Act IX: ii
Lady de Vici had learned to tell time by the position of the moon. Assassins cannot simply waste hours in the dark wondering if it is near 2 in the morning yet. They'd opened the window to Morrigan's room at the beginning of the evening, the cool night breeze a welcome respite over fevered skin. Now it allowed pale light to drift in, painting the room silvery white. It was nearly an hour since she'd felt Morrigan's breathing even into the gentle rhythms of sleep. But it was at least five more 'til dawn. As weary and content as her body felt, Ravenel knew she couldn't fake slumber for that long. The witch lay still and peaceful in her arms; much as the assassin wanted only to revel in that wonder, her mind kept drifting far away from the perfect, midnight moment.
"I can void the Chantry contract, nullifying your family's obligation," Divine Victoria knew she owed the assassin some measure of reward, "But I cannot promise the records will not come to light. They may be necessary to prove Elani's identity."
"In which case the Crows will come to their own conclusions about the Archive robbery." Ravenel understood the subtle warning being offered, and the apologetic softening of Leliana's gaze. As soon as the Most Holy asked de Vici to speak in private, she sensed trouble. Good news was shared in public, spread across audiences to celebrate. Bad news always had to be a secret first.
"Even with an official commendation for your efforts, I cannot guarantee you won't spend the rest of your life being hunted by the Crows. But that was likely to be your fate in either case, yes?" The redhead tilted her face to one side, studying Ravenel as though the next whisper of breath was going to confirm something she already knew.
The Antivan felt her heart give a sharp lurch, stuttering and then racing ahead as quickly as her mind. The gaze leveled on her now was different from Kieran or Morrigan's scrutiny. The witch and her son had eyes that pierced into a soul, tearing through masks and defenses like wet paper to find every lie and secret buried beneath. Leliana's glittering, cerulean stare was different. She did not penetrate the walls of Ravenel's inscrutable façade to see what was in her heart but to insinuate her own thoughts into the cracks of the assassin's mind. Her unflinching gaze was the confident assurance of a gambler with a rigged game. The barest flicker of sympathy and admiration darted across her eyes. Blood and damnation – she knew.
"For at least four hundred years no one has killed a de Vici other than a de Vici. I will simply have to work on keeping that part of my family's honor intact as well." The Antivan's smirking reply was the pride of generations, menace to anyone foolish enough to come after her and a flash of acknowledgment in the tilt of her chin. Now five people knew her secret. She had a feeling that the Divine was an expert at keeping them.
"On that subject, I have an offer that might help." Victoria's mouth – full of sweet words and gentle blessings – spread into a cunning smile that filled Ravenel with the desire to reconsider all religion.
De Vici's mind went over the conversation again and again, the way a tongue restlessly prods at tooth pain. No matter how many times the previous evening replayed in her head she couldn't quite accept that it had been real. Was she drunk? Drugged? Secretly possessed by a rather passive demon?
She hadn't felt even a frisson of panic upon realizing that the Divine understood her unique nature. There should have been a sense of violation, anger, defensiveness at the very least! She should have been seized by the dread that had plagued her as a teenager, reliving terror from the days when the slightest slip might leave her exposed. Where was the fear, the rage, the sullen sense of betrayal? Her only real reaction in the moment was a surge of respect; the woman had figured her out but didn't even think it important enough to mention. It felt as if she'd spent her life jealously guarding a box full of dangers only to find it was empty all along.
The Crows, on the other hand, were very much a real threat. She'd known the executioner's axe would never be far away in her life – though amongst assassins it was more likely to be a razor sharp knife – but she'd bought time by carefully playing by guild rules. The family contract still loomed as the ultimate death sentence but she had another five or ten years before the Crows figured out that she was breaking the pact. A decade before she'd have to give up her entire life in Antiva and flee into shadow. Except now it was only a matter of days. Weeks, perhaps, if news was slow to reach home and the other Talons were embroiled in their usual bloody squabbles. She'd spent almost half her life dreading the day the Crows turned on her. But last night, facing the inevitable truth of the Divine's words, she'd actually smiled.
