Update: fixed typos and clarified passages.
To my readers, thank you for your patience.
Unfortunately, real life keeps getting in the way.
Thanks go out to:
Cherry Jam on Toast,
Shadeslayer113, and
Efion63,
Who encouraged and supported my meager efforts.
Special thanks to those who have read and reviewed this story, especially
Kora,
Judy,
and Kanta.
Also, if you find typos, please let me know. If I had seen them, I would have fixed them. Ty
There is coarse language.
Dawn Brings Changes
Serrada's blurry eyes tried to focus on … what was the word?
'Ceiling!' That was it, and a ceiling that had seen better days.
There were several gaps from missing planks; the surrounding boards often desperately needed retirement. Beyond the holes, Serrada could see the green leaves of growing plants that must have taken root in windblown soil gathered in the rubble on the floor above.
Overall, it was a very shabby example of a ceiling.
Certainly nothing like the clean, carefully crafted woodwork that greeted her eyes each morning in a lovely little cabin in Haven.
A tear fled the corner of her eye, inching down her face to finally lose itself in her sleep-disheveled hair.
Memories came unbidden, both wonderful and terrible.
For Serrada, every detail of Haven was as fresh and brilliant as a new coin. Her smile came effortlessly with recollections of trudging up the path from the stables, the crunching gravel under boot, the groan of the main gate, muscles that complained with each step, the left turn at Charter's cabin, of the dancing candlelight through curtained windows, the last few paces, the feel of fingertips on the latch, the scent of the roughhewn door, being greeted by Gliril's smiling face with hot food and steaming bath just beyond.
More memories flooded back; of quiet moments reading, laughter, and shared meals, her simple bed, that cabin was her home.
Those days were gone and would never come again.
Thinking of Gliril's hard work, which made the little cabin a safe place for Serrada, brought more tears.
She allowed herself to grieve for more than the dead for the first time.
She knew she could not afford to indulge herself for too long. After all, Gliril still lived; the small vase containing wildflowers, which others would consider weeds, to Serrada were as beautiful as Orlesian roses, confirming the girl was still looking after her.
Serrada sat up very gingerly; looking around carefully, she vaguely remembered the room from her explorations. She realized it must be the north side guard house, which, along with its twin on the south side, overlooked a small space between the inner and outer portcullis. These rooms were intended as a last defense of the inner courtyards; from this room, guards could rain death down on those who got through the outer defenses.
This morning, her soiled laundry was stationed for cleaning, and her relatively clean knickers were drying across the hasty clothesline, worse, until moments before, it was from where her snores had poured out upon the innocents.
Whether from fire unleashed by guards and mages or the unearthly sound of Serrada's nasal congested snoring, whoever passed below was in deadly peril.
Her fingers glided over the three stone walls, two of which were the inner and outer walls of Skyhold, and the third wall next to her bed was part of the inner fill wall. The fourth wall over the gate passage was no more than waist high, but above it was a screen of blankets thrown over a rope strung between torch sconces.
The blanket screen may thwart the eyes of gawkers', but it did not stifle their voices. Instead, she could hear the movement of those coming and going through the two portcullises of the gate, both wide open to allow the Inquisition to carry on the difficult task of making Skyhold home.
"Gran, why are we whispering?" A young girl's voice filtered through the blanket.
"Quiet, you silly child, her ladyship is sleeping just on the other side of that cover," Came the reply, "or so the rumors say, so hush now." Serrada chuckled to herself. Gran's hearing must not be what it once was, as her whisper was a bit louder than was necessary for the task.
Serrada threw back the blankets and felt the chill air of the Frostbacks. A chill far cooler than she would have expected in her armor; then she realized something else — she was in her bedclothes, not her cozy fur-lined armor.
She had no memory of going to bed, much less of undressing. Her last memory was of lying on a cot near the makeshift hospital; she had planned to rest for a moment.
There was still so much work ahead in a day filled with hard labor.
It was challenging to find the entrance at the base of the thin spire of rock that supported the far end of what they had named the flying bridge. Next, they cleared the staircase, climbing hundreds of steps to the spire's top and gaining the watch tower opposite the Skyhold fortress.
She was preparing to lead Cassandra, Solas, and Bull across the barren, windswept bridge to enter Skyhold for the first time. When she turned, she found John had blocked the door. He was joined by his lieutenants, all with grim, determined faces.
"Serrada, you are not going over there first. You are not equipped or trained for missions like this; this is street fighting and specialized." His voice was firm and commanding. If it were not so public, she would have felt a different response to his statement, but as it was, it could be seen as a challenge to her authority or that of the Quartet.
