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The high noon sun kissed the grey brick of Skyhold and the sounds of the faithful resonated throughout the long halls. The scent of myrrh and rose tangled lazily in the air with the faint sound of the Grand Cleric’s chant. Immersed in prayer, one of the Chantry Mothers stood contrite before the golden icon of Andraste. In her contemplation she became only peripherally aware of the purposeful footsteps approaching her. The Mother, Helene, stayed her eyes on the statue as she began to listen for the footsteps, drawing herself from her devotion in order to bring her surroundings into focus.
“It’s Mother now, is it not, my dear?” Helene knew that voice. Much like the speaker it was arrogant, decadent, and hid poorly the ill intention just below the surface.
“Mother Helene, how…delicious.” Helene heard the woman’s lips form a smile around the word. The chantry mother dropped her eyes to the plinth, steeling herself as if for combat, willing herself strength before an adversary. “And I’m the viper,” the pretense of humor faltered in the woman’s voice and for a moment a near hysterical rage broke the surface before her composure was regained quickly. Helene knew the alarming instability and madness that cornered her.
The woman continued antagonistically, “Such interesting standards these boorish Southerners have, don’t you think? Dear mother?” The rhetorical question was given with a feigned levity, and it hung in the silence left in the absence of the chant which had ceased with the cruel woman’s approach.
Helene shut her eyes briefly, gathering herself for the exchange before reopening them and focusing on the image of Andraste. “I never expected to see you here, Magister Aurelius,” She said placidly, turning to face her tormentor.
The imposing woman had closed the distance between them without Helene’s realization, and she tried to quell the sudden rush of fear and, as a result, the slight stimulation of adrenaline that left her insides feeling uncomfortably warm and skin prickling with tension.
She forced her instincts down like bile, the fear becoming a leaden knot in her stomach. ‘Unshackled’ was the only coherent thought, surrounded by a mire of half formed responses and ideas. ‘Never show weakness, for a skilled Mage can exploit the mind’ was a lesson she had learned well. Helene quickly recovered herself, clasping her hands behind her back and straightening her spine. The cool authority her position had given her took hold, adaptation overcoming instinct. The blonde woman in front of her was capable of anything, menace apparent in every line of her body as she leaned inwards toward the Mother, sadistic intention glittering the surface of her eyes. It was a face balanced in beauty and horror that Helene had hoped never to see again. Helene began to mentally pull on her ability, in case the terrible woman had come for blood.
“Oh no, my dear Mother,” she began archly, “it is Warden-Commander Victoria Aurelius, you should know, after all, you saw to that, dearest mother.” She grew quieter as she spoke until she was low and breathy. There was a mocking emphasis each time she said Helene’s title, and her lips drew taut in a wide smile. She had seen it, that small moment of weakness in the Mother’s face; her prey was thrown off. Perfect. “
Or perhaps your memory is fading in your cloistered dotage?” She began to circle the older woman, head and eyes never leaving the Mother, as a snake watches its intended prey. She shifted her path suddenly, walking away from Helene and approaching the statue of Andraste with a swagger, eyebrows arched mockingly over her arrogant eyes. Without halting she turned, walking along the wall. Helene was silent, determined not to react to the Warden’s slow, baiting walk. Reaching out, Victoria raked her pointed nails across the worn, crumbling stone of the wall. The skitter of nails across rock made the mother’s hair raise on the back of her neck.
“Was it out of fear or dedication, I wonder?” Victoria cooed, stopping her stroll as she circled back around to stand at Helene’s front. Helene knew she was no longer conditioned enough to handle the warden. Her time of contemplation had atrophied her capability, the years turning her into little more than weathered skin stretched over weakened muscle.
The decline would be apparent to Victoria; the Mother noted with distaste that she was deplorable, not only willing but eager to exploit the weak. The sunlight flashed upon Victoria’s armor, glancing off the studs and dazzling Helene momentarily. Victoria’s lazy smile had contorted somewhat, becoming taut as her eyes brightened unnaturally as if in a fever.
“I had nothing to do…” Began Helene, watching the warden impassively despite the coiling anxiety twisting in her gut.
“SILENCE!” Victoria shrieked, voice cracking in rage as she swooped in, bending her height to conform her figure to that of the recoiling Mother. Helene slid her foot back to brace herself, plunging her hand into her robes for the dagger she had carried since Haven. She could feel Victoria’s violent influence rip through the fade, as well as the lyrium humming under her skin.
Victoria Aurelius was never gentle with her magical abilities. She ripped the magic from the fade for her use, a technique befitting her tyrannical nature. Her magic was violent and destructive, and left behind a sulfuric stench in the air. From their previous entanglements, the Mother knew the mage’s weakness; Victoria’s magic always seemed to stilt a few seconds before she released her cast.
The particular magic was unique to the magister.
There was, however, a gap between knowing this weakness and exploiting it.
Timing was essential against this enemy and her dulled reflexes could mean what was sure to be a prolonged and painful end.
But as quickly as the maelstrom magic appeared it dissipated, and Victoria’s head rolled back, gazing down haughtily at Helene with hooded eyes.
“I’m not here to kill you, dear Mother, only to speak…to sate my curiosity.” Victoria spoke in a low, clipped tone as if suddenly bored with the proceedings.
“It’s really quite unfair to me, dear, after all the most bloody between the two of us is not I,” She gently cupped the side of Helene’s neck, caressing the skin with her fingers and eliciting a repulsed twitch of muscle.
“I do not preach upon a pulpit of my own victims.” Victoria’s hand closed upon the throat, pointed nails digging into the flesh. Helene didn’t try to wrest herself from the vice grip, unable even to tear her eyes away from the warden’s face.
“You couldn’t accept the word of a diabolical magister,” Victoria breathed, wrenching Helene’s face closer until the deep spice of her perfume overwhelmed her. She felt hot breath upon her lips with the next words murmured.
“How many, dearest Mother?” Her thumb nail dragged down the column of her throat, digging into the indentation at the bottom of her neck.
Helene’s skin crawled when the hand withdrew, nails scraping against flesh.
‘Unstable, Unhinged, ‘maleficar,’ memories of old reports flashed through the mother’s mind.
The reports had been right about Victoria. If she wasn’t there for retribution though, that left her motive open. She had come on some whim, of what kind remained to be seen.
Helene failed an attempt at speech before gasping out desperately. “I’m sorry!”
“I’m sorry!” Victoria echoed mockingly, pushing the woman from her with such force that she stumbled, crumpling to the floor against the statue of Andraste.
“Look at you, you small, pathetic thing. A traitor that clings to robes of great women,” she held her chin up, fiercely gripping the cloth beneath her armor.
“You dare to ask my forgiveness? Ruthlessness I can abide, Mother. Failure and foolishness I cannot. Perhaps you could beg your new mistress.” Victoria turned on her heel to leave, holding herself in a regal manner so deliberate it bordered on theatrical.
She stopped in the doorway, calling back once more in a hard voice, “You are now poised to be the hand that guides the young in this crumbling institution. For their sake as well as yours I hope you find your absolution quickly, Seeker.” She swept from the room, leaving the Mother Helene clutching Andraste’s feet, head bowed in guilt.