#inquisitor shielan lavellan

[for-the-ninth]

NINTHHHH welcome back to DADWC!! Hope this inspires you to get back in the swing of things: Confess to me. I'll be your judge; promise I'll condemn. - from the Salvation lyric prompts!

@dadrunkwriting Okay so what if the rebel mages, knowing about all the fuckshit Cullen pulled as a templar, decided to actually put him on trial for his crimes? And what if the Inquisitor oversaw the trial and...the execution ⚔️⚔️⚔️⚔️ (idk why I put swords here; Shielan is a mage lmfao) ANYWAY here it is!! (and I'm NOT editing it because i am being good and staying aligned with the SPIRIT of the EVENT dammit!! so sorry if typos lol)

_

Cullen stood before the the statue of Andraste. The Chantry, dimly lit and silent, save for the distant shouting of the crowd outside, served as his final refuge. For years, he'd thought about dying. His life had always belonged to the Maker, and he'd spent most of it bending to His will, though not happily. Dutifully. It wasn't a pleasant task, guarding the mages - so many had been resistant to His will. But at the time, he'd thought it necessary. Sometimes he still thought it necessary.

He never could make that thought go away. Couldn't replace it with any other thoughts, couldn't wish or pray it into nonexistence. It stuck there, hard against his softening heart, like black tar, almost as unbending as the Maker's will. Almost.

In the weeks before his trial, he'd come off lyrium - and damn near died doing it. Inquisition mages, once known as rebels and now heralded as leaders among the revolution, sent him letters of rage. Occasionally one had popped down to the dungeon themselves to berate him - always accompanied by guards, because for reasons he hadn't understood then, the Inquisitor wanted him alive.

Today, this morning, as he stood before Fiona and the Inquisitor, it all came together. The mages' petition to have him incarcerated was merely the beginning. While he struggled day after day in the cells below Skyhold, they waited, praying for his demise. When he lived, they raged. It wasn't enough that he suffered. They needed payment and they demanded it in blood.

He turned from Andraste and stepped into the crisp, mountain air. The crowd bellowed, pulsating with anger. It was time.

Inquisitor Lavellan stepped forward. "Cullen Stanton Rutherford, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, you have seen a fair and honest trial for your crimes.

Let this be a lesson to all who would dare turn their back on the Inquisition and its people: crimes against Thedosian mages by former templars will not be tolerated, nor taken lightly. Regardless of penance, your stain upon our people remains, and today it will be paid for in blood."

The crowd cheered, ravenous. Cullen sank to his knees and bowed his head. The Inquisitor readied her staff.

"On this day, Cullen Rutherford, you are condemned."

[for-the-ninth]

It's not Wednesday but I'm on mobile and can't find my WIP whenever banner so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

My favorite thing about Shielan is the mildly disturbing lengths she'll go to protect people close to her 🙃🙃🙃

She and her apprentice, Elspeth, bicker constantly. The girl is human and comes from nobility. She's snide and snobby and defiant, a complete and total pain in the ass, and though Shielan wouldn't dare admit it aloud, she cares deeply about the little thorn in her side.

***

Shielan chuckled as she stirred her porridge. It was still runny, but not so much as the week before. Rutherford must be getting the hang of things. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“The usual debrief, though Cassandra will be absent this time—she has a meeting with someone…important.”

“Who?” Shielan asked, mouth full of porridge.

Elspeth shrugged and plucked the plate of biscuits and fruit from the table. “She declined to say, which I thought strange, but what’s new? No one ever tells me anything.” She brought the waste bin over and swept an errant pile of crumbs into it. Shielan hated when the girl cleaned up after her, but Elspeth couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Apparently, there’s been some disagreement among your advisors—particularly the Sister and the Lady Ambassador—regarding the Inquisition’s next move.”

Shielan cocked one brow. “Where’d you hear that?”

“The apostate.”

“Which one?”

“The one.” Elspeth sighed dreamily, a pleasant half-smile unfurling her pursed lips. “He seems to know a bit of everything.”

Shielan fought the urge to cringe at Elspeth’s growing fondness—bordering on obsession, really, but that was the way of young love—for the man she spoke of. He was older than Elspeth and from a wealthy family, which Shielan knew because she’d sent one of Leliana’s spies to stalk him the moment Elspeth divulged his name. It wasn’t the years between them that concerned her so much as the way he carried himself. He was grown, but immature, and spoke of women like they were pawns in a game designed just for him. It was a matter of time before he either broke Elspeth’s heart or asked for her hand, and Shielan ensured the ongoing war would prevent the latter. With his age and experience, he ought to be at the front of your lines, she’d told Fiona. Dead men can’t leave scars.

Tagging some folks to share or just to read if ya wanna 🥰 @cathyfowl @roguelioness @nirikeehan @a11sha11fade @oxygenforthewicked @noire-pandora @charmcity-jess @emerald-amidst-gold @imperatrixvini

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tag @musetta3! This is an excerpt from a draft of chapter 14, in which Shielan comes to check on Cullen (at Cassandra's behest) after he has a PTSD flashback in the kitchen. Sarcasm and fighting words ensue, per usual.

***

Cullen nodded and, knowing her next words would be some version of, “You’re fired,” he did not wish to delay the inevitable with idle chatter. “As you’ve already made clear, there are more pressing matters deserving of your attention, Inquisitor. Tomorrow morning, I’ll deliver a formal apology to the kitchen staff and speak with Gatsi—perhaps he could use some assistance with repairs. Regardless, you needn’t concern yourself with my reassignment again.”

With one hand clutching the bedpost, Cullen stood and gestured toward the exit. He made it clear he’d neither be resting on his laurels nor wasting Shielan’s time, and with that weight off her shoulders, she could fulfill the rest of her duties in relative peace. Perhaps they’d see one another in passing and exchange glares, when the bolts in her doorknob came loose and Gatsi sent him to fix it. Barring that, she’d be free of him. 

But she did not hurry out the door to better things, and if she intended to exchange pleasantries before leaving, she was being uncharacteristically slow about it. While Cullen stood waiting, one awkward, trembling arm hanging in midair, Shielan stared at him with one brow cocked and a budding smile twitching in the corners of her mouth. The longer he stood, the bigger her cheeky grin grew. 

“Is this the bit where you make fun of me for something I’m not even aware I’m doing?” 

“No, but the night is young.” 

Cullen sighed. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, I’m not in the mood for—”

She held one hand up to silence him and used the other to dig through her cloak pockets until she found a cigarette, then rolled it between her thumb and forefinger until it caught flame. “I never said there were matters more pressing than”—she took a drag and waved her cigarette in his direction—“whatever this is. Even if there were, it may shock you to know I’m capable of managing my own priorities.” 

“I erm…” Shit. “Forgive me, Lady Inquisitor. I only meant to convey that you needn’t worry yourself over my misdeeds.” 

Shielan snorted. “Your misdeeds are last on my list. Hell, they’re not even on the list.” She kneeled at the fire and pulled back the screen to squint at the logs. “Anyway, Diedre wants you back in the kitchen tomorrow, and before you thank me—don’t. Cahir did all the convincing.” 

“Did he really?” 

“Indeed, he did.” 

Her voice carried an edge, like Cahir’s fondness for him plucked at her in some way, and it sparked a fresh wave of rage in Cullen’s chest. “I expect no compassion from you, but what is it about someone else caring for me that gets under your skin?”

“As if I’ve enough time to worry over who takes pity on you.” She spoke through a sigh, not bothering to make eye contact. “Your personal life is not my concern.” 

“Is that why you sent your own apprentice to the dungeon each day to check on me? And the food—I can’t imagine Cahir kept me fed of his own accord.”

“Everyone in Skyhold gets fed and Elspeth needed the experience,” she said. “You’re not special.” 

Cullen scoffed. “Does everyone in Skyhold have their life saved by the famed Inquisitor only for her to threaten them a moment later?” 

Shielan froze, but did not face him, and kept her voice low. “I could’ve left you to die—or better yet, thrown you in a pit with those who survived the Annulment and let nature take its course.” 

“Maybe you should have!” Cullen shouted, and he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t stop himself. “You hate me—you’ve always hated me.”

