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crystalessenceswrites · 4 years ago

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You’re Enchanting--Chapter Four

Summary: Delphine always told Elazar she would do anything to help him if he was ever in trouble, even knowing his knack for finding it. She didn’t expect to be helping him save the world after someone blows up the Conclave and tears a hole in the sky. Nor did Delphine expect to be falling for anyone, let alone a troubled, former templar, while she’s watching her best friend shape the future of their world with a green glowing hand.

Pairings: Cullen/Trevelyan & Dorian/Lavellan

Warnings: Canon typical violence, a wild Sera appears, and some small disagreements between our beloved advisors

Can be found on AO3

Notes: We’ve passed the 15,000 word mark with this chapter! Thanks for reading! Comments and feedback appreciated!

[Masterlist] [Chapter Three] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five]

Chapter Four- Starlight

Everyone in their little party was shaken in some way or another as they departed Val Royeaux. The Chantry was denouncing Elazar as a false prophet, and the Inquisition as illegitimate by extension, the Lord Seeker was leading the templars away from the people and Grand Enchanter Fiona was not only alive but had inviting them to Redcliffe. How quickly the world could turn on its head these days.

The unease remained as they arrived at the estate described in the notes. They had made quick work of the guards on their way to the estate’s inner courtyard.

“I don’t like this,” Del whispered to El as they spotted an Orlesian masked man in the center of the courtyard.

Elazar could only shrug as they approached.

“Herald of Andraste! How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

Delphine shared a disgusted look with her elvish friend as they recognized the self-important drawl in his voice. This must have been the manor’s Lord.

“I don’t know who you are!” Elazar shouted back, obviously unamused at the development.

“You don’t fool me! I’m too important for this to be an accident. My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere!”

Varric didn’t even bother to hide his chuckle at the short man’s martyrdom speech.

Elazar looked ready to snap back at the man when one of the guards behind the Lord abruptly collapsed, an arrow stuck in his back. Everyone’s heads whipped towards the flash of red that was suddenly pointing their knocked bow at the Lord.

“Just say “what!”” They threatened.

The Lord was obviously dense, “what is the-”

And just like that the Lord took an arrow to the face, collapsing to floor. So much for trying to question him.

“Eww!” Delphine studied the archer as she went about collecting her arrow from the Lord’s face. An elf with choppy blonde hair and a large grin that could rival Elazar’s. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right? “Just say ‘what.’” Rich tits always try for more than they deserve. “Blah, blah, blah! Obey me! Arrow in my face!” So, you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you’re…” the woman looked over Elazar rather obviously, “and you’re an elf. Well. Hope you’re not too elfy. I mean, it’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

Herald thingy? Del was going to have to start calling El that.

“They say I’m the Herald of Andraste. But who are you, and what’s this about?” Elazar sounded rather diplomatic, was he spending time with Josephine without her knowing?

“No idea. I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“Your people? Elves?” At least Elazar sounded as confused as Delphine felt.

“Ha! No. People people. Name’s Sera. This is cover,” The blonde grinned, gesturing to a stack of crates, “get 'round it. For the reinforcements. Don’t worry. Someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches.”

No breeches?

Their attention shot to the gates on the far end of the courtyard as more guards charged in, all missing their breeches. That was not something Del had ever wanted to see.

“Why didn’t you take their weapons?!” Varric shouted at the elven archer as they began to fend off the half-naked men.

“Because breeches!”

The fight did not last long when their opposition had such obvious vulnerabilities. It may have also helped that their group consisted of three mages, two archers and a Seeker. Del was not well versed in archery but Sera was skilled, taking down her fair share of the guards. Varric seemed pleased by the development as well.

As the last soldier fell, the elf’s joyous shout filled the courtyard, “right in the plums!”

After what she had seen, Del did not need any more mental images of that. She hoped that this was the last they’d be seeing of men with no breeches, not that the images weren’t already burned into her memory.

“Friends really came through with that tip. No breeches. So Herald of Andraste. You’re a strange one. I’d like to join.”

Elazar quirked an eyebrow, “all I know about you or your group is that I followed a random trail into a trap.”

“What trap?” The blonde scoffed, “you knocked, he crapped. It’s… look, it’s like this. I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff by my friends. The friends of Red Jenny. That’s me. Well, I’m one. So is a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven. Brothers or something. It’s a just a name, yeah? It lets little people, “friends,” be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. “The Friends of Red Jenny” are sort of out there. I used them to help you. Plus arrows.”