"What? You don't think I can handle myself?" Serrada's voice was not exactly cold, but it challenged his question.
It was clear he would not be dissuaded, which the Herald expected, but what surprised her was Cassandra, who stood passively and did not say a word, not even a peep, and Eric looked pleased with himself. Worse, neither did Bull, with Little John looking as happy with himself.
"No, Serrada, I know you are capable, but I also know you are irreplaceable," John answered with an equal amount of steel. "We, on the other hand, are not."
"Furthermore, my team and I have breached more fortifications than I can remember," John was stubborn, and everyone knew he would not relent. "Let my people clear it first; then, we can all move in. The sooner we gear up, the sooner we get inside."
The use of my people rang in her ears; they had all sworn loyalty to the Inquisition; even the scholars had … eventually. Did that mean nothing to them? To John? They were not only his people anymore.
'This is going to be a problem,' she said a quiet prayer to Andraste that it was only a slip of the tongue.
With that, he led his people downstairs; she could have gone across the bridge after he left. She did glance at the door and considered it, but she turned away.
"Let's rest and get the Quartet together; it is not like Skyhold is going anywhere." She suggested, trying to sound like John's demand was part of her plan.
The Quartet convened in the most uncomfortable place Serrada could find. The top of the outer tower, at the far end of the flying bridge, across from Skyhold itself.
Serrada hoped that the bitter cold would motivate them to come to a swift agreement, her optimism was short-lived, but the location still had the advantage that it thwarted eager ears in echoing stone walls.
As usual, the Quartet argued back and forth, but none could get past the logic of John's argument.
The Inquisition had only taken two fortifications, both in the Hinterlands, with heavy reliance on John's forces and with only support from Harding and her scouts.
Cullen, however, was like a dog with a bone and would not be dissuaded.
"The fortress is clearly abandoned," Cullen insisted, his arms flailing toward the fortress. "We have seen no movement, and we have people who need a secure place to rest."
Serrada wondered if urgency was his motivator or whether he might be slightly jealous.
She was prepared to counter when Cass beat her to it.
"And what if it is not? What if Corypheus has laid a trap for us?" Cassandra looked at everything as a trap since Haven. "Should the rest of the Inquisition slaughter in an instant? Commander Gray and his men are trained for this, as they have amply demonstrated. Give them this task."
In the end, Cullen had to relent, however grudgingly, the reports of the Newcomer's work in the Hinterlands spoke for themselves. With Scout Harding's almost rapturous accounts of the Newcomer's exploits, there was no other reasonable choice.
However, that did not mean John would have it all his way.
"Let the Newcomers lead; have Harding and her scouts follow as a strong second wave, holding the cleared spaces," Serrada was clapping her arms around herself and dancing up and down, trying not to freeze in the frigid wind. 'Maybe this location was not the best idea….'
"An excellent suggestion," Leliana agreed, somehow without a hint of irony that this solution was evident from Harding's reports. She was standing a short way off, looking for all the world like Smiles when he was basking in the warmth of the Ostwick summer sun. Serrada could not help but wonder at the spy master's abilities and whether Smiles was still as fat as when she left.
"It will give greater insight into their tactics and methods…." Leliana continued, still showing no hint of discomfort at the frigid wind; she stopped and then glanced at Serrada. "Perhaps we can adapt them for our training."
"With your permission, of course," Leliana was smiling; she had an odd expression. One that Serrada could not interpret. "I would not wish to compromise … the Inquisition … with the good Commander Gray."
"Why are you asking me?" Serrada could feel her cheeks flush, but she shivered and hugged herself. "I will speak with him and hear any objections."
Serrada left a little too quickly, glad to be out from under those eyes more than the wind. A twitter of soft female chuckling followed her along with Commander Cullen's voice.
"What?" Cullen asked, bringing open laughter.
Serrada happily opened the hatch and slid down the ladder; she grasped the line to pull it closed but not before Josephine added some exciting information; Serrada hesitated.
"That reminds me, Mother Gisselle has asked to speak with us," Josephine's voice was muffled by the thick fur bundled to the top of her head. An intense gust of wind blew the trap door closed, cutting off the rest.
Serrada shrugged, "If I need to know, they will tell me."
She descended the stairs and found the guard house anteroom a story below the landing. Out of habit, she stayed out of sight and listened to John prepare his people; she could not help but smile but wanted to be sure he did not see she had.
"We do this by the numbers. I don't want anyone getting hurt or worse," John's muffled voice could be heard through the wooden door. "Let's go over it again…."
'Well, he certainly doesn't lack initiative,' She thought, but her smile diminished. 'At least when rushing into a place that might get him killed.'
