Sisters of Tevinter

Judgement

    "Alright... open." 

    The dark hands were taken from her eyes and Jor blinked, pupils adjusting to the bright light of the windows. There, on the dais as the curtain had been taken away, was a magnificent seat. A throne, carved from pure, seamless marble. The great pale face of an owl rose over the divot of the seat, tucked close on either side by the smooth sweep of featureless wings that curved inward as armrests. Rimmed by spokes of artistically rendered sunlight, the stone looked as if it had been carved from the moon itself. A swathe of plush green velvet had been draped over the wings to rest in the seat, the head of the owl tipped lovingly downward. Behind it, its feathers turned to the visage of layered scales and a fan of quills. 

    Braziers lit by magical flame, green and lively as sun through leaves, sat on either side of the dais, shifting and gleaming with quiet power. Jor blinked again, her jaw slack. Maker's Mercy... 

     Dorian beamed. "Do you like it?" 

     "Give it to us straight, kid, we can always change it." Varric rubbed his chin thoughtfully, studying the image in front of him. "If it's not your wavelength-"

      "I love it." Jor slowly allowed her giddy grin to slip through. "Gods above I love it! You guys, what the hell!" She turned to scoop them both in a suffocating hug, awkwardly accommodating the differing heights. "This is amazing, you designed this?"

       "The fire was my idea," Dorian said proudly, preening as the Inquisitor released him. 

       Varric flushed, laughing a little. "Yeah, Tackle, no big deal. The dwarves were happy to build it. We figured it fit your imposing 'hunger for knowledge' aesthetic, but not too spooky." 

       "It's amazing." Jor shook her head in wonder, grinning. "Thank you." 

       "No problem. Now all you have to do is use it." The rogue looked up at her with a smile. 

       "Oh?" 

       "One of the responsibilities of Inquisitor is to sit in judgement of their enemies." Lady Montilyet strode towards them down the hall, gaze focused on her clipboard and quill as she read. 

     "I see." Jor raised an eyebrow and glanced at Dorian. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?" 

    "Surprise?" The mage grinned. 

    "You mean I'm going to be sitting up there to pass law and command over prisoners?" Jor frowned and wrapped her arms uncertainly over her stomach. "We won't be executing people in here, will we?" 

     Josephine smiled slightly. "Not unless you'd prefer to witness such things. Though Leliana would protest the blood on the carpet." 

     "No." Jor shook her head, swallowing. "No thank you, ambassador." 

     Varric laughed. "Hey, kid, if anyone's qualified to do this, it's you." 

     Dorian smiled ruefully, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Besides, the first is an old friend." 

    "You do not have to begin now," Josephine offered soothingly. 

     Jor tugged at her coat collar, smoothing it upward. "...Any judgement?" 

     "Of course. The punishment will fit the crime. I will assist you if you wish," Lady Montilyet expressed. 

     Jor swallowed. "Yes. Yes, please. At least until I get the hang of it." 

     "Of course." Josephine smiled gently and gestured for Jor to take her seat. Uncertainly, the Inquisitor slowly ascended the few stairs of the dais. She sat in her throne, crossing her legs. There was a beat of silence as she tugged her lapels straight and folded her hands in her lap, schooling her expression into a mask of detached interest, lifting her chin evenly with a regal air as her mother used to. 

      Varric, walking to stand against the wall, nudged Dorian's arm with a smile. "She looks good up there. The flames make it work." 

       Dorian swallowed his growing anxiety and smiled. She did. "I knew it would."

       Josephine stood beside the dais, running her finger down a line of reports. "Whenever you're ready, Inquisitor." 

       Jor, uncertain how this would begin, leaned her cheek on her fist, elbow braced against her owl's wing. "Go ahead." She kept her voice steady and full of ice. Varric grinned at her from the sidelines, shivering playfully. Jor restrained a smile. 

       Josephine nodded to the guards that flanked one of the doorways. They swung it open, helmed scouts pushed a man with shaven dark hair and hollow eyes to his knees at the foot of the dais. 

        Dorian's mouth became a tight line. Jor's stomach suddenly felt as if it had been injected with cement. Blood drained from her face. She willed herself not to move, putting all of her energy into a slow, steady blink. 

       "This offender needs no introduction," Josephine was saying, her voice carrying along the hall. "Magister Alexius of Redcliffe, known Venatori sympathizer, meddler of illegal magicks, refusing to reveal unclaimed study to the Circle of Magi, convicted murderer and agent of the creature Corypheus." 

        Alexius lifted his head, his face devoid of any emotion but a haggard kind of despair. "My. Haven't we risen in power." He studied Jor with detached interest. "I have nothing to say to you." 

        "...You will provide no defense?" A tinge of surprise colored the ambassador's voice as she scrawled the magister's words against her parchment. 

        "My son is doomed, as good as dead. I am no more than a corpse with borrowed time, as I have failed the Elder One." Alexius' eyes never left Jor's face. "Do with me what you will."

       The Inquisitor's jade gaze slid to Dorian. The mage could swear he saw that green stone hall in her eyes. The black blood flooded like ink into her pupils. He gave the barest shake of his head. He tried to tell himself that he did not care what happened to his traitorous teacher, even as pain lanced his chest. 

         Jor's lip curled slightly as she remembered with fury the blood, the stone, the horrible thud of corpses, Kaisen's hollow, missing eye. She looked down at Alexius as if he were a slug or some other small, foul thing that had the audacity to appear before her. 

       "You speak boldly for someone at the mercy of his own victims. I would hazard a guess," she said coldly, drawing out the words like a silk garotte. "That you are not in such despair as to numb your fear as I express my desire to kill you. Here. On this floor. I'd do it myself, but my people would rather not see blood on our new carpets, and you are far beneath either of my blades."

        A flicker of unease crossed the magister's face, but it was quickly swallowed by an agonized mask of depression. "Death would be a mercy." 

        "My thoughts exactly." Jor rested her chin in the crook of her palm. "Your research is valuable. Your mind is experienced." She paused. "You will serve the mages you worked so hard to enslave. Without reservation. You will be given to Grand Enchantress Fiona as a gift of alliance, surrendering all of your notes and evidence of study to the Circle of Magi. You will comply with every request, whether magically bound or stripped of your talents, that is for the Enchantress to decide. Death will indeed be a mercy, Alexius." Jor let a small smile flit across her lips, pleased with the reverse of poetic justice. "But it will not come soon."