#// literally stares into lavellan's eyes and just SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE

[pr4yerp0sition]

Going to add my BG3 Companion (Druid) who doubles as a Dragon Age Inquisition Companion (The LITERAL damn goddess of Halla so she can torment Solace specifically and make sure Lavellan remembers feminism). 6'2 mom, Cithrel the Eternal Emerald.

[longer-than-i-should-admit]

I hope we get a moment where Varric and Emmrich are chatting and kind of joking about getting old and letting all the youngins handle the hard work and Solas shows up trying to make an effort to be sociable and build a rapport with his new unexpected team and accidental family by commiserating about wayward youths and such and Varric and Emmrich both point out that he doesn’t really qualify because he’s literally thousands of years old and beyond feasible comparison and Solas gets all pedantic as he does and says “my body actually ceased to age at a certain point” and Varric laughingly asks “yeah? when?” and Solas says “in years instituted by the chantry? roughly forty.” and Varric and Emmrich just blankly stare at him for a long moment because they’re well into their fifties at this point and Varric promptly gives Solas that familiar shit-eating grin and croons, “aww, Chuckles, you’re just a baby!”

Solas, of course, despises this turn of events. he is not, in fact, a babe. he was never technically a babe. he is only physically a forty-something year old. his mind and knowledge far exceed that, as many ancient elves were still considered children below their first century and…he is only digging the hole deeper for himself, isn’t he?

“such a shame that the young squander their youth in effort to emulate those older than them,” Emmrich sighs wistfully, tutting and shaking his head.

Solas scowls and leaves.

“such a lack of respect for your elders to walk away without even a goodbye!” Varric calls after him, laughing.

Solas finds no solace in the arms of his heart, either, when she manages to pry out the reason behind his not-petulant grimace.

“forty?” she echoes, her brows inching up her forehead. the creases in her face are deeper than they used to be and Solas is not looking at them.

“yes,” he mutters. “but I am over four thousand years in true age and was witness to events far beyond their capacity to imagine: a fact conveniently set aside for the sake of their irreverence.”

Lavellan gazes at him for a long moment. the corner of her mouth crinkles. “Solas. do you realize how old I am now?”

her date of birth had not been something he had taken into consideration, given the fact that his plans had for so long neglected the impact of the passage of time since he had shored up the veil. he recalls Varric and Josephine orchestrating a party in skyhold, and knows which season it had been, but he is ashamed to say that he cannot recall its specificity.

“does it matter when you are still as beautiful as when I first laid eyes upon you?” he pivots.

her smirk is knowing and unfooled. “I turned forty-five this year.”

Solas drops his head into his hands.

later he overhears Varric teasing Lavellan, “I never thought I’d reach the day where I discovered my boss is a cradle robber.”

Rook makes one remark about not anticipating that Solas would have a thing for older women and never brings it up again after Solas summons a migraine to end all migraines.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

The one good thing about having a bunch of unrefined blurbs is that I always have something to share when I haven’t actively been writing! And since I’ve been feeling under the weather, that’s...all I have. :3 

Thank you @dungeons-and-dragon-age and @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold for the tags! <3

This week, I have a bit more of Fane’s oddity concerning his jaw and...how he felt the need to go about disclosing it to Solas. *poker face*

“You can dislocate your jaw on command.”, Solas murmured with quiet awe lacing his voice, bringing his other hand up and tossing his staff to the ground to cup Fane’s lax jaw carefully. “But how is it--?” 

This was equal parts intriguing and concerning. This day was proving to be a mixing pot. A boiling mixing point, that was.

Fane grimaced a bit, lifting one of his own hands to pinch his jaw around Solas’s hands, easing it back into place with a jerk. “Don’t know. It just does it.”, he muttered through the tenseness of muscles being pulled awkwardly. 

“You could have simply told me this, vhenan.”, Solas spoke in a whisper, absently stroking a reformed jaw slowly. He truly didn’t care if everyone around them was watching. This was more pressing than privacy. “Why was a duel your first course of action?”

“I know.. I just..”, Fane huffed harshly as he tried to get the words out, but his head only went heavy in Solas’ hands. “..I wanted to disprove it, to show myself it was just..a figment of my mind. I could only think of hitting it with a sharp blow. If it stayed in place, then I was mad. If not, then I could move on.”

“But Dorian himself had--”, Solas began before blinking, frowning. “Oh, Fane. What you just showed me was not monstrous.” He easily picked up on the quiet shame and dysphoria in sorrow filled emerald and gold - the color steady now. He knew the line of these words. Aside from not wishing to believe the action could be done, his dragon could not accept it without perceiving it as repulsive if it were true.

“What elf can unhinge their jaw, Solas? I don’t see you snapping it out like a piece of pottery from only eating.”, Fane growled out with agitation before his voice dropped with a pained rumble. “Then again, I’m not an elf. I never have been.” The softness entangling their minds took on a sharper undertone with that, making Solas move in a bit closer to glare up into shamed eyes.

“You are two sides of a particular coin, Fane. All the edges have not been unshadowed yet.”, he explained, lightly nuzzling the line of his jaw in a way that would appear unnoticeable before dropping his voice lower. “We do not know which side you resonate with more - physically and mentally. The only way to do that is to discover these quirks and accept them as they come.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better..”, Fane said with a sigh, gently leaning his head against Solas’s without much awareness.

“It’s not supposed to.”, Solas said with a shake of his head, pulling back a bit with a stern expression. “It’s supposed to make you think, so things such as this..” He reached up to tap his own temple, the link between them beginning to lessen the more he began to gingerly pull it away. “...do not become commonplace.” 

Fane’s expression went hard at his words, mouth drawn into a tight line before his eyes shut. Solas watched the shift carefully, knowing it indicated Fane was mulling over his words despite the clear exhaustion he could see pulling down ivory cheeks. 

It would appear that that blind use of his abilities was taxing. He thought, still gingerly stroking a side of Fane’s jaw, watching goosebumps rise at the touch with a hooded gaze. I cannot say I do not feel the same. This happened a few times before, but he had never tugged so hard as to control me. His mind continued to muse even as tiredness made itself known throughout his entire body. He was more exhausted than irritated. Perhaps he should feel upset at the fact Fane had manipulated him, but again, the cause was well meaning.

...As reckless as it had been.

“...Can we go somewhere private?”, Fane’s voice eked out in question, rumbling timbre a mere aftershock as it sounded. “There’s too many eyes here, and it’s..”, he trailed off, eyes shutting for a moment. “...too much. There’s questions in brown, curiosity in blue, disbelief in green.. I can’t filter them out without potentially losing it right now.”

Solas smiled a bit. “Say no more.”, he said, leaning up just a bit to lay a light, chaste kiss upon a corner of scowling lips before whispering and peering up into dark eyes. “And, if you are willing, I wish to examine your jaw.” It was imperative that they deduce if this newfound ‘ability’ was detrimental or purely benign.

Fane scowled more, but let out a heavy sigh in defeat. “...Fine.”

“It will not be intrusive, vhenan.”, Solas assured. “Merely an exterior examination, and perhaps a few ginger touches. Nothing more.” He would never invade Fane’s privacy in such a way, knowing it had already been done once before by malicious hands seeking power they couldn’t possibly understand, or rather, a complexity they couldn't fathom.

Fane stared at him for several moments before nodding slowly and averting his eyes sheepishly. “...Thank you.”

With that, Fane disconnected from him, gently guiding the hands upon his face away with his own and taking a step back. Solas let him go without another word, knowing that this was a necessary step towards his dragon stilling his own mind and emotions. He watched Fane recover the staves from the ground as well as completely ignore the whispering crowd that was seemingly adamant to stick around despite indications that the battle was finished. Solas let out a quiet sigh. Well, he supposed he should handle this.

...Or rather, have someone else handle this. After all, he had more pressing concerns than shooing away curious birds.

***

Fane did a dumb and literally did what Bull did, “Hit me with the stick, Solas.’ And when Solas more or less refused, Fane did a bigger dumb and sort of, kinda...manipulated the sky’s emotions to try and get what he wanted. *slinks away* 

Tagging (with all my love and hugs!) @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @varric-tethras-editor @shift-shaping @the-dreadful-canine @little-lightning-lavellan @drag-on-age @dreadfutures and anyone else I may have forgotten because I’m still siiiick~ (no pressure, of course! <3)

[inquisitor-of-hearts]

Faded Lives (Chapter 4)

Solas/Female Reader, Solas/Female Lavellan

Chapter 4: My soul is free, I do not let fear stop me

Chapter Summary: Solas invites you to an unexpected journey. Canon-compliant chapter with minor spoilers for the feelings conveyed throughout the Solas romance. (Some inspiration taken from the movie Motherland/Rodina.)

Rating: Teen

on Ao3

(picture source)

It was an expedition of your own, to which Solas had invited you and you were more than happy to come along. It was unusual for him to ask you out like that, and you knew if you had asked him upfront what the occasion was, he would have evaded you. So you decided to wait and see, and ask him at a later time when you were both on your way.

But the opportunity had not come. Although Solas had refused it, Cullen had insisted on sending a few of his troops to accompany you to the Hinterlands, at least past the point where the rebel mages were said to be present. Only once you were past that point and they had assured your safety, they left you alone with your mage companion. By that time it was already dusk and you had to set up camp at a quiet spot.

“It makes one wonder if they are in the right mind” Solas says, sitting by the campfire idly to your left with a distance between you, just enough to look at each other comfortably.

“In the right mind? About what?” you inquire, secretly wondering if he only waited for you to invite him into lamenting the matter.

“Why, even if they dissolved the rebel mages’ camps now, what would prevent them from finding refugee nearby just about tomorrow?”

You tilt your head, contemplating. Indeed the same thought had crossed your mind as well.

“They would have preferred to stay with us, I think, but there is the dilemma of privacy.” you conclude and shyly look over to him, “Manners... civility.”

“Civility? What the Templars have done in the past is far off from civility.” Solas shakes his head for emphasis, looking at you, awaiting your reply. You want to humour him on one hand, on the other you knew this discussion would find no end once you had it started.

“You’re looking for a philosophical debate, I see?”

“No --” The elven man suddenly frowns, seemingly at his own behaviour. “I apologize, Vhenan. My lamenting of the matter is not why we came. Though I do enjoy engaging in every sort of debate with you.”

As his features soften with every spoken word, you shift closer to him until you are seated right next to him.

“I enjoy listening you, as well as every discussion you initiate.” you state with the sweetest smile. “But tell me, why did we come?”

Solas’ hands settle on the ground and he leans back to look at you more comfortably.

“There is a certain magical energy here that I wanted to investigate further.” he explains, and you are almost disappointed as you hear it, but then he continues. “And indeed, I wanted to be alone with you for once.”

A grin comes to your lips as you wonder if that was why he was so upset about the Templars not leaving your side earlier. It must have been.

“You don’t know how much I appreciate that. Sometimes I wish it would be just you and me. You and me, wherever we go.” you say and Solas watches you carefully, though there is no signs of him approving or disapproving. “Say, have you ever wondered about escaping society? All people, all civilization?”

“You mean to live a life under the Qun?” he asks and you laugh, shaking your head. Whenever Solas made a joke, it came so unexpected and with such a neutral expression that it always took you a moment to notice it.

“No, no. I mean literally leaving everything behind.”

“All worldly matters?” he inquires. “Is it you now, who is looking for a philosophical debate, Vhenan?”

“Not at all. I am honestly curious about your inclination. Hypothetically or not.”

The mage takes a deep breath and when he lets it out, he turns his attention towards the campfire.

“I have been alone for a long time. For a change, I welcome having someone around. Even more so” He lowers his leg to the ground for stability, then searches your hand and places his own atop of it. “I did not expect to meet someone who takes the time to understand me. I do not care if we are alone or surrounded by civilization, as you call it, what matters is that your heart is with me.”

“What a beautiful sentiment.” An involuntary smile comes back to your lips as your soul is carried away by his words. “Would you like to discuss this further in the Inquisitor’s tent?” you ask in a manner almost too formal. He leans over slowly, one hand each settled on the sides of your body as his lips meet yours and he takes you to the place where you want to be.

--

“Fear, Inquisitor, is what keeps us in one place far too long. Do not let it guide you.” the elven mage explains while you are out of breath from today’s hike that turned out longer and more arduous than you expected. He holds out his hand and, when you take it, pulls you up as you climb over the rocks. When you are on one level with him, you meet his gaze and are at once close to blushing at how straight he stares into you. In a shy manner you let go of his hand abruptly.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You have been carrying a weight around with you that I can tell is putting you off your way.”

“You’ve noticed?” you wonder, and are once again surprised about how well Solas knows you. Sometimes you feared he read too much into what you said, but most of the time he was right about your disposition and you were thankful for the comfort he offered.

In response he only smiles. Eventually he turns around and his hands push away the twigs and bushes to make a path for you. You see a cliff, and behind it the clear blue ocean. As you walk past the natural green border that was hiding the cliff, you snort.

“I can’t believe it.” You stand in awe, but Solas walks until he stands at the edge in front of you. Your eyes widen.

“Fear soils the soul, Inquisitor.” he speaks and before you can grasp what he is trying to tell you, he jumps.

“Wait!” You run ahead, try to grasp his wrist, but your fingers miss it by the blink of an eye. In doubt you lean over past the edge, but the fall is so steep that you cannot see him emerging. You are indeed at an incredibly high altitude. Were you supposed to meet him down there?

At once it hits you. This was not real - or you hoped it was not. It could not be real. You close your eyes and shake your head. There was only one way to go from here, you knew that. You take a few steps back, run, and finally, with your feet lifting off the ground--

Your eyes open at once, in shock, then you blink slowly as you notice your surroundings, the green fabric of the tent, the dark night, pale shadows of trees. Upon seeing Solas seated next to you, you sigh in defeat.

“You could have warned me.” you bemoan quietly, turning to your side to face him.

“It would have ruined the purpose.” he explains. “Did you get to the other side of fear?”

“I think I am still far from it.” you say discouraged.

“You will get there.” he encourages you, his fingers moving past your head gently.

“Why?” you ask, looking up past his hands. You know you do not need to ask him the full question, just as his hand knew his way around you; you knew each other without words.

“This area is known to breed fear. I know you are scared, Vhenan, scared of what will follow. I used the energy of this place to show you that you can move past this. You will find a way to look at it with ease, you will overcome it. But right now, you cling to the feeling.”

“Is it wrong to cling to the feeling?” You move your face towards his hand, enjoying the ceaseless caressing.

“I do not think of it in terms of right and wrong. In fact I cling to feelings myself far too often.” he explains and you chuckle.

“I can tell.” you comment. “I enjoy that passionate nature of yours.”

“Perhaps a little too much?”

“Let me have this, Solas.” you purr, too comfortable with the touch of his hand. “Let me have that of you, if nothing else. I will take the fear, I will take the suffering, just let me have this.”

“You’ll suffer more in the long run.” he cautions, watching you compassionately.

“I’ll take it.” you repeat, taking his hand in both of yours and letting it rest close to your face. “I’ll take it all, and then, eventually, I’ll get to the other side.”

Solas watches you carefully but then chuckles in an amused fashion and nods. At last he lies down beside you and pulls you into his embrace.

“You are a beautiful and strong woman. I know you will.” he whispers softly.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [885]

"My cover as a mage will be blown the instant someone asks me about my education as such,” Ellana says, making herself quite comfortable on Max’s bed as Evelyn and Max furiously argue back and forth over their next moves.

Evelyn’s all for staying to help the Inquisition clear her name and also avenge the murdered Divine. Max wants to cut and run because the Inquisition literally wants to throw them into jail at the first chance they get and then lose the key. Also because they’re up against someone who could tear a hole in the sky.

The cousins continue to ignore her as Ellana takes off her various accoutrements. The cloak Aunt Sylaise made for her, embroidered with threads of enchanted metal spun by Uncle June, the fur of a great wolf hunted by Aunt Andruil, the wool of the garment taken from Aunt Ghilan’nain’s flock. Next, the thick shawl wound around her neck and pinned in place with a black pearl Aunt Mythal plucked from the ocean. Then her thick gloves blessed by Uncle Elgar’nan.

Ellana shakes out the coat she’d been wearing underneath, digging into her pocket for the small hand mirror that Uncle Dirthamen helped fashion for her.

“You should have said I was a fellow knight in training,” Ellana complains, putting her small mirror back into her pocket and going for her sword. “I mean. That cover would fly away like ash in the wind the moment someone who wasn’t either of you two saw me in a fight, but it would last longer than Ellana Lavellan, mage. I’ve never cast a spell in my entire life. What if they start blaming me for this nonsense? I mean. It’s a stretch considering that I don’t even know what all of this was about and I haven’t a reason to be going after your Divine. But also — seeing the state of this series of nations, I wouldn’t be surprised one bit.”

Ellana sighs, leaning her sword against the bed as she sits down and begins to redo the laces on her boots. “I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t have come here, people are so disappointing. But one does what one must in the pursuit of destiny. There’s always the possibility that the destiny ahead of me in this direction sin’t as palatable as Aunt Mythal hoped it would be. In which case Father and Uncle Elgar’nan might come to blows over the fact that they finally agree on something whole heartedly, which we all know cannot stand. And you know, Father isn’t as spry as he used to be and neither is Uncle Elgar’nan so it could just be a wee little slap fight. Wouldn’t that be amusing to watch? Ah.”

