Act IX: iii
When hundreds of thousands of voices sing together there is a natural discord. Words out of time, notes flat, voices too weak or too overwhelming. Yet, it is still beautiful. The passion of every singer unites with the whole, creating a harmony that erases any individual imperfections. Everyone was flawed but when they came together like this - exulting in the glories of faith and hope - they were complete. Their unity made perfection.
Leliana stood just behind the curtains of her balcony, watching the crowd and listening to the song of the faithful rising to the Maker Himself. The Chant of Light finished yesterday, her official enthronement complete the moment the last note rang out and she took her seat. Now the faithful sang their joy, the hymns of triumph swelling to fill the courtyard like a victory cry. What had been a few lone voices spread like infectious laughter until everyone, regardless of language or skill, had joined the throng. As a bard she knew the power of music. In the Chantry she found herself reborn with the words of Andraste's songs. Yet she had never been so moved by a single melody. The sheer power of conviction threatened to bring all of the Empire to its knees, to ring until the stones of the Grand Cathedral itself crumbled before their faith. They sang to the Maker, to His Prophet and now, to her representative on this side of the Veil. They sang to Divine Victoria.
"Your audience is anxious for your address, Most Holy." The reminder gently drew her away from the humbling spectacle. She glanced gratefully to the servant, one bold enough to speak when all the sisters and initiates were too shy to point out the obvious.
This particular woman had served Justinia V and Beatrix before her. She undoubtedly remembered Leliana as the Left Hand, appearing and disappearing as swiftly as shadow in the service of the Divine. Now she wore the mantle of their mistress. It could not only be Leliana's imagination that saw a flare of pride in the older woman's eye as it fell across the ceremonial robes. It was no small thing, a new Divine chosen from the ranks of the laity. She knew the people, the servants, the pilgrims and faithful. She knew the politics of the priesthood but had never been tainted by its envies. She was never a cleric or Mother or even a sister of vows. She was simply a woman, born of a servant, elevated to the highest position in the Chantry. In a way not even Dorothea could have managed, Leliana had the ability to draw on the faith of all. She had lived among them, walked their paths, fought their battles. Now she had the power to be their voice.
"It is a presumption at best! An outright insult to the blood of those fallen in these atrocities!"
Perhaps not that voice. The new Divine sighed, recognizing the angered and domineering tones of the Grand Cleric of Cumberland. The argument was muffled by the doors of her chamber, the first percolations of a promising feud.
"Do not speak for the dead, Your Grace. They have bought their peace." Mother Giselle could wield patience like a weapon. Her will was iron, she had only to wait for every obstacle to crumble or bend before her. Her artful touch had guided the Inquisition through crucial moments; Chantry officials were soft clay compared to shaping an army of faith.
"To use one of the traitors! When so many faithful are ready to offer themselves? They have earned their rank, the right to stand alongside the Divine -," The Grand Cleric's argument was cut short when the chamber doors swung open.
"None of us stand where we do by right but by the Maker's grace." Leliana chastised, quickly assessing the scene that lay before her. Giselle and the Grand Cleric were going head to head but behind them lay the actual source of conflict. Warden Amell was leaning against the corridor wall, arms crossed, watching the holy women engage in the religious equivalent of mud wrestling.
"Your Perfection, an honor guard is assembled, ready to offer escort. To employ the protections of a mage," the Grand Cleric of Cumberland had a particularly vitriolic way of spitting the word, "It would only incite pain and fury from those scarred by the war."
"She is the Hero of the Blight, defeater of an archdemon. The Maker himself would not find fault with the mage that slayed a fallen god." Giselle reminded the sour woman. Those who had not been near Ferelden during the Fifth Blight somehow managed to minimize or even forget who won that victory, or how vital it truly was.
Leliana looked past the bickering women, meeting Solona's gaze. She found a helpless quirk of amusement lifting the Warden's brow, taking in the scene like it was elaborately staged theatre. It was the same sarcastic pleasure she'd found in watching the nobles of the Landsmeet try to jockey a national disaster into personal gain. No matter how the Hero tried to simply live and love and be left alone, she was hopelessly embroiled in conflict at every turn.