“Hatred would imply a level of concern for you that I do not possess.” 

“Then why keep me alive?” He marched toward her, hands balled to fists at his sides. “Do you get off on watching people suffer?” 

“You think far too highly of yourself if you believe that to be true.” 

Don’t say it. “I believe you’re not the fucking angel everyone makes you out to be. You came here alone and you’ll leave alone because you’re cold and bitter and those who’ve put you on a pedestal ought to knock you right off it.”  

Shielan stood and faced him with a slow deliberation that sent shivers down his spine. He steeled himself in preparation for her outrage, but her eyes did not burn with anger, nor did she puff her chest in defense. Rather, her face and slumped posture held a deep sadness, one that made Cullen’s soul wither in his chest.

“Inquisitor, I—”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m ill-equipped to be anyone’s savior, I’m bitter as the bottom of an ale barrel—for good damn reason—and, like you, I’ve hurt people who never deserved it. But while you’re content to wallow in the hole of regret you dug for yourself, I clawed my way out with a vengeance long ago.” She stepped toward him and raised her chin, hands clasped behind her back. “You’ll have to try a fuck of a lot harder if you wish to push me back in.”

Tags: @roguelioness @nirikeehan @teknicianwrites @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @emerald-amidst-gold @a11sha11fade @scribbledquillz @charmcity-jess @barbex

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tag @noire-pandora and @emerald-amidst-gold! This is an excerpt from a working draft of chapter 12 in The Life That Left Me.

Two weeks into Cullen's imprisonment, he experiences a psychotic break from lyrium withdrawal. Shielan didn't spare the templar bastard from execution for nothing - he's a cog in the well-oiled machine of her not-so-devious plan to dismantle the Templar Order at its foundation. His death has never been part of that plan.

But in her quest to keep him alive, Shielan reveals to Cullen a life-altering secret that she's been hiding since childhood - a secret that, if spilled, would more than likely result in her execution. This scene takes place at the beginning of the chapter, moments after the secret is first revealed.

***

Cullen groaned as his knees smacked down onto the cold stone floor. Before a clumsy apology for broken vials could form in his mind; before his eyes could process her monstrous expression; before a wheezing gasp could fully leave his throat, Shielan pounced. She was worlds faster than him on a good day, and in this state, he hadn’t even the strength to hold her back as she straddled him, pinning him against the wall with her forearm. The glinting edge of her dagger—how had he missed her unsheathing it?—brushed against his throat, and he gulped.

“Your face,” he breathed, “it’s—”

Demonic.

But Shielan wasn’t possessed—she couldn’t be. It’s said demons long to be among the living, so what purpose would one have for sealing its biggest gateway to the mortal realm?

“Speak of this to anyone—anyone at all—and I will kill everyone you love, and then you.” Shielan pressed the knife harder against his flesh, lowering her voice to a seething growl. “Slowly.”

She stared at Cullen, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, and he knew she was waiting for his answer. But he needed to take in her face—memorize it, if for no other reason than to research it later.

By all accounts, Shielan looked like a demon. Her once golden eyes—the ones he’d secretly swoon over in meetings—were pitch black and empty, like holes with no end. Markings of the same shade protruded out from her skin like gnarled scars, branching out into vein-like formations that crept down to her collarbone. Cullen’s eyes darted to her hands, and found they too were covered in the strange markings.

But Shielan—the woman, the Inquisitor, the one who’d spared his life when it would’ve been far easier to end it—was still in there, somewhere. He was certain of it.

“Tell me what I’m seeing,” he said, and immediately regretted it.

Shielan released him from her grip and he sucked in air like a dying fish, only to have it knocked from his lungs when she dropped her elbow to his stomach.

“I’d advise you not to play games with me, Rutherford.” The markings rippled beneath her skin, and a horrible chittering accompanied them, whether from the marks themselves or from Shielan’s own throat, he couldn’t tell.

She pressed the tip of her blade to his throat and stared him down, chest heaving and nostrils flared. His breath quickened as a droplet of blood trickled down his neck.

“If you’re possessed,” he said stupidly, “I can get you help. Perhaps there are methods the Chantry’s not yet tried to—”

“Were you dropped on your fucking head as an infant?”

He could hear the roll of those golden eyes in her voice, and just like that, his doubts faded to nothing. Not even a demon could master the brash and unbridled sarcasm Shielan reserved for him alone.

“Tell me you understand.” Her voice was sharp with impatience, and when a beat of silence passed, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head against the wall for good measure.

Cullen should’ve been terrified. Perhaps lyrium still lingered in his veins, but surely it wasn’t enough to make him fearless, as he once was. Demon or not, he and his entire family were under threat of murder if he didn’t comply—and having witnessed Shielan’s callousness firsthand, he was certain she’d make good on it. And yet, as his eyes pored over the details of her monstrous face, he felt only a burning desire to know.

Tags for anyone who hasn't participated and might still want to! @oxygenforthewicked @barbex @roguelioness @charmcity-jess @a11sha11fade @scribbledquillz

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tags @roguelioness @emerald-amidst-gold @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked !!

Been slacking on my DA writing lately because I've been working on an extremely self indulgent kinky alien fic lmao BUT I finally finished editing chapter 12 this week so here's a little somethin!

Have some frantic dialogue between Inquisitor Shielan and her spirit friend (who's named Spirit, because they can't remember anyone's name but Shielan's lmao)

This happens on the same night Cullen has his psychotic break and Shielan accidentally reveals her Big Secret.

CW: mention of attempted sui

***

“You know that fucking ghastly thing my face does sometimes?”

“Ghastly isn’t the word I’d use, but go on.”

“Well, Rutherford fucking saw it, and—”

Spirit tilted their head. “Who?”

“Rutherford,” Shielan repeated, with probably more gruffness than was deserved. Spirit only tilted their head in the opposite direction, further provoking her frustration. “Rutherford”—she gestured wildly in the vain hopes of jogging Spirit’s memory—“templar asshole, resident idiot and bane of my miserable fucking existence…ring any bells?”

“Oh!” Spirit’s triumphant shout echoed through the Fade, so loudly it made Shielan wince, but they paid her no mind. “Yes, your friend—”

“We are not friends.”

“—who needed the sleep elixir. Did my recipe work for him?”

“No.” This too left Shielan’s mouth with more bite than intended; it wasn’t Spirit’s fault she’d avoided the Fade long enough for them to forget the details of her stupid, mortal life. “I mean—yes, it would’ve worked had he actually taken it. The man’s more stubborn than a lost Druffalo.”

“How familiar,” Spirit said, and a knowing half-smile tugged at the corner of their mouth. Humor may have gone over their head, but they still got a kick out of provoking her ire on occasion.

Shielan rubbed her temples and sighed. “Spirit, please.”

“Forgive me, da’len.” They positioned themselves behind her and gently unraveled her braid. “I am listening.”

A small, contented smile pulled on Shielan’s scowl as Spirit tugged at her overgrown strands; she hadn’t cut her hair since leaving her clan, and they’d always had a fondness for playing with it. “Rutherford tried to kill himself—Cole must’ve given him the knife; he was the only person who could’ve gotten in—but all he did was make a bloody fucking mess of his cell, and I shouldn’t have gone down there to save his useless ass, but I had to, Spirit.”

“Why?” Spirit raked their fingers through Shielan’s loose waves, ethereal curiosity ringing in their voice.

“Because if his templar buddies realize their balls aren’t chained to the Chantry anymore, then more of them will leave, and if more of them leave—”

Spirit tapped Shielan’s shoulders emphatically. “Then the Order can be dismantled from the ground up! Indeed, I remember now.”

Shielan’s face of steel relaxed into an amused smile, and she leaned her head back into their hands. “Your long-term memory is truly wretched, Spirit.”

“My memory is not wretched, mortal. It is simply”—Spirit tapped Shielan playfully on the forehead—“incomplete.”

“I suppose that’s fair when you’ve walked the Fade for millennia,” Shielan replied. “Anyway, after his failed suicide attempt, the bastard came at me—”

Spirit released her head from their grasp so fast Shielan gasped, hands flying to the ground to keep herself upright. They took hold of her face, eyes wide. “Are you hurt?”

