#“andraste this really is another noble's son”

[themournwatcher]

liveblogging my origins playthrough because why not. shoutout to naoise saying "see there? that's a trap" before promptly walking into it and triggering it. best rogue ever

[wanderertwinkle]

Well :D

I drew this picture with my favorite Inquisitor from DAI a couple of months ago

Unfortunately, a very sad story is connected with this art :_З

But I adore my Inquisitor, Theo Trevelyan, with all my heart... For the first time I played as a templar warrior with a shield and a sword

And I felt really invulnerable.

My character was so tenacious that everyone (except Cassandra) could die except him

It was a cool experience (especially considering that I always choose the "magician" class)

Also, I would like to share more information about Theo :D

I came up with a backstory for him!

◇Nickname: Sir Grumbles-a-Lot(from Dorian)

◇Age: 23 years;

◇Height: 192 cm;

◇Race: human;

"Sister Nightingale,

at your request, we were able to collect all possible information about the 'herald of Andraste'.

His full name is Theo Rene Trevelyan. The information that the 'herald' hails from the city of Ostvik in the Free Marches is confirmed by reliable sources. We gathered information about all of Trevelyan's relatives and found that many of them are related in one way or another to the Church. In this report, we want to highlight only the closest relatives.

The father was Harold Trevelyan, a noble man who had a large fortune and strong ties with the Church. He was a high-ranking templar. He died at the Conclave. It is known that he was a stern, domineering and religious man, and raised his children in the same way.

Mother - Constance Sophie La Tour d'Auvergne, originally from the aristocracy of Orleans, was a magess. Not much is known about her personality - she died at a young age after the birth of her son, was a gentle person by nature, left her only son a good inheritance, namely an estate and a title in Orley.

We also learned that the messenger has a half-sister. Their relationship has not been officially confirmed, but we have information on this matter.

The sister is Vanessa Underwood, a half-elf born to an unknown prostitute. The girl is 4 years older than the 'herald'. He has a magical gift, which the family, at the insistence of his father, hid. After revealing the truth, she was sent to the nearest Circle of Magicians, and subsequently subdued. The reports of the templars of the Circle say that the girl sowed revolutionary sentiments in the tower, which is not surprising, because it was at the beginning of a mass uprising of magicians. We also know that Vanessa maintained a very good relationship with her brother before she was subdued. After that, it is difficult to say anything about the girl's affections due to obvious circumstances. She is currently alive and in Skyhold with the rest of the magicians.

This concludes the circle of Trevelyan's closest relatives. I'll move on to the biography.

Since childhood, his father had been preparing Theo for the ministry of the Church. At a very young age, almost immediately after Vanessa left for the Circle, the boy was sent to a monastery, where he was able to undergo proper training. We learned from the archives of the monastery that Trevelyan was a diligent and exemplary student, showing great promise in this field. The templar mentors noted that the young man is "very hardworking", "faithful to the ideals of the Church and the rules of the templars, but overly compassionate towards magicians, which may cause problems in the future." After completing his training at the monastery, Theo became a full-fledged templar. Most likely, thanks to his father's connections, he was sent to the same Circle as his sister Vanessa. At this time, the dissatisfaction of the magicians was already beginning to gain momentum, resulting in protests or massacres. The behavior of most of the templars also did not comply with the rules, they showed excessive arbitrariness and aggression. The radical templars, without proper meetings, showed arbitrariness, pacifying all unwanted magicians in the Circle. Vanessa was among them. According to our data, the pacification of the sister had an extremely bad effect on Trevelyan. His character has changed a lot. The Templars from the Circle said that "he became silent," "apathetic," "stopped eating" and "lost all interest in work." Reports said that he received reprimands and punishments for condemning the Order. When the dissatisfaction of the magicians became widespread and the Circle broke up, Trevelyan immediately left it with his sister. They were both in their hometown for a while.

At this time, there were no incidents worth your attention, Sister Nightingale.

After some time, the elder Trevelyan and his son went to the Conclave, where Harold Trevelyan died in the explosion of the Temple. The rest of the events are known to you."

Several additional papers were attached to this report.

"After interviewing eyewitnesses, we were able to make an approximate portrait of the personality of the 'herald'.

In the words of the subdued Vanessa, Trevelyan's sister: "Yes, I've known Theo since birth. He was a very sweet and kind child, always bringing home different animals - kittens, puppies, chicks. But my father wouldn't let me keep them. For some reason, as a child, I often made fun of him... Also, once it was important for me that he became an honest and fair templar, not like many others... Before I left for the Circle of Magicians, Theo promised me this. He promised that he would protect the magicians, not oppress them. I don't know why it was so important to me anymore."

An extract from a conversation with the templars Amy and Terry, who worked with the 'herald' in the same Circle:

"- Yes, I was well acquainted with Theo. He is a good guy, always took a very responsible approach to his duties, and sometimes even did the work for others. He is generally altruistic to the core, even to some extent an idealist.

- That's it. He treated the duty of a templar differently from many others. He wanted to protect the magicians. It was on this basis that we came together... It even seemed to me that Theo and I were friends. Anyway, before my sister was subdued, we communicated well. NO, I'm not saying that Amy and I are involved in this case, just after that... The incident... It was as if Theo had stopped talking at all. Before that, he was sociable, good-natured, and he even joked with everyone.

- Yeah, and then he became not himself! Gloomy, looks like that all the time... It's like he's freezing with his eyes. Of course, I felt sorry for him, but I was also scared at the same time... And he doesn't seem to take jokes anymore..."

According to Cullen:

"I didn't know Trevelyan before the events at the Asylum, but at Leliana's request, I made some inquiries. Reports from the Circle in which he worked indicate that Theo is a very efficient and disciplined person. Knight Commander Emerick praised him highly, noting only that "the young man is reliable, but suffers from idealistic and moralistic fantasies about the work of templars, therefore, for personal reasons, he is not allowed to do dirty work."

"Sister Nightingale, here is another list of minor facts about Trevelyan that we managed to find out:

◇ He loves horses very much

◇ He built the strongest friendships with Dorian, Sarah, Cassandra and Varrick (Postscript: which is very surprising for us...)

◇ He likes to play the lute

◇ He is looking for a way to return magic and emotions to his sister (Postscript: Lady Pentagast seems to be helping him with this)

◇ For a long time, he really considered himself the 'herald of Andraste' "

[ungrateful-cyborg-moved]

Happy birthday!

💬 (what is this about DA characters I'm hearing? Can you show/describe them and their personalities?)

In order: Armin, Lancelot and Amaya. Hawke is just Hawke so I didn't put him here.

I'm sorry, this is... long :'D

Armin Surana

He's my mage Warden. Born to a Dalish clan, he developed his powers at an early age. Unfortunately for him, his clan already had a few mages so they gave him to another clan living nearby. Being a young boy who very much didn't understand why his people didn't want him anymore, he decided that he didn't like his new clan and ran away. Eventually he found himself in a village where Greagoir discovered him after he set his own hair on fire out of anger. And Greagoir being a Templar, he brought the kid to the Circle of Magi where the story starts when you chose that origin.

Honestly his life in the Circle was actually pretty good. Past the few first months, he managed to find his place and didn't particularly want to leave after his Harrowing. If not for Jowan, he was mostly set on becoming First Enchanter at some point in his life.

And I think Alistair was very lucky that the only surviving Grey Warden save for himself actually enjoyed leading and already had a strategic mind.

Though mostly Armin is fairly diplomatic, merciful and patient. He does have strong opinions about certain things, but is careful about which ones he publicly expresses and which ones are for his inner circle only.

I do think though that not a lot of people figured him as the kind of people to become Zevran's fuck buddy... and to eventually settle with Morrigan (and their son).

By the time Awakening happened, he was a changed man. More military leader than idealistic Grey Warden, still driven by the will to help others, but as you can imagine, having to sacrifice the citizens of Amaranthine didn't help him sleep at night. Although I think that knowing he'd do it again if the need arose was really what made him look at what he'd become and decide he needed to take a break from that kind of responsibilities.

Hence why he purposefully doesn't return in Inquisition. He didn't trust himself to not be more ruthless than actually needed.

(Please don't pay attention to the tattoos, I didn't know he would've needed to be an adult in a Dalish clan to have them since it's not explained in the Character Creator. Also he was meant to look East Asian but the CC is... well, it exists.)

Lancelot Cousland

My second Warden, a Warrior this time because I wanted to replay all three games as pro-Templar this time. And what better for this than to start with a young and charming noble who mostly succeeded in everything he attempted, except for, you know, saving his entire family.

I'm not yet done with him (currently nearing the Landsmeet) but he's grown more serious, albeit still joking and occasionally teasing people, and also increasingly interested in having a say in how Ferelden is ruled. I'm still not entirely sure how to go to make him marry Anora but that's the plan XD

Overall, he's charming, smart and resourceful man, albeit still a bit entitled as you'd expect from a handsome and rich young noble (though he's not exactly rich at the moment).

He believes in Andraste and the Maker like Armin does, but while Armin wasn't much of a practitioner outside of asking for a Blessing from time to time (never hurts when you need to save the world), Lancelot is more devoted overall and also a lot more wary of magic and mages. He doesn't hate them, however, and always tries to treat people fairly. His upbringing just occasionally gets in the way and blinds him, and he's more likely to seek to maintain the statu quo.

Also Loghain won't survive this play through (he did in my first and Alistair didn't forgive Armin for this, but Armin figured that killing a National Hero wasn't the smartest political choice. Especially not when you're trying to marry your friend to his daughter.)

Lancelot is romancing Leliana, because I want to see what she'll say in Inquisition—and it was the most ic choice for him.

Hawke

I won't go into too much detail about him considering he's a lot more fleshed out in the game than the Warden or Inquisitor. But I chose to play a mage again, and he took the mages' side because really, much as there is a blood mages issue in Kirkwall, the Templars were completely off the rails.

And he's an apostate.

Anders survived my first play through because you don't erase 6 years of friendship this easily, and contrary to Fenris, Anders didn't force him to kill him. They've lost contact since, however. Hawke couldn't forgive him.

He died in my Inquisition playthrough to help Loghain and the Inquisitor get out of the Fade, and it broke my heart. And Varric's.

And Isabela's.

But mostly mine.

I even took a screenshot to whine to one of my friends about it

Amaya Lavellan

A confident young woman, proud of her heritage and the mission of her people to preserve as much of their history as they could, Amaya was never one to entirely reject Humanity but never really trusted them either. Which is, in fact, specifically the reason why she never completely rejected them: she prefers to not blind herself willingly of what humans are doing in the vicinity of her clan.

I purposefully made her less diplomatic than Armin and Hawke, especially in the beginning because she wanted nothing to do with the Inquisition. Once she became the official leader, however, she took her role seriously. But even though she'd been trained to become the next Keeper of her clan, she never felt completely comfortable in her role as the Inquisitor.

Part of that is simply that Amaya wanted nothing to do with anything related to the Maker and the Chantry. Being called the Herald of Andraste kept irking her until the end, though over time she became less vocal about her disliking of the title and more pragmatic about it. She even gave more space to the cult of Andraste in Skyhold, as she figured, with a little bit of Josephine's nudging, that one of the strongest common point between Orlais and Ferelden was a powerful tool to wield to unite both countries against Corypheus.

The other reason why she didn't feel comfortable in her role was simply that the Inquisition grew too big too quickly, and the fallout in Trespasser was honestly not a huge surprise to her (she opted to disband the Inquisition rather than risk corruption again).

But because she has impeccable taste in men, and a purposefully made a female elf to romance Solas, she hm... she couldn't pretend to be surprised that the Inquisition was crumbling onto itself but she was not prepared for him to be the main culprit.

She's still hoping she can make him change his mind.

I also used a mod to be able to romance several people. And she does have impeccable taste in men, so obviously she also romanced Blackwall. And dumped him after learning the truth, though she chose to let him truly become a Grey Warden instead of letting him die or making him lie. Again.

Fortunately, Cullen proved more reliable than her other partners. They eloped in Trespasser.

(She also became a Red Jenny. An excellent way to deal with her anger while still being useful to the people.

It took me a while to figure out while she kept Sera in the Inquisition, considering that Amaya didn't consider her really fit for the job even though she does see Sera as her friend, but eventually it became obvious to me that what made Sera so important was how she never let Amaya lose sight of her priorities. She kept her down-to-earth, and with the power Amaya had at her disposal, someone not afraid to tell her when she started to lost herself in politics was truly precious.)

I'm sorry this is so damn long, but I hope you enjoy learning about them! And thank you so much for the ask, @confusedtia!

[allisondraste]

Ambivalence: Chapter 2

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe x Female Cousland

Story Summary: It has been just over a year since Nathaniel Howe and Elissa Cousland were reunited, childhood friendship forged into a love that endured a decade apart.  However, every love is tested at some point. Presented with circumstances that could either make or break their relationship, Nate and Liss are no different.

Previous Chapter

[AO3 Link]

Chapter 2: Uncertainty

Chapter Summary:   Nate and Liss spend some much needed time with Delilah.

Just Outside Vigil’s Keep, Cloudreach 9:33 Dragon

“Come on,” Liss said with a laugh, speeding up her pace and tugging at his hand, “Put some spring in your step, Nate.”

“Why the hurry?” Nathaniel asked, slowing to a stop and watching as their intertwined fingers halted her march forward.  She spun around to face him, locks of golden hair flowing behind her and settling on her shoulders as she studied him in amusement. An endearing notch formed between her brows and he couldn’t prevent the chuckle that escaped him, nor the undoubtedly dopey grin that lingered on his lips afterward.  “We have all afternoon.”

Liss scowled more deeply at his comment, bringing her free hand to her hip. “It would be rude to keep your sister waiting, especially with a fussy little one about, trying to waddle into the river.”

“I am certain that Aidan is on his best behavior.”

“Aren’t you eager to visit with them?” She took a few steps closer. “It’s been weeks since we’ve all been free of duties at the same time.”

Nathaniel brought her hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles.  “It has also been weeks since you and I had more than just our nights alone.”

“Are you suggesting we abandon Delilah and cavort about on our own?”

“I am suggesting that we take our time in reaching our destination,” he said softly, pulling her nearly flush against him.  

Liss laughed and blinked up at him, smirking and biting her bottom lip in that feigned innocence she so enjoyed putting on. “Oh?”

In lieu of a response, he dipped down and captured her lips, tentatively as if it was the first time they’d kissed.  In her typical fashion, she returned the gesture with full-bodied confidence, cinching her arms tightly around his waist as she did so.  It was an exchange that was truly theirs, a habit, a ritual that offered him security he’d never really known before. When they pulled apart, she smiled at him widely, eyes sparkling with affection, and he truly did not know what he’d done to earn such a boon from the Maker.

With that, they continued on at a more leisurely pace toward their established meeting place with Delilah, arm-in-arm and enjoying casual conversation about nothing and everything all at once.  Nathaniel had always appreciated Liss’ ability to have conversation.  She was knowledgeable and passionate about so many things, there were times he had to do little more than listen and nod along as she prattled on about the latest book she’d been reading, or the symbology of the family crests for each and every noble house in Ferelden, or the mating practices of common nugs.  Being around her was so easy. It always had been.

They were headed toward the bank of an unnamed tributary of the Hafter River, an area not too far from Vigil’s Keep, beautiful and well hidden by foliage. When he and his siblings had been children, the spot served as their own special secret, a refuge from the prison their home had slowly become after their mother died.  It never mattered the weather, when they stole away to their little stream, they were able to pretend that they were normal children skipping their lessons and hiding away from tutors and maids.  Now, Delilah used it as a refuge from her responsibilities to the Arling, a place to relax, visit with loved ones, and have picnics.  

As they approached the wooded bank, Nathaniel spotted his sister straining in an attempt to drape a blanket across the ground with only one arm while clinging to his squirming nephew in the other.  Liss had apparently seen this too, as she nudged him with her elbow, released his arm and took off running toward Delilah and Aidan.

“Looks like you could use a hand or two,” Liss said cheerfully as she approached.

Delilah looked up to greet her, letting the blanket fall to the ground as she straightened up and adjusted her grip on her son. “You’ve no idea,” she said with an exasperated laugh.  She looked at Aidan and asked, “Want to go play with Auntie Liss for a bit?”

Aidan, who was just over a year old, glanced with drooling skepticism between his mother and Liss who wiggled outstretched fingers at him excitedly.  After a moment of furrowing his little eyebrows and an encouraging nod from Delilah, the boy giggled and reached out with chubby arms toward Liss.  She scooped him up without hesitation, tossing him up into the air and catching him before propping him on her hip and walking over toward the water’s edge.

Nathaniel had approached more slowly, watching with no small degree of warmth as the interaction took place.  It was a domesticity he never realized he desired until it played out right before his eyes.  When he reached his sister, she had just begun to pick up the blanket and resume her attempt to spread it out.

“Here,” he said when he reached her, “Let me help.”

Delilah smirked, extended one end of the fabric to him, and teased, “Whatever would I do without my big brother here to help me complete the simplest of tasks?”

