This was a terrible idea.
Sylvanas paces the length of the cell muttering Thalassian curses and kicking pieces of broken stone and wood against the three walls. She should have known better than to believe that Alliance bitch. Better to go out swinging than to rot away like some caged beast in a forgotten zoo, but no, she stupidly agreed to follow Jaina's quest for some magical dream-elf. As her bound slave nonetheless. She willingly put herself into this role because of tears and pleading blue eyes and a silly pout. Now they're fucked. She's fucked. She couldn't care less about the mage at this point. Soft, stupid. You got soft.
For all of its formidable exterior, Skyhold is falling apart. When Solas brought them to the holding cells, it was obvious that the fortress was in disrepair. Sylvanas can see the rocky crags of the mountain range through the gaping hole in the middle of the floor and exterior wall. It can barely be called a room given how much is missing. Cells line the catwalks that remain along the rim of the missing floor. There were enough intact cells that they could have been separated, but Solas had them caged together. Trapped, she's trapped here in this hell surrounded by the enemy and rooming with a traitor.
She has time to stew, they took Jaina away about an hour ago, for healing they said. If she's not back in the next ten minutes, Sylvanas plans to bust out or die trying. The guard posted outside their cell watches her warily, but Sylvanas continues pacing. Without Deathwhisper and her quiver, she feels naked and exposed. Solas had apologized before asking both her and Jaina to hand over their weapons and Sylvanas initially refused. Jaina had handed the guard her staff and then turned to Sylvanas with those beseeching eyes and mouthed for Sylvanas to trust her. The guard wouldn't touch her bow, she simply pointed to a corner that was intact and told Jaina to get the dagger and quiver too. Thankfully, they were too afraid to physically touch her, so the stilettos sheathed in each boot remain, a small comfort she relies on when her anxiety is this high.
She also cannot shift forms. Like Jaina, this magic won't support her. She can taste it, and obviously her body converts it to enough energy to keep her undead, but the shadows elude her and her tendrils don't heed her call. Despite her anger, the wail doesn't build in her throat. The next rock she kicks deflects off the wall and careens across the cell to collide with the bars. Sylvanas hears the guard's sword slip from his scabbard and she realizes that she wants this fight. She obeys no one but herself and if she wants to make this man regret his job, she will.
"Ay, Maker take yeh, what's all that racket?"
She waits in silence, moving closer to the bars but against the wall so he can't see her. Hand hovering near the hidden blades in her boots, she can hear his heavy footfalls as he approaches. Humans. She rolls her eyes at his lack of grace, her muscles coiling to shoot her arm through the bars, grab him, and pull the razor-sharp blade from ear to ear.
He doesn't make it to the cell. A metallic scrape and bang drags his attention from her to the door of the jail where the two guards who pushed it open are trying to maneuver through it with a limp Jaina held between them. Each has one of her arms across his shoulders and Sylvanas winces at the pain she must have been in with the strain on her injured shoulder and wrist.
"Are you fools blind? She's injured, why are you carrying her like that?" Sylvanas shouts at them, her hands grabbing the bars and rattling them in her frustration. "Put her down!"
They drag her over to the cell door and lower her in a groaning heap. Sylvanas can see the beads of sweat above her upper lip and how her damp golden hair clings to her temples. She almost looks worse than the first day they were here. Sylvanas growls out, "What did you do to her?"
The escorts ignore her question and point to the back wall of the cell. "You, abomination, go sit facing the wall over there. Legs straight ahead, arms behind your back."
Sylvanas glares at the man, unmoving. He holds her eyes, then shrugs. "Throw her through the floor. The Inquisitor saw how she was after the healing. We'll just say she lost her balance near the edge."
The other two guards smirk and lean down to take Jaina's arms. She cries out when they pull her up by her shoulder, her eyes fly open, bright with pain and fear. She stumbles between them and falls to her knees, eyes locked with Sylvanas's. "Tell your demon to do what we told it to do, or you're going to take a little tumble."
"Sylvanas…please."
She holds Jaina's eyes for a moment more, angry. Angry that they're here, angry she's powerless, angry that she again cannot refuse that beseeching blue. She steps back to where they told her, moving to sit and hold her arms clasped behind her back. The door swings open with a squeal of hinges, and she can feel the point of a blade at the back of her neck. "Do yeh bleed, demon?" The guard she was hoping to kill pushes the blade just hard enough for it to bite into skin, yet she doesn't move but to grit her teeth.