She rests her chin on her hands as she watches Maxwell jab his finger at a map.

“You two still aren’t listening to me. What happened to when you two listed to everything I said? Is it because I’m here in flesh and not showing up in dreams anymore? Is it because the mystery and fantasy is gone from our relationship?”

Ellana looks around the small dark hut Evelyn and Max have been sharing, wrinkling her nose.

“I mean. I also lived in a forest in a wee cottage for most of my life. And I understand that the people here are mostly poor and have just suffered a calamity. But honestly.” She stands up and raises a hand, twisting her wrist. As if being sucked in by some invisible whirlpool dust lifts off of the walls, the low ceiling, the furniture, even the bedding, and swirls into the air in a gray cloud over Ellana’s hand. She wrinkle her nose. “Horrid.”

She opens the shutters on one of the windows, “I’m surprised that this house even has windows,” and flicks the dirt out where it is immediately carried into the wind.

When she turns back Evelyn’s attempting to take the map from Maxwell and neither of them acknowledge Ellana cleaning their temporary abode.

Ellana rolls her eyes, walking up to the two of them and putting a hand on their shoulders.

“So aside from the fact that there’s a giant rip in the sky that screams of my family’s power,” She says, “Which I have already told you is far, far, far out of my ability to mend, what else did you need me for? I mean. I did see the Iron Bull on my way in. So bonus points to the both of you for getting him here, makes things very easy for me. I just have to get close to him and see how we hit it off. But I doubt that you two called me here just for that and to stare at the sky and acknowledge how fucked you are. And seriously. What are we going to do about the fact that I’m not a mage?”

The two finally stop in their arguing, turning to her.

“We panicked,” Max says. “And by we I mean Evelyn because I was all for saying you were a mystical forest dwelling fortune teller. We could have explained so much with that vague nonsense. But Evelyn just had to go out there and say hedge-witch.”

“I thought you’d have more credibility if I said you were a hedge-witch rather than. Well. You know. Our fairy godmother that we dreamed of when we were sixteen years old and took us on a quest to wake you from a curse.” Evelyn looks a touch sheepish. “Besides. You’ve seen me cast spells loads of times. I figure you could probably fake it.”

Ellana sighs. “Oh, but Evelyn, your spells are — no offense — so boring. And tedious. Why cast a spell when I can just do it? Well. I suppose I’ll figure out a way to make it work.”

“Think of it this way, people are more likely to believe hedge-witch and put credibility in that than strange fortune teller who lives out in the woods,” Evelyn says. “I mean. The Iron Bull would definitely go for the former over the latter.”

“Are you absolutely sure on that one? Because I think he’d go for either but the latter sounds infinitely more interesting.”

“The most interesting is the truth because who wouldn’t want to hear about how I was cursed to dream and had my spirit wander the world in search of help for several years?” Ellana replies. “Alright. Fine. I’ll figure out a way to make hedge-witch work for me. But seriously. Aside from sending increasingly annoyed messages to my family there isn’t much I can do for you, vis-a-vis the sky. But I would say that running is dumb because if whatever’s going on up there isn’t fixed you most likely won’t be able to get anywhere safe.”

[fortheloveofsolas]

Fen’enansal

Solas x Lavellan (reader insert)

Chapter 1: The Plan

POV: AAFJE (Female Inquisitor/oc) /ˈaːfjə/

google translate pronunciation (x)

~

“Cole, you have to help me, please!” You begged as tears brimmed at your eyes. You clutched onto the boy’s tunic, desperation was being swallowed by the waves of despair as the tears finally spilled over the edge. They cascaded down your cheeks and fell lazily from your chin.

He wanted to help, you knew he did. He wanted to take away this hurt, but just like most types of pain it wasn’t an easy fix. “But, how can I help? People would miss your presence.” Cole did have a point. The Inquisitor couldn’t just go AWOL anytime she so pleased. You didn’t have a plan. You just knew you had to come up with something.

Legs began shaking. You released the boy from your grip and made your way to your bed. It groaned in protest as you unceremoniously collapsed your weight onto it. You closed your eyes and allowed thoughts to swim about your mind.

You thought desperately. Minutes feeling like hours ticking by.

You sat up with a start and urged, “Tell them I have a sickness!” You sputtered, “Only you can see me, spirits can’t get sick, right? It doesn’t matter, they don’t know if they can anyway.” You rattled off as your mind quickened. You knew you were probably grasping at straws but what else could you do?

The vacant stare of Cole stopped you from speaking.

The metallic taste hit you suddenly, you had bitten your lower lip a little too hard in your whirl wind thoughts. You sat down trying to calm your erratic breathing and heartbeat.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat.

When you opened your eyes, the fair haired boy still stood before you. “They’ve known I’ve been feeling sick lately, that will convince them further when you tell them that I am actually sick.” You told him.

Cole just stared, you weren’t sure if this was a good plan or not. You held your shaking hand staring back awaiting his response. But, Cole was certainly the only one you couldn’t hide this from, and he was someone you could trust. This is the only plan that could happen.

You placed a hand gently on your belly, “For the baby. Please, Cole.”

“No one must know Solas is the father?” Cole asked confused, clearly voicing your thoughts.

“It’s too dangerous.” You sighed, your glassy eyes met his soft blues. Your throat constricted and you tried to swallow to ease the pain, but it did nothing. “If anyone knew I tracked down Solas myself-“ your voice hitched, “No, if this is discovered to be the child of Fen’Harel; the destroyer of our world. Every Tevinter, Orlesian, Qun and everyone in between will be after the baby.”

“Alright.” He agreed.

“Oh, Cole, thank you!” You wrapped your arms around him. It seems his availability broke you. There was something about a free shoulder; a literal invitation for a shoulder to cry on.

[pikapeppa]

Abelas/Lavellan smut: Ma’av’in

An older piece that I never posted on Tumblr! 

Ma’av’in: an elvhen term, from @fenxshiral​, that literally means ‘my mouth’, but is also a very personal and slightly sexual endearment meaning “I love and desire you so much that my mouth tastes like yours,” but also “we understand each other on such a personal level that you could talk for me”.

In which Athera Lavellan and Abelas sneak into the kitchen for some cake and run into Solas, who is doing the same thing. Oh, elves with a sweet tooth.

Read on AO3 instead. 

************************

Athera poked her head cautiously into Skyhold’s kitchen. “Hello?” she called softly.

When no one replied, she relaxed and turned to Abelas with a smile. “It’s clear. Everyone’s gone to bed.” She scurried into the kitchen and made a beeline for the large icebox that held the leftover sweets.

Abelas followed her at a more decorous pace. As Athera opened the icebox and poked around, he studied the icebox itself with clear disapproval. “This cooling spell is inefficient,” he said. “The magic is slowly dissipating. It will need to be recast in less than a year.” He frowned at her. “Who was the spellcaster here? Someone on your staff is in dire need of training.”

Athera shot him an exasperated look. “Who cares about the icebox? Look at what’s inside!” She enthusiastically pulled out a platter, then removed its metal lid with a flourish to reveal a selection of bite-sized desserts.

Abelas’s disapproval melted into a tiny smile, and Athera’s cheeks warmed with pleasure at having wiped away his frown. She happily set the platter on the table. “Those cakes I gave you were the first kind of Orlesian dessert I tried when I first started hanging out with humans,” she said eagerly. “They all have funny names.” She pointed to each of the desserts in turn. “This is a macaron. Chocolate-raspberry, it looks like, and this one is… a blackberry macaron, maybe? This cake is called ‘le coup de grâce’. It’s made with a lot of brandy - they’ll actually make you drunk if you eat enough of them. This one is ‘la langue fourchue’ - I think it contains dragonthorn, it’s weirdly spicy - and this one is ‘la belle rose’. It’s made with rosewater. That’s what Josie said, at least.”

Abelas listened carefully as she named the various cakes. Then he selected a small square cake with pink fondant icing and a tiny flower on top.

Athera wilted slightly in disappointment; the cake he’d picked was the same kind she’d given to him when he first arrived at Skyhold. “You don’t want to try something new?” she asked. “You’ve had that kind already.”

He settled his gilded gaze on her face. “I am fond of this kind. They remind me of you.”

The tips of Athera’s ears suddenly felt hot. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her stupid grin, then selected a rosewater cake for herself. “Well, I guess that’s all right then.” She lifted her cake and gently touched it to his. “Cheers.”

“On’enansal,” he murmured, and Athera smiled and popped the whole cake into her mouth.

Abelas, on the other hand, took a small bite of his cake. Athera covered her full mouth self-consciously while she chewed, feeling boorish compared to her lover’s dignified munching.

He studied the cake as he chewed. “What is the name of this confection?”

Athera swallowed hastily. “It’s called ‘la petite bise’. Leliana said it means ‘the little kiss’.” She leaned back against the table as she watched Abelas enjoy his cake. “It’s named after this weird thing the Orlesians do. They kiss each other on the cheeks as a greeting. They even do it to people they’ve only just met.” She remembered the first time someone had greeted her this way; it was one of Josie’s contacts from Val Royeaux, Madame la Marquise of Something-Or-Other, and Athera was shocked when the woman leaned in to bump her cheekbones against Athera’s face. She was still grateful that her surprise had made her freeze like a rabbit instead of flinching away from the Marquise; she didn’t want to imagine the kind of unintentional offence a flinch would have caused.

Abelas’s gaze slid from the cake back to her face. “The little kiss, you say?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Athera bit her lip coquettishly. “Yes,” she confirmed.

He swallowed his tiny bite of cake, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “I would like a demonstration of this strange custom.”

His face was serious, but his golden eyes were warm and playful, and Athera grinned. “All right,” she said. She took a step closer to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, then lifted herself onto her tiptoes and leaned in to graze his sharp right cheekbone with a kiss.

He turned his head at the last second and met her lips with his own.

Athera smiled against his mouth, then wrapped her arms around his neck as he deepened the kiss. His sculpted lips gently coaxed hers apart, and Athera released a shivery little sigh as he lightly nipped her lower lip with teeth.

His unoccupied hand curved around her waist, then up along her back to pull her flush to his body, and Athera happily pressed herself against his chest. He tasted sweet and fruity, a warm reflection of the cake in his hand, and she shamelessly savoured the smooth feel of his tongue caressing her own, the exciting feel of his hard and muscular thigh sliding between her legs-

“Oh,” a surprised voice said, and Athera sprang away from Abelas as the mild-mannered voice continued. “My apologies. I, er, I did not think anyone else would be here.”

“Solas!” Athera gasped. She covered her burning cheeks with her hands and stared at the apostate in complete mortification. The pinkness of his cheeks was evident even in the warm orange light of the hearthfire, and Athera couldn’t decide if she was more or less horrified to find him looking as embarrassed as she felt.

She glanced up at Abelas, and was further ashamed to see him looking as discomfited as Solas. Desperate to smooth over the awkward moment, she focused on Solas again. “What, er, what brings you to the kitchen?” she stammered.

Solas cleared his throat. “I believe the same thing that brought you here,” he said, then gestured at the platter of desserts on the table. “An insatiable taste for all things sweet.”  

At his words, the thought of Abelas’s sugar-laced tongue in her mouth flashed through her mind, and Athera cringed as her face became even hotter.

Fortunately, Abelas seemed to have recovered his aplomb. Unfortunately, his aplomb was far too polite for Athera’s liking. “Please, join us,” the Sentinel said, then gestured to the platter of sweets.

Solas shot her a quick glance, and Athera’s face and shoulders performed some kind of strange combination of grimace-and-shrug. Solas slowly made his way into the kitchen. “Thank you,” he said with a gracious nod to Abelas, then selected a small cylindrical cake enrobed in dark gray fondant and painted with intricate red curlicues.

Solas took a delicate bite of cake, and Athera watched the two men with increasing discomfort as they ate their cakes in excruciating silence. She twisted her fingers together as she desperately cast around for something to say.

“How about the paint job on that, huh?” she finally said with a nod to the elaborate swirls on Solas’s little cake. “Must take a long time to paint each one. No wonder they’re so expensive.”

“Yes, it is its own form of artistry, is it not?” Solas replied eagerly, clearly relieved that she’d broken the silence. “I must admit that this particular kind is my favourite. Do you happen to recall what it is called?”

Athera narrowed her eyes. “That’s the one with the slightly bitter filling, right? I think it’s called ’le souffle du loup.’ It means ‘breath of the wolf’.”

Solas suddenly went still, and Abelas coughed loudly. Athera turned to him in alarm as he continued to cough into his hand. “Are you okay? You’re not choking, are you?”

“He is fine,” Solas said hastily, then patted the coughing Sentinel on the back in an oddly fraternal manner. “Perhaps I will leave you in peace. It was not my intention to interrupt. Not that you were doing anything that - I mean, that is -”

“No, you stay,” Abelas rasped. “Please. I insist. The Inquisitor and I will go elsewhere. It would not do for us to, er - that is, we will take ourselves to a more private, er…”

Solas’s cheeks reddened further, and Athera wondered wistfully if she could just melt into the floor right now. “Yes, perhaps that would be wise,” Solas replied weakly, and Abelas nodded brusquely before taking her hand and tugging her toward the door.

Athera glanced over her shoulder at her apostate friend. “Sorry,” she squeaked. Then Abelas pulled her out of the kitchen.

The Sentinel whispered a quiet word in Elvhen, and goosebumps ran down Athera’s arms as his fade-cloak spell settled over them both. “Come,” he muttered, and he laced his fingers with hers as he led her back up the stairs.

The further they got from the kitchen, the more her humiliation began to melt into humour. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as they traversed the Great Hall. By the time she had unlocked the door that led up to her quarters, her shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

She opened the door and let Abelas in before her, then closed the door behind them both and slumped back against the wall, her hands clapped over her mouth to prevent an outburst of glee.

“Dread Wolf take me, that was horrible,” she wheezed. “It’s like being caught in the act by an older brother. Oh gods.” Then she finally broke into a storm of nervous laughter.

A reluctant little smile lifted Abelas’s cheeks as she continued to helplessly laugh. “I can see how it would feel that way,” he murmured. He slowly stepped close and brushed his thumb over her smiling lower lip. “We should be quiet now,” he whispered. “I do not think you want to wake the rest of the castle.”

Her laughter hitched in her throat as his knee brushed against her thighs, and her amusement slowly faded and deepened into the foiled desire that had begun to brew in the kitchen. “Maybe you need to find a way to keep me quiet,” she breathed.

She watched with interest as he inhaled deeply, then smiled more broadly at her. “Veraisa,” he whispered. Then he slanted his mouth over hers.

She parted her lips instantly, granting access to his delicious tongue. He still tasted of fondant, a hint of fruit and sugar, and Athera eagerly suckled his tongue as though to steal his sweetness for herself.

Abelas groaned against her lips and pressed his knee between her legs. She gasped and released his tongue as the hardness of his leg rode against the vee of her thighs, sending a shock of sensation from her groin up to her nipples and throat.

His hands were suddenly cradling her neck, his fingers cupping the back of her skull as he stole her breath with another kiss. Athera wrapped her arms around his lean body, pressing her chest against him and spreading her legs more widely to welcome the muscular bulk of his thigh. He delved his tongue into her mouth, and with every lap of his tongue and every gentle pull of his lips against her own, her desire surged like the eager rising of high tide.

Finally Abelas broke their kiss to gasp against her cheekbone, his fingers still tight in her hair. He breathed hard for a moment, the heat of his lustful breaths sending a delicious shiver down her spine. Abruptly he lifted her chin with his fingers and kissed her hard once more, then knelt at her feet.

A mewl of desperate want escaped her lips, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself as Abelas slid his hands under her nightshift and peeled her smallclothes down to her ankles. “If this is your idea for keeping me quiet, I’ll have you know it’s a terrible idea,” she whimpered.

Abelas shot her a quick look, and the intensity of his expression stopped her breath again. “Solas was right,” he told her. “I hunger for something sweet. But it is not some mere shemlen confection that I want.” Without further ado, he gathered the fabric of her cotton shift in his fists and pinned her skirts to the wall, then slicked his tongue between her legs.

Heat and pleasure rippled through her blood at the sleek stroke of his tongue. Athera took a shuddering breath and fisted one hand in her hair, then bit the back of her other hand as Abelas diligently stroked her plump folds with his full lower lip before sliding his tongue over the swollen button of her clit.

Her hot breath ghosted across the back of her hand as Abelas continued to work his talented mouth at the apex of her thighs. The lapping of his tongue was voracious yet tender, very much as though he was savouring a favoured treat, and Athera’s thighs began to tremble with the strain of holding herself upright as he stroked his tongue along the length of her cleft, caressed her clit with his lower lip, drank in every drop of her heated arousal from her exquisitely sensitive folds-

She gasped in a faltering breath, then muffled her pleasure against the back of her hand as Abelas brought her to a scintillating peak. Her fingers were twisted painfully in her hair, her teeth pressing ruthlessly into the skin of her hand, but she was numb to it all, numb to anything but the blissful feel of her lover’s tongue between her legs.

