#//krem is a worried son

[lasatfat]

A Path Once Taken

also on AO3

“Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?” - James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“Wait.”

Gideon steps back as he says it, lifting a hand into the gap between their faces. Dorian opens his eyes. His own hands slip from Gideon’s arms as he draws back.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“I…there’s something I have to tell you.”

A flash of worry crosses Dorian’s face. “Couldn’t it wait another few minutes?”

Gideon chuckles. “Not in good conscience.”

“Are you alright?”

Gideon smiles, in a way he hopes is reassuring. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s nothing like that. It’s just…”

And he trails off, lost for what to say. With the Iron Bull, it had been easy. “Hey, you know Krem? Well, me too! You still up for it?” Dorian…Gideon has no idea if he’s even encountered the concept. It certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of knowledge that Magister Halward blood-magic-my-son-out-of-sleeping-with-men Pavus would be keen for any child of his to have. Not that the scope of Dorian’s education was ever limited by the will of his elders; he’d studied at a dozen Circles in Tevinter, researched time magic with Alexius, and probably read every book in Thedas to boot. But no one can know everything. Gideon might fall into one of those rare gaps in Dorian’s understanding, and then what? How does he go about explaining something so fundamental and obvious to him?

(The Iron Bull had been up for it, so Gideon has that under his belt, at least).

“The Dalish, we have this concept of shiralen’ashen,” he says, eventually. “Literally, it means ‘journeyed person.’ As in, you start as one gender, and become another.”

If Dorian is confused, it doesn’t show on his face, not from underneath his usual artful smile. “Might I be witnessing the first steps of your journey to womanhood, Inquisitor?” he asks. So he does have some idea.

“I hope not. That was where I started,” Gideon replies, in a tone he soon realises is entirely too casual. “I mean, I started as a baby, but…I’m shiralen’ashin. I became a man.”

The apprehension that follows is a familiar sensation, like all of his insides are being crammed up under his ribcage. However many times he says it, however much he trusts the person he’s saying it to, a small part of him expects the worst.

Of course, Dorian doesn’t give him the worst. He takes Gideon’s hands in his own, kisses the line of his knuckles. “Thank you, for trusting me.”

Gideon exhales a laugh. “I had a front-row seat to your business. It seemed only fair to share mine.”

“You saw the kind of reaction my business usually gets in Tevinter,” he retorts.

“A country in which you’re a social pariah,” Gideon reminds him.

“There is that about it,” he concedes. He reaches out, fiddles idly with Gideon’s collar. “So, where were we?” He taps his chin. “Ah, yes, I believe I was about to kiss you.”

“If you still want to.”

Dorian’s answer is the press of his lips to Gideon’s own. Gideon is hyperaware of every point of contact: the hands on his waist, the hair under his own fingers, the nudge of chest against chest. Dorian is the first to pull away, and whisper warm breath against a pointed ear.

“I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor.”

After all that, Gideon might agree.

[dellamortethelesser]

Cas, give us the Naoise lore. Gender thoughts, martial ability thoughts. How's he taking the whole dead family situation? The suddenly a warden situation? What does he make of Alistair's immediately shovelling all responsibility onto his shoulders? Who does he want to kill most between Morrigan and Alistair so far? Anything else you've got on your chest you want to share 😌

Naoise !!!

Gender Thoughts

Ohh boy, here we go. Lex knowing immediately that Naoise is written as a trans man despite me not giving any previous inclination… iconic, actually. you are correct i have lots of gender thoughts about him!

Naoise Cousland is beloved by his family, and especially by his parents. I believe wholeheartedly that he clued into the fact that he was trans at a young age and demanded to be seen as such, the way a spoiled second son would demand anything else. Sure, there was worried discussion between Eleanor and Bryce about how to handle the wider social ramifications--and what about heirs and marriage?--but ultimately they could not bring themselves to deny their son anything and so they helped him to comfortably transition. Doing it younger was smart; noble pages could begin training as early at 7, such as Fergus did, but Naoise did not show any knightly inclinations.

(edit: i meant to say smth here about mage top surgery in his teens. i think it's possible and i think the couslands could have realistically hidden that knowledge from others)

With that in mind, Naoise doesn't suffer from what we might consider "stereotypical" gender dysphoria, or at least in the way comparatively that Mahanon does. He passes, he's gendered correctly, he's widely regarded as a man by his family and his peers. Hell, Arl Howe offers him his daughter, Delilah, in marriage.

That being said--he does suffer from internalizing Ferelden's societal (and toxic) ideas of masculinity. He mimicked what he saw as a noble's second son… (caveat: it seems that being gay is somewhat acceptable [or at least not frowned upon] in Ferelden but given what we see of Krem in Inquisition, I'm extrapolating/hc'ing what being trans in noble society might look like) … being accused of effeminate behavior/being trans/etc would likely bring him to challenge said person to a fight to restore honor. He wants to go off and fight, and says as much during the origin, despite the fact that his parents see him as more readily inclined to take over the teyrnship. Does he take it as a slight against his martial abilities? A jab that he would be more readily accepted as a homemaker? Probably not, but the thoughts linger… he's mostly soothed by them insisting that they cannot risk "both heirs", which assures him that their feelings haven't changed.

Martial Thoughts

Naoise isn't a great warrior like Fergus is, ready to charge the front lines or shield his brothers from the blows. Naoise is analytical, slender, and works best from a distance. Trained in archery, he tends to linger back and pin/compromise as many opponents as possible while his fellows charge. If the line breaks or they need help, he's dual-wielding daggers with speed and elegance… I suppose his mother did teach him SOME of her swashbuckling ways. There's a swagger to how he moves that isn't typical of knights… maybe something more maritime?

Grief + Warden

Naoise, admittedly, isn't coping well with the loss of his entire family. Not only does Dairren die (y'know, the son of Lady Landra who he managed to convince to go to bed with him that night), but so did his innocent sister-in-law and baby nephew, the household, his dad, his mum, Ser Gilmore, etc. He's screaming, crying, throwing up the whole way to Ostagar. He only manages to get it together by the time they're climbing up the steps to meet with King Cailan----and then he's told he won't be able to see Fergus until after the battle. Fine, that's fine. He didn't want to give Fergus the horrible news yet anyway.

Then the battle at Ostagar goes to shit; King Cailan can't make good on his promise for justice, Loghain has branded him a traitor, and Fergus is likely dead. The grief starts anew, but this time with purpose. While Alistair is grieving Duncan, Naoise doesn't grieve at all, he's PLOTTING. He is plotting how going to Redcliffe can help him achieve his greater goal--stopping the Blight is secondary. Avenging his family comes first.

To that end, he thinks little of the Grey Wardens. Duncan strong-armed him into the position by manipulating his dying father. If that wasn't a cunning, manipulative, political move, he doesn't know what is. Fine, he'll just have to be smarter, wittier, more cunning. One step ahead of everyone, including his own order. He's not grieving them after Ostagar, he's reassessing how his position as one of the only Wardens left can be used as a means to his own ends.

Alistair + Morrigan

Traveling with these two (plus his mabari and his eagle!) has quickly shown Naoise, the spoiled second-born son used to getting his own way, just how ANNOYING it is to have siblings. They're bickering all the time, he's bickering with them, none of them can agree on anything, the dog is barking, etc etc. It gets to the point where he whips out the "WELL MY WHOLE FAMILY WAS MURDERED. I DIDN'T ASK TO BE HERE" more than once and it gets them to shut up. He sympathizes with Alistair's grief and Morrigan's reluctance but it all GRATES on him.

By the time he gets comfortable enough to be bratty back, they all want to kill each other. I don't think I could tell you which one wants blood more.

[mageglory]

I have no idea if I have ever summed all my Dragon Age Canon Characters but in short. Oh and I treat Bioware Canon like my playground so be warned.

Galria Theirin nee Brosca: Brosca origins (obviously), two handed reaver berserker. She is the Warden and becomes Queen of Ferelden with Alistair, her romance. She is the first non human queen of an human kingdom in history and tecnically she converted to andrastianism for politics (and because she doesn't care anyway about religion) but the Chantry keeps annoying her until Leli becomes Divine Victoria.

Ignis Hawke: Fire magic, Force magic and Blood Magic. He follows Anders romance and is a ruthless supporter of Mage RightsTM. He keeps switching between Red Hawke or Blue Hawke answers depending on who he is talking to (Red Hawke with Meredith, Elthina, Orlesians. Blue Hawke with fereldeans refugees, mages, elves and similar). He is one of the leaders of the Mage Underground with Anders if not the leader (mainly because Anders keeps telling him he's the boss even if Ignis considers himself equal to him) and he helped enlarge the underground across all the Free Marches, a lot of the random apostate npc we fight on the wounded coast are gonna live as members of the underground. To protect his identity/keep his family safe from Templars and because Hawke is not Hawke without drama he wears a mask in his rebel persona and Meredith has been yelling to Cullen to bring her the apostates leader in chains for years. He doesn't want to hurt civilians, but he is ready to accept civilians casualties as necessary if it's to free his people. His mabari is called Templar and Varric keeps saying Ignis exausted all his life capacity for jokes in that one idea. He's the gayest revolutionary/terrorist (depends who you ask) in town.

Raphaël De Bougainville: The Marquis of Serault. He has an obviously smaller role and is kinda irrelevant to The Fate of ThedasTM but he is a good guy despite having a very orlesian centric view of the world out of ignorance/cultural upbringing. His main worries are to restore Serault glory, which he succeeded in (and he also annexxes Aloyns along the road since the neighboor Marquis tried to sabotage his relationship with Justinia and failed) and romance Krem while visiting Skyhold. He had the idea to pay some mages after the rebellion won to come work for him with the glassworkers and now there are a lot of Serault glassworks for nobles with sparkly enchantments, but nothing plot relevant, he's just rich because now every noble in Orlais wants Serault magical glass. His main quirk is that he's an enthusiast of scientific research (think the king guy in Eragon) and his dream is to teach at the University of Orlais.

Melkior Lavellan: This damn boi is a pacifist. IN THEDAS. He is not the First of his clan, but only because he left the position to travel around the clans and bring messages/organize things. I'm not sure if canon mentions something similar but he's basically a travelling Keeper, so he has a bit more knowledge of the world, especially thanks to his high emotional intelligence. Kind of guy who smiles even when he doesn't like you and the "if he yells shit is going down" character archetype. Clan Lavellan Keeper is his grandma because his parents were murdered by Gaspard De Chalons during a dalish hunt, in front of him. Gaspard would have killed him too but decided that a knife eared kid wasn't worthy of a chevalier steel. Years later, Gaspard will fail to recognize Melkior at the Winter Palace (because elves are all the same amiright? I doubt Gaspard remembers his victims faces) and that's how the Granduke died and also one of the two occasions in which Melkior got really angry. Also, Melkior is the host to a spirit of Hope, which made the entire Inquisition scream in fear of abominations when they heard about that. Melkior romances Cassandra (altought I made her supposed character arc/change matter uh Bioware?) and tries to spare/redeem/imprison if necessary as much people as possible when sitting in Judgment because he doesn't like to kill and he does that enough on the field. At the end of Trespasser he disbands the Inquisition but he also creates a constitution that blocks the power of the Chantry so that in 100 years no Divine will be able to recreate Circles or Templars and a council to oversee the constitution with elected officials with a mandate of 5 years max.

Alidda Tabris: Someone could ask why I put the Tabris after the Lavellan, well that's because Alidda Tabris, my non warden dual wielder rougue, is more linked to Briala than Origins. She was prisoner of Arle Howe dungeons with others during Origins, forgotten there after having murdered the Arle son. She was freed by the Warden before the Landsmeet and despite the long imprisonment she suffered she fought in the Battle of Denerim, defending the alienage. After the death of the Archdemon, she helped King Alistair and Queen Galria in dealing with the many issues the elves had and was later sended to Orlais to investigate the risk of a new invasion of Ferelden. She joined Briala during the events of The Masked Empire, helping Celene in beating Gaspard but hating the Empress for her genocide of elves, she was helping only because forced to choose between her and Gaspard. She joined Briala at the end of the book and the two got together shortly after. In Inquisition, Alidda breaks in Celene vault during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearths to get her beloved medallion back and the two keep plotting the liberation of the Dales after the ball.

Livia Amladaris: Magister of Tevinter, new leader of House Amladaris, descendeant of Corypheus and the worst person ever and I love her for that. Livia is literally my favourite classic villain tropes throwed together, because if you don't do that in Tevinter what's the point. While Livia wasn't a Venatori during Inquisition, she took control of the movement later. She is considered the most beautiful woman in the Imperium by many (the Amladaris pratic eugenics unironically) and she is a political genious and probably the greatest demonologist and necromancer (the Quentin kind, not the Dorian kind) Tevinter will ever see. Sadly, all this perfection on paper was given to a woman who respects only one thing: power and hates the other Magisters because they are limited in their ambitions. Livia intends to not simply enter in the Fade like her ancestor, but to open thousands of minor rifts controlled only by her, causing an army of binded demons to invade every nation of Thedas at once. The Imperium will rise again with her as the first Imperatrix of all Thedas. Someone could call her mad, but if she is mad then she is of the lucid and most dangerous kind. She has invented numerous evil spells (the "blood sacrifices and demons" kind) and has the power to turn others in abominations against their will. She is at last defeated at the end of DA4, but not before she blood sacrificed all of her supporters inside the Imperial Senate to start her ritual and shapeshifted into a giant monster before being slain. She is the Maleficent of Thedas and I love a good old fashioned evil witch ok?

[dafheannaig13-blog]

About the Muse

 i snatched it off @heraldofwho who is very cool! 😃

Your muse’s name:

Maxwell Seumas Trevelyan, but he prefers Max

A favourite picture / faceclaim of your muse:

*casually drops a cropped version of an older drawing bc i have nothing better at the moment*

Two headcanons you have for your muse:

-Max absolutely despises templars and would happily slaughter the lot of them rrgh fuCKING CULLEN, because he has Issues.  The most he ever killed by himself in one go? Fourteen templars in the Ostwick circle, after he found out what they did to his sister.  The pent-up rage and despair and feelings of helplessness of the twenty-one years leading up to that point caused him to snap.  Max went into a berserker-like state and slew fourteen templars, including the knight-captain, and nearly the first enchanter as well.  After that, he began training as a proper reaver, because he knew that he needed to learn to control and direct his emotions, or else they'd overtake him.