They half-drag, half-lead Jaina to the pallet and drop her onto it, exiting the cell with raucous laughter and taunts at the mage's slumped form. Sylvanas reaches back where the blade nicked her skin and wipes away the dark ichor oozing from the shallow cut. Such a shame she wasn't able to run his own test on him. She pushes herself up from the back of cell and walks over to the makeshift bed. Jaina sits, staring at the floor, wrist unbound and Sylvanas's bracer in her hand.
"I'm surprised they sent you back with that, they've taken everything else."
Jaina's eyes remain downcast as she holds the bracer out. Sylvanas takes it from her but doesn't buckle it on. The Herald, or Inquisitor, as most of the guards called her, had commanded that they be stripped of all armor and weapons. Sylvanas has only her leathers, leggings, and boots; her cloak is still clipped to Jaina's front, hood bundled around her neck like a scarf.
"She is an awful woman." It's barely a whisper, but Sylvanas has no trouble hearing it over the whistling wind that blows through the cells. "He was only allowed to heal me enough that I don't need the wrappings. The bone is fused and the swelling is mostly down in the shoulder and wrist, but there's still pain. Then she made him stop. Why?"
It's not difficult for Sylvanas to think of a hundred reasons; there are several cruel bones in her body. Had the roles been reversed, Sylvanas might not have healed her at all. Control, power, pleasure - who knows what the other woman's objective is. She thinks back to the savage bliss that came as hot and heavy as the flames at Teldrassil. It wasn't until after that she noticed the emptiness in her chest where those flames once were. First Arthas, then emptiness. Then Calia, emptiness. Teldrassil, Derek, Delaryn, Sira, it didn't matter. She's still hollow and echoing.
Jaina raises her head to meet her eyes when Sylvanas doesn't answer. Sylvanas watches the volley of emotions cross her face until it is anger that burns blue in her eyes.
"Would you even have healed me?"
"If I were her?"
"Yes."
"No." Sylvanas's voice is flat as she speaks this truth. She understands that woman, and how fanatical power works. "Unless I was convinced that you being alive would serve me better than you being dead."
Jaina looks like she wants to say more, but she presses her lips together in a thin line and shakes her head.
"You owe your elf-mage your life. I don't know what he told her, but you're still alive and healed." Sylvanas wonders what else Jaina might owe and whether being dead might be better than half-healed. She taps a nail against a fang in thought.
"What if you were you?"
"What?" Sylvanas raises an eyebrow at the question. Jaina looks away a moment before setting her jaw and meeting her eyes again.
"Would you have healed me if you were you?"
"I did the best I could, didn't I?"
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." Jaina snaps.
Sylvanas just looks at the other woman, asking questions to which she damn well already knows the answer. She keeps her face as impassive as always, stuffing down the irritation that almost always comes with Jaina's questions.
"My answer is the same as before. If I were me and we were in Azeroth, you would be worth more to me undead than alive."
Why is she looking at her with such grave disappointment? Where did that anger go? The Jaina Proudmoore that Sylvanas knows isn't this naive, or strategically blind, or foolish. Ever the optimist, just like the little lion cub, but she'd thought not this blindly so.
"We are enemies, Jaina. The Inquisitor and us. You and I." Sylvanas drawls out, "Why would you think I would do anything else; that she would?"
Jaina doesn't answer at first. She simply closes her eyes and leans back against the wall, tipping her head to rest against the rough stones. Sylvanas notes that she's still holding her arm tightly against her body and cradling her half-healed wrist in her lap. Her voice is so soft when she finally does speak that Sylvanas has to focus to hear her.
"Why does everything have to be in the context of worth and war?"
Again, Sylvanas doesn't have an answer.
s§s
"We have to go in front of the Inquisitor for judgement. Then, if she doesn't condemn us to death or exile us, I have to undergo a harrowing."
Sylvanas looks up from the sliver of wood she is scratching into with her nails. It is strange to not have anything to do, to actually be bored instead of feigning it for a power play. They'd been sitting quietly since Jaina's question. Sylvanas didn't think it was possible for the mage to remain quiet this long, but after Sylvanas's lack of an answer they'd lapsed into an uneasy silence.