Finally Abelas rose to his feet and wrapped her in a tight embrace, his body hard against her own as he kissed her. His lips held the perfume of her own arousal, tangible and earthy evidence of his carnal devotion, and the familiar musky scent drove her desire to a fever pitch.

Her fingers clutched his arms convulsively; she was internally at war, mired in the dual desires to have him right now and to have him as freely and loudly as she liked. Finally she pushed him away, only to tug him toward the stairs up to her bedroom. “I can’t keep up this quiet thing. Let’s hurry,” she urged.

He huffed with amusement as he followed her hasty steps up the stairs. “I admire your discipline,” he said.

She stopped on the first landing, then pulled her shift over her head and flung it to the floor. She shoved her long dark hair back, then faced him boldly. “Trust me, my discipline is hanging by a thread,” she said bluntly, then turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

Abelas caught her on the second landing. She gasped as he penned her against the wall, his hands cradling her neck as he pressed his forehead to hers. “As is mine,” he breathed. “I want for you so strongly, and it… it is not enough.”

“What’s not enough?” she asked breathily, her fingers digging into his arms.

“Everything,” he replied instantly. “Every moment. Your skin, your taste, your voice. Every moment we spend together until… until the time comes. It will never be enough.”

Athera closed her eyes to block out the reminder of his eventual departure. She knew ecactly how he felt, and it was so incredibly bitter.

She shook her head, then gently pushed him away. She wrenched open the door to her bedroom, then she strode up the final set of stairs and waited impatiently until Abelas drew level with her. Then she flung herself at him in a storm of longing and lust.

He grabbed her naked body, lifting her and wrapping her legs around his waist. She gripped the back of his neck and stared desperately into his eyes as he walked them toward the bed. “Abelas,” she pleaded. “I… maybe I shouldn’t say this, I don’t want you to think poorly of me, but… You make me want to throw this all away. I can’t do that, I know I can’t, and I know you can’t either. But it’s my imagination, it’s a fantasy or an amazing dream or something, and I just…” She gulped in a breath and stroked his face. “I hope you don’t think less of me. I just-”

“No,” he interrupted. Then Athera’s breath left her in a rush as they tumbled onto the bed, his reassuring weight between her legs.

“I understand how you feel,” Abelas breathed. “I…” He pressed his lips together in a seeming struggle for words. “Ma’av’in,” he finally blurted. “This is the only term I can think of. I do not know the word in your language for this. Just know that I feel as you do.” He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I see this dream, just as you do.”

A scalding tear wended its way down her cheek, and she gasped in a tiny sob as he wiped it away with his thumb. “No more talking,” she begged. “No more, please. Just…” She trailed off and tugged futilely at his strange ancient armour.

He swiftly responded to her wordless command, sliding off the bed and shedding his armour with practiced ease. When he settled himself between her legs again, Athera didn’t hesitate; hesitation left room for words and heartache, and she couldn’t have that right now.

She reached between his legs and grasped his cock, then slid his length against her cleft to spread her heat across him. Abelas hissed in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in her hair as he rocked against her slick folds; then, with a quick shifting of his hips, he sheathed himself inside of her.

He moaned longingly against her neck, and Athera mewled in kind, a long and pleading keen of pleasure as she savoured the perfect pressure of his cock. He moved against her in a slow and sinuous thrust and she happily arched into him, her hips a perfect cradle to meet the confident curving of his hips.

Within seconds, she and Abelas were moving together in perfect harmony. His palms were hot against her own as he pressed her hands into the bed, her fingers laced and clenching against his own as she lifted her hips to meet his every careful thrust. Even their breathing was synced: they gasped with need as he withdrew, then burst out an exhale as he tenderly delved back into her heat. His cock was utter bliss, the perfect length of steel to fill her up and stroke the pleasure from her core.

When he began to increase his pace, his fingers tightening in her own and his face twisting with rapture, Athera eagerly met and matched him, the hardness of his thrusts wringing her nerves beautifully raw. “Kiss me when you come,” she begged. “Abelas, please-”

“Yes,” he gasped, his hips pistoning into her with passionate zeal until he finally groaned and captured her mouth in a ferocious kiss. He thrust his tongue into her mouth while thrusting his cock as deep as he could reach, and Athera wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to his lean muscled shoulders as he shuddered in completion in her arms.

He pressed his cheek to hers as he grew still, but his fingers remained clenched between her own, and an overwhelming burst of tenderness bloomed in her chest as he braised the pointed line of her ear with gentle kisses. This perfection couldn’t last, and she knew it; they were doomed to end, and that fate was far too close for her liking. But this ancient warrior filled her heart as readily as his cock filled her body, and she was suddenly desperate to tell him so.

I love you, she thought with a heartwrenching burst of longing. She wanted to say it, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t shake the sense that saying it would only hurt them more.

Then Abelas spoke against her ear. “Ma’av’in, ma vhenan,” he whispered. “I cannot explain it better than this, but I promise you, I feel as you do.”

Athera swallowed hard, then hugged him closer. He might as well have been reading her mind. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll take your word for it.”

[salexectrian-heir]

Loki: Chapter 9

Pairing: Solavellan Rating: E* (not every chapter is E, most are rated T. Chapters containing explicit content will be marked with an asterisk*) Summary: Lavellan rescued a mischievious sphynx kitten outside her work who loves her dearly. But his destructive habits start to get out of hand when he steals her attractive neighbor’s underwear… repeatedly. [Previous Chapter]      [Read on AO3]

“Honestly, I think you should quit your job and be a chef, or one of those stay at home hipster-food bloggers that instagrams all their meals and gets sponsored by food industry monopolies.”

This earned her one of those rare and coveted chuckle-snorts she had grown attached to. She peered at him from over her shoulder where she stood in front of his kitchen sink, cleaning up the dishes of their--once again brilliant--grilled shrimp taco dinner. It had been over two weeks, since they had their first formal dinner together, since they slept together. A make-up of sorts for missing out on celebrating the new year. Naturally, the E.R. was filled with those who had made not so wise choices, blown off parts of their bodies with fireworks they should not have been setting off...and thus Anise was other was preoccupied. Solas had agreed to feed Loki for her while she was called away. So at least that spoiled brat got a new year’s kiss. Her heart fluttered when he met her gaze, lips pulling into a smirk where he sat lounging on his couch.

“There is only one problem,” he said, pouring them each another glass of wine from a fresh bottle. They had already killed one during dinner. “I don’t have an instagram.”

She shifted her weight and placed a hand on her hip. “Then how do you post all your mundane life updates?”

“Facebook?” He shrugged as she let out a mocking hiss of disapproval, “I don’t use it that often. Not much occurs in my life that demands a social media update.”

“Well, you should friend request me anyway so I can post random updates on your wall for you.”

Another tipsy chuckle and a smile that reached his eyes. “I’m sure you would.”

Dropping the towel she had been using to dry the counter, she made her way over to settle on the couch beside him. She swiped her glass from his extended hand and tucked her feet beneath her.

“What you don’t want to be connected?” she teased as he glanced down at his wine. “Are you still friends with an ex that would stalk me or something?”

His whole body went still.

“I was joking,” she playfully shoved him with her foot, and it brought a small smile back on his face.

“Joking as it were, you are...not entirely wrong.”

She stared at him expectantly. “Go on.”

“It’s complicated.”

He made to stand but she caught him by the elbow. He send a sideways glance towards her, a hint of apprehension in his eyes behind the mirth.

“Oh no, you don’t get out of that so easily.”

He sighed and brought his fingers to steeple over his flushed face. “My life revolves around my work."

“I know."

“Literally. My social circle, including my previous romantic relationships…” He straightened, his hands knotting together in his lap. “One more reason I was hesitant to get involved with you. I do not want to subject you, or anyone, to the chaos that is my life. My last relationship was a mistake. One I never should have made.”

“As they often are.”

“But because we work together... “ he exhaled sharply, “that’s not accurate. Because I work for her, I am still in frequent contact. It’s a bit a of a mess.”

She choked on her wine. “ You’ve slept with your boss, too ?”

Surprise rippled over his face at her outburst. “What?”

“Oh we’ll delve into my romantic disaster history in a minute. Please continue, you have a lot to unpack here.” She smiled behind her glass of wine, and nudged him again with her foot. “Go on, I want to hear this story.”

“Oh, no I would love to hear anything you have to say this point,” he turned to face her, tucking one leg beneath him, mirroring her position, “because what I’m about to say next will make everything worse.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again. She decided putting wine in it was the best course of action and so she drained her glass. “Nope, you gotta finish embarrassing yourself first. Then I’ll layout my baggage.”

“I warned you,” his mouth split into a chagrined smile as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I got involved with the Chief Operating Officer.”

Anise gasped and immediately clasped a hand over her mouth, “The C.O.O.? Solas!”

“I was young and stupid and it lasted far longer than it should have. And of course, like all things doomed to fail, it got out. Her husband found out--”

“ Her husband!?”

“The CEO.”

“You’re playing with me right now.”

“No, I am being honest.” The humor left his voice. “It’ not even a subject we should be laughing over… but…” He drug a hand over his face, wiping  away the fragment of a smile from the moment before. “For once I am able to talk about it without hating myself, so that must count for something.”

Anise said aside her empty wine glass and scooted closer to him on the couch.

“Sorry I pried. I didn’t mean to open up things better left--”

“It’s okay. I should talk about these things.” He allowed her to take his hand in her own. “The point was that we are all connected on social media as well. I would like to just keep this new part of my life, my life with you , private. Something I don’t have to share with the world that demands every second of my existence.”

“Is this why you choose to live here, and commute to Arlathan?”

He nodded. “Obviously there were repercussions for our actions. I was demoted. She was suspended from her position. And that caused a lot of unrest in the company. She was admired by many. I was blamed for her downfall. And in a way, I am directly responsible.”

“What were you before a rep?”

“I worked in the labs. It’s where my true talent lies.” He shrugged. “But my clearances have been revoked and I was repurposed, as was she. Apparently we were still valuable enough to the company to be tethered and leashed for the last five years. Or perhaps it is a punishment.”

“Why don’t you just quit?” When he didn’t say anything she felt the need to add, “I’m being serious, Solas. If they’re treating you this badly, and it makes you this unhappy, walk away .”

“Could you walk away from your job after a major mistake knowing you might be able to fix , or make a difference?

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Yes, the company itself is corrupt but the medicine they create saves lives. I used to be a part of that process.” He squeezed her hand. “I created this mess. My pride won’t just let me walk away from it.”

He may be a stubborn fool, but now he’s my stubborn fool.

“I want you to know that I’ll support you--no matter what you stubbornly choose to do.”

“You may regret that.”

A brief moment of silence enveloped them, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I also, have made some… less than wise decisions. And that is saying it nicely.” His thumb began idly tracing designs on the back of her hand as she spoke, and it gave her courage.

Here goes nothing.

She took a deep breath. “I was engaged, once.”

He sat up a little straighter, giving her his full attention. “You were?”

“Yeah,” with her free hand she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, “clearly didn’t end well.”

“Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

They shared a quiet laugh. “Hah, exactly.”

“Was it to your boss…?”

“Oh creators, no.” she shook her head vehemently. “A man from my clan. Arranged marriage type thing.” He stared at her sympathetically. “We wanted to start a family... but I…. we had a falling out and he cheated, I didn’t handle it well, I decided to go to med school instead, something that would take a long time and basically give me an excuse to never go home and...”

Face reality. Face the loss of a child, of a family. Too much, too painful. Change the subject, this is one for another time.

“The boss story though, that was more recent.” She changed the subject, adjusting her legs so she was sitting cross legged.  “ I got involved with one of the attendings when I was just starting out as an intern. Not my brightest moment. It was messy, and I quickly realized he was entangled with many other people, and not just me. It was a shock but once I figured it out I ended my part in it.”

If he noticed the abrupt topic switch, he made no comment. “Which attending did you sleep with?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Do you think you know him?”

“I might,” he gave a small smile.

“Anders is a remarkable doctor. I swear the entirety of his personal life puts your sleeping with your boss story to shame.”

That made Solas laugh, a real one this time. “I do know him.”

Anise blanched. “Oh, gods.”

Solas’ mouth curved into a teasing smile as one brow arched. “I’m surprised to hear the hospital staff fraternize so… frequently.”

“We’re not supposed to, but when you spend a sixteen hour high stress shift literally inside someone together...well…” she gestured with her free hand. “It happens. It’s a cesspool honestly. Every week I’m trying to figure out who’s sleeping with who so I don’t step on toes or accidentally out a relationship. It’s tiring.”

“I can imagine. No wonder you always look so wiped when you come home, avoiding all those bleeding hearts.” He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Admirable.”

She shoved him with her shoulder, a blush beginning to color her cheeks. “Stop.”

Leaning his elbow on the back of the couch, he propped his head up with his hand. “I just divulged a secret that would have sent any sensible person running from my apartment. And yet, you’re still here.”

“I pretend to have my life together, but it’s a mess.” A soft smile formed on her lips. “And yet you keep inviting me back.”

He gave a small shake of his head before he reached for her face, cupping her jaw in the palm of his hand as he leaned towards her. “As is mine, and yet you keep staying.”

His lips brushed her own.  She unfurled her limbs and slid her arms around his neck, pulling him gently down over her on the couch. He shifted to lay between her legs that wrapped around his hips once he had settled.

Pressing her mouth to his she whispered, “I never claimed to be sensible.” His tongue darted between her lips, coaxing a moan from her. “I don’t plan on starting to be now, either.”

[hopeandfirewrites]

day 03: quill

30 DAY PROMPT CHALLENGE (DRAGON AGE). FARANNI LAVELLAN//LIAWYN LAVELLAN. FARANNI LAVELLAN//SOLAS (MENTIONED). WORD COUNT: 1734.

Small growls of frustration filled the library as she stared desperately at a blank piece of parchment, trying and failing to magic words out of thin air in the same fashion the library regulars around her seemed to be doing with ease. Writing had never been her strong suit. When she’d been with her clan, she’d only been taught the basics of literacy because Liawyn had been desperate for someone to practice with, and in the time since she’d learned a little more thanks to tutoring from Dorian and Solas and Finn. Still, she was more articulate with a bow and arrow than she was with quill and ink, and being bad at something served enough to frustrate her, especially today.

It had been more than half a year since Liawyn had been killed in the explosion at the Conclave. Faranni had initially planned to celebrate, so to speak, by riddling a defenseless straw dummy with as many arrows as she could find. Then, if she didn’t feel better, maybe she would craft or buy more and send those flying as well. Anything to take her mind off the sting of loss that still burned just beneath her skin. Anything to make it go away. Would it ever go away? How many Red Templars would she have to kill before she could sleep without being plagued by nightmares?

Would the cycle of revenge ever satisfy itself?

This whole writing escapade had started with Dorian and Finn ambushing her at the shooting range, one on each side. Finn had mentioned before that her blind rage wasn’t exactly healthy, but had never complained about the fact that the same rage was what got things accomplished in the field. She could go berserk better than the best bruisers, mowing down unarmored enemies with a downpour of well placed shots. But perhaps the fact that her anger hadn’t died down had the Inquisitor worried. Josephine had mentioned that her temper didn’t exactly sit well with the nobles, and Finn couldn’t very well expect Solas to babysit her every time they had company.

Or maybe he was just being a good friend. In her heart, Faranni wanted to believe that she’d made friends beyond Solas. She wanted to believe that Finn had her best interests in mind, that he had her back, but the black pit of anxiety in her stomach screamed otherwise.

“Riddling templars with arrows is all well and good and you’re an excellent shot,” Finn had said, handing her an ornate box that housed the quill she now spun in her fingers, “But Dorian and I think it might help with your emotional constipation to write some of it down. It’s supposed to be…I don’t know, therapeutic, I guess. And it’ll help with your writing.”

They two of them led her back to the library, set her up with some parchment, and told her to write about her feelings. A letter to Deshanna or Sorrel. Perhaps to her parents? Dorian had even, after they wrestled her bow away from her, recommended trying to write a letter to Liawyn. “And burn it after,” He’d said, “Or keep it. Whatever makes you feel happy.”

And so she sat, unable to escape because Finn had stationed Dorian right around the corner. Write something, she told herself, twirling the quill between her fingers, It’ll be good for you. It’s what Lia would’ve down.

What Lia would’ve done.

It’s been a bit over six months since they sent you away. You smiled when Deshanna gave you the news and said you’d never really fit in with the clan anyway. Too much curiosity. Too much of an interest in the ways of the outside world. Maintaining and conveying our history wasn’t enough for you. When you told me the news, that you were honored to be sent, I told you that if you left I’d never accept you back. I said you should never come back. I was angry and I didn’t mean it literally but it seems like you took it literally anyway.

For all your cleverness, you always were sort of airheaded.

Her hands shook. Vision blurring with tears as memories that had been locked away bubbled to the surface. But still, she had to continue. This is good, she told herself. Facing these memories was good. A good way to honor Liawyn. And she didn’t have a choice in the matter regardless.

