#anywho. i wanted this out bc goddamn it was eating me alive

[freedomcrows]

pick your poison (hallowed)

dragon age the veilguard. rook de riva & inquisitor trevelyan. set post game. 2,5k words. vague spoilers for the game's ending.

They rarely get visiting dignitaries in the Lighthouse. It feels far too much like a home away from home to let just anyone wander in, but when your Prophet’s herald asks, you can hardly say no. 

At first, it’s all well. The Inquisitor marvels over the amount of books there is. She sits in the library, wistful, lost in thought only she knows of. Neve, far divorced from religion in general and the southern Chantry in particular, seems determined to pester her as if she were a particularly captivating and intriguing case. Valeria answers with distinct conviction and pride, though her hard stares are enough to get Neve to back down for half of the questions asked. 

Taash inquires about her husband. 

“He’s Qunari, right?” They have one leg crossed over the other, casually draped beside her on the couch. “Does he tie the knots also? Also, does your Maker even allow you to marry a Qunari?” 

“He is Tal-Vashoth,” Valeria corrects. “He has horns, but he isn’t a Qunari anymore.” She adjusts her skirt. “And the Maker would allow his Prophet’s herald to do anything. I do not die by the exclusionist practices of the Chantry as you may have heard of it. I’ve never seen him tie the knots like you do, though. In other areas..”

Taash grins. “Would love to pick his brain on a few things,” they say. “This new Qun shit might be interesting to him. Get him to Rivain sometimes.” 

Later that day, they burst into the Meditation chamber and put their hands on their hips. “The Inquisitor fucks nasty, Rook,” they exclaim. Immaculata and Lucanis lift their heads from the backrest of the couch with the world's most flabbergasted expressions.

Harding’s absence hangs over Immaculata’s head like a veil. Even if she and Valeria were never close, Harding spoke of her, shared a few jokes about her here and there. Now she’s gone and all Immaculata has is Valeria’s title to remind her that it’s all Immaculata’s fault and Harding’s stories to compare to the real, living, breathing person. 

They don’t talk about Varric. 

But they do talk about the Fade. 

“Professor Volkarin, you were right about the Fade being so finicky here.” The Inquisitor - Valeria - sounds oddly pleased. She’s not a very tall woman by any stretch of the imagination, yet her presence feels sacrosanct. She is without her lyrium-powered arm and the other one grasps at the Fade around her, uneven. “It doesn’t form in my hand like it normally does.”

“Of course it doesn’t, Inquisitor! We still have the Veil, thanks to Rook, and one does not normally get to experience magic this delicate up close!” Emmrich looks like a street lamp in Treviso next to her. His eyes are bright and filled with excitement; they look matched, the Inquisitor in her cool, softly sincere enjoyment and Emmrich leaping at the opportunity to speak with a Fade expert of his calibre. 

“I would not call this delicate, professor,” Valeria says. “I prefer the word precarious. We are a broken dampener away from being in the raw Fade, it feels like.” 

Immaculata’s mouth is dry. She’s out of her depth; she doesn’t have the theoretical knowledge of magic of these two giants, or Bellara, or Neve. Instead, she has a lived experience, some few elemental magics and a demon inside her head. 

Valeria’s distance is noticeable, her eyes set on everyone but Immaculata. She’s talked to Neve about Tevinter time magic. She’s talked to Bellara about the magical expertise of ancient elves. But she avoids her and Lucanis for obvious reasons, and it makes Immaculata’s chest tighten. 

Do you wish we’d stayed separate? Regret speaks very much in Immaculata’s voice. It is slightly unnerving. 

No, she says. I did what I had to do. 

Even if that means committing a cardinal sin as someone born with magic. 

“Raw Fade isn’t very pleasant,” Immaculata says out of nowhere. “I’ve never had a Harrowing, but–” Regret prison feels entirely too fresh. She forcefully maintains a neutral tone. There is no need for Valeria to know how she left that damn place in tears, stumbling into someone’s arms. 

Valeria looks at her. Her eyes are unsettlingly blue. “No,” she says. “Up until recently, I was amongst the few people who ever walked in the Fade, in the flesh. Adamant Fortress isn’t the place I think fondly of.” She squints. “Is your demon with us, Rook? And the other one, Spite?” 

“Always is, Inquisitor,” Immaculata mutters. “Lucanis is in the kitchen, but we cannot separate from Regret and Spite.” She sighs. “Killing them now or making us both tranquil is hardly a solution.” 

