Tranquil
As written on the kink meme, various romanced characters reactions to the Inquisitor being made tranquil.
Blackwall
The moment he truly understands, he makes a vow.
He has heard of the atrocities that befall those made tranquil; Cole has let slip a few stomach-churning comments. The tranquil cannot protest, cannot say no, cannot even truly defend themselves. They are clay, waiting to be shaped by other hands.
He may not be able to fix this, but damn him to the void before he lets any of that happen to her.
“I will protect you, my lady,” he whispers, gently touching the curve of her cheek. “No matter what happens, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
And if he spends the rest of his life keeping his vow, that is fine with him.
Solas
He walks into Skyhold with blood beneath his fingernails and storms in his eyes. He kneels beside her. “You should rest,” he says softly, and she does not protest. She will never protest again and his heart breaks at the thought. Rage has kept him going for this long, kept him on a sure course. But that night, he walks the Fade, calling her name, trying to find some trace of her.
When he wakes and finds her still asleep, he finally falls apart. She wakes to the quiet sounds of his grief. “Can I do anything to assist you?” she says, her voice level.
He closes his eyes, unable to look at her. “Come back.”
Cullen
This—this is his fault. He stood by and let so many mages be made tranquil, it seems almost poetic.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, when he sees her face. She has always been so vibrant and now she is utterly still. He is touching her before he makes the conscious decision to do so: his fingertips brushing over her shoulders, checking if she is whole, then coming up to cradle her face.
She is otherwise uninjured, but that does little to comfort him.
Oh, Maker. This is his punishment and she must pay it and he has never hated himself more than in this moment. A sob escapes him and then another. “I’m sorry,” he manages to say. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there, I should have stopped this.”
“It was not your doing,” she says tonelessly.
He takes her in his arms and is not surprised when she doesn’t return the embrace.
Cassandra
There are practical matters at hand.
First off, who will lead the Inquisition. It cannot be a man whose mind is not his own, but nor can the world know that. Leliana is the one to decide that they will lead as a joint effort and the Inquisitor’s… condition shall remain a secret. Then there are battle plans, a hunt for the templars that did this, and Cassandra insists on going with the expedition.
“Are you sure…?” says Cullen hesitantly.
For a moment she wonders if this is what drowning feels like. “I cannot remain here,” she replies. “Not now. Not… when there is nothing I can do.”
She leaves Skyhold, but only after she goes to her love and promises to get justice for him.
Sera
She… she cannot deal with this. It is too much, too heavy, and when Inky comes to her with dead eyes and a voice that sounds wrong, Sera flees. She leaves Skyhold behind, finds the nearest town with a tavern, and cuts someone’s purse.
It is all familiar, and for a while, it helps. She runs until she forgets Inky’s cold eyes, the even voice, the sheer, utter horror of it. She runs until her head is filled with fog, until she gets in a fight with some stupid blighter and ends up with a black eye and sore knuckles.
She runs, because there is no way to fix this.
Dorian
He drinks. Drink has always been his coping mechanism of choice, and even if it leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth and a pounding head, it is better than some of the ways he has seen people cope.
But this time, he does not drink to get drunk. He goes to his rooms, finds an old vintage that the Inquisitor gave him as a present. “Because I love you,” he had said, pressing a kiss to Dorian’s cheek, “with or without your vices.”
Dorian pours a glass and raises it to the current Inquisitor, to the man whose only response is to stare quietly. “To yet another fucking tragedy,” says Dorian, and drinks.
Iron Bull
He once considered the practice intriguing.
It seemed a neater, cleaner solution than what happened to the saarebas. There are no puncture wounds in a tranquil mage’s mouth, no sores from the constant chains, no outward evidence of abuse. All in all, Bull once thought it might have been a terrible sort of mercy.
But now, he understands. There are no chains on the outside, because the Inquisitor’s spirit itself has been bound.
He tries to coax a response out of them, whispers endearments, promises to take them away from all of this, to make them one of the Chargers so they will never be parted. Such talk always made the Inquisitor laugh, but now they simply listen. “If that is what you want,” they say.
Bull tries to ignore the rising pain in his chest. “What do you want, Kadan?”
The Inquisitor does not answer.
+ Bonus
Cole
He goes to the Inquisitor. He isn’t called by their pain, because they are not in pain, but rather by the pain of one who loves them. He looks deep into them, watches the trails of their thoughts—they were once bright and thrummed with life, but they have been muted.
He does not like it.
He reaches for them, his essence calling to theirs. For a moment, all is quiet.
And then they answer. He sees what no one else can—the light spilling from their skin, the way their spirit flickers and flares to life. They have always been so bright it almost hurt to look at and this is no different.
When they stagger upright, tears streaming down their face, Cole smiles. “Go,” he says, and the Inquisitor goes. Cole listens as the door is opened, as they step into the other room.
“I’m here,” says the Inquisitor. “It’s me.”
(via dungeons-and-dragon-age)