With the training of a bard Leliana kept her expression perfectly in check. Irritated scowls and angry frowns weren't befitting on a day so sacred and joyous. She knew the Grand Cleric's objection was shared by others; the squawking complaints of authorities ignored, opinions not consulted. Seven years of Justinia V's unorthodox approach to governing the faithful hadn't been enough to break the priesthood's recalcitrant habits. How foolish that there were vows about chastity and poverty when the real threats were pride and control.
"She will not be escorting me for protection," the Divine held up a hand, a single gesture ending the fight, "She is a loyal ally. Too many times the Chantry has forgotten those who helped it rise. I will not make that mistake."
"Very wise." Mother Giselle nodded her approval and stepped back.
"Very well." The Grand Cleric wasn't so magnanimous in her surrender but also stood aside, accepting the implicit command. The Most Holy now had an uninterrupted view of the smirking Hero.
"At your service, Your Perfection." The Warden straightened off the wall and executed a gallant bow. The warmth of the title on her lips turned it into an endearment, reverence twined with more intimate affection. How many times had that word been on her tongue as she traced the scars on Leliana's skin?
"We are ready." The redhead kept her mouth from betraying the pleasure of her recollection. Solona gestured for the mothers and clerics to lead the way, falling into pace alongside the former spymaster as they followed the procession.
"You are not subtle, you know?" Leliana quietly chastised the mage as they walked, finally allowing a touch of the smile that had been aching in her lips from the moment she stepped out of her chamber.
"That is your area of expertise, Most Holy, as you abundantly proved last night." The Hero was always happy to defer to her love's manipulative acumen.
"It was delightful, was it not? Being in the heart of the Game once more." Divine Victoria's musical laugh rose and fell with the same soft undulations as her accent. Several of the holy women walking in front of her cringed, apparently convinced such a sound defiled the solemn occasion.
"Only you would think of a pit of vipers as delightful, Leliana." The Warden imagined she could still feel the scrape of sharp eyes and hidden daggers. There were more fangs in a roomful of politicians than a dragon's nest.
The Eve of the Divine was traditionally an occasion for aristocrats, ambassadors, clerics and heralds to gain some leverage in the new holy reign. It was a ripe opportunity to find clues, hint at secrets or expose some folly that would influence the Chantry's future. It was the only night when the Grand Game was played within holy walls. None of the guests had been prepared for Divine Victoria's mastery of their art.
A lord of Val Foret broke into heavy sweat when Victoria expressed her condolences for the passing of his paternal uncle. The tragedy happened to have granted him sole inheritance of a massive estate. Caught up in a spiritual fervor he pledged a quarter of his lands to Chantry contribution, a charity considerable enough to divert the more obvious suspicions.
The young duchess of Lydes, who wore indulgently ornate shoes, was spontaneously moved to announce she would make a barefoot pilgrimage to Valence. This after the Divine had simply commented on her good fortune to carry her pregnancy so lightly. It did not have to be mentioned that the Duke had been fighting in the Dales for the past seven months.
Nevarra's ambassador was stunned to find the new Divine well-versed on the comparative values of cloth. A single comment praising the workmanship of his nation promised the price would double by morning. The gratitude alone guaranteed that no Chantry would pay coin for their vestments for at least a year to come.
It would have seemed tedious to anyone who didn't enjoy the Game – Seeker Pentaghast in particular had appeared ready to take dying of boredom to an entirely new, homicidal level – but each small introduction, any exchange of pleasantries, even the careful selection of which dignitary to greet first; all of it was a calculated play in the grander strategy. All too soon guests surrendered hope of gaining advantage and struggled only to keep up with the shifting political winds.
"It is a pleasure to have a hand in shaping the future of our people. You felt the same when it came to fighting darkspawn and demons, no?" Leliana's shoulder barely brushed against Solona, teasing at the memories from what felt like another life.
"At least I always knew where my hands had been," The Warden managed to hold a look of disgust until the other woman laughed again, "Just promise me you'll wash yours regularly."
