Trigger warnings for brief mentions of rape (female and male aggressors) and deaths of animals.
OoO
OoO
Magic was shite. Meera wasn't shite, and Dorian was okay even if Solas was an arse, all elfy and stupid and prissy, and Vivienne was just scary but in that way like a grandmother or maybe an aunt who wasn't sure she liked you or maybe wanted to turn you into a toad but magic was wrong and bad and people died. Okay, so maybe she liked it when the bad people died even if they died screaming as they burned or were skewered by an arrow or their head was lopped off by a sword, but still. Magic. Ugh.
Vaguely, Sera realized Stroud was talking and Meera was responding and Dorian was muttering to himself, but all Sera heard was Stroud say, "I believe we are in the Fade," and she wanted to scream. Really fucking loudly. So she did.
"Shitballs. Fuck, shit, crap. Fade, shit, arse, demons, crap!"
Cassandra and Hawke stepped forward to take point, Dorian and Stroud in the middle, and Sera scowled and kicked away a rock that bounced up into the sky instead of across the ground. "Urhg!" she managed, and nearly shrugged away from the hand Meera laid on her shoulder.
Sera was in love with Meera. Not like, you know, romantic kissy-faced in love although fuck the girl had the most amazing arse but she did love her and want to make her happy and she, Sera, liked that she, Meera, wasn't afraid to take a piss out of someone like Captain tight-arse even if they were doing the dirty but fuck if she wanted to follow her into the Maker-damned Fade!
"I don't want to be here, either," Meera admitted, and Sera had said that whole part out loud because even Stroud was chuckling and the stupid git never cracked a smile, ever, fucking piss arse. At least Warden Blackwall was funny. "But Sera, we're alive."
"We hope," Dorian added mock-cheerfully and Sera groaned, leaning over until she was half-draped on Meera as they trudged along. Meera's arm slid around her and Sera liked that so she left it there and maybe her own wandered around Meera's very nicely made hips.
Until there were spiders. Or at least, that's what Meera said they were. To Sera, it felt like nothing was biting and scratching and…and hissing! And of course, Meera had to start touching things, pointy things and weird mirrors and spirits popped out offering to give blessings or some shite and while Sera loved doing weird fun mad tricks, the Fade was not weird or fun but just shite. Shite, utter, utter, stinking, rotten, fucking shite. And Justinia! Divine Justinia, all glowy and weird and telling them 'don't go into the light'.
Okay, so maybe she'd made that part up and it was good, if painful and awful, to watch Meera's face turn closer and closer to bone with every new memory demon they killed, every new memory demon which let Meera, and all the friggin' rest of them, know what had really happened at the Conclave. So what if it had been the Divine and not Andraste who saved Meera? Wasn't the Divine like, she didn't know, the avatar of the Maker and his dead wife? And so what if the stupid anchor was because Coryphebutt made a mistake, they knew that already, so who gave a flying flaming crap? Meera was Meera and Inquisitor and she cared about the little people and that was enough for Sera, Maker damn them all to the Fade when she wasn't fucking in it!
Then some arsehole demon started talking to them and that was the absolute end, done, over, no friggin' way. Sera sat right down in what was maybe, probably, who the shite knew what the blighted crap it was but it was wet, crossed her arms, and shook her head.
"No."
She felt slightly mollified, and oooo, big word, when Hawke plopped right down next to her and dropped her forehead onto Sera's shoulder. Hawke, pointy armor bits and big sword and Maker's hairy arsecheeks those legs for fucking ever, didn't bother with useless stupid words, just added a heartfelt, "Shit."
Cassandra and Meera exchanged a glance. Sera ignored it, ignored it harder when Dorian groaned and Stroud marched up and whispered something urgently into Meera's ear. "Stop it, you pisser," Sera muttered and felt rather than heard the exhale of air as Hawke chuckled, stirring the short hair at the back of her neck in a tickly sort of way.
Meera, though, Meera looked at Stroud. And she looked at Cassandra and Dorian and at Hawke. And then she looked at Sera, really looked at Sera, and she said, so very quietly that Sera had to strain to hear her but Maker take the silly bitch, she heard her, "Don't be a tosser, Sera."