“Just because you can do something alone,” Nathaniel replied matter-of-factly as they stepped away from one another, each holding onto ends of the blanket to stretch it out, then lower it into a neat square on the ground, “Does not mean that you must.”

Delilah rose up, hands on her hips, admiring their handiwork before turning her gaze to Nathaniel, an eyebrow raised. “You sound like Lady Elissa.”

He snorted out a laugh, eyes drawn to the woman and little boy presently splashing about in the water with bare feet. “She must be rubbing off on me.”

When he forced his eyes back to his sister, she was grinning widely, clearly having caught his admiration. “I can’t imagine how that happened.”

Delilah lowered herself down into a leisurely sitting position on the blanketed area, then looked up and patted the empty space beside her.  “Come on, Nate. Sit.”

He did as she bade and sat down next to his sister, extending his legs out in front of him as he leaned back on the palms of his hands, taking a quick glance at the branches above his head before turning back to examine his sister who grinned mischievously.

Nathaniel scowled. “Why are you smiling like you’ve lured me into a trap?”

“How do you know I haven’t?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I suppose it’s too late for concern anyhow,” he said with a shrug, attention drawn out toward the water’s edge, to Liss once again.

Unlike the last time he’d looked at her, she was crouched down in the shallows of the water, Aidan hovering over her, watching intently as she focused on whatever it was she was doing.  It was difficult to tell from a distance.  Delilah shoved his shoulder playfully, muttering something about him not being any fun, but he barely noticed.

Liss stood up, and stepped back out of the water, the bottom quarter of her skirts soaked thoroughly and dripping.  She sat down on the bank, hands clasped together tightly as she motioned for Aidan to come sit with her. He toddled gleefully over toward her, crawling up under her arms to sit in her lap, waiting expectantly to see what surprise she held in her grasp.  She opened her hands slowly, still keeping them partially cupped, as he peered in and squealed in delight.

Liss giggled and asked, “Can you say ‘ frog’?”

The boy looked between her and the creature thoughtfully, then said, “FOG!”

“That’s right,”she exclaimed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “Good job, pup.”

Nathaniel froze, a confusing mottle of emotions surging up into his chest, burning behind his eyes.  Pup .  He’d heard that particular endearment hundreds of times during his summers in Highever.   It had been Bryce Cousland’s chosen diminutive for his own children, as well as for any child whose name he could not remember.  He wondered if Liss had used it intentionally, a way to honor her father’s memory. Perhaps she had not even realized.

They’d never discussed it, what pet names she would call a child.  In their situation... it had never seemed warranted to discuss children at all.  It was not as if they were able to have a family of their own, if that were something she wanted.  A pang of guilt speared through him. Andraste’s Blood, he had not even thought to ask her if that was something she wanted. There was a tug at his ear that made him snap around, frowning at the interruption.

“What,” he asked his sister as she blinked back at him with those fierce blue eyes.

“Maker, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that enraptured,” Delilah teased, chuckling and watching Liss help Aidan hold the frog she’d caught, “She’s so good with him, isn’t she?”

Nathaniel nodded, steeling himself with a shaky breath before speaking. “She truly is.”

Silence fell between them, comfortable yet heavy with his turbulent emotions, insecurities and doubts like a dark cloud looming over an otherwise ideal afternoon.  However, if his sister noticed, she said nothing of it and kept her attention focused on her son and the woman who was currently doting upon him.  After some time had passed, she looked over to him thoughtfully, raising her brows as she tapped her index finger to her chin.

He snorted out a laugh. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Delilah let out a sigh and straightened her posture as if preparing to deliver a speech.  “I know you’re tired of hearing it but—”

“Delilah, I know where this is going and—”

“Is there some reason you have not asked that lovely woman to marry you yet,” she continued her lecture anyway, “The way that you look at her… I know it is not for lack of interest.”

He let his head hang, ashamed at her honest, biting words.  In truth, it was something he’d desired for sometime now, asking Liss for her hand.  He simply wanted to go about it in the most appropriate way, at the most appropriate time, but it was more complicated than that.  Still, wasn’t that part of his mission today? To tell Delilah what he intended?

“Actually—” he began, interrupted by the excited gasp that escaped his sister—”That’s something I had hoped to speak with you about today.  I wasn’t sure we’d have the chance, but it seems Aidan has provided the perfect distraction.”

“Nate,” Delilah said softly, hushed voice wavering.  Tears glistened in her eyes when he finally looked up at her, “Are you serious?”

He inhaled sharply and let out the breath with force before answering. “I think so.  There are still so many things to consider, but… yes.  This is what I want.  She is what I want, whatever that looks like.”

“That’s so… wonderful,” she blurted, a touch too loud for Nathaniel’s comfort and he widened his eyes at her, “Sorry, I’m just happy for you.  It’s more than about time.”

“If I am to be completely honest, I have been having doubts— nothing about her, just uncertainties about the life we live now, whether or not marriage is even appropriate.”

“Do not tell me you intend to second guess a proposal to someone you’ve been in love with since you were ten years old over protocol. ”  She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you dare get my hopes up like this.”

“I just—”

“What did the Warden-Commander say?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“If protocol is something that concerns you, why haven’t you approached your commanding officer?”  Delilah was relentless, clearly invested in a wedding neither of them knew would even happen.

Nathaniel let out a frustrated sigh, laughing bitterly as he thought about Lucia with her gentle practicality.  “Because she will tell me to do it.”

“So what is stopping you, Nate?” She softened at that, searching his face as if the answer to her question might appear on his forehead if she stared long enough.  “You have clearly thought about this enough to approach me about it.”

“I’ve also written to Fergus,” he confessed. “I sent a raven to Highever just this morning.  I was actually excited about it.”

“I know this might be hard for you to believe, but—” Delilah placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him gently— “It is normal to have doubts.”

He met her gaze and rolled his eyes as he fought a smile. “I suppose you are right.”

“So you’re going  to do it?”

“I am… going to do it.” Saying the words out loud was more freeing than he’d expected.  To see the joy on his sister’s face, even more so.

“Good,” she said with a nod, “If it helps, you could imagine Father’s spirit in the Fade, fuming over the prospect that despite his many, many efforts, you will be marrying Elissa.”

“It helps if I don’t imagine Father at all,” he stated flatly.

“Fair enough,” Delilah chuckled. “That is exactly what I’m going to do, though.”

They sat conversing for a short while longer, mostly to allow his nerves the time to settle before Liss decided to rejoin them.  Then, an idea struck him.

“Delilah?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you might be able to see how Liss might feel about—” he motioned vaguely— “All of this?  Discreetly, of course.”

She smirked. “I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything since you found out you had to leave for Starkhaven.  It is quite endearing.”

“I am pleased you find my distress endearing,” he said pointedly, “Will you do it, or not?”

“I will.”

“Then I shall go retrieve her,” he said, rising to his feet, “I’ll insist that you two deserve some time alone together.”

“We do,” Delilah admitted with a shrug, “That’s not even a deception.”

Nathaniel made his way slowly towards Liss, who had just lifted up Aidan after helping him to release their frog.  He used her distraction to his advantage and rushed forward, sweeping the boy from her arm in one swift motion.  She let out a startled gasp that turned into an offended grumble as her eyes fell on him.  

“Thief,” she accused with a pout.

“This boy’s mother requires your attention,” he replied, shifting the boy in question to hold propped up on his hip with one arm.

Liss raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Privately?

“Not in particular.” Nathaniel shrugged.  “But I figured it would be easier to gossip about me if I am not present.”

Her eyes lit up with mischief and she laughed. “I like the way you think.”

“Anything for you, my lady,” he said, stepping forward, taking her chin in his hand, and tilting it up just enough for him to press a reverent kiss to her lips, heavy with the secret he would someday share.

When he pulled away, she sighed and blinked back at him with misty eyes.  She must have felt it, too. “That was—”

“I know,” he said breathlessly, grinning and kissing her forehead this time, “Now go spend time with my sister.  She misses you.”

“Okay, okay fine,” she hissed back at him playfully then looked at Aidan, “Hey, tell Uncle Nate what you want to do.”

Aidan grinned and turned to point a little finger at something over Nathaniel’s shoulder.  “Quack!”

Liss giggled and Nathaniel turned around to see a small group of ducks congregated at the edge of the water, several feet further down the stream.  He glanced back at Liss, then to Aidan. “Shall we go see the ducks, then?”

“Quack, quack,” Aidan replied enthusiastically, body trembling with excitement.

“You heard the man,” said Liss as she knelt down to pick up her shoes, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”

As he watched Liss flash him one last grin before turning to head toward Delilah, and his uncertainty vanished, clouds of doubt dissipating in her wake.  It was all he needed.

[jewish-gay-elves]

Oh, Calamity

“I don’t believe in the Maker,” he says, breaking the silence that followed your coupling.

A soulmate/reincarnation au fic where I play around with the idea of soulmates without identifying marks or timers that have to find each other every lifetime!

Words: 4803, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of the Stephan Cousland: There's Never Much of a Choice for You

Fandoms: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Male Cousland, Goldanna, Cailan Theirin, Anora Mac Tir Relationships: Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Male Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Cousland, Alistair/Male Cousland Additional Tags: ok just wanted to cover all my bases on the ship tags lol, also goldanna/cailan/anora's presences in the fic are v limited, like a sentence each p much, Songfic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Reincarnation, please let me know if there should be more tags!, also please ask if you have questions!

“I don’t believe in the Maker,” he says, breaking the silence that followed your coupling. You lift your head and rest your chin on his chest, mulling over his words. Morrigan is always scolding you for saying the first thing to come to mind, and this feels like it requires a more thoughtful approach.

“Okay,” you say, and it is. Truly, it is okay. His belief or lack thereof in the Maker has no impact on how much you both care about each other. Your own faith in in the Maker hasn’t been the most unshakeable, who are you to decide whether or not he’s wrong? You can feel the tension in the arm he has around your waist lessen until his grip is as gentle as it was before. He was never really one to go in the Chantry and it makes sense to you now why not. You thought he just wasn’t really one for all the anti-magic shtick that they preach.

“One of my tutors, he came from Rivain,” he begins, offering an explanation. “While we still had Aldous, my parents wanted Fergus and me to have a more rounded education. He kept his lessons mostly academic, but I enjoyed his company so much I often stayed after and he told me of Rivain and their beliefs,”

You rest your cheek against his chest again, still listening but curling closer to him. He waited a minute, just listening to you breathe before continuing.

“He said that everything in Thedas and beyond were made of energy. Humans, elves, dwarves, qunari, and all the other beings. That energy exists in a cycle. Once the energy in a being has been exhausted in say, an old man, it would go then to a newborn. This continues the cycle, with the same energy and souls from before, just reborn. He said the stress of childbirth erased the memories from the past life, making it harder to remember things from before,” he explained.

“Have you ever remembered anything from one of your past lives?” you asked, wondering if stray dreams may have influenced his belief in the Rivaini.

“No, and I doubt I will remember anything from before. This is a fairly new line of thinking in Ferelden and if it’s true I doubt that any of my past lives believed in it. I think that increases the chance of never remembering those lives, just thinking that nothing came before solidifies the experiences in this time. As sad as it sounds I’m not even sure I’d like to remember those lives,” he said, puzzling you.

“Well, why not?” you ask, lifting your head to look at him again.

“I can’t know if those lives were as lucky as this one to have been able to find you,” he says, lifting a hand to your cheek as you two look at each other. You both lean in for a kiss and you think to yourself that it’s hard to imagine never meeting him in any kind of life.

When I was younger I was certain I’d be fine without a Queen Just a king inside his castle, with an ocean in between Now all I do is sit and count the miles from you to me Oh, Calamity!

You sit on your throne, looking out at the crowd gathered in light of festivities. Teagan stands by your side, Maker bless him. Eamon and young Connor are back in Redcliffe, Isolde caught fever and Connor insisted Eamon stay with them until she recovered. The other nobles are all drinking heavily, well into their cups and you are painfully aware of the missing Arl of Amaranthine. You know he passed on the title back to the Howes and Nathaniel years ago before he even began his search for a cure but, he should be here.

You can see Fergus from your throne speaking to the nobles around him, some minor lordlings from South Reach looks like. They must be discussing politics for you can see Fergus’ top lip twitching. His brother had the same twitch that tells when either of them are about to seal a good deal. Probably speaking of possible marriage arrangements for Fergus’ boy.

You wonder if he thinks about his first son often but as the lordlings turn to retrieve more drinks you see a wave of grief pass over his face before the mask is back in place. You were able to return Highever to the Couslands but in the years since you’ve wondered if they even wanted it back. Nothing either of them said to you indicated otherwise but whenever you visit and they are both there they get certain looks on their faces. As if they were forced to eat Orleisian cheeses.

He must have noticed your eyes on him because Fergus turns to look up to where you sit. The grief is still in his eyes as he gives you a nod before returning to the festivities. You always wondered if he blamed you for having to remarry and raise heirs, knowing that his brother was otherwise occupied as Warden Commander and would never have given Highever heirs of his own willingly.

Seeing as you won’t be making heirs either and that the throne was mostly going to one of his sons you doubted that he could hate you forever. You make a mental note to later write to Fergus about the idea. Provided that you spoke to your fellow Warden about it as well. As soon as he returned of course. Because he would return, he’s the Hero of Fereldan for Maker’s sake, and also because you have had a cold spot in your bed for far too long. Teagan leans over and makes to whisper in your ear.

“Stop thinking about the Prince-Consort, you have the most unwelcoming look on your face,” he says before leaning back. You shoot him a grin upon seeing his sly smile.

“I’m that transparent am I?” you ask rhetorically, straightening your back with only two or three pops compared to the normal five or six. The chair (Eamon says you must refer to it as the throne but in all honesty, it’s just a chair) is far too uncomfortable and you wish said Prince-Consort was here to complain to but that will have to wait for another day.

We get older by the hour, watch the changes from afar. Keep forgetting to remember, where we’ve been is who we are. Now all I do is wonder why we ever set the scene Oh, Calamity

You lean against your shovel, looking up at the sky. Your eye is drawn to where they say the Breach once tore the heavens asunder. You think back to the stories the older servants tell of being children while the world was thrown into chaos by the Archdemon.

They say that among the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes the Inquisitor arose as the Herald of Andraste with a hand sparkling green with ancient Elvhen magics. That they had been touched by Fen’Harel himself. Your knowledge of the Elvhen Parthenon is limited, but the savior of Thedas being touched by the Dread Wolf seemed a bit ironic to you.

It had been almost a century since the sky was closed by the might of the Inquisition and while it still had power, Ferelden no longer felt torn. Struggling to choose between the Inquisition and the throne. While the Inquisition started in Ferelden it had no power over country affairs. King Alistair and his Prince-Consort, may they rest at the Maker’s side, supported the Inquisition in that it would close the Breach was sure to remind them that true power in Ferelden laid with the crown.

To be honest you preferred the late monarchs of Ferelden, may they rest at the Maker’s side, to the Inquisition. The two surviving Grey Wardens of the Battle at Ostagar, saved by a Witch of the Wilds to unite Ferelden and prevent civil war in order to fight the darkspawn.

No one quite knows when or how the two Wardens got involved after ending the Fifth Blight, or whether or not they weren’t together before slaying the Archdemon. But they stood together against the nobles at the Landsmeet, declaring King Alistair the rightful heir and their engagement to each other. You always thought it was very romantic, the last two Grey Wardens standing together against nobles and darkspawn alike.

“What a lazy arse you are Marc!” a voice you recognize as Quint’s called from behind you. You turned to see him walking down the hill towards you, his hands dirty from where he was likely gardening in front of the main house all day, an equally dirty spade tucked between his belt and trousers. You gave him a smile as he approached, knowing that the work day was likely over and he was coming to collect you for dinner.

“I happen to know that you like my arse, whether it’s lazy or not,” you said back to him. Your mind’s eye flickered as he smirked at you, a delicate golden circlet with lavish jewels appearing on his head, the spade at his side now a decorated sword. You frowned, shaking your head to clear the vision. As he reached you he slid his arms around your waist.

“You alright, love?” he asked cautiously. You smiled for him, returning the gesture and wrapping your arms around him as well. You wondered if Quint had ever had a moment like that. As if a memory placed itself over the current view you had. Doubtful, Quint was likely more focused on his next meal.

“Fine, I’m fine. Just tired I guess,” you said blinking the strange vision out of your eyes. “Let’s go see what Cookie’s whipped up for tonight shall we?”

“Hey I heard that the Lord has a visitor from Rivain staying for a while,” He starts telling you earnestly, already coming up with all sorts of wild tales.

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me Oh, Calamity.

“It’s not the first time I’ve had one of these visions Neil! There has to be some meaning behind them I just can’t figure out what!” you exclaim, curling your hands into fists against your temples. Neil sits on the cot a foot or so away from where you are curled in on yourself.

“Okay, okay, Wil I believe you,” he says extending his hands out in a placating manner. You peer at him, lifting your head from where you pushed it against your knees. He’s looking at you earnestly with his wide honest eyes and you find your initial fear of him ridiculing you disappearing.