Shielan rolled her eyes at first, but Spirit’s worried expression softened her. She lay her hands over theirs, voice lowered to a murmur. “I promise you needn’t worry about me.”

“You are the only thing I worry about, da’len.” Spirit squeezed her gently before resuming their position at Shielan’s back, sectioning off strands to rebraid. “What was his aim in killing you, anyway?”

Shielan snorted. “I’m not sure he had one. By the time I got to him, the fool had already shredded the skin of his arms, made an absolute mess of his cell, and I was surrounded by blood on all sides.” Her heart pounded in her chest as she recounted their altercation, and, unable to stay still while Spirit worked, she wrestled free of their grasp and began pacing again. “I thought I could just”—she waved her hands maniacally—“heal the poor fucker and leave, but the clumsy bastard practically fell on top of me, and he saw, Spirit.”

Shielan’s chest heaved, breaths coming in shallow, stuttering pants and tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “He saw who—what I am.”

She saw Spirit’s face fall only briefly, for they dissolved into a cloud of glowing, wisp-like strands, and wrapped themselves around her like a blanket. “There is nothing wrong with who you are, child.” They maintained a gentle pressure, rocking her back and forth in silence as she sank to the ground, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. Softly, they asked, “Why not erase his memory, as you have with those before him?”

“You know I don’t do that anymore.” Shielan wiped her face with the back of her hands, pressing hard into her damp, tender skin until they dried. “Besides, I never learned how to make it permanent. At some point, he’d remember, and we’d be back where we started.”

Spirit released her and floated into the air, swirling from one formation to another, the hum of their thoughts reverberating through the Fade. As they moved, their colors changed, and their hum created an odd, lilting tune that Shielan could never quite memorize because it was a little different each time.

“So, your friend Ruthminberg—”

“Rutherford, and he is not my—”

“Indeed, Rutherford,” Spirit said, “has seen both faces, but knows not what they mean. The most he can tell anyone is a story, and one I doubt most people would believe.”

“But what if they do, Spirit?” Shielan shook her head, eyes downcast. “The shem already think us savages—monster would hardly be a stretch.”

Spirit returned to their favored form and kneeled across from Shielan. They looked at her with kind eyes and a warm smile that brought to mind a mother she’d never known, and pushed unruly strands of hair behind her ears. “It is they who are the monsters, then—not you. Never you, Shielan.”

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tag @a11sha11fade! I'll include some tags under the cut. Here's a snippet from a wip chapter 11 of The Life That Left Me, in which Shielan and her young apprentice find Cullen mid-psychotic break on the tail-end of lyrium withdrawal, and we get a glimpse into one of Shielan's yet unexplained magical (at least we think it's magical, mwahaha) talents.

***

“Elspeth”—Shielan stepped into the cell and closed the gate behind her—“you’re dismissed.”

“You’re going in there…alone?” Elspeth’s eyes widened, her trembling mouth falling open like that of a dead fish. “Have you lost your fucking—”

Shielan maintained a blank expression and spoke to her apprentice with an ice cold tone she hoped would be read as authoritative. “One rule, girl. It is one simple fucking rule that governs this relationship—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elspeth said, her sardonic cackle making it painfully obvious that Shielan’s tone had zero effect on her audacity. “I didn’t realize, ‘Don’t make me ask twice,’ applied to suicide missions with madmen.”

“It does.” Shielan turned her back on the girl to rifle through her satchel. “And you will regret making me ask a third time.”

Her petulant apprentice did not argue, but huffed and puffed and all but stomped out of the dungeon, muttering feverish curses under her breath the whole way. When the crisp clacking of Elspeth’s boots faded, Shielan turned her attention back to her hallucinating charge, and winced at the sight of him.

The skin of his sunken face clung to its bones, worn thin by starvation and punctuated by wide, bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark circles of sleeplessness, all overcast by a deathly pallor that would send the most seasoned of medics screaming about the undead. Another pang of guilt hit her gut. She should’ve read that damned report.

“Leave me be,” Cullen spat, eyes bright with rage.

She ignored him entirely, stepping around him and his haphazardly aimed knife to plop her satchel on the floor. Keeping her gaze averted, she crouched by her bag and flexed her fingers, eyes raking over her naked hands as she adjusted to the oddity of being gloveless in company. More for dramatic effect than true necessity, she cracked each knuckle as she stood.

“Please,” he murmured, and his voice turned from rageful to pleading so abruptly she almost laughed. “If you won’t let me go, then just end it.”

Without speaking, Shielan breathed deeply, pressed her thumbs to his temples, and closed her eyes. If he said anything further, she didn’t hear it.

Frozen. They’re bleeding—dying—and I can’t move. Steel bathed in blood. Teeth scattering, pearls across the floor. A pile of sinews shaped like a body. Let me go. Why won’t it let me go? I’m going to die here. Screams—mine, or from the chamber? Oh, Maker, the chamber. Gregoir left us. How long have we been here? Another body, eyes dull with death. Smell of iron and ash. I can’t breathe. It’s never going to stop. We’re all going to die here.

Shielan opened her eyes, releasing him from her grasp with a sharp exhale. The hazy film over his eyes slowly faded to a bloodshot state of clarity, and she watched him carefully for signs of regression as he came to.

“I-Inquisitor?” Lips trembling, his gaze fell to the bloodied knife in his hands, then back up to her, eyes widening. She dropped the paralysis spell and he recoiled from her, pressing himself flush against the wall as the knife clattered down to the floor. “Maker, did I—”

“Everything’s fine,” Shielan said, as if the cell floor wasn’t covered in smears of blood and didn’t reek of iron and piss. She inched toward him, and he held up his shaking hands.

“S-Stay away from m-me.” His bare feet slid against the slickened stone as he folded in on himself, pushing against the wall in a futile attempt to retreat further. “It’s not safe.”

Shielan rolled her eyes and crouched on her heels across from him, dragging her satchel over to rest at his feet. “You already tried—and failed miserably, I should add. I mean really, you’re telling me not one of those templar fucks ever taught you how to hold a goddamned knife? Anyway, I’m unconcerned.”

Tags: @noire-pandora @roguelioness @charmcity-jess @scribbledquillz @barbex @oxygenforthewicked @teknicianwrites @emerald-amidst-gold why do I feel like I'm forgetting someone every time??? idk if you wanna post stuff then do it!!

[for-the-ninth]

Here's a lil wip of a draft I'm writing from Cullen's perspective. Shielan can see memories, thus reading minds to some extent. Cullen knows she can do some weird shit, but doesn't know the what the how or the why, and that's all the context you're getting out of me for this snippet.

***

“Why are you lying?” His chest heaved as he shuffled over to her, harnessing all the strength he had left to keep himself on two feet. “You said you aren’t scared of me—”

“I’m not.”

“—and the Divine is dead, so even if you were practicing forbidden magic—”

“Forbidden to those with their heads up their asses, sure.”

“—it’s not as if I could turn you in, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. I swear you can—”

“Trust you?” Shielan stood at the door, hands buried in her cloak pockets, shaking her head. “That’s just what people say when they want something they can’t have.”

Tags: @charmcity-jess @cleverblackcat @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @roguelioness @a11sha11fade @scribbledquillz

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tag @charmcity-jess!!!

Been working on a second draft of Ch. 14 of The Life That Left Me. I've written both Shielan and Cullen as emotionally closed off, but for different reasons. Cullen is a bit softer than she is right now. He's suddenly a small fish in a huge pond and is kinda floundering in his search for purpose as he works his way out of survival mode. I don't want to reveal too much, but suffice it to say Shielan has Been Through It way before the Inquisition, so she has precious little sympathy to offer someone like Cullen, and it shows in their dialogue (which is why I have so much fun writing it).

***

Shielan held the lantern up, eyes raking over his disheveled state. “You look like shit.”

Cullen waited for a self-satisfied smirk or a laugh at his expense, but none came. She only stood, staring blankly, like she’d rather be anywhere but across from him, and he could hardly blame her.

“Thanks.” He tried for an easy chuckle—anything to dull the overbearing awkwardness—but judging by the roll of her eyes, it didn’t land.