There wasn't enough alcohol or strong enough drug in all Thedas to explain the ease she felt in that moment. Not even arrogance could lend so much indifferent calm. She truly didn't care. The manor would be ransacked (carefully, once they lost a few people to the traps). Someone clever amongst the Crows might figure out a few bits of fact. A ceaseless wave of assassins would be sent after her, each more expensive and skilled than the last. She would never again be safe setting foot in Antiva City, lest someone recognize her face. There would be no trusting strangers; the more gregarious and charming, the more likely they were to be working for the guild. Not even friends would be safe anymore; those who couldn't be bought could be terrorized instead. Public places would be nests of danger, crowds a nightmare and seclusion only a guarantee of dying alone.
None of it mattered. Ravenel reached into the recesses of her mind, dredging up every shred of paranoia that had shaped her entire life but none of it was willing to linger. Nothing could shatter the strange new conviction that had taken root and filled the space that was once all her worries. Everything that she'd once thought important - the most crucially defining factors of her life – had ceased to be anything other than peripheral nuisances.
Was it madness, miracle or magic?
"Must your thoughts keep me awake as well?" Morrigan's sleepy irritation startled the assassin. She froze, scouring the catalogue of her senses to find any motion that might have betrayed her troubled mind. Years of practice had trained her body to hold perfectly still. How did she -
"Holding your breath will not change the fact that you have been sighing most dramatically into my ear for the last half hour." Now the witch's tired complaint had an edge of mockery. In the dim light De Vici could see the faint movement of a cheek, a latent smile too weak to display.
"Perhaps I am simply contemplating your perfections." The assassin brushed her lips along the edge of an exposed shoulder, feeling Morrigan's ribs swell and fall with stifled contentment.
"Tis better done in daylight, I assure you." Now the apostate did smile. Ravenel knew because the woman rolled over in her arms, facing her to study the silent secrets that had so disrupted her sleep.
"Your Chantry friend made me a proposition." De Vici preferred to let the worry out of her lips rather than have it betrayed in her eyes. Morrigan would find out either way.
"Indeed? Here I thought she'd taken vows." The witch's smirk promised that the Divine's sexual proclivities would never take her by surprise. The legends of the Hero of Ferelden must have left out a great many details. All of which seemed to be wound up in a silent, golden amusement that drew Ravenel into the ease of a smile.
"A painful loss for the world, I'm sure. Sadly, her offer to me was of a less pleasurable nature," the wry humor bled away even as she thought of it, "She suggested putting my name on the list of those killed in the attack."
"Contemplating your own death. 'Tis no light matter." The apostate turned somber, instantly understanding the gravity of the subject at hand.
"I have been Lady de Vici for almost fifteen years. It is difficult to imagine being anyone else." Ravenel had always expected her life to go from noble to fugitive. This third option was entirely new and oddly disturbing.
"Just whom do you expect to become?" The witch chuckled and raised a hand to glide over Ravenel's cheek, tracing features that couldn't be changed, "You are more than your title, are you not?"
De Vici caught the woman's hand to hold it in place against her face, savoring the soft caress. In the tender warmth of the fingers against her skin – so different to the strength of their passion – she knew the answer that had been evading her thoughts. Magic, miracle, madness; Morrigan was all three. Even in the pallid glow of moonlight her eyes burned like the flames of Andraste's pyre: the hungry, inevitable, glorious fate that promised to consume Ravenel whole.
"I am only myself. It is all I have ever had to offer." The assassin tried to breathe normally but she couldn't. The air was trapped beneath her throat lest a single sound or movement interrupt the coming reply. Her talk with Divine Victoria, the subtle exchange of her secret, the deadly threat of the Crows; none of it inspired the doubt and worry that gripped her as silence passed for a heartbeat and then two, three . . .
""Tis enough." Morrigan's soft assurance was like pardon from the Maker himself. She drew the Antivan closer, absolving her lips of all sin. Ravenel gladly accepted every caress, the silent succor pouring fresh confidence into her very bones. This was what had filled her mind and chased away all the worries and fears. These mutual confessions of tenderness, desire, affection – this was what shaped a smile even when her whole world fell apart. Wrapping her arms tightly around the beautiful apostate, silently promising that she'd only let go when she was told, Ravenel felt the truth inside herself take shape. This was all that mattered.