“Just start from the beginning, when did they begin?” He asks you patiently. You take a deep breath and lower your arms to wrap around your calves. You collect your thoughts and decide to be honest.

“I think I’ve always had them, but I could never remember them until after I met you,” you start out. “It’s like I’m living another person’s life, but it just overlaps my own. I’ll see my papa start walking towards me but then his face isn’t his but instead its some Rivaini dressed in the Grey Warden uniform from before the Fifth Blight. My mother gets replaced by someone in servants clothing patting my cheek. And you, you have five different faces. All of them look like they lived centuries ago. There is maybe a century between each of them, with the oldest one from before the Breach.”

“Lived before the Breach? Wil that was back in what, 9:34 Dragon?” Neil says concern clear on his face.

“The Breach opened in 9:41 Dragon,” you correct him.

You’re scared to tell him that he doesn’t take on the face of just anyone from before the Fifth Blight but the face of the Warden who defeated that Blight. You’re scared to tell him that sometimes you look in the mirror and it’s not your face that greets you. That you have five different faces as well. And the oldest face that you see is one drawn in countless history books from the royal portrait archives to your classroom textbook. King Alistair, the last of the Theirins to sit on the throne before he gave it to his Prince-Consort’s nephews, he looks at you in the mirror. He’s always much younger than in the portraits but you know it’s him.

You’re scared that if you tell Neil he will remember the history lessons that covered King Alistair and his Grey Warden Prince-Consort. That they would only be known as the first two men to rule Ferelden as a couple together if they hadn’t also defeated a Blight. You’re scared because this is too new with Neil, you aren’t even sure if you like like him that way and what if he doesn’t like like you like that either? He’s been your only friend since you moved to Lothering a year ago. You refuse to lose a friend like him for something- something like this!

Neil is just as quiet as you, now that you’ve finished your tale. A moment passes before he scoots nearer to you on the bed and slings an arm around your shoulders and drawing you closer to him.

“We’re going to figure this out, ok Wil? I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but we'll figure it out,” he says and it disturbingly sounds like a promise falling from his lips and you look at him in surprise. He has a soft smile on your face, and a little twitch in his upper lip and you’re almost overcome with another déjà vu vision but you tamper it down and stay in this moment where there is just you and Neil.

You find yourself nodding with a grin spreading across your face. His good mood and attitude becoming infectious as you sit on the little cot.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs, I remember Ma said there was a visitor from Rivain who checked in yesterday,” Neil invited you, standing up and offering you a hand up. You gladly take it and you both head downstairs together.

I’ll remember nights alone, waking up to dial tone Always found my greatest moments in the sound of your hello. Now I struggle to recall the reasons you would come to leave. Oh, Calamity

You didn’t want to call Elijah, you didn’t want to call Elijah, but you wanted to call Elijah. Damn it, you thought to yourself, picking up your telephone. You impatiently pushed the rotary around waiting until it finally put you through. Thankfully, it wasn’t either of Elijah’s, frankly lovely if not a tad overbearing, parents who answered the phone.

“Hello, this is the Philips?” he said, sounding a bit confused by the late call.

“Elijah, it’s me. Benjamin,” you replied. This was a bad idea, you can already tell. You both don’t really know each other how can you be sure it’s him? Your parents always said it took a little while to know if someone was your soulmate. They told you it took time before you could be sure that the overlapping faces were truly the person you were meant to be with. That sometimes, if you rushed it, it wouldn’t be right. But you’re scared, scared it’ll never be right and if you never say anything you’ll never know what you missed.

“Oh hey, Ben. What’s up? Did you forget something at my house?” He asks, not picking up on your nerves at all. You can’t tell if he’s just dense or extremely considerate. Either option is endearing to you and makes the lump in your throat that much harder to speak around. Should you even tell him?

“Uhh no, no I’ve got everything, I just, wanted to call?” it comes out as a question and you want to hang up and then beat yourself over the head with the receiver. You can hear him pause and huff out a laugh of sorts. You want to smile because you’ve seen that laugh in person and can imagine him doing it in your head but it was at your expense and you are so nervous.

“Well, so you’ve called me. Are you feeling okay Ben?” he asks and you almost panic because he can tell, he can tell can’t he, that you don’t know why you called and you want it to be more than what it probably is but you are propelled by fear and nerves and find yourself confessing.

“Eli have you ever met someone and felt like you know them? Like you meet them and something clicks and it feels like you’ve known them all along?” you ask nervously, your voice cracks in the middle but you power through because you are not going to let your sixteen year old voicebox ruin this for you. You listen to Eli suck in a breath of surprise and pause before cautiously picking out his words.

“Ben, I uh. I have felt that way about someone before,” he says to you and you can feel your heart slowly crawl its way out of your stomach and into your throat. You want to ask who, and whether or not it is you. Whether or not he knows what you’ve been going through. However it seems as though you let your indecision carry on too long because Eli is speaking again.

“I’ve felt that way about you Ben, and I don’t know if you ever would feel that way around me but, the dreams stopped after I met you Ben. I don’t see my soulmate in the Fade anymore and I’m scared about what that means but I think I caught a flash of him on your face the other night when you smiled at me and I. I don’t know what this means but I, I would very much like to find out.” he rambles, his voice barely louder than a whisper, almost too quiet for you to hear over the blood rushing in your ears.

“Elijah, oh Elijah, I want to find out too. I want to find out so very badly,” you say twisting the cord between your fingers, nervous about what you’re about to ask him. “Do you maybe, want to go to the fair with me tomorrow then? And come over afterward?” you have the cord wrapped so tightly around your finger that you think it’s starting to cut off circulation but you’re too busy waiting for a response to answer.

“Yes,” he breathes out, like it was the only way to respond “Yes, I’d love to go to the fair with you Ben,”

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn, it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me. Oh, Calamity

          You always dreamed of a man when you were younger. A man who was as gentle as the breeze and as strong as the oaks in your backyard and he was the right kind of funny. A man who was sharper than knives and had a tongue to match his quick wit. He didn’t always look the same, his hair would change color and length, he’d get short and then tall and then short again. His eyes however, no matter what color they were, always looked at you with the gentlest expression.

You’re five years old and you only see him when you sleep, wrapped in the Fade together. You both play tag chasing each other round floating bookcases and sheer cliffs.

In time you realized that this was what your parents called “nature’s way of showing you your other half”. There were more technical terms for it now but you weren’t really interested in that. You were excited about this other half business. As a child you wondered if he liked playing with toy cars too, or if he was one of those boys who’d rather build towns only to wreck later, pretending to be great archdemons from old.

You’re twelve years old and your mother finally sits down and talks to you about how sometimes it doesn’t happen. That you aren’t always guaranteed a happy ending due to location and distance.

Your teachers explained that as you grew older, your soul began to recognize that it was missing something. Missing your soulmate, to try and amend this, your body produced dreams and visions of previous lives and people who your soul had found time and time again. Your body doesn’t know what your soulmate looks like this cycle so you can’t see who it is now, but you can dream, and remember. That’s why you see the boy in your dreams.

You’re nineteen years old and lonely and tired of searching and tired of disappointment. Despite this, no matter who or when someone offers a night to alleviate the pain a bit, you decline and dream of your boy who smiles at you with the same sad look in his eyes that you’ve started carrying in your own.

You wake up the morning before your birthday alone in your apartment when your brother calls to tell you that he’s found his soulmate. He invites you to dinner to meet the girl and you accept it, happy to share this moment with your brother. You get there and are reminded that in this lifetime happiness is for the man once called Cailan who died before he even knew he had a brother. Happiness is for the woman once called Anora who watched her father get executed in front of her. Happiness is not for you.

You’re fifty-four years old and playing with your nephews despite your angry knees and their arthritis. Your only niece sits with her mother because the mud just wasn’t her cup of tea and you can hear the perceptive little ten year old ask “Momma, why isn’t Uncle married like you and Daddy?”

When the alzheimer’s starts to take you, it gets hard to remember your niece’s name even though she was always your secret favorite. She still visits you but it’s hard on her and you can tell. She reminds you that she’s in college for her Master’s degree but you still don’t know what the degree is. You are forgetting a lot of things these days, but when you close your eyes the same familiar face greets you every time and you feel young again.

You’re eighty-seven years old and that is the best description of you. Old.

If I catch you on the corner will you even know it’s me? Will I look familiar to you? Do you offer me a seat? Can we find a new beginning? Do you turn the other cheek? Oh, Calamity!

Job hunting sucked. End of story, no other options, game over, it sucked and that was it. Thankfully Gwen (you wonder if she remembers yelling at you in that dingy house back in Denerim) said that you only had to do it for a few hours and three hours seemed long enough to you at least. You walked to the closest café, pulling the messenger bag higher on your shoulder as you turned the corner. The day was nice enough; maybe you could stop and sit down at one of the outside tables.      

After ordering (a tea of some sort and a cheesy croissant) you went back outside looking for a table. Sadly other patrons must have had the same idea that you did and most of the tables were already full. A particularly rowdy group of teens had already occupied one corner of the outside arrangements and you’d like to sit as far away from them as possible. You walk over to see if perhaps there are more tables around the side of the building, you’re out of luck but no one’s sitting in such a dense group as at the other tables.

You gaze around and finally you see someone sitting with a laptop and a few papers. You aren’t sure how friendly they are but they seem a better choice than the dodgy old man who glares at anyone who comes near. You walk up to the table with the man and his laptop, not the old guy, and hesitantly get the attention of the man sitting there.

“Oh uh hello, uhm may I sit here? This café is strangely busy and I’d rather not sit by all those teenagers. Not that I have a problem with teenagers but it’s a tad distracting when they scream random memes. Am I rambling? I think I’m rambling, I can find another table somewhere else,” the words fall out of your mouth in a somewhat coherent pattern and you hope he understands what you said.

“No, no you’re alright. Please, sit,” he says with a gentle smile, he even shuffles his papers closer to himself so you can set down your cup. You sling your bag over the back of the chair and sit down across from him. After sitting you smack yourself in the forehead before speaking again.

“Where are my manners today I’m sorry, my name is Van, pleased to meet you,” you say, extending your hand across the table to shake his. He has a strong grip and you’re glad you can return it in kind.

“The pleasure is mine, you can call me Ryan,” he says to you. After a moment, he watches you as you meticulously take apart your cheesy croissant. You flush under his gaze in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I’m just a little curious as to what you’re doing?” he asks looking over your mangled food.

“Oh! Well, you see, they hide the good bits under all this bread in some attempt to even out the flavor. However the truly tasty part is the lovely cheese blend they make here and I think they should just sell that on it’s own but the dear owner disagrees with me. Quite strongly in fact,” you explain to him. He chuckles at your explanation and then adds his own input.

“You know, the last time I met someone so in tune to the finer aspects of good cheese, he was a very strange man who spent time remembering his former life in a monastery where the boys had some fascination with lamp posts,” he says, and your eyes snap open to take in his features anew, yes there’s the twitch of the upper lip. You smirk back at him and take a second to remember a highlight in your relationship.

“Well, have you ever licked a lamp post in winter?” you drawl out hoping that your voice in this lifetime sounds similar to when you first said it back in the ninth age. He full out grins back and stands up to lean over the table and grab your shirt tugging you in.

“Congratulations on coming back to me again, my King,” he retorts, ignoring your question.

“I think you’re the one I should be saying that too Mr. Grey Warden who simply had to push me out of the way so that he could deal the last blow to the archdemon,” you snark back at him, remembering that fateful night. He just rolls his eyes at you and closes the distance, leaving the past memories in favor of making new ones.

It’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn, it’s such a shame that we play strangers No act to change what we’ve become Damn it’s such a shame that we built a wreck out of me Oh, Calamity

“Almost makes you wish we could just fight another Blight and be done with it?”

“I’d take a Blight over a hundred awkward first dates, maybe not actually. There are too many darkspawn during those. And with our first dates I’m more likely to get laid now,”

“The one thing the movies never have, a shambling horde of shrieks and genlock to ruin our day,”

“The movies do end up with me back at your place more times than not surprisingly, seeing as you were the last one to lick a lamp post in winter between the two of us,”

“Oh we’ll see who’s licking the lamp post this time around Warden,”

“You know I’m not one of those anymore, especially since it’s been what, five centuries since the order died out?”

“Yes but this is probably our twentieth first meeting and it gets confusing if I try to remember all of the names you’ve had,”

“True enough, you royal bastard,”

Oh, Calamity, come back to me.

[princessvicky01]

Imposition

Part 8 of Annabel X Cullen epilogue story ‘Happily ever after’ following them after the events of trespasser.  

Click for: Whole story on AO3 or Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7

Summary: Cullen and Annabel finally make it to visit his family who've moved back to Honnelth. Full of warm fuzzy tooth-rotting family fluff and then there is smut of course. NSFW - Pregnancy sex

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Imposition

“Mama! Mama! The imposition is here! Mama! Come see!”

The little girl’s jubilant cheer draws a bark from the mabari by Annabel’s side who bounces to stick his head out the window. Prince seems to favour the wind against his slobbery chops, and all but leans out the carriage with his stump wagging furiously as they pull to a stop. Annabel must admit she’s grateful too, the chance of a few weeks rest in a real bed has been calling to her in the way it always did after a long journey.

When the door opens the hound all but falls out, making the cabin lurch and sending her sprawling, thankfully, Cullen, is quick as always to lend a steady hand and catch her as she stumbles.

Hmm. The title ‘Imposition’ may have been correct after all. Honnelth isn’t so much a village as a small hamlet of stone farm cottages, and their arrival must have all but doubled the population of the place. The announcement had clearly reached every household, and a crowd had gathered to greet them with hushed murmurings. Annabel can’t help but be suspicious of the sideways looks that are traded, being judged was never a pleasant experience, even though it is one she’s used to. Years at playing the game allowed her to see past the whispers and find that most of the folk seemed merely curious and nod in welcome if her gaze lingers on them long. That wasn’t usually the vibe she got from crowds like this but in a way its what she should have expected, they were welcoming back a successful one of their own.

A tiny spark of paranoia about her hand crackles with the green gemstone, and she curls her prosthetic fingers to hide the faint glow. She wants to be seen for her and not as the Herald of Andraste, although that seems impossible nowadays, the two have largely become one and the same, forever interwoven, in the public’s eyes.

Glancing to Cullen, she notes how his eyebrows have drawn in, searching the scores of people with scrutiny, evidently seeking someone who isn’t there based on the way his eyes continue to narrow. She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, whatever judgement she’s feeling must be tenfold for him, and she doesn’t envy him in the slightest. Excitement buzzes along with the nerves, and she bumps her hip against his in the hope of transferring some of that positive fizz over.

Her action has little to no effect, and she notes his focus is glued to a slow emerging path. It’s being cut through the mass by the forceful march of a tall and broad-shouldered woman. Her wavy golden hair is tied up in a loose bun, and strands of flaxen locks wisp in the breeze as she pushes her way through. The steely determination in her copper-rich eyes confirm what Annabel had already guessed; this must be Mia.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” the lady remarks, one hand on her hip and a light smirk gracing her features. “And just what brings the Commander of the Inquisition’s mighty forces all the way out here?” 

Before he can answer a squeal from behind her sounds, and another shorter, plumper, blonde woman with a babe in arms pokes her head around. Unlike her big sister, Rosalie rushes straight over to him, with another young child in tow, and both proceed to hug him tightly.

Cullen can’t help but be overwhelmed at the turnout, at the way Mai somehow looks just how he remembered, despite the years, and how Rosalie clutches him like she had when they were small. Could it be they had really missed him? Even after all his failings? He’d lost count of the ways he’d let them down. From the blight, losing mother and father, the upheaval of the move, the poverty it had brought them, right up to the way they had rebuilt their lives piece by piece. All without him. All while he had been too consumed by his own Templar duties, his own dark obsessive mission to control mages in a way that would make his siblings skin crawl.

Their smiles though, welcome him in a way that only loved ones could and tentative warmth begins to creep through his chest. He might not deserve their love or such a heartfelt welcome, but Maker only knows he needed it. He hugs them back, his hand falling on his nephew's shoulder and squeezing. He’d been so foolish to stay away so long, too insecure of his worth he’d gladly let himself be blinded by his work, that he knows now had been a terrible mistake. Emotion wells in the back of his throat, and he has to pull away from their embrace or risk tears spilling out of him.

Cullen spies Branson approaching by Mai’s side and can’t believe just how much of a man his little brother has become, tall but lean with muscle, scars peppering his arms, and one across his cheek all combining to tell the tale of a hard life. He also can’t help but notice that while Mia and Rosalie's husbands hover on the sidelines, Branson’s wife is notably absent. Mia had let him know that she’d died shortly after giving birth to a little boy and guilt begins to ebb into the corners of Cullen’s mind. It’s just another example of a time when his family had needed him, and he hadn’t been there. Annabel’s burst of laughter, however, pulls him back from the dark tendrils of his thoughts before he can become consumed them. Glancing down finds that the source is the great big hug their nephew, Bran, is giving her waist.

Looking to the beaming smiles all around him and down then down at young Bran, Cullen can’t help but crack his own. Branson had muscled in to claim a spot and extends his hand for a hearty shake.

