#skybonefic

Also posted to AO3.

Morrigan dances through the skies of Skyhold keep, watching. She studies its inhabitants, as she has always studied those in the wide world, with curiosity and amusement and a faint sense of unease. She understands more about the world now, but people... she still does not entirely understand people.

She understands the tethering of love better, now. But Kieran is her only weakness, her only safety. And she is still not sure she understands the idea of friendship.

For the most part the inhabitants of Skyhold do not notice her, other than as the advisor from the Orlesian court; they are far too caught up in their own stories to wonder about hers. The exception is Leliana. Leliana is not confused by the number of ravens in the Rookery. And Leliana watches her.

Leliana observes with quiet, watchful attention, and Morrigan does not know if it is from some remnant of camaraderie or anger; their history makes both possible. Then they had circled each other like cats, not quite friends, not quite enemies. But Morrigan thinks that Leliana is a cat no longer; there is a stillness to her that is not feline.

At the Winter Palace, passing through the crush of nobles, Morrigan noticed Leliana's eyes on her dress. Once Leliana spoke of clothing her in red velvet and gold. But that was before the Archdemon fell, before Morrigan fled, leaving them all behind. But the witch knows that the Inquisition's spymaster remembers, both the dress and the betrayal.

Leliana watches Morrigan, and Morrigan watches Leliana, curious. Morrigan dances through the skies, and the dance winds closer and closer, into the open tower, and settles. Leliana has an odd habit, sometimes, of talking to the ravens as if they were friends. As if they could become friends. It is a strange thing, and disconcerting. Morrigan does not know how to understand it.

(A little Cassandra/Trev headcanonish snippet thingie. I was feeling extremely uncreative and asked for a prompt, and nameinvain threw me a list that included "thunderhead" and thievinghippo offered "tears," and this is what came into my head. And it ties directly in to a sketchy story idea I already had, so yes, I do believe there's a full length story in this, though it may take me a little while to get to it. And I think writing this may have unlocked some blocks. So thank you, thank you, those were wonderful prompts! Now I'm going to see if I can figure out how to work more on the story I've been stuck on.) 

Cassandra often has a thunderous expression. This is how the Inquisitor thinks of it, and she suspects others do as well. But it is not actually angry, though many might see it that way, and flinch.

Trev does not flinch.

It is a lowering frown, a signal of focus, of attention, whether the target is something in the world or something in her mind. It is a sign that Cassandra is thinking.

It is thunderous in that there is often a sense of impending action, of change. It is thunderous in that there is a sense that lightning may strike; but it is not necessarily dangerous, it is not necessarily the lightning of destruction. Sometimes it is lightning that illuminates dark places, that enfolds, that sustains, that creates. Cassandra moves through the world like a thunderhead, full of potential, rising taller and taller, shifting and boiling, softness enveloping and hard light piercing. Taller than mountains, taller than the sky, dark and sunshot all at once.

Loving Cassandra is like loving a storm.

When Cassandra is angry her expression changes and goes well beyond thunderous, and the difference is very clear to Trev, who knows her so well. The Inquisitor has danced with the thunder, and the lightning, and felt the flesh stripped from her bones, and been reborn; there is no anger in the storm's song, though there may be tears.

When the Inquisitor is angry her fury burns like the coals of a slow fire left to burn out unattended, and the unwary may not notice. If it is not fed, the fire may seem to die back and disappear, but it can rise again from hidden peat below, can spark to a flash of tinder and often does, sullen and resistant and then all harsh flames spat out to sear all they touch. Trev works hard to keep it banked, to channel it with the purpose of a forge, for she knows the damage it can do, and that it does not deal the clean strikes of lightning.

When Cassandra is truly angry she is frightening, coiled with the tension of a wolf leashed with the lightest twine. When Cassandra is truly angry she steps with the tightly controlled, elegant movements of a predator, all white teeth and yellow eyes and the coppery smell of hot blood.

But Cassandra is helpless against the Inquisitor, because her anger cannot strike with words, and Trev’s anger can. And Trev is helpless against Cassandra, because she knows it. And so it has taken a long time for them to learn how to be angry with each other.

My new fanfic Aches and Pains has been posted to AO3. Here are the first two paragraphs; I’ll bet you can’t guess what kind of story THIS is. 

The dragon's lightning bolt hit the Inquisitor from behind, taking her by surprise, and she went down like a nug hit by a war hammer. Cassandra shouted, and she and the others redoubled their efforts; they knew better than to try to do anything but kill the dragon. 

So. I have posted an old, old Xena: Warrior Princess work to AO3, under the pseud enjay: The Ghost in the Forest. (It was originally posted on MaryD’s Bard’s Corner site.)

via klickitats

1. “Stop thinking about poisoning him,” said the Ambassador. “Do you realize what repercussions there could be for the Inquisition if it was known that suitors for its Ambassador’s hand were being assassinated?”

2. When she brings the Inquisitor here, it is real; there is nothing extra, just the two of them. There is no comfort, no softness, just what is between them.

“Truth is like light,” said Byron to the young Cassandra, who was wild and eager and understood only what she wished to. “It can be beautiful, and it can be terrible. It can reveal, and it can blind.”

“But when we follow truth it is the Maker’s light we stand in,” she replied confidently. “We shine light on the shadows of corruption; we bring justice.”

“Do we?” he said. “Truth does not necessarily provide justice for everyone; it can do great harm as well as great good. Truth does not always show the Maker’s mercy.”

Cassandra frowned, and said nothing. She was not certain she understood him. The opposite of truth was a lie; why should a lie require the Maker’s mercy? But she loved her mentor and respected him deeply, so she could not simply dismiss what he said. 

He looked at her expression and smiled. “The sword of truth shatters falsehood,” he said, “and sometimes more. When you break something, the shards go everywhere, as does the light from a faceted jewel, and you cannot always control where they fall.”

Years later, at a trader’s stall, the flash of light from small crystal pendants cut from clear gems catches her eye. Cassandra loves the beauty of jewelry, but it is part of the harness her uncle tried to put on her, and she does not wear it.

But she remembers Byron’s words.

That Story about Josephine and Leliana is finished, and posted on AO3. I hope you enjoy it, assuming “enjoy” is the correct word to use when dealing with angst and feels.