Her expression soured when she recalled his refusal to have a private dinner with her for fear of how it might look to the rest of the troops. She was conflicted by his rejection, humiliated that he had turned her down, but also proud that he had considered her reputation before his pleasure, or at least she hoped it was a pleasure for him to be with her. Suddenly her face flushed again.
She listened for a few more heartbeats until her embarrassment would not show.
"LJ and Eric, you take your groups; we sweep together" John was giving orders like the Quartet had voiced their mind, not just his people but the entire Inquisition course of action. "Paddy, hang tight and do what you can; With the wall, you can't get a clear shot from this side, so follow on and see if you can find a spot."
Again, Serrada was proud of him for taking charge; it was his way, and she found it reassuring and something else she could not put her finger on. She also knew that sooner or later, it would be a problem; it also clarified that the earlier slip of the tongue was no slip at all. He considered all of the Newcomers, particularly the soldiers, his people. She decided to let it be later but needed to start laying some groundwork now; she put her hand on the door handle.
"I don't know much about castles, but isn't there usually a main door into the feasting hall or something? Then passages up to the tower where the damsels are all kept," LJ was trying to be funny, Eric did 'funny' better, no laughter, but LJ got a smile or two, encouraging him.
"And another down to the dungeon where the ex is stashed," LJ added, trying for a home run.
No one laughed at that one, especially John.
"We stay together; we don't know what is in there; it could be nothing, or it could be a dragon or worse," John added, and the room was silent.
"Who will hold the places we cleared areas and choke points?" Eric asked as if on cue, giving Serrada the opening she needed. She opened the door and stepped in, leaving it open wide behind her.
"John, the Quartet has agreed to allow your team to lead," Serrada paused, letting the comment float in the air while taking a deep breath. "Provided that Inquisition scout teams follow you closely behind and hold ground as you clear it."
She could see he was going to object. "This is not negotiable, Commander, there are few of you, and we cannot afford to waste your lives without at least trying to safeguard them."
She thought better of confessing their ulterior motives of observing the Newcomer's tactics; it was inevitable.
"Carry on, Commander," she added, then smartly turned and left, closing the door, cutting off his response. She started walking down the stairs to the main landing. A broad high-ceilinged chamber where several wagons and their teams waited to enter Skyhold.
The convoy was stuck until the bridge and castle beyond were secured. Harding, Gliril, and Charter were in hot debate over something or another.
"Charter, Harding, each of you prepare detachments. You will be supporting the Newcomers Newcomers and holding keep positions. You will follow and take careful note of their actions and tactics," she spoke; the two became visibly uncomfortable, then she saw Gliril's face and understood. "Gliril, you are going as my eyes."
Gliril brightened up immediately; Serrada brushed the back of her fingers along the cheek of the elf girl's face. Then taking a deep breath, she kissed her forehead and whispered, "Take care of yourself and John for me, please? I can't lose either of you."
Serrada turned and did not look back; she did not want any of them to see her wipe a tear away.
She climbed the steps again; the guard room door was open now. John nodded; he looked unhappy but simply asked, "I assume Harding and Charter are leading them?"
"Yes, Commander Gliril is going with you as well" She put up her hand to silence him before he could object. "Again, not negotiable … for either of us."
That comment resulted in a smile from John and a round of laughter from the Newcomers. They all had watched the transformation, and everyone knew Gliril generally got her way but was not a brat about it; she had good instincts.
Leaving them alone again, Serrada climbed the stairs, this time to the very top, the Quartet members whispering to themselves around a happily burning brazier, something Serrada had intentionally neglected to install.
She finally took a moment to survey Skyhold from the frigid peak of the outer bridge gate.
Whoever had designed Skyhold was brilliant in its defense. Standing at the top of a stone spire, it had no access to its walls save for the climb of hundreds of feet of icy windswept granite. The only entrance was from a single finger of rock hollowed out enough to allow a long, winding triple stair. The stairs themselves were ingenious. Cut entirely from the living rock as if a giant worm had made its way up the top, leaving a tunnel and three spiral stairs.
The outer sets of stairs were clearly for men or elves, taller than was the custom of dwarves; however, the middle set was cut shallow and broad so that a horse might have easy purchase.
All steps were rough, with smooth treads only in places where many feet had tread worn them. Two channels were cut just wide enough for wagon wheels to travel between the three stairs. The builders had thought of everything, including sliding stones placed every dozen paces to act as a stop so that if a horse lost its footing or became exhausted, the wagon would not roll back down onto a wagon below it.
The Spiral Stair was the uninspired name given to the thousand step limb that wound up inside the sheer spire of rock whose roots were far below by the lake, and the narrow necklace of Inquisition tents dotted the land surrounding it.
