#trial tw

Hondo was the next one called to the stand. The Warrant Officer couldn’t even look at Jake as they questioned him. He tried his best to turn things around in Jake’s favor, but there was little he could do when he had been in the control room and explicitly heard Cyclone order Jake to stand down. Hondo was also the one in charge of all of the deck preparations including take-offs and landings, so this whole ordeal didn’t bode well for him if it was determined that Jake was allowed to take off due to a failure on his part. Regardless of what happened today, Jake did hope his actions didn't get the other man in trouble. While he was positive Hondo would have done anything within his power to get Maverick and Rooster back, Jake had acted alone and no one else should be responsible for that. 

Warlock was next to testify. He refused to elaborate on any of his responses, simply giving one or two-word answers that left little for the court to work with. But just like with Hondo, Warlock couldn’t deny the facts. 

Had Jake taken off after Admiral Simpson had refused his request to provide cover? Yes. 

Did Admiral Simpson retract or change his order before Jake took off? No. 

Was it true that while Jake rescued Maverick and Rooster, it was without explicit permission to do so? Yes. 

As he finished and walked out past where Jake was sitting, Warlock gave him a small, sad smile and a nod, and all Jake could do was nod back.

For the first time, Jake wasn’t smiling.

However, despite their less-than-stellar testimonies, it wasn’t until Cyclone took the stand that a pit formed in Jake’s stomach. Everyone knew Cyclone was a hard-ass stickler for rules and regulations and while the man had shown no ill-will towards Jake for his defiance of his orders, it quickly became clear he wasn’t going to defend him either. 

By the time Cyclone was excused, Jake was nearly hyperventilating in his seat. How had he been so certain only an hour ago that there was nothing to worry about and now there was every chance he was about to lose everything. He could feel the eyes of all of the Daggers boring into the back of his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at them. Seeing the pity on their faces—he couldn’t handle that right now. 

But then, it was his turn to testify. Walking slowly towards the stand, Jake wracked his brain for anything he could say to justify his actions. To make this all go away. But there was nothing he could do. Except…

When Jake sat down, the prosecutor began her questioning. Each one covered much of the same ground the others had already testified about. They were mostly yes or no questions and any time Jake tried to elaborate, he was cut off. But then they got to the final question:

“Lieutenant Seresin, in your own words, can you please explain to the court why you chose to disobey a direct order from your commanding officer despite knowing the possible consequences of your actions?”

Jake stared down at where his hands lay clasped in his lap. He had briefly practiced what he would say over the last few weeks; just a line or two about saving Rooster and Maverick’s asses, maybe even ending it with a clever jab about the right Dagger finally joining the mission, all told with his usual arrogant charm. But that was before it hit him what he was about to lose if this trial went wrong. How his entire world could come to an end on the word of the five people in front of him. 

He was a pilot. It wasn’t just what he was, it was who he was. He was Lieutenant Jake Seresin. Hangman. The only active duty pilot with one—no, two confirmed air-to-air kills. He graduated top of his class at the academy, placed first during his time at Top Gun. He had medals and accommodations and had completed missions that would leave other pilots pissing their pants from just reading the briefing. He loved what he did, and goddammit, he was great at it. Possibly the best. 

But now all of that was about to be taken away from him. So, he did the only move he had left—he told the truth.

Clearing his throat, Jake leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “I, um, I…I was just…” 

Taking a deep breath, he started again. “Look. I know how this must look. Anyone who knows me knows I’m an arrogant son of a bitch who can outfly almost anyone and I never let them forget it. I understand that based on what you’ve heard, it probably seems like I was just trying to be the hero, to prove to everyone I should have been on the mission all along instead of Rooster. But I didn’t disobey orders to satisfy my own pride no matter what it looks like.”

Glancing down at his hands again, Jake was unable to look at any of the dozens of faces staring at him. “Yes. I was mad when I wasn’t picked for the mission, but I was only mad at myself. This was a team mission and I only ever flew to inflate my ego, not to benefit my team. Maverick made the right choice making me the spare. Then I heard him get shot down and all I could think was if I had just been better, maybe I could have been there and done something to save him. That’s why I originally asked to launch and provide air cover for the rest of the Daggers. Maybe I couldn’t help Maverick, but I could make damn sure the rest of the team made it home. However, I was told to stand down…and then Rooster was hit—”

Jake was surprised to find a lump growing in his throat and tears starting to prickle at the corner of his eyes yet he pressed on. “One of the first things they teach you when you start to fly jets is you never leave a wingman behind. It’s like when you’re a kid and your parents say to never swim alone. So when I heard Maverick and Rooster were alive and back in the air…I didn’t even think about asking for clearance. I had two wingmen who needed me and I wasn’t going to let them face down those 5th Gen fighters alone. I just…I just wanted to be the team member I should have been from the start.”

