Impatience isn't usually something she's ever remembered dealing with in her many centuries of existence. For what reason would someone basically immortal have to be impatient? Yet, here she is, leg bouncing as she presses another snowflake into the surface of the table, waiting for whomever will escort them out today. The more arcane she gives and takes, the more frequently she gets like this - she doesn't know what to do with her hands when they're not in Jaina's.
Loathe she is to admit it, Jaina was right about practicing. Over the past couple of weeks, they have managed to perfect the flow of arcane between them, with Jaina able to cast multiple small spells in one sitting within the confines of their cell. To avoid drawing the attention of their guards, the mage had stuck to mirror image mostly, at one point there were eleven copies of her packed in the corner as she had tried both casting and maintaining, her blue eyes glowing and both of their hands clasped together. Sylvanas refuses to acknowledge how much she looks forward to this practice time. It would be a weakness to want something that someone can take away and she would welcome true death before giving Jaina Proudmoore that kind of power over her.
She wonders who will be coming today.
Iron Bull is their most frequent escort since the Inquisitor favors her own battleaxe and Cassandra's broadsword over his when she goes out to do whatever they do when they leave. Sylvanas appreciates his honesty and his respect for the both of them without ever having seen what they can do. She enjoys his quick mind and the comfortable repartee they've developed-he reminds her a bit of Nathanos, when he was alive and good-humored. He is an unapologetic flirt as well; once she realized he flirted with everyone, all the time, she lowered her hackles and joined in the banter, as bawdy and brash as she would be with her rangers. What she isn't ready to admit is that she does it mostly to savor the stunned silence and delicate flush that pinks the Lord Admiral's cheeks and darkens the freckles sprinkled across her nose. Bull had roared with laughter the first time the usually loquacious mage sat, speechless, her wide eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them as they traded filthy pick up lines in their respective languages. Sylvanas had hid her smile behind a flash of fangs.
Leliana has also brought them out to the courtyard, but her guided tours of Skyhold are quieter, her observations and conversation not as guileless as those of the hulking Qunari. The Chantry sister catches everything, and Sylvanas isn't as open with her. Jaina chatters away, but she's noticed that the mage keeps to inane topics like fashion and foods. Leliana likes to sit or walk near the gardens where she has been teaching them about the different plants and their uses. She has only spoken directly to Sylvanas once, asking to see the stiletto sheathes in her boots, claiming that her own hampered ankle movement. Sylvanas relented only after Jaina's pointed stare and exasperated sigh.
Solas and Dorian weren't permitted to escort them alone, so their visits were limited to chairs outside the bars of their cell, one of them talking loud enough to drown out the fact that the other was trying to tutor Jaina in Thedosian magic. During these visits, Sylvanas endured question after question about elven history and comparative linguistics from an insatiably curious Solas. She's grown used to incessant questions - between Jaina, Iron Bull, and Solas, it's possible that Sylvanas has spoken more over the last four weeks than in the past two years as Warchief. They have been here a month, and neither her nor the Lord Admiral are dead.
The metallic screech of hinges jolts her from her thoughts. She stands, brushing her fingers against the snowflake that morphed into a Forsaken crest as she daydreamed. "Her" half of the table is almost completely covered in engravings - mostly snowflakes, because they make Jaina smile, but here and there amongst the blizzard are crows, skulls, and feathers, so many feathers. When the silhouette pushes through the doorway, she's shocked to see their escort today is the Inquisitor herself.
"Proudmoore."
Jaina blinks sleepily from the bed they were given last week. Having proper furniture has helped the mage; fitful sleeping on the stone floor of the cell left her stiff and achy, slowing the healing of her wrist and shoulder and darkening the circles around her eyes. Since the bed arrived, Jaina catnaps off and on throughout the day when they're locked in. Sylvanas is pretty sure that this is the most sleep the other woman has had in the last three years. She's a completely different kind of beautiful with her bright blue eyes nearly free from the shadowed circles, not that Sylvanas notices, of course. The rest has also improved her spellcasting stamina; she's able to hold illusions for longer and once managed to blink them both across the cell.
Sylvanas lowers her voice but keeps her eyes on the woman talking to the guards who jumped to attention as soon as they saw who'd entered. "You need to get up. The Inquisitor is here."