Max does not regret his actions, though.  He’s not proud of it, or that he escaped the gallows due to his family name, and he doesn’t talk about it.  But he would do it again. He doesn't care what that says about him.

- Max knows how to juggle.  He has a flask of whisky in a not-so-secret pocket at all times, and carries several knives concealed about his person for the purposes of eating, stabbing, throwing, etc.  He abhors the chantry and frequently insults it, so he and Cassandra fight like cats and dogs.  He’s actually fond of her, though. She probably hates him, bc when she and Leliana first called Max the ‘herald of Andraste’, Max laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself.  He almost caused a Diplomatic Incident bc he refuses to bow to anyone--even the Empress of Orlais.  Max hates being called the herald or ‘your worship’ etc and fucks with the boot-lickers who try and curry favour with him. Dorian finds it hilarious. The only time he ever used his position to get his way was with that prick who had Dorian’s amulet--and it was a good fucking bluff, bc he’s not of the main family, just a branch of ‘impoverished gentry’ (like, they have land, but the family home is in a right state and the vault is...empty. And they’ve no staff. And Bann Trevelyan is a special individual.)

Three things that your muse likes doing in their free time:

-Music! Max is made of music (mostly bagpipes), he loves singing and knows how to play the lute. Sometimes he steals the one from Dorian's nook and uses it to ~serenade~ him. (Max knows SO MANY sappy love songs and laments.)  He has also been known to provide lullabies to the dying, even out in the field (bc how are these people dying for this cause he’s not sure he’s even on board with, they fucking die in his name how is he ever going to live with himself if he isn’t killed horribly by Coryphe-tits), to perform classic Free Marches tavern songs with Blackwall, and even occasionally rope the entirety of the Herald's Rest (or just the travelling party) into waulking songs (u know the ones they used to do when they were waulking wool, and one person sings the verses and everyone joins in the bit with just nonsense words or whatever?? Chuir m'athair mise dhan taigh charraideach, or hè mo leannan, hò mo leannan, ones like that?? good shite, cracking songs).  

Only when he's drunk, though. 

(He's drunk a lot.)

-Max has a soft spot for children. Having spent so much time in the role of caregiver, it's only too easy to fall back into old habits, especially with the number of orphans the inquisition...acquired after Haven.  He plays with the kids when he gets the chance, and can often be found making them laugh by sassing the chantry sisters and shouting various obscenities.

-Max is an excellent horseman.  He took to riding like a duck to water, and has always had a way with horses. The only horse he's ever met that didn't like him is the Ferelden Forder he got from Master Dennet--and he suspects it's because the horse somehow knows that Max was a jerk to its master.  As revenge, Max calls the horse 'Sweet Roll'; as revenge for that, Sweet Roll has eaten several of Max's gloves and bitten a hole in more than one pair of Max's trousers. The cycle of vengeance is never-ending. (Let it be known that his own horse at home, Rowan, is a sturdy Free Marches Ranger that loves him and doesn't eat his clothes.)

Seven people your muse loves / likes:

-Elinor, nicknamed Eilidh (u say it like 'ae-lee') -- She is Max's middle sister, about five years younger than he is.  She has dark hair and blue eyes like her brother, but she is slight whilst he is tall.  Elinor was a mage, made tranquil at the age of sixteen under suspicious circumstances. She was very shy and quiet, but also very compassionate, as well as the best musician in the family before she was magically castrated.  Since returning home, she has cultivated a large garden which she tends devotedly, and also has a small army of cats.  They are all named after berries.  Max fought like a wild-cat to protect her when the templars came to take Elinor away to the circle, even tried shielding her with his body, which is how he got the scar on his face. He adores her and would do anything for her.

-Catrìona, nicknamed Ceit (sounds just like 'Kate') is Max's youngest sister.  She is ten years his junior, so he more or less raised her, even tutoring her in swordsmanship, horsemanship, archery (though she's a better shot), etc.  She is a sprightly ginger-haired lass with blue eyes and loads of freckles, who talks very loudly and laughs very loudly and wILL CHALLENGE U TO A FIGHT IF U INSULT HER BROTHER OR SISTER, THANKS!  She's nearly fearless, very kind, and her best friend is her own horse, an ornery beast called Storm. (Storm bites. So does Ceit.)  She and Max play-fight and jokingly call each other names, but they adore each other.

So basically she's sort of Merida. I REGRET NOTHING FIGHT MEEEEEE

-Blackwall! Max is very fond of Blackwall. Top lad. Good set of pipes on him, right good for tavern songs. U know what they call an Ostwick tavern? Taigh-seinnse.

-Varric!  Max is convinced that Varric is one of the best people to ever exist.  If Varric knew how sincerely he means that, he would laugh. Also maybe cry. 

-Dorian!  Max is completely and utterly in love with Dorian. They’re both hopeless romantics and also bad at emotions, so it’s a mess. But a good mess? 😃

-Josephine! She is the source of all goodness in the universe, and probably the actual leader of the entire inquisition. She does all the real work, anyway. Max just kills shite. And rescues lost animals.

-Sera! They pull pranks together. She reminds him a bit of Ceit, as well, so he loves her.

-Honourable mentions:  Solas (he knows so much, and talks about his Fade Travels in that lovely story-teller voice), Harritt (best. blacksmith. evER.), Dagna (she’s fucking delightful), Master Dennet (adorably grumpy old bastard), Helisma (reminds him of Elinor, he looks out for her in case anyone gives her trouble), Fiona (a bad-ass motherfucker if there ever was one), Krem (fun to spar with), Cassandra (fun to spar with), and Grim (a good listener)

Phobia (well, fear, anyway) your muse has:

Himself.  After what he did at the Ostwick circle, Max knows that he is capable not just of killing, but of slaughter.  He does not regret his actions there (justified or not, right or wrong, he doesn't give a shite, he will sacrifice anything for his sisters) but he does worry that one day, the rage will overtake him.  That he'll hurt somebody he loves, that he might lose his friends, his family, his lover.  That he might lose himself.  Being the only son, the eldest, he was supposed to look after the girls.  He'd promised his mother--his dying mother--that he'd always protect them and look after them and just look at how that ended.  Look what he's done--look what he's let happen.  This is what happens when anyone trusts him to do anything--he fucks it up, because he's a selfish, lazy coward who can't do anything right.  He wants so badly to be good, but he's fucking terrible at it, so he mostly stopped trying--enough that everyone else thinks he has a devil-a-bit-do-I-care attitude, that he's loud and irreverent and brash and impulsive and angry and mercurial and careless.

But he does care.  He cares too much.  

That’s his downfall.  Every single time.

Tags:

I TAG YOU!  u know who u are

also @m1lkcl0uds come onnn show off Persephone, she’s adorable ❤

[rhetoricalrogue]

Family Ties 3/4

Part 1 | Part 2

This one was difficult to write, mostly because Rolfe refused to cooperate and deal with issues that have been years in the making.

tagging @thesecondsealwrites.

The second Philip entered the Herald’s Rest, he felt at home. There had always been something about taverns and public houses that had appealed to him, which was why he usually insisted on meeting with his constituents in such places. A warm plate of food and a pint of ale did wonders to bring people together to work on common goals.  He tried to ignore the stares he could feel from all sides, figuring that people were looking because they recognized him as their Inquisitor’s father.

That bit of news had taken some getting used to. After not hearing word from their son in the aftermath of the Conclave disaster, he and Marta had feared the worst, especially when the Chantry didn’t have the answers they so desperately sought. They’d grieved for their boy, yet were overjoyed to discover that not only had he lived, but Vincent had risen out of the chaos as the Herald of Andraste. After receiving his initial letter explaining events, Philip had put all the political weight he carried into helping the fledgling Inquisition as well as calling upon other prominent individuals in the area to do the same.

Even if some of the stares he felt were from people recognizing him as Vincent’s father, Philip couldn’t help but feel as if certain patrons knew he had another reason for being in their tavern that didn’t have much to do with Vincent. The feeling was cemented by a quick series of events that happened as he moved through the busy early evening crowd. As if practiced, the man who had been sitting alone in a chair close to the door stood up on the seat and the yell of Oi, Boss! carried over the noise of the busy tavern room. From the very back of the main room, a huge, intimidating looking Qunari playing a game of cards with several men and women slapped his cards down and shouted back, his deep voice bellowing all the way up the staircase Philip was climbing.

“Hey Krem, are you in for this game or are you out? Southerland, get your ass down here and join the next round!”

Philip reached the top of the stairs and bumped into a trio of people. “Terribly sorry, sir! Beggin’ your pardon, sir!” one of them babbled as they tried to jostle out of Philip’s way.

“Quite all right,” he said, pressing his back against the railing and stopping long enough for them to go down the stairs. Around that time, a shrill whistle sounded behind him. When he turned to look, he caught a glimpse of a blonde elf in plaidweave making frantic hand motions to the floor above them. As soon as she realized he was looking, she glared at him and hopped off the crate she had been sitting on before moving to go into a small alcove, slamming the door behind her so loud that Philip was certain that everyone in the tavern could hear.

He let out a sigh when two more people blocked his way up to the third floor staircase. “Look,” he started, addressing the woman. She was around his age or possibly a few years older and dressed simply, but had an understated elegance about her that told Philip she was as comfortable here as she would be in any palace. “I know that he’s up there. I promise, I mean him no harm. I only wish to talk.”

The man who accompanied her was tall, built like a massive wall of muscle, and aside from an impressive looking beard and bushy eyebrows, had no hair on his head. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and sized Philip up. “We know,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft and quiet, an odd counterpoint to his physical stature. “We’re not going to stop you.”

Philip gestured to the staircase he had just climbed. “And this whole elaborate warning system? What was it about?”

“It’s more for his benefit than anything,” the woman explained. “He says that he’s ready to meet you, but whether he admits it or not, we can tell that he still needs a moment to gather his nerve.”

“He’s done as much for all of us over the years,” the man added. “The least we can do is return the favor. I’m Bruno.”

“Penelope.”

Philip nodded. “Philip, though I’m guessing you already knew that. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He took a breath and put his hand on the railing leading up to the third floor. “But if you would excuse me, I have someone else I would like to meet.”

Bruno stepped to the side, but put his hand up. “Be patient with him. He makes light of how he feels, but Rolfe hasn’t had the best upbringing. It ain’t our place to explain, but…”

“He rarely speaks of his family aside from the two cousins who are also here in Skyhold,” Penelope continued. “And if he does, he claims that he doesn’t have a need for a family not of his choosing, especially when he’s made one for himself out of friends he’s gathered over the years.”

“I’ve known him for close to fifteen years, Ser,” Bruno added, shifting his weight and glancing up at the floor above them.  “Mention his folks back in Ostwick and he closes up faster than anything, but seeing him with his brother...it’s been good for him.  Your boy’s managed to leech some of the bitterness out of the Boss like none of us ever could, and we’re grateful to him.”

Philip swallowed around a lump that had grown in his throat. What had this man gone through over the years that so many would be this protective of him? “I can’t make promises for whatever the outcome of our meeting will be, but I hope you know that I’m willing to try.”

“We know, and thank you for that.” Penelope lifted her chin. “I’ve loved Rolfe since the moment I first met him. He’s a good man with a good heart, but he trusts very few people and you’ve caught him on a bad day. I’m wishing the both of you the best, but he’s like the son I never had.  If you cause him unnecessary grief, I will personally see to it that you’re sorry you ever met me.”

Philip looked at her, and she suddenly didn’t seem like the sweet, harmless silver-haired woman he had originally thought her to be. “He must be a good man indeed,” he said, measuring his words. “For him to have such loyal friends.” With that, he began to ascend the staircase.

He made it as far as the landing before his heart started to beat faster. He’d been a father five years longer than he’d thought and he’d never even  known it. What did Rolfe think of him? What sort of things had he imagined? Maker, he must imagine the worst, he thought, hesitating one last time.

“I know you’re coming up, Philip,” a tired sounding voice said in the darkness. “I won’t bite, at least not without ample warning first.”

The third floor of the tavern was simply furnished and somewhat dimly lit, seeing as most of the candles set in wall sconces were snuffed save for a few closer to the back of the room that was also lit by a large candelabra set into the rafters overhead. Rolfe sat at the table directly underneath, a bottle of something at his elbow and an unlit smoking pipe in his hands, one of which that was recently bandaged.

Philip felt the knot tighten in his throat again. He hadn’t gotten a good look at him the first time he had met him outside in the courtyard that morning, but there was no denying that this man was his own blood. To Philip, it seemed as if he were staring at a reflection of himself at a younger age.

“Apologies for the lighting,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the unlit sconces. “You’ve caught me at the tail end of an attempt to sober up and things were a bit too bright otherwise.”

He knew. Marta had filled him in on the state of his son when she had visited with him. “May I?” He finally managed to ask, gesturing to the chair opposite Rolfe.

Rolfe nodded, his thumbs running over the wood bowl of the pipe. The shadows under the table hid his legs somewhat, but Philip could see the barest hint of his leg bouncing up and down, almost as if he were just as nervous to meet him as he was.

“I’ll have you know,” Rolfe started slowly. “That you’ve accomplished something that not very many people can claim to have done.”

“What would that be?”

He stared at him, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I’ve waited for over thirty years to meet you, and when I finally do, I can’t think of a damned thing to say.”

Philip pressed his palms against the table’s surface. “Ask me anything. I’ll try to answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

“Did you know that my mother was married before you slept with her?” He tilted his head. “Sorry, but I figured I’d get the biggest question out in the open first.”

Philip shook his head. “No, I had no idea. I met Flora at a family gathering where she introduced herself as a friend to the family. I never questioned it and I never saw her with her husband the entire weekend.”

Rolfe’s eyes narrowed. “So, what was she to you then? Merely a dalliance?”

“No. I was infatuated by her.  I wanted to court her, I even told her so myself, but she said that a relationship would be impossible as she was sailing home to Antiva after the party.”

Rolfe scoffed. “At least that part of the story I’ve been told over the years checks out. Mother was supposed to flee from her marriage after finding out about yet another one of her husband’s affairs, but she discovered that she was pregnant with me and her aging parents refused to take her back in. My birth has always been a point of resentment for keeping her in a place she’s been so miserable in.”

Philip stared at Rolfe, noticing the tense way he held his jaw. “You didn’t have the best childhood, did you?”