In 2:9 Glory, during a war that would ultimately lead to an Exalted March, elves sacked Val Royeaux. It was the only time in the history of the Empire that their crown jewel was tarnished, threatened with mortal destruction. The Grand Cathedral, already 200 years into its construction, took the lesson to heart. When the doors of the Divine's new home opened 90 years later it was with all the security, facilities and space necessary to be utterly self-sufficient. Though it rose in the heart of the most thriving metropolis in Thedas, the people within the Cathedral dwelled in their own independent world. Orlesians - and Royans especially - gloried in the fact that the seat of the Chantry was part of the Empire, one more gem in their admittedly splendid array. They never paused to consider that the Grand Cathedral intended, was designed, to endure far beyond the city that sprawled around its walls.
Pilgrims seldom saw anything beyond the grand courtyard and main halls. The privileged and blessed were allowed into the audience chamber, they never knew everything else contained on the massive property. Nobles in Val Royeaux paid fortunes to the finest healers and alchemists, trading gold for days, never knowing that elderly sisters and clerics – faithful in their vows of austerity and poverty – were gifted years of life by the skills and medicines of the Cathedral Infirmary. Extensive cellars housed hundreds of casks of wine that would eventually be holy, despite the games Sera and Merrill played amidst the barrels. The University of Orlais was Empress Celene's crowning achievement, a center of learning and knowledge unlike anything else in the world – but Dorian swooned like the heroines of Varric's serials when he saw the Cathedral library.
Now, all these plentiful and advanced resources were at the disposal of the Divine's private guests. Not even royal visitors were allowed to roam freely but signs of Isabela's explorations could be found in suggestive bits of vandalism in almost every room. Hawke's fingers traced a vulgar image carved into the wooden pillar holding a bust of Divine Innocente. She smiled as she felt the familiar shape, memorized from hundreds of times dragging her hand down the banister of her stairs in Kirkwall. The Queen of the Eastern Seas had already been and gone.
This particular hallway exited onto the rear courtyard, the unofficial home base for everyone devoid of pious inclination. Or anyone checking up on them. The sounds of a scathing rebuke reached Hawke as soon as she stepped outside. The disdainful tone was heavy with experienced command and the Champion easily recognized the voice, having been on the receiving end of Aveline's scolding tongue before. The noise was coming from the smithing shed. The forge hadn't been seen by an outsider since Paragon Davri came in to upgrade the equipment but now it was the informal home of Iron Bull and his Chargers. The Inquisitor was leaning against the outer railing, watching the spectacle within.
"Look, we're not soldiers or guards. Armor is to keep us alive, not make it easier to spot us coming." Krem was making a spirited attempt to argue with Aveline, despite his obvious discomfort. When the Fereldan warrior yelled it had a way of hitting something primal at the base of every fighter's spine, forcing them into military posture so stiff it hurt to see.
"You work for the Inquisition. That makes you symbols of order and strength to everyone who sees you walking these halls. If you do not respect your duties and position why should anyone else?" The guard captain's insistent argument managed to marry flattery and reproach, a persuasive combination that twisted any victim into a confusion of pride and guilt. The other Chargers squirmed uncomfortably, eyes begging their Lieutenant to rescue them from their own instinct to surrender.
"We're not the Inquisition. We're the Chargers. Blood stains and tarnish warn enemies what we're capable of." The Vint clung valiantly to his defenses, not looking to any of his fellow mercenaries to help. Iron Bull had trained him to stand his ground in any kind of battle but not even the Qunari could've planned for something like Aveline.
"The only threat your armor conveys," the redhead reached over and dragged a finger through the grime on Krem's breastplate, "Is the danger of contagious disease."
Hawke was worried her sudden chuckle would interrupt the performance but hers wasn't the only sound. Stitches' laughter drowned out her mirth and that of the Inquisitor. Still, nothing was louder than the rumble of amusement that rose from the back of the forge, low and thunderous like the roar of the nearby smithing fire. Iron Bull unfolded from his perch on an anvil, the confident swagger of his approach reminiscent of siege engines rolling into line. He towered over the humans, though Aveline was taller than most and faced him without even a twitch of worry.
"The captain has a point, Krem. I can't tell if that's mud or just the shit that comes out of everyone's mouths around here," the massive Qunari's craggy face contorted into a grin, "Better do what she says."
"Chief -!" The Vint started to object.
"That was an order, Lieutenant. For all of you. Anyone whose armor doesn't pass inspection by the end of the day is going to eat their meals off it for the next month." Bull cut off any argument, one steely eye daring anyone else to speak. The Chargers made varying noises of groaning protest and muttered curses but they all rose and got to work. The only thing worse than polishing months of blood and guts off steel was the threat of having to put it in their mouths.
