Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

Divine

"The Inquisition did not cause this threat," Josephine said as Fen'Asha stormed through the doors of the chamber.

The gallery gasped, exchanged shaken looks, muttered.

"We are aware," said Teagan Guerrin, keeping one eye on the Inquisitor as she strode toward him.

"And now you complain?" said Josephine. "This is what passes for gratitude?"

"There are no wishes to diminish what you have done," said Teagan with a sigh. "But again, Corypheus is years dead. The Inquisition continues still and..."

The Inquisitor settled into a seat next to Josephine and reached for a book.

Teagan was distracted by her, noticing that she was gripping the tome with her one good arm. Noticing that the other was now cut at the elbow, with the sleeve of her garment rolled and tied secure at the end.

"And?" said Josephine, trying not to stare at where Fen'Asha's arm had been.

"You know what this is," said Fen'Asha. She held up the book. "It is a writ from Divine Justinia, authorizing the Inquisition. We pledged to close the Breach, find those responsible, restore order. We have done so."

Teagan shifted in his chair.

"It wasn't an authorized treaty that saved Fereldan," she said. She looked at Cyril.

He shifted as well.

"It wasn't diplomacy that ended Orlais' civil war," she said. "It was never an organization, authorized by writ. It was people, doing what was necessary. And yes, the war has ended."

Josephine leaned forward.

"So the time has come for our soldiers to go home," continued Fen'Asha. "It has been an honour and we offer our limitless gratitude to those who have served the Inquisition."

The gallery seemed to lean forward with Josephine, concealing themselves and their reactions behind fans and makeup and masks. They awaited the inevitable punchline.

"Effective immediately, the Inquisition is disbanded," said Fen'Asha.

There it was.

The gallery burst into murmurs and expressions of shock, but it didn't matter. Fen'Asha stood from her place, nodded at Divine Victoria, left the room where her actions were tried and assessed with remarkably superficial form. So many lives summed up with documents, papers, orders, non-orders, statements of glorious manipulation. So much shit.

By the time Fen'Asha returned to her room, she was ready to stare at it again. She looked at where the arm had been, where the Anchor once was. He had played his part, he had made this happen. He had freed her in a way, again, from the prison of his making. And he imprisoned her again, like he had a tendency to do.

But she suspected he wouldn't free her this time.

She searched her room, looking for something to distract her thoughts from wandering to their darker corners. She caught the coming tears just in time and saw the golden glow from the corner of her eye.

Fen'Harel.

She cradled the wolf as the tears fell, landing between his ears. She closed her eyes to the rising emotion, to the mounting sting. And she felt herself drifting.

The altar. She was there again, in the water and the freshness and the stone.

And he was there, turning toward her unadorned. His head shining, ears set, mouth compressed.