Work Text:
Every one of her companions had scars. Some were visible, but others ran across the soul with their sharp, jagged edges that ran too deep to entirely heal. The Iron Bull's were perhaps the most visible in the scars that told the story of his life as a warrior, but it was the deeper scars born of his people that pulled at him. Blackwall carried the shame of a past he strived desperately to atone for. Varric carried with him the story he's never tell about Bianca. Solas carried the weight of lost elven glory. Sera kept her secrets and her scars so close to her heart that no one knew them until she struck with them. Vivienne carried the weight of expectations. Dorian carried with him the taste of rejection by those who should have loved him best.
Even her advisors carried scars and old wounds. Cassandra held onto the failure of her order like it was her own failure. Cullen couldn't move entirely past the nightmares of what had happened in the Fereldan Circle and Kirkwall, couldn't entirely shed the chains that kept him bound. Josephine had shouldered the weight of her family, the responsibility for their care and the restoration of their name. Leliana carried the memories of the Fifth Blight and other wounds too shadowed for anyone else to know them.
The Inquisitor was no different. She had been born to the Trevelyan’s, a minor noble house of pious Andrastians who had given her to the Chantry and Templars when her magic had woken at the age of six. She'd been taught control in the most brutal fashion with whispered threats and righteous, murmured words during those painful lessons dealt in pain and blood. She held those lessons so close to her heart that they still cut like knives when she woke screaming and sweating from the nightmares. She knew the weight of the gaze that had always followed her and the scent of the one that had tempered the skills she was learning and the talent she was showing for magic.
Trust me, he had whispered in a warm baritone, his voice cultured and his smile sharper than his words.
She had been sent to the Conclave because the Chantry had thought to use her Marcher nobility and easy talent to gain weight with the rebel mages. Even then she had known the weight of the gaze that waited for her to make the one mistake that would end everything. After, it had almost been a blessing to wake in those chains with Cassandra and Leliana hovering over her. She had thought him dead. No one else should have survived and she had believed that. She had gone on to Haven and had thought that she had finally found something worth fighting for in the closing of the Breach and those that had been gathering to her. With the mages on her side and the Breach closed, she had been happy. Everyone had been celebrating…until Corypheus.
The terror of facing almost certain death against Corypheus and his pet dragon had paled in comparison to the scars she held and the quiet, sobbing pain that had lanced through her every time he "taught" her another lesson. She'd survived those "lessons" and she had survived Haven. She had survived Corypheus. Too many had died in that assault, but Skyhold had welcomed them and given refuge to her and her rag tag companions.
Skyhold became home.
She had set to trying to right the things she could reach with her own two hands while plotting Corypheus’ fall. Through it, she had begun to heal. Her own scars had started to fade and the whispered threats, those righteous words murmured during those painful lessons, had begun to lose their sway over her. Some of her companions even started healing. Bull made his choice and they lost the alliance, but his Chargers were alive and worth more to her than Qunari allies would have been. Cassandra still held to the failures of her order but she looked forward and she made her plans for how she could make things better. Solas was more open when she asked about his wanderings through the Fade and shared with her stories of those memories he found. Sera was...still cheerfully violent...but more than happy to prank her advisors while pulling her along. Josephine's plans for her family came to fruition. Cole was someone she wasn't sure what to do with, someone that had found her during the assault on Haven and whose nature continued to mystify her. She'd stood between Cullen and his struggle with the lyrium addiction. Dorian confronted his father and she held that the Magister was wrong in the way he’d rejected Dorian. The others...Blackwall had asked her to assist in finding Warden tokens, Varric wanted to destroy what red lyrium he could find, and Vivienne wanted to reclaim the old Circle tomes they came across. It didn’t help them…not the way she wanted it to, but it was something she could do for them. She couldn’t regret the way she had convinced Leliana to spare the traitor, not with the way she looked after the safety of her own people now.
The twelve of them, companions and advisors all, had become the family she’d lost to the Chantry. As crazy as things sometimes got, as weird as they all were, they were hers and they were safe. Safe wasn’t something she had expected to find, not after him. They were strength and softness and right. They looked at her as a person, treated her like it, too, even if their methods were sometimes baffling. She could trust them to look out for her and they trusted her to lead them. For once in her life, it was enough to simply exist and move towards a goal.
At least, until the warm, cultured, baritone of a voice called, “Inquisitor!”
Cold fear curled in her gut as she froze mid-step through the tavern. Those around her kept moving. Maryden kept on with her song about Samson and the other patrons were whispering fiercely about…something…their words lost meaning. No. He was dead. Skyhold was safe. Skyhold was hers. These people were hers. Her eyes landed on the stairs. Close. So close. What if she just kept walking? Bull was beyond them, Sera above her, and Cole not far beyond that with Cullen a short walk away on the battlements. He was dead. There was no way…
She took a step forward and saw a flash of movement. Krem was rising, frowning at her and tossing a look towards Bull’s corner. Then, strong fingers closed on her arm and spun her around and it was him. Sharp edged smile, dark hair pulled back, brown eyes. Enchanter Fairfields. The fear shattered as she looked at him. Magic rushed to her call. The smile lost its sharp edges as the air filled with the smell of ozone. His fingers had started to loosen when the first crack of lightning struck. Everything screeched to a halt, people were up and moving, a flurry of activity as they flowed away.
He released her, staggering back from the hit. His clothes were singed and he was coughing. Tavern. People. Hers. Lightning in structure meant fire. Fire was bad for people. Outside then. He was moving that way anyhow. He wasn’t dead. He should be dead. Pain and broken sobs, memories of those brutal lessons filled her. Scars. So many scars.
They were outside. More people in the courtyard, soldiers turning to look at the commotion from the tavern. They seemed to move so slowly as they went for their practice weapons, gazes flickering between her and the singed mage who was suddenly scrambling to form the gestures for a spell…nullification…she realized. Ozone filled the air again.
Lightning cracked. People screamed. Pain and broken sobs. He should be dead. He would be dead in another mom-
An arrow sprouted in his shoulder. A Templar’s Smite dropped him. One more hit...magic rushed to her…
“Inquisitor!” someone was shouting, rough accent familiar.
Skyhold was safe. A shadow fell across her path. Chain lightning sparked and sizzled across his body, making him twitch and convulse.
“Pain and broken sobs, brutal lessons. Dead now,” Cole said and she blinked, turning her head to look at him. He was studying her, clearly reading the emotions still ricocheting through her. “Skyhold is safe. You’re safe. It’s okay to let go now.”
Sera was on the battlements, an arrow still nocked. Bull’s shadow was across her path, his bulk blocking anyone else from getting a clear shot at her. Krem was on her other side, protecting her flank. Neither of them had weapons, but no one was stupid enough to approach them, either. Cassandra finally stepped into view, her weapon drawn. Cullen and Solas were on the battlements across from Sera. Her soldiers were relaxing their stances as Cassandra knelt to confirm the death.
“Dead,” she said, eyes flicking to her.
She closed her eyes and felt the first tears start. Safe. There would be time for explanations later, but right now, the last wound had been lanced and could become a scar. Friends, companions, and soldiers had been each ready to defend her. Safe. It had never meant more than in that moment.