Chapter Text
They were the largest private quarters Leliana had ever owned, and this was after she had declined taking the grandest of the apartments in Val Royeaux. Her Chief of Staff — a plump, red-faced woman with a sharp eye for detail and a sharper tongue — had scowled furiously when Leliana had declined such ostentation. She had even tried to coerce Leliana into accepting the quarters for political reasons, only to shut her mouth with a snap when Leliana gave her a dark, dangerous look.
Now Leliana sighed at the memory, feeling a small pang of guilt swoop low in her chest. It was often difficult, tamping down the urge to fall back into old habits. The past haunted her, memories of Marjolaine and the Hero of Ferelden, both hard as tempered steel in their own way, pushing, pulling. Sometimes she swore she could even feel echoes of a lost twisted future. The Inquisitor ordering her to let Felix go, insisting his innocence, Alexius’ shriek of rage and loss, the words on her lips, “No one is innocent.”
Leliana shook her head clear of such thoughts. Now was not the time — today of all days — to brood.
The ceremony was hours away, yet she was already standing in the center of the room swarmed by servants making last minute adjustments to her robes. The headdress loomed nearby, and she thanked the Maker she wasn’t forced to wear it just yet. Her neck would take days to recover. One of the servant girls was already working on pinning her hair back; she winced when a blunt hair pin dug into her scalp.
“You will wait in the atrium after descending from your palanquin,” Mother Gisele was reading from a list for what felt like the hundredth time, schooling her on every last detail of the coronation, “I’ll be in the back, so you’ll have to watch for your cue to enter. And remember: don’t walk too quickly.”
Leliana’s arms were starting to ache from holding them up for so long, “Walking too quickly is the least of my worries,” she sighed.
Mother Gisele gave her an appraising look, then waved the servants away. When they were given a little privacy, she leaned in and asked softly, “Are you absolutely sure about making a reform so soon, Your Perfection?”
“They need to know I will not hesitate to make changes where needed,” Leliana replied, rolling her shoulders and feeling surprisingly self-assured, “If not now: when? Why would I risk looking weak and deferential while waiting for a ruler’s approval?”
“Spoken like a true Divine,” Mother Gisele said without a hint of sarcasm, “You will do very well, I think. Just be sure you do not lose yourself too much in politics, Most Holy. Faith is the essence of your cause.”
Leliana hummed a wordless agreement, “There have been times when I thought faith was lost. When I first visited the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Hero of Ferelden poisoned Andraste’s ashes, I fought, and I died at her hand.”
She gazed into the distance, contemplative, “In that instant, I felt the Maker’s presence grow cold. One moment a cherished child, the next… abandoned. But that is not so anymore. Especially not now. Isn’t it odd,” she turned to Mother Gisele with a small smile, “that I should feel like a girl again. Now of all times I am reminded of the faith I had as a child, simple and untouched.”
Bowing her head, Mother Gisele replied, “Cleave to that faith, Your Perfection. Allow it to guide you like a light in your darkest hours.”
“Any other advice for me before my big moment?” Leliana asked, plucking at a few loose gold threads on her voluminous sleeves. She would have to call the servants back in to finish their work momentarily.
Mother Gisele gave her a thoughtful once-over, then said seriously, “Don’t trip on the steps in front of everyone.”
Leliana laughed.
—
Cassandra’s fingers traced the vellum of the map over and over, charting a course. While it was far from the first time she had planned a procession, marked the way along landmarks and capitals, villages and temples of note, this was different. The tiny golden chariot symbolizing the Divine’s passage could be moved with ease through Orlais, bounding along the Imperial Highway, be it north or east. Nevarra — as much as it pained her, that was a possibility. No one would question a Pentaghast’s presence there, much less when they heard the rest of her name.
A silver soldier served as Victoria’s accompaniment, and it was that small figure Cassandra drew to the side, away from the chariot, only for her fingers to fumble and knock them both over. Cursing under her breath, she reset them beside one another, angled towards Val Royeux. The leaden state of her hands, the weight that rose up like a wave and tried to crush her heart, eased away, but with relief came the warm flush of anger, and she slammed one fist down against the table, rattling an empty cup placed on the edge. It tipped back and forth before settling, the bottom jostled to just shy of falling.
The pieces on the map remained still, lodged in their proper place. Her proper place.