“You’re being reassigned today,” she said. “Boss is a real hardass, so you’ll need to stay on your toes…”

Cullen knew he should be paying attention; he knew she never spoke superfluously and she hated wasting her breath, but warm rays of amber filtered through the unsightly hole of the dungeon’s exterior wall and cast their glow on her face, and his spirit was consumed with desires that struck him as unholy. He’d never seen her this early, before stress and exhaustion bore their weight on the muscles of her face. Her shoulders hung low, not drawn together as they were during meetings, and her hair, not yet ruffled by her comings and goings, lay in a neat braid over her shoulder. An errant strand slipped out to frame her face as she spoke, and he stifled the urge to tuck it behind her ear. It'd been so long since he touched another person.

“Hey, asshole!” She snapped her fingers in his face.

“Sorry, I—”

“Fuck me, I don’t know why I even bother.” She turned on her heel and strode away from him. “Might as well be talking to a goddamned corpse, for all it’s…” Her mutterings trailed off as she marched out of the exterior dungeon, and though she gave no such direction, Cullen figured it in his best interest to follow.

“What time is it?” His voice echoed off the stone as he ambled behind her, one hand clutching his aching thigh. Why was he still limping?

“Late.” She stood at the door, arms folded across her chest until he caught up to her. “As I already fucking said, you’re being reassigned today. Finding someone to take you on was a hard sell—that twat of a guard ran his mouth to anyone who would listen about your little meltdown. Luckily for you, the head of kitchen staff trusts me when I vouch for people.”

Cullen hobbled through the doorway and headed straight for the nearest stone column, panting and clutching it with both hands as she pulled the door shut behind him. “You recommended me for the job?”

“Recommended is a strong word. But I said I’d get you reassigned, and I—”

Shielan paused. Her eyes did not avert his own, but flitted off to the side, momentarily glazed over as though she were recalling a memory she couldn’t speak of. When she met his gaze again, her jaw was stiff, and her tone brisk.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” She cleared her throat and added, softly: “Not anymore.”

tags: @barbex @scribbledquillz @roguelioness @oxygenforthewicked @a11sha11fade @rakshadow

[for-the-ninth]

Thanks for the tags @emerald-amidst-gold @noire-pandora @roguelioness!!

I've been exhausted and struggling to stay motivated to write lately, but as of about 2 days ago I'm Officially Back On My Bullshit, and we are treading onward with this enemies-to-reluctant-friends-to-eventual-lovers story!

This is a bit from chapter 14 of The Life That Left Me (I promise I'm gonna post chapter 7 on ao3 soon, I just keep forgetting) in which Cullen is reassigned to kitchen work and moved into new quarters, and Shielan makes fun of him because of course she does - and Cullen finally bites back (but only a little).

P.S. 'our last reaction' = that one time Shielan threatened to stab him lololol

***

“Of course, my Lady.” Bonnie shot an utterly bewildered Cullen a smile far sweeter than he’d earned, bowed her head to Shielan and flitted out the door.

Cullen stood like an idiot, jaw hanging open as his eyes pored over the chaotic, mismatched pattern of fabrics she’d given him, and replayed the interaction in his head, wondering what a better response might’ve been. Bonnie was easy on the eyes and dauntlessly earnest, but flirtation—that is what happened, right?—was the furthest thing from his addled mind. He met Shielan’s gaze with blushing cheeks and wide eyes.

“I—”

She silenced him with an open palm and stepped back, looking him up and down. After a moment, she shrugged. “I’ll just never understand it.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“It made sense before,” she said, circling him as a vulture does, hands tucked lazily in the pockets of her cloak, “what with the fancy armor and that big fur thing—”

“Mantle.”

“Granted, I personally never saw the appeal, but so many of our men have died—I suppose desperation makes any flavor more appealing.” A wry smile peeked out from beneath her bemused facade as she resumed her position against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive—truly. You amble through here, three steps shy of undead with not a coin to your name, and stand there, shivering and open-mouthed as a tiny Orlesian dog, and still, the women fawn.”

Cullen allowed himself a brief daydream in which he’d wrap his cozy new quilt around his body and vanish silently into the ether, just like Cole. Instead, he hugged it against his chest as Bonnie had and tried to maintain eye contact with Shielan.

“Forgive me, I”—he cleared his throat—“Well, I’m not sure if I’m meant to take that as a compliment, or if—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Shielan muttered. She rolled her eyes and spoke through an abysmal sigh. “If you ever want help extricating that giant stick from your ass, I’m sure the surgeon could—”

“I am not uptight,” he said, knowing full well it was a lie, in a petulant, child-like tone that reddened his cheeks. Shielan stood staring, lips pressed in a tight line as her shoulders quivered with the beginning of a cackle, though he wasn’t sure why she bothered sparing him the embarrassment. He threw the quilt onto his bed and mirrored her posture, arms folded protectively over his chest in the hope he’d sound stern rather than shaken. “Considering our last interaction, I’d argue my disinclination toward witty banter is more than justified.”

Shielan uncrossed her feet and straightened her posture, arms coming to rest at her sides as her eyes narrowed on him, and he added, somewhat sheepishly: “My Lady Inquisitor.”

Tags: @oxygenforthewicked @scribbledquillz @teknicianwrites @a11sha11fade @charmcity-jess

[for-the-ninth]

WIP Whenever

(gorgeous commission of my sassy, scrappy Inquisitor, by @inquisitoruzerin!!)

@noire-pandora tagged me for Last Line Monday (thank you!!) but I haven't posted any updates on my longfic in weeks because I've been depressed and lacking in motivation. Shout out to everyone who's continued tagging me even when I haven't engaged - it's comforting to be invited even if I don't have the energy to participate.

Anyway, this is a WIP whenever because it's time for an update on Inquisitor Shielan and I can't choose just one line. This is an excerpt from a wip chapter 12 of The Life That Left Me, in which Shielan frets over accidentally spilling a secret, and reconnects with the spirit who's been by her side since childhood. It's a long one, so I've hidden part of it, along with tags and ramblings, under a cut.

***

“It’s been two weeks since we’ve met here,” Shielan said. “Two weeks, since I’ve entered the Fade at all, actually.”

Spirit’s brows shot up, and their hair retreated back to its former crop so fast Shielan had to stifle a chuckle. “That is a long time for you, da’len. What’s happened?”

Shielan grinned, tilting her head off to one side. “You miss me or somethin’?”

“That depends,” Spirit said, and hummed to themselves, stroking their chin in a way that might’ve looked natural had they not clearly learned to mimic the theatrical gesture of a child at play. “What does it feel like to miss someone?”

Shielan took a breath and held it, exhaling forcefully before she spoke. “Sometimes it’s a feeling of wanting—noticing someone’s absence and wishing they were there, just a passing thought.” Her heart sank at the thought of those she'd left behind, and she winced, averting her gaze. “But it can also be a weight on your chest, so heavy you could suffocate, or a void you can’t fill, no matter how hard you try. And it just…hangs over you, like a storm you can’t outrun.”

Spirit scowled, brows drawing together in the middle, and they floated closer to Shielan. “It sounds distressing.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Shielan smiled weakly, shoulders slumping with a heavy sigh as she stood and resumed pacing. “But missing people is the least of my worries right now. The man I told you about—”

“Ruferberg? No, that’s not it.” Spirit’s body faded out of view, returning as a bright blue cloud, almost wisp-like in its movement as they zipped around Shielan’s head. “Rendercord. No, no—hang on, I’ll get it.” They crashed back down to the grassy moonlit field beneath Shielan’s feet in elven form, a gleeful grin spread across their face. “I’ve got it—Ruthminbord!”

Spirit looked at Shielan with such child-like hope, that she almost felt bad for laughing. But she couldn’t hold back the series of cackles that poured from her wide open mouth, turning her face red and springing tears from her eyes as she held her shaking belly and spoke between stuttering gasps for breath. “Rutherford,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Though I have to admire your determination.”

“Agh!” Spirit threw their hands in the air. “Mortal names are so confusing—and a tad unnecessary, if you ask me.”

Shielan shook her head, shoulders still shaking with a final wave of chuckles. “You’ve managed to remember mine well enough.”

“Indeed,” said Spirit, “but only because I’ve had so long to memorize it. Or have you forgotten how many years I spent calling you child?”

