This chapter takes some liberties with canon, more than most previous chapters.
Thanks go out to:
CherryJamOnToast,
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.
There is coarse language.
Counting the Cost
"Becoming a leader is synonymous with becoming yourself. It is precisely that simple, and it is also that difficult." —Warren G. Bennis
Drip, drip, drip.
For the first time in days, Serrada was alone.
Ironically it felt odd to be alone, both freeing and confining.
She sat in front of the new dressing mirror, at the new dressing table, in the new dressing room, adjacent to her new bathing room, all just off her essentially new bedroom.
All while looking at her new face.
Oddly, until Crestwood, she would have been amazed at the improvements; she was a little overwhelmed; there were so many things to absorb in just two normal weeks.
But these weeks were not normal.
It was true, and she was amazed, or some part of her was, or should have been, by all the improvements made to Skyhold during her trip to Crestwood.
New, complete glass windows, floor to ceiling, without a single missing pane.
The stunning fireplace now produced more heat than was sometimes comfortable.
The drying plaster, with bright paint, had made the rooms so warm and pleasant.
The most astounding thing was her new private bathing room, and something called a toilet, which gave her luxury unparalleled even for the empress of Orlais.
Drip, drip, drip.
That was just the beginning.
Her private study was almost complete. John had been working on it nonstop since her return, either doing the work himself or overseeing every detail.
Josephine had filled the shelves with her old childhood favorites; it shocked her to realize that childhood had been only a few months previous. The well-known favorites were shelved next to unpublished works fresh from Varric's pen and several Newcomer favorites.
The worn carpets and furniture originally from her Skyhold bedroom had been cleaned and placed in the study one floor down from her bedroom and the reception area one floor below her study.
John had added a back stair, so she could now move from her rooms to her study, down thru reception and one more stair down to the hall connecting to Josie's office and the War Room, or down to the vault which had once been the library but was now where the Inquisitions records were stored. It was also convenient to the wine cellar, which was no disadvantage. All could be accomplished without being seen by anyone outside of her inner circle.
The old furnishings had given way to new carpets and furniture. That furniture was yet another wonder.
It was a bit of a shock to wake up that bright morning after she had collapsed into John's arms. For a moment, she thought she was in her room in Ostwick. All that had happened from the Conclave on might have been a long, elaborate nightmare. She had wished that to be true until the mark burst forth to remind her it was not.
Yet, it had been a bizarre sensation to wake in your bed, which should be many a days journey away, only to find that it was not your childhood bedroom. It was much the same, only larger; much larger, in fact, large enough for two. The bed was so very much like the one from her rooms she knew so well. She almost expected to see Smiles lying beside her as he used to.
That morning she turned over to her left side, looking for the fat mouser, and finding a body sleeping only inches away. It was a back, not one covered in thick orange fur, but partially wrapped in a sheet and blanket. For a moment, she thought it was Gliril, then vaguely remembered that Gliril had been sent with other scouts to Emprise Du Leon; besides, this shape was much larger than the elf girl. The size and broad-shouldered, brawny figure made it clear it was a man, a realization that awakened her fully.
A man, in her bed … barely restraining herself from bolting out of bed, but she did pull the covers tightly up to her neck.
She lifted her covers to see whether she was nude, relieved to find she was not. Decent, but only just clad in her silk sleepwear. She was 'decent' if only in her bedclothes; they were opaque but hid little and hinted at much. A gift from Josephine and Leliana; she was unsure if there was a message she did not understand.
She glanced around for her weapons and armor, or even a robe, but they were not to be seen, so she steeled herself and did the most logical thing she could think of; she poked the sleeping figure hard in the ribs.
The body jumped in response, disoriented and entrapped in the bedding; its flopping pulled the blankets free from her grasp, and the body and covers thrashed off the bed's edge and thumped to the floor.
Serrada could barely stop laughing, although her healing ribs hurt terribly. She continued to laugh until John's bed hair and somewhat upset expression topped the edge of the bed.
"Oh, John, I am sloo slorry." Serrada inadvertently bit her tongue as she spoke; for a moment, she had completely forgotten her injuries. It was wonderful to laugh, but of course, the moment passed.
Fondly remembering that moment, she sat smiling, well, smiling as best she could. She sat and looked in the mirror, thinking of her feelings when she saw his beautiful eyes.
Drip, drip, drip.
It is funny what you think about in those sorts of moments. She briefly wondered if they might have been intimate, a large part of her hoped they hadn't, but given her situation, another part hoped they had been; it would give her hope. She wanted to remember her first most intimate embrace, or for that matter, her first embrace of any kind. Not that it was likely, given the horror she now presented any potential lover.
She had never consciously intended to remain what the Reverend Mothers called pure in the flesh. After all, most of her friends had been rather aggressive about finding the pleasures of ridding themselves of their virginity, all much earlier than she. But Serrada had always been a rather bookish girl, not prone to romances. She thought her first encounter should not be wasted on a randy stable boy or Lord Nobody at a meaningless spring ball.