"Cleansed of every sin and vice. As you know." The rogue's eyes danced over her companion, sweeping from head to toe with a glint of mischief.
"And yet still so very cruel," The Hero sighed, disappointment mingling with mockery, "Here's where I have to leave."
Leliana looked up, realizing they'd reached the doors leading to the throne room. From there the procession would pass through the elite guests and visitors first before heading to the grand entrance and the public beyond. An instinct, selfish and impulsive, longed to keep the Warden at her side; to let the dignitaries, the Chantry, the world gathered at her feet see exactly who she was and what mattered most. Solona would always be the most important piece of her life. Which was precisely why she drove that childish desire away. The Hero of Ferelden was still a mage and a Grey Warden. She did not need to be any larger a target.
"Stay where I can see you?" The Divine lifted one brow, a playful reminder that would have fooled anyone else.
"No running off, I promise." Warden Amell pressed her hand once, her tone and smile confirming that she understood. They could not stand together before the Chantry but so long as Leliana could find her beloved's eyes in the sea of faces, she would feel close.
The Divine felt a cool touch in her palm after the Hero had walked away. She opened her hand to find Solona had left a small gift. It brought an ache like tears to her eye despite the happiness it unfurled beneath her ribs. The doors to the Divine's audience chamber swung open, revealing hundreds of wealthy and powerful dignitaries, all with their heads bowed. None of them saw the perfection of her smile as she gently wrapped both hands around the petals of a white rose.
"I'm serious, Varric, I've seen less bootlicking in brothel fetish rooms!" Inquisitor Trevelyan could tell the dwarf wanted to tease her for knowing such things but he was still too busy laughing, "Of course, it's Val Royeaux so it wasn't actually boots as much as jewel-encrusted high heels. On the men."
"I'm supposed to believe you were busy looking at everyone's shoes?" Varric nailed Eve with a skeptical smirk.
"Naturally I had to be checking for weapons too," The Inquisitor artfully slid around his assumption without denying it, "And Orlesian clothing is so ornate it takes a lot of attention to spot dangers."
"Uh-huh. So now 'wardrobe malfunction' is on the list of potential threats?" His rough chuckle was infectious.
"In the Game? Deadly, I assure you." Trevelyan sniffed, imitating the pompous and bored disdain of Orlesian courtiers. She'd learned long ago that laughing at the ridiculous pageantry was the only way to endure its constant, maddening hypocrisy.
Her family had always been obsessed with politics and intrigue, a pastime that contributed greatly to her youth's aggressive pursuit of misbehavior. She couldn't be a pawn if she got disowned. Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on her mother being patient, clever or right. The damned woman - Sorry, mother – was probably giggling herself to sleep every night, thinking of her youngest problem child having to don formal attire and charm entire kingdoms into playing nice.
"Getting to watch a bunch of nobles try to stab backs and cover their asses at the same time, sounds like a fun night." Varric leaned against a marble pillar like he was relaxing at a bar counter rather than waiting in the vestibule of the Grand Cathedral's front entrance.
"I'm just amazed no one ever sprains a shoulder. From what I hear, your night wasn't too boring either." Eve swept her eyes over the gathered allies, mentally checking off who had arrived and who was still coming.
It was easy enough to identify the companions that were slated for public appearance; the gleam of so much armor was blinding. The fighters chosen for Leliana's honor guard weren't the only men and women who deserved the privilege but everyone had readily agreed: they were the only ones who wouldn't cause an uproar. The others wouldn't be visible to the crowds in the courtyard but their presence lent moral support. Trevelyan looked around once more – 'moral' probably wasn't the right word for it.
"I swear, Worshipfulness, I was playing Wicked Grace with Tiny and the Chargers." Varric instantly defended himself.
"Hmm, alibied with a lesser crime," Trevelyan pursed her lips to control her smile, "I don't think Isabela and Hawke could have done it alone. Someone had to have distracted Aveline at the very least."