Shielan mimicked the theatrical chin stroke Spirit had performed earlier, a cheeky joke that might’ve reached their consciousness had they been mortal. “Five years in my time, if I recall. Do all spirits have such a wretched memory?”

“My sense of memory is not wretched,” Spirit said, with a dramatic sigh and accompanying eye roll. “It is simply…incomplete. That’s all.”

“I suppose that’s a fair trade, when you’ve walked the Fade for millenia.” Shielan reclined onto the soft grass beneath them, arms resting behind her head as she stretched her legs and sighed.

Spirit sank to the ground across from her, but did not recline. Instead, they worked on braiding their hair, brows furrowing as they tried to remember the steps. “I take it my elixir did not work for your friend.” They frowned, and Shielan wondered if spirits could feel disappointment.

“We aren’t friends.” Shielan wiggled her bare feet in the soft, cold dirt, eyes fixed on the full moon overhead. “And it would’ve worked if he weren't a stubborn ass. Rest assured it’s not gone to waste.”

Spirit’s hands froze, fingers still tangled in black strands, and cocked one eyebrow. “You’ve been taking it—presumably to avoid dreaming.” Their head perked up, eyes wide. “Or perhaps to avoid…me?’

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Shielan sat up with a scowl, brows drawn together in the middle, but softened her voice. “The only reason I still walk the Fade is to spend time with you.” She sighed again, though it came out more as a shudder, and rested her elbows on her knees, hands scrubbing wispy stray hairs from her face. “I keep having this nightmare”—she held her face in her hands—“every night it’s the same thing. I’m back at Haven, facing down Corypheus, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed and I can’t cast at all. But instead of killing me, he forces me to watch while he kills everyone else, starting with my comrades, then Vunora and Zevriel, and then…”

Spirit dissolved into a wispy blue cloud and wrapped themselves around Shielan like a warm winter blanket. “And then who, da’len?”

"Deshanna." Tears pricked the corners of Shielan’s eyes, but she cleared her throat to stifle an oncoming sob. “Every time, he saves her for last.”

Spirit’s brow furrowed. “Last we spoke of your Keeper, you referred to her as a betrayer.”

“She is,” Shielan said, and wiped furiously at a tear that’d managed to escape. “Even still, she was like a mother to me. I do not wish to see her suffer.”

“The breadth of mortal emotion fascinates me,” Spirit hummed, their voice a soft lilt echoing through the atmosphere of the Fade. “But I taught you to control your dreams when you were a child, did I not?”

“That’s just it!” Shielan sprung up from the ground and resumed pacing, one arm folded across her chest and the other swinging wildly in gesture. The landscape changed from a peaceful moonlit field to a pitch black abyss, lit only by Spirit’s blue glow. “Never once have I been unable to manipulate my dreams—nightmares included—until now.” She shook her head, running both hands through her hair until her fingers caught in her braid. “So I’m hardly sleeping, which means I’m running at half-mast, which is the worst thing I could be doing right now considering Orlais is about to drag us all into their useless fucking war. Meanwhile—”

“Da’len, wait a moment.”

“—the mage rebellion rages on—rightfully so, if you ask me—and every time my soldiers leave Skyhold we lose more to the crossfire.”

“Shielan, please—”

“Oh, and if that wasn’t enough to make me lose my goddamn mind, now Rutherford—that stuttering imbecile, of all people—is on my trail. I was an idiot and made the mistake of keeping him alive, and now he knows too—”

“Shielan!” Spirit returned to their elven form and grasped her by the shoulders. “Look.”

They conjured a mirror and turned Shielan to face it. Her cheeks, flushed red with anger, felt even hotter than they looked, and beads of sweat crept out from the pores around her hairline, sticking black stray wisps to her temples. But it wasn’t her cheeks, pores, or sweat that made her cringe and avert her gaze. It was her face—eyes black and empty as the Void, with veins the color of charcoal protruding down to her chin—the same face Cullen saw that night in the dungeon.

“Breathe,” Spirit said. “The Fade is a dangerous place for those who lose themselves in rage.”

***

Shielan is 28 when she joins the Inquisition. From a young age she was trained as a spy and assassin for her clan, and became proficient in lying, stealing, intimidation and ultimately, killing. When she left her clan at 18, she traveled alone, communicating only with her best friend, Zevriel, and the occasional shopkeeper or trader when she passed through towns and cities for supplies.

This background, in addition to her people being ostracized and abused by Thedosian society at large, makes it easy to see why she has developed enough self-control to reign in emotions that could compromise her safety, but compartmentalizes instead of confiding in anyone when shit gets tough. Even in Solas, her closest friend among the Inquisition and someone she feels relatively safe around by comparison, she cannot fully let her guard down.

But it's different with Spirit. Shielan was walking the Fade as a child, before she understood what a Dreamer was, and Spirit - this nameless and often formless being - was kind enough to take Shielan under their wing, teaching her to manipulate the Fade and protecting her from its more nefarious entities. Shielan never felt more alone than in the first year she left her clan, and Spirit stood by her side as she worked through the guilt of abandoning people she loved, the pain of her Keeper's betrayal, and the hopelessness that came with a years-long search for the parents who abandoned her as an infant. But Spirit is her family now, and it's in the Fade, under their protective wing, that Shielan is finally able to let go and emote freely.

***

Tags, for anyone who wants to share something and also in thanks to some folks who've tagged me in things even when I haven't had the energy to engage: @barbex @oxygenforthewicked @roguelioness @a11sha11fade

[for-the-ninth]

Hello hello! How about a song prompt for DWC this week: These Bones by Azrai ft. Momo O'brien

Oh dear gods, these lyrics hit me right in the chest! Immediately reminded me of my Inquisitor, Shielan, and her childhood best friend, Zevriel. Shielan abandoned her clan shortly after getting her vallaslin and without telling Zevriel. He found her a few years later, and up until the Kirkwall rebellion, they met once a year and exchanged letters. At the time of joining the Inquisition, Shielan has been apart from her clan for 10 years, and hasn't heard from Zevriel in 4 years. This letter will probably end up in the bottom of her satchel somewhere. @dadrunkwriting

You named me a hero once, 

But my fighting days are numbered

So please forgive the things I’ve done

In the moments I forget you ***

Dear Zev,

You were in my dream last night—and before you ask: no, it wasn’t a sex dream; fuck off! Remember when we tried to convince Vunora to skip out on Healer’s training with us (and she said no, because of course she did)? Well, she said yes this time, because Dream Zev is, apparently, far more convincing than you. But it wasn’t anything like we’d planned. It rained all day and our veils got soaked, and Deshanna was royally pissed by the time we made it back. Come to think of it, that’s exactly what would’ve happened if she’d come with us. Nobody gave a shit when you and I fucked off for the afternoon, but Vunora? Can’t let the clan’s prized Healer go running amok with the riff-raff. Maybe that’s why I didn’t try to manipulate it, to turn it into something warm and picturesque, like my other dreams. Too perfect and it wouldn’t have felt real. I needed it to feel real. 

It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you, Zev. My hope is that Deshanna’s called you and the others home, where it’s safe, until the rebellion blows over. My fear is you lying dead in a ditch somewhere because some foolish shem dragged you into their war, same as they did me. Did you hear I sealed a giant hole in the sky with some weird hand magic nobody's ever fucking heard of? I mean, it wasn’t just me, but they act like it was. They call me a hero—a prophet—all because I was in the wrong place at the worst fucking time. I guess some ancient darkspawn bastard tearing the Veil to bits for world domination is just too big a pill to swallow if there’s no savior to swoop in and make it all better. 

They look at me like you did when we were kids, after that shitty little brat made fun of you for being a flat-eared orphan and I knocked his crooked teeth out. I thought Deshanna would throttle me, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t your fault your parents left you any more than it was mine my parents left me. You didn’t deserve me leaving you behind either, but you forgave me anyway. Why would you do that? I shoved every memory I had of us to the back of my brain for years after I left, and the moment you found me, it was like no time passed at all. Somehow that was worse. I wanted you to be angry with me, partly because I knew I’d earned it, but also because I just needed someone to be angry with. I imagined us arguing, yelling, maybe throwing a few half-assed spells around or drawing our daggers for show, knowing in the end, it’d all be fine. But the world is on fire, and I have no idea what I'm doing or where you are, so it still isn't fine, is it?