Aveline scrutinized the Qunari warrior for a moment, arms still crossed as she gauged whether a punchline was about to ruin her victory. Iron Bull's subtle nod was as telling a gesture as a soldier's full salute and the guard captain replied in kind. When she turned to leave she swept past Hawke, allowing the Champion a glimpse of her satisfied – almost smug – smile.
"Bull, I've heard Cassandra and Vivienne try to get your people to clean up dozens of times. You've never once actually made them do it." The Inquisitor folded her arms, studying her friend with the sly gaze of shared secrets. The huge warrior shrugged helplessly.
"What can I say, Boss? You know me and redheads." Iron Bull's appreciative growl followed Aveline's departing figure. Just like his eye.
Elani gazed at the courtyard below. At nearly three hundred feet away, the people looked like children's toys. The fancy ones that the rich Imperium kids were always losing and then accusing her of stealing. Three hidings later they'd find the bloody thing wedged under a piece of furniture, usually with teeth marks. Did the dog get beaten? Shit no. That purebred sack of spittle was worth the price of five servants. Come to think of it, the damn thing was pretty cute. No one thought twice about the knife-ear kid sneaking the family pet some occasional treats. Not even after he developed chronic, uncontrollable diarrhea.
Thinking of runny shit. Elani carefully moved her hand to avoid a massive pigeon dropping.
"Tell me again, my dear thief, why are we up here?" Zevran's dauntless charms sounded slightly less enthused than usual. The wind whipped about them both, driving his longer hair distractingly into his face. Elani grinned, she probably should've warned him to braid it first.
"It beats being stuck in the audience listening to that dreary song." The thief would've shrugged but her hands and arms were too occupied.
"And yet, when I sit in the Cathedral I have never felt my thoughts turn so urgently towards the Maker as they do now." The Antivan also looked down. His view was less fixated on the entertaining perspective of their friends below; he was far more intent on the three inches of ornamental stone edging that supported his toes. Three inches that separated them both from three hundred feet of regret before death.
"Come on, Cuddles! Get a move on! There's already 150 sovereigns bet on you!" Varric's voice carried up, bellowing over the gust of wind.
"Bossy fellow, isn't he?" Elani chuckled, searching the steep wall of the Cathedral's center building for her next grip.
Climbing an edifice without her usual tools was more challenging than she'd admit but if it was going to be any building, she couldn't ask for better than this ancient pile of worn stone and ornate embellishment. Those squiggly bits probably symbolized some important part of the Maker's creation or testified to an artisan's years of practiced skill; right now, they made perfect finger and toe holds. Foot then hand, up an inch at a time. She had no idea how long they'd been climbing but she could see the rounded top of the dome bending away from her eyes. Another 100, 150 feet maybe.
"It is fitting, is it not? You conquering the Grand Cathedral and standing above its throne! Perhaps we should have summoned a larger audience." Zevran was a few feet away and never more than inches ahead or behind. Winning the bet was looking dicey, at best.
"Worried that not enough people are here to see you die?" Elani teased, noticing the signs of strain around her competitor's jaw and eyes. If she couldn't beat him on skill alone there were always other ways to gain an edge.
"I am saddened that I alone will witness you straddling the Chantry. I can only imagine what the world would think, should they know Andraste's daughter sat atop the Divine." Zevran's beguiling purr painted a vivid mental image. He'd already noticed that his new playmate's eyes tended to follow the Most Holy with a less than chaste intensity. The most powerful woman in Thedas, tempting as a diamond resting under broken glass. That kind of beauty was guaranteed to hurt. Elani knew herself well enough to know she just wanted the treasure because it was beyond her reach. There was nothing so captivating as the impossible.
"No one tops that woman, Zev," Elani shook her head, laughing as she saw his grip slip and tighten once more, "But if she ever has need of my services, of course I'd be more than happy to help. After all, that's what I'm here for, right?"
"An interesting question," Zevran had to clear his throat when his voice tightened a little too expressively, "Just how will you be servicing the Divine?"
Naughty little bugger. The thief grinned. She couldn't see his face but was certain he wore the same smirk that always danced across his lips just before those skilled fingers pulled a trick on her. But this time they weren't playing cards or naked. She might actually have the advantage for a change.