Rolfe shrugged. “I had as good of one as any token bastard and family embarrassment could expect to have, I imagine.” He pulled out a small drawstring bag from a pocket and absently began to pack tobacco into the pipe. “I can’t go back in time to change it, so I’ve made my peace with it, of a sort. They didn’t beat me, if that’s what you’re asking.” He frowned, still not looking up from his task. “Well, my older half-brother William did, but he’s another kettle of fish. He took great pleasure in using me as his punching bag until I grew old enough to fight back, but my mother and Edward never struck me.”

He reached for a small tin of matches, but then changed his mind, setting the pipe aside, his gaze stuck on the tabletop as if it were the most interesting thing in the room. “Sometimes I wished that they had. Anything would have been better than being outright ignored.” His voice was quiet, his brows pinched together. Then he shook his head and sneered. “Or being so starved for affection that I jumped through whatever hoops Mother put in front of me for even the smallest scraps of attention. There was always some condition, some catch, to earn the smallest of gestures in private, yet there was such a grand show in public that we were a loving family so no one would suspect otherwise.”

Philip’s heart ached for Rolfe. “Had I known…”

“You’d what?” Rolfe turned his gaze to him and Philip could see years of pent up emotion simmering just under the surface. “Scoop me up and claim me as your own, politics and optics be damned?”

The chair Rolfe had been sitting in scraped along the floorboards as he stood. Without giving Philip a chance to answer, Rolfe continued. “I spent so many years hating you,” he confessed, his voice rough. “I was five when I learned what the term bastard meant. I had it drilled into my head repeatedly that I was something no one wanted, a burden and unworthy of the family name. Edward always said that he knew who my father was and he took great pleasure in telling me that you knew I existed but didn’t want me either.”

Philip’s blood boiled even as his heart broke for the boy Rolfe had been. “That was a lie,” he spat.

“I know that now.” Rolfe leaned against the wall and let his head rest on the stone. “It took only a few moments alone with Vincent to know that the man I had spent so long loathing could have never raised a son like him. He was taken from you and you still fought for him, from the moment the Templars first arrived all the way up until the Conclave, and you continue to support him even now. He’s never had any cause to doubt your love for him.”

Philip clasped his hands together, wanting nothing more than to stand and go to Rolfe, but he saw the man’s body language was closed off and defensive and figured the gesture would be unwelcome. He was, after all, a stranger.

“I met my wife two years after the party where I had met Flora. We were married a year later, and we tried to have children as soon as possible. The both of us came from small families: I was the last Trevelyan on my branch of the family tree and Marta’s an only child herself. We both dreamed of having a home filled with sons and daughters, but it wasn’t meant to be. After some complications conceiving, we were beyond blessed to have even had Vincent; it didn’t matter to us when his magic manifested. He was still the same little boy we had loved the day before he accidentally set a rug on fire and he’s still the same man we love today.” Philip stood and walked over to Rolfe. “I know that you have no reason to believe me, but yes, had I known about your birth and how you had been treated in your own home by the very people who were supposed to care for you the most, I would have demanded to take you from them and I would have proudly raised you alongside your brother.”

Rolfe took a shuddering breath and crossed his arms in front of his chest, silently putting some distance between them. “I was so jealous of Vincent at first. He spoke of you and Marta often, probably as his way of explaining to me who you were since I never got the nerve to ask him myself. Even with his circumstances and living in the Circle, he had everything I had ever wanted.”

“You said that you were jealous at first. What made you stop?”

Rolfe dropped his arms from their defensive posture and put his hands in his pockets. “He’s always introduced me as his brother. He's had opportunities to give just my first name, to distance himself from me, but he’s never taken them. He could tell people that I’m his half-brother, but it’s always been this is my brother Rolfe with him.  How could I be jealous of someone who accepts me as I am and doesn’t demand anything in return?” He gave a weak smile. “I’ve only known him for not even a year, but in that short frame of time, he’s shown me more acceptance than either of my older half-siblings have shown me my entire life. I love him; I’d do anything for him.”

Philip reached out then, breathing in relief when Rolfe didn’t flinch away from the hand on his arm. “I’m glad the two of you have the other. He’s written to me and he speaks highly of you.”

Rolfe looked down. “I know. I’ve intercepted and read each of your letters before re-sealing and sending them on their way.” He looked back up and Philip couldn’t read his expression. “I’m a spy, first and foremost, and a damn good one at that.”

“And if you’ve read our letters, then you should know that I already knew your profession.”

“Vincent told you that I was a bodyguard for the Chantry upper echelon. He never said a word about the secrets the higher-ups had me ferret out for them for the past twenty years, or the things they ordered me to do in the Chantry’s name.”

Philip shook his head. “And you don’t think that I can’t read between the lines? Over the years of working with both the Chantry and the Circle, I’ve come to realize that neither entity is as innocent as they would like to present themselves. They need people to get hands dirty where they cannot.”

“And you would still claim me? Philip, I’ve killed people I never knew, all because their ideologies ran afoul of my superiors’. I’ve protected people and saved them from deaths that could have possibly helped ease burdens on hundreds had they been taken out of this world. How can you stand here and say that you’d still like to know me when I have so much blood on my hands?”

“Because you are my son.”

“What does that even mean?” Rolfe demanded, shoving himself off the wall to pace the floor. “The work I did for the Chantry has ensured that I do not exist: outside of their employ I have no income, no connections, not even a roof over my head that I could say I worked to own. I can only be a liability to you and to Vincent, especially now that he insisted that I was presented as family in the Orlesian court, which I’m sure is causing Edward and Mother a bit of scandal to have their old laundry finally aired out. I’m certain that once the news reaches Wycome that it will spell trouble for your political career as well.” He clenched his hands into fists at his side. “I am nothing, and I can offer you nothing in return.”

“I think most of the people downstairs would argue with you being nothing, as would I. Bruno and Penelope wouldn’t insist that you’re a good man or be as loyal to you as they are if they didn’t believe it for themselves. Marta wouldn’t have thought the same after only spending five minutes with you, and my wife is the keenest judge of character than anyone I know.”

“She’s...different than what I was expecting.” Rolfe looked sheepish. “And I owe her an apology. I wasn’t at my best when we met. She probably thinks I’m a bumbling drunkard.”

Philip grinned. “Trust me, spend more time with her and you’ll realize that Marta is a fierce, loyal woman. I wouldn’t worry about what she thinks of you; she didn’t go into detail on what exactly the two of you spoke of, but she came up to our room afterwards ready to fight your mother with her bare hands.”

Rolfe snorted. “I like her already.” He sighed and pinched his brows together in worry. “Are you certain you want to take me on? I mean, look where I live. I drink and I smoke and at times my carousing and ill behavior causes Mother Giselle to beseech Andraste to spare my soul during services.”

Philip laughed. “Remind me to tell you the story about how I earned a few of my scars. Believe it or not, I was wild in my youth as well, and I still have my moments here and there.” Sobering, Philip put his hands on Rolfe’s shoulders again. “If you would allow me, I would very much like to get to know you, Rolfe. You don’t have to decide anything now, but my home and my heart will always be open for you, should you choose to let me in.”

Rolfe reached up to his shoulder and put his hand on top of his. For a brief moment, Philip thought that he would push him away, but all Rolfe did was squeeze his hand. He watched as his son’s lip quivered slightly and his jaw clenched before he let out another shaky breath and nodded.

“Well, Father,” Rolfe started, clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly. “There’s thirty-seven years of catching up to do.” He gestured to the table he had been at and the bottle still sitting there. “Would you care for a drink while we talk?”

Philip had to clear his own throat and blink back a few tears of his own before answering. “I would love one, Son.”

[elpiething]

Pointy Wooden Bits - Adoribull

Rating: M Warnings: Transformation, mild violence.  What It Actually Is: AU feat. Pirate!Bull and Cursed Figurehead!Dorian.  Notes: Is it odd that I’m excited to finally use the ‘Halward Pavus’ A+ Parenting’ tag? You can find this story on Ao3 here. 

-

Honestly, Dorian thought his father was being a bit over dramatic about all this. And he would tell him so, loudly and in grand public fashion, if he were not presently rooted in a pose of seductive invitation.

And made of wood.

Because, as Halward said, if he were going to be such a whore, he might as well be useful about it.

And then he’d made him into a fucking figurehead.

Which is in itself ironic, because it had always vexed his father so to see Dorian exposing himself, and now here he was, arms eternally outstretched, tits out in the open air, waiting to be purchased for slightly more than his usual drink and a smile.

It is simple enough to undo, my son. Halward said, like he hadn’t just rendered his son an inanimate decoration. You need only resolve to come home.

Stretched out like the heroine of some horrid romantic rag with Rilienus’ sheets still draped about him, he’s not certain how long he’ll be able to hold out amongst these cramped, dusty shelves.

Surely no one will purchase such a tawdry decoration. No one has such poor taste.

He has no idea.

-

The Chargers are red-faced with drink and elbowing each other near hard enough to bruise when they come across the grimy little shop with its collection of odds and ends. The Iron Bull has to duck and turn to make it through the door, and the shopkeep sucks his teeth at the sight of him.

He runs gentle fingers over a disgustingly pink tea set before gravitating towards the back, where a few figureheads in various states of repair hang in a riot of color and confusion.

And then, the whisper:

Krem! He hisses. Look!

In his voice, there is a mixed sense of wonder and pride. He stares, transfixed by the pierced brown nipples of a truly erotic carving.

Krem wanders over, still smiling and stumbling a bit, but the joyous expression fizzles a bit when he realizes exactly where this is going. “Chief. No.”

“Lookit that moustache, Krem. There’s real character there.”

“We both know it’s the pointy wooden nipples you care about.”

“They’re pierced, Krem. And he’s so pretty.”

“So was the one we knocked off.” Krem sighs. “Soft, pillowy breasts. Kinda like yours.”

Bull pouts, or gets as close to it as a qunari can manage. “He’s comin’ with us.”

At the bottom of the ocean, a busty redhead made of wood does not roll her eyes.

-

Under slightly different circumstances, Dorian would be living a well-frequented fantasy right now, being manhandled by a great hulking qunari with calloused hands.

That is, if a giggling elf weren’t presently securing him to a ship’s bow with magic that is simultaneously cold and itchy. But as the power ebbs, he’s taken by a sensation rather like a full-body sigh.

The wood at his back welcomes him in, and he feels the wind in the sails, the creaking of the deck, and the soft lapping of the waves on skin that is far thicker now. It’s almost like happiness, until that familiar twinge of boat sickness turns in his belly.

Oh dear. He thinks.

“Nice tits.” Another, angrier elf scoffs.

The Skinner, the ship supplies, helpfully.

The qunari—The Iron Bull— pats his hip gingerly and says, “Welcome home, big guy” and his ragtag—his crew, his precious crew. Footsteps on the boards. Skin on rope on sun on salt—they head up to their cabins with the soft-woven hammocks and ready themselves for sleep, and suddenly Dorian’s arms fall from their stiff position.

They ache horribly and all he wants to do is follow these strange folk down into the depths of sleep. But he’s attached to a ship bobbing on the water, and he is the farthest from freedom he has ever been.

But suddenly he can move, which is a thing that figureheads are most certainly not supposed to do.

“Kaffas,” He rasps.

Because he can do that, too.

-

The Chargers are strange, for pirates.

They’re strange for any group, really.

The Skinner hates humans, but tolerates the Krem, the Grim, and the Stitches, who are probably not named thus, (but the ship does not care.)

The Bull hangs somewhere between the Qun and the family, which is not part of the Qun, but very much a part of the Bull. Just like the ship is now part of Dorian.

No.

Yes, very much.

Fine.

Thank you.

Another wave of warmth, which is nice, because it drowns out the nausea and odd, because he is now sharing his consciousness with a boat.

But the Chargers—the lot of them, they’re strange and affectionate and easy, even when they are also violent.

Dorian thinks, ‘This is what friendship is like. It must be nice.’

And the ship—it can’t frown, but it sighs very sadly in a rolling shiver under his skin. You know the friendship. You call it Felix.

And Dorian suddenly very much appreciates sharing his consciousness with a boat.

-

But. The. Chargers. Are. Strange.

And. Ours.

It’s rather like arguing with a small child over a toy. A toy they’re prepared to kill for.

-

They re-christen the ship The Bull’s Rack.

The Rack is proud of this.

Well, it does not laugh, but the sensation is similar. What would you call us?

‘Friend, I think.’

Felix.

‘No. That’s someone else’s name. You are you.’

The Rack does not respond. It is too busy quivering happily in the ocean breeze.

-

Their first engagement by sea is pain and chaos and fury, and Dorian feels it twisting through his every nerve and sinew. The Rack rolls and lunges with the waves, but this time he is not sick, he is powerful and angry. He rolls with the force of it and feels the roar of the cannons under Rocky and Grim’s steady hands.

He feels the volley of magic that Dalish desperately hurls and he supplements it, his mind clear, his every thought focused and sharp.

He is helping. They are his.

This ship is his.

This ocean is home, and he will inhabit it as fiercely and wildly as he has ever inhabited his own body.

He is not sick anymore.

You have never been.

-

Bull comes to talk to him, which is a surprise.

And then, even more surprising, Bull comes to talk to him often.

And, most surprising of all, Dorian does not move an inch, nor does he bask in the shallow praise the captain lavishes on him like a younger lover. He is suspended, peacefully enveloped in the rumbling tones of Bull’s voice.

He listens to his concerns about the weather, the crew, the shadows trapped in the corners of his own mind. He listens to Bull breathe and move, and for the second time in his life, he wants desperately to shelter another person.

You are, says the Rack.

And that night, the lanterns burn brighter. There’s a song in the rocking of the ship.

Dorian is made of wood and cannot blush, but still he glows.  

-

Dorian is proud, impossibly so, and he cannot keep the smile from his face. Even when the Chargers disembark to stretch their land legs and spend a bit of coin, he can’t seem to stop.

“Oy.” Stitches says. “Wasn’t he frowning before?”

“It’s happened,” Rocky grins. “You’re seeing things.”

“I’m tellin’ you, he was frowning.”

“Impossible,” Krem snickers. “Chief’d never bring home a boy who wasn’t smiling.”

But he is nervous, Dorian knows.

Because Krem is smart and observant, and he looks back when they’ve walked a ways away. And because he catches the twitch of Dorian’s outstretched arms.

They won’t believe him, the Rack tries to placate him.