If you’re still alive, I hope you forget about me the way I forgot about you, because you deserve better. You have always deserved better, Zev.  - Shielan

[for-the-ninth]

Thank you @emerald-amidst-gold and @noire-pandora for tagging me in WIP Wednesday! I've tagged some folks below the cut but it's almost 10pm where I am so I'm a bit late.

This is a rewrite of an excerpt I posted a while back, in which Cole comforts Cullen during lyrium withdrawal but also gives him a knife when he asks for one lmao

Still not sure what chapter this will end up in, but it takes place the morning after Shielan saves Cullen's ass during his psychotic break.

***

“I know you’re there, Cole.” It had always been odd to her, the way people couldn’t seem to find the boy, for she felt his presence as soon as he drew near. “Reveal yourself and save us both the trouble.”

He appeared from thin air dressed in his usual tattered rags, his boyish face eclipsed by the comically large hat he insisted on wearing. “Are you angry with me?”

Though she’d nowhere urgent to be, Shielan climbed the stairs to the battlements two at a time, eyes narrowed at no one in particular. When she reached the top, a group of murmuring guards went silent and saluted her in unison, their posture straight as a rod, and she briefly allowed herself to relish in their display. They remained utterly still until she released them with a flippant wave of her hand, at which point they scattered like roaches in the candlelight. When she knew they were alone, she turned to face Cole again.

“Anger is a waste of my time,” she said, arms folded. “I much prefer rage.”

“I had to,” he said, and his pitiful tone of voice at once irked her nerves and plucked her heartstrings.

She laughed, but there was no joy in it. “I gave you and anyone else with access to that cell a single fucking directive—keep the bastard alive and out of trouble—and you had to give him the means to do both?” She flicked the rim of his hat and he flinched, but peeked out from under it to meet her gaze. “If I hadn’t been there to intercept, we could’ve wound up three bodies deep in that cell. What if Elspeth had been stupid enough to go in alone, or the guard had let himself in?”

“He couldn’t see me anymore.” Desperation rang clear in Cole’s voice as he began pacing back and forth across from her, hands gesturing wildly. “I tried to hold him there, but the memories pulled at his mind until there was nothing left but pain—and oh, his pain. I shall die here; we’re all going to die here—a nightmare that walks, and it follows, pricking your finger each time you forget—It’s never going to stop. He begged me to end it; I thought I was helping!”

“For fuck’s sake, Cole.” A heavy sigh rounded Shielan’s shoulders as she gripped the nearest ledge and vividly imagined throwing herself off it. There was a limit—a shallow limit—to her patience for his cryptic tales. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought you left him to die!” He came to a halt beside her, gaze averted and voice softer than before. “A part of you hoped he would.”

Shielan’s jaw hardened. “You believe me to be cruel, then.”

“Hurt,” he said, and though she could feel him staring, she avoided his eyes. “You are not cruel; you are hurt.”

This was it—the moment she’d finally punch a spirit-boy in the face, sending them both clattering down the side of the mountain to their untimely deaths. “Perhaps I am both,” was all she could think to say, and she did so through gritted teeth.

“He’s different from the others,” Cole said. “He took no joy in their harm.”

“That difference means fuckall to the people who suffered under his command,” Shielan snapped. “He’s lucky we didn’t cross paths years ago, when he was still strutting around with that hideous insignia emblazoned on his chest, and I had more free time for murder.”

They shared an uneasy silence—uneasy for Shielan, anyway, who poked and prodded at the buckles of her gloves, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she considered the consequences of asking a nearby guard for a cigarette. Cole simply stood still, eyes wandering over the jagged cliffs of the mountain.

“What will you do with him now?” he asked.

“He’ll be released and reassigned tomorrow morning,” she said with a shrug. “What he chooses to do after is of no concern to me.”

Shielan observed Cole in her peripheral, searching his features for the words he wouldn’t say. He’d vehemently rejected any accusations of mindreading, claiming all he could sense was pain, but that explanation struck her as oversimplified. Pain held memories and memories held pain, and Cole had demonstrated a keen eye for both. She wondered if he could perceive her apprehension, or if he knew what had really transpired between her and Rutherford that night. Hell, he could’ve been standing right there—a fly on the wall, unbeknownst to either of them.

“You don’t think he’ll hurt anyone again,” Cole said. “You wouldn’t release him if you did.”

Shielan met his gaze, one brow cocked. “Do you?”

“No.” Cole looked down at his hands, idly pulling on the errant strings at the hem of his shirt. “He is not like the one who gave you that scar. I’m sorry you don’t like it."

“Don’t be,” she muttered. “It’s one among many.”

“But it’s the only one you still feel.”

“Cole.”

“Sorry.”

@oxygenforthewicked @charmcity-jess @cleverblackcat @roguelioness@scribbledquillz @a11sha11fade @teknicianwrites no idea what time zone any of y'all are on but if you see this and wanna post something, do it! (and if you already posted a wip i promise i'll read it tomorrow with a fresh brain)

[for-the-ninth]

It's Friday Egg! Prompt time! How about “You probably shouldn’t touch that.” “What harm could this trinket possibly do?”

FINALLY answering this one, it's been on my mind for a while and I just needed some inspo. Been thinking a lot about young Shielan, before she became Inquisitor, out adventuring with her best friend, Zevriel. @dadrunkwriting

***

“Where the fuck are we?” Zevriel’s amber rasp echoed off the dank, glistening walls of the cave. He lowered his hood and plucked a tiny glowstone from his pocket, rubbing it between his palms until it lit up. One held the stone and the other rested lazily in his pocket as he shuffled along the wall, scanning the stone for glyphs and old drawings.

Shielan answered him with a disinterested grunt, golden eyes narrowed to slits as she hunched over a jagged cluster of stones, mumbling to herself. “Obsidian, but brighter…awfully sharp, this bit. How strange…” She ran her fingertips across the tallest points of the cluster, pressing them into her flesh and pulling back to examine the resulting marks.

Zevriel looked over his shoulder and cocked one brow at her, a knowing half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He lowered his voice to a lilting whisper. “Oh, Ripperrrrrrr…,” And when she did not answer: “My liege, my dearest comrade, my knight in shining leatherrrrrr…”

“Hm?” Shielan answered without looking up. She’d already moved on to a second cluster of rocks, which, as far as he could tell, was no different than the first, brows furrowed as she poked and prodded.

“Just so you know”—Zevriel’s half-smile turned to a grin as he leaned against a misshapen column of stone, one ankle crossed over the other—“my ears aren’t half as good as yours, but I could swear I hear a rock wraith shuffling about just down that way.” He gestured vaguely with one hand while the other plucked a cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it between his teeth. “Gnarly old fuckers, they are. Though I suppose it’s more likely to be a squatter, a disembodied spirit, or—ooh!—maybe it’s a little family of deepstalkers, and wouldn’t that be just a delightful little rendezvous?”

Shielan rifled through her crowded satchel, sending a cacophonous jangle of clinking glass bouncing off the stone, and pulled a leatherbound book from its depths. Zevriel winced at the sound, but she paid him no mind. Her fingers were already flipping through the pages, occasionally pausing to trace the outline of a drawing—presumably of rocks, though he couldn’t see clearly from his vantage point. She’d squint at the page, then squint at the rocks, then squint at the page again, as though waiting for something to be revealed.

Zevriel was, in part, a little envious of his friend’s stellar focus. While he flitted from place to place, searching for something to dazzle his senses, Shielan approached every inch of her environment with a curious eye and a hungry mind, like she were a blank slate ready to be carved up for posterity—and when something really got her attention, nothing and no one who could draw her away. He knew this because he’d tried (twice) and had both his ego and body bruised for it (twice). Her single-mindedness was at once remarkable, infuriating, and wholly endearing.

“Perhaps I should speak louder, so as to draw them near,” he said, hands searching his pockets for a light. “Might as well get the battle over with, you know?” He raised his voice only just, figuring he ought to tread lightly in case his jest came to fruition.