After a single traverse of the Spiral Stair, it was clear that everyone would quickly miss the easy road leading up to Haven.
From the very top of the spire, she watched John and his people move across the bridge, followed by double their number of Inquisition scouts.
She thought he glanced over his shoulder, and perhaps he even smiled and waved, but that must have been in her imagination.
She felt four ages passed in the intervening two hours she waited until Gliril returned at a dead run.
Serrada raced down the stairs and pushed Cullen out of her way; as she sprinted across the causeway and scooped the elf girl up in her arms, she immediately checked Gliril for wounds. Gliril was breathing hard and could not speak at first.
"It is secure, mistress, John … Commander Gray sent me back to tell you. Skyhold is secure." Gliril would have said more, but Serrada clutched her too tightly to breathe. The elf wrapped her arms around her mistress, laid her head on the solid shoulder, and waited, relishing the rib-cracking hug.
Ultimately, Serrada had to let her down. Together, they turned only to find the armed and ready Quartet leading dozens of heavy Inquisition soldiers, mages, and Templars prepared to assist.
Serrada simply smiled, and the cheer went up.
The Inquisition had a home.
Taking up occupancy was not without its challenges.
There were no two-footed occupants but quite a collection of four and eight-legged ones.
Gliril reported nothing too outrageous was encountered, indeed no dragons.
The search was somewhat anticlimactic, the nugs were not numerous, and hence the spiders were not as massive as they might have been with more plentiful meals. Of course, the lowest-level library was a mess of spiderwebs, but at least it meant the vermin were not abundant, and the books remained largely unharmed.
Serrada listened to Gliril as both walked ahead of the Quartet and soldiers into Skyhold.
Serrada had not yet entered the main keep or the great hall; too much work was needed in clearing and preparing the courtyard for the wounded. Although, perhaps after it was made safe, she would venture up to the upper bailey, she had heard the upper bailey was essentially a garden space. But, unfortunately, she had not seen that either.
John and his troops had worked their way up and over the walls to clear the upper bailey; so much debris was blocking the main hall entrance that it could not yet be opened. A beam had nearly crushed Eric as they entered the hall, so John had ordered a retreat after they convinced themselves it was unoccupied. However, they did manage to clear the lower chambers before they retreated.
The Quartet had ordered no more efforts to explore until the structure's safety could be determined and set what few skilled engineers remained on the task.
Serrada was too occupied to explore it anyway; after all, there was grueling enough work in the lower courtyard for the first day.
The inner and outer walls were damaged by weather and neglect but still sound. Where there was damage, the rubble of the walls was still lying where it fell from the inner wall; the outer wall material had, of course, tumbled down the cliff. Still, they were surrounded by granite mountains to acquire but required little transport.
The problem was timber. There were small groves of woods tucked in the few sheltered places here and there. Serrada insisted those little green spaces be preserved; otherwise, the vistas might be too bleak and begin to wear on their souls.
"Well, we passed through forests enough on the way up; perhaps we should harvest timber there?" Cassandra asked in the mid-afternoon meeting. "Besides, we need firewood, as well."
Varric immediately sent out crows to procure dwarven aid; Serrada asked him if he had any hope of assistance.
"Well, not everyone hates me, most simply dislike me, and there are one or two who claim even to enjoy my company," Varric responded with his usual smirk, but Serrada noted more than a hint of sadness in his eyes.
'There is a story there,' she thought and tried to stuff that into the growing list of things she tried to remember about her friends and companions. 'Goodness, no wonder Jose keeps the clipboard; I will have to start keeping notes too.'
It was well past midnight when Serrada said goodnight to the healers and went looking for Mother Gisselle. She could not find her but did find Flissa, who was helping with the wounded.
"She is off speaking with the leadership, my Herald," Flissa curtsies for the fifth time. "They are speaking about … I am not sure what … but they will likely …."
Flissa did not get a chance to finish when Gliril appeared out of the gloom.
"What are you doing still up?" Gliril asked, with more than a hint of edge to her voice. She grasped Serrada by the right arm in a steel grip and tried to turn her toward a door.
"Gliril, I must speak with Mother Giselle before I rest; please go get her, will you? I will sit here and wait." Serrada responded, then collapsed on one of the few empty cots, not caring that its most recent occupant was bound for the morning pyre.
"But I have fixed you a bed; no more sleeping under the stars if I can prevent it. You will catch your death out here," Serrada smiled to herself but did not move for her beloved elfin drill sergeant and slowly sank down on the cot. "Mistress, you must get your sleep, tomorrow is a big day, and you don't want to be yawning through it. We need you clear headed, not all cobwebs and bloodshot eyes. I need to get you out of your filthy things …."