Then again, even with her ruined face, some of her hoped that John would still find her body appealing if nothing else. As insane as it sounded, her heart told her he did. She remembered the look he gave her that morning of his men's cremation; he looked at her in a way that made her think he was hungry, a look that both thrilled and frightened her.
She was ashamed she knew so little of intimacy; her mother had insisted the purity of the soul came from the purity of the mind and body. She ruthlessly enforced her will to keep her daughters completely illiterate on the subject of sex; servants who showed even the slightest public affection were immediately dismissed, including married couples.
Somehow, she doubted he had taken her to bed; she thought she should remember something of the event or that there should be some sign. She hoped against reason, given her new condition, that he had. She knew deep down he had not.
Regardless, it was wonderful to wake to his face each morning. He had scarcely left her alone since she had returned to Skyhold. Only in the last two days had he departed even to see to his duties or to oversee the work on the tower.
Drip, drip, drip.
She never lacked company. Indeed, Serrada had not been alone, not even for a moment. John, of course, then Josie, Cassandra, Leliana, the physician José, Mother Giselle, and one of her healers, Sera and Rachelle - they were never apart - and even Eric, Bull, Dorian, and Blackwall had come in from time to time to drink or play Wicked Grace into the wee hours. The combinations were often enough and random enough to convince Serrada that the visits were carefully choreographed to keep her from being alone.
Now for the first time since returning to Skyhold, she was alone; two full weeks had passed since she first woke up, a total of three weeks since her return to Skyhold.
Drip, drip, drip.
The little room was silent save for the dripping; she thought it was escaping something John had called a faucet. He had been so proud. The idea of hot and cold running water, without the use of magic, was almost beyond her imagination, and to think that this miracle was common on Earth was beyond her imagination.
He took great pains to explain every detail, none of which she understood; he spoke as if everyone should understand what 'plumbing' was. Not realizing that she had only ever known chamber pots and fire-warmed kettles for washing, save for the stewpot bathtub in Haven, bathing had either been in a stream or from the hard labor of servants lugging a tub to her room and a train of them dousing her with tepid water, which had started out boiling in the kitchens four floors below.
Drip, drip, drip.
But he was delighted to show her all the new things, and she loved his enthusiasm.
Almost nothing was left untouched in her apartment. The first thing that caught her eye was the new bed, which she immediately recognized as an enlarged copy of the one in her bedroom in Ostwick. Then came the new desk, fashioned after the one in her father's offices. Then the sitting area was almost identical to her mother's morning room. All sat upon new rugs in each area; the one under her bed was huge and framed the bed, surrounding it were depictions of her early battles as the Herald. The rug under the sitting area depicted scenes of pastoral beauty from many parts of Thedas. Under the desk were representations of justice and mercy. The newest feature, however, was a couch perfect for two, set cozily in front of the fireplace with a carpet depicting scenes that others might think imaginary. Still, Serrada recognized her dreams of Earth and a little farm there.
She was in awe of the newly painted and refurnished room, chambers that would rival any king or empress, but all she could think of was to ask.
"But how did jou do ich?" She looked from one feature of her Ostwick home to another, all meticulously done.
"Leliana visited your home a few years ago, and she told Josie, and that was that," John said as if it was as easy as snapping his fingers.
'She remembered all of this?' Serrada was aghast, a detail wrong here and there, but the Left Hand had hit the mark perfectly for the most part. A day or two later, a remarkable stuffed toy representation of Smiles appeared on her bed; he was curled up when he arrived, seeming to be asleep. The stuffed creature became very special to her as she clutched it during the night hours while John slept, and she did not want to wake him.
Drip, drip, drip.
However, it was morning now, swiftly giving way to midday. The first day that she would be leaving her sanctuary. The mayor of Crestwood, in the cells far below, awaited her pleasure. She would hear his plea and defense, assuming he could think of one; he had been on the run for a few days, and perhaps he had thought of one. She hoped it was a good defense; she doubted it would be, certainly not good enough given his apparent crimes.
She had to make herself as presentable as possible.
So here she sat as she gazed into the mirror, trying to see the brass spouts, but the dragon and griffin heads, which represented hot and cold, were not dripping. Yet, the drip, drip, drip continued. Only then did she realize the sound was from her tears rolling down the ruined and insensitive side of her face, only to land on the dressing table with a soft splash.
Serrada thanked the Maker that she was alone as she collapsed into weeping yet again.
She was not a vain woman; at least, she never thought of herself that way, far from it. She never took much interest in her looks, much to her mother's chagrin. But now, she realized she had taken the Maker's gifts for granted.
She certainly hadn't considered herself beautiful or even all that attractive, but now sitting at her new dressing table, she wished she just looked … normal.