“It’s been far too long,” Mia murmurs, squeezing his arm, there's no chastity to it, just the tell-tale ache of old longing. Surrounded now by family, Cullen knows she’s right, and an apology begins to stutter from his lips, but she promptly shakes her head.

“There’s no need, it’s just good to see you,” Mia’s smile is soft, and she locks eyes with him. She’d always had a way of getting her point across, and it seems nothing had changed in that regard. She clearly would hear no apology, not now at least, so he refrains from trying to give one.

“And you must be Annabel!” Rosalie lights up as she turns to her.

Little Bran swivels his focus up at his new aunt. “The Herald? The warrior with the magic hand? Can I see?”

Instinct pulls Annabel's prosthetic hand away, hiding it slightly behind her back, a kindling of shame still marring her once open nature. This, however, is her nephew, and his gaze is nothing but brightly curious. Holding her palm out to him, she can almost feel the old crackle the mark would've made as her nerves tingle, but the stone merely pulses lightly.

“Wow! Papa, did you see!?” Tugging her hand Bran lifts it high over his head to show his father with all the grace of a clumsy four-year-old, and big dark eyes the sparkle in the green hue.

“Hmm, yes it’s very interesting, but that’s no way to treat a Lady is it? Especially not your new aunty,” Branson raises a brow, and his son instantly drops her hand.

“Oops, sorry!” The boy is scooped up by his father, and the baby in Rosalie's arms snuffles a cry at the commotion, or perhaps merely demanding some of the attention for herself.

“And here is little Julie, your niece,” Rosalie presents the baby to Annabel, and for a moment she stares blankly at the child. Annabel isn’t sure how she should hold her or that being handed to a stranger will improve the little one’s mood. Scrunching her face, the baby begins to muffle a sob, but Rosalie's press into Annabel’s arms is insistent. “Go on! You’ll have your own soon enough, oh, I can’t wait, another cousin for Julie!”

More than a little overwhelmed Annabel takes the baby and does her best to support her. She’d never been overly interested in babies, unlike many young noble ladies who might coo around a new arrival in frilly lace she was more likely to pull silly faces at them until they'd either laughed or cried. The same went for how she’d treated babies most of her life. She’d never even had a doll. She’d been gifted many as a child, ones in elaborate satin dresses with beautiful curls of hair and hand-painted smiles. They’d mostly sat on shelves gathering dust as she charged around with her brother and their wooden swords causing the kind of chaos such pristine dolls would no doubt roll their eyes at. That thought had always unnerved her slightly.

Despite whatever reservations Annabel might have, she finds a natural smile is drawn out of her at the sight of Julie. She must admit, she is awfully cute, with a tiny nose, flushed round cheeks and a faint dusting of blonde curls. Somehow, she even smells new, if such a thing was possible, and her tiny grunts, complimented by scrunched fists make Annabel’s chest start to glow. Sensing Cullen’s looming presence she looks up and finds him staring at the bundle with a soft lopsided smile that spoke of a besotted father to be. She can’t help but wonder if their child will have a mop of curls, it seems to be a Rutherford trait and one that Annabel hopes continues.

“Right, come on, let’s get you all inside. I imagine you could do with a cup of tea, maybe one of those cakes Rosalie made, come on now.” Mia ushers them like a mother goose, guiding the swollen family as one, after little Bran who rushes ahead with the dog to one of the stone buildings jutting around them.

Entering the cottage Cullen can’t help but find it much smaller than he remembered, quaint even. It’s no wonder really, he’d been but a child the last time he’d been in here and had since lived in circles, temples and Skyhold. Somehow the low beams and thick walls just make the space feel homelier, more lived in, loved. Dry and fresh herbs hang from the kitchen’s beams, along with copper pots all of which direct the gaze to the oak dining table set out with tea, crumpets and small buttercream cakes. The assorted goodies are all surrounding a painted vase filled with idyllic purple meadow flowers, ones which Cullen vaguely recalls were mother’s favourites. It does seem his sister has thought of everything, as always.

A thousand ancient, long lost memories, flutter to the surface. The strongest are drawn out by the smell of stew in the oven which reminds him of long chilly days, of laughter around a crowded table, of his mother, perched on his father’s hip, tea towel in hand which she used to wipe at his dirt-crusted hands. He struggles to recall her voice now, but the way her smile had always beamed with warmth had never left him. Tears begin to well in the corner of his eyes, but they’re quickly pushed aside as a child’s voice captures his attention.

“Uncle Cul, look,” with an instant shove, a folded travelling chess board that had long since seen better days, is placed in his hands. His fingers trail over the names etched into the side, his own, crudely scratched along with his sibling’s, and now with Bran’s. “Mia said you was good but not as good as me,” the boy gives an impish grin, cheeks flushed red with excitement. “Can we play?”

“After tea, now go, sit down,” Mia has already swooped in and is leading the boy to a stool set out just for him, leaving Cullen holding a piece of his childhood which, although battered and scarred, was still very much loved. He sure there is a metaphor in that somehow.

The others shuffle in, Mia pouring tea and Bran takes hold of his niece and begins to pull silly faces. When hands wrap around his waist, Cullen doesn’t need to look around to know who they belong too. He can feel her breath prickle the back of his neck, and soon her nose follows to nuzzle under his ear in the kind of open affection he’d come to love from her. “Happy?” it’s a light word, whispered against his skin where Annabel’s lips pepper reassuring kisses.

Overcome, Cullen merely nods, turning so their eyes can meet. The dazzling blue of hers finally brings out the joyful smile which had been wanting out him from the moment he’d arrived. This is home. She is home. His lips find hers to share a tender kiss, one which is cut all too short thanks to the disgusted ‘ewwww’ that sounds from their nephew at the table.

“You've done well for yourself, Cullen,” Mia’s voice is deliberately soft as she emerges to lean against the door frame, tea towel over one shoulder and hair now slightly frazzled from steam. He glances up to her with a little nod, catching how that frazzled appearance went much further than skin deep. “I was worried… Well, I was worried for the longest time after what happened at Kinloch, then you moving to Kirkwall… but I can see, I don't need to worry anymore.”

“Mia...” his head lowers, shoulders slumping under the weight of years of guilt and failure. “I... I’m sorry, I didn’t, I -"

“That's enough, I won't have you apologising to me, you've done nothing wrong,” she taps him on the head with the spotted rag in mock sternness. “You helped save Thedas, helped hundreds of people, just like you said you would, just like I knew you would.” Her eyes and smile match in the depth of their warmth before she quickly nods out to the field. “You also somehow found yourself a most radiant wife… You should be proud.”

Cullen can sense the depth of emotion that wells within her eyes, and which lies hidden behind her cheery tone. To avoid more awkward apologies, and poor explanations he instead follows her line of sight to see Annabel playing sword with young Bran. Their brother is shouting advice from the sidelines while Prince bounds around in giddy excitement, do nothing to help the child’s concentration. That was an important part of battle though, learning to focus on the target when chaos ran riot around you, he smiles faintly to himself, he is not playing the role of Commander right now, but still, it seems he can’t help but judge their swings.

The cracks of their wooden practice blades can be heard clear across the field, as can the chortle of laughter and baying of the hound. Exact words are lost to the wind, but Cullen can see all are smiling from ear to ear. When his wife pauses to brush damp hair from her face, their eyes catch briefly despite the distance. He wasn't sure it was possible, but her smile appears to grow even wider as it greets him.

Sensing his chance, Bran rushes at her and Cullen can see it all unfold in slow motion horror before his eyes. The boy’s feet pound against the grass, sword held high above his head, his full force blow aimed right at her stomach. Muscles clenching, Cullen’s breath catches in his throat as panic rushes up, he goes to cry out, already halfway to his feet, but it all happens too fast, and he can’t find the words beyond a strangled anguished cry.

Annabel apparently spies his concern, and with a dart to the side, she rolls to avoid the strike which sails clear over her.

Thank the Maker… Cullen still clutches the bench tight under his fingernails, his breath sharp and erratic. Sometimes he still forgets that his bright and beautiful wife was not a defenceless lady, and she never had been. Pregnancy tummy or not, she wasn’t about to change into someone who froze or cowered at a blow. She’d been training since Bran’s age, and it shows in the way she swoops around to scoop the child up in her arms.

A gentle hand on his shoulder brings Cullen from his poised position and inches him back down onto the bench. All is well. In fact, Annabel is ruffling Bran’s curls in mock retribution, her bright, playful smile apparently dazzling the boy into a fit of giggling.

“She'll be a brilliant mother.” Mia’s voice cuts through the serene moment to bring Cullen back to her and one of near equal serenity. Sat on a bench made by their father, at the edge of a field which backed onto his family's homestead, enjoying life’s simple pleasures in the dappled shade of a tree he’d frequently climbed in his youth. The problems of the past two years, of the past decade, somehow seeming to fade into a haze in the freshness of the breeze.

“I know,” it's a murmur, a solemn affirmation made as his eyes never leave Annabel. She's already moved on to squaring up with his brother while Bran chases Prince, who has somehow got hold of his sword and is happy as can be with his new, highly prized, stick.

“I've never met anyone quite like her…” he trails off, his voice distant and awestruck. He still can’t believe his luck, that he’d found her, that she’d returned time after time to him, that she loved him, that she loved their baby…

“I imagine she thinks the same of you, or else she wouldn't have joined this shambles of a clan,” his sister nudges him playfully with her elbow. “Who would’ve thought, my shy little brother, stumbling over his words, able to woo himself a real noble Lady. Just to bring her home, and play with sticks in the dirt like a real Rutherford.”

Cullen chuckles, the sound made all the richer by witnessing his wife giving Branson a good thrashing from the moment they square off. He wouldn’t have believed it either if someone had told him back in Kirkwall this would be his future, he would have called them mad, heck, he probably would have called them possessed. The mere notion that he could marry a woman like her, could find happiness in the light she shone into his darkest places, well it was as alien as a fish on land.

“Why don't you join them? It looks like Branson could use your help,” Mia’s voice is light with laughter as Annabel shows that she's still very much the warrior she always had been.

Cullen shakes his head all too swiftly with the huff of another chuckle. “I've lost more than enough times to that woman. I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Ah, yes, well you always was the more sensible out of the pair of you,” Mia pauses and winces as Branson takes a strike which will no doubt leave a nice bruise on his arm. “Radiant... and dangerous, your wife.”

Casting her a sideways smirk Cullen all but brims over with pride. “Very much so.”

Annabel isn’t very good at washing dishes and despite everyone's instance that there was no need for her to help she’s determined to be useful, although she’s quickly handed to drying duty as a rather weary Branson washes. Sat at the oak table Cullen studies her, he’d tried, much in vain to help, but she’d pushed him back into his chair and said something about him needing a break.

While faint orange rays catch the bronze in her hair, he can’t help but think Mia’s description of her was spot on. She is truly radiant… and dangerous. There is a glow about her skin in the soft lighting and when she deliberately pokes at a sore spot on Branson’s arm for being too slow the later part of the description comes into play to make him chuckle.

Sipping at his warm tea he soaks in the serenity of the moment, his hound is asleep, snoring under the table, his family are chattering next door, and his pregnant wife is stubbornly trying to place glasses on a shelf that’s far too tall for her.

His brother steps in, and when done dips out with a nod to him and warm if not tired smile. Annabel is soon back at his side, arm wrapped over his shoulders as she perches against him in their first moment alone since arriving.

“How you feeling?” she asks, head leaning to one side to rest against his, instinct draws his arm around her waist to hug her close.

“It’s been a long day… but I’m glad we came.”

“So, in other words, still happy,” she jests, nudging and nuzzling her nose in his curls until he breaks out a smile.

“I’ve never been happier,” he gives her a little squeeze, the familiar scent and feel of her soothing his weariness away.

“Good,” slipping from his lap she tugs on his hand. “In that case, you can bring those bedroom eyes of you’ve been making at me all evening, to a more, private, setting,” her own eyes sparkle as a little inviting smirk dances over her lips.

The distance she’s put between them is too much, and Cullen finds himself stood up to wrap his arms around her once more. “A tempting offer, Mrs Rutherford, but I hardly want the whole household to know just how thoroughly you enjoy your husbands, intimate, company…”

Annabel gives a smile that on anyone else would be coy, but on her is always edged with mischief, her hand coming up to play with the curl that’s fallen loose over his forehead. “Don’t worry. I’m nothing if not discreet.”

“Oh, really?” Not believing it for a second, Cullen lifts one brow and studies how her eyes grow steadily darker in the fading light. With a chuckle she pulls away, hand clasped in his to drag him along, he gets a few steps, his body acting by will of its own before he pulls up short.

“Annabel… we shouldn’t…” It’s not that he doesn’t want to, Maker’s breath, he’s never wanted her more, but his eyes are drawn to the small but distinct swell of her stomach.

“Why... “ she trails off, her brow lightly furrowing as she lets go to regard him with suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me,” her eyes narrow to let him know she won’t tolerate his attempted cover-up. “You’ve not wanted to… you know… Well, I’ve never exactly had to force you into anything before, but ever since Ostwick you’ve been, off, with me. I can’t say I like it very much.”

“Annabel, I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out, but she takes a half step out of reach.

“Then tell me what's wrong,” she repeats, her heels clearly dug in and unwilling to budge. Knowing he can’t convince her otherwise Cullen sighs then gestures to her tummy.

“You mean because I’ve got fat!” Annabel’s eyebrows shoot up incredulously.

“Maker’s breath! What?! I… I, no, no, not all, that’s not what… What I meant was-”

“Everything ok in there?” Mia’s voice echoes down the stone corridor, and he has to step in quickly before Annabel has the chance to dig him an even bigger hole.

“We’re fine, thank you,” he hollers with a distinct old air of authority. Annabel stiffens and gives a little growl, but accepts his embrace and the way he presses his palm over the curve of her navel. “You know you're beautiful… radiant, even,” he murmurs, rubbing her tummy. “It's just... I don’t want to... you know…” he trails off, losing the words to the heat tickling up his neck and fraying his thoughts. “Hurt you. Either of you,” he nods downwards, and the penny seems to finally drop.

The harshness she’d embodied moments ago melts away, like the bristles of a hissing cat that turns to warm fluff under a soothing caress. “Oh, Cullen,” she murmurs, snuggling her body closer and wrapping her arms up around his neck until she’s gazing up at him from under long, thick lashes. “You do know that's impossible, right?”

“I know…” he sighs, eyes darting away, but the blush remaining. He had asked the midwife and the medic a thousand questions back in Ostwick, they’d been patient at first and indulged him, but he’d had to let his wife ask about lovemaking when he’d repeatedly failed to get the words out. “But… How can anyone be certain? I… I couldn’t bear it if I…” he trails off, the thought is too distressing to even put into coherent words. Her thumb comes up to brush his cheek and travels along the stubble of his jaw, a tender touch that speaks of nothing but care.

“We don’t have to do anything. But I promise you won’t hurt us, either of us… we can always go slow and gentle…” her lips brush over his now, the words and action a mirror of her suggestion. “See how we go… besides,” another brush of his cheek, her pitch lowering, darkening. “We both seem to be very good with our mouths,” her lips press against his, and he can’t resist the taste of her. The sound of her voice is honey sweet, with a rasp of lust that never fails to allure him, and the taste is like heaven itself.

Magnificent woman… who once again astounds him. A distinct pulse of arousal twitches him to life. It seems she approves as she hums against into the kiss, a delightful noise that only seems to deepen the pooling desire growing between them.

“I suppose I could try,” he murmurs, the hint of a smirk on his lips as they part.

“Well, only if it’s not too much of an imposition,” she drawls, fingertips plucking loosely at his collar. A loud squeak erupts from her as he squeezes both her ample cheeks in his broad palms. At the noise, the murmur from the front room grows quiet, and both know they’ve been heard. “This way,” with a conspiratorial whisper and a tug she’s already leading him out the back door.

“You Mrs Rutherford, are one very naughty woman,” he rumbles, holding her small hand in his, eyes transfixed on the sway of her hips as she leads him very much astray.

“So I’ve been told,” Annabel’s voice is now a purr radiating warmly through her chest as she treads carefully across the yard towards the carriage. Stepping up she tosses brunette locks over her shoulder before casting her wicked gaze at him. “But the question is, just how naughty?” Her smirk is the kind which would have made him blush in his teenage years and the kind which now only seeps a deviant look through his eyes.

Stepping in he finds the space is cramped, lit by one dim lantern, and the seating is still awash with silk cushions. For the most part, he can’t even stand up straight, but that doesn't matter… it seems his wife was resourceful after all, its private, secluded, and all too cosy. “Very,” he rumbles, the sound resounding in the small space to make her giggle, a sultry sound which is swiftly masked by the lock of the door.

His hands are all over her all at once, and Annabel can’t help but mould herself around him. Leg hitching as she stumbles in the tight space and falls to land with a chuckle against the cushions. Brushing hair from her face, Annabel looks up just in time to catch Cullen’s wolfish lopsided smirk. She narrows her eyes playfully, her foot rubbing against his leg as he looked down at her with all the predatory hunger of the lion she’d married.