Serrada was indeed exhausted; she had done far more than her share of work helping prepare the new camp as best she could and had made two trips up and down the Spiral Stair before she could not climb again.
The lower camp was secure; Cullen had organized and prepared it, and it was well defended, with most of the Newcomers bunking there as well. The only access to the valley was now controlled by a new stockade built during the day and protected by LJ and a squad machine gun; whatever that was, John seemed to think it essential.
Serrada could not remember falling asleep, but she did have a vague dream in which she was floating through the air; it was a rather pleasant dream.
Finally, the morning found her rummaging through the trunks and crates; she found her things, put them on clean small clothes, then slipped on a fresh chemise. Then not find her armor, but one of her winter riding outfits with a warm tunic and leather breaches. She had packed it for the conclave just in case and found she wore it almost as often as her armor. Unfortunately, she could not find her overcoat, so it would have to do; at least her winter riding boots were there, as well as some lamb's wool socks to keep her toes warm.
Drawing her fingers through her hair, she had no brush or comb and, worse no water to wash nor a mirror to check herself.
"Mother would be horrified to see me now, all mop of bed hair, and seen in public," She honestly would never admit that she now understood what her mother was trying to teach her. Appearances do matter. "I hope I don't look too awful."
There was nothing else to do but go out and greet the world as best she could. Pausing at the door, she took a deep breath, stood straight, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
John stood on the battlements, high above the valley, looking at the surrounding mountains.
He was alone, seemingly oblivious to the bone-chilling wind from the frozen lake camp hundreds of feet below; the valley was secure.
LJ, Eric, and the rest had spent hours preparing it, making traps, setting up buried spike pits, and setting snares. Skyhold would not be Haven; anyone who tried to attack Skyhold would find their lives cut very, very short.
"Skyhold wouldn't have lasted ten minutes against a flight of A-10s," he snorted. "What I would have given for a couple of laded Warthogs in Haven or just a bunch of full ammo crates."
He would never have chosen a fixed fortification; from experience, he knew they were never as strong as you think. He did not notice the rugged and overwhelming beauty of the surrounding vista. Instead, he focused on the surrounding peaks identifying ideal locations and supply routes for future outposts. Then he shook his head and shrugged.
"That is for tomorrow," he turned and walked back to the inner wall overlooking the inner courtyard.
As strange as it sounds, he felt more vertigo at this short drop to the courtyard below than at the hundreds of meters to the valley floor.
'Probably more comprehendible than the long drop,' he guessed. He lifted his eyes to the walls surrounding the courtyard and its structures to fight the dizziness, thinking of the needed repairs.
He noted the broken walkway between the main hall and the outer wall. There was a gap in the fortress's wall near the main hall, but that could be left later as the sheer drop was defense enough, at least for the moment. It was more important to get the stables cleared and the bridge's stone back in place than to fill a wall gap that towered a thousand feet about the lake.
Of course, the walls were not the main problem with Skyhold.
He scanned the rooftops only to see more needed work. There were gaping holes of various sizes in several buildings, all of which would have to be repaired before they could be occupied comfortably.
Worse, by far, was the main hall. A complete and total shambles, with a massive hole in the ceiling, the floor filled with moldering debris, and its once grand colorful stained glass windows were now entirely shattered and open to the elements; only the stonework that had once supported it remained.
Clearing Skyhold had been more exterminator work than a firefight, not that he was complaining, but a large tank of pesticide would have been nice.
He raised his booted foot, planting it firmly on yet another gap in the inner wall, then leaned over to watch the scene below.
Earlier that morning, Gliril had barged into his tent. He thought she was there to scold him for his behavior the previous evening.
The night before, John had been looking for Serrada to ensure she got to bed; her bodyguards were being difficult. He knew Serrada well enough to know she had worked harder than he, and he had a long day already. She always worked too hard, too long, always trying to prove she was worthy of the adoration people gave her, worthy of their lives, worthy of being The Herald.
He had made a bit of a scene at her tent, pushing past her guard to find the tent empty, bed unslept in, and then stomped off, only to find Gliril, Charter, and a couple of others struggling to carry Serrada. Then, without so much as a please, he scooped the sleeping woman into his arms; she laid her head on his shoulders and started cooing while snuggling into him, making the surrounding women quietly laugh.
John had felt his face flush then; it was doubly red now, remembering the event.
"Where are we going, Gliril?" John had asked, starting toward Serrada's tent out of habit.
"No, this way, I think it will be cozier and safer if she does not sleep under her banner," Gliril moved ahead of him toward the wall and the guardroom room door to the right of the main gate. John knew it was often called a murder room, one on each side of a castle entrance, just as Skyhold had.