How do you mourn something you took for granted? Perhaps that is the greatest tragedy, that you lose something you never realized you had, let alone valued, and now that it is gone, it is all you can think about.
"He does not care; he sees you as you are inside, not how you are outside," Cole had gotten himself behind the dressing table, between it and the wall. Serrada only wondered how Cole inserted himself between the wall and her mirror. She only asked at that because she did not jump at his appearance, at least not anymore, it was all just Cole, and she had long since stopped being startled or even surprised.
"Thanks fow that, Cowe buth I find ith hard to bewiefs" Serrada responded, trying to carefully articulate the words without spitting on herself. When she was rested and focused, she did much better. It did not matter; Cole was gone anyway; she wiped her chin and picked up her brush.
Serrada started brushing what hair that was left to her. She never thought about her hair that much either; it had been more of a challenge than an asset. She had a lot of the stuff, and since she could not do much with it most of the time, she let it have its way.
She smiled a little, well, a sort of twisted half-smile. Hearing her father's voice as she sat crying after the maids had nearly wrenched her hair out by the roots, trying to brush it. She was young, eight or nine summers, and ran to her father with tear filled eyes. He lifted her into his arms, cuddling her while she cried.
"Your hair reflects the girl under it. Strong willed, wild, and beautiful. Now just let it be, buttercup, let it be." Her father had ruffled her hair, making the curls flow like a grain field in the breeze.
Beautiful. Serrada looked in the mirror again. She wondered if Daddy would ever see beauty in her again.
Trying to gain control of her emotions, she took a deep breath, slowly letting it out through her mouth, but the breath through her displayed teeth gave her sigh the undertone of a hiss.
When the damage was done, only the reactions of others proved it was even worse than they had said, covered in a bandage, she could only guess. Now that she could see it was, it was so much worse.
Whether fortunate or not, she could see with both eyes. Cassandra had said she had the Maker's luck that her left eye had not been destroyed. Mother Giselle had said it was a miracle; Serrada wasn't sure.
Whether it was lucky was debatable, but for now, she could see the reflection with both eyes, and it told the tale.
Though her left eye had been spared, her eyelid had not, now uncovered in its socket, grisly muscle, ligaments, and unprotected bone. She wore an eyepatch to keep the dirt out, but it was only a matter of time. Some debris or infection and it too would have to be removed. She never thought of the eyelid as all that much, but it is.
"Hey boss, it seems I have started a fashion trend," Had been Bull's only comment; his laugh had no mirth.
The eyelid was not all that had been lost. The beast's claws had caught her cheek. Its swipe was just close enough for its claws to bite, ripping her face away like peeling an onion. Now, her teeth and jawbone were on complete display, the skin cooked, the muscles below were evident, and her skull. Serrada thought it ironic that there was luck in the fact that the rage demon was fully engulfed by flame and had saved her life, for as its swipe ravaged her face, its flames had sealed the bleeding tissues. Serrada considered it a positive; otherwise, the healers said she would have died. It was her fault; she had chosen not to bring a mage; after all, this was a milk run. She doubted she could drink milk again.
She brushed her remaining hair, trying not to get anything in her sensitive eye. Both eyes were bloodshot, which happens when you don't sleep. How long since she had slept without waking up screaming?
While brushing her hair, she discovered a stray bit of gruel that had buried itself in the exposed bone of her jaw.
She stared at herself in the mirror, trying not to fall into wracking sobs again.
'How can he possibly look at me?' Both her exposed eye and her undamaged one were brimming with tears. Crying made it so much worse, from her eyes becoming upset and unable to wipe them to remove the disgusting bubbles of phlegm emerging from her tear duct on the exposed eye. Her undamaged nostril would become congested, and she felt she would be drowning; it was horrible beyond comprehension.
She took a breath to marshal her emotions, using her fingernails to remove the small patches of her breakfast from the odd locations they found between the remainder of her gums.
'I guess I need a bib permanently now; I will have to ask Gliril to make some for me, maybe with the Inquisition heraldry,' she chuckled despite herself.
'How can I go to Val Royeaux?' she asked herself as she put down her brush and looked at the scarred remains of her face. "Even with a mask, I won't be able to sit at a table or drink a public toast."
She knew there would be toasts, if only to humiliate her and, by extension, the Inquisition. She would be in a hopeless situation, either refusing, thus insulting the host, or perhaps worse, making an attempt an embarrass herself.
Leliana had already privately told her that the extent of her injuries was now well known in all the major houses of Thedas; Bull had confirmed that the ben-hassrath had a detailed report, but not from him. Both had suggested that special messages be sent to Ostwick to try and soften the blow. They were the hardest letters she had ever written.
Her only solace was that John had been with her at every step. During the worst of her nights, he would hold her; when she woke up screaming, he would wait till she could be touched, then hold her tight until she could sleep. She got angry once or twice when he demanded that she be denied drink.