"Judgement? And what does the almighty endeavor to judge us for?"
Jaina bends and flexes her wrist slowly, rolling it around as far as she is able. Sylvanas has been surreptitiously watching her wince and quietly gasp for the past hour or so. It'd been a bad break; she'll be lucky to get the same range of motion as before. Sylvanas wonders briefly if it will affect her spellcasting. She's seen Jaina from afar, her hands dancing as they wove death for Horde troops. She's curious, but not enough to give Jaina the satisfaction of her interest or the pleasure of telling her to fuck off.
"Existing? I don't know." With a sigh, Jaina drops her arm into her lap.
Sylvanas snorts. She doesn't understand how someone would be so willing to eliminate the fountain of power sitting in this filthy cell. Bad strategy, bad tactics. Once Jaina figures out how to twist this magic, she will be everything the Inquisitor fears. Sylvanas might not be able to assume her banshee form or wail, but she's still a formidable archer and retains much of her undead strength. With a spellcasting Jaina Proudmoore at her side, they would be unstoppable. She briefly entertains the thought of asking Jaina if she'd felt the surge of arcane when they'd touched, but thinks better of it.
"If she exiles us, fine. I can live in this world if I must. If she chooses death, though, I won't go down without a fight." She looks up, fierce red holding Jaina's eyes, "And I hope you won't either."
Blue sharpens, defiant. There's the Jaina Proudmoore she knows; the one that purged Dalaran and almost destroyed Orgrimmar. There is still a hint of ruthlessness behind that virtuous beauty, and Sylvanas smirks. She's not as alone as she thought.
"And what exactly is this 'Harrowing'?"
Jaina shrugs and promptly sucks a gasp through her teeth. "Ow." She rolls her shoulder, massaging the joint with her good hand. "It sounds terrible, but I don't know what it is. Solas or the mage that helped heal me said one or both of them would come and explain."
The door screeches open and both guards jump to attention and Sylvanas steps in front of Jaina. The elf-mage is there, but this time he has a companion. A dark-haired man trails behind him, expression utterly exasperated and unamused. She doesn't take her eyes from him as she murmurs quietly. ""Speak of the devil…who's the other one?"
Jaina leans to look around her and whispers confirmation. "He was there when Solas healed me. I don't know what his name is though. They didn't offer introductions."
"Is he one of them?" Sylvanas sees the man scowl as Solas enters an irritated back-and-forth with one of the guards, shaking his head and dragging a hand over his face.
"Them, like one of the Inquisitor's? I don't think so. He seemed apologetic that I couldn't be fully healed. He was kind." Sylvanas looks down at Jaina peering out from behind her leg. "He doesn't look very happy about what the guards are saying."
At that point, the dark-haired mage had interjected for Solas. He is far more animated than the elf-mage, and grows increasingly incensed, his arms now gesturing emphatically, pointing to his wrist then shoulder then their cell again. This time, the guards just shrug and move to the side, opening up the narrow pathway for him to continue to where they wait.
"Bloody awful. Idiots. Are you alright?" His voice is pleasant; not even a hint of disdain coloring an accent that is nothing like the guards' or Inquisitor's.
Sylvanas looks him up and down, and crosses her arms over her chest. "And you are…?"
The man beams, sweeping into an elegant bow. "Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. A pleasure."
"It is good to see you again, Lady Jaina," Solas smoothly adds.
Jaina is smiling slightly up at both of them, but Sylvanas says nothing. She knows-vaguely-of Solas' stance on Proudmoore, but not his. What are his intentions coming here? If he is looking for information, he won't get it from her, at least not without discussing it with Jaina first.
"The friendly sort, are you then?" His eyes don't leave hers, despite her glower, and there's a certain look that makes her uneasy. There's no threat, but this man knows more than he's letting on. "We've come to check in on you, Lady Jaina, if your demon will allow it."
Jaina pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dust off with her good hand. Sylvanas steps to the side so she can approach the bars. Both guards are watching them closely, hands on the pommels of their swords.
"We're not permitted to heal you further, but I was allowed to come and check on you." Solas says in a low tone, "But that's not why I'm here. We decided to tell you about the Harrowing so that you would be prepared in the event the judgement isn't against you."
"Why both of you?" Sylvanas frowns.