Meera got Sera and wasn't that the fucking end of the world? Balls. Sera let Hawke haul her to her feet. They kept moving, this time with Stroud and Cassandra in the lead, Hawke and Sera in the middle, and Dorian and Meera bringing up the rear.
The next time the not somethings brushed into her legs, Sera screamed and jumped back as far as she could go which was pretty friggin' far and glared daggers at Meera even as her arrows and a jar of bees reduced the nothing-thing-butt to ash. "Meera Evelyn Trevelyan, you are the most stupid, fucking, shite-arse cunt! The Maker-fucking Fade!"
Stroud watched the girl, the Inquisitor, the holy Herald who was blessed despite, or maybe because of, who had rescued her at the Conclave, laugh, laugh until tears ran down her cheeks, those glorious eyes of hers red-rimmed and weary and amused and brimming with affection as the skinny elf girl threw herself into the Herald's arms and laughed with her, and had to stalk away before he made a complete and utter fool of himself.
OoO
OoO
Time always moved strangely in the Fade. Though they stopped some to rest, to regroup, to press a makeshift bandage to a wound, there was no sun or moon or clouds by which to mark the passage of time, no way of knowing if they had been battling through the fear demon's lair for days or weeks or only a handful of moments. No food and only a little water was a problem until it occurred to Dorian, who had to gently remind a befuddled Meera, that they were in the Fade, from which they drew all of their magic. After, she was able to bind her companions in gossamer threads of her healing magic, increasing the trickles as necessary to beat back the sharpest edge of the fatigue and the hunger and the pain. What she didn't say but she suspected Cassandra and Dorian knew was that being behind the Veil made her grasp of her abilities tenuous, slippery, and if she weren't incredibly careful, the web she'd spun could leave them hopelessly, and permanently, tangled.
Though she needed no lyrium, her spirit was flagging and she felt like at any moment she could be swept under.
Adamant had been...ugly. Oh, Maker, the despair on Clarel's face when she realized she'd been betrayed as she'd betrayed her oaths, thrown about like a rag doll in the dragon's mouth, bones and blood and her innards scattered around her like wreckage even as she used her last bit of breath and magic and life to try to save them. Tumbling into the air, the way Cullen had stood, silent and still as she ordered him to stay behind, his eyes haunted, his mouth compressed into a thin, tight line, her Commander and her lover, the rift ripping through the air, falling into the sky, cold sick dread and guilt as she realized she'd led them physically into the Fade.
A Fade where a spirit wearing Divine Justinia's face offered to be their guide. A Fade littered with the detritus of her life in Ostwick.
Did you think the Fade had forgotten, little dragon?
At first, she managed to shrug aside the voice. It taunted but it taunted aloud; it was hard to be intimated or feel small or weak when Sera taunted right back, Cass was calm, still water, Dorian scoffed, Hawke was cheerfully rude, and Stroud remained uncomplaining. Though her belly roiled and churned and her eyes wanted to water, she managed to hold it together until the first memory seared into her skull. The others saw what had happened to her and Most Holy after the explosion at the Conclave and while Meera felt that memory like a spike in her skull, she also heard, and experienced, something much more sinister.
Remember. Remember when your brothers ripped the head from your pet bird who sang so pretty in its cage only for you, when they threw the sack of kittens into the river, when they drowned the mabari runt, all rather than let you have something to love. Remember, sweet little lonely girl, remember.
Meera didn't remember because despite the lack of affection and understanding between her and her brothers, there had never been cruelty of that magnitude. But she felt it, saw it as if it had happened, as if her brothers had been so terrible as to take the life of several tiny, defenseless creatures simply to make her weep. Tiny eyes closed forever, sweet, soft little bodies limp and cold, her heart shattered, temper and tears.
She clutched at a true memory, of Hayder's sweet affection for his hunting bird, how he coddled and spoiled the silly thing with treats until she would sit tamely on his arm for hours, how Wendell had smuggled first a kitten and then a mutt into the kitchens, bribing the maids with his service as pot boy to keep them quiet, had let her pet them both when she caught them curled up together in a heap by the bread oven. Stroud's hand was welcome on her shoulder, his voice joining with Meera's: "I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me."