I came to Haven looking for you. Instead I found the Inquisition. I think you would have fit in faster than I did. So many different races and cultures working together - it would’ve been a sort of paradise for you. All held together by a human mage named Finn. He let me stay and in a lot of ways, he’s been looking out for me ever since. I wonder if the two of you would’ve gotten along. Sometimes I wonder, what if you had been the one to survive and he had been the one to die. I know it’s a morbid thought but if you’d been in his position…

What would you have done?

Would you have shared your optimism with the rest of the Inquisition? Would you have brightened their outlooks on life, in the same way you brightened mine? Would you have shared your beautiful, colorful soul with them, eager to learn everything they could teach you? Would you, six months after the explosion of the Conclave, sat down to write a letter to me?

Would I have read it? Or would I still be so blinded by anger over your leaving that I would’ve-

The quill fell out of her hands, body shaking with grief over her actions and her loss. Faranni pressed her back against the chair, trying to put as much distance between herself and that damned letter as possible. She drew her knees into her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs - effectively made herself as small as possible and wept.

For what she had done. For what she could have done. For what she had lost.

It seemed like hours. Hours that neither Finn nor Dorian came to find her. Hours that no one came to her rescue while anxiety mingled with sorrow to form something inexplicable. Something that told her, loudly, that she should die. She would deserve it, after all. She had no right to be angry over Liawyn’s death when she’d been the cause of it. She had no right to be here, fighting at Finn’s side, when she frequently imagined a reality where he was dead. She had no right. She had no right. She had no reason to live-

Her spiral was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, gentle yet firm. It pulled her back into reality. The reality where Finn was alive and Liawyn was gone. The reality where she had been given a chance to exact her revenge. The reality where she was the only one left to offer herself forgiveness. When she looked up, she was met with grey eyes. Wise. Familiar. And full of sympathy.

“Breathe.” Solas told her.

She did as instructed. A breath in and then a breath out. And another. And another. And another until finally she managed to release her legs and let them slump back down to the floor. “Why are you alone?” He asked her.

“They-” Her voice still shook, but she did her best to appear strong. Solas knew otherwise. He knew of her fear, but it was nice to pretend, “They thought it would help to write about my feelings. Instead of wallowing in my anger. I think maybe Finn was afraid it might consume me. I think maybe he was trying to help.”

“A wise notion,” Solas agreed, kneeling down next to her. His hand never left her shoulder, “But I think it is unwise that they left you alone to do it.”

“I couldn’t write while they were watching,” Faranni confessed, “So Finn asked Dorian to keep an eye on me, but-”

“If I had not seen you, I would not have known something was wrong either.” He admitted, “You told me what Dorian and Finn think you need. Tell me what you think you need.”

“Quiet. I thought I needed to shoot something, but I shoot things every day,” She watched him nod in agreement, a feeling of validation and something else pooling in the pit of her stomach, “I need quiet. I need-”

“The dead cannot forgive the living.” It was harsh. Too harsh. Spoken strong enough that she flinched when they were said, “But from what you have told me of Liawyn, I don’t believe forgiveness is needed. I think she would have been happy to see you surrounded by people who care about you and I think she would have been honored to have you fighting for her.”

“People who care about me?”

“Of course,” Solas rose to his feet, coaxing her up with him, “Do you think Finn and Dorian did this to torture you?”

“Well, no, I-” She steaded herself against him, warmth spreading through her body where it had been cold just moments ago, “I thought Finn wanted to reign me in.”

“I think if Finn had the chance, he would unleash you upon every noble to step foot in Skyhold. I think, given the chance, he would encourage you to heal in whatever healthy way you deemed necessary. Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?”

The tips of Faranni’s ears went red when she realized Finn was watching them, leaning against a nearby bookcase and smirking like the smug little shit he was. Immediately, she shoved away from Solas, the blush creeping further into her freckled cheeks as she went to swipe her letter off the table. Solas rubbed his shoulder where she’d shoved him, feigning injury, and Finn laughed, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I know it might not be your way of doing things, but I prefer to keep my personal matters personal.” She said proudly, turning to hand him the damp piece of parchment she’d snatched off the table, “I wrote the letter.”

“You don’t have to give it to me.”

“Then…what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Like Dorian said, keep it. Or we can burn it.”

“Yeah,” The thought of burning her pain, her anger, her shame, bright a smile to her face, “Let’s burn it.”

[cha0ticmimzy]

The Shadow of Fereldan

Autor’s Notes: Before she even faces Corypheus, before she became the Herald of Andraste, she was the Shadow of Fereldan. And she had a job that was left unfinished. Characters: Sylthana Lavellan, Zevran Arainai, Cullen Rutherford, Cassandra Pentaghast, Leliana Warnings: Brief scene of torture, blood Word Count: 2617

Cullen’s men didn’t stop her as she left through Haven’s gate, despite the fact that she walked alone. She had told Leliana what she had planned- what she needed to do. A job that she had taken on before this shit show had begun, before she’d become the Herald of Andraste. She’d left behind the clothing that she had been given, that had been forged for her by the smithy. Instead, she wore what she always did when taking on a job: black. A pair of black boots whose soles had been worn down so where they matched the very arches of her feet. Black trousers that clung to her legs, laden with pockets and weighed down by the daggers that were hidden within. A black top that was fitted to her figure, with a black cloak atop it all. A mask covered the lower part of her face, her eyes and valaslin the other things to tell who she was.

On her back she kept a broadsword, it’s pommel inlaid with emeralds. It had been her father’s, and her father’s father’s, and so on and so forth, handed down through the years to the first born. No one has asked any questions when she strapped it onto her back; they simply gave her a wider berth. She’d lost count with how many daggers she had; a few on one hip, some within the pockets of her trousers, a hidden blade released via firing mechanism upon her left forearm. Pins hidden within her hair, which she had painstakingly coiled back from her face. She was armed to the teeth, quite literally.

She left Haven upon horseback, a wraith streaking across the snowy landscape. Her trusted steed, Malek, strong beneath her. She knew that Cassandra would lecture her, that Cullen would frown upon this- but she had a job, and she would see it through. That much she could do- for him. For the life that had been stolen from her clan, months prior to the Inquisition forming. She could still see it, if she closed her eyes. His body artfully arranged, the ribs splayed out, the bed beneath him nearly black with how much blood had been spilt. It was not for a ritual; she’d seen blood magic rituals. No, the body of Uthriel had been posed. She could still hear the way his lover screamed in horror upon finding him.

Sylthana could still remember the way her nails felt scraping through the guard’s flesh as she slapped him.

The ride to Denerim was long; she was unsure of whether Cullen would have his men come after her. Yet, when she looked to the sky, she could see one of Leliana’s beloved birds tracking her. Always watching from the shadows, she was.

Denerim was familiar; she’d traversed through the city many a time, collecting pay from those who sought out her services. This was where she would find him: Pitch. No one knew his actual name, since he’d abandoned it years prior. No, now he was just a cutthroat for hire, a brutal assassin known for his barbaric ways of killing. Each body he left behind was posed, making a mockery of the body’s owner, and causing quite a bit of trouble when it came to cleaning up afterwards.

She’d fought him, once, years ago, when she was naive and cocky; he’d bested her easily, and she barely left with her skin still intact.

Drakon’s Peak loomed high above the city, visible for miles away before the fortress turned city came to view. It was when she stood a mere hundred feet from the walls of the city that she pulled her mask on and tugged her cowl over her head. She left Malek tied to a tree, where he could eat plenty of grass and not be bothered. Her job would take time; the entire day to track him down, and then to wait until nightfall to make herself known.

Stepping into the city, she fell into the ebb and flow easily. Keeping her head down, her coin purse hidden within the depths of her cloak. The dirt streets were familiar, the old whore houses and taverns singing an old tune. Sapphire hues never strayed from her course, even as she slipped into the alleyways. No one approached her; her reputation within the city itself still very much alive. No one here knew who she was now. All they knew was that the Shadow had returned after taking a sudden hiatus.

She’d been halfway into a Tavern frequented by those who shared her title when a familiar voice caught her ear. Eyes widening, she quickly stepped back, head turning this way and that to catch sight of blond hair and tanned skin. Instead, she found herself pushed to the wall, a blade at her throat and a silky Antivan accent purred in her ear.

“Brave of you to traverse these streets alone.”

A smirk curled her lips as she turned, facing the handsome face of the assassin- and the Hero of Fereldan’s lover. “Bold of you to assume I’m alone.” She replied, watching as Zevran’s face split into a grin. The blade was pulled away, replaced instead with his arms as he pulled her close.

“I’d heard whispers that you were back, but I did not expect to find truth within them.” He murmured, pulling back to study the girl- or, what he could see of her given the mask she wore. How long had it been since he’d last seen her? A year? More? He couldn’t be sure. “I’ve also heard curious whispers about your involvement in a certain heretical movement.”

“Heretical?” Sylthana echoed, disbelief dancing across her features. “I’d hardly say it was heretical. But let’s not talk here.” She lowered her voice, eyes darting about. A smirk pulled at his lips as he nodded in agreement, leading her from the establishment. The market was safer, as odd as it sounded. Voices blended within, and it was hard to tail someone when so many people were mingling.

“Tell me, is it true?” Zevran asked, arm linked with her arm as they wandered through the dirt streets. “If so, I want to help. I owe you that much.” After she’d saved his ass from an ambush four years prior, he’d been in her debt. A debt he hadn’t the chance to pay- or, that she allowed him to pay.

“It is,” Sylthana replied, pulling her mask down to allow it to hand around her throat. “I wouldn’t mind having eyes and ears outside of the Inquisition. I’m working with an old friend of yours. A certain Nightingale.”

Surprise danced across Zevran’s features as he paused in his steps, before a laugh escaped him. “Of course you are. That does not surprise me in the least. Is she well?”

“She’s cold and sarcastic. I like her.”

“That is a rarity, for you to like a human so easily.”

“What can I say?” Sylthana shrugged, pausing to study a jewelers booth. “They aren’t all bad. Most are. But some aren’t.” Moving along without purchasing anything, she let her gaze sweep the market.

The assassin hummed in response, watching as she searched the crowd. “You are here for blood.” It wasn’t a question.

“I am.” She didn’t bother hiding it, not when she was obviously armed. “I’m here for revenge. You see, a friend of mine was murdered wrongfully so,” she began as she tugged him closer, nails pressing into the skin of his arm; a subtle warning. She carefully pressed to fingers into his skin: two were following them. A tap, then another- twenty feet behind. “And I plan on fixing what was broken.”

He nodded slowly in understanding, and carefully steered her towards the richer parts of the city. The dirt turned to stone beneath their feet, and the men who had been tailing them drew back quickly. “So I was right.” He sighed, shaking his head as she stopped them, studying a stunning ball gown of rich sapphire and molten gold through the window of a shop. “You came alone?”

“No. I was followed. Nightingale sent some of her agents after me- no doubt to make sure I returned in one piece. Can’t have the Herald being butchered, can we?”

“Herald?” Zevran’s eyes widened as he stared her down. Without speaking, she removed her glove and raised her hand, the anchor flaring the life. “So you are the one…”

Sylthana gave a bitter smile as she let her hand fall, sliding her hand back into the smooth, worn leather. “Afraid so. Seems we’ve both been chosen for a higher calling, old friend.” Her voice was tired, showing the exhaustion she felt. His heart ached for her. “… Do you happen to know where the Warden is?”

"No," he shook his head, a small smile curling his lips as they began to walk once more. "She is trying to find a cure, you see. The Calling has returned-" 

 "I know. We have a Warden among us. Blackwall. He explained a little of it." She interjected as they began to near Drakon River. "... I need to go, Zevran. I've much work to do, and little time left to accomplish it." 

A hum left him as they stopped, his gaze sweeping over her face. Young, but so very strong. She reminded him of her, of his Warden. The one who held his heart. He reached up, cupping her cheek oh so tenderly. "Do be careful, mi amigo. The man you go after is dangerous." 

 A laugh escaped her as she tossed her arms around him, pulling him close. "You say that as if I'm not. Please, stay out of trouble. And finish off those bastards of an organization soon." She pulled back, smiling as he winked. 

 "If you need me, you know how to find me." With that, he backed away before turning, whistling an old sailor's tune. She sighed, watching him retreat before turning, heading back down to the poor part of the city. 

Mask pulled back into place, hiding all but her eyes. The labyrinth was difficult to traverse if one was not familiar. Thankfully, after spending far too long within the city, she understood the way it worked. Slipping down an alleyway and making quick work of the stairs that lead further down, she quickly found herself among those who could not be trusted with a blade or coin. Perfect. Sauntering into the tavern, she let her gaze drift across its patrons. 

The building itself was set up with a purpose; a large chandelier hung in the center, casting plenty of light there. The walls were cloaked in shadow, perfect for those who did not wish to be seen. Lip curling, she made her way to the bar, settling down within a chair. The bar keep paused, good eye studying her before both widened in surprise. "You're a sight for sore eyes." He commented, though she noted the way sweat began to bead up upon his forehead. "It's on the house," he added, sliding her a flagon of ale. 

She caught it, but did not raise it to her lips. "I'm looking for a man. Goes by the moniker of Pitch." She stated simply, sapphire hues narrowing at the way his eyes darted about. So he was here. 

 "I'm afraid I don't know-" she cut him off, placing the coin purse- purposefully open- upon the top of the bar. Jewels and gold coin alike sat within, glinting in the piss yellow light of the tavern. 

 "Allow me to repeat myself. I'm looking for a man. He goes by Pitch. And I know he is here." The sound of a chair scraping and falling let her know that the man she sought out had heard. And was running. "This is for your silence. Thank you." The back entrance slammed shut. She pushed away from the bar and made her way through the tavern, listening to way silence spread throughout with each table she passed. 

 A Shadow fallen upon the establishment. 

He ran. He knew she was following him, even as the sun descended beyond the horizon and the moon rose. He knew she was there, watching. He'd make a spectacle out of her, bring her into the market, flay her alive. That would teach anyone. He took alleyway after alleyway, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of Denerim's poor. A dead end. No matter. He turned, watching the opening of the alleyway in anticipation. He could hear the drunken voices of sailors singing, the pleasured screams of a whore as she worked for her coin. But she didn't appear. 

The sound of a body hitting stone behind him made him jump. She crouched, her head low, her body relaxed. She looked like a living shadow, a manifestation of the dark itself. He clenched his jaw, and a grin forced its way onto his face. "Big mistake, little elf." He hissed as she raised her head, baring coral hued valaslin and sapphire eyes. There was no light within them- no, that was wrong. There was one, a dark light. A dark delight. Blood lust. Anger. Hatred. For the first time in his life, he felt afraid. But that didn't stop him from rushing her the moment she rose.

She side stepped him easily. He turned, daggers poised for her neck, and was gifted with a harsh, swift kick to the gut. A surprised cough escaped him as he staggered a step back, only to find the slimy dampness of the wall pressing against him.

A moment later and she lunged.

He hadn’t had the time to even prepare, not as she crushed his hand against the wall. He didn’t realize what had happened until he felt warm liquid trickle down his arm, and then the pain echoed through him. She’d driven a dagger through his wrist, into the wall behind him. He went to reach, but she grabbed his other wrist and with quick hands, broke it. The broadsword she carried upon her back was out, and the pommel was driven into his hand, crushing the delicate bones of his fingers.

A scream escaped his lips, echoing through the alley, blending into the sounds of the night.

“You cunt.” He gasped out, beady brown eyes wide as she crouched before him. He could kick her, but his body was in shock; too much pain coursing through his system at once.

She didn’t respond as he continue to throw curses at her, words that could curdle milk with how sour they were. Instead, she brought out another dagger, and placed this one above his thigh. Silence swept over him. “You killed Uthriel Lavellan. I’m here to pay his respects.” Her voice made a chill dance across his skin. Saccharine sweet, dripping in honey and acid.

“You flaunted his death, and the money you received for it. The girl’s father paid you handsomely. And you went on a spending spree. You killed her lover, and then bought yourself pretty new knives and clothes and all the ale you could want.” As she spoke, she began pressing down, the tip of the blade easily piercing through the rough material of his trousers, into the fleshy, meaty part of his thigh. A whine trembled from his lips as she kept the pressure steady. “A big mistake, you know. It makes you easy to track. Any good cutthroat knows not to spend it all at once.”

“Just kill me!” He exclaimed, voice raw and quaking as she suddenly drove the dagger down hard enough that he could feel the reverberation of it striking the hard earth beneath him. A new scream tore through, and he found himself soiling his trousers due to the pain. Tears spilled free, streaking down his thin face. “Just do it!”

“No.” The word made the blood freeze in his veins. She pulled her mask down, revealing her face, and recognition danced through him. He knew that face. He’d fought her, long ago. “You should have killed me when you have the chance.”

“You-” he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the Shadow of Fereldan. The little runt of a bitch I nearly beat to death.”

A pleased grin stretched across her face, and he realized he had never seen something so terrifying in his life. “I’m going to make you wish for death.” She cooed, leaning close- only to drive a new dagger into his shoulder, pressing through, cracking bone, tearing muscle apart. A hoarse cry left him. “When the city guard finds you, they will be picking the pieces off the ground.” Sitting back on her knees, she reached down, pulling the dagger she’d driven through his thigh free. Blood gushed from the wound, turning the ground beneath him black. Pressing the blade against his thumb, she hummed. “Which finger?”