As he finished speaking, not a sound could be heard in the courtroom. Jake couldn’t remember the last time he had been that honest or raw with anyone and now he had opened up to an entire room of people, most of whom were friends or colleagues. He wasn’t quite sure he would ever be able to face the Daggers again, but if it meant he got to keep flying, it would be worth it. 

With the testimonies finished, the panel filed out to deliberate. Jake rested his head on the table he was seated at and wondered how agonizingly long he would have to wait to learn his fate.

Fifteen minutes later, the panel returned. 

Jake felt as if he were going to be sick. Long gone was the flashing grin and the arrogant gleam in his eye. No, right now Jake Seresin’s heart was racing faster than he had ever flown and he struggled to keep back the tears that were burning in the back of his eyes. 

Rising to his feet, he stood at attention as he faced the men and women who were about to determine the rest of his life. 

The Inquisitor knelt before the statue, an unlit candle in her hands. Conjuring flame in her palm, she cast as she prayed, knowing that the two did not combine easily in the minds of those serving the Chantry, but feeling a peace as she did so all the same. She offered the fire as a part of her prayer, casting it with love for the deity she was attempting to serve, and as the wick caught, she felt that love return to her, tumbling within her core like a growing laugh or the early glows of joy. It was the love of a mother. With great care, the Inquisitor - Andraste’s supposed Herald, if the faith of others was to be believed - set the candle down upon the stone, murmuring extracts of the chant and prayerful sentiments of her own. One day, she vowed, she would have the full gardens here restored and converted into a chantry space. She wanted to build spaces for the other faiths, as well - statues to the gods of her own people, which deserved an outdoor place of their own, and a space in the Undercroft or even deeper below for the dwarves to mark their Ancestors. The Inquisition was young, but there was much she wanted to do for it; for now, though, first, she must do this. She knew the footsteps in the doorway before she turned.

“I… had hoped you would change your mind.” Cullen looked tired - often true, but even more so today. Instantly, Aredhel’s stomach crunched with guilt, even though it was for his sake above all others that she had decided to do this. It crunched even so, another balled fist within her, alongside a first one made of her own fear.

She rose, standing before the statue as she faced him, other people’s candles around her on either side. The pair’s voices echoed in the quiet, sacred space: “I can be stubborn when I want to be.” “So I’ve noticed.” Cullen’s voice curled with a hint of chiding play, and for a moment, that alleviation made them both smile, but it didn’t last. So often, gravity caught up with them; they were two people who naturally chose steep routes to walk.

Aredhel moved towards the ex-templar, each step a distinct sound in the silence. The closer she drew, the clearer she saw the anguish that he was trying to hide. Something about it struck her, taking her a step outside of time as she wished, in a sudden yearning, that they had pursued this thing between them for long enough to know each other fully. If today went badly, the idea of their story ending as missed or half-explored connections broke her heart - they were one being, still working out the early steps of being two uncertain halves. But, in many of the ways that mattered most, they were already that team, and she had no intention of dying today. “Please, reconsider,” the Commander began as she reached him, his hand remaining at his hilt, his body language formal and closed despite the intimacy that crept into his voice. “You have given enough. You needn’t do this.” “Cullen…” The elf tilted her head, sad and reassuring, all formality taken out of the equation by the way she looked at him.

He looked defeated. “I don’t know what else to say.” “You know why I’m doing it.”

"My…”  He faltered, interrupting himself with a look of pain, cut by the jagged blade of frustration. When he continued, his voice was strained, confiding; “Were I taking lyrium like I should, yesterday would not have happened. I cannot let that choice kill you." His eyes and voice pleaded, his last sentence only not a whisper because of how fervently it was uttered. Stepping that bit closer, the Inquisitor found her Commander’s hand and took it, raising it between them and pressing it to her. She gripped it for emphasis, knowing that there were walls between her words and his ability to accept them. "There is no ‘should’. And your concerns were fair. If you've been thinking them, others will have. I need to do this for them.” In her heart, more than anything, she was doing it for him: the fear and disorientation she’d seen in him yesterday broke her heart, and it would be foolish to assume that they would never resurface. However, her care for him had illuminated a wider picture that she should have seen before. She should have done this the first day they returned home with the templars. “People put faith in me. More than I ask for. Perhaps more than is right. And that includes people from the chantry.” One hand still holding onto his, her other cupped his face; even through his grief, his eyes creased a little in a half-smile at the touch. “They’re following a mage, Cullen. That could change things, for everyone.” Thank the Maker, it was a passion they shared. “I need to meet that with integrity."