John followed silently, cradling Serrada, as the woman babbled in her sleep; John could not make out her words, but apparently, Gliril could, occasionally the elf girl would giggle or even gasp in feigned shock.
'I wish I had elf ears; I can't make out a word,' John mused as they reached the door Gliril held open.
The room was just what he would have expected; sometimes, he wondered if Gliril was a mage herself, as she seemed to work magic with nothing. The room was cozy, made up as well as could be, even with a small pot of wildflowers, and only the Maker knew where she got those.
John carefully laid Serrada down on the bed, and she promptly curled up in a gall and fell deeper asleep.
"Thank you for your assistance, commander, but it is time for me to help mistress to bed and for you to leave," Gliril was already unlacing Serrada's boots and pulling the right one off.
She seemed to forget that he had seen the Herald essentially nude, with her breasts pressed into his for warmth. John only blushed more crimson at that memory, both then and now.
"Fine, good night Gliril," He moved to the door before she put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Once mistress is put to bed, I will come to see you, master, as I have news.
Gliril's eyes betrayed sadness, he was not sure if it were for Serrada or herself, but somehow he was sure it was also for him.
"Please, go to your tent, master; you look exhausted," Gliril closed the door behind him; he heard the bolt slide into place.
He mindlessly wandered back to his tent; John knew sleep would elude him. Sadness in Gliril's voice promised he would toss and turn in his bunk. Worse, somehow, not having her next to him, even in her tent, made sleeping impossible.
He did as Gliril had ordered, and soon, he was sitting alone in his tent, dressed in the sleeping clothes Gliril had made for him.
Questions crowded his thoughts, unending questions, but never any answers.
Why was Gliril worried now?
Was Serrada tired of his behavior?
Had he overplayed his hand somehow?
It would not be the first time; Mariah was a great example. He was a lower rank than several of his contemporaries because he could be stubborn and often told superiors what they needed to hear, not always what they wanted to hear.
Had he done it again? Pushed too hard, too long? Pushed her way?
Just that morning, he had made a play stronger than he probably should have and certainly more than he had a right to. However, he knew he was in the right; there could have been an ambush. The purpose of the long climb of stairs meant significant valley reinforcements would be long in coming; thus, a few dozen assassins would have to slaughter everyone before they could defend themselves.
He was sure he was right and would be damned if he let her take that chance without a fight.
He knew Serrada would insist on crossing the elevated bridge to enter Skyhold first.
Back on Earth, he might have suspected it was some dramatic stunt, like MacArthur's return to the Philippines. But with her, he knew better; here, there were no cameras, no adoring voters back home to sway, but not here on Thedas.
No, she was the real deal—a leader who put her head in the noose before anyone else.
If you are always the first in the door, you will be the first carried out in a box, sooner or later.
He had to keep her from getting herself killed, so to stop her, he had to make a play stronger than he probably should have and certainly more than he had the right to.
"Serrada, you are not going over there first. You are not equipped or trained for that." He wondered if she could see he was sweating. He had tried to keep his voice level, not to sound angry or commanding. He hoped she would see reason and prayed to God that she would not order him away. He had no idea what he would do if she had; he was sure Eric and Little John would back his play if Cassandra and Iron Bull had backed Serrada if she demanded he stand down; well, he was pretty sure they would support him.
Regardless, John was willing to stand in the door alone. His back itched from top to bottom.
She had permitted him to lead the team, and although he did not show it, he was happy to have Harding's team holding the cleared areas. That little dwarf was damned useful in most situations, and her people were good. Once the situation was stable, John had already decided to start training small groups of Inquisition scouts.
The crumbling castle itself was the most significant danger inside Skyhold. Sure, it had its share of vermin, but it seemed like all of Thedas was infested with nugs, that hardy little beast that could live in hot or cold, surface or darkest cavern. But the feedings must have been very slim; the nugs they encountered were thin, little more than skin and bones, relatively few. That meant the few spiders they met were small, perhaps only three feet across.
'Fuck to think I now consider that small,' John grunted a laugh as he watched the Quartet assemble near the base of the stairs.
They had swept most of the buildings; some were in much better shape than others, one of the towers was near collapse, and they flagged it but did not go in.
The floor in the underground cells had utterly collapsed into the swiftly flowing water under it.
"Where the hell does the water come from?" Sparks asked; John was considering the same puzzle. "We are on a peak of a damn mountain chain; it is not like it is glacier melt or something. I mean, how can it get up here?"
Spark's face changed as if he were planning one of his signature pranks, "You know, it does give me an idea, though. If I could get some copper wire…."