But the idea makes Dorian sad.

-

Their next engagement is less painful.

Dorian was ready for the raw sensation of it, the fire running through the lines of rigging like blood through veins he no longer possesses.

Dorian is prepared, but in the dead of the night with Grim lulled to sleep in the crow’s nest by the soft rocking of the ship and the waves, the Chargers are not. The enemy peppers them with gunfire that would sink a lesser (and, admittedly, non-sentient) vessel, but the curse has evidently not negated Dorian’s considerable abilities.

The ship shivers under his protective barrier, and he feels thanks wash over him like the summer breezes in Qarinus. The Chargers rise with pounding, steady hearts, and they are his more than last time, more than ever as they hurry to the deck to see ‘exactly what the fuck’ that was.

A warship. The Rack would spit if it could, but it is a very well-mannered vessel, well-equipped with many conveniences, none of which are a tongue. Kill it.

‘We will.’

Kill it.

But the Chargers are just hitting the deck now, gawking at the shimmering barrier separating them from a worrying number of bullets.

“What in the Void?” Stitches spits, because he does have a tongue.

The Rack is very proud, and Dorian huffs.

“Who did that?!” Bull shouts—afraid, not afraid, disturbed by the unannounced use of magic around his crew—and Dorian is tempted to shout at him to worry about that later.

He shivers under the strain of maintaining his focus when everything is so open and real and he gives up being a well-behaved carving quickly enough.

He was never quite as handy with barriers as he was with certain...other talents.

He can feel Grim stumble and issue a colorful streak of language when the first massive gout of flame wreathes from The Bull’s Rack to whatever nameless little tinderbox thought it a fine idea to fire on their crew.

Bring them. The Rack urges, because through Dorian, it can feel the souls of those far below calling up, calling out.

“You think they’re scared stiff now, they’ll shit themselves if the dead start swimming.” Dorian growls, and it is the first time he has spoken in months. They are not moving. He needs them to move.

And, before he really knows what’s happening, he shifts in place.

We will hold you! Go, go, go!

Dorian feels the wood shift as he moves, bolstering him up as he climbs to the railing. He braces himself upon the deck by his elbows and frowns at the Chargers as one might at a group of misbehaving children.

“Well?!” He hisses. “Am I meant to do this on my own?”

To their credit, they make it to their proper places in record time.

But not before Dalish throws a bolt of energy at him.

It stings.

It stings worse than gunfire, worse than his father’s curses.

But still, the fire pours from him until he slinks back to his position and waits. The warship sinks, the waves grow quiet as the ship grows quiet as the night continues on.

He waits, but no one comes.

He waits until he sleeps.

The Rack will stand guard.

-

Grim is the first to come to him, in the middle of the night, two days later. He lies on his belly, arms resting on the very edge of the deck, and studies Dorian intently.

Dorian tries to be still for a few moments, but Grim is patient and Dorian is tired. He lowers his arms and looks up at the other man.

Grim waves.

Dorian blinks, and waves back.

Grim reaches out to hold Dorian’s hand, and just...stays there.

“Heard you singing.” Grim says.

And this time, Dorian’s relief washes over the Rack. The sails buzz with energy. In the chill of night, the deck is warm. Grim falls asleep there, and nothing assails him.

-

One by one, they come to him.

Stitches is bitter, but quick enough to forgive.

Krem is angry, but not so cruel as to blame him for...well, all of this.

Rocky and Dalish both think this is all great fun, and Skinner is surprisingly unbothered by it all. Wooden isn’t much better than flesh, as far as humans go, he supposes.

The Iron Bull is the holdout.

Dorian does not peek behind the flicker of his candle, does not reach out to warm his cabin, does not so much as send a breeze sighing over his skin.

He waits, and eventually, the Bull comes to him.

-

“So, the boys tell me you didn’t enchant me into buying you.”

“I didn’t. That was down to poor taste and alcohol. I suspect the latter more than the former.”

“Hey, I’d say my taste is pretty all right. You’re not ugly or anything.”

“Be still my—well, no…” Dorian sighs.  

Bull laughs, but Dorian does not. “Er, yeah. You’re actually pretty…” He lets out a heavy sigh and sits on the deck with a soft thud. “It’s pretty damn strange to have wet dreams about a statue.”

Dorian is quiet for a few moments, letting that spark of real pleasure race through his body and then down the length of the ship before settling in his belly. “Technically, I’m a carving.”

“Really? I’d say you’re more statuesque.”

“I’ve been told this profile ought to be cast in marble.”

“Too right.”

“You aren’t frightened of me?”

“Oh, no. Yeah. Scared shitless. All that demon-y shit, but—”

“Did you just refer to magic in its entirety as ‘demon-y shit’?”

There’s a distant, hissing, ‘Oooooh’ from Dalish, but she quiets when Bull shoots her a Look.

“Nah. Just the turning people into talking figurines parts.”

“I don’t believe any demons were involved, though I suppose that would be undue charity on my part.”

“But you’ve been with us a while, and it’s pretty obvious you’ve been keeping us safe.” He runs his thumb over the wood of the deck, and the Rack shares it with him because It’s yours. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I could take ya in a barnacle fight.”

Dorian is silent.

“Oh, come on. That one was good!”

“No, it wasn’t.”

But Dorian feels awake in a new way, with the open sky and the lapping water, and the feel of Bull settled warm and solid on his back.

-

Bull’s visits resume, but now Dorian gets to respond.

Gets to talk to him for hours.

Gets to keep these secrets not because Bull is unaware they’re shared, but because he wants to share them.

Bull’s hand comes closer and closer to the edge, and Dorian’s flesh—or his bark, or whatever he’s made out of now—is eager and waiting for touch.   

Bull’s fingers make contact, and Dorian feels as if his chest is open for the ocean air to spill in and fill him up. Impossibly, inevitably blue.

-

“You moved, right?”

“I can, to an extent.”

“Need to make some repairs. D’you think you could give me a hand?”

“Are you using me for cheap labor?”

“And convenience. Don’t forget convenience.”

“Do you see how he treats me, Krem?!”

Krem rolls his eyes and calls, “Pretty sure he’d replace me with a good, strong mule if it could run inventory.”

“Not true!” Bull laughs. “I’d at least hold out for a team of ‘em to hoist that maul of yours.”

Krem makes a rude hand gesture, and Dorian laughs. By the time he finishes and looks to Bull again, the soft smile has not disappeared from those thin lips.

“You up for some menial work?”

“Yes.” Dorian says. “And thank you.”

“What for?”

“The Rack has been sore. This will help.”

“Wait, you can—”

But Dorian is already off toward the place where the ship has been quietly hurting, already part of an echoing circuit of pleased acknowledgement. The ship supports and cradles him, and he feels so impossibly light.

His arms no longer hurt.

The sheet around his hips feels almost like silk again.

-

One night, they set up a card game near the bow, and Bull comes to the gap where they’ve removed a bit of railing so that Dorian might pop up to say hello.

Or judge them.

It’s anyone’s guess, really.

Bull kneels in the gap and reaches down like a proper gentleman, albeit one missing fingers, to help Dorian up.

Dorian takes the offered hand and moves his right leg, waiting for the strange shift of wood and what was once muscle to carry him upward, but it does not come. Instead, his leg—his leg!—draws free of the hull and hangs in empty space.

He grasps Bull’s arm tight, but does not cry out. It’s too much to cry out. The sudden shift in his weight, and—

And Bull thinks he’s playing. The great fool chuckles softly and pulls him up, up, up and free and then Dorian is falling against him, his skin softening, and the sheets loosening before falling at his feet in a useless, expensive pile.

Bull catches him, thunderstruck and blinking like a newborn nug. “You...legs?”

“Me legs.” Dorian breathes, and then they’re falling to the deck while the Chargers whoop and holler. He scrambles over Bull’s legs, into his arms and presses kisses everywhere he can reach.

The Rack vibrates with joy, and he hasn’t lost that connection. He hasn’t.

They’re together, they’re free.

And they’re home.       

-

“Bull,” Dorian murmurs, some days later, against the warm grey of Bull’s skin. The dawn light is just peeking in through the window, edging over the deep blue-black of the sea.

The Rack giggles, knowing and waiting and loving it all so dearly.

Bull grunts, still enjoying the ability to sleep in with a warm body in his arms and not attached to the bow of his ship. ��Mmmm?”

“How would you like to help me...with my ‘morning wood’?”

Bull laughs so hard Skinner spits curses from the next room, and muffles it with his teeth in Dorian’s shoulder.

But that big, broad palm slides down between his legs and around his cock and blearily Bull jokes, “Look, no splinters.”

And Dorian is alright with that.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [190]

Bull is busy chatting with Evelyn when someone runs into him. This is not unusual. Things run into Bull all the time. Bull lives in a house full of small children all under the age of sixteen, if he isn’t bumped or jostled in some way at least once a day it’s not a real day and he’s probably asleep which means he needs to wake up because he’s probably forgetting to do something. And considering that he’s at sports day at his kid’s elementary school he figures he’s probably going to get run into a lot.

Children, when hyped up on competition and not being in class and being watched by their parents, tend to get a bit more uncoordinated than usual.

So Bull pays very little attention to it, especially considering it didn’t even hurt.

And then there’s small fingers digging into his thigh and yanking hard, Bull grimaces and looks down and Mahanon is staring up at him with those huge weirdly solemn eyes of his.

“Yes, Mahanon?” Bull asks. It’s a little strange to be seeing the boy in this context. Normally it’s at his own house or at the store or at Ellana’s house, occasionally the park or the library. Strangely enough, Bull’s never actually seen Mahanon at school before.

Mahanon looks briefly uncertain before mulishly tugging on his pants again and says, “You’re the only one I could find.”

Bull’s eyebrows raise, “Only one of what?”

“Parent,” Mahanon says sullenly and holds up a slip of paper to him.

“Ah, that’s for one of the class games,” Evelyn explains as Bull looks at the piece of paper that does, indeed, say parent on it. “Students pick pieces of paper out of a box and they have to find the thing on the paper and bring it back to the courtyard.”

Bull’s eyebrows raise higher, “Where’s your mom?”

Bull is far from the only parent here. Mahanon’s own mother must be somewhere around here. Knowing her, she’d have her phone out with three extra batteries for when it runs low.

Mahanon’s mulish look twists into something that borderlines tears before it untwists itself back into stubbornness, “Not here. I only have you.”

Something very strange kicks itself awake in Bull’s chest. Not strange in that he’s never felt it before. He’s felt that specific something kick itself around his guts and his chest plenty of times before.

He felt it when he got called into Krem’s first school because his teacher was a transphobic piece of shit. He felt it when he heard that Grim was being ignored in class because no one was paying attention to his signs. He felt it when Dalish came home crying and dirty because some idiot teenagers thought they’d feel big picking on someone smaller than them. He felt it when Rocky came home after the science fair and locked himself in his room and pretended to listen to the radio super loud to avoid telling Bull that he didn’t place because the school’s judges didn’t think his project was science enough.

Bull has felt this very specific feeling plenty of times before. The only strange thing is that this isn’t one of his kids.

Except maybe he is, because that thing that’s kicking up a storm in Bull’s chest seems to think so.

Bull goes with it and holds out his hand, “I’ll talk to you later, Evelyn. Come on, Mahanon. I hope I count. You probably don’t know this but there are a lot of people at this school who don’t think I count as a parent.”

“You’re here,” Mahanon says and there’s that kick in Bull’s chest again and parts of him turn hot and furious on Ellana. It’s unfair, he knows. She isn’t here to tell her side of the story. And he knows that she loves her son so much that it drives her to sleeplessnes and anxiety and actual fevers sometimes with worry.

There is a reason she is not here today, Bull reminds himself, forcing down the anger in his chest. You can’t judge without knowing the whole situation.

-

“I am missing my son’s sports day for this,” Ellana says softly. Not a threat. A statement. A fact.

“Pray tell, is this not important enough to warrant your attention?” Elgar’nan asks. He doesn’t even look at her. “There will be other events in your child’s life. He won’t die tomorrow.”

Dad’s and Aunt Mythal both reaching to put their hands on hers are the only thing that stops her from shoving away from the long table and marching out of this room. Not before throwing a punch that she definitely won’t regret.

Elgar’nan is a douche and he’s had a punch coming for a very, very long time, if not more than just a punch.

Her knuckles itch for a violence she didn’t think they remembered. It’s been a very, very long time since she was a frightened little girl. Father had always told her that there were better weapons than fists.

Words, time, the destruction of ego, to name a few.

That’s why they became lawyers, after all. Everyone in this family has a profound and deep taste for the ironic and the manipulative.

“We are assembled here today - all of us - because there are matters of import that we must discuss,” Elgar’nan says. “Matters that are important to our business and our holdings. Is your livelihood not important enough, niece?”

Ellana grinds her teeth and glares at the table in front of her.

Neither Dad nor Aunt Mythal have let go of her arms.

“Get on with it,” Sylaise says on Father’s other side. “Ellana isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to be here. This isn’t even our mess to clean up.”

Ellana hears Andruil shifting in her seat across the table and when she glances up Andruil is glaring at her sister, lip twitching into a snarl.

“They don’t even work in our sector, how was I supposed to know that they’d lash out like petty children?”  Andruil snaps. “The Titan Group doesn’t have their hands in any businesses close to ours. They’re a supply group that occasionally lobbies for ecological protections and reforms.”

“Did you think that they’d have forgotten all the bullshit you pulled?” Falon’din says, idly writing or drawing something down in his notebook. “I’m honestly a little surprised they waited this long.”

“We need a plan to make sure that nothing is amiss,” Jun says, “Though I don’t see why all of us need to be present. Some of us aren’t even part of the firm.”

Jun glares at Elgar’nan. Elgar’nan ignores him.

“If we were going to bicker like it’s a family dinner,” Morrigan says, sounding just as angry as Ellana is, “You could have just sent me the footnotes via text or email or some other annoying method where I could save so much time by throwing it out. Instead I am here and I have to listen to this in real time. Get to the point. Jun is right, some of us don’t even work at the main firm. Some of us aren’t even lawyers.”

Ellana glances towards Morrigan. Morrigan’s eyes meet hers and they share a moment of sympathy for each other. Keiran has always been something of a sickly boy and Morrigan is loathe to leave him unexpectedly.

It isn’t often that she and her cousin are on the exact same page, but Ellana is pleased to know that she has at least one real ally in this room.