Jaina's eyes go round. She throws her legs over the edge of the bed and pads over, barefooted, to where Sylvanas is standing with her arms behind her back. Jaina stands slightly behind her and cranes her neck to see over Sylvanas's shoulder. "Why is she here?"
Sylvanas just shrugs. They've seen neither hide nor hair of Lady Trevelyan since the judgement. Iron Bull has told them that the Inquisitor frequently travels across Ferelden or Orlais, battling demons and closing the rifts from which they emerge. Dorian and Solas have implied that demons aren't her only target, and Leliana's garden lectures and shoe endorsements never include mention of her leader. No other members are given prisoner detail. Although Bull has pointed out Grand Enchantress Vivienne's balcony window and Varric's post just inside the main keep's entrance, neither person has ever been tasked with their escort.
Heavy footfalls make her pin back her ears. Only the spy walks with any sort of stealth. She should expect that Trevelyan, a woman who demands the attention of the room, would stomp everywhere she goes. She hears a quiet rustle of fabric behind her, then the soft touch of Jaina's hand, first along her sleeve - alerting her to the mage's intentions- and then it slips into her own. She fights to keep her face neutral as their connection flares then settles to a low hum. While they've perfected regulating the flow of mana back and forth between them, neither of them have grown used to the coiling pleasure that threatens their control. The desire to pull is always there, and the heat that it leaves low in her belly from just their hands touching sometimes makes her wonder. When Jaina gently squeezes her hand, she realizes she's lost in thought again and the Inquisitor is staring at her from the other side of the bars.
"Lady Trevelyan." Jaina's greeting gets only a flick of steely grey eyes and a slight dip of head. This time Sylvanas tightens her fingers around Jaina's at her indignant huff. That famous Proudmoore temper hasn't been an issue so far; the mage has been too sick and exhausted for it to really flare up, but touching arcane energies and actually sleeping have brought back the Jaina Proudmoore that she glimpsed the day of their judgement.
"Reports back to me have stated that you both have stayed within the parameters I set." Sylvanas notices that the woman looks past her at Jaina as she speaks -as if Sylvanas doesn't exist- despite Jaina being almost completely behind her. She keeps her face neutral despite the strong desire to scowl. Being underestimated is always an advantage. "My advisors have suggested that you both be released from the cell and given rooms and some measure of independence." Jaina squeezes her hand again, this time as a celebration, and before she can stop herself, she slides her thumb across the mage's knuckles in acknowledgement.
Stern grey snaps to hold her gaze for the rest of the declaration. "You will not be armed, except during training, which is to be supervised with multiple members of the Inquisition. Several people," here Trevelyan hesitates a moment then scowls, "whose opinions I value have posited that you both have been sent by Andraste to help us against Corypheus and his dragon. I cannot understand why Andraste would send a powerless mage and a demon, but I have been reminded it is not my place to question Her judgement or intentions. I am merely a tool for Her and the Maker to cleanse Thedas from Corypheus's menace and help find someone worthy of being the new Divine."
Two sharp squeezes press into her fingers and she knows Jaina is warning her not to bait the Inquisitor into changing her mind, so she swallows down the dark chuckle and smirk that she was prepared to bestow on the other woman for holding them in this hell for weeks. Jaina pulls her hand away with a soft caress of fingers and steps forward to stand next to her.
"I will show you to your rooms." The Inquisitor calls for one of the guards to unlock the cell. Neither of them move as the man slots the key into the door and swings it open. Sylvanas had fantasized about falling onto the guards in her banshee form, their hands clutching their bleeding ears as her wail drove them to their knees. She'd comforted herself by imagining the familiar weight of Deathwhisper in her hands and her quiver on her back, arrow lined up with the Inquisitor's left eye-in high-stress situations she's noticed she pulls right, so a little overcompensation is necessary for a clean kill. For now, she'll accept the deep satisfaction she's getting from knowing the Inquisitor isn't pleased with freeing them, and that someone in her organization chastised her.