Sera thought him a monster and tried only once to sneak her a flask, but he found it before Serrada did, and poor Sera learned that Commander John Gray would apply the switch to her bottom without any intervention from Rachelle.
"Why can't she have a bit to drink?" Sera had demanded. They all thought Serrada was asleep. John and Rachelle were tucking her into bed.
"Because it is just self-medication, it does nothing but dull the pain and make her more depressed. The pain comes back in the morning, but the depression remains. It doesn't help, Sera, but it only hurts." Rachelle answered before John could even speak.
"It does not seem that Thedas knows much about PTSD treatment, John; looks like we are trailblazers again," Rachelle smoothed the covers and brushed the back of her hand over Serrada's scared face. "I am going to find a way to heal you, Serrada, I promise."
Serrada felt the touch, but only barely.
'Like that will happen,' she thought as she repressed a sigh.
Mother G said they had done all that could be done, and even José had locked himself away in the research lab to try and find some Newcomer miracle; he had spent months of accelerated study, and thus far, he had sent no word.
"Come along, Sera, let's see if we can do something about that bruised bottom." Taking her girlfriend's arm, Rachelle directed the elf toward the stairs.
"I still can't believe you let 'em do that to me" Sera gave John an evil stare as Rachelle led her away, Sera discreetly rubbing her punished dignity.
"You got what you deserved, be thankful Leliana called me before he caught you, or you might have had worse," Rachelle answered. "You were in the wrong, you knew he did not want her getting a drink, and you did it anyway, so come along before I finish what he started."
"You wouldn't!" Sera squeaked; John could see little sparks of lightning climbing up and down Sera's thighs, then up her back and down her front, as they descended the stairs. "All right, all right! I won't give her any, right, not a drop. Now stop it! Ouch! Please, stooppp," The plaintive plea floated up from the stairs before the door closed behind them. John almost felt bad for Sera — almost.
John moved a chair beside the bed, sat down, and began reading to her. She loved it when he read to her. Inquisition scribes had been busily copying down things stored in the Newcomer machines; once done, Rachelle had translated to Common. Many plays had been smashing success when adapted to Orlesian audiences. Particularly a romance by a man called Shakespeare, a romance called Rowen and Julia, had been a smashing success. But tonight, John was reading prose by another author.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…." John read, and Serrada listened as she was carried away to sleep until the nightmares started.
The nightmares of the fight with the rage demon were the worst.
The dream always started the same way.
Her team, Blackwall, Cassandra, Eric, Rodeo, Sera, Varric, and a half dozen scouts whose names she couldn't remember, were in the filthy feted bowels of a long forgotten dwarven thaig.
The whole excursion to Crestwood had been a disaster from the jump. They got the information from Warden Stroud, which was odd enough. The calling was a problem, but a problem for tomorrow. Today she had to close the rift and stop the undead, which meant going down to find it.
The mine was a rotting cesspool of putrid corpses and walking dead, with the occasional angry spirit or minor demon all mixed in. They had found evidence that the villagers and even refugees had been herded into the mines and left to drown in the dark.
"Worst possible place to herd them if they had the Blight" Blackwall had been disgusted by the sight.
"I don't know how to say this," Varric was hesitant to finish the thought, which scared Serrada.
"Just say it, you arse," Sera finished Serrada's thought less tactfully than usual.
"It is hard to tell, but from what we have seen, I think everyone down here had the Blight," Varric examined some bodies as closely as he could with any hope of safety. "Crestwood was alone, isolated; the Blight was going on further south, so no help was coming. I just wonder if someone thought …."
"No, you can't mean," Cassandra looked around their surroundings at the corrupted bodies of the children. "It is monstrous, unthinkable!"
"Okay, somebody has got to explain this to us newbies; what the fuck is a Blight? How can they have it like a disease yet act like it is an event too?" Eric had been trying to puzzle it out for a while; he had asked a few people, but either they did not understand it like Flissa or did not want to talk about it.
That gave Serrada time to think while the Newcomers in the group were educated on something every child in Thedas knew. It was times like these that the gulf between the Newcomers and everyone else was so starkly outlined.
It gave her a few moments to think about something other than the horror around her, to try and find an answer to a puzzle she had been working on since leaving her rooms weeks before.
'How can I possibly have a relationship with John, he does not know the first thing about anything, and everyone will know, then it will get back to Orlais, Tevinter, Ferelden, oh Maker, it will get back to Ostwick!' She took another step, nearly slipping on the slimy stones, but caught herself. 'What will mother say? What will father think?'
While the impromptu lessons were taking place, they moved deeper into the mine, finally stumbling on the thaig through an opening at the bottom of a mine. What the thaig was, why the mine led to it, or even where the reservoir water went after the dam's flood gates were opened, was all a complete mystery.