It was half a blessing that she hadn’t gouged the map itself, with the slight sting radiating through her knuckles, but the faded sepia ink provided the same untouched path as before, winding along coasts and mountainsides. There the Divine would go, there she would follow. No one but Inquisitor Adaar knew she had been named Right Hand again; the news wouldn’t flow freely until the coronation — the coronation being woven into existence on the floors below with cloth-of-gold and smoking censers, relics and tools of office worth a thousand times more than most citizens of Orlais would ever see.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t accepted the rank again willingly, hadn’t knelt and pressed her brow to Leliana’s offered hand, swearing that it would be her honor to help set things right again within the Chantry. No, it was the fact that once she had accepted, something restless ignited in her blood, chased away sleep and left only fragmented dreams in its place. Calling them dreams may have been wrong, perhaps, because Cassandra knew them within and without, knew Lucius’ voice as he defamed the Seekers, could taste the blood dripping down her cheek when he lashed out at her, when the blow she returned slashed right above his gorget, split vein and artery alike open to the air. They were memories relived, over and over.
Even the less violent ones remained haunting. In some, it was simply pages from the Book of Secrets playing through her thoughts, fraying every ounce of trust she poured into the Seekers’ rites and rituals, reflected on the face of every Tranquil who crossed her path serving the Inquisition. Cassandra had never considered them lesser so much as proof that all those created by the Maker could be flawed, tempted, and felt utmost regret that magic could not be harnessed as easily as so many prayed. Was it pride or weakness that was extinguished when she held her vigil, became an empty vessel after a year of trials? Had anything actually changed at all?
Mages were harrowed, Seekers were purified. What a world of difference the word could make, when one was enclosed in a circle and the other was told they were pursuing the highest of callings, and yet, no one had divulged the secret. Locked behind private texts, whispered between monarchs, but never given to the public. Sometimes it threatened to bubble up in her throat, burn her tongue with the urge to shout — what did it mean for the Right Hand to have been cut off from dreams, from emotion, even for a split second? What did it mean that the woman who would be Divine had died at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, only to have breath returned to her lungs as if by providence?
Whether Andraste had blessed Adaar was still a mystery for scholars and faithful alike, but Corypheus had undeniably existed in the flesh, bringing the Herald together with hands both Right and Left, the spectre of Justinia watching over them all. Miracles were called and claimed for less, as were Exalted Marches.
Yet there was no sense of holiness in her hands when she looked down, saw the faint red swell from where the table resisted the strike. Callouses and scars broke up the topography of skin, faint lines of pulse and life, but no hallowed glow gouged her palm, no strength but that which was earned by decades of swinging a blade, bearing a shield. With a clench of her fist, she could set lyrium ablaze, but the ability had always felt like more of a reflex than magic, power written into muscle and sinew.
After all, they had allowed her to practice on a Templar for weeks, a young woman who endured the pain for the Maker’s sake.
Shame welled up in Cassandra’s breast, flickering bright as veilfire. When her eyes focused on the chariot once more, the soldier following faithfully behind, the feeling settled, and she gently cupped the ill-struck hand over the figures, felt a minute silver sword and golden palanquin prod her fingertips.
“You haven’t lost your belief, you know. Not at all.”
The voice startled Cassandra into action, drawing the dagger from the sheath low on her hip, prepared to aim for the intruder’s throat when she recognized watery amber eyes beneath the brow of a ragged hat. Her blade stopped short of Cole’s nose as she sucked in a breath between her teeth, adrenaline making the world sharp, limbs fluid. It waned by the second, making Cassandra’s forearm tremble as she lowered the dagger, slid steel back into worn leather until her fingers were freed from its hilt.
“My request for you to stop appearing in my quarters did not cease when I left Skyhold, Cole.” There was a rasp in her tone, betraying a quickened pulse. Why had he scared her so? Despite the surprise, there was no reason for sense to entirely flee in the spirit’s presence. “How did you get here?”
A foolish question, Cassandra realized a second after the words slipped out, but his answer was a shrug and, “I was invited.”
“Yes, everyone from the Inquisition was invited.” Not all had accepted, but that was another matter entirely. “I meant here in my room, although I suppose why would be the better thing to ask. The coronation is downstairs.”
“But you’re not downstairs.” Cole tilted his head, then gestured to her loose tunic. “You’re not even dressed.”
Little point in inquiring how he knew that; Cassandra was sure the truth was plucked from her thoughts, just like everything else. “There’s hours yet.”
“If you don’t show up, she’ll be very disappointed.” Cole said, tone falling low.
“Of course I’m going to show up. I’m her—” She snapped, frowning as soon as the heat of anger vanished. That wasn’t public knowledge to offer aloud, regardless of his abilities or her temper. “—Hers.”
Confusion played across his pale face, expression as open as a child’s. “You were trying to run away. You hurt your hand.”
Only when he said as such did Cassandra glance down at the hand grasping the metal figures tight, saw the pinpricks of blood provoked by the minute sword, the point of the Chantry flag atop the carriage. Laying both down with care, she wiped the drops of red away on a spare bit of oiled-cloth that had torn earlier in the morning while polishing her sword. Her fingers didn’t hurt; the sting was elsewhere.