Slipping to his knees, he pinches at her dress, then slowly inches it up over her thighs, his amber rich eyes firmly locked on hers as he takes his sweet time. Soon her leggings are being slowly peeled away to prise her thighs open before him, and a flood of want drowns her. Damn perfect man... kissing his way up her inner thigh tickles and excites, the scrape of his stubble over every damp patch of skin he leaves sends tiny pulses of pleasure up to her core.

“Naughty man…” she pants, her fingers finding those luscious golden curls and scritching against his scalp. Suddenly one of his hands has her splayed open, on full and glistening display, distinctly delicious enough to make him hungrily rumble. The sound shudders pleasure through the aching heat in her core. It’s been far too long since she’s had his undivided, his earnest and, oh so, sinful attention, far far too long.

“Very,” his rich baritone and the breath of air against wet folds is enough to make her gasp. Anticipation fires through every nerve to set her heart thundering, a pant tumbles from her, wanton and desperate. He answers with the flat of his tongue, and one long, languid lick, up her centre. A shock of pleasure pulls her muscles tight, the fingers in his hair now kneading, urging him to deliver more. And like the Maker sent man he is, he willingly obliges.

Dipping in, Cullen kisses at her entrance, dancing his tongue over the sweet bud that wants his utter devotion. Instinct rocks her hips as he takes his time paying every intimate inch of her his uppermost attention. His nose nuzzles against her, his fingers dig in a little tighter as he forces his tongue a little deeper, and when he sucks, pleasure throbs through to snatch the air from her lungs. Laying back she moans her most wholehearted approval. She could carry on like this forever, letting him explore, letting him devote himself to her and worship her in a way like no other had, always hungry for more.

Despite all this though, she still craves far more than his mouth. As glorious as it is, it doesn’t stretch her, doesn’t fill her, doesn’t pound her in the way she desperately desires. A tug on his scalp sees Cullen’s copper tinted eyes peer up from under his brow, jaw still very firmly nestled between her thighs.

“Please,” Annabel begs and writhes under him. It’s too damn hot in this tiny space, and she grapples with her dress while her mind swims in a heady concoction of pleasure and lust. She struggles, huffing as her hair tangles and soon he’s there, pulling the garment free to leave her in nothing but a breast band that is busting at the seams.

Cullen growls on sight of her, lurching forward to nestle his face, his raw kisses between the ample swell of her bosoms. Clawing up his side she welcomes him, thighs hitching over his body to find and rub his concealed erection against where she wants it the most. Bless him, he’s careful to place no weight on her, the brunt of his force bared by powerful arms that have her firmly trapped between him and cushions.

The ping her bra as it snaps free makes a giddy laugh spill from her. Within moments Cullen's nuzzling his way over each curve to land a hungry kiss against her nipples. The pulse of pleasure mingled with a tingle of pain makes her moan, half certain she’ll be sore tomorrow but not rightly caring as he hums and with his mouth full.

“Hmmm,” he pulls back slightly letting her pert bud pop from between his lips. “I shall be sorry to share these…” he murmurs, licking one cheekily before she can truly reply.

Deliciously wicked man. A deft tug of her hand’s spills open his trousers and tugs them down over his hips. “You shall be sorry to share me and my time, full stop,” she squeezes his peachy rear, hard, dragging him up against her by his toned arse until his lips all but crash into hers.

She’s not wrong, but the fact that it will be their baby taking up her time, her energy, well, he could hardly hold a grudge. She tastes all the sweeter for the nectar still on his lips, and Cullen can already feel her hand slipping over his navel. His kiss breaks into a pant as she pumps down the length of him to send a shot of blinding pleasure and throbbing need through him.

It’s been far too long… Rumbling he pulls her flush against him, dragging his stubble along her jaw until his lips reach her ear to whisper hotly. “But for now, your all mine, Mrs Rutherford,” with that, his hands are on her hips, already helping to twist her round underneath him. He won’t take any chances, so he guides her up onto the cushions and on her knees. Running his fingers down her spine makes her buck like the temptress of a woman she is, sticking out the delicious, ample curves of her rear so he can nestle himself between her cheeks. He gives one a little tap, to hear her squeal and have her arse bounce around his cock and deliver a pulse of pleasure to all his senses.

With a slowly guided thrust he enters her, her heat hugs around him, wet and wanton, and, oh so, glorious. A curse slips from his lips as she moans and embraces all of him. Perfect woman, carrying his perfect child... Worry still niggles the corner of his mind. Despite the desire pounding through his veins with every hammer of his heart, he pulls out slightly, one of his hands slipping around her hips to brush tenderly over her stomach. “If you want me to stop-”

“Don’t you dare,” with a sharp pant, she sinks herself over him to drag loud broken moans from them both. And with that, he’s lost to her, in her, with her, together as they should be, both building pleasure until there’s nothing else.

Maker, she can barely breathe, the heat of pleasure as he stretches her, as he begins a slow and dutiful rhythm is overwhelming. It’s not the wild rutting they so often were debased too, this is something much more tender, but his thrusts are no less deep, no less satisfying. If anything, the controlled slap of his hips against her arse only serves to drag the pleasure out. Legs spreading Annabel can’t help but seek more, always seeking more, chasing the edge over which she’ll tumble, wanting all of him and nothing else. Cullen’s panted breath is hot against the damp of her back, he’s grunts confirming he’s as consumed by her as she is by him. Together they rock, back and forth, his pace growing faster as her panted moans grow louder. The steamy air fills with the mixed scent of them, musk and sweat and sex and it's downright intoxicating.

One of his hands sneaks around, calloused and firm, they knead against the bounce of her breast. Her hands press firmly against the wall, seeking purchase, something to ground her as pleasure slams through with every snap of hips.

Lightly pinching her nipple leaves sends a sharp wave of shock, pleasure and pain shooting through her until she’s left crying out his name while his cock sheaths deep inside her. Annabel’s nails claw at the wooden backboard as her cry breaks loudly from her, bliss buzzing through on the euphoric high that only he could bring. His pace falters as she shudders around him, a few sharp snaps, more brutal and carnal than the rest and it’s all too much. Another sinful moan resounds from her chest as pure pleasure blinds her. His groan meanwhile is decadently rich against her back, making a wave of molten pleasure tingle through every nerve as he comes in hot, heavy, spurts inside her.

Panting hard, Annabel comes too to find her face pressed against the carriage wall, nails still digging crescent moons into the wood's surface as she feels Cullen slide from her. The whole room rocks slightly as he collapses beside her and she wonders briefly if it had been shaking the entire time… So much for discreet. She smiles cheekily to herself, humming and nuzzling against her arm as the scorching pleasure inside fizzles down into a warm sedated glow.

Fingers lightly brush against her hip and softly her eyes open, blinking hazily in their bliss-soaked state they regard him lovingly.

“Your… I didn’t… Did I-?” Concern distorts his features as he pants the words out all too quickly.

“I’m fine… in fact… I’ve never been happier,” she mumbles, sinking to rest on her heels, head still leant against the wall, hair wildly splayed over to one side. Annabel knows a moment later she’s wrong, as Cullen smiles and rests his head back, eyes closing, chest still heaving, but his every scalped muscle relaxed… seeing him like this, that is what makes her happiest of all.

Shifting she curls herself against his side, his arms opening to loosely welcome her close, his hand finding her stomach where his fingertips lightly trace idol patterns over her skin.

“Me neither,” he replies, nestling a kiss against her forehead, his fingers continuing to devote his contented glow to her, and their baby.

---

Thank you for reading <3 Apologies it took so long to get this part done, but if you liked it likes, reblogs and comments are all gratefully recieved!

[saber-wing]

Atone

Fandom: Dragon Age - Inquisition.

Maxwell Trevelyan is under the impression his family couldn’t give two shits whether or not he’d died at the Conclave.

He’s wrong.

“My Lord Herald?”

Maxwell looked up from the letter he was trying – and failing – to write. He had already destroyed several sheets of parchment attempting to find the right words. So far, he hadn't come up with anything better than: 'Dear Mother and Father, I'm not dead.'

This, therefore, was an unwelcome distraction. He scowled, throwing his quill-pen down with a disgusted sigh. A scout stood in the entryway, shuffling his feet.

Max took a breath, making a visible effort to soften his demeanor. His sour mood wasn't this poor sod's fault.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Apologies for disturbing you at such an early hour, Master Trevelyan, but there's a man making a ruckus at the gates. He claims to be your family.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Another one? That's the third this month.”

“Yes, well...” The scout shifted uncomfortably. “This one is rather insistent he be allowed inside Haven. I...thought you might want to be informed, Your Worship.”

These impostors were persistent. Max wished he knew where they were all coming from, so he could tell them not to bother. No Trevelyan would ever waste time and resources coming here – certainly not for anything as unseemly as a 'heartfelt' reunion.

Max gripped the bridge of his nose, heaving a put-upon sigh. “All right, I'll handle it. Thank you.” The scout nodded and fisted a hand over his heart, exiting the room.

Max straightened the collar of his tunic, squaring his shoulders as he strode toward the gates. No sooner had he slammed through them that a distant argument drifted to his ears.

One of the voices was unfamiliar, but the other...

“I apologize for the inconvenience, Serah...”

“Trevelyan. Lord Trevelyan of Ostwick.”

The Inquisition guard's voice was tired and flat – much like a man who'd spent the whole week making the same argument. “I understand you've come a long way, 'Lord Trevelyan of Ostwick,' but it changes nothing. I must clear it with my superiors before I can let you through.”

“I understand you have rules. I'm happy to camp out here with my men until further notice, but won't you at least tell me if my brother is safe? If he is here, you must know of him. He's the Herald of Andraste. Or...so I'm told.”

The guard stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest. “With all due respect, Your Lordship, if I believed every degenerate who said he was related to the Herald, he'd probably be dead right now.”

Tobias Trevelyan opened his mouth to reply, freezing when he caught sight of Max. His shoulders sagged, as if a weight had been lifted from them. “There you are.” He closed the distance between them in three long strides, wrapping Max in a crushing embrace. “Oh, thank the Maker.”

Maxwell blinked, reeling with shock. He waved off the guards, all drawing their swords against the stranger 'assaulting' their Herald. He allowed himself to be crushed into his brother's plate-mail, too taken aback to protest. The archer wheezed his reply when his brother finally released him. “What are you doing here?”

Tobias scoffed, looking mildly offended. “What am I doing here? I thought you were dead!”

Max snorted. “Give Matthew my condolences, he'll be dreadfully disappointed.”

Tobias pursed his lips, giving Max an inscrutable look, but he didn't correct him, which was all the answer he needed. “Our parents are sick with worry. Tell me you've at least written to them.”

“It's...” Max rubbed the back of his head, grimacing. “On my to-do list.”

Tobias pinched the bridge of his nose. “Max, really.”

The archer at least had the decency to look sheepish. “I'm working on it.”

“How difficult is it to write, 'Dear Mother and Father, I'm not dead.'”

“That's...actually all I've got so far.”

Tobias released a chuckle – one that sounded dangerously close to a sob.

Max stared, wide-eyed.

Max's brothers – Matthew and Tobias – were natural politicians. They could slip into facades as effortlessly as a pair of shoes, and usually reveled in it. For that mask to slip, even for a moment, was simply unheard of. An unpardonable lapse of control.

Max loved his family – despite everything – but he hated those masks. Hated everything they stood for. Toby was the only one who tried to understand. He'd even gone out of his way to defend Max, whenever anyone sought to exploit it. The middle Trevelyan son had a soft spot for Max – one that Matthew continually brought up with measured disdain.

Still, a Trevelyan wasn't emotional. They could be displeased, if the occasion required it. They could be cold, calculating. Maybe even warm, so long as it didn't leave them in a vulnerable position. But emotional? Never.

Toby wasn't being emotional, not over Max. He couldn't be. The very notion was ridiculous.

“Oh, never mind. It doesn't matter now.” Tobias smiled tremulously, gathering Max into his arms again; this time, the younger man returned the embrace. Tears pressed at the backs of his eyes.

The older man pulled away, gripping Max by both shoulders. “Did you really think I wouldn't care?”

Of course not. The proper response sprang to his lips, curling on the tip of his tongue. The words caught in his throat instead; settled there, in a sickening lump.

His brother's face fell, for a split second that – for a Trevelyan – may as well have been an eternity.

Maxwell blanched. “Toby...”

“Don't.” The older man raised a palm, pained. “I've only myself to blame.”

The archer narrowed his eyes. He wanted to unpack that last statement a bit more, but something else caught his attention as Tobias lowered his hand. Green and yellow bruising peppered his knuckles.

“What are those?” Max frowned, gesturing to the marks. “Did you run into trouble on your way here?”

“The odd demon here or there.” Tobias shrugged, as if dangerous fade-creatures weren't a big deal. “But no. These are of a...personal nature. Our dear brother thought I was daft, rounding up enough men to come traipsing down here after you. I disagreed. Loudly.”

“I...” Maxwell blinked owlishly. “...I'm sorry, what?”

“We had a disagreement at a charity gala. It came to blows.”

“...this was in front of people?”

Toby nodded stiffly. He sounded both oddly proud and mildly horrified. “Half the noble houses in the Free Marches had a representative there. Naturally, you were the main topic of conversation. Matthew was rather...callous in his speculation of events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I...may have overreacted just a tad.”

Max couldn't believe what he was hearing. He spluttered, running his fingers through his hair. “Hold on. Let me get this straight. You...lost your shit and punched our brother in the face. At a public event.”

“Yes, dear heart,” Tobias scoffed, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “Please don't make me say it again.”

Dear heart. An old pet name mother used to have for them when they were little. Maxwell's breath caught. No one had called him that since...

He couldn't remember.

“I don't get it.” Max blinked, perplexed. “Why?”

“Oh, for...” Tobias blew an exasperated breath between his teeth. “Because he is a pompous, useless waste of existence with all the compassion of a used chamber pot.” He reached out, caressing Max's chin with a thumb. “And because you are my brother, and when I thought you were dead, little else mattered.”

“Oh.” Max replied, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice.

Judging from the worried expression his brother leveled at him, he didn't think he'd entirely succeeded. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow, no matter how hard he tried. His breath caught.

No. Nope. This was not happening. Max absolutely, one-hundred-percent was not going to cry. He refused.

As luck would have it, Haven's gates chose that moment to slam open. Ambassador Montilyet glided toward them, immaculate as ever. Her face, however, was a storm cloud as she approached the brothers, dipping into a flawless curtsy. “My Lord Trevelyan, please allow me to apologize on behalf of the Inquisition, for your absolutely atrocious reception.”

“No need. Please excuse my terrible manners. It is I who dropped in on you unannounced.” Tobias took her hand. “Tobias Trevelyan. It is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady...”

“Montilyet. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” Josephine smiled graciously.

Toby inclined his head, slinging an arm around Max's shoulders. “And thank you ever so much for taking such good care of Max for me. I've been positively beside myself.”

Casual words, to an outside observer. They hit Max like a ton of bricks. He cleared his throat as they entered Haven, alarmed when his vision blurred. His chest tightened, breath hitching despite his best efforts.

Panic rose up to choke him.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He needed to excuse himself. Fast.

Josephine offered a tour of Haven, which Toby wholeheartedly accepted. Luckily for Max, they were locked pretty tightly in conversation. It allowed him to draw his arm back discreetly, wiping at the moisture building beneath his eyes.

Breathe, Max. You can do this.

For once, the archer was grateful for his noble upbringing. He engaged them both mindlessly for a time, smiling and nodding at all the right pauses. He managed to keep it together long enough to excuse himself at the first opportunity.

Max ducked into an empty tent, clamping a hand over his mouth as the sobs rose up to choke him. He couldn't believe this. He hadn't wept in years – hadn't dared to, but now, the tears crashed over him like a tidal wave. He fought to stifle the sobs, biting his lip so hard, he tasted blood.

Every impossible event since the Temple of Sacred Ashes all came rushing in on him at once. The Conclave. Waking in an unfamiliar cell—bound, shackled, blades at his throat. Accused of murder, when he'd never wanted to be there in the first place. This fucking hole in his hand, reminding him with every breath he took that he should be dead.

No one would care if he was dead. The Inquisition only did because he could close rifts.

And yet, there had been something in Toby's eyes, in his trembling smile. In the way he held Max, as if he were afraid to let go. He wasn't sure what, didn't have much to compare it to. But there had been something.

Was this what it was like to feel loved?

He had no idea how much time passed as he sat there, helpless tears streaming down his cheeks. Eventually, however, voices drifted in from outside the tent, and he froze, breathless. Terrified.

“Something I can help you with, friend?”

Varric. Had the dwarf heard his cries and come to investigate?

Another voice – Tobias – chuckled, though it sounded strained, even from inside the tent. “I seem to have misplaced my brother. I don't suppose you've seen him, by chance? Answers to Max. Herald of Andraste...or so I'm told.”

“Can't say I have. I'll tell him you're looking for him though.”

“I appreciate that, Serah...”