That made some sense, in a very roundabout sort of way. Elazar still looked rather confused. She and Varric would have to explain it again on their trip home.

“The Inquisition is almost an army now. Can you add to it?”

Sera folded her arms, just shy of glaring at Elazar. “Here’s how it is. You “important” people are up here, shoving you cods around, “blah, blah, I’ll crush you!” “I’ll crush you.”” Sera added in some kissing noises, which Del could agree was actually fairly accurate for the squabbles she knew of back in the Free Marches. “Ahem. Then you’ve got generals and oath belchers, and sure, you have soldiers. Like the dead guys protecting that other dead guy. All those helmets, and what gave them up? Some drunk gets a key lifted because someone’s got bills. So no, I’m not a captain swordface, all marchy. But if you don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches. Like those guards, I stole their… look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?”

Elazar looked back to Del, his eyes wide. It was unlike El to look to her for decision making. He always went with his gut. “You’re the Herald, El.”

“All right, Sera.” Elazar looked back to the rogue, lips pressed together in a thin line, “I can use you and your friends.”

Sera’s grin split across her face, “yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be.”

Del sure hoped so.

“Plus extra breeches, because I have all these… you have merchants who buy that pish, yeah? Got to be worth something. Anyway, Haven. See you there Herald. This will be grand.”

As quickly as she had appeared, Sera sauntered off, humming a tune rather loudly as she did.

“So…ready to go the Duke’s party now?” Varric looked rather smug as Cassandra stood there slack-jawed.

“This one is on you.” Elazar leaned over to whisper as Del as the Duke’s staff took their riding cloaks.

“They’re going to want to talk to the Herald, not me,” she hissed back. Although she was the noble-born of their odd pair, this was not close to any situation her tutors had prepared her for. They were both wearing armor and carrying their staffs for heaven’s sake!

El glared back, “I got us Red Jenny, now you get us Madame de Fer.”

She was going to throttle the elf before this incredibly long night was over.

The crier motioned them forward, prepared to announce them to the other guests. Del slipped her arm around Elazar’s as they stepped forward, trying to look somewhat formal as the Herald’s plus one.

“Lord Lavellan and Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, representing the Inquisition.”

As El openly admired the opulence and finery around them, they were quickly approached by an Orlesian pair.

“A pleasure, ser and lady.” The lord greeted, Del bowed her head back seeing as she wasn’t wearing a dress to curtsey in. “We so rarely have a chance to meet anyone new. It is always the same crowd at these parties. So you must be a guest of Madame de Fer. Or are you here for Duke Bastien?”

“Are you here on business? I have heard the most curious tales of you. I cannot imagine half of them are true.” The woman was just as curious as her counterpart and just as blunt. They did not appear to be all that good at the Game with such straightforward questions.

A toothy grin split across Elazar’s face, “everything you’ve heard? Completely true.”

Maker’s balls Elazar was going to ruin the Inquisition before Cassandra and the others could get it off the ground.

“Better and better,” the lady cooed, “the Inquisition should attend more of these parties.”

“The Inquisition? What a load of pig shit!” Another heavily accented voice cut through the noise of the party. Del quickly spotted another lord descending the stairs to the foyer. “Washed-up sisters and crazed seekers? No one can take them seriously. Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to grab power.”

Delphine would not call the Left and Right Hands of the Divine political outcasts, nor would she call Cassandra crazed to her face.

“The Inquisition is working to restore peace and order to Thedas.” Elazar was turning on what charm he could summon in their current company but Del could feel the crackling energy running around him. There was no way this was going to end well.

“Here comes the outsider, restoring peace with an army! We know what your “Inquisition” truly is. If you were a man of honor, you’d step outside and answer the charges.”

This man did realize Elazar was a mage, right? He was so sure of himself that he would challenge a mage to a duel?

Del bit back her retort as the air around them snapped with cold. The lord stilled as his torso was suddenly trapped in ice.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house to my guests. You know such rudeness is… intolerable.”

When Delphine had first heard about Madame de Fer in the Circle she had been amazed. The woman had single-handedly turned the position of court jester into a seat of power. She was an advisor to the Empress of Orlais. Mages could only dream of holding such positions, and the power to exert change. Del had never met the Enchanter but she had imagined someone of great poise and elegance. Vivienne exceeded that image as she approached them.

“Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” The Marquis stuttered, frozen, literally, as the woman of the hour approached.

“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?”