“I would not break my oath and run from the woman I swore myself to, Cole.” Why not honesty, then, if he would pry it out the same way a healer would an infected splinter from a whining patient. “It’s the fact that I can’t, even if I wished to do so.”
“But you don’t.” He made a fist, pressed it to his own heart. “I can feel it like a stone here. Heavier than anything you’ve ever carried. Is it because you know it’s there now?”
“Because what’s there now?” Cassandra’s dark brow knit. “I’ve served two Divines before, Cole, the pomp and circumstance are all the same.”
“Not the Divine, the Seekers. Their touch upon your shoulders, what they left behind.” Cole spread his hands wide, framing her body. “It knows you better than you know yourself.”
“Stop spewing nonsense!” The roar returned, seared through her voice. “Why am I different? What changed?”
A stilted knock drew Cassandra’s attention to the door, the sound light but hurried. “Seeker Pentaghast? Can I come in?”
The shift was like a wisp of smoke, a whisper through glass; Cole was gone. Biting back a curse dark enough to profane the halls surrounding her, Cassandra’s shoulders sagged for a moment before she rolled them back, straightened her spine. Regardless of this matter, any number of nights with troubled sleep, she had a duty to perform, and Leliana — Victoria — needed her to be above reproach.
After pushing the cloth soiled with her blood into the nearby wastebin, Cassandra approached the door, jaw set. She would find Cole later, make him speak plainly. For now, there was armor to don, tradition to bear like a battleflag. In service there was rest, familiarity, and perhaps, a moment’s peace.
—
Even from the wings, the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux was stunning to behold. High above the vaulted ceiling soared spindly columns, and light filtered through windows of colored glass, stained red and gold and imperial blue. At the very head of the nave the Sunburst throne sat, radiant, upon a raised dais draped with scarlet cloth. People crowded and jostled one another in the aisles, craning their necks to see the next Divine on her walk to assume her seat as the head of the Chantry.
Leliana had never worn robes so heavy. Gold plates stamped with Andrastian flames dangled from her chest and threatened to drag her shoulders down. She had to remind herself not for the first time to not rub at her tired eyes lest she smear the heavy crust of paint carefully applied to her face. Instead she blinked the fatigue away, bracing herself with a deep breath. The long procession had been as tiring as the weeks leading up to it: the shuffle of priests in their swaying robes; horses champing at their bit, stamping their shod feet upon the cobblestones; the chevaliers’ crests nodding on their helmed heads; hundreds of streaming banners ensconced in flashing bronze and gold — and there amidst it all, Leliana drowning in stifling robes upon a palanquin of scented wood. After all this time spent planning and toiling over ceremony, she would be glad to see this day over.
Peering out at all the murmuring people, Leliana had the sudden urgent desire for a mask. The Game had always been a favorite of hers, but that had always been as an agent from the shadows, as a bard or as the nightingale. But bards did not become Divine, and nightingales were locked away in reliquaries. Her earlier optimism expressed to Mother Gisele felt thinned and strained. Faith which had once seemed close enough to taste had shrunk to a single wavering flame. Leliana’s hands clenched into fists and she muttered a few lines of the Chant under her breath.
“Apologies for being late.”
Leliana’s head jerked around, and she reached up to steady the towering headdress. Before she even saw who spoke — how could she not recognize the owner of that distinctive voice? — her face had relaxed into a smile. “It’s about time.”
Cassandra stood resplendent in burnished armor, leaning one palm on the hilt of her sword, crested helm curled under the opposite elbow. Her waist was cinched in rich red cloth, her old armor exchanged for a new suit that flashed silver and gold under the glance of sunlight, yet it remained as practical as ever. When she spoke the drone of the crowd grew distant, fading like the crash of waves upon the shore, “It won’t happen again, Most Holy.”
Eyebrow canting up in amusement at Cassandra’s formality, Leliana said, “Trust me, if we had to do this again I’d probably fling myself from the top of the White Spire.”
Cassandra grunted, but her expression remained stiff and she looked anywhere than at Leliana, “I think I would follow, Most Holy.”
There was a flicker of that dry humor, and Leliana smiled, “Look at me, Cassandra.”
She knew she shouldn’t, knew that if she did she would be swept up, swallowed by the embers smoking in her stomach, but obedience to the Divine was ingrained in her bones now. Thrice given, thrice accepted. Leliana had only to ask, and Cassandra was hers, body and soul. Squaring her jaw, teeth grit tight, she looked up and met Leliana’s gaze. Every clenched muscle uncoiled, quick as a snap of frayed rope. It felt like the first breath of air after a week in the sweltering Deep Roads, cool and fresh and clean as the driven snow. She wanted to sink into it and never re-emerge.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Leliana said, “I don’t think I could do this without you by my side.”