“Varric. Just Varric, no 'Serah.' Makes me sound too respectable. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Max didn't hear Toby's reply – didn't care, either. A few more moments passed before Varric slid inside the tent, securing the flaps shut tightly behind him.

“He's gone. You can relax.”

Max exhaled shakily. When he'd finally gathered the courage to drag his eyes up to meet Varric's, he found only compassion in the dwarf's gaze.

Varric rested a hand on his shoulder, voice soft. “You okay?”

“I...yeah. Thank you.” He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his tunic. “Maker, you must think I'm pathetic.”

Varric scoffed. “Why, because you were crying? I'm surprised it took as long as it did. I was actually starting to worry.”

Max sniffled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Kid, you fell out of the sky with a hole in your hand, then became the next Andraste. Not crying about that at least once seems mildly unhealthy.”

Max scoffed, accepting the handkerchief Varric offered with a bit of skepticism. He didn't understand how the dwarf could be so comfortable with such a raw display of emotion. If anyone found him like this back home, he'd never hear the end of it.

Varric shook his head. “You do realize you bottle things up tighter than an apothecary, right?”

Max released a watery chuckle. “Where I come from, that's kind of a mandatory skill.”

Varric sat across from him, patting the ground beside him. “Wanna talk about it? I'm a good listener.”

Max hesitated, but in the end, did as he was told – he scooted across the tent next to Varric, wrapping his arms around his torso. The words spilled from his lips so quickly, it was almost alarming.

“I was sent to the Conclave because I'm expendable. I didn't think it would matter much to my family whether or not I died there. They might mourn me in their own way, but behind closed doors. Definitely not enough to come check on me.”

Varric eyed him knowingly. “And now your brother is here: traipsing through demon-infested shit-country to get to you.”

Max nodded emphatically. “Through the mages, and the templars, and...there's a fuck ton of demons, Varric! Why would he brave demons?”

Varric hummed. “Sounds an awful lot like what someone who loves you would do.”

“I know.”

“And you don't know what to do with that.”

“No. No, I don't.” Max's heart hammered in his chest, threatening to burst straight out of it. He was so anxious, he thought he might actually throw up. But some part of him felt liberated, spilling his guts to Varric – to anyone – like this.

“They don't do 'feelings' back in Ostwick, I take it? This must be weird for you.”

Max shrugged. He tried to smile. “What can I say? You have one of those faces.”

Varric chuckled. They sat together for a time, Max struggling to compose himself. When he thought he had a tight enough handle on his emotions again, he turned to the dwarf.

“How do I look – are my eyes red?”

Varric gazed into his face. “Maybe a little, but I wouldn't worry about it.” The dwarf patted his shoulder.

“I'm a Trevelyan, Varric. We always worry about it.”

“Well, don't. You're fine.”

“If you say so.” Max grimaced, worrying his lip between his teeth. “And Varric?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

The dwarf smiled, regarding him kindly. “Any time, kid.”

“And please don't mention this to anyone. Especially Toby.”

Varric mimed locking his lips, then throwing away the key. “This never happened.”

“I guess I should go make an appearance, before Cullen misses me and organizes a search party.” Maxwell winced, standing up and straightening his clothing. “You sure I look okay?”

Varric laughed, giving him a little push toward the entrance of the tent. “Stop worrying! Nobody gets lynched for taking a few minutes to themselves. Nobody has to know what you were doing.”

“Ugh, you're right.” Max blew a breath between his teeth. “This is stupid. I'm going, I'm going.”

Max could still hear Varric laughing behind him as he left. He smiled, shaking his head as he went. Crying made his head hurt, but there was some part of him that felt oddly relieved. That was new.

He made his way through Haven to the Chantry, waving to a few passersby as he went. He figured if everyone was going to gather to fret over him, it would be there. Max stopped just outside the war room, hearing voices issuing from within.

“....and I must again apologize for the way you were treated upon arrival, Lord Trevelyan.”

Josephine's voice, with mild irritation.

“Please don't trouble yourself. I'm relieved your men seem to take my brother's safety so seriously, Commander Cullen. I could have been the King of Ferelden, and your man wouldn't have budged.”

“I stand by my orders, and my soldiers who follow them. There are many who would claim relation to the Herald, only to get close to him. We've had a few such claims of late. It worries me. I've tried posting a guard on him, but he won't hear of it.”

Max rolled his eyes, taking that as his cue to enter. “Cullen, for the last time, I do not need a bodyguard.”

Josephine, Cullen, and Tobias were all seated around the table; the maps had been put away, likely to hide their movements from the stranger in their midst.

“I don't think I agree.” Tobias frowned, looking back at Cullen. “Have there been attempts on his life?”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, a furrow in his brow. “Not yet, but it's likely to happen. And without him, we've no one to close the rifts. It makes him a very high-profile target, even without the Divine's murder hanging over his head.”

“I've brought plenty of men with me, I could easily assign some of them to his command, if he'll allow it.”

Max bristled. “No, he will not allow it. And if you could please stop referring to him in the third person, he would very much appreciate it.”

Tobias held both arms out in front of him, in a placating gesture. “Now, now, Maxwell. Don't be daft. We hardly went anywhere unescorted back home. I don't see how this is any different. Quite to the contrary – guards seem more prudent than ever.”

“Just because I'm suddenly important to you, doesn't mean my feelings on the matter have changed! The people who have joined the Inquisition sacrificed everything to be here. I will not be seen parading around the encampment with a personal guard, like some fragile little lordling. You came here to see for yourself that I'm not dead, and I'm not. I'm still alive. You can stop feeling guilty. It's a little late for you to start caring what happens to me now that I've already died once.”

Tobias flinched. A secret, ugly part of Max was pleased by that. Josephine and Cullen exchanged an uneasy glance – this conversation had just gone deeper than talk of theoretical bodyguards, and they all knew it.

Tobias got haltingly to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face. “My...sincerest apologies, friends, but might I have a moment to speak with my brother alone?”

Josephine rose with a grace that Max admired, even under the circumstances. “Of course. Please, make yourself at home, my Lord Trevelyan. And again, welcome to Haven. I will be in my office, should you require anything.” She took Cullen's arm and all but dragged him from the room, shutting the door, and locking it behind her.

Max took a shaky breath, unable to look his brother in the eye. “That...wasn't what I wanted to say.”

“But you did mean it.”

Maxwell's silence was all the answer Tobias needed. He sighed, bowing his head.

“I...know I haven't been the best brother to you, Max, or even a good one, but...hearing what happened at the Conclave...” Toby's voice cracked. “It broke me. I never knew I'd so thoroughly understand the phrase: 'too little, too late.'”

Max jerked his head up, heart in his throat.

“Then I heard about the Herald of Andraste, and I thought I might have a chance to make things right.” He released a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “That sounds rather more self-serving out loud than it did in my head, but it's true. And few things have ever shamed me quite like hearing you'd died, never knowing how much I loved you.”

Max jerked back, as if he'd been slapped. “You can't mean that.”

“What, that I love you?”

Max covered his mouth with his hand; there it was again. I love you. Words he hadn't heard in over a decade. When he dared to glance up at Tobias – vision blurred with tears – the shame he found there was staggering.

“I do. I'm sorry I've ever given you cause to doubt it.”

Max managed to make it to a chair before his knees buckled – he collapsed heavily into it, trembling, head bowed. A Trevelyan was steadfast, strong. They did not break. They did not falter. They did not fall to pieces at their brother's feet over a simple four-letter word.

Tobias crouched in front of him, taking his chin in his hand. “I love you.”

A sob tore from Max's lips – he couldn't help it.

“I love you. I'm sorry.” Toby's voice was thick in his ear as he leaned forward, taking Max into his arms for the third time that day. “I'm so sorry.”

Max clung to him. Part of him wanted to pull away – to run, hide. Find a hole and bury himself in it. The younger, more selfish part, never wanted it to end. How many nights had he hidden under his covers, feeling alone and unloved, wishing for this exact thing? For someone, anyone, to give an ounce of a shit that he was alive? He wanted to be something to someone – something other than the third Trevelyan son, or Matthew's youngest brother.

Now he was. If Tobias was to be believed, he always had been. Didn't Max deserve to bask in that, even just a little?

“Now about those bodyguards...” Tobias said it in all seriousness, though there was a note of teasing in his tone.

Max sniffled, with a watery chuckle. “The answer is still no.”

“All right then, how about this?” Tobias pulled back far enough to gaze into Max's face. “What if I followed you around?”

He blinked. Of all the things he'd expected his brother to say, that hadn't been one of them. “Why would you do that?”

Tobias rubbed the bridge of his nose. “To protect you, dear heart. That is typically what a bodyguard does, is it not?”

Max blinked at him, perplexed. “You can't be my bodyguard. Are you insane?”

“Whyever not?” Tobias sighed. “Humor me, won't you? Let me look after you.” He reached out again, tracing the puckered scar running along Max's jaw. “Might make up for the times I didn't.”

Maxwell winced, knowing precisely which time he was referring to. “That...wasn't your fault.”

“I certainly didn't do anything to stop him.”

The archer smiled hesitantly. “Yeah, but you did punch him in the face before you left, so...we're even?”

“I was tempted to do more than just that, believe me.” Something angry and dark crossed Toby's expression – Max had never seen it there before.

The younger man rubbed his scar. He remembered the event with a bit of discomfort: gritting his teeth, trying not to panic at the sight of his own blood. Matthew, pale-faced and shaken, looking as young as Max felt. True, things had become even worse between them after that, but still...

Max averted his eyes. “I don't think he actually meant to hurt me.”

Toby crossed his arms over his chest. “That isn't at all the point. I'm getting off track, though. Come now, little brother. Let me protect you. I'm good with a sword, no one will think oddly of an older brother tagging along with his younger, and it eliminates the need of that personal guard you're so worried about.”

The argument sounded so earnest, almost pleading, that Max caved, with a little sigh of defeat. “Fine. But you get to tell Josephine. She might actually have a stroke. Cullen will be pleased, though. He's been making the bodyguard argument since I got here.”

“Oh, I know what you're thinking. I'm not father's 'heir,' I'm the spare, it'll be fine.” Another thought seemed to occur to Tobias. He rubbed his chin, pensive. “Of course, I probably can't be with you every second of the day. We'll have to establish a rotation with someone else, for my off hours.”

Max scowled. “Don't push it. I agreed to you, nobody else.”

Tobias laughed. “All right, all right, but I'll convince you yet.” He wagged a finger at Max. “For now, I'll take what I can get.”

Max shook his head, exasperated, as Tobias led him out of the room, one arm behind his back.

All this touching made Max a bit twitchy, truth be told. He half expected their father to round a corner, and ask what the bloody hell they were on about. Public displays of affection weren't a thing Trevelyans did – not even casual ones.

But Max had always wished things were different. Somehow, Tobias realized this. He smiled at Max, if a bit awkwardly, but did not break contact. His heart soared.

They ran into Varric outside the Chantry, looking very pleased with himself. The dwarf inclined his head toward Max, addressing Toby. “Found your missing person, I see.”

“Indeed.” Tobias smiled. “And I won't be letting him out of my sight any time soon, if this Herald of Andraste business is as dangerous as I'm hearing.”

“I'll drink to that. No really, drinks later, 'Herald's Rest,' on me.”

Toby raised an eyebrow. “You have a tavern named after you?”

Maxwell's cheeks grew hot. He averted his eyes. “I asked them not to do that.”

Varric laughed, slapping Max's calf. He turned his head back toward Tobias, a question in his gaze. “You sticking around?”

“So long as he'll have me.”

Varric seemed pleased. “Glad to hear it. He's a good kid – needs people on his side.”

Maxwell huffed. “What is it with you people, and talking about me as if I'm not here?”

The dwarf smiled, shaking his head. He turned his gaze not on Max, however, but Tobias.

Both men were taken aback by the intensity with which Varric fixed his eyes on the older Trevelyan. “I'm a professional younger brother myself, so I know how it feels, not being able to rely on someone who should have your back. Do us both a favor, and don't let him down. I'm an easy-going guy. I'd hate to have to do something about it.”

Maxwell's jaw dropped.

Tobias pursed his lips, regarding Varric with something akin to respect. After a few heartbeats, he nodded, his reply somber. “I will certainly try my damnedest.”

“Good answer. Diplomatic, but honest. I like it. I think we're gonna get along just fine, Your Lordliness.” Varric paused, frowning. “No, not quite. I'll have to work on it.” The dwarf walked back down the stairs toward his customary place by the fire, waving over his shoulder as he went.

Tobias blinked owlishly. “I think he just threatened me.”

“I...” Max blew a breath between his teeth. “I don't know what to say. Varric isn't the threatening sort. I've never seen him do that before.”

“I like him.” The older man nodded decisively. “What combat experience does he have? Do you think he'd be amenable to providing me with a few references?”

“Maker's breath, tell me you're not actually recruiting right now.”

“Of course not, dear heart. I'm wounded you would think so. We settled on myself only for guard duty at present. I haven't forgotten. I'm merely being proactive about the future, you understand. Does he have any guard experience, by chance?”

“Toby!”

Tobias laughed. Maxwell groaned, unable to stop his answering grin. All this fussing over him was jarring, certainly, but...

He could definitely get used to it.

[masterskywalkers]

🖊 OSCAR

It’s getting so tricky remembering what I’ve shared about Oscar and what I haven’t, but I know I have one headcanon that I never shared because I always considered writing it. Since it’s been a few years though, I’m going to throw my hands in the air and say fuck it, it’s about time I shared it. 

After the events of the main game and during the time between Trespasser, Oscar is kept incredibly busy. There’s a lot of politics happening and dignitaries visiting Skyhold, and a lot of visiting of areas affected by the war and the rifts (some of which still need to be properly sealed). My time frame for the game is different from the canon one too, as I always say that the main game spans about three years what with the amount that truly has to happen in it, and then there’s the canon two year gap before Trespasser’s events. So, that’s two years of missing content (not to mention, two years of the anchor becoming more powerful without Solas there to watch over it). I also headcanon that Oscar only adopts Mae about half a year before Trespasser.

For about the first six or so months, Dorian stays at Skyhold and by Oscar’s side. It’s both for two reasons: the first to support Oscar in this new phase of his life and to make sure certain nobles and dignitaries don’t try to abuse Oscar’s name and power, and the second - and as Dorian expresses, more selfish - reason is simply because he’s not ready to leave his side. He wants to stay, basking in a relationship they can share which isn’t overshadowed by ‘one or both of us is destined to die’. It’s a good thing that Dorian stays too, as about three months after the defeat of Corypheus, he finds Oscar arguing with Josephine over a letter he received and is reluctant to reply to.

Dorian later learns that the letter is from Oscar’s sister, Johanna, and is related to their parents, who Oscar does not have good history with. The sum the letter up, their father is dying and, Johanna being Johanna, figured that Oscar might like to know just incase he wanted to visit for what might be the last time. It’s a well meaning offer but one which strikes a deep wound in Oscar, who - mostly out of fear - doesn’t want to return home. Dorian, understanding just how frustrating family can be manages to get Oscar to see clearly, and after speaking about how he’s glad he got to meet his own father thanks to Oscar’s insistence despite the pain the meeting caused him, Dorian thinks it’s a good idea for Oscar to at least get the closure he deserves for himself. So, the both of them return to Oscar’s childhood home.

… Only, it’s not a good visit. Oscar’s mother is in her own dazed world, hardly caring about anyone or anything but herself and her own reputation, and his father. Well. He’s absolutely livid that Oscar decided to visit him at his weakest point, especially considering ‘he didn’t want to know the family when they reached out to him’ (all of which was due to his status as Inquisitor, and not because they held any obligation or feeling toward him). Oscar visits him on his own, and his father’s last words to him are filled with disappointment and dismissal, ending in telling Oscar how he doesn’t care if he’s the Herald of Andraste or the Inquisitor or anything; to him he’s not his son + considered a waste of space. 

Oscar hadn’t been expecting any good to come from the visit, but the way his father speaks to him shakes and upsets him. Dorian, Stephan (Oscar’s brother) and Johanna are livid when they find out, and Johanna is incredibly sorry for ever offering the visit in the first place. Oscar never blames her though, as he knows she meant well. Not long after his father dies, he returns to Skyhold.

A couple of months later, Oscar receives another letter from his brother. Stephan at that point as become the head of the family - their mother not up to the task herself (she later dies about a year or so after her husband) and he tells Oscar he wants to reinstate everything that was taken from Oscar after his parents discovered he was a mage. It meant his title, entitlement to part of the Trevelyan estate and affairs, everything that he and Johanna were also entitled to. Oscar doesn’t really want it - he has enough titles to hold now (and later more, what with becoming a Comte of Kirkwall) - but when he realises that it’s Stephan’s attempt at fixing the damage their parents had done, and rebuilding the family unit the three siblings had built for themselves whilst growing up before Oscar was sent away, he reluctantly agrees to take the title back. He’s more grateful for the effort his brother takes than anything, and rarely uses the title of Lord.

If you wanna ask for an OC that I’ll gush over, feel free to join in the fun with this little ask challenge!