It almost sounded as if the Enchanter was enjoying this, though if Del was in her position, maybe she would be enjoying the power too.

Vivienne turned to Elazar, her perfectly shaped eyebrow quirked, “my Lord, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

The crackling around El began to melt away as he eyed the Marquis. Del let go of the breath she had been holding, thankful El’s calm nature had returned.

“The Marquis doesn’t interest me. Do whatever you like with him,” he shrugged.

Vivienne tutted, “poor Marquis, issuing challenges and hurling insults like some Ferelden dog lord.” She snapped, releasing the man from her ice spell. “And all dressed up in your Aunt Solange’s doublet. Didn’t she give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney? To think, all the brave chevaliers who will be competing left for Markham this morning… and you’re still here. Were you hoping to sate your damaged pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in a public duel? Or did you think his sword would end the shame of your failure? Run along, my dear. Do give my regards to your aunt.”

El didn’t do a very good job of hiding his snicker behind a sudden coughing fit.

“I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering I’ve so wanted to meet you.” The Enchanter’s smile was dazzling as she motioned for them to follow her further into the mansion, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmand and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

Del and El both smiled back as they reached a secluded hallway overlooking the grand estate.

“Is that Marquis going to pose a problem?” Del was not an expert on Orlesian politics, but she knew that pissing off one lord or lady could cause a tidal wave of problems down the road.

“His aunt is the Vicomtess of Mont-de-Glace. Not a powerful family but well-respected…and a very devout. Alphonse will be disowned for this. It’s not the first time he’s brought his aunt disgrace, but I’m sure it will be the last. And after such a public humiliation, I expect he’ll run off to the Dales to join the Empress’s war effort. Either to make a good end or win back a modicum of self-respect.”

Maybe this would be alright for them after all. Josephine wouldn’t lose her head at least.

“But I didn’t invite you to the chateau for pleasantries.”

Those were the pleasantries?

“With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

Delphine wished El would at least not look so dour at her proposition. Even if Elazar wanted to approach his fellow rebels for help, having the loyal mages on their side, at least in name was nothing to sneeze at.

“And you interest in the Inquisition, Madame de Fer, is it personal or professional?”

Del suppressed a groan. He had wanted her to lead this, so why was he trying to be antagonistic now?

“Aren’t you charming? It’s professional, of course.” At least Vivienne wasn’t offended.

“You say you led the last of the loyal mages. Loyal to whom?” Elazar pressed.

To reach the heights Vivienne had achieved as a Circle mage, she had beyond mastered The Game, and it showed. Not a muscle twitched. Not a speck of untoward emotion behind her eyes. If Vivienne was not pleased with Elazar’s questioning, she did not let it show.

“To the people of Thedas, of course. We have not forgotten the commandment, as some have, that magic exists to serve man. I support any effort to restore such order.”

Elazar tensed at the intentional dig. This was not going in a direction that would benefit them. Del dug her nails into El’s arm, her silent plea for him to take a breath and think about their situation.

“And what do you get from this, Madame? You would only seek out the Inquisition if it was to your benefit.”

Vivienne’s eyes sparkled beneath her ornate mask at Delphine’s question, “you’re quite right darling. I would get the same thing anyone else gets by fighting this chaos: the chance to meet my enemy, to decide my fate. I won’t wait quietly for destruction.”

Her words echoed a speech Delphine remembered vividly, one that had sent chills down her spine and sent her mind reeling at the events that would overtake their usually quiet lives. They may be on separate sides of this war but they all understood the sentiments behind one’s desire for choice.

Del nudged Elazar, causing the surprised expression to slip off his features. She knew he understood that despite their differences they needed the Enchanter’s support. “The Inquisition will be happy to have you, Lady Vivienne.”

A delicate smile grew on the poised woman’s lips, “great things are beginning, my dear. I can promise you that.”

Delphine finally understood why Elazar had been moving nonstop since the Conclave. It was not so much a sense of urgency but it was to keep the dread at bay. As they returned to Haven Delphine felt the sorrow and melancholy return. It had been gnawing at her since the explosion but traveling with the others seemed to keep it at arm’s length, their banter enough to occupy her mind with distractions. Haven did not seem to afford her the same luxury anymore. People were still pouring into Haven, seeking answers, or searching out their friends and families. The wails haunted Del as families learned their loved ones were not among the handful of survivors. That could have easily been her, tear-stained face cursing the Maker for allowing such a tragedy. On the nights she couldn’t sleep it almost was her.