None of this was supposed to happen. Serrada was to get in, meet the contact, and bugger off back to Skyhold. Easy as cake … right? 'A damned milk run! But it bloody well wasn't, was it? Maker's balls, no!'
When they first got to Crestwood, it was clear that the siege of the undead was much worse than the reports painted it. The siege was unsurprising; they had been begging for help for weeks. What was unexpected was the source and the scale.
Serrada looked out over the lake to the boiling water. The glowing green light revealed the rift deep under the reservoir's surface. The Great Royal Damn of Crestwood was a pretentious name for the pile of stone that created the artificial lake, and it was named by one of King Maric's ancestors.
The undead crawled out of the water to then attack the village, which meant a supply of drowned bodies for demons from the rift to possess.
There were more horrors in Crestwood than Serrada had been willing to stomach. Mayor Dedrick had claimed that the darkspawn had damaged the dam controls, causing a flood that drowned the original Crestwood village. While the mayor had been technically correct that the reservoir flooding had submerged the town, it was also becoming inescapable that the darkspawn were not responsible.
Who was responsible was a problem after she stopped the undead. Ending the undead threat would mean finding the bloody rift. So down they went deeper and deeper into this slimy, foul-smelling pit filled with decaying corpses, stranded foul fish, treacherous goo-covered rocks, bottomless pits, and, oh yes — demons; who would want to forget the demons?
The group was tired, bordering on exhaustion. Even the Newcomers were drawing swords, as their weapons had reached their limits. After taking the fortress and fighting through the valley rifts, thieves, and assorted undead, they had consumed all their supplies.
Now Serrada thought she should have withdrawn and asked for supplies to be brought from Skyhold. Still, the undead kept coming, the villagers were desperate and afraid, and the Inquisition was the only thing between the villagers and a horrible end. Worse, the undead was coming faster since the water was gone.
She did not withdraw; she couldn't.
They made their way along the thaig, only to find a rage demon between them and the fade rift. No way around it, only through, which meant no choice but to engage it. But, just a rage demon, no but a really pissed-off rage demon. It was the very one that had chased the spirit of Command across the lake.
At first, Serrada, Cassandra, and Blackwall engaged while the rest did clean up.
Cassandra used her abilities to suppress the demon, but that seemed to make it grow. Finally, cornering it, or did it corner them? The fight was intense but going well. Even the Newcomers were becoming passable with swords and shields.
The rage demon was dying; when Serrada took a single step back and planted her foot in a pile of nug droppings, her foot went back, falling forward directly into the demon's claws.
"Serrada!" The shout came from half the team; through blood and pain, she saw the Seeker's blade pierce through the demon's chest as Varric put two bolts through the scull.
Then the world went black.
"Serrada, wake up, lazy git," It was Sera sounding so scared; Serrada could smell her body; her scent was strong, close, and strong enough even to overcome the stench of the thaig. She smelled of the soap that Rachelle had given her, tickling Serrada's nose.
'Why can't I see?' Serrada would have lifted her head from the warm lap, it had to be Sera's, but she couldn't lift her head.
"Give her some room, Jesus; where is a medic when you need one," Eric's voice was close; his calm tone belied the fear in his voice. "I have some eyewash that might help…."
She could hear the strange ripping sound of some part of his gear, Velcro, she had been told was its name.
"Hold her head still, Jesus, Rodeo. Do you have any of that antiseptic spray?" Eric was suddenly in view as the deep red washed away from her left eye. "Keep your other eye closed, Herald. Let me clean it up first."
The stench of burning hair and cooked meat filled her lungs as she tried to move her head.
"Hold her still!" Eric seethed while she felt his hands carefully touching her forehead.
"How? She has nothing left to hold onto," Sera's voice sounded more afraid than ever, even though her voice was low and even.
The cold shock of drops around her eye, then the foul muck was washed from her right eye, and all was clear. Although she wished it weren't ….
In her nightmares, she usually floated over herself, looking at the hideous sight of her ruined body.
It was usual now that she woke up screaming. In her dream, the claws had carved out half her skull to show what might have been damaged if she had been a few inches closer.
So now she sat, looking in the mirror.
Suddenly she was angry with herself all over again.
'Stop crying, there is nothing to be done, and you have work to do,' Serrada dried her eyes and applied some makeup to try and hide as much as she could. It was hopeless, but it still made her feel better.
She dressed in silk underthings, yet another gift for Leliana and Josephine. It felt wonderful and odd at the same time, something called a bra, an innovation from the Newcomers, but she had to admit. However, she was glad to be shed of it in the evening, her breasts did feel better at the end of a long day, and it certainly did not hurt her figure.
She had decided to keep the formal midnight black uniform special to wear when she was expected to pass judgment. It was tight fitting and looked sharp; she smiled, remembering John's reaction to how she looked, especially when she wore the high-heeled boots that Leliana had found somewhere.