“Please, have mercy!”

“Ah, thumb then. Alright.”

“Have mercy!”

The ride back to Haven was a pleasant one. The weather was nice, and she ran into no trouble on the road. Malek was in a pleasant mood as well, dancing at times as he trotted along the path. She’d sent a raven home, carrying a parchment with a lock of hair, the words reading nothing more than a simple “It is done.”

As she traveled, the air grew colder, cleaner, clearer. She drew in a deep breath of the mountain air as she breached the top, the Breach in the sky coming into view. Sapphire hues lingered upon it for a moment, taking in its sickly green shade, before she clicked her tongue one, directing her mount down the strep incline.

No one greeted her as she approached, or as she passed Malek into the hands of a stable boy. The Iron Bull watched her from his tent, an understanding air about him. Krem gave her a tense nod, his lips drawn thin. Cullen was not with his men, nor could she see Cassandra training, cutting the life out of a training dummy.

Varric sat by the fire and watched her with a wary but understanding gaze as she walked past. She cared not for these looks. Leliana was within her tent, a relief she hadn’t realized she’d been wanting. Idly, she began to set the weapons she’d borrowed down, keeping her own on her person.

“I heard word from Denerim that the cutthroat Pitch was found dead.” Leliana commented, not looking up from her reports. Sylthana made a noise of disinterest. “The city guard found him with his legs pulled out of their sockets and flayed, his jaw broken, and all of his fingers cut off. He was also missing his eyes.”

“How curious.” Sylthana replied, though she didn’t bother keeping the pleased tone from her voice.

“Curious, indeed.” Leliana replied, turning to study the elven woman. “I will not ask why you decided to do this, only that I wish you now be at peace.”

“Peace doesn’t exist for people like us, Leliana.” She sighed, stepping away from the table. “We’ve too much blood on our hands to ever truly find it.” Leliana nodded once, understanding. “Zevran said hello. I assume Cullen and Cassandra are waiting within to lecture me?” She asked, rolling her shoulders once, twice.

“I was unaware that you knew him.” Sister Nightingale murmured, eyes widening in surprise. She quickly composed herself and nodded, amusement dancing upon her words. “I believe Cullen has been rehearsing what he wishes to say to you.”

“Lovely. Care to join me as I receive my verbal lashing?” Sylthana mused, smiling as Leliana set aside her reports to walk with her into the Chantry. Almost immediately, Cullen and Cassandre descended upon her.

“Have you any idea how worried we’ve been? You’re the Herald of Andraste! You can’t just up and leave when you wish!” Cullen scolded, lip curling up.

“You should not have gone alone. What if something had happened? This was reckless and foolish.” Cassandra shook her head, frowning deeply.

Sylthana smiled, moving past her advisors. “Hello, Josephine. Have we received word from my clan?” She asked, watching as surprise danced across the ambassador’s features.

“Yes, your worship. We just did.”

“Good. Have it delivered to my quarters. Tell me, what news have we of the Templars? Are they willing the meet?” She asked, enjoying the stunned silence from Cullen and Cassandra. Leliana let out a soft laugh as Sylthana turned to study the quarter with a raised brow. “Well, don’t just stand there! We’ve a job to do, do we not?”

“Ri-right, of course.” Cullen coughed, rubbing the back of his neck as he quickly walked past the Inquisitor, leading the way to the War Room. Cassandra remained standing in the hall, Leliana beside her.

“What just happened?” The Seeker asked as she watched the Inquisitor and Ambassador follow the Commander. Leliana laughed, a soft, rare noise.

“That, dear Seeker, is the Inquisitor in her prime.”

[cedarmoons]

first impressions

pairing: solas/ariala lavellan wc: 2.5k rating: t; contains cursing and graphic depictions of dead animals sooo i wanted to write some pre-relationship solavellan because ariala is hyper pro-dalish and solas is,,,, not. which is interesting because when do they reach that balance? when do they start to work that out? when do they realize oh no s/he’s hot? this is not quite the answer to that question but it’s a start lmao

It does not take much for Ariala to realize she does not like Solas. Snide comments about the Dalish aside (“perhaps we should plant a tree,” honestly, what an ass), he look at her like an experiment, not a person. He looks at her and only sees the green thing in her hand. Every conversation ends in an argument, because he cannot resist sniping about her people, and she is too proud to not fight back. She has been careful to mind her manners in the presence of humans, as just a week ago there had apparently been a mob outside her little cottage demanding her (unconscious) head, but the way Solas talks to her—with a strange mix of disdain, condescension, and pity—is simply infuriating.

The trip to the Hinterlands does not change that, much. 

She amuses herself with killing as many fennecs and nugs as she can, because her recruit’s arrows aren’t good enough to take the Hinterlands’ rams down, and Cassandra isn’t fast enough to chase down every ram that runs. As she’s dressing a fennec by the fire, with six other fennecs and two nugs by her feet, Varric stares at her from over the rim of the glasses he only wears when he’s scribbling in his journal. “You know, Herald, I wouldn’t have pinned you for someone who mercilessly and remorselessly slaughters the local wildlife.”

“Herald? Really? Varric, that’s not even a nickname.”

He lifts a hand in mock surrender, while the other one doesn’t even stop its writing. “Yeah, I know. Still thinking on it. Sometimes the good ones take time. Maybe a flower...”

Ariala hums, tossing the fennec’s entrails into the fire. “First of all, I am disappointed in you. Secondly, I would’ve thought you would’ve noticed how poorly the Inquisition’s people are outfitted here. Their shoes are worn, and have holes, and some aren’t wearing any shoes at all. Nug leather’s supple and fennec fur is durable—boots made from them will last a long time.”

Varric’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and he offers her a slight smile but nothing more. They drift into companionable silence, broken by the steady sounds of her knife sliding under skin and the scratch of his quill on paper, until Varric sighs and lifts himself from the log with some difficulty.

“I’ll send Solas out for first watch,” he says. “Get some sleep, okay?”

She only lifts a hand in acknowledgement, but doesn’t move from her spot against the tree. A few minutes later, once a bleary-eyed Solas has emerged from his shared tent, Ariala nods toward the wooden plate bearing a healthy serving of fennec and nug meat. “Saved you some food,” she says. “It’s cold, probably, but still good.”

Solas spends an inordinately long time looking between her and the plate, his brows furrowed. Ariala stares at him. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she finally says. Her words seem to shake him out of whatever stupor he’d put himself in.

“No, of course not,” Solas says. “I only—hm. Thank you, I suppose.”

I suppose. Wow. This guy really did not get out much, did he?

Ariala watches as he takes his plate and sits across the fire from her. He eats slowly, his gaze on the fire, and after several long moments she goes back to her dressing. Once she’s done, she sets the pelt aside and spits the carcass, moving on to the next animal in her pile—a nug this time. When she finally looks up, she sees Solas staring at her hands, watching the blood on her skin and how she moves her knife, cleanly cutting the skin from the meat.

He had watched her skin the elk they’d had for dinner this evening just as intently: not as a spectator waiting for food, but as a curious observer witnessing an unfamiliar act. His nose had scrunched up when she had thanked Andruil for Her gifts, but he had held his tongue, thankfully.

“So, Solas,” she says, not taking her eyes off of him as she cuts off the nug’s weird hand-feet appendages, “how does a supposedly lifelong apostate not know how to dress and skin an elk?”

Solas stops eating, his eyes reflecting the firelight when he looks back at her. “I find my nourishment elsewhere.”

Ariala slits a line up the nug’s stomach and begins gutting it. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re vegetarian, you are literally eating meat right now, so…”

“An astute observation, Herald. Tell me, do the Dalish always thank Andruil for their hunting? What happens if you cannot catch any game?”

“First, don’t call me Herald. I know that you don’t believe that bullshit, so don’t pretend that I do either. Second, nice deflection,” Ariala compliments, and means it. It’s something she’s noticed about Solas—when asked too many questions, or questions that pry too much, he glances off, obfuscates, dances away from a real answer.

She takes a quick moment to look him over. He’s not emaciated, so he clearly hasn’t just been living off of roots and berries in the forest—but he doesn’t seem like the type to seek out human villages for food and shelter. Not to mention he probably wouldn’t have been able to afford that option on a regular basis.

She waves the handle of her knife at him. “You know, if you still want to keep up with that mysterious lifelong apostate thing, I can teach you how to dress deer and elk and rams next time. We have to hunt a few for the refugees, right? No problem.”

His expression shutters, becoming closed-off and suspicious. “And why would you do that? You and I rarely see eye-to-eye. You have no reason to do this.”

“I don’t have to like you to watch out for you.” She winks at him, offering a playful smile. “We elves gotta stick together.”

His expression sours further. “Ah. Of course. Our shared pointed ears.” She flounders a bit, trying to figure out what could have offended him so much, when Solas sets his plate aside and leans forward, clasping his hands in his lap. “Yet most Dalish clans do not share your… noble sentiment. They only see flat-ears and misguided children who have turned their backs on what the Dalish consider to be true elvhen culture.”

“Most?” Ariala asks, barking a laugh. “Solas, how many Dalish clans have you even met? And uh, by the way, you were the one who said the Dalish were ‘children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times.’” Solas inhales, his eyes flashing in the firelight, and she arches an eyebrow at him.

When he says nothing, she sighs. “Solas, I am fully aware that certain Dalish can be absolute asses. I am fully aware that there are Dalish who spend their lives never talking to people who don’t wear vallaslin, and look down on anyone who have no interest in spending their lives in forests. Just as you are fully aware that there are Dalish who trade openly with humans, and welcome city elves into their clans, and free elves who had been captured by slavers. You can’t judge an entire group of people based on a single interaction, okay? That gets people killed.”

Solas stays silent, though when he turns his head to glare at some spot on the ground she can see his clenched jaw playing shadows on his cheek. “I see,” he says at last, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You make an excellent point.”

Ariala waits, but he says nothing else. After a moment, she returns to her nug, almost completely skinned. The fire is dying; she reaches out to toss another log onto it. “If you want,” she says, “I’ll take your watch. You can go sleep.”

Solas furrows his brow. “But then you will have double watch,” he says. “This one, and then the last.”

“Yeah, I know.” She shrugs. “But I have work to do.”

Solas purses his lips and returns to his tent, which is what she had expected of him. But she isn’t expecting him to return with a knife, and sit an arm’s length away from her. “Perhaps the work will go faster if it is shared,” he says. “Though I am equally ignorant of dressing fennecs and nugs as I am with elk and deer.”

Ariala smiles. “Never too late to learn,” she says. “Just let me finish this nug, and then we can start on some fennecs together; their fur will help you prepare for deer later on.” Once the nug is dressed and its meat set to the fire for leftovers, Ariala takes two fennecs and hands one to Solas. Side-by-side, she carefully shows him how to dress and skin them, paying careful attention to everything he does, offering gentle correction where needed. His hands are bloodied by the end of it, but his pale skin is golden in the firelight.

He has nice hands, she thinks. And forearms.

“You know what’s really good?” she tells him eventually, watching him reach into his third fennec’s body, feeling for the membrane that connects the heart and lungs to the chest cavity. Cut the membrane, and the guts can be pulled out with no fuss and minimal blood. Solas makes a sound, a hum of acknowledgement more than anything, and she says, “Pheasant liver seasoned with onions and pine nuts, and a pinch of salt.”

“That sounds disgusting,” he says, even as he cuts the membrane and pulls out the entrails. He’s a fast learner; the intestines aren’t even nicked, unlike the last two fennecs.

Ariala laughs. “Says you. You’ve never had it, I bet. Ever had wild baby onions before? Delicious. I’ll make it for you when we get back to Haven.”

Solas’s smile is faint, but there, a shadow against his face. “You truly do not need to do that.”

“Mm, now I think I actually will. Do you know how to pluck a pheasant? Or any bird?”

“No.”

Stranger and stranger. “Next time we get one, I’ll show you.”

It is long into the second watch—they had not woken Cassandra yet—when they finally finish dressing all of the small animals she’d killed over the course of the day. She sets the fennec fur and nugskin in separate piles, to be cleaned and tanned respectively, and glances down at the dried blood on her hands. No river nearby to wash it away.

Solas notices her looking down at her hands. “Please, Herald, allow me.” He offers her his hand and she settles back beside him, watching as he takes a clean tin cup that’s attached to his sack and filling it with ice water with a gesture. He pours it over her palms, careful to keep their hands from touching. Ariala watches in silence as he washes away the blood on her hands while ignoring the blood on his own.

When her hands are clean, she dries them with the hem of her tunic, offering him a small smile. One he returns, to her surprise; though it is small and tentative and closed-mouth, it is something. “Thanks,” she says.

“No. Thank you, Herald.”

“Please don’t call me that,” she says. “Just Ariala is fine.” She waits until Solas inclines his head, a silent acknowledgement, then offers a small smile. “And… anytime. Really.”

She’s surprised to realize that she means it.

The next day, she and Varric collectively take down six rams (she takes down four, and he finishes off what would have been her kills if given enough time), a perfect amount for some stew back at the village. Cassandra is strong enough to carry a ram over her shoulders, and they fashion a makeshift sled to drag a second back to the village. She also harvests as much embrium and elfroot as she can find, using Solas’s pack to hold it all until it’s bursting with bright white and orange flowers.

Ariala sends Cassandra and Varric back to get the other four rams and bring them back to the village. Solas moves to go with him, but she catches him by the sleeve of his shirt. He stiffens at once, his head whipping down to stare at her, and she notes the tension in his shoulders. Not used to being touched, then. She lets him go.

“Did you want to practice?” she asks, and the wariness in his eyes softens. He nods, kneeling beside her, helping her dress the deer and set up the gambrel. A second group of refugees set up their own gambrel and take the second ram. Ariala and Solas claim one of them, a doe, and work together to dress her, though Solas’s nose wrinkles at the smell of rumen, a fact that makes her smile privately to herself.

“I wished to apologize for my earlier rudeness,” Solas says, pitching his voice low so that the refugees will not overhear. He makes small cuts at the back leg joints, just as she had shown him, and begins peeling away the skin. The meat is fresh, as she’d known it would be: no smell of rot, no maggots, no green slime or discoloration. It’ll be the later rams they’ll have to worry about. Good thing it’s spring—not too hot yet. They’ll have some time before worrying about spoiling meat.

“Apology accepted,” she says. “I would also like to say that I have… not been the nicest to you. And I’m sorry for that. I’m not a great person when I get angry. I know that doesn’t excuse it, but—yeah. Sorry.”

“You take pride in your people. There is no shame in that.” He’s halfway down the abdomen, now, and doing an admirable job of keeping the hide in one piece. She says nothing, but stops him when he reaches the shoulders, taking the knife from him and showing him how to navigate the complicated joints. Once it’s skinned, she begins to take the premium cuts from the doe, handing off the cuts of venison to waiting hunters, who take it to the communal campfires that have been set up.

“You are doing good work here,” Solas notes, after they are given their own cuts of venison and onions and shooed away to rest. He’s wiping his hands clean with a damp rag, already stained from the blood that had been on her hands. “The Inquisition’s presence has only been here for a few days, but its actions have undoubtedly been noticed.”

“I’m just glad there’s something to help these people.” Ariala glances around at the clusters of refugees, farmers whose lands and homesteads had been burned, villagers who survived templar and mage attacks, those who had suffered due to the bandits taking advantage of the chaos. She shakes her head and sits down in the shade of a tree, its branches mostly bare save for a few early spring blossoms. Solas sits beside her. “It’s been a few weeks since the Breach opened and the queen still hasn’t sent anyone. It’s a disgrace. I’d heard shem governments were a mess, but honestly.”

“It is only in times of chaos that those of true worth make themselves known,” Solas says. She glances at him, but he is focusing on his meagre meal and watching the crowds. For what, she cannot say, but she remembers him kneeling in front of a wounded refugee and healing her broken leg, back when they had first arrived in the Hinterlands.

“You���ve done good work, too, Solas,” she says. His eyebrows raise, and his mouth opens to protest, but she cuts him off with a simple shake of her head. “No, I mean it. You’ve healed some of the wounded, and you helped fight off the Templars who were attacking these crossroads just a few days ago. You helped feed all these people when a few days ago they were starving and had nowhere to go.”

“Hah! You did most of the work. I helped very little.”

“No, actually, I think you’re good.” She pauses, then offers a cheeky smile when he glances at her. “For a beginner.”

He laughs, loud and delighted, followed immediately by a snorting chuckle she just knows she has to hear again. His shoulder bumps against hers, and he does not immediately pull away, even when he stops laughing and only shakes his head, a faint smile lingering around the corners of his mouth.

It feels like a truce.

Well.

She can live with that.

[galadrieljones]

Fic Writer’s Week, Day 5: Verbatim

Here are some of my favorite quotes, from my Solavellan long fic The Dead Season (I’m also going to tag some people to do this at the end, since it was sort of fun!!). Very light spoilers under the cut.