Her sudden mood swing must have been written plainly on her face. El linked his arm with hers, his warmth and less-than-subtle calming aura spell soothing away some of the darkness that had fallen upon their arrival.

In his eternal quest to be cheery, Elazar waved to Cullen and his lieutenants as they departed the makeshift stables. The Commander nodded back in greeting his expression rather stoic as he watched them stroll into the village, Del and El still linked at the elbow.

Josephine greeted them with a restrained smile when they arrived at the chapel. “It’s good you’ve returned. We heard of your encounter.”

“You heard?”

Del wasn’t sure why Cassandra was surprised. They knew Leliana had people in Val Royeaux.

“My agents in the city sent word ahead, of course.”

Cullen strolled in behind them, brow furrowed, “it’s a shame the Templars have abandoned their sense as well as the Capital.”

“At least we know how to approach the mages and templars now.” El shrugged, though Del knew he was anything but apathetic about the situation.

“Do we?” Cassandra countered, “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”

Leliana nods, “true. He has taken the Order somewhere, but to do what, my reports have been…very odd.”

“We must look into it, I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker.” Cullen may no longer be a templar but he obviously still held a strong faith in the Order.

“Or the Herald could simply go meet the mages in Redcliffe, instead,” Josephine offered.

After meeting the Lord Seeker Del was more willing to work with Fiona, though Del wasn’t sure if El felt the same way. He appeared to have become rather disillusioned with the Grand Enchanter, and mage authorities in general.

“You think the mage rebellion is more united? It could be ten times worse.”

Cullen obviously hadn’t heard the Lord Seekers' opinions- she hoped that was the case, that he would be much more up in arms if he had- to believe approaching that man would lead to anything productive.

“I could at least find out what the mages want.” El shot back, obviously not fond of Cullen’s insinuations either.

“No doubt what they’ve always wanted. Support for their cause.”

“We shouldn’t discount Redcliffe, the mages might be worth the risk.” Josephine, ever the ambassador, was not one to share her opinion on the Mage-Templar war, and Del had never thought to ask.

Cassandra almost sounded disdainful, “they are powerful, ambassador, but more desperate than you realize.”

El scoffed, “so it will be dangerous. I’ve been in danger since I walked out of the Fade.”

Del looked to Elazar, wide-eyed. Did he really feel that unsafe?

“If some among the rebel mages were responsible for what happened at the Conclave…”

“The same could be said about the templars.”

It appeared the Inquisition was just as split and heated about the topic as the rest of Thedas.

“True enough.” Cullen cut in, glowering a bit at his advisors. “Right now I’m not sure we have enough influence to approach either side safety.”

Heads seemed to cool at that. There was no point fighting about who to ally with when neither would actually speak with them.

“Then the Inquisition needs agents in more places. That’s something you can help with.” Cassandra looked pointedly at Elazar, as if he had not just brought Red Jenny and Madame de Fer into the Inquisition during their trip to Val Royeaux.

Josephine nods, “in the meantime, we should consider other options.”

The group agrees and disperses, all in varied levels of frustration. This was more of what Delphine pictured when she arrived; hot tempers, gridlock, and frustration.

Leliana lingered, fiddling with her gloves. El quirked an eyebrow at the spymaster.

“There is one other matter. Several months ago the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared. Ordinarily I wouldn’t even consider the idea they’re involved in all this, but the timing is…curious.”

The Grey Wardens? They were heroes, especially after all that had happened in the last blight. Delphine prayed to the Maker they weren’t all wrapped up in this too.

“That does sound odd.”

Elazar nods “I agree.”

“The others have disregarded my suspicions. But I cannot ignore it. Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. If you have the opportunity please seek him out. Perhaps he can put my mind at ease.”

Delphine hated to be negative towards the idea, but she doubted that one Warden could solve the mystery around their disappearance. “And if he can’t?”

“Then there may be more going on than we thought.”

Elazar and Delphine shared a concerned look. Mages, Templars, and now the Grey Wardens. Was anything in their world right anymore?

6 notes · View notes

mllemaenad · 6 years ago

Note

'Imagine your children growing up in such a world. If a mage asked it of you, you would have to give him your daughter, not knowing what his plans for her might be. You could not resist him, and neither could she.' - Sorry, this line particularly came to my attention because take away magic and this? Is exactly what happens in the Tabris origin. And to that one Orlesian merchant in Denerim in DA:O. And probably to any number of peasant/elven girls at the hands of nobles every day across Thedas.

