pleaded, but they wouldn't listen. I begged, but they were determined to destroy themselves. And for what? One man who led them all astray and a monster who thought himself a god.
Something bitter stings my throat. My vision blurs as my quarters come back into focus. I realize that I've crawled past the bathtub and am emptying the contents of my stomach into a nearby vase. I try to stop, to control the heaving, but I can't. Every time I pull back, the faces of the Wardens flash in my mind. Bloody, fearful, confused – dead. When my body has nothing more to give, I back up and curl up in a corner, pulling my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth. Time stops. I lose track of it, and I don't have enough will to find it again. I sit here until my muscles hurt and I begin to shiver, until my eyes close, my teeth chatter, and the screaming lessens.
A knock at my door makes me jump. I open my eyes and see that the sun has gone down. At first, I'm terrified that Cullen didn't listen – that he'll see me in this state. Someone forces open the door and walks in, calling my name. Thank the Stars; it isn't Cullen. It's someone with dark hair, bronzed skin, and dove grey eyes. When he sees me, those eyes grow cold as frozen metal.
"Go away, Dorian," I rasp. "Leave me alone." He doesn't say anything, just stomps over to the bed and pulls off the sheets. When he kneels beside me, he wraps the soft cloth around my body. I can't even summon up a shred of embarrassment at the fact that I'm naked. We're beyond that, me and him. "Please leave," I beg him.
"No. That I won't do," he assures me. He presses a hand against my forehead, then his knuckles against my cheek and my neck. "How long have you been here like this? I knew something wasn't right. That judgment wasn't right. Some advisors they are. They should have spoken to you about it, come to some kind of consensus before throwing you out there to the wolves. And after what happened…" He would know, wouldn't he? He was there, too, fighting and killing by my side. Always by my side.
"Nothing is wrong," I insist, fighting to keep my voice even. "Please, just go. I need to be alone." Instead of taking my wishes into consideration, he loops an arm around my back and under my knees and lifts me up. I'm too weak to resist and hang limp like a doll in his hold. My cheek presses against his chest.
"You're frozen stiff," he mumbles and, somehow balancing me in one arm, walks to the tub and heats the water within to a near boil. Steam rises from the surface once more. I gasp as he lowers me into the bath, blanket and all. The heat is painful; thawing is agonizing. He walks over to my bedside table where he snags a wine glass and a bottle of alcohol I've never opened. Another gift from one of our allies. When he walks over and sits beside the tub, I frown.
"I won't drink that," I tell him.
"Who said it was for you?" he quirks an eyebrow. "If I'm going to be sitting here and making sure you don't drown, I've got to have a little entertainment." He examines the bottle. "Not bad. A good year. Not what I would have personally chosen, but…" he shrugs and pops open the cork.
"I want to be alone," I glare at him.
"Had you been alone any longer, we might have to pick out a new Inquisitor." He frowns. "Not sure I'd like that. For all your strange mannerisms and poor taste in attire, I enjoy your company and all of our adventures." I hear the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. "By the way, would you mind explaining why you're sitting in here in the nude when there's a perfectly usable bathtub just a few steps away?" Something about his demeanor finally breaks me. His kindness hurts, especially when I feel I don't deserve it.
"Dorian," I whisper.
"You can tell me," he says right away, as though sensing that I'm vulnerable. I find myself baring my pain to him, stripping myself of all layers of indifference and revealing everything that's been boiling underneath. Words pour out of me like rivers flooding after days of rain. He covers my shaking hands with his own and listens. Wonderful, gold-hearted, Dorian. The best friend I could ever ask for. Before I know it, he's pushing the wine glass into my hands and urging me to drink.
"I don't know…" I confess after I've had a few sips. A part of me realizes that I'm crying, but I can't even feel the tears on my face. "I don't know who I am any more…"
"You're our Inquisitor, of course. But I shouldn't be the one to tell you this. There are…" he gestures in the air as though searching for the right words, "…better qualified individuals?" I look in his eyes and understand what he's implying.
"N-No," I hiccup between sobs and attempts to calm down. My hand squeezes the glass. "He can't see me like this. N-no one can see me like this."
"I have," he grins.
"You're my f-friend," I protest. My mind starts to feel fuzzy and I glance at the bottle on the floor. "What's in this?"
"Just some herbs to help calm you down," Dorian says. "You're in shock, darling. Don't worry, it will just help you sleep."
"I don't want to sleep," I protest as Dorian peels back the sheet to look at the scratches on my chest. He pulls something out of a pack on his waist and dabs at it. The stinging feels distant and surreal. "I just want the screams to stop."
"And they will. Just give it time," he assures me.
"They won't stop. The screaming and the blood. They won't...stop..." Everything is growing hazy now. I hear Dorian call my name, and I try to answer. But my body is so heavy. My eyelids close, and as the screaming in my head intensifies, I finally lose consciousness.