True to form, Shielan ignored him entirely. She’d pulled another book from her bag—the one that could seemingly hold an unending well’s worth of miscellaneous shit—and was silently scribbling away in it, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Her gaze darted from the rock to the page, then back again, and after watching her for a few moments, Zevriel realized she was sketching the rock formation. He shook his head and sighed, both hands rummaging through any part of his outfit that’d ever been used as a pocket, cursing under his breath. “Andraste’s wet knickers—where did I put those fucking—”

Shielan snapped her fingers together and he looked up. She’d moved the pencil to her other hand and continued to draw as she extended a glowing thumb and forefinger in his direction. “I don’t know why you bother with matches when fire is readily available to you.”

“But that spell hurts my little fingers,” he whined, in a way he hoped would pluck her nerves.

“Huh,” she said flatly, “I would’ve thought your fingertips void of sensation considering how many times I’ve burned you.” A cheeky smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, despite her obvious effort to repress it.

“Indeed”—Zevriel sighed as he moseyed over to her, shoulders slumped—“you so regularly set me ablaze with your rapier wit, my dear Ripper. I worry I may never return to my former self.”

“Reflect on what an asinine reconnaissance mission that would be and get back to me.” Shielan tossed her sketchbook to the ground and rummaged through her bag, sending another piercing wave of clangs and clatters through the dank air. Her smile deepened as Zevriel moved closer to her—adorable, he thought, the way his proximity was the only thing impactful enough to poke holes in her resolve—and bent at the waist, resting his cigarette between her flaming fingers.

“Remind me, if you would”—he took a hefty drag and continued through a cloud of smoke—“how it is I came to be friends with someone who tears me down at every turn?”

“I don’t know about every turn,” Shielan replied, chuckling, “but I believe the answer you’re searching for is: ‘because no one else would take the job.’”

Zevriel’s grin turned to a scowl as he watched her face fall for a moment so short it would’ve been imperceptible if he hadn’t seen it coming. Her words may have been directed at him, but the sentiment wasn’t.

He crouched next to her, taking care to lean his head back as he blew clouds of smoke, so as not to provoke her ire. “I know you’re real focused on this little rock situation over here—”

“They’re stalagmites, fool.” She scratched her head, lips pursed. “At least, I think they are. It’s just…they’re so small, and not at all like—”

“Right, the mysterious miniature stalagmites are just titillating, I’m sure—”

“It’s as if you want me to stab you, Zev.”

“—but Keeper Istimaethoriel sent us looking for shit to sell. Somehow I doubt these will fetch a fair price in the markets of Hasmal.”

Shielan threw her head back and sighed, though it came out more as a raspy groan. “You never let me have any fun.”

“All things in moderation, dear Ripper.” Zev yanked her up off the ground and threw one arm around her, nudging her stubborn feet along as he strolled deeper into the cave.

“You forgot the glowstone,” she muttered.

“And you have fire hands,” he replied, grinning. It was too dark to see her face, but he knew her eyes couldn’t be far from rolling out of their sockets in exasperation.

She shrugged him off and spawned a flaming orb between her palms, then sent it floating up toward the cave’s ceiling, flexing and twisting her wrists until it loomed large enough to light the whole cave. Tiny sparks crackled and popped from its center, and with its glow came a slow, steady heat that soothed the damp darkness as it settled into their bones.

Zev stared up at the orb with wide eyes as he walked. “That spell never gets less impressive, you know.”

“Flattery is of no use to me,” Shielan said, arms folded stubbornly over her chest. He elected to ignore her grumpiness, opting instead to surge ahead of her sulking pace, eyes peeled for shiny objects the shem would be stupid enough to pay for.

They didn’t have to walk far before stumbling upon a forgotten cluster of odds and ends, arranged haphazardly around a bedroll and an old pair of boots that looked as though they might crumble to dust if touched. Zev crouched down and sorted through the pile, lips pursed around the pitiful remains of his cigarette as he scratched at a layer of rust on a piece of silver cutlery.

“Junk,” he muttered, and chucked it across the cave. It clinked against something that definitely wasn’t stone, and his ears perked up at the sound. By the time he’d gotten to his feet, Shielan was all but sprinting toward it.

She hunched over the object, obscuring his view. “It’s a locked chest. Rather small; it could fit in the palm of my hand.”

“Oh, you know those fuckers just love random little bullshit that fits in the palm of their filfthy rich hands,” Zev said as he scrambled toward her. He reached for the chest’s lid and Shielan threw her arm out, slamming it into his belly.

Zev clutched his stomach and groaned, but soldiered through the pain, slamming his shoulder into hers. “I wanna see!”

“Then look with your eyes,” she hissed. “It could’ve been sealed with an enchantment.”

“Exactly,” he wheezed, and threw up his hands. “And the only thing they love more than random little bullshit that fits in the palm of their filthy rich hands is enchanted random little—”

“For fuck’s sake, you can’t just go around touching whatever the fuck you want in a place like this!” Shielan threw her hands up in return, eyes wide with exasperation.

“Pffft.” Zev rolled his eyes as he zipped around her, scooping up the tiny chest before she could react. He held it in one hand, gesturing vaguely with it as he spoke. “I mean really, what harm could possibly come from simply touching a—”

The chest vibrated in his grasp, so violently that he yelped like a kicked dog and threw it across the cave. As soon as it landed, a piercing white light filled the cavern, accompanied by a sustained shriek that shook the walls.

“Mythal’s ass, Zev!” Shielan made a futile attempt to shield her eyes, peeking out from beneath her arm at intervals to see what lay behind the light.

“Well, this is certainly unexpected,” he shouted over the din. There was a boyish excitement in his voice that could’ve driven Shielan to murder.

“Is it really now?” The light dimmed, but the scream remained, only it came in staccato intervals that plucked Shielan’s nerves even more than before.

Zev bounced over to her with his daggers drawn, hopping from foot to foot and grinning like a fool. Loathe as she was to let go of an opportunity to chastise him, Shielan knew he had the right idea—whatever busted out of that chest was pissed. She flexed her fingers and started running through a catalogue of barriers and glyphs in her mind.

The absence of light revealed a collection of wisps in shades of blue and silver, some more translucent than others, writhing together in a formation unlike anything she’d seen before. They grew in size, and the staccato scream turned into a chorus of horrifying moans that reverberated through the cave at a piercing volume.

“It’s a mass of spirits,” Shielan shouted. “Whoever lived here must’ve bound them to the chest and died. They’ve been trapped for too long, and now they’re corrupted.”

“Fucking Nevarrans.” Zev sighed dramatically and shook his head. “You got a plan?”

“For this?” Shielan snorted. “Fuck no.”

[for-the-ninth]

I was tagged by @noire-pandora yesterday and of course I'm late (it's Thursday where I am) so this will be a WIP Whenever!

Here's a snippet from a rough draft of the twelfth chapter in The Life That Left Me, which, per usual, will probably look completely different by the time I post it. But it's the spirit that counts! (See what I did there? Because the chapter is about a spirit? Of course you do, your eyes are perfect)

***

“Easy, da’len,” they murmured, and as Spirit reached for her, some string deep within her finally snapped.

She fell to her knees and curled over, clutching her chest as she sobbed into the soft grass. “It was a mistake, Spirit—all of it.”

Spirit wrapped themselves around her, and she recalled how they comforted her when she first wandered the Fade in tears, a child daunted by the endless expanse of a landscape so foreign. Night after night, Spirit heard her cries and came to her aid, holding her close as they walked together, and teaching her how to manipulate the energy around them until it was less frightening. Anything Shielan knew of the Fade, she’d learned from Spirit, who was far more knowledgeable and forthcoming than even the greatest scholars. And here she was, decades later, a weeping child in an adult body, terrified of the world around her.

“It’s alright, Shielan,” Spirit said. “I am here.”