Aunt Mythal and Dad of course understand her, but they also made her come here to start with. So.

“Let’s start with this,” Elgar’nan says and clicks something on his computer, bringing something up on the projector on the far wall. “Will someone explain to me how the fuck the head of the Titan group got his hands on this information to send to me this morning?”

[roguelioness]

cariame replied to your post: i'm glad you're having a good time! you may have...

no worries!!! ah, i love cole he is my sweet son and yes krem is so good i wish he was more prominent in the game tbh!

YOU ARE MY NEW FAVORITE PERSON PLS TALK TO ME WHEN IM NOT DRUNK SO I CAN REMEMBER HOW AWESOME YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU SO TOTALLY ARE

[stardustandash]

Waiting on the Edge of the Abyss (chapter 2)

A Dragon Age Fanfic

Ëonwë Lavellan does not like the fade or tough decisions. Or, I can’t deal with Here Lies the Abyss so here’s a third option. 

Chapter two time!

Read Ëonwë’s first adventure

Read on Ao3

With one ear Dorian listened as Hawke rounded up the remaining Wardens, claiming leadership until such time as the Inquisition decided their fate. Alistair in turn announced that he would be leaving to inform the Wardens as Weisshaupt of the corruption in their ranks and the death of Warden-Commander Clarel. Dorian couldn't care less about the Maker-damned Wardens though, he was far more concerned about the limp body in the commander's arms.

Ëonwë's senses came back slowly. First, he was aware of the cloth beneath him. It was soft, but not the familiar softness of his own bed. There was the taste of elfroot in his mouth, a bright earthy note on his tongue.Then he was aware of the hand holding his own. The thumb gently stroking across his knuckles had familiar callouses. Dorian. He was then aware of the voices. Dorian's was there, murmuring in Tevene, but there were others as well. Was he still at Adamant? How long had he been asleep. The next thing Ëonwë became aware of was the pain. His leg hurt, and his side. Ëonwë would not be surprised if his skull was fractured judging by how it felt like a whole team of dwarves had been mining it from the inside out. His breath must have hitched from the pain, because Dorian broke off his quiet murmurs.

"Lavellan?" asked Dorian in a quiet voice.

Ëonwë tried to answer, but all that came out was a dry moan.

"Come on Amatus, open your eyes for me."

He said it so gently, Ëonwë had to try, just for him. It was an effort, but Ëonwë managed to force his sleep-crusted eyelids apart. Dorian was there, looking worried and ragged, though wearing clean robes. Some time must have passed then. Beyond Dorian Ëonwë could see healers, magical and mundane. This place was familiar, and it took Ëonwë's tired brain a few minutes to realize he was in Skyhold's infirmary.

"Lavellan?"

Dorian's question dragged Ëonwë's attention back to him. His mind felt like pea soup and it was hard to concentrate.

"Wa-water?" Ëonwë asked in a raspy voice.

His throat felt like the hot sands of the Western Approach had been poured down it. Dorian was quick to comply to his request, sliding one hand around Ëonwë's shoulders to help ease him upright enough to drink from the cup Dorian held to his lips. Creators did the movement make his side sting, but the water felt wonderful against his throat.

"Thank you," said Ëonwë.

"You should know I absolutely detest playing nursemaid," said Dorian, but without any of the usual bite. The sarcasm was lost behind the worry that tightened his eyes and deepened the lines around his mouth.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ëonwë let his gaze roll over Dorian again, assuring himself that the man was fine. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and bathed only once in that time, but there were no visible injuries.

"Did you know your library has remarkably little on early Tevinter history?" said Dorian.

Ëonwë only shrugged. Really, he hadn't had time to actually read anything other than reports in months.

"All these gifts to the Inquisition and the best they could do was the Malefica Imperia. Trite propaganda. But if you wanted twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, you need look no further."

"Critiquing every book in my library?" Ëonwë grinned. Of course Dorian would be upset that they only had books with the southerners views on his homeland.

"I wouldn't have to, if you could find some rebellious heretic archivist to join the cause."

"Are there rebellious archivists? Other than you that is."

"If Corypheus ever starts burning masterworks of literature I'm sure a few would pop up."

Ëonwë laughed a little at that, though stopped quickly as a flair of pain burst in his side.

"I think I saw something by Genitivi there," said Dorian, beginning to rise.

Something in the way Dorian said that made Ëonwë think that the mage was yelling at him for something other than the fact that his library was lacking.

"What is this really about, Dorian?"

Dorian sat back down with a heavy sigh.

"When we fell into that castle, into the Fade, I thought you were done for," Dorian couldn't keep the emotion out of his voice, and Ëonwë felt utter guilt at causing that sadness. "I don't know If I can forgive you for that moment."

Ëonwë reached for Dorian's hand.

"I'm here, I'm alive, aren't I?" Ëonwë tried to reassure Dorian.

But Dorian shook off Ëonwë's hand. His face was stony and his eyes burned with emotion.

"You sent me ahead, and then didn't follow. For a moment I was certain you wouldn't. I thought 'this is it, this is where I finally lose him forever'. And then you do stumble out of the Fade, and for a second everything is all right. But you had to go and ruin the moment by bleeding all over the damn courtyard and bring that feeling right back."

Ëonwë felt properly chastised. But it hadn't been his intention to scare Dorian. He'd just wanted to make sure everyone who he dragged into that mess managed to get out of it. Creators, Ëonwë felt his age for the first time in a long time. He'd been playing the Inquisitor for too long, forgetting he was not even properly the first of clan Lavellan, forgetting that he was only a few short moons past his twentieth winter. And here he was, not for the first time, lying injured in a shemlen infirmary with too many people waiting for him to get back up and make life changing decisions for them.

"I'm sorry," offered Ëonwë.

Dorian just leaned down to press a soft kiss to his temple before taking his leave. Ëonwë wasn't sure what to do with that. But then a healer came by with a potion that made everything hurt less and he slipped back into a dreamless sleep.

Before he'd managed to make his escape out of the infirmary, many of the inner circle had been by to visit. Solas had been very curious about the Fade, and asked questions until Ëonwë's head spun and he was chased out by a healer to let Ëonwë get some rest. Blackwall had come to give him an update on the Wardens, Sera had snuck him a berry tart, Krem had been by to thank him for bringing back Iron Bull, and Iron Bull had been surprisingly quiet though winked when Ëonwë asked after Dorian. Dorian hadn't been to see him since Ëonwë woke. Neither had his advisors, though Ëonwë suspected it was because they would prefer him to get a moment of rest before diving back into business. He was bored and frustrated by the fourth day, and despite the healers insisting he stay on bedrest for a little while longer, Ëonwë managed to convince one of them with his famed doe eyes that he was fine to walk around with a crutch. This saw him hobbling around Skyhold, taking stock of morale. Everyone was glad to see their Inquisitor out and about, though the atmosphere in the courtyard was sombre. Even the tavern seemed somewhat subdued, though Ëonwë only glanced in as he made his way to where he spied Cassandra slaughtering training dummies.

"I think he's dead, whoever he is," called Ëonwë.

Cassandra spun around, though lowered her blade.

"Inquisitor! Did the healers say you could be up?"

No, but Ëonwë wasn't about to admit it.

"I'm fine. I'm sure there's a whole host of people waiting to hear my report of what happened in the fade."

Ëonwë just wanted to get the whole nightmare over with so he could move past it, preferably on to mending things with Dorian. Cassandra gave him a knowing smile.

"Luckily for you, we just need to hear the part where you were alone. I'll call the others to the war room, meet us there in half an hour."

Ëonwë nodded.

"And Inquisitor, I am glad you made it back to us."

"Thank you," said Ëonwë.

Half an hour. Just enough time to sneak to the gardens. If he was lucky, he could even avoid being hounded by Mother Giselle. Chantry sermons after just seeing the strange apparition of the Divine? Not something Ëonwë really wanted.

The garden was quiet. Morrigan and her son were there, as usual. Morrigan seemed content to watch Kieran while he investigated the various plants Ëonwë had planted from the seeds he collected on his travels. Movement on the battlements caught his attention. It was Alistair, warden armour shining bright in the pale sunlight. He had something in his arms. Ëonwë watched as he approached Kieran. Morrigan said nothing, though she seemed ready to spring into action.

"Hello, Kieran isn't it?" Alistair greeted cheerfully.

"Yes. Oh! I know who you are."

"Really?" Alistair looked oddly eager, hopeful almost.

"Yes! Mother says you helped her friend slay the archdemon," said Kieran.

It was more excitement than Ëonwë had ever seen from the boy before, but Alistair seemed disappointed by the answer.

"That's right. Anyways, I have it on good authority that your birthday may be soon, and I came to give you this," said Alistair, holding up the basket, which Ëonwë could now see was covered in a wriggling cloth.

"For me?" Kieran took the basket, and gleefully ripped off the cloth to reveal an utterly adorable Mabari puppy.

The dog took one look at the boy, gave a happy bark, and decided that Kieran's face needed the best washing of his young life.

"She'll need a name you know. And don't forget, Mabari are smart, so you should teach her as many tricks as possible."

"Noya," said Kieran.

"What was that?" Alistair looked shocked.

"Noya, like the Hero of Ferelden. Mother talks about her all the time. She says that Noya was fierce and protective for a mage. I think those are good qualities for a Mabari too."

"Noya still is fierce and protective. I think it's a great name," Alistair said.

With that Kieran eagerly ran over to Morrigan to enthusiastically show her his new pet. Ëonwë made a mental note to ask about what had just happened later. For now he was needed in the war room.

The meeting wasn't all that bad. And Josephine, bless her heart, had gotten him a chair. None of them commented when he sank into it gingerly, very aware of all the aches, bruises, and healing wounds still covering his body. From there he launched into his story.

Ëonwë had sent Alistair and Hawke ahead. The rift was close, so close, and he needed to see them leave. But he also had to get past the nightmare as well. So he told the advisors, how he had gathered the magic, and released it, hoping to stun the creature long enough to get a decent head start to the rift. He didn't count on the creature being immune to the stunning effect of his lightning magic. As soon as he had tried to run the thing had sent one of its spiny limbs straight through his side. The monster had retracted it, thank the creators, but the force had knocked him to his knees. The next blow had been to his head. He had tried to fade-step away, but being in the fade and all, it hadn't exactly worked. From there things were fuzzy, and he told as much to the advisors. How he managed to get past the nightmare creature was beyond him.

"I think I owe it to luck that I'm standing here," finished Ëonwë.

"I only wonder, could it really have been Divine Justinia you saw in the fade?" Leliana had a distant look in her eyes.

"I don't think we'll ever know now," said Ëonwë. Truthfully, he thought it could have been the Divine, or what was left of her spirit, but it could have just as easily been another spirit, who, like Cole, had taken the shape of the person it had tried to comfort.

"Your safe now, and on the mend. That's all that matters. We can debate if it was truly the Divine or not at a later date. Inquisitor," Cullen nodded to him, and took his leave.

Ëonwë was grateful. He was feeling all kinds of tired. Barely concealing a groan, Ëonwë stood slowly from the chair, trying to stretch out his stiff limbs without aggravating his wounds. He turned to go, but before he could leave Leliana's voice stopped him.

"Inquisitor, I believe I have something for you."

Ëonwë turned. Leliana was holding a small leather pouch. She gave it to him and Ëonwë curiously peeked inside, wondering what it could be. Inside was the amulet. Dorian's amulet. His dratted lineage. Ëonwë had almost forgotten their row in the market and his subsequent words to one of Leliana's spies in Val Royeux.

"Thank you."

With the pouch weighing heavily in his pocket, Ëonwë retired to his room with a lot on his mind. One of the healers found him just after he'd managed to drift to sleep. Back to the infirmary he went, but not before stashing the pouch in one of the drawers in his desk.

[lieutenantofthechxrgers-blog]

@ahumbletailor - continued from here [x]

He had heard from Cullen about the mission that his father has been assigned to, and he protested against it immediately. He knew how bad and brutal the Red Templars were, not from first hand experience but from the wounds that the Chief and the rest of the Inner Circle would have when they would return from missions to handle Red Templars.

He fought Cullen against it, who refused to budge on the idea but instead, offered the suggestion that Cremisius should go with his father if he was so concerned. Krem left, furiously, and then without a second thought, decided to grab his maul and wait by the gate. His father reacted just as Krem predicted.

"I feel like the rest of the Chargers have known me long enough to know that any bad example I set is an example that they shouldn't follow." He shot a glare at his father, and if he looked closely, perhaps he could find a small hint of concern in his eyes. "The Chief can stay and watch them for a bit. I'm NOT changing my mind, father."

[borisbubbles]

Character analysis: Vivienne de Fer (Dragon Age Inquisition)

So, if you’ve wondered where I popped off to the past two months or so, I’m going to give you an answer - I finally bought Dragon Age Inquisition (legit on my gaming wishlist since its 2014 release) and I’ve been obsessed with it ever since. 

The main draw to this game however, isn’t so much the gameplay (if you want a game that feels similar but has better gameplay - Assassin’s Creed Odyssey is what you’d want instead), but the storytelling and particularly the character development are top notch. All nine companions are fascinating and fleshed out in such a realistic manner I’m still gasping in awe on my fifth playthrough.  Thus, a post on it is in order. It’s a bit different from my usual content, but don’t let that discourage you - clearing my head from Dragon Age will allow me to let Eurovision back in and continue my unfinished 2020 ranking.  In this post, I will be analyzing one of DAI’s most interesting characters - none other than Madame de Fer herself, Vivienne.  Now, I’m under the impression that this is a rather unpopular opinion but I absolutely love Vivienne. And no, I won’t apologize for it. As a Templar-thumping elitist with a icy, sardonic demeanor the sheer ‘Idea Of A Vivienne’ is meant to make your head spin. Dragon Age has always been a franchise in which mages are a socially surpressed group and to be confronted with a socially confident enchantress who likes Templars and seemingly supports the social shunning out of her own ambition is the walking embodiment of flippancy. 

and yet, I feel a lot of sympathy for Vivienne. 

Yes, she’s a bitch. She knows she’s one and she’s a-ok with it. I won’t argue with that. Sadly, the “Vivienne is a bitch” rhetoric also drastically sells her short. Vivienne is highly complex and her real personality is as tragic as it is twisted. 