At that admission, Cassandra swallowed thickly. Her gauntlet creaked as she gripped the hilt of her sword. Her voice cracked when she spoke, “You honor me, Most Holy.”
“And we’re going to have a talk about this ‘Most Holy’ business,” Leliana said with faux severity, tapping her finger playfully against Cassandra’s breastplate.
“Yes, Your Perfection.” Cassandra murmured, catching sight of one of the musicians giving them a discrete wave. She nodded to the cue and swung her helm over her head, fastening the ceremonial mask beneath her chin.
Trumpets blared announcing the final mark of the procession, and Leliana just shook her head at Cassandra before they assumed their places. Two young girls dressed all in white walked before Leliana, strewing her path with rose petals like pale feathers. She felt them crinkle and crush beneath her gold-stitched feet like thick-pleated samite. Behind her Cassandra led a cavalcade of dismounted templars, marching all in step, their booted feet resounding loud as an army in the marble sheathed cathedral. Incense trailed their stalks of smoke from the pointed archways, clouding the air above, interrupting the slashes of light in brilliant hues. The crowd, which had been so eager before to press forward for a glimpse of the Divine Victoria, shrank away with a collective inhalation. From the wings of the far beam a chorus set the stones beneath their feet humming with reverent song.
Lifting the robes clear from her feet, Leliana climbed the steps. Before her crouched the empty throne which had supported those before her, a long legacy of women who had been given authority to judge. She allowed her fingers to trail over one of its gilded arms, tracing the sharp patterns there, then turned to face the crowd and lowered herself into the low-slung seat. As one the congregation sank to their knees, and there they remained, heads bowed as though in worship. She gazed across the masses, but her eyes came to rest on the figure at the very fore.
Cassandra’s face was obscured behind her mask, the plate festooned with lavishly detailed repoussé, her eyes a flicker of bright black beneath slits in the metal. She knelt, utterly still, one hand forming a fist that propped upon the floor, the other held over her heart. They waited for the chant to end, the echo of voices clinging to the vaulted ceiling, then Leliana spoke.
“Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast,” Leliana’s words broke, calm and clear, through the silence, “Rise and approach us.”
Without hesitation, Cassandra complied. When she stood before the Sunburst throne, she swept the great helm from her head, unsheathed her sword, and knelt once more at Leliana’s feet. Head bowed, helm placed on the floor, she offered her sword up to the Divine Victoria, where it glinted like a flame.
Leliana grasped it by the hilt and held it over Cassandra’s head, one of its sharp edges angled down, ready to strike, “Do you, Cassandra, take us as your Divine? Do you accept your role as our Right Hand? Do you so swear to trust and honor us, to protect us with your life, today, tomorrow, and forever? Do you so swear to be faithful through tragedy and blessing, so long as you live?”
“I do,” Cassandra rasped.
Looking out over the crowd, Leliana called out, “If there is anyone in this congregation who so objects to this appointment, speak now.” When her words were met with silence, Leliana turned the blade over in her hand, “We are in agreement. You are deemed worthy of our Right Hand. Know, now that you are made our Right Hand, that you must succor the defenseless, seek justice for those of every station, obey us in every capacity, and maintain the honor of your station. Let this blow remind you that our Right Hand shall bring you pain as well as honor.”
With a flick of her wrist she gently struck Cassandra’s shoulder, the twang of metal on metal ringing out like a bell, and the sword shivered up through her arm, “Rise,” Leliana commanded, “and take your place by our side as our sole Hand.”
A confused buzz traveled through the crowd. People turned to whisper furiously to one another, but the two on the dais ignored them. Cassandra stood, and when she took the sword their hands touched, Cassandra’s skin burning even through layers of leather and silverite. Cast in the light of the stained-glass windows, she seemed to glow, eyes like exalted beacons across the rocky sea. Leliana paused at the force of that gaze, of that single shining moment in which Cassandra looked at her like one who looks upon the face of Andraste herself, fierce and awed and ardently devout.
“We shall have no Left Hand,” Leliana said, low and earnest, even as she reached out with her own left hand to cup Cassandra’s face, a warm thrill prickling up through her fingers to her opposite shoulder, “Let it be known the Shadow of the Sunburst Throne is no more.”
Upon her touch, Cassandra’s eyes flared, a flash of keen luminous blue. Leliana sucked in a rapid breath and snatched her hand away as though burned. Her mouth dropped open, but Cassandra was already shoving the helmet back over her head, yanking the mask into place, and moving to stand beside the throne. Leliana steadied herself with one hand on the throne as she sat back down.
A second after she recovered, Empress Celene, Briala and the nobles from court were before her, ready to approach and kneel, one by one. She forced herself to keep from glancing at Cassandra, and convinced herself it was nothing but a trick of the light, a shift through colored glass.