No need to be sorry. :)

You’re right. Absolutely.

The thing is – take this in context. This is an answer written by a grand cleric to a nobleman who seems (we don’t have his side of the conversation, obviously, so we can only infer from the substance of the reply) to have been challenging the Chantry’s treatment of mages. If you look at it like that, then what the grand cleric is describing is what happens to almost every mage child in southern Thedas.

Armed men come to your door and take your child away. You have no right to say no. And you have no idea what they’re going to do with them. They may take your child to a Circle across the sea. They may murder them. They may make them Tranquil. They may rape them, beat them, torture them. Maybe you’ll be lucky: maybe your kid is Vivienne or one of the Warden mages. Maybe they’ll do okay.

But you don’t know. And you can’t tell the Templars to go away; that they can’t have your child. They live in a world where this happens to parents every day.

It’s almost too much to imagine. The Circle, the Templars, they’ve shaped my life. I was no more than twelve when they came for me. My mother wept when they fixed the chains to my wrists, but my father was glad to see me gone. He had been afraid, ever since the fire in the barn. Not just afraid of what I could do, but afraid of me, afraid my magic was punishment for whatever petty sins he imagined the Maker sat in judgement upon.

– Anders (short story)

Anders’s mum couldn’t say no. Maybe she wanted to. At bare minimum, it sounds as though she didn’t want to lose her son forever. But that’s what happened. Little Ella is desperate to get back to her parents, because the Templars didn’t even tell them where they were taking her – and when we encounter her, a Templar is threatening her with Tranquillity and strongly implied sexual assault.

Wynne gave birth to a healthy baby boy, whom she was allowed one day with before he was taken into Chantry custody. The child, who was names Rhys, was taken to Lydes and from there transferred to the White Spire in Orlais when it was discovered that he, too, was a mage.

– World of Thedas I

They kidnapped a newborn baby and took him to a different damn country. It took decades, and fighting an archdemon, for Wynne to even get the chance to find him again.

Dulci de Launcet was lucky: she’s a noble, so she at least had letters and some general idea of where her kid was, but she hadn’t laid eyes on her son since he was six.

Yeah. Good fucking job, Chantry. You really solved the problem of powerful people coming to your door to abduct your children.

But while, yes, given the context of the letter I think the irony is best understood in relation to mages, I definitely think it can be expanded upon:

The demon had impersonated the human man who had bought her from the slavers that took her in after her father died. She’d had no idea back then who those kind men really were, only that they offered her food and a warm bed to sleep in. Then an even kinder man came to take her from them, and she found herself in his luxurious home and thought herself the luckiest girl in the entire alienage.

How very naive she had been. Count Dorian, as she learned her new master’s name to be, had been in search of an elven whore he could keep as a pet, something he could put in a pretty dress and bring with him on one of his many trips to the capital, like baggage.

– Dragon Age: The Calling

Ah, look. The exact scenario Grand Cleric Francesca was fear-mongering about. A little girl abducted, enslaved and sold to a nobleman who abused and tortured her. Yes, a mage-child as it happens, but that wasn’t apparent at the time. Fiona was vulnerable because she was an elf – an orphaned elf considered expendable by society.

“What they wish is irrelevant.” Celene turned and stalked away from the window. “I am already fighting a war on two fronts. I cannot be seen to fight a war on three.”

“Then don’t.” Briala rose, putting herself in Celene’s path. “Give them justice.”

“A lord for the death of an elf? I … damn this thing.”

With a quick jerk, Celene tore her mask from her face. Her face was flushed beneath, her eyes red from another night of little sleep. “Shall I declare the elves equal citizens before the Maker and the throne as well, while I’m at it?”

“Why not?” Briala took her own mask off, stealing a quick moment to steady herself. “Unless you don’t believe that, and I’m just a jumped-up kitchen slut you haven’t tired of yet.

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or here: a revolt that ends in genocide, and that begins because it is unthinkable that they arrest a nobleman for murdering an elf. The victim’s name was Lemet. He was killed shielding an eight-year-old boy who threw a rock at a carriage. And the boy said he did it because his mother had been murdered by Orlesian nobility:

“They killed my mother,” the boy said, pulling against Lemet’s grip.

“Be quiet.” Lemet looked back at the coach and heard its joints creak as the guards jumped down to the street. The driver would want to have that oiled, some part of Lemet’s mind noted.