"I'm going to be a Holy Voyeur." Elani had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her expression serious.
"A wh -," The former Crow hesitated, his thoughts, words and body all momentarily freezing before he regained himself, "That sounds most diverting."
"That's what I thought. I'll get to travel a lot anyway." The younger elf had to admit she was impressed that he recouped so quickly. She'd expected that the deliberately mistaken word would shake him for closer to a minute.
"You will surely see many memorable sights." Zevran stoically continued, licking his lips as if he could taste the lurid ideas rising up under their conversation.
"I hope so," Elani agreed, "She's already arranged for me to meet some others like myself. The more the merrier, right?"
"You will certainly spread the new Divine's reputation." The assassin admitted, voice heavy with wistful memories of the woman he'd known years before.
"That's not all I'll be spreading." Elani grinned, sighting her last handhold on the smooth curvature leading to the top of the dome.
Envoy, voyeur; easy to make such an innocent mistake. Except, of course, for the total lack of innocence. Victoria's plan had real merit though. It wasn't enough to trot out Andraste's kid for a bunch of pilgrims in Orlais. Elves out riding hallas in the Dales or massacring shems in Ferelden weren't likely to care about Chantry reform. They had to be found, told, convinced that this was a true chance for peace between their peoples. Elani was about as diplomatic as an egg flung at royalty but the Divine seemed to think that was better. Elves wouldn't trust a groomed, savvy, trained ambassador; it would reek of deception. To send an uncivilized, thieving, paranoid and blasphemous representative instead? Every Keeper from here to Seere would know she had to be what she said; truth was always weirder than lies.
"Made it!" Elani slapped her hand onto the top of the Grand Cathedral at the same instant as Zevran.
"It would seem we have tied." The Antivan shook his head, pleased and chagrinned at once.
"Maker take the piss." The blonde groaned and clambered to the top of the flattened dome, shaking out the tension in her wrists and arms.
"And it would also appear that we are not the first," Zevran walked towards a small dark spot on the center of the roof, "Isabela was here before either of us."
"What? How do you-," Elani's mouth dropped as she saw the other elf lift a skimpy piece of black cloth, "What makes you so sure those are hers?"
"You would not ask if you knew our dear captain's taste in undergarments. Truly, would you ever forget something such as this?" Zevran tossed the garment over to her. They didn't even fill her fist.
Spreading them between her fingers she wondered how it was possible that a few inches of fabric could scream sex louder than sheer nudity. Silk, lace and some very clever use of strips in the back that left nothing to the imagination. If these didn't belong to Isabela it was only because she'd gifted them to someone else.
"That woman gets everywhere." Elani muttered. She put the scandalous garment back on display in the center of the roof. At the last moment she also thought to draw a small blade and pierce through the material into dry mortar. The idea of sitting in the Cathedral audience chamber listening to the Chant of Light for the next few days seemed indescribably more tolerable when she imagined the Queen of the Eastern Seas' unmentionables nailed overhead.
"That she does. However, I am quite certain that she came up alone – otherwise we would find sign of the Champion's presence as well." Zevran stole in close behind her, voice low and tempting in her ear.
"And?" The thief leaned back, open to entertaining certain ideas. It was a long climb after all, there was no need to rush back down.
"If we could not be the only ones to conquer the Grand Cathedral we might still be the first to anoint it in the Maker's favorite blessing." Practiced hands slid around her waist. The mouth near her ear began trailing down her cheek, skilled as the fingers undoing the clasp of her belt.
"You still talk too much fancy shit." Elani laughed but turned to meet Zevran's kiss, delighted to find use for all this elevated privacy.
The sound of an explosion interrupted them, drawing attention back towards the distant edge of the Cathedral's grounds. Out in the cemetery she could make out half a dozen spikes of silvery-blue fire licking up into the air. It was becoming a familiar sight and all of them knew what it meant.
"The Seeker needs more lyrium draughts." Zevran chuckled, watching remote dots scramble to extinguish the searing flames.
"I'm sure your friends can handle it." Elani caught his cheek and dragged him back into the kiss. An expert twist of her arms tossed Zevran down, pinning him to the top of Thedas' most holy building. What better place for a bit of sin?