"It was recommended in case you," Dorian says, looking pointedly in Sylvanas' direction, "decide to wreak havoc in this lovely prison cell, two mages would most certainly be a better bet at taking you down than one. And to check up on the Good Lady too, of course."
Sylvanas bares her fangs, but Dorian is wholly unfazed.
Solas, on the other hand, looks over to Jaina and murmurs. "Move your arm as though you're showing me what pains you and what doesn't."
Out of the corner of her eye, Sylvanas sees Jaina raise her arm with a wince and Solas nods, hand touching his chin in deliberation. The action belies his words as he continues.
"A Harrowing is a test all Circle mages are expected to undergo as a method to prove their strength in the face of demonic temptation," Solas explains. "As far as I am aware, most times these Harrowings go smoothly, as apprentice mages are trained from a very young age for this very event."
"And if something goes wrong?" Sylvanas already knows the answer, but she wants Jaina to hear it from their mouths, not hers.
Solas' face screws up, as if he swallowed something bitter. "That mage will be killed."
"And they call Tevinter barbaric," Dorian mutters under his breath. "There is also the choice to be made Tranquil, though personally, I believe that's a fate far worse than death."
"Why? What happens if one is made Tranquil?" Jaina's low voice can barely be heard over the gust of wind that blows up through the floor.
"Being made Tranquil cuts a mage off from the Fade, they are then branded, so everyone knows they're harmless husks. They lose their magic… and their emotions," Solas grits out, his jaw working, as if the words physically pained him. "They become monotonous, blank shells-beings that only know logic and emptiness."
"Generally, it's used as a precautionary measure, since demons are uninterested in Tranquils," Dorian elaborates further. "Although I wouldn't be surprised if these Templars went about handing out brands willy-nilly."
"And advice on how to pass this test?"
"The Harrowing is more a test of will and common sense than magical ability. You seem to have a great deal of both-I'm confident you will succeed, Lady Jaina."
Jaina exhales heavily. "No pressure, right?"
Solas offers her a wan smile.
Sylvanas catches the approach of the guards over Dorian's shoulder. "They're coming."
"A'right, yeh. She looks well enough to stand judgement, I'd say."
Solas dips his head and lets the guards pass. Dorian does the same, although his face is affixed into a deep scowl. One of the two guards in front of the cell pulls two lengths of rough rope from his belt. "Turn around, yeh both, and put yer hands back through the bars."
Jaina goes to turn, but stops when Sylvanas doesn't move.
"Why?"
"'Cause the Inquisitor wants yer hands bound, like all the prisoners she passes judgement on. Come on then."
Sylvanas nods slightly at Jaina who turns and backs slowly to the barred gate, her injured shoulder making it almost impossible to raise both arms behind her at the level the guard wants them. As soon as her hands are through, the guard without the rope loops his arm through the bars to press a dagger to the white column of her throat. Sylvanas growls, her eyes jumping to Jaina's for a command. She can assuredly break his arm and wrest the blade from his hand, but not fast enough to prevent harm to the other woman. He knows it too, she can tell from the brash way he holds her glare.
"Heel your dog, mage."
Jaina's eyes tighten, but Sylvanas sees no fear in the blue swirl of pain and anger. The mage says nothing aloud, but her gaze screams for Sylvanas to be still. So she relaxes her posture and waits, even when a thin rivulet of red slides from the nick that comes from swallowing against the blade, her eyes never leave Jaina's. Once Jaina is secured, Sylvanas turns and does the same. There is no dagger pressed to her throat, however, and the rope is hastily tied. It's obvious that they don't want to be near her, much less actually touch her. She smirks and flexes against the bindings. Breakable if necessary. Good.
They follow across a courtyard and up a large staircase into a crumbling keep. Her ears twitch at the low susurrus that echoes in the hall. In front of them, on a dais at the end, sits a throne like a sunburst, blade-like rays fanning out from the chairback. It is currently empty, so the symbol of the Inquisition, an eye run through with a sword, is plainly visible. A dark-haired woman with paper and board tucked into her arm announces the Inquisitor, who enters from a door behind and to the left of the throne. She walks to the seat with her head high, eyes bright and proud, her sharp gaze falling on them at the end of the hall. It's obvious to Sylvanas that this woman understands power, and people, and how to get what she wants. Dangerous in a way that she, herself, knows intimately.