“They can’t come down this street after what they did to her,” the boy insisted. “They can’t!”

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or this, where soldiers rob, rape and murder their own citizens in the midst of a civil war:

“Two days ago, Lady Seryl’s men rode in and cur down every man and woman working the fields. Killed our guards, killed everyone in the village square. When they finished killing the other soldiers, they fired arrows out onto the water, killed most of our boys in the boats. They took all the food they could find. They spent the night.” A collective flinch splashed across the crowd. “Said we had been assisting enemies of the throne, that this was a lesson to anyone who’d help Gaspard’s men.” At the last, his voice broke. “My lord, I don’t even know who Gaspard is.”

– Dragon Age: The Masked Empire

Or the serial killer who is repeatedly allowed to walk free because he’s a magistrate’s son, and he targets elven children. Or the elven boys who fled to the Qun because a guard raped their sister – no one would arrest him, so they took matters into their own hands.

And yes, of course, you see the exact same thing in Ferelden in the alienage.

I’m sure everyone feels so much safer now they’ve locked up all the mages.

Orlais’s crimes don’t excuse Tevinter’s. That’s where they went wrong with Dorian’s … painful dialogue on slavery. You can’t point to the horrors of Orlesian society and therefore suggest that the Tevinter slave trade is not that awful. It doesn’t work like that. What you can do, though, is say that Tevinter’s crimes don’t excuse Orlais’s – particularly when they tend to do exactly the same shit:

Slavery still thrives in Thedas, even if the trade has been outlawed. Who hasn’t heard the tales of poverty-stricken elves lured into ships by the prospect of well-paying jobs in Antiva, only to find themselves clapped in leg-irons once at sea? And humans fall prey to this, too.

If they’re lucky, they end up in Orlais, which has only “servants.” Most nobles treat them decently because they are afraid of admitting the truth. Orlesians go to great lengths to maintain the fiction that slavery is illegal.

Of course, the greatest consumer of slave labor is the Tevinter Imperium, which would surely crumble if not for the endless supply of slaves from all over the continent. There, they are meat, chattel. They are beaten, used as fodder in the endless war against the Qunari, and even serve as components in dark magic rituals.

—From Black City, Black Divine: A Study of the Tevinter Imperium, by Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar

– Slavery in the Tevinter Imperium

Fiona is not an anomaly: Orlais kidnaps and sells people into slavery, too.

And this makes sense. Fantasy always draws on the real world, even if they mix and match the cultures and historical periods a bit. So, just like in the real world, you generally have to take anything the wealthy and powerful say with a grain of salt.

The Chantry has a very specific, empire building, agenda. It makes much of problems that aren’t really problems (demons and abominations are not widespread threats, and both are poorly understood); it pins the blame for actual crises on oppressed groups (the Blight is in no way the fault of this random peasant mage from Antiva); it uses racism and religious intolerance to create in- and out-groups (elves [and dwarves, but we haven’t conquered them yet] are degenerate heathens who are preventing the Maker from returning).

As much as I love Dragon Age, what Bioware does sometimes that is … uncomfortable … to use a mild word, is that it lets the powerful rule the narrative. Inquisition is worst at this, because it presents strong voices for people like Cassandra and Cullen, who stick fairly close to the party line. And then it takes characters like Varric and Sera, and distances them from their own cultures … which is fine for individuals but awkward when we’re not letting Briala or Fiona say much either – and where the fuck is Sigrun? No one’s spoken for Orzammar’s casteless since Awakening. But it’s there, to some extent, in all the games.

So the point, always, is that mages and Circles are misdirection. Mages are scapegoats in the Chantry faith who are held responsible for all the bad things, and represent a pretend evil nobility that the Orlesian Chantry is keeping under control.

But the actual problems of this fantasy world are more or less the same as the problems of the real world: powerful nations dominate the continent and force others to bow to their whims and adopt their culture, because empires are just shit; the rich and powerful hoard all the rights to themselves, and can do damn near anything to the poor – particularly where the poor are part of a marginalised group.

What Orlais doesn’t want people to realise is that they are Tevinter. It was never the mages that were the problem, it was the absolute power the Tevinter magisters held over their slaves – a power now held mostly by the Orlesian nobility, who use it in pretty much the same way. Not exclusively, no: of course the nobility of other nations can be, and bloody are, evil fucks. But even there, the Chantry view helps to obscure the truth: you should be scared of empires and those who rule them. Much more scared than you are of a possessed mage.