Madame de Fer

So let’s start with what we are shown on the surface. Vivienne is a high-ranking courtier from an empire notable for its deadly, acid-laced political game. She seemingly joins the Inquisition for personal gain, to acrue reputation and power, and eventually be elected Divine (= female pope) at the end of the game. She presents herself as a despicable blend of Real Housewife, Disney Villain, and Tory Politician, all rolled into one ball of sickening, unctuous smarm. Worse, the Inquisitor has no way to rebuke Vivienne’s absurd policies and ideas. You can’t argue with her, convince her to listen to your differing viewpoints or even kick her out the Inquisition. She has a way with words where she can twist arguments around in such a fashion that she lands on top and makes the other person look like the irrational party.

“Thus speaks the Inquisitor who has made so many mature and level-headed choices so far. Such as releasion malcontents upon the population without safeguards to protect them should they turn into abominations. Very wise. I rearranged some furniture. Lives aren’t thrown into jeopardy by my actions. Perhaps a little perspective is needed.”

She’s Cersei Lannister on creatine, Dolores Umbridge on motherfucking roids. If you look at merely the surface, then yes, Vivienne looks like the worst person ever created. I love a good anti-villainess however, and she’s definitely one. 

Yet, she never actually does anything ‘evil’? Yes, she is ‘a tyrant’ as a Divine, but 1) the person saying this is Cassandra, whose dislike for mage freedom is only matched by her dislike of being sidelined 2) Divine Vivienne isn’t bad to mages either? (hold that thought, I’ll get to it). She never actually sabotages the Inquisition, no matter how low her approval with the Inquisitor gets. She never attempts to stop them, no matter how annoyed she is. She’s one of the most brutally honest companions in the cast, in fact. (It always surprises me people call her a ‘hypocrite’ - you keep using that word and it doesn’t mean what you think it means.) The ‘worst’ display of character is when she attempts to break up Sera and the Inquisitor and even then - are we going to pretend Sera isn’t a toxic, controlling girlfriend with a huge chip on her shoulder? I love Sera, but come on.  

Vivienne is a character where the storytelling rule of Show, Don’t Tell is of vital importance. The Orlesian empire is an empire built around posturing and reputation. Nobody really shows their true motivations or character, and instead builds a public façade. It’s like how the Hanar (the Jellyfish people) in Mass Effect have a Public name they use in day-to-day life, and a Personal Name for their loved-ones and inner circle. Vivienne’s ‘Public Visage’ is that of Madame de Fer - this is the Vivienne who openly relishes in power, publicly humiliates grasping anklebiters with passive-aggressive retorts, the woman who is feared and loathed by all of Orlais, and this is the Face you see for most of the game.

The real beauty of Vivienne’s character and the reason why I love her as much as I do (which is to say - a LOT) are the few moments when - what’s the phrase DigitalSpy love so much - Her Mask Slips, and you get a glimpse of the real woman underneath the hennin.

This is the Vivienne who stands by you during the Siege of Haven and approves of you when you save the villagers from Corypheus’s horde.

This is the Vivienne who comforts you when you lament the losses you suffered.

This is the Vivienne who admires you for setting an example as a mage for the rest of Thedas.

This is the Vivienne who worries about Cole’s well-being during his personal quest, momentarily forgetting who or what he is. 

This is the Vivienne who, when her approval for the Inquisitor reaches rock bottom, desperately reminds him of the suffering mages go through on a day-to-day basis because of the fear and hatred non-mages are bred to feel towards them and how this can spiral into more bloodshed without safeguards. 

This is the Vivienne who shows how deep her affection for Bastien de Ghislain truly is, by bringing you along during his dying moments. I love this scene btw. This is the only moment in the entire game where Vivienne is actually herself in the presence of the Inquisitor - needless to say, I consider anyone who deliberately spikes her potion a motherfucking psychopath ^_^)

“There is nothing here now” fuck I *almost* cried at Vivienne, get out of my head BioWare, this is WRONG -- people who delude themselves this is an irredeemable character. 

So, who is Vivienne really?

Understanding Vivienne requires recognizing that the mask and the real woman aren’t the same person. I think her relationship with Dorian is the prime example of this. I love the Vivienne/Dorian banter train, obviously - an unstoppable force of sass colliding with an unmovable wall of smarm is nothing short of a spectacle. However, there’s more to it than their highly entertaining snipes. As the incredibly gifted son of a magister, Dorian represents everything Vivienne should despise, and should be a natural enemy to her. And yet, she doesn’t and he isn’t.. Their gilded japes at each other are nothing more than verbal sparring, not dissimilar to how Krem and Iron Bull call each other names when they beat each other with sticks. In what I think is one of the most brilliantly written interactions between characters in DAI, I present Vivienne’s reaction when the Inquisitor enters a romance with Dorian:

Vivienne: I received a letter the other day, Dorian. Dorian: Truly? It's nice to know you have friends. 🙄 Vivienne: It was from an acquaintance in Tevinter expressing his shock at the disturbing rumors about your... relationship with the Inquisitor. Dorian: Rumors you were only too happy to verify, I assume. 🙃 Vivienne: I informed him the only disturbing thing in evidence was his penmanship. 🙂 Dorian: ...Oh. Thank you. 😳 Vivienne: I am not so quick to judge, darling. See that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.

Madame de Fer can never be seen directly expressing approval to a relationship between the Herald of Andraste and an ‘Evil’ Tevinter ’Magister’. By this subtle, subtle conversation, Vivienne indirectly tells Dorian that she considers him a good match for the Inquisitor and approves of the romance. It’s one of those reasons why I could never truly dislike Vivienne - between the layers of elegant poison lies a somewhat decent woman who never loses sight of the bigger picture. Not a good person maybe, but not one without some redeeming qualities.

The crux of Vivienne’s personality is that she, like all DAI companions, is a social outcast. She’s a mage in a fantasy setting where mages are psionically linked to demons, and grew up in a country where the majority religion has openly advocated the shunning and leashing of mages (’Magic exists to serve man’ - the Chantry is so, so vile in this game.). Vivienne’s “gift” was discovered so early in her life that she can barely remember her parents. Vivienne grew up in a squalid boarding school, learning from a young age that she’s dangerous and her talents need to be tamed and curbed. She is also terrified of demons, as her banters with Cole point out:

Cole: You're afraid. You don't have to be. Vivienne: My dear Inquisitor, please restrain your pet demon. I do not want it addressing me. Inquisitor: He's not doing any harm, Vivienne. Vivienne: It's a demon, darling. All it can do is harm. Cole: Everything bright, roar of anger as the demon rears. No, I will not fall. No one will control me ever again. Cole: Flash of white as the world comes back. Shaking, hollow, Harrowed, but smiling at templars to show them I'm me. Cole: I am not like that. I can protect you. If Templars come for you, I will kill them. Vivienne: Delightful. 😑

Vivienne’s Harrowing is implied to have been such a traumatizing event to her that she’s developed a pavlovian fear of demons ever since. (Hence her hostility towards Cole.). Vivienne is fully aware of the inherent dangers of magic, and projects this onto all other mages. 

Besides, given how Dragon Age has a history with mages doing all sorts of fucked up shit, ranging from blood magic, murder, demonic possession and actual terrorism (yes, *ElthinaBITCH* had it coming, but let’s not pretend like Anders/Justice was anything other than a terrorist), Vivienne’s policies of controlled monitoring and vigilance are actually significantly more sensible than the options of ‘unconditionally freeing every mage all over Thedas’ and ‘reverting back to the status quo before the rebellion’. They’re flawed policies, obviously. When Vivienne says “mages” she pictures faceless silhouettes foremost and not herself. Regardless, unlike Cassandra and Leliana, Vivienne is aware of the fear others harbour for her kind, and how hard it is to overcome such perceptions.  

Additionally, Vivienne’s a foreigner. She is an ethnic Rivaini, a culture associated with smugglers and pirates (Isabela from DAO and DA2 is half-Rivaini). This adds an additional social stigma, again pointed out by Cole:

Cole: Stepping into the parlor, hem of my gown snagged, no, adjust before I go in, must look perfect. Vivienne: My dear, your pet is speaking again. Do silence it. Cole: Voices inside. Marquis Alphonse. Cole: "I do hope Duke Bastien puts out the lights before he touches her. But then, she must disappear in the dark." Cole: Gown tight between my fingers, cold all over. Unacceptable. Wheels turn, strings pull. Cole: He hurt you. You left a letter, let out a lie so he would do something foolish against the Inquisition. A trap. Vivienne: Inquisitor, as your demon lacks manners, perhaps you could get Solas to train it.

This is the only palpable example of the casual racism Vivienne has to endure on a daily basis - Marquis Alphonse is a stupid, bigoted pillowhead who sucks at The Game, but remember - Vivienne only kills him if the Inquisitor decides to be a butthurt thug. She is aware that for every Alphonse, there are dozens of greasy sycophants who think exactly like he does, and will keep it under wraps just to remain in her good graces. 

Finally, there’s the social position Vivienne manufactured for herself, which is the weak point towards her character imo. Remember, this woman is a commoner by birth. She doesn’t even have a surname. Through apparently sheer dumb luck (or satanic intervention) she basically fell into the position of Personal Mage to the Duke of Ghislain. Regardless, ‘Personal mages’ were the rage in Orlesian nobility, and the prestigious families owned by them like one may own a pet or personal property. By somehow becoming Bastien de Ghislain’s mistress and using his influence, "Madame de Fer” liberated herself from all the social stigmata which should have pinned her down into a lowly courtier rank and turned the largely ceremonial office of “Court Enchanter” into a position of respect and power. This is huge move towards mage emancipation by the way, in a society where, again, Mages are feared and shunned and are constantly bullied, emasculated and taught to hate their talents. Vivienne is a shining example of what mages can become at the height of their power. Power she has, mind you, never actually abused before her Divine election. Vivienne’s actions will forever be under scrutiny not because of who she is, but because of what she is. The Grand Game can spit her out at any moment, which will likely result in her death. 

Inquisitor: “You seem to be enjoying yourself, Vivienne?” Vivienne: “It’s The Game, darling. If I didn’t enjoy it, I’d be dead by now.”

Whether Vivienne was using Bastien for her own gain or whether she truly loved him isn’t a case of or/or. It’s a case of and/and. The perception that she was using Bastien makes Vivienne more fearsome and improves her position in the Grand Game, but deep down, I have no doubts truly loved him. Remember, Vivienne’s position at the Orlesian court was secure. She had nothing to gain by saving Bastien’s life, but she attempted to anyway. That Bastien’s sister is a High Cleric doesn’t matter - Vivienne can be elected Divine regardless of her personal quest’s resolution. She loved him, period. 

No, I don’t think Vivienne is a good person. She treats those she deems beneath her poorly, like Sera, Solas, Cole and Blackwall (characters I like less than Vivienne), which I think is the #1 indicator for a Bad Personality. But I don’t think she qualifies as ‘Evil’ either and I refuse to dismiss the beautiful layering of her character. I genuinely believe Vivienne joined the Inquisition not just for her personal gain, but also out of idealism, similar to Dorian (again, Cole is 100% correct in pointing out the similarities between Dorian’s and Vivienne’s motivations for joining, as discomforting it is to her). 

In her mind, Vivienne sees herself as the only person who can emancipate the mages without bloodshed - her personal accomplishments at the Orlesian court speak for themselves. Vivienne isn’t opposed to mage freedom - she worries for the consequences of radical change, as she believes Orlesian society unprepared for the consequences. Hence why she’s perfectly fine with a Divine Cassandra. Hence why her fellow mages immediately elect her Grand Enchanter of the new Circle. 

Hence why Vivienne is so terrified by the Inquisitor’s actions if her disapproval gets too low. The Inquisitor has the power to completely destroy everything she has built and fought for during her lifetime. Remember: Vivienne’s biggest fear is irrelevance - there’s no greater irrelevance than having your life achievements reverse-engineered by the accidental stumbling of some upstart nobody. This is the real reason why she joins, risks her life and gets her hands dirty - the only person whose competence Vivienne trusts, is Vivienne’s own. 

Even as Divine Victoria, I’d say she’s not bad, at all actually. Vivienne has the trappings of an an Enlightened Despot, maintaining full control, while simultaneously granting mages more responsibility and freedom, slowly laying the foundations to make mages more accepted and less persecuted in southern Thedas. Given that Ferelden is a feudal fiefdom and Orlais is an absolute monarchy, this is a fucking improvement are you kidding me. (Wait did he just imply Vivienne is secretly the best Divine - hmm, probably not because Cass/Leliana have better epilogues - but realistically speaking, yes, Viv should be the best Divine and it’s bullshit that the story disagrees.) 

Underneath the countless layers of smarm, frost and seeming callousness, lies a fiercely intelligent and brave woman, whose ideals have been twisted into perversion by the cruel, ungrateful world around her. Envy her for her ability to control her destiny, but know that envy is what it is.  

The flaw in Vivienne’s character isn’t so much the ‘tyranny’ or the ‘bitchiness’ or the 'smarm’. Her flaw is her false belief that she is what the mages need the most. Her belief that her competence gives her the prerogative to serve the unwashed mage masses... by ruling over them. For all intents and purposes, Vivienne is an Orlesian Magister and this will forever be the brilliant tragedy of her character. She was created by a corrupt institution that should, by all accounts fear and loathe her but instead embraced her. It’s that delirious irony that makes Vivienne de Fer one of the best fictional characters in RPG history.  the next post will be Eurovision-related. :-) 

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [195]

“Why him?” Mahanon asks. He’s squirmed down the bed until only his eyes show above the blanket, and the tips of his fingers as he clutches the fabric. Ellana smooths her hand over the wisps of hair over his forehead.

She looks around the room, mostly entirely packed. It’s not like they can’t ever come back, and she and Mahanon both think that he’d be a touch lonely if they took everything out of the house with them.

She’s a little worried about Mahanon having to learn how to share a room. And also having a twin bed. She told Dad not to get Mahanon a full, but he’s intent on spoiling Mahanon rotten. Her only solace is that so far it doesn’t seem to be working and Mahanon is still a kind and generous boy. It must be genetics, really.

“How do you mean?” She asks, lying down over the covers, head resting on her elbow as she strokes his hair. It’s a big day tomorrow. Somehow it seems very - monumental. She and Mahanon have stayed over at the Iron Bull’s house plenty of times and a lot of their belongings are already there. They’ve done groceries, cooked meals, cleaned the house, done yard work there.