"Inquisitor, Lady Jaina Proudmoore and her bound demon." The dark-haired woman's voice curls around Jaina's name, rolling the Rs as she announces them. "They were found approaching Skyhold, armed, with unknown intentions."
The Inquisitor leans forward, and Sylvanas moves toward Jaina, stepping slightly in front of her so she stands between them without blocking her from view. She holds the Inquisitor's gaze in challenge. The other woman's face remains impassive despite the flash of irritation in her eyes.
"Lady Proudmoore, Solas has told me the incredible story of your arrival here at Skyhold. I never took him for a fool, so perhaps this time he was blinded by your beauty and obvious need for aid to believe what you told him."
Sylvanas glances at the elf standing against the wall behind the small crowd gathered to watch the judgement. His face is blank but for a contradictory tightness around his eyes and mouth. There is no lost love between them. Does this woman not realize she is handing us allies? She would never be so shortsighted, herself.
"The story is fantastic beyond all belief. Dropped in a land with a hole in the sky from another land as afflicted, a mage who can walk the Fade and who has bound a demon into her service. We all know the former is impossible; so tell me, Lady, how exactly did you bind this abomination without a blood sacrifice?"
Sylvanas bristles at the slur, but forces the reaction to not show on her face. She glances over at Jaina, whose lips are pressed into a thin line, annoyance evident on her face.
"She is not an abomination."
The Inquisitor snorts derisively.
"I have known Sylvanas since I was practically a child. Living, she was Ranger General of her homeland and a hero to her people, as she is now, she is Warchief of the Horde and Queen of the Forsaken. She was bound to me…" Jaina hesitates, and Sylvanas can practically feel Jaina willing her to assent. "When she first died defending her home. I raised her at her sister's request, and she has travelled with me, when I've needed her, ever since. I don't need blood sacrifices to bind."
The lie is outrageous, yet Sylvanas remains impassive, as if hearing this tale bores her with its retelling. Inside, she is in turmoil; she cannot help but think of fields of yellow tulips, of the glowing blue runes of Frostmourne, of the torment that followed. Her eyes flick over the Inquisitor's face, looking for doubt or belief, but she is as inscrutable as Sylvanas, herself. Jaina, to her credit, holds the imperious jut of her chin despite the Inquisitor's scrutiny. The woman turns her gaze to her.
"Is this true?"
"It is. I owe Lady Proudmoore my life and I serve her whims." Sylvanas drawls, her emphasis sickly-sweet.
The Inquisitor either doesn't notice her irreverence, or doesn't care. She looks back to Jaina.
"You are a Tevinter mage then, Lady Proudmoore? Dealing in necromancy and blood magic?"
Jaina shakes her head, nose wrinkled in disgust and voice dripping with disdain. "I am no lich."
Sylvanas wonders if Jaina will be able to lie her way out of their origin story, if the Inquisitor presses. How did she raise Sylvanas if not from necromancy? She might gag if Jaina claims she used the Light. She is no Calia Menethil.
The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow. Jaina refuting blood magic and necromancy seem to be her only concern. "Why did you come here to Skyhold?"
"Solas thought we could be of use to the Inquisition. We had nowhere else to go."
The Inquisitor tents her fingers, resting her chin on her thumbs as she looks between the two of them and Solas. "Have the Lady undergo a Harrowing. It may make my decision for me. Until then, back to the cells."
As the guards move to collect them, Sylvanas sneaks a look back to Jaina when she hears the other woman sigh deeply. Her freckles stand out in high relief on her pale face, and her eyes are drawn and ringed by circles almost plum-dark. There are times when Sylvanas misses her living body, to experience all of her senses in full instead of muted, but she doesn't miss what is evident in Jaina's face - the crush of exhaustion, or hunger, or thirst.
Once she pulls abreast of the mage, she leans over to whisper in her ear. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Can you do this, tomorrow?"
"It's not as if I have a choice." Jaina's good shoulder rises and falls, resigned.
Something warm blooms in her chest, and her hand jumps up to cover her scar. It is not pain exactly, not the twisting douleur she felt in the portal, but it's unfamiliar, nonetheless. She scratches the spot absently as they walk back to their cell. Sylvanas knows Jaina has felt this way about many decisions in her life. She hopes this will not be another that the other woman regrets.