Shielan couldn’t remember being held by mortal parents as a child—Deshanna had never been terribly affectionate—but she’d seen mothers hold their babies and thought perhaps the feeling was similar. More often than not, when Spirit touched Shielan, they remained formless, an entity more similar to clouds, or perhaps a congregation of wisps. Without a body, the stroking of her hair and back, and the gentle tucking of hair behind ears couldn’t be attributed to limbs, at least not as mortals knew them. The closest she’d come to describing it—when Vunora and Zevriel were determined to pry—was by comparison to a large, warm blanket. When Spirit held her, it brought forth both physical sensation and intangible emotion; a grounding pressure accompanied by a weightlessness only possible in the Fade. Paradoxical, as descriptions go, but the common tongue lacked one better.

She couldn’t say how long she cried. Time, like anything else in the Fade, was warped and unreliable, though it didn’t truly matter. Spirit patiently held her, just as they always had, waiting in silence until her tears stopped.

“I’m the mistake, Spirit,” she said, lifting her head to meet their gaze as they returned to their body. “I am a wrong that can never be righted, and whether they know it or not, everyone would be better off if I just—”

“Stop.” Spirit grabbed her face, wiping furiously at Shielan’s tears with their thumbs, and shook their head. “You must never say such things to me, da’len.”

“Even if they’re true?” Another sob crept up the back of her throat, and she grit her teeth to prevent it from escaping.

Spirit shook their head, a gentle smile spreading across their lips. “Perhaps your parents were mistaken when they abandoned you, and your Keeper misguided in her determination to mold you for her vision. But you, my dear”—they smoothed away the last of Shielan’s tears and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead—“you were never the mistake. In you, I see kindness and compassion, relentless perseverance, and a drive for justice that has appeared right when your people need it most. That is no mistake.”

“Ir abelas,” Shielan mumbled, and let her head fall heavy upon Spirit’s chest.

“Do not be sorry, child." Spirit pulled her close, rocking her back and forth until her shoulders slumped and she allowed her full weight to be carried by their endless strength. “The next time a nightmare plagues your slumber, call for me, and I will come.”

Shielan nodded into Spirit’s chest, clutching at the fabric of the linen tunic on their back. “I don’t know what to do about Rutherford. If he tells anyone—”

“I will kill him,” Spirit said, their bell-toned voice the picture of serenity.

“You’re beginning to sound more like the demons Deshanna warned me about,” Shielan said, and chuckled as she pulled back to meet their fiery gaze.

“I will always protect you, Shielan.” Spirit’s tone took an edge of ferocious determination that might’ve disturbed another kind of mortal, but Shielan found a sickening comfort in their willingness to kill for her. “No matter the cost.”

“I love you, Spirit.”

“I know, da’len.”

I don't know if anyone wants to be tagged since it's technically not Wednesday but here are some tags if you want an excuse to share! @scribbledquillz @teknicianwrites @oxygenforthewicked @charmcity-jess @barbex @roguelioness

[for-the-ninth]

@roguelioness, @a11sha11fade, @emerald-amidst-gold all tagged me in Six Sentence Sunday but that booster shot had me out of commission, so I'm here today with a WIP Whenever (because it's too long to even remotely qualify as Last Line Monday lmao) from the 12th chapter of The Life That Left Me.

You may remember from the last excerpt I posted that Shielan has a Big and Terrible Secret, and accidentally spilled it to Cullen when she was kicking him out of a psychotic break. This is one iteration (I've worked and reworked it so many times; who knows what'll end up getting posted lmao) of what happens after. Ramblings and tags under the cut!

***

“I’ve shown you mercy once already, shem,” she hissed. “Do not test my patience.”

Cullen should’ve sworn himself to secrecy when the demand first left her lips, but he knew on some level it’d be a lie. And Shielan should’ve known too, he thought. As Commander, he’d ultimately supported her decisions, even before she was officially Inquisitor—but not without interrogating her methods first. She’d seen him defend his convictions with a stubbornness that rivaled her own, walked in on him hunched over maps and missives well after dark. She had to know he wouldn’t let this mystery go unsolved, and yet, the hand holding the knife quivered, uncertain against his skin.

Whatever resolve she’d had to begin with was waning, as was her patience for his defiance. But rather than comply, as he knew he should, Cullen searched Shielan’s face for answers, and found something wholly unexpected.

Underneath the strange, sinister clusters of veins were a pair of worried brows over wide, glistening eyes and trembling lips. The same woman who tore through small armies of demons with a triumphant grin, who shouted down an immortal darkspawn as though he were a misbehaving child—the woman who sacrificed herself for the good of thousands she’d never meet—was afraid, and this realization hit Cullen like an arrow through his chest.

“I won’t tell,” he wheezed, and he meant it with his whole heart. It could’ve been part of her strategy, a last ditch effort at manipulating him into acquiescence by playing on his sympathies—and if so, it worked beautifully. Cullen would rather she slit his throat than ever experience fear at his hand.

Shielan’s eyebrows popped up, her lips parting in what he presumed was mild astonishment, and he wondered if she hadn’t expected him to give up so easily. But she withdrew her knife and sheathed it with little fanfare, releasing her hold on him just long enough to grab the strap of her satchel and drag it closer.

“Good to know you still have a few brain cells kicking around in there,” she muttered, rifling through a seemingly endless pit of clinking vials. She plucked a single vial of shimmering liquid from the masses, identical to the elixir for a dreamless sleep she’d given him minutes that felt like ages ago, and uncorked it.

He winced as she held it to his lips. “Do I have to?”

“Is that a serious question?” She sighed heavily, shoulders slumping in this exhausted and unmistakably mortal way that was almost comical considering her terrifying appearance. “I’m offering you the best sleep you’ve had in your whole pathetic life—a rather pleasant alternative to having one’s throat slit, I should add—and you have the audacity to—”

“How do I know this isn’t just another murder attempt?” he asked, one brow cocked.

Shielan shrugged. “You don’t. Now, open up.”

Reluctantly, Cullen parted his lips and allowed her to fill his mouth with viscous, bitter liquid. She held him steady as she tipped the vial, and the tender brushing of her fingertips along his jawline made his feeble heart flutter. If she spoke to him after, he did not hear it.

Tags, for whoever wants to post a thing for LLM or really whatever! @charmcity-jess @oxygenforthewicked @a11sha11fade @scribbledquillz @emerald-amidst-gold @barbex @roguelioness @teknicianwrites

If you haven't read earlier chapters of the fic, you may have missed this, but one of my goals in writing for Cullavellan was to subvert the whole Lady Fawns Over Terrible Man trope. You know, that thing where a man does horrible shit, but he's Just So Handsome that the woman still fawns over him. Even when he makes her angry, even when he's inconsiderate and willfully ignorant, she's still like 0o0o0o but his eyes! His muscles! His bone structure! I decided to do that, but in reverse.

Shielan is fuckin' feral, like in a very early chapter Cullen watched her slit a man's throat and walk away chuckling. In this chapter she is literally threatening to kill him over a secret he can't even begin to comprehend, and his stupid little heart has the audacity to flutter when she touches him!! And though he doesn't know why (because Shielan hasn't divulged her Master Plan to crack the foundations of the Templar Order) she's thus far allowed him to live. He recognizes this as an act of mercy he hasn't earned, and will spend the rest of his life bending over backwards to earn. that. shit.

In an earlier chapter, she asked him: "When you look at me, do you see a person, or a threat to be contained?" At the time he said both.

Not only does she still pose an active threat to him, but she's revealed this monstrous facet of her identity, and yet, this interaction only serves to highlight her humanity for him. Whatever she is, Shielan can't be contained, and Cullen no longer wants her to be.

[for-the-ninth]

Amidst these fallen leaves, it never occurred to me

That I once broke free, free

And in the burning sunrise, I hunger for love

Madly, madly alone

Listening to this somber, ethereal piece and thinking about Shielan. How lonely she's been since leaving her clan, a choice that, though ultimately freeing, has left her with an overbearing loneliness.

Abandoned as an infant, Shielan was raised by Keeper Deshanna, who dubbed her the First before she could walk. At eighteen, she abandoned her clan in the night to search for the birth parents she knew nothing about.

Before joining the Inquisition, she was chained to duty - first as the future Keeper, and then as the child desperate to lay eyes on her true bloodline. Now, as the reluctant head of an organization she could hardly say she believed in, she is beholden once again to everyone but herself.

Will she ever truly be free? And if the cost of freedom is loneliness, will it even be worth it?