And yet this is the final step into a threshold Ellana is not certain of.

She is certain that she is going in a direction she wants to go. She is certain that she’s going to be very happy following this path and that Mahanon will be too.

She is not certain of the name of it, though she is beginning to understand the shape and color of it.

“Why do you like him best?” Mahanon asks. “Why is he Dad?”

It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It will never stop hurting, she thinks. The guilt and the shame of replacing her brother and his wife in Mahanon’s life.

Theron died when Mahanon was only a few months old, Mahanon’s mother following soon after. And then Lyssa died too.

Somehow it seems so unfair that Ellana is the only one left.

But it doesn’t hurt anymore, when he calls her mom. And it - for a strange reason - didn’t hurt the same way, to the same degree, in the same places, when Mahanon calls the Iron Bull dad.

“Well, you know,” Ellana says, thinking about the question carefully. “I saw those arms. Those big arms and I was just gone.”

Mahanon pulls the blanket down enough that she can see he’s scrunched up his nose and is making a face. Ellana pinches his nose and smiles.

“And I just thought, yes. Those are the arms of a man who can cook. And I know how much you love to eat. And was I wrong?”

“No,” Mahanon says, voice sounding hilarious with his nose pinched even as he kicks his little legs under the blankets, relinquishing his hold on them to swat at her hand. She lets go and he rolls over onto his side and stretches his arms out for her. She draws him close and tucks his head underneath her chin. “But you could’ve been wrong.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“Hmph.”

There are so many reasons why the Iron Bull. Most of them do not have names or words that she’s figured out how to put together yet - like the shape of the future they are going to.

It’s because she can’t do this without him, she thinks. She could. Ellana could raise Mahanon and take care of him and she would do it. There is no question of whether she can or can’t, she would do it. She just wouldn’t - Ellana doesn’t think she would have done as well as she has so far. Without the Iron Bull’s help and advice, she doesn’t think she would be able to take care of him the way he deserves. Without his support, she doesn’t think she would have gotten this far without causing Mahanon some sort of lasting hurt.

And -

She doesn’t want to do this without him.

Ellana wants to raise Mahanon with the Iron Bull and Krem and Dalish and Rocky and Stitches and Skinner and Grim. She wants them together. She wants that home that Iron Bull has made and opened to her and her son and she wants him to enjoy it because homes like those are so rare and beautiful.

She can live without him. She can live without the family and the warmth he has shown her. She could live with her son in the house of her father and they would be fine.

But she doesn’t have to.

-

They had decided that it would be best to bring Cole home while the rest of the children were away.

They were all excited for a new sibling. Bull’s children were used to the comings and goings of other children and Mahanon was curious about Cole in general.

But Bull had quietly pointed out that it Cole had been isolated for a while and that based on the way he acted when he went with her to talk to him it wouldn’t be a good idea for the house to be full of other strangers.

Cole is not a bad kid. Cole is a dangerous kid but he is more dangerous to himself than to others. Bull understands this and he can understand why Ellana couldn’t leave him be.

Bull opens the door and Ellana steps in first, Cole quietly following like a ghost. Bull promised to wait outside.

Cole has time to learn who the real boss of the house is, but for now he’s more comfortable with his mind thinking along stereotypes and that’s fine.

The house seems eerie without seven other children running around it. Even when the kids are quiet they’re loud in Bull’s conscience.

Bull sits on the front porch, hands folded in his lap as he waits for a final verdict.

It was decided that while Rocky is closer to Cole in age, he’s probably not quiet enough to give Cole peace of mind. Rocky’s a good kid, but he’s loud and exuberant in his own ways and Cole is - not. Rocky is moving in with Stitches and Grim is moving in with Krem. Mahanon and Cole will share.

Grim is quiet by default until you get to know him and then he can be very loud and while he is considerate, it’s probably best that they don’t put Cole and the kid with extreme anxiety together in the same room to sleep.

Mahanon is quiet, but Mahanon can also be firm with his boundaries. He’s younger than Cole but overall he’s the best temperament for now. If things get uncomfortable for the boys, they’ll figure something out. They always do.

It’s about an hour later when the two finish their tour of the house. Bull wonders what Ellana was showing the kid that it took so long. It’s not that big of a house.

“So?” He hears her as she comes back down the stairs, “What do you think, Cole?”

Cole’s answer is too soft, murmured and hurried - stumbling over syllables -, for Bull to hear clearly.

Ellana’s response though is clear with its audible smile.

“Do you feel up to meeting the rest of them, then? They’re very excited to meet you.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [150]

“Evelyn,” Bull nods at Krem’s teacher. She smiles and slowly pushes her grocery cart over next to his. “Krem’s running around somewhere in the ice cream aisle.”

Evelyn tilts her head and laughs, “I think I hear him.”

“I should probably tell him to knock it off,” Bull says, he doesn’t though. “What’s up? More computer trouble?”

“No, thank you for your help last time, though,” Evelyn says, “You know, Bull, Krem told me something interesting the other day.”

“No,” Bull says immediately and Evelyn shakes her head but follows after him anyway. “Don’t you have bags of dog food to be loading into your cart before you start shopping for people food?”

“Nah,” Evelyn waves her hand, “Cullen took care of that on Tuesday. Anyway, Krem told me that you think that Mahanon’s mom is pretty.”

Bull grumbles under his breath and Evelyn lightly kicks his cart.

“Don’t worry, I already knew. I know the look you get when you think someone is pretty and interesting.”

“Shut it, Trevelyan,” Bull says, “I should have never put my kids in your school.”

“What, you’d send them to Vivienne instead? Even if you did take her discount you’d be broke within the year. Do you want me to get her number for you?”

“No,” Bull says, “Isn’t that an abuse of power or something? Why would you have Lavellan’s number? Don’t give me that look, I heard her name when we were in the Principal’s office, Evelyn. It’s not hard work to figure out.”

“Mhm,” Evelyn says, “And I don’t have her number. Kaaras does, they do the book drive together and they’re friends. Kaaras was Mahanon’s teacher when he first transferred in and he grew attached.”

Bull can just picture it now. It’s very hard not to get attached to Kaaras.

“I’m not getting her number. I can think someone is pretty and interesting without it turning into something more.”

“That’s certainly true,” Evelyn nods. Bull senses a but happening. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to make some new friends.”

“I have plenty of friends.”

“You can never meet enough new people or make enough friends. Besides, I think your kids are about to adopt her kid,” Evelyn says. Bull groans and covers his face with his hand. “It’s not their fault, you taught them everything they know about nesting and taking strays. If it makes you feel better I think her kid thinks he’s adopting your kids, so that might speak to how similar you and she are and how you could get along pretty well.”

“I met her once, I don’t want to creep her out,” Bull says. She’s got to be - what. Twenty seven? Twenty eight? A forty year old man she met once at her son’s school suddenly texting her out of nowhere would be beyond creepy. It would be criminal, probably. He’d be slapped with a restraining order so hard his neck might pop.

“You could do this in a non-creepy stalker way,” Evelyn says, waving at a flash of dark brown skin and darker hair that dashes past the end of the aisle.

“Don’t run,” Bull says. “Krem, I mean it this time. Knock that shit off. Pretend to be civilized for the next half hour until we’re done here.”

“Yes’sir!” Krem yells back.

“And don’t yell,” Bull says.

“You could go through Kaaras, have him set something up,” Evelyn says. “Kaaras says that Ellana could use a friend. She doesn’t know any of the other parents and she’s kind of struggling with. You know.” Evelyn waves her hand vaguely. “And you could probably help.”

“No, I don’t know, help with what? She need computer help?” Bull asks.

“No, parenting, I mean,” Evelyn says.

“She’s got a pretty good kid,” Bull replies. Not many kids would stand up for a complete stranger and be willing to get in trouble for it.

“Yes, but I think it’s hard for her, being a single parent. She could use advice. You’re a single parent of six kids.”

Bull blinks, “She’s a single parent?”

“Yeah,” Evelyn nods, “It’s a sad story. You didn’t know?”

Bull shakes his head. “She kept mentioning a dad.”

“Her dad, Mahanon’s grandfather. The three of them live together. Her dad is a real hard ass, old fashioned and stuff,” Evelyn says, blinking slowly. “Wow, you really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Nothing,” Evelyn says and Bull believes absolutely none of it. “Anyway, if you’re worried about stepping on toes, don’t be. Ellana Lavellan is a single parent who could use advice from another single parent. Someone to talk to, at least. And I think you’re a really good single parent.” She smiles. “And a really good friend.”

Bull shrugs, “Passably decent and socially aware is a really low bar but I guess I meet it fine.”

“You always sell yourself short,” Evelyn shakes her head. “Anyway. If you’re really against it I suppose Kaaras shouldn’t have given her your number.”

Bull stops walking and stares at Evelyn’s head as she keeps on going, picking a few cans of cream of mushroom soup off the shelf.

“He what?”

Evelyn throws a grin she must’ve learned from Dorian at him.

“For once, Bull, I think you’re behind in the game. Ellana Lavellan asked Kaaras about you the day after you two met in the Principal’s office. Mostly she wanted to tell you that she’s sorry if Mahanon caused any trouble and that if you had any trouble with the administration about Krem’s status she could help you, but she was also definitely interested in being friends.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bull swears and then grunts when he feels something hit his calf from behind.

“What happened to being civilized?” Krem asks, throwing three bags of chips and four tall bottles of brightly colored sports drinks into the cart. Thankfully he’s missed the eggs.

“Civilization is for kids and old people,” Bull says, roughly ruffling Krem’s hair and then shoving him off, “Find me a vegetable to balance this out and you can keep it.”

Krem’s gone again.

“Don’t run.”

“So,” Evelyn says as she inspects cans of chicken broth, “You want her number or not? You going to wait for her to make the second move?”

“I regret ever moving into this district,” Bull says but pulls out his phone to text Kaaras. “Should’ve taken that contract and moved the hell out of this city.”

“You’d miss us too much,” Evelyn says, “You big soft lump.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [152]

“Krem’s last name is Aclassi,” Mahanon says as he helps her some files from the office into the house. She doesn’t know why Dad insists on keeping paper copies but she has a strong feeling at least part of it has to do with him wanting to make her do stuff.

“Oh,” Ellana blinks as Mahanon picks up a few of the papers that slid out of their folders when she was figuring out if she could carry one or two boxes without falling and cracking her head on their driveway.

“All of his siblings have different last names,” Mahanon continues, pushing the door open for her as she carefully enters the front hall and deposits the boxes by the entryway table. “Their dad let them keep their last names.”

Ellana’s stomach churns for an incredibly anxious and hot moment as she looks at Mahanon’s face and tries to see what’s behind those words.

Mahanon is harder to read than any juror or judge in a court.

“Do you - “ Ellana begins, and she has to swallow and quickly look at the boxes and then back at him, “Do you want to change your name back to Mahariel?”

Mahanon’s face twists and flushes red. Ellana’s heart sinks isntantly.

She always gets it wrong.

I’m sorry, Theron, she thinks at Mahanon’s father, her best friend, her brother. I’m sorry Theron, I was better as an aunt than as a mother.

“I’m a Lavellan,” Mahanon snaps, turning and running into the house.

“That could have gone better.”

Ellana looks up to see Dad coming down the stairs.

It always could go better, Ellana thinks and turns around to go back to unloading boxes. She feels it in her heart rather than hearing it when Dad takes a moment to consider either his grandson or his daughter to go to first, before following after her.

“You should have more confidence in yourself,” Dad says softly as she pulls out the last box from the back of her car. “He loves you. He calls you his mother.”

“He still remembers his real mother,” Ellana says, “He calls me his mother because he thinks he has to.”

She never told him that. She thinks that maybe it’s something he did to avoid scrutiny at school or when they’re in public.

She always feels guilty for how happy she feels when she hears him call her that.

Dad shakes his head, taking the box from her easily. Ellana closes the trunk of her car and locks it, following after him into the house.

“Just because he remembers his birth mother doesn’t mean you can’t be his mother, also,” Dad says. “He can choose you to be his mother, he has chosen you to be his mother.”

And because Dad has always been a little heavy handed at times, he also says, “You know that if his parents were still alive, they would have raised him to consider you a mother, too. As he considered Lyna like a mother, as well.”

Ellana can’t help but flinching at the name of her sister.

Dad puts the box down and then turns to her, gently raising his hand to brush her cheek.

“Ellana, imagine how it must feel for him to have you rebuff him at every turn. He wants to be close to you. You aren’t helping him by forcing him to keep a distinction between aunt and mother at this point.”

Ellana’s shoulders hunch.

“Remember why you took him,” Dad says softly, “When Theron and his wife died, when it was between you and Lyna you told Lyna to take him because you believed that Mahanon was more hers than yours.”

“Lyna and Theron were blood siblings,” Ellana says, “I was just - “

“You were still their sister,” Dad says, squeezing the side of her neck, “Just as you are my daughter, even without a genetic relation. And when Lyna died, and you fought me to convince me to let you take him in - don’t you remember your passion? Your pain?”

“My selfishness?”

“What was it you said, Ellana?” Dad says firmly.

He needs his family, she had said, he needs to be with the family that knows him.

He could have gone to his mother’s family. He could have gone into foster care.

Ellana takes in a deep breath, “I don’t want to replace them.”

“Then don’t,” Dad replies calmly, “You can be his parent without replacing the ones he has already lost. Go to your son. I will handle the files. Your organization is abysmal.”

-

Ellana is barely managing with Mahanon and she has her Dad to help. She has no idea how the Iron Bull manages six children without anyone at all.

It’s absolutely mind boggling.

“I can work from home,” the man shrugs as she watches his children quickly and seamlessly absorb Mahanon into their conversation at the other side of the cafe. Apparently it wouldn’t be cool to be seen with their parents, even though they - according to the Iron Bull - insisted on being here for this initial meet up. “It makes things easier. My boss is very chill.”

“Oh,” Ellana says and she wonders if she accidentally said something out loud again. “I’m sorry.”

Bull’s mouth quirks up at the corners, “Don’t worry. I’m used to it. Usually the first question is where do I find the time or how in general. I was covering my bases.”

Ellana doesn’t remember being this awkward. She likes to think she does pretty well with meeting people, making friendly chatter and such.

But this is, somehow, different. And more important.

“How old is he?” Bull asks.

“He’s eight,” Ellana says.

Eight and she can’t believe she gets to keep him.