[labhra-setablaze]

Excerpt From World of Thedas Vol. II

Ser Michel & The Demon’s Promise

“I find it disappointing how often people blame things on demons. Don’t you?

They come up with stories where the demons trick them into committing some evil act, where they possess the mage and turn him into a horrific monster, where the demons are always the villains. But if you paid attention to the Chant of Light instead of just repeating it over and over in your mind like you’re doing right now, you’d know that even Andraste herself didn’t believe that. Spirits are attracted to feelings, passions, those moments that define someone’s life. We don’t put the bad feelings into your head. We come to you because they’re in there already. A good man, a humble man, could stand before a pride demon with nothing to fear. Except getting stepped on, of course.

What I’m saying is that you have nothing to fear from a spirit except whatever trouble you bring with you. A spirit is the best test mortal man will ever find to uncover the darkest parts of himself, whether that be fear or rage or pride... or choice.

Some call it desire, but everyone has desires. Not everyone makes the choice to act upon them, and if you don’t make a choice, well, what use are you? You’re like that girl who liked you near the harvest festival, but she never worked up the courage to ask you to dance, and you never knew. If you like, I could tell you her name. I bet you’d be surprised. No? Just a thought.

In any event, like all the Dalish, Clan Virnehn wanted to reclaim what they’d lost, and they summoned me and bound me in one of their little circles, but for all their talk, they couldn’t make the choice that would gain them my cooperation. I had to sit and listen to them equivocate and pontificate and generally try to bore me into helping them. That’s elves for you.

For the choices that get things going, you need humans.

Do you know the easiest con your Maker, praise His name if you’re feeling like it, ever invented? I feel comfortable sharing this with you, seeing as how you’re currently, shall we say, between a rock and a hard place. The easiest con is to let someone think that they’re conning you. Ser Michel, champion of the somewhat throneless Empress Celene, saw a demon (his words, not mine) trapped in a binding circle, and heard of the magical eluvians and a chance for his empress to escape the Dalish and regain her throne. I gave him an offer he was never going to accept - a willing sacrifice, heart’s blood, something like that - in return for never having to worry about anyone ever discovering his dirty family secret. His mother was elven, you see. Didn’t look it, since the ears never come out pointy once a human’s involved, but elf blood, common birth, would have gotten him killed for impersonating a noble. What a mad choice for a young man to make, living a lie to become a chevalier.

As I said, humans. These days, they’re the ones who want things badly enough to make the really interesting decisions. That’s why I’m talking to you, in fact. How’s the nose? Itchy at all? I always hate it when my hands are restrained and my nose starts to itch. It’s one of the worst things I can think of. Just let me know if you’d like some help.

As for Ser Michel, he was never going to accept that bargain. No, he heard me let slip the secret of the eluvians and the fact that breaking my binding circle would banish me to the Fade, and the dear boy decided to con me. Me, one of the Forbidden Ones. He got the secret of the eluvians from me, and then he broke the binding circle, which, as it turned out, was the way to free me and not banish me.

Now freed, I sent him and his empress off to the eluvians and taught the Dalish what happens when you summon one of the Forbidden Ones.

Oh, did you think I’d killed Ser Michel? Now, why on your Maker’s poor neglected earth would I do that? I get the feeling that you don’t understand me at all, and let me tell you, understanding me is becoming an increasingly important prerequisite to your continued existence. Michel made a choice. He took action, and while his sadly mortal mind didn’t quite get the consequences correct, he understood why they might exist. A man who makes choices, right or wrong, is someone I’m happy to have around. As for the mealy-mouthed Clan Virnehn, fumbling around with their binding circles and their clumsy commands... the world is a more interesting place without them.

Except for the children, of course. Children don’t have the wits to choose anything for themselves. I sent the little dears to another clan. Quite charitable of me, if I do say so, dropping a few dozen children into the laps of a clan with winter on the way. The mouths of hungry youngsters create such good choices for others. If you had a child, we’d be having a much different conversation right now.

The only other member of Clan Virnehn I left alive was the First of their clan, a young woman named Mihris. Ser Michel had chosen to leave her alive rather than kill her, even knowing that she hated him for killing some guardsman she liked. She seemed quite invested in avenging her clan and killing Ser Michel, even to the point of allowing me to possess her to give her the power to do so. Sadly, it ended up being a waste of time. When her chance came, Mihris flinched from the consequences, and with no interesting choice to keep me bound, I was forced to go my own way.

And it turns out that Ser Michel didn’t need Mihris. He had his own downfall with him all along, in the form of a promise he made to Celene’s lover: one favor for her silence on his little elf-blooded secret. The favor turned out to be forfeiting his duel with Celene’s rival, and in his pride, Ser Michel revealed his parentage for all to see. I hear the empress’s disgraced former champion is trying to find me, to put his mistake right and banish me from this world.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, shall we? I’m the only one keeping you alive right now - well, for certain definitions of alive.

Just remember, if you want to get out of there, healthy and whole, at any time, all you have to do is say yes. Not a command, not an order, nothing but an offer from a spirit who loves seeing people make interesting choices.

I’ll give you some time to think it over. The woman in the next room is worried about her son. Something to work with there, don’t you think? It’s always easier to make a difficult choice when you can say you’re doing it for someone else.”

- The demon Imshael, World of Thedas Volume 2, page 279.

[long-liv-prairies]

(Talesfromthefade) “You don’t have any right to say that” for the DWC?

@lyrium-lovesong also asked for this prompt, so I combined them! For @dadrunkwriting!

This happens very early in Sybil’s Inquisition timeline. Sybil has a pretty messy past, something that Cullen isn’t sure how to deal with when he first learns about it.

I’m not entirely sure I’m happy with how I filled this prompt, but I really wanted to get something out there tonight!

This was not thediscussion Cullen thought he would be having when he entered the war room thatmorning. It was not a discussion he thought he would ever be having.

But Leliana had insistedthey talk about the Herald of Andraste’s sex life.

Or at least her past sex life. As far as Leliana could tell,their Herald hadn’t had sex since the Breach opened.

Still, she had spent the last quarter, or possibly half, of anhour, relaying every other time the Herald had entertained in her bed. Except,it wasn’t every time. And they weren’t always in her bed, or any bed for thatmatter.

No, Leliana just told them of the times she had been with anoble, or a prominent merchant, or a notorious smuggler, or a city guard, or amage, or an elf, or a dwarf, or any time with more than one partner…

And of course, there were all the times she had stolen fromthem.

“It seems,” Leliana had said before presenting the list ofnames, “that Miss Trevelyan was occasionally mistaken for a prostitute, and inthe morning those men found their purses empty of all coin.”

A prostitute. People had thought their Herald a prostitute.

Cullen certainly hadn’t thought Sybil Trevelyaninexperienced or innocent. Even he wasn’t so obtuse as to miss her flirtingwhen they spoke the day before. But he certainly wouldn’t have imagined Lelianawould come to him and Josephine with this.

“I have already begun the process of paying those she robbedfor their silence,” Leliana told them. “It is proving to be quite expensive,but it will be worth it, in the long run.”

“Of course,” Jospehine said, making a note in her ledger. “Wewill just have to cut back in other areas.”

“It will be easier to bring in funds from donors if they donot know that their Herald is a criminal.”

Cullen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A criminal.She was a criminal…

He had considered a number of drawbacks having SybilTrevelyan as their Herald, and the only one who could close the Breach, broughtto their cause. First among them was her abominable eyesight, and the dangersit posed to her own safety. Second were her limited skills on the battlefield.He had asked Cassandra to work with the woman, to make sure she could defendherself and avoid getting herself killed.

But this was just… was just…

He couldn’t have planned for this. No amount of trainingcould fix this.

“What do you think Cullen?”

What did he think? He thought that their jobs all would beeasier if the Maker had sent them anyone else…

But who was he to question the Maker? To question Andraste?If Sybil Trevelyan was supposed to save them and close the Breach, then whatcould he do but help her succeed?

It would just be easier, for all of them, if Sybil hadn’tspent the last... what had Leliana said? Eight years? If she hadn’t spent thelast eight years conducting herself like a… like a…

Cullen shook the word that came to mind out of his head. Howevershe had spent her time in the past, it was not his business.

Except, now it was…

“I think you seem to have this handled,” Cullen offeredLeliana, his voice gruff.

“I only bring this up so no one is blindsided,” Leliana toldthem. “It is far too late to paint our Herald as chaste… though I’m not surethat would be the best approach to begin with. But we can minimize the damage.”

“Indeed,” Josephine said. “People may talk, but with no reliablesources to verify rumors, they will remain just that. Rumors.”

Except they weren’t rumors, Cullen thought. He had to live with this knowledge…

He couldn’t let it go, especially not by the time Sybilentered the war room, summoned there to give a report on her time in the Hinterlands.

He couldn’t look at her throughout the entire meeting. Heknew if he did he would imagine her with… well it didn’t seem to matter who he imaginedher with. He had the pick of Thedas.

That’s not fair,he chided himself. She is perfectly ableto bed however many people she wishes…

It would just make hisjob much easier if he didn’t have to worry about… all of that.

Josephine and Leliana left, but Sybil remained. Cullen madeto leave himself, but Sybil stopped him.

“Cullen, I wanted to ask how the refugees are doing.”

Cullen blinked, and forced himself to look at her face. Helooked away immediately, as he remembered one of Leliana’s more graphicanecdotes, involving an alley and a Teyrn’s son…

“Cullen?” she prodded. “Do you have any word about the refugees?Did the supplies we found help?”

“Yes, yes,” Cullen said with a nod, staring at the table andgathering his notes and papers into a pile. “They were very helpful…”

“What’s your problem?”

Cullen looked back up into her pale eyes. She was frowning,studying him, leaning slightly over the table, which brought to mind anotherstory Leliana had told them…

“Nothing,” he said, averting his gaze.

“Bullshit,” Sybil snapped back. “You haven’t looked at methe entire meeting.”

Cullen forced himself to look back, and this time, he didn’tlook away. “There is nothing wrong.”

Sybil’s eyes narrowed, and he wondered how well she couldsee him from across the room. “If I did something to offend you, I’d like toknow.”

“I’m not offended.”

She snorted. “You’re doing a poor job of lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are. And ifyou’re going to insist I come to these meetings, you could at least try toacknowledge that I’m here…”

“Leliana told us,” Cullen finally confessed. “About your past.”

Sybil’s eyes widened, and she stood up slowly, crossing herarms across her chest. “Which part?”

Cullen already regretted that he had broken so quickly. “It’snothing,” he said, straightening his papers for the third or fourth time. “Ishouldn’t have mentioned anything.”

“You’re right,” Sybil said. “Especially since it’s none ofyour business. I’d appreciate if you all would keep your noses out of myprivate life...”

Cullen paused his fidgeting, glaring at the notes in hishands. “It is our business,” he foundhimself saying, remembering how much Leliana had already spent trying to hidethe more sordid details of her past, and the time her scouts were putting intodigging up the rumors. “Everything you do, everything you have done, reflectson the Inquisition.” He looked up from the table and glared. “And the thingsyou have done are already hurting us.”

Sybil’s gaze was filled with simmering anger. “It’s not asif I chose to have this mark placedon my hand. Excuse me for not planning my entire life around the fact that Iwould one day find myself at the forefront of some zealous religious crusade. I’mso sorry you’ve been inconveniencedby my choices…”

“It’s more than just inconvenience!” Cullen exploded. Couldn’tshe see how her actions affected others? Couldn’t she realize what she would becosting them? “Leliana has been paying off your… your past lovers – if you can even call them that – to keep them quiet. Thatis money we could be using to buy food! Or to clothe refugees! And can youimagine how our cause will be hurt when the knowledge of your exploits getsout? How our supporters will react when they know you are a thief? We could beruined before we even have a chance to seal the Breach!”

Sybil’s expression had changed from angry to murderous whilehe talked, and before Cullen could even finish speaking she was moving around thewar table, advancing on where he was standing with his back to the door.

“You have no right,” she seethed, approaching until she wasmere inches from his chest. Cullen towered over her, but he felt small underthe weight of her flashing pale eyes. He noticed one of her eyes had started towander, shifting out of focus as her emotions took over. “You have no right tosay any of that, Templar.” It wasmore a curse than anything else. “You can’t demonize me while hiding behindyour righteous Chantry boy charade. I knowwhat your kind are like. I know whatyou do in your towers.” Her lips curled back in a snarl, and Cullen nearly tooka step back. “But you don’t know anything about me, Templar. What I do with my body, and who I do it with, is none ofyour fucking concern, and I’m not going to let you make me feel guilty about enjoying myself. Or formaking sure I didn’t starve.” She pulled back and stormed across the roomtoward the door. She took the handle and turned back for one final statement. “Youshould remember that I’m choosing tostay here,” she spat. “And I can choose not to.”

She was through the door and it was slammed shut beforeCullen could respond. He stared at where she had disappeared, his mind racingwith fear.

She couldn’t leave. If she left they were lost. It didn’tmatter how many people she had slept with, or how much she had stolen fromthem, Sybil alone could close the rifts around them, and she was their onlyhope to close the Breach…

Cullen driving her away was the most surefire way to ensurethat they failed.

“Maker preserve me,” he muttered, placing his palms on thetable and hunching forward. Leliana would likely have his head for this, or atleast give it a good lecture. Sybil was far too important to their cause toinsult her like this. There was a reason Leliana had handled this in secret,and he had gone and blown it wide open…

But he didn’t think it would hurt for Sybil to realize howher actions might affect their entire endeavor. Yes, she had every right to dowhat she wanted when she had only been looking only after herself. But now shewas part of something larger, and that meant acting like it.

He doubted Sybil would see it the same way.

And it wouldn’t matter, if she left.

He should check on her, ensure that she was not leaving. Andif she was, apology, and pray that she forgave him enough to stay.

He gathered his things and moved toward the door. Whateverhe felt about their Herald and her past, he could not let it affect him likethis again.

He could not vilify her. Maker knew he had been given morechances than he was worth.

[pestopascal]

12 and 21 for basilia and saskia ✨

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has

Basilia:

1. Saskia may have overprotectiveness of Bethany in the bag, but it’s honestly Basilia’s terrain. She’s fiercely protective of family and friends, and can border on violently quite quickly. Side effect of losing people in the Circle? Maybe, but don’t ask her that she won’t like it. It kind of comes to a head when she can’t find Velanna again, or when she pretty much eats the slavers who try to take her children. 

2. She was pretty ambitious in the Circle. But in the sense of completely playing up the ‘sweetheart’ and can-do-no-wrong thing she had going on, even after she made Enchanter, but post-Blight she kind of went a bit wild. Whilst she knew Grey Wardens had some sort of autonomy, it’s only after Amaranthine was handed to her, after her return from Par Vollen, that she realised that, hey, I can own stuff. I can do stuff. I can tell nobles off. Granted she has to kill darkspawn every so often, but it really did ignite in her an ambition for wealth, a name, security, etc.

3. Basilia is really fucking wicked underneath it all. And not in the sexy sense, and not in the absolute awful sense, but she hides it pretty well. Ask her tutors about her time in the Circle, and they all parrot niceties. A smothered down part of her, that revels in blood magic. Sure, she’s trying to reform the face of blood magic by using it to help heal some of the worst wounds, but she has maybe played around with people’s minds, planted thoughts and suggestions, made people bleed to fuel her magic. Not people she knows, of course! 

4. Her merciful side kind of died when she left the Circle, if there ever was one. Granted during the Blight, she was more likely to let people go, after either swearing fealty to their cause or just emptying their purse (and maybe dying after that okay). But after the Blight? Less likely to see people who cross her alive (I mean look at Bann Esmerelle). Being merciful and merciless are two sides of the same coin Basilia flips on a constant basis.

5. Charisma came with the territory. Sure, prior to that she had a hand on being persuasive, but being charismatic was a learned skill. Inspiring people to fight beside her, or just charming someone out of coin or help, Basilia had a tough time getting a handle on it. Magic definitely helped, and Basilia thanked the illusion school every day, because if she could keep someone’s eye on her, and be all mesmerising, then that worked too. Being a charismatic leader was not something Basilia thought she would be, but she got there.

Saskia:

1. Loyalty should just be Saskia’s middle name, with how much she put up with. Sure, she’d argue it was because Isabela owed her coin, or because Fenris wouldn’t stop grouching, or Merrill just really needed a hug and some weird elven artefact, but she’s loyal to her core. The negative to that too was letting Anders live. She doesn’t know if she made the right choice, and Saskia sure as the void hated the consequences of her actions, but her loyalty didn’t waver as she dragged Anders before Basilia. It just changed streams.

2. Maybe it’s because she’s Ferelden, but Saskia is stupidly courageous. Plucky was another word she’s quite fond of because it sounds cute, but she’s the one to dive headfirst into danger. Need a dragon killed? Time and day and she’ll be there. Elven myths? She made friends with a varterral, whatever man. Undead and demons and blood mages and red lyrium crazed templars? You know who to call. The only time she wasn’t, was when her name got put forward to duel the Arishok. But it’s kind of a defence mechanism too. If she’s throwing herself at danger, then she doesn’t have time to think about anything else, right? Right.