The dwarf was a master bluffer and bullshitter. But he was also still a rogue and there could be no hiding the delighted pride glittering in his eyes. Kirkwall's guard captain hadn't let Isabela out of her sight; not since the pirate slipped into her quarters and left a servant tied naked to her bed. Getting Aveline to take her eyes off the wicked sailor for more than three seconds had to have been a carefully orchestrated act of genius.
"I'd be more curious about where Rivaini managed to find all those accessories. Here I thought we were in some kind of holy place." Varric's smug grin refused to confess his part in the shocking prank that had greeted the Cathedral's occupants at dawn.
Shackles, chains and blindfolds were all very common motifs in Chantry art. Sculptures of Andraste often featured any or all of the above. They just weren't supposed to be lined in fur or made of black leather and silk. Absolutely none of them should've had gags. It was fortunate that the majority of Leliana's honored guests tended to sleep late. Only Trevelyan and her friends enjoyed the spectacle of dozens of statues of Andraste adorned like the darker whores from Belle Marche. In a riot of laughter and profanity there was an absolute, unspoken consensus: only Isabela.
"I think anyone involved in that stunt," Eve's accusatory glance was mild at best, "Should count themselves lucky that Cassandra has spent the morning praying and getting ready for the address. I'm still not sure how to tell her about it."
"Shit, promise you'll keep her sword out of reach and I'll tell her myself. Can't wait to see the look on her face!" The dwarf took a truly perverse pleasure in risking death at the Seeker's hands every chance he got.
"You know she still can't tell when you're lying to her. She'd probably think you made the whole thing up." The Inquisitor didn't understand how a woman with Cassandra's training, experience and intellect had so much trouble detecting bullshit. It had to be the same skill that made Varric's trashy serials so entertaining – everything was simply more interesting when you believed him.
"How about we test that out?" The storyteller tilted his chin to indicate activity behind Trevelyan.
She turned to spot the Seeker approaching them across the grand entry. For a second Eve's brain insisted it wasn't Cassandra. She'd never seen this armor before. Rather, she had, but then it was soiled in blood and dishonor on the corpse of an enemy. It was the regalia of the High Seeker. She wore the official armor of her full status and it was a stunning sight. Andraste herself couldn't cut a more inspiring figure than the warrior striding so easily towards them. The dignity of royalty, the power of armies, polished symbols of faith and truth catching every stray beam of light in the room and magnifying it back like she was wreathed in the Maker's own glory.
"Careful, Inquisitorship, you drool anymore and your armor's going to rust." Varric chortled, thumping a knuckle on Trevelyan's plate.
"Right." Eve managed to mutter a reply, clicking her mouth shut but unable to pull her eyes off the Seeker.
This was ridiculous. She saw Cassandra all the time. She saw her just a few hours ago – naked! How was it possible to be held so completely spellbound? Every day Eve saw the warrior, the woman, friend, lover, follower, guide – she was complex and fascinating as the facets of a cut jewel. She'd studied every edge of her, each spark and angle of light. When was the last time she simply looked at her whole?
The Seeker always knew when Trevelyan's eyes were on her. What had once felt forbidden and electrifying grew familiar, comforting. Eve could often see the tight line of Cassandra's shoulders relax when she spotted her across the room, back turned but still instinctively aware of her love's attention. She must have felt the intensified scrutiny of the Inquisitor's eyes trying to absorb all of her at once. Her perfect poise didn't slip but when she met the gaze a rush of color crept up her cheeks, visible even at this distance.
"You know, you could just drop to one knee and ask her to marry you. It would probably make less of a scene." Varric chimed in, trying to break the magnetic tension that was strung between the two women tighter than Bianca's wires.
"Varric," The Inquisitor felt an irresistible smile creep onto her lips, "When I'm ready to propose I guarantee: you'll be the last to know."
"Don't be so sure, Inquisitor." the dwarf laughed, slapping the warrior's back to propel her forward. Eve willingly yielded to the shove, moving to meet the Seeker halfway across the entry. The fraction of her mind that wasn't cataloguing everything perfect about the woman in front of her caught and filed the last comment that Varric muttered beneath his breath. She'd said 'when' not 'if.'