The last thing was her new Inquisitors helm. It covered most of her face, reflecting much of the old Inquisition, with symbols like the dragon carved across her brow. The cheekpieces represented dragon's wings flowing down and around, almost meeting her chin with a space between flowing up to a slot for her to see. It denoted one that had been worn long ago but lost in time. This mask was more ceremonial than practical armor, but Haret claimed to be working on a fully functional version. Most importantly, it covered much of the damage to her face.
She went down the stairs through the door from the study, down the stairs to the future reception room just inside the main hall door. It was still a work in progress, but Serrada could see what it would be like one day soon; she hoped Gliril would quickly return to occupy her new role as secretary and principal bodyguard.
Serrada found it hard to put her hand on the door handle. Today would be her first official appearance since returning, and it would be very public. A trial and possible punishment for a man well known in his town but now also throughout Ferelden.
She found herself turning the handle. It was easy, and the door swung open silently, unlike it had weeks before; John had been working very hard and had missed no detail.
"Ahhhhh, Inquisitor, thank you for joining us," Josie started; the room was suddenly silent at Serrada's entrance. She wondered if Josie had announced her arrival to keep her from running back upstairs to hide under her bed.
"Oh, thank juu, 'ow do je do thith?" Serrada moved to the seat she had so far avoided; it was too familiar. It was exactly like the one in her dreams. She recognized it the first time she entered the great hall and nearly fainted. Her heart pounded when she knew she would one day sit under those windows with birds flying through them, and the room would be filled with those expecting her to understand what was just and fair when she could not even find her socks half the time.
"Impressive, isn't it? I don't know where the inspiration came from, but the carpenters outdid themselves, did they not?" Josephine did her best to hide her pride; she had spoken to Leliana and others about the dream she had, back in Haven, with a grand throne in a great hall and the Herald dressed in black pronouncing justice both with a gentle heart and firm hand.
"I think it reflects both the power of the Inquisition and the burden of its authority; do you not agree?" Josephine asked in a way that invited a less-than-honest critique.
"Oou 'ill I be juthing esactly?" Serrada asked, running her fingertips over the throne like a snake ready to strike. She kept trying to control her lisp while not biting her tongue.
"Those whom we believe have done wrong, I can only say that I believe you will know of them surely, assuming they survived their encounter with you, of course," Josie was smiling; she was trying to interject some humor, the Inquisitor had become so taciturn to the point the even Cassandra had remarked on her solemn demeanor.
Josephine did not know that Sera and Rachelle had come to her that morning and called her Mope; Josephine's attempt at humor tipped the balance in favor of some pranks.
"I 'ope it is not all deawing deaf in juthment 'cause I am neawy at capathity," Serrada was; it was one thing to kill in the heat of battle but something else when it is done in the cold, calculating fashion in the name of justice.
"Justice has many tools, Inquisitor; you are clever, and you may pass judgments for which death would be merciful by comparison," Josie's tone showed she seemed to be looking forward to what the Inquisitor would do in the name of said justice.
"Fine, ow is on ta dothet toway?" Serrada stood beside the throne, trying to find a reason not to sit.
"Sit, and I will bring them to you, Inquisitor." Josephine was just as determined to get her to sit and perform her duties, no matter how distasteful she might find them. They were the Inquisitors' responsibility, and no one else could perform those duties.
"Yeth, 'ell, fine," Serrada sat; she searched the crowd for a familiar face, she saw a few, but most were strangers, visitors from Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches, all curious about the new Inquisitor.
The man was brought from the cells; Serrada knew him on sight and wished to the Maker never to have seen him again.
"Mayer Gregory Dedrick of Crestwood…" Josephine droned on; Serrada knew the story all too well. Her injuries had been the focus. Looking for the wayward mayor was not a priority that it should have been or would have been had she kept her footing in the thaig, but as it was, Leliana had made every effort to track the bastard and drag him back to Skyhold to dump him in the Inquisitor's lap.
Serrada sat silently; a whisper could have been heard in the hall. The fires in the grates popped and occasionally sizzled; the hot water from the pipes could barely be heard flowing to the iron radiators hissing with steam. Still, Serrada held the mayor in her gaze.
She could not get past the feel of his actions. Whether that was a crime or not was debatable but his running away while she fought to eliminate the source of the very scourge his actions had unleashed? Well, that was not up for debate, although given Sera's mood on the revelation of his actions, it was likely the only reason he still lives.
She felt for the man, surrounded by death from the Blight sickness, with no hope of aid from Denerim and no cure anyway; he was left between fire and ice.
'If you only hadn't run,' She thought, taking a deep breath before wondering, 'Will I run when my time comes, and others from the safety of their thrones judge me?'
Taking a deep breath, 'No, I will not run; I will accept whatever fate and move on.'