Solace dropped to her knees, trembling from head to foot as the power abruptly shut off and left her utterly spent, excruciatingly hollow. She fisted her fingers in the earth, unconsciously digging to make her own grave. They'd been at this for days and the only thing she wanted more than success was an end. Hundreds of bottles of lyrium led to acres of scorch marks; first in the Cathedral courtyard, then further past the stables and now finally here in the cemetery. She couldn't remember what anything smelled like anymore, or get the taste of metallic pain out of her mouth.
"Mother-sucking son of a whore!" The mage gave vent to her rage, too tired to yell but too angry for breath.
Magic had never been this hard. The Fade was like a small river she could dip her hands into and change its flow. Even as a child she'd found it so easy to master spells and reshape reality, feeling the touch of Grace's hands guiding her own, whispering to her secrets from beyond the Veil. This power was entirely different. It was a roaring waterfall, so massive it was terrifying. To touch it meant getting instantly swept away. Every time she pulled back out she felt like she'd been dragged by a demon to the Black City and back again.
"You only blew up half this time." Cassandra's familiar boots appeared in her line of vision, apparently pleased with the improvement. The Seeker's gauntleted hand reached down for her.
"Maker's piss! I'm just too tired to get them all!" Solace batted away the offered help. That was the fifth round of practice this morning alone. The fourth had felt like it opened tears between her flesh and soul, now the pain ached from tooth to toenail.
"You are improving, Solace. It is possible to get control." The Nevarran knelt beside her, resting the rejected hand on her shoulder. Looking into the warrior's face she could see the lines around her mouth and brow, a hard set visage of frustration held firmly in check. The disappointed irritation in the twitching muscles of her cheeks contrasted with the patient concern of her eyes, bringing out the warm gold buried in hazel.
"I can't. I've never had to do anything as hard as this." The blonde wanted to cry. Her stinging pride, exhausted mind, destroyed body – every part of her was begging for permission to give up.
"Which is all the more reason to finally learn," the less familiar voice pulled Solace's eyes to the edge of the cemetery, the Warden walking towards them, "Power should never come easily."
"She is correct. Those who achieve power without effort are too likely to abuse it." Cassandra agreed, nodding gratefully to the Hero for her welcome support.
"I can't abuse something I don't even know how to use." Solace felt bile rise as she argued, the familiarity of a fight sending sparks back along her worn nerves. A good clash of wills, that might get her blood to feel like something other than sluggish mud in her veins.
"These graves would suggest otherwise." Warden Amell gestured to the seemingly random patches of charred ground. Each one marked where the body of a Templar lay – until recently – resting in peace. Even Cassandra had been surprised to realize how long lyrium could last in the bones. Not half as surprised as Solace, however, when the first grave had ignited beneath her feet. It was a small comfort that the magical fire couldn't harm herself or the Seeker.
"I'd apologize but they were probably all bastards." Solace scowled at the desecrated burials, some still steaming. It felt good to hate something other than herself. Torching Templars in their graves was a tempting incentive to truly learn this power, to harness it the way she'd once controlled magic.
"Vivienne told me you once refused to speak for three weeks until you mastered a spell. Where is that discipline now?" Cassandra rose, extending her hand again. The blonde regarded the offer, plumbing the depths of her will to see what reserves were left. Another try wouldn't kill her. Perhaps she just had to keep going until it finally did.
"Is that a clever way of saying you want me to stop blaspheming?" Solace accept the hand, rising to her feet and steeling her balance against the wave of vertigo that followed.
"That would be an added benefit, yes." The Seeker's usual glower softened momentarily, the only sign of humor her strict training would allow right now. She gathered the remaining lyrium draughts - the ones spared from the last burst of exasperated power – and repositioned them in a line. Four bottles, each spaced nearly twenty feet apart. When she'd wielded magic she could aim lightning to strike a single leaf on a fully bloomed tree, now she was being taught like an archer with her first target.
"Wait," Warden Amell interrupted before Cassandra could give a command, "Try with this."
Solace's mouth dropped open when the Hero unstrapped her staff and tossed it over. The weight alone of the weapon was shocking when it hit her palms. It had been years since she held such a tool, the comforting familiarity instantly turning it into an extension of her arm.
"Seekers do not use staves." Seeker Pentaghast protested. The blonde barely heard her, too intent on studying the marvelous piece of craftsmanship.