“I wasn’t looking for solutions,” Valeria’s shoulders relax slightly, even if her tone’s got an edge to it still. “Andraste forbid I ever suggest tranquility as a solution. It’s a slight upon any Maker-fearing soul. Those that did it befoul any chantry they go to for prayer. I was merely.. asking. “ 

“Spite is a great companion,” Emmrich chimes in. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Regret much, but I would advise against casting judgement so swiftly.” 

Valeria presses her lips. “It’s not my judgement, it’s–” 

“I don’t want to debate the Chant with you, Inquisitor,” Immaculata lifts her hands. “Crows have given me a lot, but never a formal magical education. You seem to have a lot of enthusiasm for this topic regardless of my presence.” 

“Rook,” Emmrich says. Immaculata shakes her head and waves them goodbye. 

------

Doors to the dining room creak open. Fine smell of Antivan cooking hits Immaculata’s nose, a particular blend of spices she knows so well; Lucanis is furiously whisking something in a well loved bowl to the backdrop of cooking meat. Davrin is waving his hands around, deep in conversation. 

“--is why you should take silverite knives for that job,” Davrin is saying. “That wyvern tooth one should be up on a wall, Lucanis. Immaculata has an amazing eye for such things, but I don’t know what kind of money you Crows make to use those things in actual fights.” 

“A lot of it,” Lucanis responds. “And what use is a dagger that is not, well, used? Being killed by a wyvern tooth dagger - by the First Talon - is a sign nobody can miss. Treviso is free but the rest of Antiva is not. Viago is annoyingly fond of saying that the Crows rule Antiva, but it is true.” 

“A statement murder,” Immaculata chimes in, closing the door behind her. “I apologize if I’m interrupting your, uh, riveting conversation. Are you sending Davrin after the Antaam?” 

“They’re not my first choice of target, but some of them are bad guys for sure,” Davrin shrugs. His brow furrows. “You okay, Immaculata?” 

“Yes, Ada, are you well?” Lucanis puts the bowl down. His brow furrows too and he wipes his sweaty forehead. He’s pulled his hair back in a bun and looks very comfortable. “You look like a bird emptied its stomach in your hood.” 

“Or Assan shat in your bed.” Davrin straightens and pats the chair next to him. 

Immaculata rests her hands on the table. “The Inquisitor is not the most pleasant woman I’ve ever seen,” she says quietly. “She hasn’t been pleased with me since I merged with Regret.” 

“Yeah, she has the face of a cunt,” Davrin sighs. “She’s what, stupidly Andrastian?” 

“With all its benefits and pitfalls,” Lucanis adds sadly, and walks over to her. He places a soft hand on her shoulder and presses gently, like he would for a massage. “My hands are clean,” he whispers and rubs her arm. She looks around and presses her head against his shoulder. 

Lucanis hugs her. 

“There aren’t any contracts on her,” he says. 

“Please do not kill the Inquisitor, Lucanis,” Immaculata drawls, and huffs. “I think nobody has the coin for even a half of Chantry counterattack leaders that would be on our necks.” 

“Fucking Crows,” Davrin says. “A good “stop being a cunt” is free and comes without the risk of all of the South marching against us.” 

“I would not discount a contract on her at some point,” Immaculata responds. “I, however, will not be accepting that job. And I hope the First nor the Fifth Talon will not give it to me.” Davrin looks a little confused. “Viago de Riva. My half-brother. He’s my Talon, as he is also a de Riva. That kind of contract would have to go through him.”

“You’re seriously considering murdering her?” Davrin rubs his face.  

“We are Crows, Davrin,” Lucanis and Immaculata intone at once. “We kill people for money.”

Davrin stares. 

“Suit yourselves,” he grumbles. “Also, Lucanis, your meat will overcook.” 

“Mierda!” The speed with which Lucanis lets go of her and rushes to the kitchen makes both her and Davrin burst out laughing. Lucanis takes the lid off and sniffs. His eyes go purple for a moment. 

“Warden.Tricks.Us!” Spite says and Immaculata bends over, laughing. Tension that simmered beneath her skin all day comes out of her in loud waves, and she’s shaking and holding onto the chair for dear life. Davrin taps her on the shoulder. 

“You feeling better, Immaculata?” he asks softly. She almost doesn’t hear him over her laughter.

“Murder. Is. Still. Valid,” Spite adds. It is Lucanis who closes the pot again. 

Immaculata wheezes, breathless. “For Maker’s sake, Davrin,” she mutters and stands straight. “Are we having overcooked meat for lunch?” 

“No!” Lucanis rubs the back of his neck. His eyes are impossibly large and dark. “I am glad you are feeling less tense, though,” he says. “Even if it is at the expense of a perfectly good piece of meat.” 

