Chapter Text
The first time you fully remember this sickening clench in your chest was after the first attempt at sealing the Breach. Althea had fallen to her knees, and in that moment, you forgot how to breathe. You threw off soldiers left and right as you fought your way to her, desperate to know that her heart still beats.
At the time, you pin guilt to be the culprit. You had treated her harshly, and with judgment despite scolding yourself not to. To have the death of your only hope on your shoulder would be a futile undertaking; it was a suicide note waiting to happen.
Althea had proven herself to be a quite adept in the battlefields, both in arms and in tongue. The younger rogue had impressed you with how quickly she had grown into the role of your leader, unafraid to seek for council, or speak her mind if need be. There was not a solution she did not listen to with painful detail, a trait you strongly admire.
Yet, outside the War Room, she is seen in the company of the more rambunctious crowd. Even strangely still, her deep unspoken relationship to the Qunari. Althea patiently takes the time to observe and listen, matching the suitable character for the situation. But it isn’t like she’s wearing a mask--no, she’s just choosing which sides of her to show based on the company at hand. Like choosing to a tool to use best to accomplish a task.
In fact, Althea handles herself well at every situation with such grace and ease. As if she had chosen only the best parts of the war council, and put them to good use. You could not imagine the Inquisition without her at the helm. An image of a severed body parts terrorizing Thedas made for a comical relief, but it also centers you back.
It is true though, Althea had chosen the best functional parts of each of you, exploiting them to the best of the Inquisition’s benefit. Even more impossibly still, it appears she has remained kind and merciful despite the suffering she has endured, the horrors she has seen. And yet, these monsters did nothing but lead her further from the Maker she does not believe in.
You briefly wonder if leaving her side to be the next Divine is a foolish idea. What good are you as the Divine if the Inquisitor is dead and the whole of Thedas falls to Corypheus anyway?
“You know, I almost loathe to ask whatever these dummies did to you,” the Inquisitor’s sing-song voice fleets from the stairs as you hack another one in half.
“These dummies are just doing their job, Inquisitor.”
Over time, you have learned that making people blush is a certain specialty of the young rogue. You have heard rumors flying about who the Inquisitor’s lover was. Even more ridiculous rumors say that she’s sleeping with every single one of her advisors.
“Well, they are doing a poor job at it. Perhaps sturdier dummies would be better suited for you? Or should we start armoring them up as well?”
Althea perched herself at the end of the banister, gray eyes shining with mirth, staring at you. You sheath your weapon, walking towards where she is sitting.
“I could always just hit Iron Bull,” that earns you a good hearty chuckle. It’s good that Althea has a wicked sense of humor, considering the horrors she’d have to get through. She hops off the ledge, walking with you to the battlements. “I heard Leliana making threats about killing you as soon as Corypheus is dealt with,” you mean for the words to be casual, but the rogue’s mood seemed to have taken a sour turn at the mention.
“Yeah,” came a dry reply from the usually wordy Inquisitor. You stop at the top of the battlements, watching people from the bridge. There’s more of them coming, everyday. Enlistees, refugees, they’re all coming for the Inquisitor.
“All those people…” you start, watching Althea watch the people below, “they’re all here for you.”
A humorless bark rips from Althea’s throat, and it almost felt like a punch in the gut.
“They’re not here for me. They’re here for what I represent to them; safety, hope, the Herald of Andraste,” she almost spits out the last words.
“Tell me, do you believe in the Maker, Inquisitor?”
Althea doesn’t even spare you a glance when she answers with another dark chuckle.
“Sure, something would’ve created all this, right? Doesn’t mean they care.”
This time, her gray eyes are trained on you. They glimmer brightly against the sun, her bronzed skin seeming golden.
“So you believe in the Maker?”
“Sure, if that’s what you must call it. You can’t deny the existence of gods when there’s literally monsters from your nightmares falling out of the sky. I’m not stupid, I have eyes. Of course some higher ethereal being is out there.”
“I still believe that you were sent by the Maker. His help is often hard to recognize at times.”
“You can believe whatever you’d like, Cassandra. Whatever gives you the most comfort.”
Unconsciously, Althea touches her left hand. You noticed that she is always wearing gloves. But you surmised that this was due to the fact that she was an archer. However, there was no need to wear gloves if she isn’t even armed.
“Does it still bother you?”
She laughs again.
“Of course, who wouldn’t be bothered by a glowing green thing permanently embedded in their left palm?” But then she returns your gaze, and her smile relents. “Nothing much more than banging your elbow would bother you.” Then she looks far away again, in a place you cannot reach. “I do believe that one day it will swallow me,” she chuckles, shaking her head, “knowing that brings me comfort; I will die by my own hand.”
Suddenly, you feel the need to yell at her, to contradict everything she’s saying. You grab her shoulders, making her startled.
“I will not let the Mark kill you. We will find a way to rid of it, Althea.” The raw determination in your voice is enough to shake her to senses. She breathes in deeply before nodding.
“Well, I suppose I will be dying by Leliana’s hand then.” You chuckle this time, still not letting go of her shoulders. You don’t notice the wild beating of her heart.
“That I cannot protect you from. What did you ever do to incur the wrath of our spymaster?” You finally let go of her, and you both lean over the walls.
“I’m not sure, really. One day Leliana just started threatening me about Josephine, so I went to our dear ambassador to clear things up, and it seems…”
“Not cleared up?” You finish helpfully. The younger woman just shrugs her shoulders in response. “Perhaps it is the fact that you are very open with your affections?”
“You mean, I flirt like I was single and available and just looking to get some before I most likely will die?”
You turn beet red at her open admittance. So you were right, she was flirting with you, and everyone, apparently.
“Yes, that.”
She hums, rocking back and forth in the heels of her feet. She appears thoughtful, as if really considering every moment she’s been in.
“It’s just flirting, a way for me to relax, and forget about the drivel that is always trying to kill me. And the end of the world, and all that.” She looks at you, openly looks at you. And you see her big gray eyes, and the now-constant dark hollows underneath. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” the last part is whispered. And you see her fold within herself. You watch the Inquisitor--Althea shrink back into the size of a young lady, barely on the brink of adulthood. She was no longer the fearless leader of the Inquisition. All of you has seemingly forgotten that the Inquisitor was barely of twenty summers.
“I’m not afraid of dying, or monsters, or things I could kill,” her eyes welcome you in their depths, “I’m afraid of dying unloved.”
“You are loved all across Thedas, Inquisitor.”
The dry laughter she releases is rather unpleasant, you find. “Oh, dear, Seeker. Those people love their Herald, and for that I am grateful. But first, I must be loved as Althea Bernarda Jovina Cecilia Remulain Trevelyan,” you both laugh, knowing the pains of a long noble name.
“There are countless of proposals pouring in everyday, Inquisitor. Anyone would be very honored to have the chance to love you.”
She smiles at you, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She nods, choosing to speak of the subject no longer.
“Inky--!” came a yell from the door of the tavern, “--let’s go shoot some nugshits!”
The lithe warrior nimbly jumps down all the way from the ledge.
“Inquisitor--!” but she’s already off the ledge, rolling expertly on her shoulder to soften her fall. She doesn’t even miss a beat and simply stands up. Althea waves at you absentmindedly as Sera brushes dirt off her person. Once the Inquisitor was preoccupied, the elf sticks her tongue out at you and you huff in annoyance. What an indignant little shit, you think to yourself. You do not like the influence she has on the Inquisitor.