They follow her out of the prison -Sylvanas throwing a last longing look at her bow and armor- and into the now familiar courtyard. The few people they pass watch them curiously as they trail along behind the Inquisitor. They don't go far. A staircase in the keep leads to a balcony lined with single rooms, two of which are damaged and inhabitable, but there are two next to one another, each furnished with a bed, table, and chair. Sylvanas is wary of this sudden burst of generosity.
"Are we to be locked in here at night?"
"No." The scowl is back, marring Trevelyan's fine features. "You are not prisoners any longer."
"So we could leave?"
"Yes, if you wish to do so."
Sylvanas tips her head in acknowledgement. She hears the hint of hope despite the Inquisitor's dour expression. The only way Sylvanas would have allowed prisoners to leave would be if there were a price on their heads. She's convinced this woman would do the same -let someone else do her dirty work -so stay they must. They'll have some manner of protection while working with the Inquisition so Jaina can build her strength, and while she, herself, can learn what powers she can access. Private rooms and usage of the training grounds will give them more opportunity to practice. The strange warmth flares again in her chest, her hand immediately rising to clutch where it blooms. Jaina looks at her in concern, but she shakes her head slightly and holds her hand out, moving it back and forth between the rooms.
"I defer to you, Lady Proudmoore. Which is more to your liking?"
Jaina's hand is at her neck, fingers slowly rubbing the metal anchor. Sylvanas thought the mage would be more excited to be getting out of the filthy cell, but she appears more apprehensive than pleased. She puts her hand under Jaina's dirty cloak and gently presses it against her lower back, urging her forward. She swears Jaina leans back into the touch before moving to the room on the left. Before she enters, the Inquisitor speaks again.
"Of course, now that you are essentially free, Lady Proudmoore, we'll need a phylactery -"
Ears flattened, Sylvanas can't stop the feral growl that explodes from her as she shoves herself between Trevelyan and Jaina. She twists an arm behind her, flexing her fingers in a silent demand for Jaina's hand and is immediately flooded with arcane when the mage takes it without hesitation.
"I told you at the judgement that I am no lich." Jaina snaps out, indignant, her hand squeezing tight against Sylvanas's in anger. "Nor am I a necromancer." Sylvanas finds her thumb moving of its own accord, stroking gently across Jaina's knuckles, trying to calm her before she glacial spikes the woman in front of them. They haven't practiced offensive magic, so who knows what would happen if Jaina loses control. Temper, temper, little mage.
The Inquisitor's hand rests on the sheathed dagger at her side, but the smile on her face is far more threatening in its calmness. "No phylactery, no rooms. If we have no way of tracking you, you cannot be outside the cell without an escort."
She feels Jaina stiffen behind her, so she continues the gentle slide of her thumb until she hears the deep inhale and slow exhale as Jaina tries to calm herself. It's always her. Sylvanas feels a stab of regret; she desperately wants out of the cell, but once again it is Jaina who has to pay the toll. Her hand reaches up to press against the irritating tightness in her chest that flared again at her thoughts, when she sucks in a hissing breath. She stops her thumb and pulls her hand from Jaina's, gritting her teeth at the loss of connection. Why does she care if the other woman has to do this thing for their freedom? 'It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.' She tries to convince the part of herself that's insisting that it might. Jaina gasps too, as the connection is severed, and she can feel the mage shift behind her in confusion.
"I-I need a moment." Jaina stammers, "Sylvanas?"
Trevelyan's eyes move from hers to Jaina's, brow furrowed, aware that something has happened, but unsure as to what. She steps back away from them, but doesn't go far enough to provide for a true private conversation.
Sylvanas turns around and Jaina's eyes immediately search her face. She says nothing; she won't attempt to sway the mage either way. Finding nothing to go on, Jaina's hand jumps to her necklace and she catches her lip between her teeth. Sylvanas's itches to pull Jaina's fingers from the pendant or to slip her hand under the mage's chin and slide her thumb across the lip she's worrying. She frowns at the compulsions -she cares not about the mage's distress and clenches her hands into fists at her sides.
"This is your decision, Lord Admiral; it's your soul."
She sees the hurt in Jaina's eyes, and turns away before her resolve crumbles. That's what got them here in the first place, her weakness against a pretty face. If she thinks about it hard enough, she can pin all of this on Jaina. Everything is her fault - the portal, their arrival at Skyhold, the vexing burn in her chest, this concern that bleeds from her when she thinks about the things Jaina has endured since their arrival and continues to endure.