The waterfall's origins were a mystery but minor compared to all the others they had encountered.
The closest call was at the main hall; the front door was blocked by debris, as was the side door from the abandoned garden area; they could not get either door to budge, so they retraced their steps and found another entrance on a balcony. That one seemed to move, and they managed to open it. Eric was about to step through when John's instincts caused him to grab his lieutenant and yank him back just as a beam as thick as a tree trunk crashed into the spot Eric was about to step into.
"Fuck!" Eric just missed the crashing debris. "That would have left a bruise. Shit, hey LJ, since the place is throwing trees at us, why don't you go first." Eric joked, but his voice betrayed that the close call had shaken him.
"Naw, only your head is thick enough for that," LJ tried to sound more confident than he felt. It was a very close call.
"Nobody is going in, at least not this door." John was already heading back out and around, looking for another entrance. The itching down his back diminished to just an annoyance by this point.
Fortunately, there was one which turned out to be for the kitchens, a deliveries entrance most likely, and through that, they got access to the lower levels of the main hall. It was also where the private library of the previous occupant must have been. The largest of the spiders they had seen so far were there. The spiders had inadvertently protected the books. Initially, John felt bad for the creatures, but that was fleeting. Something about an animal trying to eat you pretty much focuses the mind on your priorities.
They did a cursory check of the main hall; the place was a mess, and the sub-level was pretty clean, surprisingly, probably too open to the outside for most of the vermin compared to the less exposed sections of the castle. The tower off the main hall seemed clear as far as they could get into, for no reason they could see, but it was.
They did not try to go out the main door, with too much debris and precariously hanging timbers from the collapsed ceiling on that end. The only other doors were blocked as well.
They double-checked some second-story rooms around the garden area, which was most of the castle and all they could get into.
"Alright, everyone at ease; we will wait for the rest to come up. Eric, take some people down to the upper patio and cover the Inquisition coming in. Paddy, you take Rodeo and head over there to cover them from that wall." John pointed to the spot he liked, Paddy agreed, and he and Rodeo headed up. "The rest of you, take up positions here to cover them if something happens."
Turning to Gliril, anyone else would have thought he had forgotten about her.
"Gliril, go back and tell them it is clear" John gave her a command like he would anyone else. "We will hold these positions till we are relieved."
Then she was gone, like smoke in the breeze.
Not long after, the Inquisition vanguard marched through the gates with Serrada and Gliril at its head and the Quartet following closely behind.
"So, Commander, now that you have had your way with the Inquisition's new fortress, what do you report?" Leliana had asked when she led a strong contingent of her scouts up to meet John in the overgrown garden.
"From the looks, it was abandoned at least a decade ago, probably at least two. It was orderly, the doors were all locked, there was no filthy or garbage dump where it should not be, and except for the decay, the rooms looked like they were in good order when abandoned. So that means a disciplined army, not a rabble." John looked around, gesturing to the faded and tattered pennants. "I don't recognize the heraldry, but Gliril said she thought it was Orlesian banners in the main hall. Overall, it needs a lot of work, but that will keep soldiers from getting soft and bored. It has good bones; I am a trained engineer and would gladly help."
Leliana did not outrank John, but she was close with Serrada, so he kept it professional. He did not want people to start thinking he worked for Leliana but respected her position, but more her skills.
"Thank you for your assistance, commander," Leliana smiled beautifully and terrifyingly. "Please, if you will, take your people and get food and rest. I believe Commander Cullen would like their assistance in the lower camp, and if you are willing to aid the engineers in their assessments, that would be most helpful, yes?"
He spent the day following dwarves; they initially considered him a nuisance. However, when he showed them how to simplify their calculations on beam loads, then revealed that he knew they were holding back on their knowledge of stone compression strength, they realized he was an educated engineer. It was late in the night before they finished the initial survey. They determined that the main hall was structurally sound but needed some work on the ceiling and that the rest of Skyhold was also in good shape, except one of the empty towers was questionable and needed some quick shoring up.
From the upper courtyard, John watched the tableau of Serrada laying down on the cot, then Gliril, Charter, and some others trying to carry the Herald before he intervened. In his arms, Serrada was as light as a feather. Gliril had just bums rushed him out when he found he was as exhausted as the rest. Finally, he went to his tent in the upper courtyard. It was next to Serrada's; as usual, now, they were together, but she would not be in hers this night.
So, he was, tossing and turning in his bunk, thinking of questions without answers. He could not recall how long, but he would have guessed hours or minutes.
Gliril's light but insistent knock on the tent pole, he was accustomed to her just barging in, the knock was a complete surprise, and it made him wary.
He was not prepared for the look on her face.