"Seekers were never mages." Solona easily countered, encouraging the younger woman with a nod of permission.
Solace ran her hands over the length of the weapon, feeling the ornate carvings as well as the hundreds of nicks and scratches from battle. It had obviously suffered years of wear, perhaps some of the greatest battles the Hero had faced. Was this the staff that struck down an archdemon and ended the Blight on Ferelden? The tickle of excitement fed along her arms, creeping out of her fingers and into the metal. She'd seen the Warden use the weapon in the throne room battle; the focus at its tip had glowed red, matching the writhing color of the volcanic aurum from which it was made.
Now, however, the focus began to glow slivery blue as the staff thrummed in time with her speeding pulse. She dragged her eyes off the gleaming weapon, spying the farthest bottle of lyrium potion. If she started with the one at the end of the line there was a chance her power would drain before consuming them all.
"Maker take you." Solace whispered beneath her breath, taking final aim and closing her eyes. She felt power arc out of herself and into the staff, harnessed into a single bolt. The roaring tide rushed over her again, threatening to pull her under, to drag every last ounce of strength she had out into the wake of the open channel. She clenched her fingers tighter and it felt as if they were melting into the metal, sucking power from her skin. One twist of her wrist, the staff spinning in her grip and suddenly the weapon was cut off from the source of raw energy.
She squinted an eye open, certain she'd incinerated all the targets once more but amazed to find only one plume of iridescent smoke rising lazily into the sky. The other three draughts were untouched. The abruptly severed power still bubbled and roiled inside of her, easily within reach but not the thunderous roar that had so promised to rip her apart. Solace felt the only muscles in her face that she hadn't used for days begin to tighten, to pull her mouth into a smile, then a grin. Her laughing relief rose above the still echoing noise of the explosion and the cooling pops of shattered glass.
She twirled the staff, watching the beautiful circle its silver light carved in the air. She spun and focused again, eyes open to watch the glory of a single lyrium potion consuming itself in blue flame. Once more - this time with only one hand - she switched her grip and let loose, relishing the tiny, cracking sound of glass bursting under impossible heat. A final test, she turned to the last bottle, leveled her aim and . . . .nothing.
"I can control it." Solace breathed in wonder, marveling as the sole remaining draught survived untouched from the destruction that had erased its fellows. She stared at the weapon in her hands, the silver light slowly fading as her heart calmed, power ebbing away to fold back into a corner of herself until it was summoned.
"See? Just needed focus." The Warden shot a wink to Cassandra, sharing a private joke.
"This is – that was just -," The blonde struggled for words as she approached the Hero to return her staff, "Thank you."
"Keep it. I understand yours is still in storage in Montsimmard." Solona's gentle admonition was firm with the knowledge of facts. Tranquil didn't need staves so the weapons were confiscated. Sometimes they were handed off to other apprentices, tainted with the misery and weakness of a failed mage. Most often they were locked up, stored to be destroyed or broken down for useful parts. Stripping a mage of their weapon was like taking part of their body.
"No, this one is too good. It must have cost a fortune." Solace protested, trying once more to push the staff into the hands of its rightful owner.
"Only a darkspawn bastard's life," The Warden laughed, "I have a dozen of the things. I prefer to stick to the one Wade made me from the archdemon's bones."
"That one is quite marvelous. A pity the Inquisitor could not persuade him to join us at Skyhold." Cassandra readily agreed.
"I think Dagna and Harritt might find him a little too unorthodox. He does tend to upset people when he insists on smelting in nothing but an apron." Solona waved off any suggestion that the crazed, perfectionist smith didn't belong exactly where he was.
"Keep the staff, Solace," the Seeker turned back to the somewhat befuddled mage, "You will need it. And we aren't done training yet."
"But I did it! I blew up what I wanted to blow up and stopped when I was done!" The blonde groaned protest. Was such a sweet victory truly going to be so short lived?
"That was only the beginning. There is far more to being a Seeker. You must be capable of much more when the time comes for you to represent our Order." Cassandra's commanding tone wasn't unkind, her hands resting on the mage's shoulders heavy but full of strength offered in support.
"About that," the Warden interrupted the exchange of encouragement, eyes glittering with schemes, "Leliana had an idea."
Thanks to everyone who has helped me keep interested/motivated/focused on the story. The comments and reviews really do make a big difference! Keep it up if you can. Ready for the end?