The spirit of the Divine bowed her head and disappeared, the scent of incense and Andraste's Grace lingering in her wake.
OoO
OoO
Meera had been introduced to Divine Justinia at the Conclave. When she and the First Enchanter of her Circle arrived at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Divine herself had been greeting guests at the door of the Chantry, her smile genial and distant.
Meera dropped immediately into a curtsey with a reverent, "Most Holy." The startled look she received from the Divine's retinue puzzled her until she saw they were looking askance at the staff strapped across her back. It was ceremonial, something the First Enchanter had asked her to wear to show solidarity with the few remaining members of her Circle; it only occurred to her in that moment that it also marked her as separate from the faithful in their sunburst robes.
"Child," Justinia returned, her voice lyrical and kind but her silver eyes already looking past Meera to the group behind her. "Rise, please. We are all equal here, mages and faithful alike."
"Can we not be both a mage and faithful?" Meera asked pertly before she could check the impulse. Everyone drew in a breath save Meera and the Divine as Meera rose, slowly, to her feet. Meera managed, barely, not to flinch as a thin, bony fingertip angled up her chin and sharp, calculating, and shrewd silver eyes studied her face. Though it went against the teachings of a lifetime, Meera let her face relax, let her faith fill her eyes, let it soften the curve of her mouth, and was rewarded by Justinia's official smile easing into speculation and the hint of interest.
"Do you know why we come here, mage?" Justinia's touch was cool and dry on Meera's chin as she pinched it between forefinger and thumb, the Divine's pale eyes seering and searching. Meera shivered lightly though the sun was shining and her robes were thick.
"For peace, Your Grace," Meera returned by rote, stung when Justinia frowned and released her chin, deliberately turning away.
Facing the spirit inhabiting Divine Justinia's skin for a second time here in the Fade, the spirit who thus far had guided them without fail, Meera said something different: "From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring."
Passing out of the world, in that Void shall they wander; o unrepentant, faithless, treacherous. She died so that you might live, Meera Trevelyan. Abomination. Maleficar. Accursed one. Did you think the Fade had forgotten, as you have forgotten?
Remember. Remember the Circle, remember the Templar who caught you in the library after curfew, who took you to his fellows and laughed as they stripped you, as they took turns fondling your tits and your ass, as they made you suck their cocks and spurted their seed onto your body. Remember, apprentice, the shame of it, the fear, the thrill.
There had been a rape in the Ostwick Circle. Meera knew only because the young man, for it had been a male apprentice caught alone in the cellars by several female Templars, had flung himself from a tower window the day after Meera arrived. Two days later the female Templars, all young recruits who insisted he'd wanted it as he'd gotten hard and even came, after all, were publicly reprimanded and quietly reassigned.
The rape had not happened to her but the dishonor, the shame and helplessness of it felt real, the Templar leers, their jests about her nice bouncy tits and fat little ass, the harsh, continuous scrubbing with a rough cloth until her skin was red and raw to remove their tainted, filthy, disgusting touch, the horror that some part of her, deep inside, craved the depravity, had taken sexual pleasure in it. She clung to the stunned wonder in Cullen's eyes the first time he'd touched her skin, clung to the knowledge that he had been the first in every way, his hoarse whispers of mine, mine, mine grounding and pure and perfect.
Thinking of Cullen had been a mistake.
Remember. Remember his fantasies, his desires, his twisted, sick lusts. Remember the mage he fucked in the Circle of Ferelden, remember how he dreams of her, night after night. Remember, deluded, laughable woman, remember how he doesn't, can't, won't love you.
Stroud caught her as she swayed. His bark of her name had her straightening, pressing her palms hard to her temples to shut out the hateful, slithering voice. The Grey Warden's hands were surprisingly gentle on her shoulders as she fought not to scream and she flashed him a pathetic, grateful look when he murmured, "Take a moment, ma foi."
OoO
OoO
In the little graveyard, Sera kicked her headstone, Cass stalked stiffly away, Hawke sat on hers with an eye roll, and Dorian shook his head mournfully at the lack of embellishment on his, but Meera simply stood, transfixed, before Solas's.