“I’d rattle all of mine off, but they’d get embarassed,” Bull says, “Apparently it’s not cool for adults to know their ages or anything about them, so I’ve been banned from talking about these freeloaders.”

Ellana snickers, “They’re going to give Mahanon ideas. He’s eight and he thinks he’s going on sixty.”

“A wise soul in a young body.”

“More like a cranky soul in a young body,” Ellana says, “He takes too much after his grandfather. It’s terrible.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [145]

“You’re worrying too much, you can’t have your child live in a bubble,” Cullen says. He doesn’t even look before leaning over and snagging one of his twins and throwing the golden haired girl onto his shoulder.

She squirms a bit, babbling and waving her chubby limbs before deciding that this is a new game and she starts pretending to be an airplane balanced on Cullen’s shoulder, arms and legs outstretched.

“They’re going to eat dirt, fall down, put things in their mouths, and wind up with things they shouldn’t have access to,” Evelyn says, calmly flipping through a magazine. “Ellana, is this what you mean by green? Is this the shade of green you mean?”

She turns the magazine towards Ellana who is currently looking through a small stack of paint swatches.

“Mmm,” Ellana squints and then holds up two squares to it, “More blue. And warmer.”

Evelyn nods. This, apparently, makes sense to her.

“I am not worrying too much, I think the two of you aren’t worrying enough,” Dorian says, turning around and looking for the other twin who’s always been worryingly quiet in that disaster tends to follow. “Where is your son?”

Cullen and Evelyn still, if they were dogs their ears would be perked. Cullen gets up and looks out through the kitchen window. “The dogs have him, we’re fine.”

Evelyn flips a page in her magazine and scribbles something down on a notepad.

“Dorian is a worrier,” Ellana says as she holds paint swatches to the tablet screen, looking at the photographs of the nursery walls. She quickly switches to a picture of some framed prints and shoves the tablet at Evelyn. “Bull says we should go animal prints but I’m thinking florals. Your thoughts with this shade of green?”

“Don’t use silver frames,” Evelyn says and then, “Don’t worry, we were all worriers once.”

“You still are,” Cullen says to her and Evelyn’s lip twitches upwards. “And so am I, I concede.”

“Not about the safety of your children’s every day lives,” Dorian says.

“Look, somehow the twins managed to get into a locked room and then lock themselves sin for two hours,” Evelyn says, “We’ve learned that no matter how far you take it - no matter how many plans or contingencies you  make - your child will figure out a way around it. You just have to go with it, Dorian. All on the fly. It’s terrible and awful but sometimes that’s what you have to do.”

“Of course you do what you can - cover electrical plugs, put corner protectors on tables, put sharp objects away, baby gates - but you can’t take it to an extreme,” Cullen says, setting his daughter down and gently nudging her towards her building blocks. He then gets up when she goes over to the dog food bowl and picks her up again, also scooping up a few blocks and bringing them to the table. His daughter seems perfectly content to sit on his lap and play rather than roam around. In fact she starts pointing at the blocks and chattering at them.

“Juice, juice,” She says putting together an orange block with a yellow block. “Mama, juice, juice.”

“What do we say?” Evelyn says, turning to her daughter.

“Please,” She says, “Thank you.”

Evelyn smiles, “Good girl,” and gets up to get her daughter some juice.

“What do you think lima bean?” Ellana says showing the two year old a the paint swatches, “Which green is nice? Do you like this green? Or this green?”

Dorian watches as the little girl throws her hands up in the air, narrowly missing whacking Cullen in the face, “Green! Yellow! Blue!”

Ellana nods, “All very good choices and combinations. You get this from your mother, lima bean.”

“How do you know if you’ve taken child proofing too far?” Dorian asks.

“Dorian, if you have to ask that question you’re probably there,” Cullen replies, amused. “And if you doubt that maybe you should ask Kaaras and Bull for their input.”

“They were raised like wild things,” Dorian says, “What would they know of child safety?”

“And what about me?” Ellana asks.

“I think maybe if we took half of Dorian’s concern and gave it to you we’d balance out,” Evelyn says. “You’re a very chill mother so far.”

“Thank you,” Ellana looks down and pats her baby bump, “Hear that Baby? You’ve got a really chill mom.”

-

“It’s beautiful,” Ellana says, voice soft and eyes warm as she looks at the chair standing in the newly remodeled nursery. “It’s beautiful and perfect.”

Blackwall clears his throat, awkward and humbled at once, “I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t so sure on what color to paint it.”

The rocking chair is painted white. It’s simple in design, almost plain. But it’s sturdy looking and at home with the baby blanket Kaaras had bought draped over one arm and the stuffed nug that Krem had made sitting on it.

“I love it,” Ellana says, slowly entering the room to touch her fingers to the smooth wood, taking the chair in. “Blackwall, this is - it’s beautiful. It’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”

She gently takes the nug off the chair and sits down marveling as she runs her hands over the wood, slowly easing the chair back and forth.

She takes a slow look around the room. All of their friends had insisted on doing the final touches. And now she knows why.

Baby feels like a flutter under her skin and she absently runs her hand over her belly, feeling Baby press back. Her heart squeezes with pure happiness. There is no other word for it.

Krem’s nug. Kaaras’ blanket. Blackwall’s rocking chair.

On the wall there are some colorful and simple paintings of flowers done by Sera and Josephine. In a corner there’s a very large stuffed bear that Herah had gotten. Cole’s stuffed rabbit is already in the crib.

There’s a mobile hanging over it and Ellana is willing to bet it’s one of Dagna’s designs - there are little stars and planets hanging from it.

Everywhere in this room she looks there’s something new - some final touch, put just right that she didn’t know she wanted or would need until she sees it.

“You’re so loved, Baby,” Ellana says, cupping her hands over her stomach as Blackwall quietly steps out into the hallway to give her a moment. Ellana feels her eyes tearing up. “Baby, you’re so loved. I can’t wait for you to meet all these people.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [48]

Lavellan makes a soft, disturbed humming chirp.

This particular humming chirp is different from all the other sounds Krem has learned over the past nine months, and in total - over the past almost six or seven years he’s known the woman.

“I am having the baby,” Lavellan says.

“Yup,” Rocky muses, “That you are. Kind of late to go back now.”

Krem starts to get a sinking feeling in his stomach as Lavellan stares at the wall, hand resting over the swell of her stomach.

“Now,” She says.

“What?” Varric asks, looking up - and judging from the way his face slowly grows pale - is coming to the same conclusion Krem is.

Lavellan nods once to herself, “I am having the baby.”

She pauses and smiles beatifically, “Right now. My water broke.”

And that’s how Krem finds himself crammed into Varric’s shitty mini-van with Lavellan dreamily floating around the side of the car as Stitches and Dalish attempt to convince her to get inside while Varric calls Cassandra from the front.

“No, listen, Pentaghast, we need your plates.”

“My what?” Cassandra asks.

“Your plates - your special foreign important person plates. Lavellan’s water broke and we need to get her to the hospital.”

Varric’s phone is connected to his car, so all of them get to hear what sounds like Cassandra getting out of her seat and grabbing someone by the back of the neck, snarling pull over, and the very quick and immediate sounds of tires squealing, doors opening and slamming shut, people rearranging themselves, and a siren turning on.

“I will be there in five minutes.”

“You don’t even know where we are.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Cassandra is indeed with them in five minutes - because Lavellan still can’t be convinced to get into the damn van - and with one look, Lavellan is immediately climbing into the back seat of Cassandra’s black, shiny SUV.

Some extremely nervous men in suits get out as the rest of them get in.

“Where’s Bull? Dorian?” Cassandra asks.

“Bull’s at the airport,” Lavellan answers, the only calm person among them as she pets Grim’s knee. Grim is staring at Lavellan like she’s grown a second head as she half climbs on top of him to make room for Dalish to squeeze in.

“Dorian?” Cassandra asks.

“You aren’t going to believe this,” Varric says, “But Bull is at the airport to get Dorian. Dorian’s flight was delayed and they’re behind by three hours.”

“We were going to induce the labor tomorrow,” Lavellan says as Krem and Stitches finish loading Lavellan’s things into the back of the truck, “What a coincidence!”

Lavellan pets her belly, “But you are a naughty baby! You should really wait until your daddies are present.”

Cassandra makes a high pitched groan and revs the engine.

Actual minutes later - thanks to both the combined star power of everyone present, Cassandra’s terrifying driving, and Lavellan’s overall magical charm, in addition to the arrival of everyone else they know and their star power and magical charm - Lavellan is checked in and everyone is crowding in the waiting room.

Krem is nearly one hundred percent certain that no civilian hospital has ever had this many high profile people crammed in their waiting room - with more on the way.

“What, did you plan for all of us to be in the delivery room with you or what?” Sera had asked, meeting them just as Cassandra’s car squealed into the patient drop off zone.

“That would have been ideal, yes,” Lavellan had said, “Which reminds me - has anyone told Bull and Dorian that their child is being born?”

The answer was no.

Everyone looks up as the men of the hour run into the room, almost crashing into the reception desk -

“Uh, is one of you the father?” Because really, there’s only one person these two people are here to see considering the rest of the damn room.

“I’m the father,” Dorian says at the same time Bull says, “I’m her husband.”

The two grimace and the room, collectively groans. Of course.

Bull covers his face with a hand and waves the other at Dorian, “You go, it’s your kid being born.”

Dorian glares, “And she’s your wife.”

“The three of you didn’t even think about this, did you?” Vivienne asks - it isn’t even really a question at this point - , flipping a page in a five month old magazine.

“Nope,” Bull says.

“But we do know the theme for baby’s first birthday party.”

-

“What’s wrong with Dorian?” Lavellan asks, walking into the room and reclaiming her seat. Cole immediately lies down with his head on her lap, facing her barely present baby bump, touching the tip of his nose to her stomach. She begins to wind her hand through his hair and Cole begins to mumble something - most likely poetic and mildly disturbing. Like a single drop of ice down the soul.

Dorian groans softly, arms over his eyes as he lies across the love seat, phone loosely held in his hand.

“Latest boyfriend dumped him via text,” Bull says, putting his arm around her shoulders, hitting play on the movie.

Lavellan narrows her eyes, “Is that the one you brought to the wedding, Dorian? The one that’s off and on? Because I told you that I did not approve. I would have said more but I was worried you’d walk out on me and I would be short a best man. But I’m telling you now. He was a very thorough turnip. A bad turnip. A very bad turnip.”

“No, that’s a different one. He met this one at a symposium,” Bull says. “You’re thinking of the one Cassandra almost punched out when Dorian went to give the wedding toast. The closet-bigot turnip that we didn’t realize was a closet-bigot about until he started talking shit because he couldn’t handle one little drink without running his mouth. And Dorian thought he was just like - not a drinker at all.”

“Which is the symposium one then?” Lavellan frowns, “Have we met the symposium one? Is symposium turnip the one that said Dorian was committing a crime of nature by using a surrogate mother?”

“No, that’s racist turnip - they broke up the day we began thinking about this thing.”

“Do you have to call them all turnips?”

“Do you prefer dingdongs? Wingdings? Canker-sores? Don’t defend them. They all broke up with you for stupid reasons. And they were all concealing horrible, horrible character flaws from you.”

Dorian puts an arm over his eyes, “Via text. I’m not even good enough for a phone call. Or a public blog post.”

“Dorian, if I were a man, and your boyfriend, and stupid enough to break up with you I’d definitely make it worthy of internet drama,” Lavellan says.

“That’s not a good thing,” Bull says to her.

“It’s better than breaking up through text,” Lavellan points out.

Cole puts his hand on her stomach, “Maybe Baby can find a better boyfriend for Dorian. The Iron Bull always says babies attract a lot of dates.”

Lavellan turns to stare up at the Iron Bull, “How were you using babies to pick up dates? You’ve never had a baby before. This one isn’t even born yet.”

Bull shrugs, “Grim.”

“What?” Dorian raises his arm to give Bull a baffled look.

“Grim found a baby once and he got about fifty phone numbers before we could find the kid’s parents,” Bull says. “It’s a combination of the stoic demeanor, the baby, and the fact that he’s probably an exiled bastard son of some foreign prince.”

Lavellan turns to Dorian, “Maybe you should date Grim.”

“Not on your life.”

-

“Anyway, I’m pregnant,” Lavellan says and both Bull and Dorian freeze.

Lavellan pauses her pacing around the room, holds the phone away from her ear, shrugs, and tosses it over her shoulder.

“I’m going to make a peanut butter sandwich. Did we run out of honey?”

Bull catches it without looking.

They can both hear Evelyn screaming on the other side - “Lavellan? Ellana? Ellana! You’re what? Ellana!”

Bull glances at the phone and then deadpans, “Your sperm, your problem,” and tosses the phone at Dorian.

Dorian lurches forward in his chair, almost sliding off of it as he fumbles his catch - a few heart racing seconds later Dorian gapes at Bull, gesturing at the phone with his hand.

Bull smirks and goes back to reading pamphlets on various pregnancy things - nutrition, tips for back aches, helpful phone numbers -

Dorian glares at him.

“Our Lavellan, our problem,” And puts the phone on speaker, tossing it back onto the couch Bull is sitting on.

“You’re on speaker, Evelyn,” Dorian says.

“Bull!” Evelyn yells, “You’ve gotten Ellana pregnant?”

“Wrong,” Bull says, “Dorian’s gotten Lavellan pregnant.”

At least five different voices scream what at the same time.

“Who are you even with?” Dorian asks.

“Dagna, Malika, Josephine, Sera, and Evelyn,” Maxwell answers, “Cullen - but he’s currently choking on his own spit. Evelyn might not count because I think you killed her. She hasn’t had an asthma attack since we were like - twelve. Now she’s going blue. How could you do this to us?”

“You got Ellana pregnant?” Evelyn wheezes. “Dorian, I don’t - Bull. I. You!”

“Before you come over here, a baby strapped to your back and chest,” Dorian says, “On the upside you have someone to be pregnant with! Pregnancy buddies! You’re always complaining about how none of us know what it’s like.”

“Cullen hold the twins,” Evelyn bellows out - proving once and for all that while she is on maternity leave she has not, for a single moment, lost a single molecule of what makes her a terrifying Inquisitor. If anything it’s multiplied. “I’m going to kill Dorian and the Iron Bull. Maxwell - get Cassandra, I need her to hide the bodies.”