"Dethrick, the Blight wath or unthoing. Let it asso be your means of wedemption. I give you to the Gway Wardens to fight 'ark spawn 'ill the Cawing tathes you." Serrada pronounced her judgment, and a quiet gasp ran through the audience, some nodding in agreement, others surprised by her mercy, and a couple who seemed disappointed they would not see a beheading.
"I don't deserve the honor, your worship, but I'll do ma best." Dedrick seemed honestly remorseful before he was unbound and returned to the cells.
Serrada stood and walked to Josie, whispering. "Ow wos tfat?"
Josephine nodded and, using her board for cover, "You did well; I had not thought of that solution. I thought he was for the ax, but she said you would find something more interesting for him. You surprised me, but your solution was an excellent one."
"That reminds me, I owe Leliana five ducats." Josie made herself a note as she walked away.
"Don't worry about it, Josie; I will find another way for you to repay me," Leliana had appeared beside the duo. Josie still jumped as the spymaster spoke; Serrada didn't as she had been expecting her to appear.
"Come wif me; I wit to speak wif ta mayor," Serrada did not even look back at the Left Hand but moved down the dias steps toward the main door and then down the stairs to the cells.
"I take it that you have some ideas of how to…." Leliana continued to whisper.
"Not hewe; go down an' see wof we can geen fwam 'im," Serrada held the door for the spymaster. Dismissing the guards as she went. "Wait outhide the door 'til we return; awow no one to weave 'til we do."
"Have you come to change your mind, Inquisitor? I would understand if you 'ave," Dedrick looked as melancholy as a puppy in the rain.
"No. No, I 'ave not. I think you twied your best, but you wan, which showed cowarice and that I can't fowgive," Serrada checked to see if they were alone; Leliana assured her they were. "Howewer, you can show me bwavewy. Do you know whewe the war'ens 'ave gone? I notiwe you did 'ot ask me how to find them; that weads me to beliewe you have some idea of your own."
"I wasn't running, Inquisitor. I was searching for the wardens; I had the same idea you had. I thought it was where I could atone, don't ya see. So, I was followin' those wardens from the village." Dedrick sounded sincere. "I was trying to call in a marker for some traveling funds when your people found me; otherwise, I would have been with the wardens already."
"Whewe were you hopin' to fin' them w'en?" Serrada asked, still skeptical but moved closer to the cell door.
Dedrick sensed the mood, his eyes searching through the shadows. "Them wardens stayed in my home and … well, I overheard 'em talking the night before you came. The wardens said if they didn't find the warden they was looking for, they was to go to someplace called Adamant as the other wardens was to meet there."
"I have some reports of increased activity at Adamant, but my scouts have gone silent. I was considering sending another," Leliana nodded toward Dedrick, but Serrada was already ahead.
"Dewwick, you say you were gowing to atone. Well, we have concerws about the wardens so as one wast poin' of atowment and as partial paymen' for your rowe in this," Serrada removed her helm, and Dedrick pulled back, clearly shocked. Serrada replaced her helmet. "If you had been more honeth, I might have been mowe prepawed, but then again, perhaps nowt, but I think you owe me. Send back reports as you can; no forwress can survive wiffout some degwee of twade. Send word asth you can about waat is happening in the fortwess. We want to know all isth well thew."
"I will do that for you, Inquisitor, I owe you my life, and I always pay my debts, I promise," Dedrick seemed genuine. Serrada felt certain he would keep his word.
"Gwod," Serrada opened the door and let Dedrick out. "Papeth?"
"Have no fear, Inquisitor, I will have a letter of passage and explanation for your sentence, and perhaps our warden can add something. We will get him to Adamant as soon as we can arrange." Leliana spoke to Dedrick, who fell in beside the Left Hand, "Do not fail us, Dedrick; the Inquisitor is very forgiving, but if you betray us, you will find that I am not."
Serrada walked ahead of the Left Hand and Dedrick, but somewhere between the cells, she found she was alone.
"How does she do dat!" Serrada whispered into the darkness. It did not matter; she was exhausted and walked up the stairs feeling like it was her fifth time up the mountain.
She trudged to Josephine's office only to find release documents, safe passage documents, and a letter of introduction to the wardens awaiting her signature. She signed them with as much passion as the undead she had vanquished in Crestwood, then trudged back up to her rooms.
John came in after she had finished changing; he set out a tray of food. He was chatting about something or another, which she tried to seem keen on, but she only wanted to eat, cuddle, and then go to bed. She wondered if she would ever get her strength back.
He was clearing away, and soon the room only smelled of the wonderful dinner she had not even tasted.
He suggested music when they sat in front of the fireplace, but she was happy with the silence and his breathing. Her head was on his shoulder; she could hear the soft beating of his heart, the woosh of his breathing. He took up the new book; it still smelled of fresh glue and drying ink. He had told her it was a classic in his world, hundreds of years old, but it was fresh and new. Varric had been originally listed as the author. Still, Rachelle had been upset about that, saying that the original author deserved more credit, so it was given that Varric had done the translation to Common. Jane Austen received full recognition but was described as a long-deceased author of unknown origins. She would become so popular even Tevintor claimed her within a decade. Varric was happy regardless, his purse was much heavier, but Rachelle insisted it go to help various refugee efforts, and Varric was less than happy to oblige, but he did.