Family was a word that had weight and meaning for Meera, as much and more as the word love. She used neither of them lightly and, until the Inquisition, had never appreciated just how much she craved both, how many of her daydreams centered around their necessity: true friends who accepted her with affection and gratitude, whom she could in turn tend and coddle and care for, a man who not only wanted her in his bed but as his partner, who appreciated and needed her interests and her knowledge and even her magic, whom she could in turn honor and cherish and respect, children she would kiss and spoil and shower with the love she'd missed as a child, children whom she could teach to dream and wish and encourage to be exactly who, and what, they wanted.
The headstone, Solas's headstone that could have been hers, said Dying Alone and was grief and misery and loss, the lack in her that made her unlovable, broken and vulnerable and wrong. She didn't realize she'd fallen to her knees until a hand was hauling to her feet, a voice stern but encouraging at her ear, "Get up."
She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut, tried to force back the leading edge of despair. "I can't do this," she whispered and felt Stroud's hands tighten on her elbows, imagined she felt his lips brush the crown of her head. That couldn't be right; Stroud barely tolerated her on a good day.
"Heal yourself," he returned implacably.
She tilted her chin up and tried to glare at his high-handed order but he shook her, lightly, though his eyes, the softest grey ringed by crystal grace blue, were mild, and his voice turned impossibly tender, his Orlesian accent thickening, his voice dipping into a lower register. "Ma foi, do not be foolish. You are expending all of your energy to keep the rest of us moving. You must heal yourself. You are making yourself more open to the demon's influence."
Stroud watched the girl struggle with herself, struggle to disregard his advice and he almost shook her again out of sheer frustration and embarrassment. He was old enough to be her father, old enough to know better, old enough that the lecture the stern red-headed spymaster had delivered should not have been necessary, but the feelings were there, anyway, inside of him, curled warm and soft at the bottom of a soul he'd thought emptied out long ago. He was a Grey Warden, had been a Grey Warden for longer than she'd been alive, had lived the Grey Warden words of "in War, Victory, in Peace, Vigilance, in Death, Sacrifice" to all but the latter, had buried his family, four lovers, and countless friends. Yet here he stood, barking orders and aching to gather her up into his arms to comfort them both with kisses and softly whispered promises.
He knew the moment she made the decision to defy him, knew because her lovely mouth grew mulish and her eyes darkened as she tried to step away. Stupid he reminded himself but he captured her hands and angled his body so that he was suddenly surrounding her, an almost but not quite embrace. When her lips parted on a surprised gasp and her little pink tongue licked them nervously until they were slick and shiny and her eyes grew huge and wide in her pale face, he muffled a groan and started to lean in.
"Mimi, I think Hawke is bleeding!" Dorian called suddenly, and Stroud cursed under his breath as she automatically turned toward Hawke with a sound of distress.
He managed a stern, "We are all depending on you," that had her eyes narrowing but, he noted with grim satisfaction, her healing glow surrounded both she and Hawke when she reached the other woman's side. He managed a full breath and this time, couldn't contain the groan. Her scent lingered, spicy tea and old parchment and something soft and feminine. A prickle ran across his skin and he closed his eyes.
He could pinpoint the exact moment he'd started thinking of Meera as something other than an annoying little girl with too much power and not enough sense, her breakdown in Crestwood still fresh enough to grate on already raw nerves. They were standing side by side in the Western Approach before Erimond as the Tevinter expounded gleefully on the mad plot to use a demon army to march on the Deep Roads. Stroud had felt her small, curvy body nearly vibrating with emotion next to him as Erimond scorned Clarel and the Grey Wardens, as Erimond taunted her that the mark on her hand had come from his master, as he forced her to her knees with the same malevolent red energy he'd used to take the Warden's minds. Stroud had been sure she was done, had been sure he was about to see what little hope he had to save his fellows destroyed, had nearly closed his eyes and welcomed whatever ignoble death was coming.