When the towering doors of the Grand Cathedral swept open on the courtyard a bright glare washed out. Those closest to the entry instinctively covered their faces, terrified that they would be consumed in the Maker's Light. Gradually, squinting through fingers and tears, fears were put to rest. The brightness was nothing so divine. High morning sun gleamed off polished armor, dazzling eyes even at the far edges of the crowd.
The first figure coalesced into the shape of the Herald of Andraste, swathed in the armaments of the Inquisition. Behind her, on either side, were the striking forms of the Champions of Orlais and Kirkwall. Following this impressive trio was an entire vee formation of proven fighters, honored protectors of the Divine. Commander Rutherford, Captain Vallen, Sers Blackwall and Michel; they fanned out as they proceeded down the steps, deftly moving the crowd back and creating an open dais for the Divine's arrival.
Anticipation spread quiet across the crowd, swallowing all sound as the breathless audience awaited their first glimpse of Divine Victoria. If she didn't come out soon then half her followers were going to pass out. The vacuum of silence exploded into a cacophony of cheers the instant white robes appeared on the threshold.
Leliana glided to the edge of the steps, a modest smile appreciating the loud adorations. She waited patiently for the noise to subside, using the time to look out over the massive gathering. Dotted throughout the audience were pointed ears, small gaps in the rows that had to be dwarves, towers of muscle and horn that were given an extremely wide berth. Rumors of the new Divine's progressive leanings were already trickling across Thedas. Unification was spat like a curse in the drawing rooms of ancient nobility, whispered with hope in alienages and painstakingly spelled over and over again in taverns. Opinions had already begun to change. On passing through the throne room full of dignitaries, she was pleased to note that everyone had elected to wear a piece of green. Whether it was a full satin gown or merely a choice emerald ring, the players of the Game had sensed the wind shifting towards the Dales.
There was also a glaring absence in the audience, one that was not all that surprising. No staves. No Circle robes. Yet the mages were here, she was certain of it. They would not make themselves known until they knew her intent. She would see them, one by one, when her words struck home and filled them either with joy or rage.
Her attention finally fell on Solona's familiar face gazing up from the front of masses. That ubiquitous sparkle of amusement was still glittering in her eyes.
'Any time now,' the Warden mouthed, hands pressed tightly over her ears to block out the deafening sound. She had a woeful lack of appreciation for dramatic timing.
"Children of the Maker," Leliana's voice, usually soft as a caress even in anger, rang out now. Without a trace of force or strain her words silenced the applause and carried clear to the far end of the courtyard, luring each ear to unconsciously lean closer.
"Divine Justinia V believed that all were children of the Maker, deserving of her love. That Most Holy woman was an inspiration. She was my mentor, my redeemer, my friend," for the briefest moment there was a very real threat of emotion cutting her voice, "We will feel the pain of her death for years to come, the loss of all she could have been. But I will not suffer to lose her and the work she did!"
Leliana watched the passion of her promise ignite sparks of will in all the eyes she could see. Her followers drew themselves up, standing straighter, loyalty to the martyred Divine rallying them to her command. If she declared war on Tevinter in the name of Justinia, she did not doubt they would take up weapons right on the spot. Perhaps that was even what they were expecting, a spiritual army in search of battle. How little they knew Dorothea's true teaching.
"She had a vision of peace for all in the Chantry, a place for everyone in the will of the Maker. For families to no longer weep when their sons and daughters were torn away by fear. For an end to the abuses and injustices that are heaped on the innocent by fault of their birth. To see us measured by our faith, not our form!"
"How do you think it's going?" Elani yanked at the tight leather collar around her neck, trying to gain enough space to swallow the knot in her throat. Standing in the shadows beyond the entry doors completely blocked all sight of the oratory's effect.
"They're trying figure out what she means so they can decide whether or not to cheer." Solace had one ear tilted as close as possible to the sound of Leliana's speech and the murmuring responses that rippled through the crowd. The vaulted ceiling and stone walls created a doubled echo, catching rebounded words and flinging them back again so that it was difficult to understand precisely what was being said. The new Divine was a practiced speaker, making certain her timing and rhythms either held the audience in silent suspense or quickly overwhelmed any conflicting thought. It was like listening to the delicate grace and powerful manipulations of an entire orchestra.
