#sapphodera

Her advisors stripped her of her staff before the meeting, with Josephine offering apologies as numerous as they were genuine and Leliana flashing Cerridwen a glimpse of the daggers she kept on her own person. If nothing else, she was well guarded. It didn’t make her feel any less naked without the steady weight across her back.

The weight has returned now, thank the gods, snatched back the second she was free from the meeting. Cerridwen didn’t pause to change out of her elaborate outfit on the way out to the courtyard, and she regrets it now as the stiff material feels properly stifling.

Skyhold is surprisingly warm for an abandoned fortress on top of a mountain, or perhaps she is just experiencing the burning shame of being seen prettied up like a doll for foreigners who had never been anything but oppressive towards her people. But appearances are everything, and the Inquisition needs funding if they have any intentions of actually saving the world. For a moment she considers visiting Blackwall in the stables, commiserating with her friend over the state of the world, but she doesn't want to trouble him. Nor does she want to be laughed out of the stables before she even gets a chance to speak with her friend.

Instead, she finds herself in the secluded corner Cassandra normally haunts when there aren’t guests to be screened and Varrics to be bothered.

The dummy stands proud, even as Cerridwen notices fresh plaidweave patches where there was unscathed burlap yesterday. She kicks the wooden base of it, just because she can, and pouts like a child who hasn’t gotten her way when it doesn’t so much as sway.

That, perhaps, is the last straw.

It’s been far too long since Cerridwen has properly punched something, and Casandra’s stupid dummy is a good enough target for now. She wishes the burlap beneath her fists is flesh instead, imagines she hears the satisfying crack of a broken nose as she drives her elbow into the featureless face.

Her nose was broken once, still crooked where it hadn’t healed right. She had given as good as she got, though, and stumbled home concussed and bloody but smiling. Deshanna really got on her case then, but Cerridwen hadn’t been First then either. She misses it fiercely some days.

Another punch to the dummy that has started to look damningly like their Orlesian guests.

She’s really sweating now, satin blouse sticking to her skin uncomfortably and damp curls flattened against her forehead. It feels good, makes her feel like she’s human again. She still wishes she was wearing the worn, comfortable tunic and pants that remain woefully Cerridwen-less on her bed. Maybe, though, if she ruins these stupid clothes then Vivienne will declare her a lost cause and never make her wear anything like them again.

The thought makes her laugh, then pause in thought. It’s worth a try, honestly. Cerridwen grins with crooked teeth and launches herself at the dummy with renewed vigor, adding in strikes of her heavy staff with intermittent elbows and kicks.

She’ll try horseback riding, too. Later, when it feels less like she’s about to burst out of her own skin. And then, suitably dirtied and damp, she will return to Vivienne with a slow turn to show off the damage and an expression that screams ‘I told you so.’

“You could have just said you didn’t like it and saved yourself the time, Cerridwen.”