Most of my favorite lines from TDS, which I still remember fondly and still reread from time to time to get into the groove of my characters, are actually found in dialogue, so I thought I would just go ahead and quote my characters:

From Chapter 15: Stand-off in the Arbor Wilds (Bull talking to Solas after a fight with Sene, completely disarming, and basically nailing Solas’s entire persona to a T):

“Look, don’t ask me how I know," said Bull. "Maybe it’s the apostate thing. Makes you seem like sort of a...bad boy. And the serving girls, you’ve got a way with them. Especially the elves. You can tell a lot about a man based on how he treats the serving girls. You get them fawning, let them win a little bit, while still maintaining a certain…authority. You’ve got an ease about you, Solas. You deal with women as if you’ve been there plenty of times before. Not all men have that. Take the Commander, for example. Sexy, smart, but any time he tries talking to a woman, he’s so terrified he ends up tripping over his own dick.”

Solas found himself just staring at the Iron Bull. He wasn’t sure how they’d gotten on this topic, but for whatever reason it was working. His anger released. Now, he just felt sort of pleasantly numb around the edges. It was almost transcendent.

“You, though,” Bull went on, “you know the exact position of your dick at any given moment. How low it hangs, how it swings. You don't trip, Solas. You’re…smooth.”

From Chapter 56: Revasan (I loved writing this whole massive conversation, as Sene’s dad completely takes Solas for a ride. Off-balance Solas is very fun. This is just one of my favorite exchanges):

“You speak ancient elven?” [said Solas.]

“A great deal,” said Revasan. “Don't you?”

“Of course. But it is a rare talent.”

“Morrigan speaks it as well. Perhaps it is not as rare a talent as you thought." Rev was squeezing his eyes shut.

"No, I'm rather certain it's rare," said Solas. "Just more likely that we keep rare company."

“Anyway," said Revasan, shaking his head. He had completely shredded that matchbook by now. The matches laid out on the table one by one. "As I was saying."

"Right."

From Chapter 5: The Eye of Friendship (In which Sera asks Sene some questions about Solas’s manhood. Sera being Sera.):

“Bet he’s hiding a big one in those jammies, right? Solas’s great big staff.”

“Sera!”

“All right. Come off it. But be real. You ever notice how like, when we’re out, hunting Templars or whatever, how he'll conjure that great big fist thingy and punch them right in the tits? Or when he drops all those like, boulders from the sky? Or wherever. Makes the whole battlefield glow. Is that sort of like his prick?”

“A giant fist thingy punching people in the tits? Not entirely.”

From Chapter 28: The Art of Escape (After Sene runs off, and Cullen deftly explains to Solas why he cannot go after her by himself. The Cullen/Solas dynamic is one of my favorites to write, because Cullen knows exactly who he is, and he always manages to hold his own with him, even if in a very self-deprecating manner.):

“After our success in Val Royeaux, you have become celebrity,” said Cullen, “a high profile target just like Sene. This is not to mention the fact that you are a friend to many here and an indispensable asset to the Inquisition. You invite me to try and stop you, that is your right, but I must ask you now to withdraw said invitation from the table, because believe me when I say that I will have no choice but to accept, even if it’s just to cover my own ass. Because if I let you go alone, and something should happen to you, Sene might literally kill me. So, you see, Solas, I cannot and will not let you do this.”

Solas sighed, staring at the Commander, his resolve shifting, weakening. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “That is—I will be fine, Commander,” he said, shaking his head. “Please, trust me.”

“I do trust you, Solas. But it is my job to protect you. Let me do my job.”

Solas squeezed his eyes shut, resigned. “Fair enough.”

From Chapter 60: Pioneers (In which Solas’s mother is teaching Mythal how to fish, because Lea is just very...funny? Humor is her armor and also her sword.):

“Night fishing,” said Lea. She wore a hat, even still, and she was crunching on a raw carrot. She had taught Mythal how to tie the fish hooks to the end of the line, and how to pick the right bait. “This is the best kind of fishing. All the weird, old bottom feeders come up when the moon is hot. They look for the big lake lightning bugs, and the idiot birds have all washed into their nests till dawn, so there’s no competition. It is a long-kept secret in the fishing world. Or, at least it was nine thousand years ago.” She laughed.

From Chapter 39: There Goes the Redhead (When Morrigan asks Mythal how she died, because Mythal is so dramatic, and I love Morrigan’s voice. She manages to find the comedic irony in even the most morbid circumstances.):

“[...]This story is full of wolves, Morrigan, just not the one you think. Can’t you see? If I tell you, it's going to ruin your evening.”

“We’re trapped in a dungeon,” said Morrigan. “I am separated from my child by stone legions of walls and possibly axe murderers. My evening is already ruined.”

“Yes, your child,” said Mythal, becoming dreamy. “I never got one of those."

From Chapter 49: The Treehouse (Solas’s last negotiation with the Viddasala, because this is just very Solas--the gloves, the offering of a choice, collected as hell, yet scary? Also Thom, having seen it all before, is just laughing at this point):

The Viddasala, in any case, turned her attention to Fenris. “This is your doing, elf.”

He stood, lean, blood-spattered, hands behind his back. “You’re incredibly daft, given your mantle.”

“I should have killed you.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“This situation is very simple,” said Solas, dropping his gloves to the floor. He unraveled the linen strips from his knuckles, flexed his fingers. “We have taken out your reinforcements. You are all but alone. I am here now, on behalf of the Inquisition, to offer you a choice.”

Thom chuckled. He removed his helmet. He tossed it to the stone with a huge clang. “Here we go.”

Mythal, in general (ie: my dear drama queen who speaks deep truths):

“Youth is an imposter.”

And last but not least, from Chapter 45: Lavellan Family Values (In which Sene’s father is grilling her about Solas, and Sene proceeds to taunt him in a rather unsavory fashion--because, the Lavellans.):

“So," said Revasan, straightening up in his chair. "He is a tall rift mage who punches red lyrium abominations in the face and walks in dreams." He looked to Sene. "What else is there?”

“What else would you like to know?” said Sene, sticking her fork into the piece of fish on her plate, mashing it into a paste. She was not very good at diplomacy. "That he is a thirty-something apostate who took my virginity? Or shall we continue to discuss the matter of his height and physical aggression? Either one is fine with me.”

Ellas laughed so hard at this, he spit a bit of wine on the tablecloth. Terys’s jaw nearly fell out of his head.

“Oh, Isene,” said Rasha. She put her head in her hands.

Give me your fave quotes, from your own writing!! @thevikingwoman​ @tel-abelas-mofo​ @ladylike-foxes​ @ladydracarysao3​ @kaoruyogi​ @ladydracarysao3​ @redinkofshame​ @amburuthings​ @buttsonthebeach​ @fadedforyou​ @katalyna-rose​ @5ftgarden​ @shift-shaping​ and anyone else!! Please tag me if you do <3

[liaragaming]

All Hallow's Eve

Inktober, Prompt 15. Thedas Halloween. For @dahalloween​

Word count: 1,127.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know about All Hallow’s Eve,” says Dorian.

“I suppose I did know of it,” Solas tells him, not looking up from his book. “Just not that it had a name… or that it occurred every year.”

Dorian shakes his head and turns to Lavellan. “This is what happens when you live as a hermit. We’re lucky he’s so civilized.” He walks away, still shaking his head.

“You really didn’t know?” Lavellan asks.

Solas stares at her. “You think I’d feign ignorance to give Dorian further opportunity to antagonize me?”

She laughs. “I suppose not. I just… one would think you’d have least seen the sky change color.”

“As I told Dorian, I have. I just didn’t realize the cause of it… or that it happened every year. Time takes on a different perspective when you… live alone.”

She cocks her head. “The Fadewalker didn’t realize the sky changing colors was due to spirits pressing against the Veil?”

Solas shakes his head. “I originally thought it a natural phenomenon through some projection of light. Spirits press against and crossover the Veil quite commonly, and no one’s ever noticed any strange color variations.”

“But you’re researching it now?”

He returns to his book. “Spirits press against the Veil in physical places where strong emotion lingers, most commonly war zones, which reverberate great sorrow or anger. The most common folk would notice about these areas is a slight tingling on their skin. That spirits would press the Veil in such large numbers as to change the sky colors and do so according to a time table goes against every way I know spirits to behave.”

“You must have a theory,” she says.

He sighs and turns several pages. “Some catastrophic event must have occurred, one that affected the entire world. And the devastation of that event is still felt on its anniversary, even though history may have forgotten it.”

“How could something like that be forgotten?”

He scoffs. “What hasn’t history forgotten? Unless you believe the Chantry tale that All Hallow’s Eve occurs on the anniversary of the first darkspawn.” He tosses his book to the floor. “Useless.”

“Can I help?” she suggests.

Solas shakes his head and chooses another book from his rather large pile. “I’d be irritable company right now, vhenan. Besides, a night during which spirits press the Veil? I’m sure some of our companions need you more than I.”

Sera has drawn the curtains over her windows and constructed a blanket fort in her room, complete with several pillows. A book and her bow sit at her feet.

“Two fold.” She gestures at the blankets forming a tent around her. “When the crazy stuff starts happening, I won’t see a thing.” She points in Lavellan’s direction. “And if any demon comes through that door, I’ll stick ‘em.”

“You plan to stay awake the whole night?”

“Yeah,” says Sera, as though it’s a stupid question. “Normal people don’t sleep during All Hallow’s Eve.”

Downstairs, The Iron Bull has decided to drink himself stupid. “Demons can’t bother me if I can’t care they’re here.”

Varric has decided to join him, though more out of entertainment than fear. “It’s a lot of weird,” he says. “I didn’t know what to do with the changing colors in the sky before there was a giant hole in it. Cards and drinks, I can handle.”

Blackwall shares his sentiment and has dragged Cole to join him at the table.

“You won’t be watching the festivities?” Lavellan asks.

Cole shakes his head. “Spirits pressing, wanting, yearning, desperate, trying to understand something they can’t. I don’t know how to help them. It’s more distressing from this side. I… I think I’ll just play cards?”

“I’ll drink to that!” says Bull, and he finishes off his tankard.

She leaves the men to their antics and catches Scout Harding outside the tavern. “Any concerns about tonight?”

Harding shakes her head. “Cullen has taken a regiment to Haven to deal with any demons that might break through the Breach. We’ve fortified areas with known rifts. And Cassandra is organizing a group here, just in case. Leliana’s had some trouble with agents who refuse to be out during the night, but–”

Lavellan laughs. “I meant personally.”

“Oh!” she blushes. “Well, no, Your Worship. I mean, the Breach does give one pause, but… my mother and I have watched the event every year. I’m not about to miss it now. I know she’ll be watching too.”

“No concern about demons?”

“My mother and I have never encountered any. Of course, the Breach might change that but… What about you? How do the Dalish treat All Hallow’s Eve?”

She hesitates. “The Dalish believe the Leal’Enansal carries a great blessing. It is the one night of the year when our gods are briefly able to commune with us. The entire clan gathers to watch. It is said any clan visited by demons has been deemed unfavorable and must make reparations until the following year. Likewise, any individuals that encounter demons when the clan did not must spend a year in repentance.”

“Oh,” says Harding. “So, may I ask if your clan… ever encounter any demons?”

She smiles. “We did not. Though there was a group of brothers who snuck off during the festivities and came back with quite the story to tell… and a year of service to live out.”

Lavellan and Dorian join Vivienne on her balcony, the best place in Skyhold to view the sunset while they wait for the sky to darken. Dorian has placed three wine glasses on the banister. He holds a fourth in his hand.

“I’m surprised, Vivienne,” he says. “We all know you don’t like spirits. I thought for sure you’d be staying inside.”

She picks up the glass closest to her. “When the lion rears its head, my dear, one does not take its eyes from it, lest one wishes to tempt death.”

“Well said,” says Solas as he joins them.

“Did you find anything?” Lavellan asks him.

He shakes his head. “Theories, vhenan. Theories and no resources to verify them.”

She’ll ask him about those theories later. For now, she hands him a glass of wine and takes comfort in the arm he places around her waist.

A cry of awe goes up below them from the watching crowd in the courtyard brave enough to risk the event. The sky bursts in alternating colors of green, pink, red, orange, yellow, and all manner of colors in between.

“Fascinating,” Solas says in wonder.

Vivienne tsks. “I heard the most curious thing. Did our Fade expert really not know about All Hallow’s Eve?”

Solas sighs and ignores her.

Lavellan leans her head on his shoulder, feeling truly blessed.

What if Thedas had a Halloween? Turns out, it does (called Funalis and is a remembrance day for the dead). I’m glad I didn’t look that up beforehand, or I may have never written this. Maybe Thedas can have two Halloweens?

Leal’Enansal – is taken from Project Elvhen and literally means “night blessing.”

Read all prompt stories: [AO3] [Tumblr]

[heartslogos]

the declassified texts of the inquisition’s elite [133]

(416):  i asked her if she was sure that she was ready to do it and she replied with "come at me bro" - (226):  It’s easy for me to be professional, the tough part is finding the perfect amount of bitchy undertone -

Josephine laughs, as she relays Bull’s text to Mahanon. “It’s a very Ellana response. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”

“I’ll be there for dinner,” Mahanon says, “It’s truly unfortunate how my dearest sister and my dearest soon to be brother in law decided to have their wedding ceremony at the worst possible time for me. Namely when I’m in the middle of a flight back to Skyhold. It’s almost like they didn’t want me to be there.”

“Well, Mahanon, maybe they didn’t want you to cry.”

Mahanon’s quiet for a moment and Josephine has a brief thought that maybe she’d teased him a little too much. She and Mahanon aren’t that close, after all. Polite and on fairly good terms, yes, but they don’t work together very often and mostly they’re friends with each other’s friends.

“Well then why would they have invited you?” Mahanon replies. “I’m fairly certain you can do the crying for the both of us, as well as the general teasing.”

Josephine smiles as she checks herself in the mirror. She’d changed out of the blouse and skirt she was wearing to work into a nice dress, did a quick touch up on her make up, and fixed a few strands of hair escaping from her updo. It’s simple and not really overly fancy or formal. But that’s what Ellana and the Iron Bull had wanted, so that’s what they’re getting.

Josephine’s stomach flutters with excitement. Her phone chirps again as the Iron Bull sends her another update. She glances down at it, switching between her phone’s screens to get to her messages.

“Do you think that she’ll get so excited that she’ll drag her fiancé off to elope on their elopement?” Mahanon asks, the sound of him moving rustling over the speaker.

“Well. I’ll need to update their paperwork for them either way,” Josephine points out. “I’d hope that they’d let me be part of it though.”

“Of all the unexpected things to come out of the Inquisition I never thought you and the Iron Bull becoming best friends would be one.”

“I’m sure that anyone you ask would say the same. Did Ellana text you with what she wants to eat afterwards? I should be ready to place an order but I haven’t gotten any answers on that topic back yet.”

“I’ll handle it,” Mahon replies. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick it up on my way back from the airport. Can you send me the address for the bakery you ordered their cake from? I saved it to the wrong phone.”

“Sure, I’ll forward the receipt to you as well. Work email?”

“I have the receipt. I printed that one and saved it. Are you sure Leliana hasn’t found out yet?”

“Trust me, if she has she would have done something by now. I mean. We’ll know for sure come Monday once I complete the updated paperwork. But I am entirely certain she doesn’t. And if she did, it isn’t like they’re keeping it a secret. They just didn’t want it to be a big deal.”

“They also wanted the insurance benefits.”

“That too.” - “I’m surprised that the hard part is the undertone for her,” Herah blows on her steaming bowl of soup before taking a tentative sip. “Okay, this is just magma in a bowl. How are you doing this?”

Mahanon’s eyes are watering slightly as he continues to drink down spoon after spoon of steaming liquid. “Strength of will.”

“Strength of will isn’t going to save your vulnerable flesh from scalding,” Herah mutters. “Are you even able to taste anything?”

“Strength of will,” Mahanon repeats emphatically.

“The art of bitchy undertone is a science,” Edric says, watching the two of them struggle with their soup. He spears at his salad, looking over to make sure Cole’s actually eating and not subtly transferring the food on his plate to other people. “You should know that Adaar. Mahanon’s not questioning it.”

“Mahanon doesn’t care enough to question it,” Herah points out. “Anyway I’d think that for someone like Leliana she’d be long past that specific struggle. I imagine that in her head there’s an index for the exact ratio of undertone of any kind needed to pull off any interaction in any situation or context.”

“It’s an art, it’ll never be as formulaic as that,” Edric protests, shaking his head, “You have to understand that part first, Adaar.”

“You literally just said it was a science.”

“Science and art have some overlap.”

“Yeah, but winging it isn’t one of them.”

“It’s not winging it, it’s a careful test and examination based on prior experience. It’s careful. It’s passionate. It’s a work of many years and cumulative risks.”

“You’re just saying bullshit now,” Herah scowls. “None of that makes any sense. You’re just trying to sound important and all that.”

“I am important and all that. I’m paying for lunch. Cole, it’s not going to magically teleport into you by you staring at it. Come on, you’ve got to at least push it around the plate a little.”

Cole dutifully picks up his spoon, and then starts mixing his salad around. He manages to scoop up a cherry tomato and puts it in his mouth.