Elani could only make out occasional phrases, listening desperately for their cue.
"My thanks to Justinia is to fulfill her vision. . . .restore Andraste's legacy to our own . . .To have all the Maker's family finally united as one . . ."
"You're fidgeting." Solace's observation was equal parts mockery and surprise.
"It's this damn armor, how does anyone wear this much metal?" The elf kept rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms, trying to find any position that would alleviate the sensation that she'd been trapped in a very snug iron box. A good thief could do the job naked if need be, she'd proven that several times. All the metal plates and fasteners destroyed her flexibility. It had taken an entire day of practice just to get used to walking in the stuff; there was no way she'd be able to run if she had to. Not that she anticipated having to. If the crowd outside turned then she'd be dead before her first three steps, with or without this reproduction of Andraste's battle gear covering her ass.
"You got off light. Try putting all of that on and then spend the afternoon sparring the Inquisitor." The mage was better at hiding her discomfort. She was good at hiding a lot of things. They'd both had to attend the Eve of the Divine as honored guests and the elf had been amazed to see how easily Solace slid into the atmosphere. She wandered among the nobles, charming and mystifying in turns as the courtiers tried to figure out who she was. The suspicions ranged from a new Chantry historian to an exiled princess. They were both under strict orders not to identify themselves.
Actually, Elani had several additional orders beyond that. She wasn't allowed to touch anyone, since Leliana knew sticky fingers when she saw them. She couldn't stray from the Divine's side; with the resented exception of Marquise Briala elves still weren't welcome at such festivities. Most importantly, she was absolutely not – under any circumstances – to speak. The handful of times she felt a frustrated obscenity curling on her tongue she'd catch twin sapphire daggers freezing her in place and killing the temptation. She didn't have Solace's Circle education or Orlesian eloquence, but her silence made her a tantalizing mystery to all the attendees. Divine Victoria was right, once again; being quiet made you smart and being smart kept you quiet.
"You're sure this is going to work?" Elani peeked through the crack of the door jamb. Way more than a hundred thousand people out there and probably less than 30 feet away. There were a staggering number of ways this could all get bollixed.
"I'm sure. I won't get you eaten by a demon if you don't blow us up." Solace imitated the elf's usual cocky grin. The thief opened her mouth to retort but Leliana's voice broke in, more pronounced than before.
"See, now, the Chantry that Divine Justinia gave her life to make possible!"
"That's the cue, go, go!" The mage shoved Elani towards the doors.
Were you there?
The question was like a tidal wave swallowing the world after an ocean holds its breath.
The day the Divine declared that the Seekers of Truth were reborn from Tranquil? When she brought out the mage dressed in armor, staff in hand, the blazing eye of the Order already stamped on her breastplate. Did you hear the mages crying? Did you see?
Were you there?
On that first day, when she announced that the Prophet's legacy to the world was more than history and song; did you tremble as she declared that the very blood of Andraste would once more beat within the heart of the Chantry? Were you among the thousands that gasped and staggered at the sight of an elf? Could you feel the murmurs and shock passing like wind through the crowd, swaying back and forth in confusion?
Did you duck or scream in fear when the sky exploded into a thousand points of light, raining color across the Cathedral? When fireworks that should only have been visible at night illuminated the courtyard and hid the sun? Did you laugh? Did you go silent?
When the smoke filling the sky began to billow and move like fluttering robes, undulating with the approach of a shadow – did you hold still? Did you see? In the air above the Divine, the figure taking shape out of the wisps and tendrils of fog, invisible but brilliant at the same time. Could you see the white of her dress flowing with the wind, hair a storm of sunrays and fire? The way she lifted her hands, spreading benediction over the Divine and her chosen, arms reaching ever further, wide enough to welcome all the army of the faithful into the warmth and love of her embrace. Did you drop to your knees?
You didn't? Then you weren't there.
Thoughts and comments appreciated.