All was academic to Serrada; she enjoyed John's reading it to her.
She dozed off, then the dream came, and as she fought again in her sleep, his warm arms held her tight, and for the first time in weeks, she won her dream battle and woke in his arms.
His shirt was wet with her drool, but he did not seem to mind; the injured side of her face was against his chest. It was not just a little, he was soaked to the waist, but he had kept reading.
"I am sowwy, I … I …" She rose, wiping her chin, trying not to cry.
He closed the book and turned to her as if there was nothing to the whole ugly mess that was her wretched face, he never looked away from the horror but only gazed into her eyes.
"Sorry for what, darling?" He was smiling as he stroked a wayward hair from her forehead. Then he reached over and kissed her softly, tenderly, his lips moving over hers, not the passion-driven kiss that she had thought he might one day give her, nor a fear ladened one she had given him in Haven, or the despair suffused one he had given her in the snow when death was so near them both. No, it was one filled with love showing no hesitation or reserve.
"Oh John, please …." She could not speak, but she stood and walked to the light switch and turned off the lights in the room, plunging it into now unaccustomed darkness. Only the fireplace provided any light at all, and it was burning low.
'Andraste, please help me, please don't let him … please …' She was shaking, more fear than she had known facing even the largest of demons was threatening to freeze her heart.
She prayed; with every step, it was dark enough for him to forget what she looked like. She silently walked back to the bed as if every step was another stair to the gallows, but with every step, she removed her clothing till she stood next to the bed, completely nude.
She stood before a man for the first time, hoping he would find her attractive, desire her, and take her as his.
Serrada was so afraid, the obvious fear that he would reject her because of her injuries, but also a primal fear that she would not know what to do. He had been married, and she was certain he had far more opportunities to be with women in his world than she had had with men in Ostwick.
The truth was she knew nothing, and she did not want to disappoint him in any way.
She trembled as she slid into bed; the chill of the sheets and the quiet hiss as her skin and silk kissed all so erotic. It emphasized her nudity. Even in the deepening darkness, she made sure her undamaged profile faced John while still praying as she moved beside him.
She gasped when his arms came around her pulling her close. She could feel his body like a lump of hot coal beside her; he turned her to lie on her side then, using his powerful muscles, pulled her back into his chest, pressing that powerfully built chest into her back, and their skin met for the first time in such an intimate way, and it was nothing short of intoxicating. She moaned despite herself; he pulled her closer, molding himself to her fitting his knees behind hers, her bottom to his lap, where she felt something else that initially confused her and made her blush.
He pulled away only a little, then reached under the covers to fumble with something as she held her breath. Cold air rushed into the bed as he threw something out, then back close to her, and she realized he was also nude. She was shaking suddenly, feeling his member sliding up behind her as he pulled her back into him. His hands were so strong but gentle, and she moved into his body. He moved into hers, they fit perfectly, like lock and key, and she felt that all was perfect at that moment and relaxed, waiting for him to make her his.
"Serrada," He whispered, his voice gentle and kind; she could hear something else. She could hear no pity in his voice.
"Serrada, I… I want … I want to be with you. But not … not like this, not right now; you need more time to heal." Suffering in his voice.
Hot tears struck her neck as he held her.
'Why is he weeping,' She felt the need to cry herself; she was upset, wondering if it was her injury and whether she would always be alone.
He kissed her neck and shoulder, causing her to shudder, before continuing in a whisper.
"I want you thinking clearly. I want you to be with me because you want to and for all the right reasons." John's voice was thick, and she could hear him struggle with his emotions. "You are hurting right now, vulnerable, afraid, afraid that your injury will put people off, put me off, but it won't, I promise, not me anyway, and fuck everyone else."
She turned to him, and although only the firelight remained, she could see enough, but she could see no deception in his face; there was no hint of rejection. He seemed genuine and, more importantly, certain that this was for her as much as him.
Serrada did not trust her voice but only nodded.
"Let's go to bed; we can discuss it more in the morning," He kissed both her cheeks, or what he could, then her forehead, and finally her lips. The last of which sent a tingle down her body that settled where nature intended it to find a home. Even though the room was warm, she shivered.
"Sleep well, my love," Somehow, managing to hold her closer, the covers pulled tight as he always did, then turned on the small lamp and began to read again as she slipped off to sleep cuddled up close, her bottom pressed into his lap, all his body making itself known, his voice warm as it carried her away to the problems of Lizzy and Darcy as she drifted off to the first peaceful sleep since leaving Ostwick.