"Master, I have some news; it might upset you, it has upset me," he watched her nearly collapse into tears. They were both near tears before Gliril had composed herself enough to leave. She was to return to Serrada and protect her mistress as best she could, leaving John to try and gain some fitful snatches of sleep.
That was last night; this morning had been no less dramatic. Finally, well before dawn, he gave up on trying to sleep. It was hopeless, and he knew it. Nevertheless, he would try and be prepared for the morning's events or as prepared as possible for what was coming.
He watched, and he prayed. Men had been stationed around the inner wall to cover every angle in case something went sideways. Who knew what might happen, what agents might still have survived Haven, and what they might do once the announcement was made?
He had not seen Serrada yet; he wondered if she knew what would happen. He doubted it.
'If she had, I could only imagine the deafening sound of her ass cheeks clapping as she ran away,' the thought brought a smile to his troubled brow. "She certainly has some nice cheeks."
He wrinkled his brow at the thought that he knew what was in store for Serrada, and she did not.
"I wonder if she will ever forgive me," that I did not warn her." He asked himself, quietly leaning over to see if she had emerged from her makeshift quarters.
"For what sin, Commander Gray?" Mother Gisselle was somewhat disappointed that the soldier before her did not show the slightest hint that he was surprised by her sudden appearance behind him. 'The man must have eyes in the back of his head.'
"For not warning her," He responded without taking his eyes off the Quartet as they dispersed as Serrada approached them. He watched Cassandra and Serrada slowly walk up the stairs. That gave time for Leliana to quickly climb up to her spot and retrieve the object she needed for the honor or, more accurately, the trap they had laid for Serrada.
"We … she … has no choice, you know this," Gisselle moved up behind the man she knew was in pain and feared the loss of someone he cared deeply for. She wanted to comfort him but knew that there was little comfort to be had. "It is of little solace, but I believe she was born for this moment and many moments more to come."
"You're right, Gisselle, it isn't much comfort," He never moved nor took his eyes off of Serrada, who was climbing the stairs beside Cassandra, finally reaching the platform where Leliana stood, cradling the ceremonial sword that represented the authority of the Inquisition … of the Inquisitor.
"I don't know if your Maker is real," For the first time, John glanced at the woman beside him, watching the play before them. "Hell, or if my God is. All I know is that she is real, and this fucking mess will tear her apart and probably get her killed."
Even on the wall, he could hear the voices, the shouting, the cheers as Cassandra called to Cullen. Cullen did his part to rouse the crowd of dignitaries from all the groups of the Inquisition brought up to confirm the decision that had already been made.
Cullen turned toward Serrada, John could not make out the words he spoke for the din of cheers, but he knew exactly what those words meant.
Both John and Gisselle followed the tip of Cullen's sword to Serrada, who thrust the ceremonial sword into the air over her head, and the screaming continued, with Jose one of the loudest. Still, around the courtyard and battlements, the voices of Bull, LJ, and Eric were not to be outdone either.
"This is something she must do, you cannot keep her from it, but you will either aid her or hinder her," Giselle turned and moved away. "Which you choose is up to you."
The bulk of the Companions were as supportive as any born on Thedas. Only John stood silent. At that moment, Serrada caught his eye. He could see she still held the sword aloft; clearly, she had to know he was looking and finally realized he was not smiling. He could see her smile dim where it had been bright before, the sword drooping from its high position. He knew he was breaking her heart. He could see a tear; even from so far away, he could see the fear in her eyes.
John had to make a choice.
For John Gray, the soldier, the choice was easy, salute smartly, then carry on his missions until either death or old age took him.
For John, the man, the choice was not so easy. At this moment, he found he was hopelessly in love with this young redhead. A girl young enough to be his daughter yet more vital than any woman he had ever known. A young woman whose eyes were pleading for him to see, for him to understand at least. The truth was his head understood; his heart was another matter.
His head told him she was needed, the anchor was required, but more than that, the Inquisition needed Lady Serrada Trevelyan, her strength and will keep it together. Without her, it would devolve into a Quartet debating society.
His heart told him she wouldn't emerge unscathed. Instead, she would change, grow, and harden. His heart knew that this moment, this perfect moment of her joy, could all too quickly turn to ash and bile.
His heart also knew he would be there for her. To wipe away tears, to be beside her, to hold her in the dark of the nights. To throw himself in between her and harm.
He smiled broadly and clapped his hands so that she could see, it was a smile that did not reach his eyes, but she was too far away to know the truth.
Immediately she beamed back, a smile as bright as the sun; the sword tip now high over her head carried the glint of brilliant morning light along its keen polished edge.
It was a perfect moment; it was her perfect moment.