#dragon age #Anonymous #cw: violence #cw: abuse #cw: rape #chantry critical

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joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years ago

Text

Song of Souls (three)

Art by @nevui-penim-miruvorrr (thank you @elriviel for telling me!)

Chapter 3

In the end, Narví went ahead with one gangbuh, while Durin remained on the road with the other, too worried to stay behind though he had asked her to. The last five hundred soldiers had yet to arrive from further inside the Dwarrowdelf, but something in her told her that time was running out swiftly.

When they finally reached Eregion, Elves were milling around everywhere, the air heavy with fear. It was chaos. Instead of happy laughter and song – Narví had had trouble sleeping at times with all the singing – the air was thick and silent; no birds calling in the low light, and no voices raised in song. No elflings were running around in play, which made her sad. Khalebrimbur had been so proud that he had managed to create a Realm where his people were procreating; Narví hadn’t quite understood why, but the wee tykes were adorable, she had to admit; all pointy ears and eyes too large for their faces, wanting to explore everything around them. Making up her mind, she began heading towards Khalebrimbur’s house, the largest building in Ost-in-Edhil, larger than the hall of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, which Master Curumaiton had not liked, but Narví had insisted on building herself a proper workshop and Khalebrimbur had simply laughed and let her. Looking at the building, she could almost convince herself that the sounds of hammer blows coming from the forge off to the side were him, almost envision the way he would come running to greet her, ask her about all the things that had happened in the Dwarrowdelf since his last visit.

“Lady Narví!” Someone called. Narví turned, recognising Councilman Erestor, one of the staidest Elves in Khalebrimbur’s court, but also among the most efficient organizers she had ever met. Beside him strode an elf with hair of gold, armoured in gilded plate with a golden flower as his sigil, one arm casually wrapped around Erestor’s while the other held a full-faced helmet decorated with the same sigil.

“Lord Erestor,” she greeted, striving for calm. “I have an urgent question for you.”

“Lord Commander!” An Elf ran up; Narví did not recognise him, but he bore the sigil of Eregion’s Guard. She cleared her throat, annoyed by the interruption. “Princess!” the Elf exclaimed, turning to face her with a quick bow. Narví stared. It couldn’t be young Haldir all grown up, could it? It was. “The Orcs, Lord Commander, they’re coming closer!”

“Orcs…” Narví murmured. “Khalebrimbur was right…” Shaking her head, she turned back to Erestor and the golden elf who seemed far more likely to be the ‘Lord Commander’ of whatever forces the Elves could muster than Erestor.

“How many and how far away?” the Lord Commander replied.

“Less than a day’s march, my lord,” the blonde scout said, seemingly pale, “and we counted at least two thousand Orcs; but Rusc said he counted double that further out.” Narví frowned. A day was enough to build some earthworks, but not enough to construct defences that would repel that many.

“Where is your perimeter?” she asked. “I’ve five hundred soldiers with me, another thousand in reserve.”

“Forgive me, Princess Narví; this is Lord Glorfindel. He commands our defences.” Erestor said faintly. The name rang a bell.

“You’re the Balrog guy,” she murmured, running her eyes over his slender form. Not as good looking as my Khalebrimbur, a small voice whispered in the back of her head, but Narví ignored it with the ease of long practice. “Aye, Khalebrimbur told me the story,” she continued, when he nodded. “Didn’t you die?” Erestor winced, but Narví wasn’t going to waste time with idle politeness.

“I was returned to Middle-Earth, my lady,” he bowed. “We have set up defences along the south and western borders of Ost-in-Edhil.” Neither was the Elf, apparently. Narví nodded. Practical Elves; they were few and far between, their race altogether too given to whimsy in her opinion, but when you found one, they were usually worth their weight in gold. Khalebrimbur had been practical… most of the time, at least. And when he was kept well away from Narví’s stash of uisge. He had only challenged her to a drinking contest once; she had had to carry him to bed amidst silly elven singing – though he often sang random little tunes that then tended to get stuck in her head for days. That one had been about gold, which was a surprisingly dwarven topic, but she hadn’t understood more than half of it; something about coiling gold. He had not mentioned it the next day, and Narví had never thought to ask why Khalebrimbur, who favoured silver and mithril, would be singing about gold when he was in his cups.

“Geira!” she snapped, shaking off the wave of memories. “Follow Haldir and begin creating fortifications if you can.” The fabarâl nodded silently.