“Alright, here,” Herah says, switching her still steaming soup for Cole’s salad. “Come on kid, eat. I know you don’t feel hungry but you will later.”

“That’s what the snack bag is for,” Cole mumbles, “It’s for eating when you get hungry.”

“We didn’t pack you a snack bag so you could skip meals, Cole. That’s for if you’ve already eaten and you still get hungry.”

“Oh.” Cole puts his spoon into the bowl of soup. “I should eat this even if I’m not hungry?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I’d get sick if I did that.”

“That’s — that’s a different problem. If you feel ill while eating it then don’t do it. But you haven’t eaten anything since a slice of toast this morning and you’re probably hungry right now.”

“Oh. Alright. Thank you for this food, Edric.”

“You’re welcome — blow on it. Don’t be like Lavellan. If it hurts to eat don’t do it, just wait for it to cool down enough that you can put it in your mouth without feeling pain.”

[bythexdreadwolf]

DAY 03: QUILL

FARANNI LAVELLAN//LIAWYN LAVELLAN. FARANNI LAVELLAN//SOLAS. Word Count: 1734. 

Small growls of frustration filled the library as she stared desperately at a blank piece of parchment, trying and failing to magic words out of thin air in the same fashion the library regulars around her seemed to be doing with ease. Writing had never been her strong suit. When she’d been with her clan, she’d only been taught the basics of literacy because Liawyn had been desperate for someone to practice with, and in the time since she’d learned a little more thanks to tutoring from Dorian and Solas and Finn. Still, she was more articulate with a bow and arrow than she was with quill and ink, and being bad at something served enough to frustrate her, especially today.

It had been more than half a year since Liawyn had been killed in the explosion at the Conclave. Faranni had initially planned to celebrate, so to speak, by riddling a defenseless straw dummy with as many arrows as she could find. Then, if she didn’t feel better, maybe she would craft or buy more and send those flying as well. Anything to take her mind off the sting of loss that still burned just beneath her skin. Anything to make it go away. Would it ever go away? How many Red Templars would she have to kill before she could sleep without being plagued by nightmares?

Would the cycle of revenge ever satisfy itself?

This whole writing escapade had started with Dorian and Finn ambushing her at the shooting range, one on each side. Finn had mentioned before that her blind rage wasn’t exactly healthy, but had never complained about the fact that the same rage was what got things accomplished in the field. She could go berserk better than the best bruisers, mowing down unarmored enemies with a downpour of well placed shots. But perhaps the fact that her anger hadn’t died down had the Inquisitor worried. Josephine had mentioned that her temper didn’t exactly sit well with the nobles, and Finn couldn’t very well expect Solas to babysit her every time they had company.

Or maybe he was just being a good friend. In her heart, Faranni wanted to believe that she’d made friends beyond Solas. She wanted to believe that Finn had her best interests in mind, that he had her back, but the black pit of anxiety in her stomach screamed otherwise.

“Riddling templars with arrows is all well and good and you’re an excellent shot,” Finn had said, handing her an ornate box that housed the quill she now spun in her fingers, “But Dorian and I think it might help with your emotional constipation to write some of it down. It’s supposed to be...I don’t know, therapeutic, I guess. And it’ll help with your writing.”

They two of them led her back to the library, set her up with some parchment, and told her to write about her feelings. A letter to Deshanna or Sorrel. Perhaps to her parents? Dorian had even, after they wrestled her bow away from her, recommended trying to write a letter to Liawyn. “And burn it after,” He’d said, “Or keep it. Whatever makes you feel happy.”

And so she sat, unable to escape because Finn had stationed Dorian right around the corner. Write something, she told herself, twirling the quill between her fingers, It’ll be good for you. It’s what Lia would’ve down.

What Lia would’ve done.

It’s been a bit over six months since they sent you away. You smiled when Deshanna gave you the news and said you’d never really fit in with the clan anyway. Too much curiosity. Too much of an interest in the ways of the outside world. Maintaining and conveying our history wasn’t enough for you. When you told me the news, that you were honored to be sent, I told you that if you left I’d never accept you back. I said you should never come back. I was angry and I didn’t mean it literally but it seems like you took it literally anyway.

For all your cleverness, you always were sort of airheaded.

Her hands shook. Vision blurring with tears as memories that had been locked away bubbled to the surface. But still, she had to continue. This is good, she told herself. Facing these memories was good. A good way to honor Liawyn. And she didn’t have a choice in the matter regardless.

I came to Haven looking for you. Instead I found the Inquisition. I think you would have fit in faster than I did. So many different races and cultures working together - it would’ve been a sort of paradise for you. All held together by a human mage named Finn. He let me stay and in a lot of ways, he’s been looking out for me ever since. I wonder if the two of you would’ve gotten along. Sometimes I wonder, what if you had been the one to survive and he had been the one to die. I know it’s a morbid thought but if you’d been in his position…

What would you have done?

Would you have shared your optimism with the rest of the Inquisition? Would you have brightened their outlooks on life, in the same way you brightened mine? Would you have shared your beautiful, colorful soul with them, eager to learn everything they could teach you? Would you, six months after the explosion of the Conclave, sat down to write a letter to me?

Would I have read it? Or would I still be so blinded by anger over your leaving that I would’ve-

The quill fell out of her hands, body shaking with grief over her actions and her loss. Faranni pressed her back against the chair, trying to put as much distance between herself and that damned letter as possible. She drew her knees into her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs - effectively made herself as small as possible and wept.

For what she had done. For what she could have done. For what she had lost.

It seemed like hours. Hours that neither Finn nor Dorian came to find her. Hours that no one came to her rescue while anxiety mingled with sorrow to form something inexplicable. Something that told her, loudly, that she should die. She would deserve it, after all. She had no right to be angry over Liawyn’s death when she’d been the cause of it. She had no right to be here, fighting at Finn’s side, when she frequently imagined a reality where he was dead. She had no right. She had no right. She had no reason to live-

Her spiral was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, gentle yet firm. It pulled her back into reality. The reality where Finn was alive and Liawyn was gone. The reality where she had been given a chance to exact her revenge. The reality where she was the only one left to offer herself forgiveness. When she looked up, she was met with grey eyes. Wise. Familiar. And full of sympathy.

“Breathe.” Solas told her.

She did as instructed. A breath in and then a breath out. And another. And another. And another until finally she managed to release her legs and let them slump back down to the floor. “Why are you alone?” He asked her.

“They-” Her voice still shook, but she did her best to appear strong. Solas knew otherwise. He knew of her fear, but it was nice to pretend, “They thought it would help to write about my feelings. Instead of wallowing in my anger. I think maybe Finn was afraid it might consume me. I think maybe he was trying to help.”

“A wise notion,” Solas agreed, kneeling down next to her. His hand never left her shoulder, “But I think it is unwise that they left you alone to do it.”

“I couldn’t write while they were watching,” Faranni confessed, “So Finn asked Dorian to keep an eye on me, but-”

“If I had not seen you, I would not have known something was wrong either.” He admitted, “You told me what Dorian and Finn think you need. Tell me what you think you need.”

“Quiet. I thought I needed to shoot something, but I shoot things every day,” She watched him nod in agreement, a feeling of validation and something else pooling in the pit of her stomach, “I need quiet. I need-”

“The dead cannot forgive the living.” It was harsh. Too harsh. Spoken strong enough that she flinched when they were said, “But from what you have told me of Liawyn, I don’t believe forgiveness is needed. I think she would have been happy to see you surrounded by people who care about you and I think she would have been honored to have you fighting for her.”

“People who care about me?”

“Of course,” Solas rose to his feet, coaxing her up with him, “Do you think Finn and Dorian did this to torture you?”

“Well, no, I-” She steaded herself against him, warmth spreading through her body where it had been cold just moments ago, “I thought Finn wanted to reign me in.”

“I think if Finn had the chance, he would unleash you upon every noble to step foot in Skyhold. I think, given the chance, he would encourage you to heal in whatever healthy way you deemed necessary. Isn’t that right, Inquisitor?”

The tips of Faranni’s ears went red when she realized Finn was watching them, leaning against a nearby bookcase and smirking like the smug little shit he was. Immediately, she shoved away from Solas, the blush creeping further into her freckled cheeks as she went to swipe her letter off the table. Solas rubbed his shoulder where she’d shoved him, feigning injury, and Finn laughed, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I know it might not be your way of doing things, but I prefer to keep my personal matters personal.” She said proudly, turning to hand him the damp piece of parchment she’d snatched off the table, “I wrote the letter.”

“You don’t have to give it to me.”

“Then...what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Like Dorian said, keep it. Or we can burn it.”

“Yeah,” The thought of burning her pain, her anger, her shame, bright a smile to her face, “Let’s burn it.”

[ma-sulevin]

It Has Damned Us All

Rating: T

Word Count: 5527

Relationship: Implied Inquisitor Lavellan/Male OC

Summary: Cullen turns down Cassandra’s offer to leave the Templar Order and lead the Inquisition’s army. He doesn’t want to leave his men behind, doesn’t want to abandon them to their fates in Kirkwall. He doesn’t know he’s sealing his own fate in the process

Read on AO3.

He turns down her offer.

He can’t leave Kirkwall like this, with blood mages and abominations still running wild in the wake of Anders’ attack on the Chantry. The templars are still rebuilding in the city, and he’s the only high-ranking officer still alive.

If he leaves, who will take over? Many of the templars still in the city are too cruel, sympathizers to Meredith even in her madness. If he abandons Kirkwall, he won’t be able to protect its citizens or its mages.

And he does want to protect its mages.

Even after all of this, after yet another attack by a mage, he can’t turn around and blame all mages any longer. So many in the Gallows simply cowered under Meredith’s assault. They didn’t turn to blood magic to defend themselves, they didn’t summon demons to fight the templars.

They just… gave up.

When he was a child, before he knew anything about the Order, all he wanted to do was protect people. Being a templar seemed like the best way to do that. It would give him the abilities he needed, the training he wanted, to be a warrior and a protector.

A savior.

Kinloch Hold changed him, made him less than he wanted to be. Too long has he allowed his hate and fear rule him. Meredith took that and made it more, made it worse, deepened it until it consumed him and he could barely even look at a mage without white-hot rage filling his vision.

It helped him hunt down abominations around Kirkwall. It did not help him protect the mages in the Gallows.

One of the tranquil arrives at Cullen’s office door with his daily draught of lyrium, dipping her head respectfully. She still has a scar across the right side of her face from the fighting, a wound left too long before a mage healed it. He frowns slightly, but takes the lyrium from her.

She disappears from the room as he stares at the blue liquid. He can feel it, even through the glass, and he hates it. He hates being tied to it, hates how it could be used against him should he anger a superior.

He’s the Knight-Commander now. He’ll never tug the lyrium leash of one of his templars.

He tilts his head back and downs the draught in one swallow, the metallic taste making his eyes sting. It tastes like home, like duty, like he should never have considered stopping it in the first place.

—

The Gallows is almost rebuilt. It’s still mostly empty, but some mages have returned to help. Bethany Hawke has returned as well, though Cullen was certain she would leave Kirkwall with her older sister.

Maybe he’s been wrong about the Hawkes all this time.

He stands outside of the tower, and if he doesn’t look at the statue of Meredith in the courtyard, he can almost pretend like everything’s perfect. He can pretend that the attack didn’t happen, that he’s just been promoted to Knight-Commander because of his skill and dedication and not because no one else was able to take the position.

It’s difficult to remember why he’s here, why he’s in charge of a whole city’s worth of templars and mages. It’s difficult because the lyrium makes his mind fuzzy, little details disappearing into the blue haze.

He was afraid this would happen. There were whispers, of course, of templars who grew too infirm to do their jobs anymore, who were shipped off to easy Circles where they wouldn’t be expected to actually fight or supervise or do anything more than stay alive.

He always thought that it was because they just grew too old. The idea that it might be the lyrium …

The tranquil arrives with his daily draught.

He forgets why he was upset in the first place. He doesn’t need to be standing in the courtyard. He has paperwork to do. Mages to supervise. Recruits to train.

—

“Lord Seeker Lucius!” Cullen stands quickly, nearly tipping his chair back in the process, and salutes the man standing before him. The Lord Seeker greets Cullen with a grim smile, the exposed skin from his receding hairline glimmering in the candlelight as he sits.

Cullen sits back down, trying to tidy his workspace by stacking reports on top of each other, capping his inkwell, and straightening the quills scattered over the desktop.

Lucius smile stays cold as he says, “Knight-Commander. You may relax. This is more of a… social visit than business.” Cullen’s shoulders relax only a fraction, his deference to the Seekers embedded in him since he was a recruit. “You have done a good job in Kirkwall since that unpleasantness with the apostate abomination.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Cullen doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t feel like he’s done anything special in Kirkwall. His templars have helped rebuild some of the city, but it isn’t enough. It will likely never be enough.

“I hope the restoration efforts have been going well,” Lucius continues, his tone conversational. Cullen blinks, his only outward showing of surprise, and nods. Lucius’ little smile grows wider, showing more teeth. “Excellent. You’ve had no more trouble with the local chantry?”

Cullen shakes his head, and it’s like the motion shakes something free in his brain. He leans forward, placing his elbows on his desk, and resists the urge to rub his forehead. “There have been no problems, Lord Seeker. If you’ll allow–”

“Good.” Lucius raises his voice slightly to cut Cullen off, and Cullen bites his tongue to silence himself. “Knight-Commander, I’ve brought a new form of lyrium I would like you to try. It can replace your daily doses, for now.”

“New lyrium?” Cullen wants to tilt his head to the side, run his hands through his hair, but he doesn’t. He must look in control in front of the Lord Seeker, if no one else. The Seekers of Truth must never know that he’s been plagued with migraines, memory loss, disorientation.

They’ll replace him with someone who won’t be as kind to the mages. Kirkwall can’t handle that, not now. Not after everything.

Lucius nods. “It’s more… potent, it will enable you to take less and still feel the same benefit.” He pauses, studying the shadows under Cullen’s eyes, the written reminders still scattered over his desk. “There will be fewer negative effects, as well.”

The tranquil appears in the door, pauses to salute Cullen, and passes him a vial of lyrium.

Except it doesn’t look the same. It’s a smaller bottle, the liquid inside a red color instead of its usual blue. It… still sounds like lyrium, but more , somehow. He isn’t sure what to make of it.

His body wants it. His mouth waters, his headache immediately worsens, his thumb traces the edge of the stopper before he realizes it’s made the decision.

His mind, though… “It’s red.”

Lucius raises one eyebrow. “It’s part of the alchemical process to make it stronger. Helps keep it separate, nothing more.”

Cullen nods and pops the cork out of the bottle.

The moment the lyrium touches his tongue, his body relaxes. Did he think it sounded wrong? Nothing’s ever sounded more right. The metallic tang of it is perfection, bliss. His headache disappears, the tense muscles in his back and shoulders relax completely until he nearly slumps over. When he opens his eyes, his vision seems to be more clear than it was a moment ago.

Lucius smile seems real now, stretched almost to the point of pain across his face.

“Perfect.”

—

The templars are heading to Therinfal Redoubt. It’s a long way from Kirkwall, but the Lord Seeker sent a missive ordering Cullen to join them there. He pulls the templars still in Kirkwall together and they leave the city as one, buying out a whole ship and traveling together across the waking sea.

They day they are to arrive at the fortress, the lyrium runs out. They’re all on the red stuff now, the other templars having abandoned them once the Conclave was destroyed, and the lack of more red lyrium makes Cullen’s skin crawl. He doesn’t like being without a backup. What if something happens and they’re delayed?

He urges the men still in his command to a faster speed, pushing them until they arrive at Therinfal several hours earlier than they were expected. They’re greeted by the templars already there, shown to their rooms and told when they’ll receive their next draught of lyrium.

They try to separate Cullen’s men by who’s on the red and who’s on the blue.

Lord Seeker Lucius claps Cullen on the back when he realizes all Cullen’s men are on the red. He’s done a better job than the other Knight-Commanders in converting his men.

All of the Knight-Captains have been converted, but many of the Knight-Templars are lagging behind.

Cullen has done a good job.

He looks Lucius in his eyes and smiles.

—

Cullen wakes early, earlier than usual. His skin is crawling, his mouth dry. He needs his daily draught, but if he’s honest it’s becoming more than daily. It seems like every day he wants it earlier, or he wants more.

The red was supposed to make him better, not worse.

Even the thought of switching back from the red to the blue makes his head pound and his stomach church. The thought of not taking lyrium at all?

He shudders to think of it, literally shivers, gooseflesh breaking out over his skin.

He can’t go back to sleep, so he stands and walks in tight circles around his room. It’s larger than the one his soldiers are sharing, one fit for a Commander, but it still makes him feel trapped. He pulls his trousers on with the intention of leaving his room, but he stops with one hand on the door and sighs.

His head feels heavy on his shoulders, and he brings his free hand up to his face. His fingers scratch through a week’s worth of scruff, rasping unpleasantly, and he realizes he should probably shave before he leaves his room. Shave and dress, put his armor back on, sharpen his sword.

Just because he’s anxious doesn’t mean he can forget his position. He’s one of the highest ranking templars here. He needs to put his best foot forward, as his mother used to say. Show the younger templars what they have to look forward to becoming.