Something, some flicker of movement, had drawn his attention to Meera, however, her face calm and serene as she rose elegantly to her feet, lifted her left hand, the mark bursting into life with the crackle and hiss of veilfire, and pulled. The harsh flash of green light, the overwhelming roar of it, nearly blinded Stroud and he had to lift his arm to cover his face briefly, staggering back. When he managed to blink them open, Erimond had tumbled to the ground and she was glaring fiercely at him, those eerie green eyes of hers defiant and burning, burning with power, with rage, with some strong, nebulous emotion for which he had no name but that slid neatly between his ribs and coiled viciously around his heart. He'd drawn his sword before he was even aware of the motion, and heard her whisper, low and sweet, "They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods."
Faith. The emotion was faith, she was faith, made flesh, and as she fought the taken Wardens and their pet demons at his side like a virago,he understood why men had fought and bled and died for Andraste: he would gladly sin in the service, in the loving, of such a woman.
How Clarel would have laughed to know he was having such soft, romantic feelings for the Herald, Clarel who had been his friend before his superior officer, his lover for a handful of good years, and then his enemy across a line he'd never believed she'd be willing to cross. He had been unable to accept her reasoning for killing innocent Grey Wardens to raise a demon army. Ending the Blights forever was a lofty aim, but he had never, could never, grasp that they needed demons and maleficars and abominations in order to accomplish it. Now Clarel was dead, the Grey Wardens in disgrace, and he was panting like a lovesick boy after the leader of an army who held the future of his order in the palms of her small, capable hands.
"Merde."
OoO
OoO
"We need to clear a path!" Stroud's shout was nearly lost as the demon chittered, ichor dripping from its fangs, and started toward them. A spider the size of a dragon. Meera would have giggled at the absurdity if it hadn't been blocking the rift that was their escape from the Fade. Behind her, she heard Cassandra murmuring prayers and Dorian and Sera swearing creatively. On either side of her, Stroud and Hawke eyed the demon and each other. A sense of terrible inevitability began to steal through Meera's limbs, making them heavy, her heart a slow, thunderous tattoo in chest.
"Go. I'll cover you." Hawke's voice was hoarse and gritty from shouting, her beautiful face set in a scowl. Stroud, however, shook his head.
"No. You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must -"
Hawke turned on him, viciously. "A Warden must help them rebuild! That's your job!" Meera flinched as Hawke hefted her sword and shield and muttered darkly, "Corypheus is mine."
The demon stalked closer, its movements somehow eerily, threateningly graceful, and only Sera's hand on her back kept Meera from simply turning tail and running deeper into the Fade. There had to be another way, another way out, another way to escape. No, no, no, she would not make this choice. They could not ask her to make such a choice!
Except, as she turned anguished, dry eyes on Stroud, she could see in his face and posture that he had already made the decision for her. Her voice was small and broken over his name, her hand reaching out to him before she could check the impulse. He grasped it, brought it to his lips. "Inquisitor. It has been an honor."
She made a pathetic sort of chuffing sound, shaking her head in fierce denial, mouthing his name again, his true name, "Jean-Marc," and something in Stroud's handsome face broke, shattered into pieces, leaving his feelings naked and unashamed, easily read. She must have made some sort of movement toward him for he groaned, shoved a hand into her hair, yanked her against him, and covered her mouth with his.
The kiss was tender, his lips and mustache a pleasurable rasp against her skin, the leather of his glove cold as he cupped her cheek with his free hand. When he released her, she saw herself reflected in the depths of his beautiful eyes, saw herself as he saw her, proud and strong and faithful and worth dying for.
"They who are judged and found wanting shall know forever the loss of the Maker's love. Only our Lady shall weep for them," he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. Meera closed her eyes, battled down the anguish and the tears and the aching sense of regret, her fingertips trailing over his back, releasing him as he stepped away, as he smiled, a quick flash of white in the frame of his mustache, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ma foi. Live for me."
OoO
OoO
She asked the Grey Wardens to serve and she sent Hawke away to their fortress in Weisshaupt but she did not weep for him, not yet, though she would, for the man, for the hero, she had abandoned.
For the man, for the hero, who had loved her.
For the man, for the hero, who had called her ma foi.
My faith.