A tendon tightening in his jaw, Cullen nodded. He couldn't deny it. "In Haven you nearly…" Haven was still impossible to speak of, for many reasons. Now, more so. Mirroring her, he cupped the Inquisitor’s face, needing to hold onto her essence. “I know what you are willing to give… But…” Drawing her close to him, their foreheads met, their eyes closing as they connected. Grief and honesty hung heavy on his words. “...I do not know if I can watch you give it.”

“If I’m really me, I won’t have to," she countered, nudging his nose with her own, smiling at him despite her own anxieties. Not letting them get the better of her, she pulled back enough to meet his eyes again, releasing his face and instead resting her hand against his forearm. Against his bracer, the templar emblem under her palm. “Trust them.” “I do.” Cullen sighed, exhausted. He'd been exhausted for a long time. “And I don’t. I’ve seen too many reasons not to. I've been reasons not to…” Sighing again, he relented. She would not change her mind, and perhaps she was right not to. One hand at her face, the other at her back, her pulled her back to him, stepping to meet her, their foreheads connecting once more as he tried, as gently as he could, to envelop her, in some way shield her from what was to come.

“I…will always back your decision. You know that, right? You have my support.” “Even if it’s this…?” With an even quieter sigh, he agreed, words badly audible through their concern. “Even then…”

=

The templars had gathered in the combat square - a cordoned off area of suitable size, and central to Skyhold. Their shields glinted sharply in the light, the Sword Of Mercy emblazoned upon them, their breastplates and bracers. Tower shields, kite shields - in every form they took, their bearers lined the square, a wall of reminders of their creed, the death of their prophetess and their willingness to enact the same when called upon. It was a symbol that would be seen often around the Inquisition, now: people needed to have faith in it, or they would always be divided. 

The templars were stood in an unironic circle, ready to receive and test their supplicant. On the other side of the fence line, crowds filled the yard, covered the stairways, watched from the ramparts: half the population of Skyhold had gathered, if not much more. Amongst them were the faces Aredhel knew and looked for: the Bull and his Chargers, Blackwall, looking about as grim yet unreadable as each other. Vivienne, one of the few who seemed to trust the process, though again, hers was a face that would not be read. Cole. Dorian stepped nimbly in line with her before she could enter the square, cutting mercilessly past anyone he needed to and falling in line with her as she walked: “You know, darling, you can still back out. There are plenty of ways to test you. We can ask that delightful artificer. Or, you know, dunk you under the water and see if you transform - that seems about as developed as their barbarous methods.” “I’ll be fine, Dorian.” Aredhel squeezed her friend’s hand, smiling past her nausea, and managed to kiss him on the cheek without falling over. With great trepidation, dragging in a laboured breath and putting on a brave face, she stepped forwards.

She had never been in this situation before. She had been amongst templars, but never like this: immediately, as she passed the heavily armoured, identical-seeming sentries, each armed with a weapon intended, if need be, for her, she gained a first, terrible insight into how a Circle Mage must feel. She could see why knights became the faceless, fearful things they were for some, even if doing their job correctly, if you had grown up with this sword above your head. Only under it for a moment, it was already making sense to her. Another reason to do this. She also looked at their faces. Each man and woman was one that deserved a second chance. She met some of their eyes as she walked past them, smiling to a few, looking levelly to others, matching each one as seemed right. As she walked to the centre of the square, she caught Solas’ eye. The look in it was complex - knowing, acknowledging, even admiring, yet ultimately disapproving, possibly even vexed. Often their relationship, for a reason she couldn’t yet understand. She thumbed at her Keeper’s ring, the patterns of wolves and old, cautionary stories a familiar feel under it. It represented duty to her clan; different stories to here, different gods, a different role, but that duty was the same. Passing Leliana and Josephine, the air carried snippets of conversation to her, their voices above the murmurs: “It is completely unnecessary,” her diplomat lamented. The spymaster countered immediately: “It is smart. It will cut any rumour down in its infancy, when it is easiest to kill.” She swallowed. It was not until she reached the centre that she saw Cullen. He was beside Cassandra, both at the front of the crowd: she appeared to be saying something to him with concern, but his eyes were fixed on Aredhel. She flashed a nervous, foolish smile to him, unable to stop herself despite their mutual fear. As she did, Cassandra spotted her too, and sent her a nod. Breathing shakily, Aredhel nodded back, feeling a little strengthened. Cullen’s hand gripped his sword hilt; the other gripped the fence.