He steps to the small dressing table and peers into the mirror perched on top. He has to blink hard to clear his vision as he stares into the bright square, and he scrubs his fingers across his eyes before working up a lather to shave his beard.

He tries to watch his movements as he works, but his eyes are constantly drawn back to themselves in the mirror. He didn’t realize he’s so tired–his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, looking for all the world like he hasn’t slept in weeks. The shadows under his eyes are deep, his face gaunt under the scraggly beard.

Shaving is methodical, relaxing, and by the time he splashes off his face he feels a little calmer. He leans closer to the mirror to check on his eyes–when he was just a recruit, he burst a vessel in one of his eyes and the white had been blood red for weeks. He doesn’t remember that happening to him, but maybe…

No. It isn’t the same dark red as blood. It’s lighter, almost reflective. It reminds him of…

Impossible.

A knock at the door makes him jump, and he turns to open it quickly. One of the Knight-Captains who greeted him the day before is standing there, a vial of red lyrium in his hands. It’s a little larger than the ones Cullen’s been taking, and he immediately reaches for it.

He doesn’t even question why it’s bigger, why it’s earlier in the day, or why this man is delivering it.

He just pops the top off of the vial and downs it.

It makes the buzzing under his skin go away.

He is content.

—

“The Herald! The Herald of Andraste is here!”

Cullen turns completely to see who’s speaking, but doesn’t see the messenger through the throng of moving templars. They’re scattering, some going to see the Herald in person, but most disappearing into the fortress to get away from her.

She’s here to gather templars to help her seal the Breach, Cullen knows that well enough. Not all of the templars think this is a good idea, siding with the heretic who killed the Divine.

Cullen isn’t sure what to think. Maybe she killed the Divine, but maybe she didn’t. Maybe she really is just an accident of circumstance, and aren’t templars supposed to defeat magic turned against man? That’s what the breach is , more than anything else.

Magic turned against man.

So he follows the templars down to the courtyard, seeking the Herald out. There’s already a crowd of nobles and templars milling about in the courtyard when he finds his way there, and he stands near the wall to watch.

When the Herald finally appears, he almost doesn’t notice her. She’s small, an elf of all things, and it’s hard to see her through the crowd, but as the sun breaks through the clouds to fall on her golden hair, he feels his heart tighten in his chest.

She turns, then, and the motion moves her hair to the side and exposes the delicate point of her ear. Her golden eyes search the gathered crowd and for one heart-stopping moment, Cullen thinks she’s seen him.

But she turns away from him, looking back at the templar leading her through the courtyard. Cullen recognizes him, vaguely, as Delrin Barris. He knows the man from somewhere, but it’s been long enough since his morning dose of the red that he’s beginning to go fuzzy again, so he just shakes his head.

He follows at a distance, watching as she acquiesces to the Lord Seeker’s inane flag ritual. Cullen can see her trying to decide whether or not it’s a good idea, but a taller blond human whispers into her ear, and she nods decisively.

When she disappears into one of the fortress’ inner rooms, Cullen only hesitates a moment before following. Most of the nobles she brought with her are staying out in the courtyard, complaining about everything they can think of to be offended by, so the Herald is only with her companions and Barris.

Not that Cullen thinks she’s in trouble, certainly. But backup with the Lord Seeker couldn’t hurt. And the Lucius likes Cullen, doesn’t he? He always seems pleased with what Cullen is doing, proud of his progress. Maybe he’ll listen when Cullen sides with the Herald to help close the Breach.

He slips into the little room behind them, standing against the back wall with the other templars. This close, he can see more clearly the Herald and her companions. The human man, blond like the Herald, is standing almost too close to her, his hands resting uneasily on his sword.

Cullen glances around the room, but the Lord Seeker is nowhere to be found. Isn’t he supposed to meet with the Herald? She did his ritual, so surely…

Somehow the noble following them around goads the even-tempered Barris into a disagreement, and Cullen narrows his eyes at the display. He doesn’t disagree with Barris’ words, and the noble certainly should be deferring to the Herald… shouldn’t he?

And why is Barris in charge of showing the Inquisition around Therinfal Redoubt when there are more senior officers ready and available? If the Lord Seeker is intending to help seal the Breach, shouldn’t the Inquisition and the Herald be given the highest honor possible?

Cullen’s skin starts to itch again. Not like something is irritating him from the outside, more like something on the inside is trying to get out. It’s uncomfortable, and it hurts, and suddenly his tongue is dry and thick in his mouth for want of the red. He shifts in his armor, the metal clinking quietly, and the templar next to him sends him a scathing look to be silent.

He bristles at this. Who does this knight think he is, looking at the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall like that? Cullen easily outranks him several times over, even if they’re not in Kirkwall. If he were in Cullen’s command, he’d be stuck with the least pleasant duty available under Cullen’s control for such insubordination.

But he isn’t. They’re both under the Lord Seeker’s command, and… where is he?

Ignoring the impertinent knight next to him, Cullen shifts again. The strange itchy, buzzing feeling is growing louder now. It’s overpowering most conscious thought, other than something is wrong. He feels that in his gut, under the strange sensations filling his body, and his breathing starts to come fast and shallow.

The doors slam open and Knight-Captain Denam strolls in, flanked by several other knights Cullen barely recognizes. Denam has been the Lord Seeker’s right-hand man since before Cullen arrived, despite being of a lower position, and Cullen didn’t think to fight it.

Now he wishes he had as the buzz grows into an anxious screaming in his mind, his body tensed and ready to spring into action under any slight provocation. He looks over the Herald’s companions, searching for a mage, but he doesn’t see one, so he lets the Purge he was gathering die in his palm. He urges the lyrium that powered the Purge to settle back under his skin, in his blood where it belongs, but it just joins the wrongness that covers him.

His eyes start to water as the pain grows.

Wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong.

He doesn’t hear what Denam says, but he does see the attack as it begins. A nearby templar archer sends an arrow through the chattering noble’s throat, dropping the man to the ground like a stone. Cullen takes a step back even as his body is screaming to leap forward, to defend his people as they start to attack the Inquisition and Barris.

Something’s separating Barris from the rest of the templars, and as Cullen falls to his knees he feels the wrongness in his body expand, growing uncontrollable. He rips his helmet off and drops it to the ground, clutching at his head as it begins to pound.

The fighting goes on around him, loud in the little room. He ignores it as he claws at his skin with his gloved hands, desperate to find out what’s wrong.

His body wants to fight.

His mind wants to flee.

He settles for kneeling among the dropping bodies of his brothers, remembering how this very same thing happened just ten years before. He remembers the last time he knelt instead of fighting or running, trapped in Uldred’s prison at the base of the Harrowing Chamber in Kinloch. His brothers turned on each other then, too, leaving him as one of the only survivors.

This can’t happen today.

He stands and draws his sword, ready to help the Inquisition as far as he can, but he’s stopped before he can move the sword more than a few inches out of its sheath.

The Herald is staring at him, an arrow pointed at his throat from just too far away for him to defend himself. A movement that he can hear but not see, and a blade is at his throat. He feels the sharp prick of his skin being pierced, and a hot drop of blood slides down his heated skin and soaks into the padding under his armor.

“Drop your weapon, Knight-Commander. ” This from Barris, the man on the other end of the blade cutting into Cullen’s throat. He obeys, raising his hands to show he means no harm. “What shall we do with him, my lady?”

The Herald barely spares him a glance, keeping her eyes trained on Cullen.

“You did not fight,” she says, and her voice nearly makes Cullen tremble.

“No.” It’s all he can say. His throat and neck hurt, one from the lack of lyrium and one from Barris’ blade. He desperately wants to explain to this woman what happened, to ask her what she knows, to have an explanation for himself, but he stays silent.

She nods. “Where is the Lord Seeker?”

“He may be in the main part of the keep. There is another courtyard out those doors,” he points slightly, indicating the doors behind her, “that leads to where he usually is.”

She narrows her eyes and considers him for a long moment. That man leans in and murmurs something to her, and she flicks her eyes up at him before nodding.

She looks at Barris. “Take away his weapons and restrain him. Once we find the Lord Seeker, we’ll decide what to do.”

—

No one speaks directly to him, but he can piece together enough information to find out what happened.

The Lord Seeker… wasn’t the Lord Seeker. He… IT was an envy demon masquerading in the Lord Seeker’s body. How long has it been like that? Was it truly Lucius who came to Kirkwall to meet Cullen, or was that the envy demon as well?

How could he have not noticed that he was speaking to a literal demon? Aren’t templars trained to see these sorts of things?

But then… why would he suspect a Seeker as a demon? They’re immune to possession, to becoming abominations. This should have been impossible.

Cullen is stripped of his weapons and armor, bound at the hands and placed on a horse, heavily guarded should he decide to attack the Herald. She stays far away from him, leaving him behind with the templars.

Not the templars who were on the red. The templars who were still taking the blue lyrium from the Chantry. He didn’t even know anyone was still taking the blue before he arrived in Therinfal. He thought the Lord Seeker had moved everyone over.

He isn’t Knight-Commander anymore. The Templar Order is disbanded; they no longer exist. But these men, his former brothers, look at him with a hate and derision he never would have expected.

He was one of the first on the red, they whisper. He was one of Lucius’ pets. He knew what the plan was when the Herald arrived. He wanted to kill the templars who hadn’t changed.

But he didn’t. Did he?

His blood burns in his body, setting his head pounding and his stomach roiling. Every action, every step toward Haven feels absolutely wrong. He shouldn’t be with the Herald, his body says, he should be… he doesn’t know where he should be, his mind protests and wants to follow his captors, but his body seems to want to head back north.

It’s like something’s calling him.

Something’s pulling him away, and he’s nearly powerless to resist.

His chest feels tight when they stop to rest. They need to hurry back to Haven, and no one wants to have to deal with him as a prisoner for longer than necessary. He’s tossed a bedroll, which he hastily sets up, and lays down on his back with his hands still bound. No one offers him food, but even if they had, he wouldn’t be able to eat. It’s taking all of his concentration to keep compliant, to keep from running off in the direction his chest is pulling him.

Something isn’t right. Something’s wrong.

By the time dawn comes, he’s trembling and sweating. It’s like he has a fever, freezing cold and too hot by turns. His head pounds, his stomach rebels at even the thought of food, his chest constricts with each breath.

The Herald approaches him as the camp is packed up again. She stands just close enough to be able to see him, but far enough away that his guards will be able to stop him if he lunges for her.

She isn’t afraid, exactly, just wary.

If Cullen’s body wasn’t trying to fall apart, he would hate the look in her eyes, but he can barely see it.

She hands something to his guard, who presents it to Cullen. It’s a vial of lyrium, a standard dose, but it’s blue .

He glares at it. His body doesn’t want it. His mind tries to tell him it’s wrong, but… it’s the red that’s wrong. Not the blue.

He takes it, finally, staring into its luminescent depths for a long moment before drinking it down. The metallic taste bursts on his tongue, reminding him of how he used to be, the way he used to feel. It’s soothing, the song almost like something out of a pleasant memory, but it’s still wrong.

It barely soothes his aches or his chills, and the tightness in his chest doesn’t abate at all. When he looks up at the Herald, he can see her more clearly for a moment, and he stops breathing.

She’s gazing down at him with a serious expression, but her eyes aren’t full of hate like the templars surrounding him. They’re… pitying, sad, and he turns away from her, unable to bear the weight of her sympathy. He wants to lay back down on his bedroll, but someone’s already scooped it up, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, not without any more red in his system.

“Fi!” Cullen’s head jerks toward the sound, only to see the same man from the day before waiting for the Herald. Cullen looks back at her in time to see her lips part as she looks back at him, almost as though she wants to say something, but she snaps her jaw shut and shakes her head before leaving him alone.

He’s forced back up onto his horse, and the animal’s gait makes his stomach churn.

—

They’re almost back at Haven when Cullen looks down at his bare chest and stomach for the first time since before the fight at Therinfal. Red veins swim in his clouded vision, snaking from his heart out to his arms, up to his neck and face, reaching out like tendrils of fire.

Each heartbeat makes the red veins pulse where they stand out on his skin, and when he touches them with one trembling hand he feels the heat radiating off of them.

He pulls his shirt back on quickly, abandoning the bath he was planning on taking.

Something is very wrong.

Wrong wrong wrong.

—

He’s still given a dose of lyrium every day in the little cells below Haven’s chantry, but he can hear the mutterings of his guards. They don’t think he deserves the lyrium that could go to them. He is a traitor, as close to an abomination as a templar can become.

His eyes are already red, his vision constantly swimming. His body gives off a soft red glow in the darkness, and the templars can barely look at him when they come to bring him his lyrium or his food.

He barely eats. He drinks only enough water to drive back the blinding headache that always wants to claw its way through his skull, that makes him want to rip out his own eyes if only to escape from the pain for a moment.

The Herald comes to visit him, dressed much the same as she had been when she first entered Therinfal Redoubt. She has a torch with her, but when she sees the way the light hurts his eyes, she moves it away from him.

She sits on the floor in front of his cell, crossing her legs under her until she’s comfortable.

Cullen just watches her from the back of his cell where his bedroll rests against the wall. His untouched dinner sits next to him, and she looks at it with a frown before speaking.

“They tell me you won’t eat.”

He clenches his jaw against the sound of her voice, lightly accented elven that’s too beautiful for him to hear. He turns away, unwilling to speak to her, but she doesn’t leave.

She takes a deep breath instead, hesitating before asking her next question: “Does the red lyrium still pain you?”

He freezes, then turns slowly to look at her again. His eyes trace the curving branch tattoos on her cheekbones, the layer of freckles over her pale skin, the light hair tied up out of her face. Her eyebrows have pulled together, and she’s pulled her lower lip into her mouth to bite down on it.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

“It is… part of me, now. As the blue once was.” His voice is deep, gravelly from disuse and retching up what little he does force himself to eat. He looks away from her again, unable to bear the flash in her eyes at his words.

She leans forward, raising one hand as though to reach through the bars toward him, but she thinks better of it and replaces her hand in her lap. “Did you know what would happen when you started taking red lyrium? Did you know what it was?”

Cullen shakes his head and covers his face with one hand, wincing at the pain shooting through his skull. The motion pulls up at his tattered tunic, exposing his lower ribs to her, and she has to smother her gasp.

The red of the corrupted lyrium in his body has only grown since they’ve stopped giving it to him, and she can clearly see the veins glowing under his skin.

“I only knew that the order came from the Lord Seeker,” he forces out between his clenched teeth. “I took it. I gave it to my men. I have… it has damned us all.”

The Herald does sigh, then, a sad little sound that echoes through the cells. “You didn’t know.” She waits, but he doesn’t turn to look at her. He can’t bear to see someone so holy, so beautiful, the chosen of Andraste when he’s in such a state. He doesn’t deserve to have her attention on him. He only deserves to be left to the red lyrium and have it run its course.

A quiet shuffling sound fills his ears, and when he finally peeks through parted fingers, he sees the Herald kneeling on the stone floor before his door. Her hands are gripping the bars that separate them, ignoring the very real danger of being so close to him. To a red templar.

“Perhaps we can increase your lyrium dosage, and the red stuff will be… pushed out?” She ends her idea in a question, tilting her head to the side as she thinks. A lock of hair slips free and hits her cheek, and Cullen watches the strands move as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Maybe he never has.

“Herald, you don’t und–”

“Fi’laëwel.” He stops mid-word as she interrupts him, staring with jaw slack at her. She grimaces and tries again. “My name is Fi’laëwel, not Herald. Please… just call me Fi.”

He shakes his head, hard. He cannot. He could never. “I am already lost.”

She frowns and moves as though to rattle the bars on his cage, but the firm iron doesn’t budge under her attentions. “No. There must be a way!” Her voice rises with her temper, and Cullen growls from deep in his chest before throwing himself across the little cell.

She jumps back, pressing against the opposite wall as his large hands wrap around the bars where she had been pressed just a moment before. His face is so close to her now that he isn’t hiding from her gaze, she can see the hazy aura of the red lyrium surrounding him, a sickly red glow emanating from his eyes.

The scarred corner of his mouth lifts in a snarl, but he makes no move to touch her. He stays within the confines of his cell, obedient even to the last. “The lyrium has taken me,” he yells, the sound of his voice echoing around the dungeon. “It is too late. I can’t… I do not even remember…”

His anger begins to fade as his confession stalls on his tongue. He doesn’t remember being a templar before the red. He can’t remember what it’s like not to live without its song in his mind. It’s worked its way into his very soul, corrupting and holding him fast. It’s changing him to become more like it, and he can’t even bring up enough anger at it to mind.

Slowly, Fi closes the distance between them. Her hands are shaking, but her shoulders are squared and her chin is lifted high. She reaches for him and he pulls back just enough to make her pause.

“Leave me,” he whispers, he begs. “Leave me.”

Fi shakes her head and reaches through the bars to touch his cheek. He turns into the light pressure of her hand, the first time anyone has touched him in kindness in…

He doesn’t know.

“Leave me,” he pleads, opening red eyes to stare into her golden ones.

She shakes her head. “No.”