“What gentle boyfriend you are,” Davrin laughs with no real heat. Lucanis gives him a sheepish smile. “He’d overcook meat for you.” 

“Davrin, stop,” Immaculata shakes her head and moves hair from her face. “Let the poor man cook.” 

“I should have kicked you out of my kitchen hours ago,” Lucanis agrees. “You, Ada, can stay. Davrin, you go play with Assan. He can shit in the Inquisitor’s bed since she’s not in it right now.” 

Immaculata rubs her eyes. “You two are impossible,” she says and her heart feels warmer than it had in a long time. 

These people may not be holy, but they’re hers. 

It is a comforting thought. 

-----

“Rook?” Valeria’s voice from the hallway. Immaculata gingerly puts an empty reagent bottle down. The room deceptively smells like healing herbs. “I want to talk.” 

“Yes?” Immaculata rubs the scar on her neck, and takes a deep breath. “Come in.” 

Valeria slides the doors open. Immaculata watches her lyrium-powered hand dim as she stands there, her brow furrowed. A show of power for a mage, Immaculata realises, and with no small amount of envy. She has seen Valeria in combat; the way she wields the ice and the Fade puts a lot of people to shame, on top of powering the dwarven-crafted hand. 

Her face, however, glistens with some sweat. “Solas certainly likes making things difficult,” Valeria grumbles. “Least of all things doors.” 

Immaculata clears her throat. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes.” Valeria stands there, clearly awkward. Candles shine a bright light on her golden hair, reminiscent of Andraste’s. Andraste, too, was once a person in the flesh. Holy is not without a physical presence. “I.. Well. Your choice to ally with a demon is certainly a choice, but desperate times call for desperate measures.” 

“Is that what this is about?” Immaculata sighs. “You do not need to explain your view, nor apologize. We read the same Chant, we listen to the same Divine. I know what I did is wrong and that I will be judged for it. I just–” 

“I can sense it,” Valeria interrupts. She walks over. Her boots click-clack. “Does the demon think this is amusing? This whole scenario?” 

Yes. 

Immaculata purses her lips. 

Valeria watches her with those icy, unsettling eyes of hers. “No matter. And I am not here to discuss theology either. Andraste knew we let a blood mage or two exist, with repentance, in the Inquisition. And I find the Chant to be.. Inflexible, at times.” 

“Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him,” Immaculata says. “Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.”

“And have they turned against His children? They used their own blood, as far as I know. No other soul was harmed in their transgressions.” Valeria shrugs. “The Chant is a lot of things, but rarely fully straight forward. It must sound silly, coming from the Inquisitor, but..” Her face scrunches. “What I meant to say is that you are not summoning any more demons, you are turning against the Maker’s children no more than I am, and that I may have been.. Rash in my judgement.” 

Immaculata’s eyes widen. She is no match in arguing the Chant to the Inquisitor, this distant and all-powerful, holy mage, and yet, to hear that her beliefs had changed over the years.. Some in Antiva had called Valeria’s branch of Andrastianism a heresy, but is it truly surprising that one supposedly heretical belief would slip into another? 

No, what truly seems miraculous is that Valeria sounds like she’s apologizing. And that the act itself feels like the worst, shittiest possible stomach bug known to man. Immaculata huffs a laugh in disbelief; Valeria’s head shoots upward. 

“I believe the Maker and I will sort it out,” Immaculata says in an odd voice, entirely too intimate and soft. She feels out of her depth, like she’s exposed her belly to someone for no reason whatsoever, and that too feels like a crappy stomach bug. 

“You will,” Valeria agrees. “And if we’re all good and fine, I would like to go back to Solas’ stupidly big library.” 

Immaculata’s shoulders relax. “And I should go back to my next batch of poisons!” 

Valeria stares. 

“I’m a Crow, Inquisitor,” Immaculata waves a hand at a large Crow statue on the side wall. Did she just accidentally threaten her? 

“Understandable. And please close the door behind me. I am not wrangling that again.” Valeria waves goodbye and walks out just as she’d entered, but with a sense of a burden being lifted, almost. 

Immaculata closes the doors behind her, equally at ease. Her mind shifts and turns in confusion for a solid minute still before she marches towards her tools. A dirty mortar awaits another batch of foxglove. 

Regret is her transgression, her responsibility. There will be a reckoning with the Maker, but that is a problem for an Immaculata of the afterlife. She’s tired of regrets, tired of wishing she’d done things differently. This current, living Immaculata makes poison for her job and has friends she loves. 

And sometimes, that’s enough.