"Soul?" Now the Inquisitor looks confused. "Commander Rutherford will make the incision and collect your blood, the First Enchanter will cast the spell. This has nothing to do with souls."
"What is the point of the phylactery then?" Jaina's voice is quiet but firm, the fiery anger banked to embers. Sylvanas closes her eyes at the tone; she can imagine her face- resigned at being abandoned again. Still, she will not turn nor reach behind her at the tentative touch to her back. There is nothing she hates more in the world as someone telling her 'I told you so' - her mother and Alleria made sure of that. This decision will be Proudmoore's alone.
"It is used to track apostate mages so they can be brought back to the Circle."
Her ears flick at the aggressive metal slide of Jaina's pendant against its chain as the mage deliberates. The Inquisitor stands stiffly, impatience writ in the set of her jaw. Sylvanas doubts that apostate mages are just found and returned. Dorian's horrified face and their conversation of Tranquils imply "brought back" is something more permanent.
"Call whomever you need to call, let's get it over with." Same quiet tone as before, but there's more than just resignation simmering below the surface.
Her shoulders sink at Jaina's response, in relief and in the knowledge that she owes the other woman for taking this additional responsibility. It may be the mage's fault that they are here, but Sylvanas knows Jaina could have refused and they could stay in their cell. She sighs as the Inquisitor smirks; next to their deaths, this seems to be her desired outcome.
"I'll leave you both to settle in while I find the Commander and First Enchanter." Trevelyan turns on her heel and walks to the stairs before looking back over her shoulder. "I've posted guards on the stairs should you feel compelled to explore. You need an escort until we complete the phylactery."
"Undoubtedly they've been instructed to kill on sight." Sylvanas mutters, turning to go into her room. A hand on her arm stops her and she frowns. She doesn't want to deal with this right now; not with the turmoil in her head. She pulls her arm away, but keeps her voice neutral, eyes trained on her open door. "Now is not a good time, Lord Admiral."
If pleading or tears are what she expected, she is dead wrong. Jaina's hand grabs her elbow, and when she spins around with a growl she is met by full Kul Tiran fury.
"Now is the only time. I'm tired of you dodging me." Jaina snarls, lips pulled back over bared teeth. "What the fuck, Sylvanas?" The hand gripping her elbow moves flat against her sternum pushing her back against the wall between their rooms. "What is your fucking deal? I thought the past two weeks working together put us past this," Jaina indicates between the two of them with her other hand, "bullshit! I thought we had each other's backs; I thought we were allies in this mess. Am I wrong? Did I completely read you wrong? Because what I thought was that you wanted to get out of this place and you needed my help to do it. And I fucking know it just eats you up to need my help, but you're going to have to swallow your tidesdamned pride and accept it. Then, you are going to help me, because I CANNOT do this on my own, do you understand?"
She wants to be furious, to be outraged, to snap and curse at the mage in turn, but she cannot because she is distracted by the flush across Jaina's cheeks, by the fire in her eyes, and by the way her lips curl around her heated words. The mage is gorgeous in her anger, so much so that she forgets she's the unaffected Warchief of the Horde, the emotionless Banshee Queen of the Forsaken -Ranger General Sylvanas Windrunner always appreciated beauty. Her body and mind are no longer under her careful control; if they were she'd have mocked Jaina's tirade and stepped away instead of slowly raising her hand, eyes searching Jaina's face for refusal, then giving in to the desires of the Ranger General.
She brings her fingers up to trace along a clenched jaw, and Jaina closes her eyes and draws in a shuddering breath. Whether from the arcane rush or unexpected gentleness in the face of fury, Sylvanas doesn't know and doesn't care. She cups Jaina's chin and softly brushes her thumb against lips that were just cursing her. The energy hums between them, adding a second layer of sensation to already overloaded senses. She wonders, crazily, what it would feel like to press her lips to where her thumb currently rests, to feel their connection through a kiss. Her own eyes close for a moment, too, before she gathers at the tatters of her control and with one last caress, gently pulls her hand away.
"I understand, Lady Proudmoore."
She slips into her room and shuts the door before Jaina can respond.