Soon, she was before the Knight-Lieutenant. It was happening. In a strange moment of distance from herself, she noticed that she had begun to speak. Attention moving over the crowd, her voice boomed and bounced around the castle walls, her lungs pushing out her words with the false, learnt confidence of a leader - project, be heard, and catch up with oneself once things began to feel real again: “When the Inquisition came to the aid of the Templar order, we encountered a demon. One that had impersonated and replaced the Lord Seeker. One that tried - and failed - to replace me. Every one of you has placed your faith in this Inquisition, and it is prepared to meet that trust. We did not bring you here, and offer a fresh start, only to allow evil to persist.” She tried to say something further, but her voice cracked and broke, her confidence wavering. She trailed to silence. “Sorry,” she muttered, turning back to the Knight-Lieutenant. “Carry on. Your turn.” She knew those footsteps without having to turn. Cullen had broken from his position on the side-lines, striding around the edge of the training square and approaching the templars. It was not the gait of a man about to interrupt a proceeding, but a man suddenly seizing control of it. “Templars.” Some things do not change. He strode into position, voice carrying with conviction and habit: every templar there, whether they had ever served with the old Knight-Captain or not, understood. They looked to him: “If this is a demon or abomination, draw it out. These witnesses must see the truth of the thing before it is cut down - there can be no doubt. We cannot afford further schisms.” Aredhel understood, immediately, what he was doing. She turned to him, gratitude almost making her lose her balance. He continued: “I will see no blood until the demon is made plain." His voice had carried as far as the Inquisitor’s, making sure it was heard by the crowd, but as he continued, he lowered it, just for the gathered templars: “If this is no demon, then she is the Herald of Andraste. And your leader. Remember that.” As one, they saluted. “Aye, Knight-Captain.”; “Yes, Commander.” The Commander grimaced against the other title, but nodded. Aredhel shot him a dizzy, brow-knotted look of thanks. Light bounced piercingly from his bracers as he stepped back, traveling along the emblem’s engraved blade. Time, then. “Templars! With me.” The Knight-Lieutenant began her issue of commands; the crowd were advised that anyone who was not a Templar should take a good four paces back, warned that if the demon was using any protective counter-measures, there would be fallout. The sound all seemed muted to Aredhel as she looked down at the soil beneath her, focusing attention on her breath going in and out. She nudged a foot at the churned ground, kept so by the frequent sparring in this spot, and reached out for the sense of magic that tingled upwards from the earth. Distantly, she could hear what sounded like Cullen refusing to step back with the rest. Under her breath, she murmured a prayer, quoting from Transfiguration 12:

“My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.” Some of the nearest templars to her looked her way, noticing, but soon, the command came. All around her, the templars lit up: far from the yellow warmth of the chantry candles, this light was cold, a pale blue-white of lyrium-sponsored power, filling metal-clad hands on every side of her. Her heart quickened, panic suddenly finding her. She had to clamp desperately down on the immediate, childish urge to run to Cullen’s side and hide against his front. Or Dorian. Dorian, I’ve made a mistake - The light burst forth, rushing through the space like a silent explosion, blowing back the soil away from the blast, dust covering her boots. She braced…And felt nothing. Blinking, shocked, the Inquisitor looked around. Hope sprung forth. She had known she was safe, that she was no demon, but she had still expected that to be far worse - Something that would hurt, or they could misinterpret, something she could fail - 

Another order came. It was as if a rift had been torn in the Veil directly over her head, except it was no green light, but blinding white.

For a moment, that white was all Aredhel knew. It was so bright that it blocked out all else - that it felt as though it was behind her eyes, engulfing from within, not without. It seared with heat and ice, impossible to tell which, her body pulled taught, rigid beyond her control. For one suspended moment, the pain felt infinite, and then she fell.

In front of the crowd, the Inquisitor's body crumpled, collapsing to the ground of the training square.  The last clear thing she heard was Cassandra's voice, distinct above the rest; "The Inquisitor!" Panic tore through the crowd, the bark of several familiar voices attempting to quell it.