“Move out!” Geira called, turning south. Narví had gone over the maps of the region with her already, pointing out where she remembered the weaknesses in the defences had been. Celebrimbor might have spent a lot of his life at war, but he had not expected to be fighting another one when he founded his realm, she knew. “Quick-March, double-time! I wanted to reach the perimeter yesterday, you lousy sons of petty-dwarves! Let’s go, let’s go!” she shouted, the gangbuh obediently speeding up, following the young elf back to the lines. Narví smirked. Geira was one of the best generals they had; competition to belong to one of her ten maznakkâ was fiercer than any other gangbuh under the mountain. Narví’s personal guard remained behind her.

“Miri!” Narví called next, her personal 'Udshankhuzd[1] snapping to attention immediately. Miri wasn’t quite ready to join the battle, but they were more than capable of carrying a message back to Durin and the mountain; Narví wasn’t likely to need their services with her armour any time soon.

“Narví Zabad,” Miri replied respectfully.

“Send word to Durin, he’ll want to begin fortifying the road; if we were to evacuate as many as can be spared from the defences, they’ll need safe passage.”

“Yes, Zabad.” Miri bowed.

“Wait!” Glorfindel interrupted. “One of our riding messengers would be faster.” Elven horses could outrun practically anything, she knew.

“Very well,” Narví nodded; the Elf had a point, and Miri couldn’t ride anything larger than a pony. “Tell your messenger to say ‘barath'adad’ to prove they bear word from me if they need to pass any guard-posts.”

“My Lady… how did you know to come?” Erestor caught her by the arm, the gesture proving how shaken his calm façade really was; Elves never initiated physical contact unless they were with someone very close to them. “We had not thought… to send word to you, I mean,” he hesitated, a light glow appearing in his ears. Narví gave him a sad smile.

“Khalebrimbur spoke to me,” she mumbled, “though he was not with me, I heard his voice beg me; ‘save them’.” The two Elves reared back as though struck, staring at her with more surprise than she had ever before seen in the face of an Elf. She scowled. “I’m not mad!”

“No, my lady,” the golden elf replied, “you’re not mad… it was always said that the House of Fëanor were blessed with many skills beyond the kenning of even the wisest among us… you saw his spirit, I guess?” Narví shook her head.

“Only his voice; faint and far away, but I would know Khalebrimbur’s voice among all Elves,” she said. The Elf muttered something low in an elvish tongue that was unfamiliar to her ears; Narví did not need to know the words to recognise it as a curse, however. “Do we know what is coming?” she asked, trying to get back on track.

“The armies of Sauron,” Glorfindel replied grimly, “he wants the Rings of Power, the ones Celebrimbor made.”

“But they were sent away,” Narví replied, frowning, “Khalebrimbur told me he sent them away; he was going to visit your Gil-Galad, he said, to discuss how to keep them safe.” It had been more than a decade now; Narví purposely did not count how long it had really been since she had seen ‘her’ elf, watched his eyes crinkle when he smiled at her. “It was the last time I saw him.”

“The Rings had already been spirited away,” Glorfindel replied, “and Celebrimbor never made it to Lindon…” Narví blanched, but she rallied herself almost immediately, pushing away the certainty that filled her at the elf’s words. Glorfindel did not continue, but she thought she saw compassion in his blue eyes.

“Your civilians,” she said, getting control of her voice through sheer stubbornness, “send them to the Dwarrowdelf. They can escape through the Mountains, reach the Golden Wood on the other side.” Glorfindel nodded once, sharing a look with Erestor that Narví did her best to ignore; it was the look of those who know they will be parted from a loved one soon, those who knew that they might not see each other again. Private grief best left unspoken; she knew it well. “We can save your people only if you abandon your home.”

“I thank you, my lady,” Erestor said; forcing calm into his voice with great effort before striding off; his spine ramrod straight in the way she recognised from countless wives and husbands separated by duty.

“Let’s talk defences,” Glorfindel said, though he, too, was staring after the dark-haired elf. “I’ve sent for reinforcements, but we must give them as much time as can be gained before we abandon this land.”

[1] Squire/errand-runner, not yet battle-ready, though close; a valued position usually leading to a promotion as an officer upon coming of age if the young dwarf has proven skilled enough.

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five]

@life-is-righteous @pandepirateprincess @sassytyphoondetective

#terrifyingtolkien #narvi #Celebrimbor #celebrimbor/narvi #erestor #glorfindel #the sacking of eregion #Small Ships Club #glorfindel/erestor #Song of Souls

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