3. Probably a point of contention, and she doesn’t really interact with a lot of the conversations, but Saskia is quietly religious. Not to the extent that perhaps the Chantry would like her to be, but she is. There’s no real definition as to why, and maybe it stemmed from joining Bethany in Lothering’s chantry back in the day, or even long before that to a place she can’t pinpoint, but she finds some comfort in her religion, even if she hates it too.

4. Saskia has zero respect for authority. She’s awfully disrespectful, and normally it’s only directed to those in positions of power, but as the years go on everyone kind of begins to cop it a bit. Immediately conflicts with her personal beliefs because those in charge of Kirkwall are templars, being all ‘word of the Maker guides us’, but she has respect for Aveline. Everyone else? Prepare to meet a whirlwind of rudeness, lack of tact, and just not-giving-a-shit. It’ll tone down one day, just today is not that day.

5. She’s obnoxious. Loudly obnoxious, running around Kirkwall like she owned the place, but flipping it off at every second because she’s so horribly Ferelden. Her friends may find it a charming aspect of her sparkling personality, but Saskia has no time to be pleasant and well mannered, much to Leandra’s chagrin, when she could just hoot at the templars in the Gallows, do cartwheels through the middle of procession, and maybe decide to paint the statues of Andraste. And that’s her on a nice day.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?

Basilia:

1. To find out what really happened with Andraste, and if she was even a real person. It may seem pretty trivial and contradictory to her, in some ways, but Basilia just has a few theories she wants to prove about the woman they’re supposed to be under the eyes of the Chantry and well, she has to know.

2. That she’d been able to raise her children (Myra, René and Haytham). René found her when he was late teens, and a Grey Warden. At least she found Haytham when he was eight. But Myra? She’s in her twenties by the time Basilia meets her. She’s missed out on so much with her kids and it fucking kills her.

3. Quietly, a third wish that she debates on a lot of the time: that she wasn’t a mage. It seems obvious, and sometimes silly, and she knows just how much she’d have to give up for it, but if she hadn’t been a mage, she would’ve stayed with her mother in Kirkwall. 

Saskia:

1. Rewrite the events that happened in Kirkwall. Divine intervention should’ve happened, and it didn’t, and Saskia had a crisis of faith she didn’t need, she lost two people that day she loved dearly, and she hasn’t quite recovered. Don’t know if she ever will.

2. It’s not really a wish, because Basilia tells her constantly that she had the option to either not have Gaius, or be with him all the time, but just the name is a wish enough. Gaius. What does Saskia actually wish for, when she looks at her son? He’s being raised happily with Basilia’s little clan. He would find a better life there than she could ever give him. But she regrets bringing him into a world full of misery and awfulness. She doesn’t know what she feels, and maybe that’s what she wants to be made clear.

3. Carver. She wants Carver back. She just wants her shitty little brother and his shitty little opinions and his dumbass ideas and she wants him so she can hug him and hug Bethany and they’ll all be okay and everything will be fine again and maybe she wants her dad back too because she misses Malcolm so damn much every single day, and now Leandra is gone and it doesn’t get any better. She wants Malcolm to explain what happened in the Vinmark mountains, and she wants Carver to tackle her to the ground and sulk over not having a mabari, and she wants all of them to drink in the Hanged Man while Bethany moons over Sebastian or something. 

She wants her old life back. 

[ladynorbert]

Night of the Lilies

Okay, Tumblies, here’s an unpublished work I did with @auroraborealia - since it’s both Cullen Appreciation Week and Bethany Hawke Appreciation Week in the Dragon Age fandom, this is something that features them both.

In Dragon Age II, I headcanon that while Hawke is comforted by his/her love interest following the events of the quest “All That Remains,” Varric takes on the task of comforting his best friend’s younger sibling. For me, that’s Bethany. To do this, he needs to get into the Gallows, and that requires some Templar assistance, so he goes to the only Templar he feels comfortable approaching. Slight Varric/Bethany if you squint, because that’s my ship, but it’s mostly just platonic here. F!Hawke/Fenris in the background.

Spoilers, obviously. @cullenappreciationweek, here’s my first contribution. :)

Hawke’s friends were all still reeling from the blow of the afternoon. The death of their fearless leader’s mother hit them all hard; she had always welcomed them cordially whenever they visited the estate, even if she questioned her daughter’s taste in companions, and for her to have spent her final hours in terrified pain was not something any of them were happily contemplating.

Aveline, being something of an extended member of the Hawke family, was taking the blow harder than most. She had known Leandra longest, had shared in her grief the day both Aveline’s husband Wesley and Leandra’s son Carver met their deaths by darkspawn. She would collect herself in time and be there for Hawke, Varric knew, but for now it was best to let her mourn privately.

Fenris was with Hawke; their relationship was a curious one, and Varric himself was never quite sure what to make of it, but he knew the elf loved the rogue and was in the best place to offer her some kind of comfort. So he steered clear of the estate. No, there was someplace else he needed to be on this night.

The sun had just set when he reached the Gallows in search of Knight-Captain Cullen. Fortunately, the Templar was in his usual place, and nodded at the dwarf as he approached.

“Captain, can you spare me a minute?”

Cullen glanced around, as if to make sure all would be well if he let his guard down for a moment, then nodded once more. “Of course. How can I be of assistance?”

“Gamlen Amell - was he here today?”

The captain moistened his lips, then swallowed hard. “I’m not certain I should be telling you that…” he said cautiously.

“It’s all right, I know he was. Do you know why he was here?” Varric looked up at him with determined eyes.

“I… may have heard, yes.” He sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. “For what it’s worth, Hawke has my sympathies. You all do.”

“Thank you. Anyway, I need your help. Hawke’s got everybody else rallied around her right now, one way or another. What I need is to see Bethany.”

“Messere Tethras,” he protested, glancing around again as if worried he might get caught. “You know I can’t.”

“You have to.” The dwarf clenched his jaw. “You’re the only Templar around here I trust as far as I can throw him these days, and let’s face it, I can’t throw you all that far. You’re the only one who can help me pull this off - you think it’s fair to let that girl go through this alone? Andraste’s ass, Cullen, her mother’s been murdered.” Varric’s eyes went hard as he added, “And maybe if the Templars had taken Ser Emeric more seriously when he was trying to investigate the killer years ago, she’d still be alive.”

Cullen visibly winced, but didn’t protest. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes roughly for several long moments before letting out a tortured sigh. “All right,” he said finally. “All right. But no one can know that I’m doing this.”

“Who do you think I’m going to tell?”

“Fair point,” he muttered, then gestured for Varric to follow. “Come with me.”

Varric trailed after him into the Gallows, which he’d only had occasion to visit one other time. Cullen led him down the hallway past Meredith and Orsino’s offices to a small enclosed courtyard. Obeying the captain’s directive to wait there, he seated himself on one of the benches, staring up at the night sky. He had no idea what he was going to say to Bethany; he just couldn’t stand the idea of her suffering in solitude.

She emerged with Cullen several minutes later, walking as if she had forgotten how to do so. Her eyes were slightly downcast, but in the moonlight it was easy to see they were puffy and red-rimmed. Cullen gave her shoulder a tiny pat and said something to her. She nodded, looked up, and the minute she saw Varric, stumbled towards him as quickly as she could.

“There’s my Sunshine,” he managed, getting to his feet and catching her gently. “Oh… oh, I know…”

Bethany had been convinced that all her tears had already been shed - but as she all but fell into his embrace, she immediately began to sob all over again. She buried her face in his shoulder to hide the sound, grateful for the support of his arms. His grip was the only thing keeping her upright.

Varric sank back onto the stone bench, still cradling her as he did. “I know,” he said again, letting her clutch at his old beaten duster and weep into his silk shirt. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” One gloved hand nested itself tenderly in her hair. He didn’t know what to do, other than to hold her, but maybe that was all she really needed.

She cried for several more minutes while Cullen stood off to the side, staring ahead and trying not to listen. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it, and his features were twisted with pain. Eventually, she ran out of tears and simply rocked herself back and forth, trying to get her breathing under control. “I don’t understand,” she whispered at last. Her throat was so raw it burned to speak. “Why her? Why this? I just don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, not really.” He sighed. “Best I can offer is that the guy was a madman. I’m sorry we didn’t find her fast enough… we tried, I swear to you we tried.”

“I know you did,” she croaked. Her lip trembled and she bit down to make it stop, shaking her head. “It’s just all so senseless - first my father, then Carver, now her.”

“I know, Sunshine. I wish I could fix it for you.” He sighed again, and tightened his grip a bit. “It’s why I came… I couldn’t stand the thought of you going through this by yourself, and your sister’s too eaten up with grief and guilt to be here just now. Fenris is with her, and I’m with you, and neither of you is ever, ever alone - you hear that?”

“Yes.” She nodded, sniffling. She repositioned herself so her head was against his chest. “Thank you so much for coming. I - I don’t even have the words to tell you how much it means to me. I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I’m not leaving yet. The captain can stew,” he muttered quietly. “I wouldn’t leave you here if I had any choice in the matter, believe me. You’d be home where you belong.”

“I know, and right now I wish I was home. But it’s not terrible here. And don’t take anything out on Cullen, he’s better than most.” She sighed and looked around the courtyard, which was washed in moonlight. “The hardest part is not knowing - not knowing what's going on with any of you. Not being able to help you…”

Varric chewed on that for a minute. “I need to write more. That’s on me and I’m sorry,” he said at length. “I’ll be better about it, I promise. I should never have let myself get so busy that I left you feeling alone. That’s no way to treat one’s own personal Sunshine,” he added, a bit more jocular.

She managed a small ghost of a smile. “No, no, you're doing all right,” she promised. “You know I'll never say no to hearing from you even more, though. I just…” She sighed. “I feel like somehow the world isn't going to stop until it's taken you all away from me… until everyone I care about is gone.”

“Sunshine, I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to keep that from happening. I can’t swear I’ll succeed, because I feel the same way sometimes and I’m terrified of losing all of you too. Especially you and your sister. But I will do my damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

She nodded at that and all but threw her arms around his neck, embracing him firmly. “I believe you,” she whispered in his ear. “I believe you can.”

He patted her back gently. “I don’t know if I deserve that kind of faith, but it’s nice to have it all the same,” he mused. “All I know is that… more than ever… anything ever tries to touch you or Hawke, there will be hell to pay.”

“Thank you,” she said, and her smile became a bit more genuine, although still pained. “But please, Varric… please be careful. I’m not going to lose you too - I refuse.”

Touched, he caught her hand and pressed it. “I’ll do my best, Sunshine. I promise.”

“Good…” She seemed soothed by the assertion. “Good.” She leaned against him, her arms wrapped around his torso.

“Bethany…” Cullen interrupted cautiously. “Bethany, you should really…”

“Please. Please, just a bit longer, Cullen. Just a bit.” She looked at him, her brown eyes like liquid, and he relented, his mouth folding into a frown of sympathy.

“That’s almost as effective on him as is on me,” Varric murmured. He sighed. “Is there anything I can do for you, Sunshine? Anything I can send?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, I was wondering if… if there’s anything of Mother’s I can have? Anything at all? Even a picture of her will do.”

“I’m sure there is. I’ll talk to big sister when she’s up to it and see what we can do,” he promised. “I’ll commission a portrait if that’s what’s needed.”

“Thank you, Varric. That’s sweet of you. I would carry something from each and every one of you if I could.”

That made him pause. Almost instinctively, his hand dove into his pocket in search of whatever might be there. “It’s not much, but… it’s something, I guess,” he said, pulling out - of all things - his gold-plated noble caste pin. “The elf thought I was kidding when I told him I deliberately misplaced this. Not sure how it ended up in here, but maybe you’re the reason why it did.” He took her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Probably not compliant with Circle regulations, so keep it hidden.”

“I will.” She nodded, and the look in her eyes betrayed how much the little gift meant to her. “Thank you.” She ran her fingers over it before hiding it away. After a moment of contemplation, she added softly. “I miss you.”

Varric honestly wasn’t sure if that was a singular or a plural you. He decided it didn’t matter. “I miss you too. I only have one Sunshine.”

“And I only have one favorite dwarf.” She smiled, feeling like some of the darkness that had threatened to consume her was lifted slightly, and squeezed his hand.

“Well, I should certainly hope so.” He pressed her hand between both of his. “Think you can manage some sleep now?”

She nodded slightly. “I think so, maybe. I’ll try at least. I’m so grateful you came, Varric. Thank you.”

“They still let you walk around the Gallows courtyard a couple times a week? Out where the vendor stalls are?”

“Of course. I get plenty of books from there. Well, besides the ones Isabela sends, that is.”

“The less I think about you reading books Isabela gives you, the happier I’ll be,” he retorted with a smile. “All right. Let’s see if we can’t run into you out there more often. Every Tuesday, at least.”

“I’d like that very much.” She beamed. “They watch us when we’re out there, of course, so I probably won’t be able to touch you or talk to any of you very long, but I can see you. That will be enough.”

He scowled, briefly. “It shouldn’t have to be enough, but we’ll make do. And I’ll make sure you get that memento of your mother. Come on… I don’t want to leave but I guess I’d better.”

She sighed. “Yes, probably. I don’t want you to go either, but I’m just glad you were able to come at all. I don’t think anyone else would have let you.” She threw her arms around him in a tight embrace.

“It’s gonna be okay, Sunshine. As okay as I can make it, anyway,” he promised. “Your mother was proud of you and she loved you a lot; hold onto that.”

“I will,” she said as she rested her chin on his shoulder, hating that she had to let go. But she did, pulling away and briefly resting her hand on his cheek. “I’ll… I’ll see you later, then.”

“That’s my girl. Go on.” Varric kept his face pleasantly neutral until she was out of sight, then he glanced at Cullen. “I appreciate this.”

Cullen nodded slightly. “I know it wasn’t much, but if it helped even a little…”

There was a pause. “Look,” said Varric finally, “I don’t know what your deal is, what it is that you’d want. I’ll pay; name your price. But by all that’s holy, make sure nothing happens to that girl. Her sister couldn’t stand it.” More quietly, he added, “Neither could I.”

The Templar’s eyes widened and after a beat, he quickly shook his head. “I don’t want anything. I don’t… it’s fine,” he said hastily. “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure she’s all right. I’ll look out for her. You have my word, if that’s worth anything.”

“It wouldn’t be, from most of the other Templars I’ve met.” Varric pondered that. “But from you I think it actually might mean something. I’m not asking you to give her special treatment - I’m not stupid - I just need to know she’s all right. She and the dog are all Hawke has now, not counting that useless uncle in Lowtown. And they’re all I have.”

“I understand. I’ll look out for her,” he repeated. “And if I can arrange things like this again...” He gestured to the courtyard to indicate the meeting that had just taken place. “Well, I’ll certainly try to do so.”

“Thanks. Hopefully it won’t be so urgently needed.” Varric sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll let you get back to your post. I know you said you don’t want anything, but… you ever drop in at the Hanged Man, give my name to the barman.”

A tiny surprised smile crawled across Cullen’s features. “Thank you. I appreciate that. And… please give my sympathies to Hawke.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.”

[trulycertain]

The WIP Post

Here, have some teasers/extracts from things I’m working on. All Shield Raised this time round. But when people ask, “Just how many ridiculous AUs do you have for these two?” I sort of have to answer.

Reprise (7/9)

“How did this happen?” Dorian’s all but snarling, and the troops are watching him, wide-eyed. He realises too late that there’s a smell of ozone in the air. He touches his hair and feels it rising under his fingers; he pushes it back, into some semblance of order, and gets himself under control. Kaffas. He hasn’t had this issue for years, since… he doesn’t know when.

(Since he watched Gal dying, thrashing before his eyes in that hideous green, and the magic came from him in desperate waves, the Veil tearing under his fingers as he tried to do something, anything.)

He continues his pacing, because movement, movement is something he can do with all this energy, and if he stops and thinks he might set someone on fire. “There were troops. There were mages. So tell me, how did this happen?” The anger is receding, and it sounds too much like a plea.

Josephine swallows and looks over her notes again, spreading the pieces of parchment across the war table. “There were…”

The door opens, and then Marius staggers and half-falls through. Dorian catches him just in time. Blood is seeping from a wound on his forehead, and his eyes are glazed. “We found more Venatori than we’d accounted for. We couldn’t…”

“You need to get that looked at,” Dorian says, as Josephine watches them with well-hidden worry. He tries not to remember another Tevene reject marching into a war room to stares and confusion, years ago. It’s times like these he misses Cullen. “How many more?” When there’s no response, the man just staring at the war table, Dorian presses, “Try not to faint on me. How many, Marius?”

“They carried him away before we could… Kaffas. Canavara, esta Venatori - ”

Dorian looks to Josephine and can tell she understands, or at least gets the gist. Not that there’s much to get; Marius is babbling.

She says gently, “And the rest of you?” She’s gentler than Dorian would have been. Asking bluntly, How many dead? probably wouldn’t inspire confidence.

“They still have the others. They said they would use them for.. for a blood ritual. They were in… Kaffas, they were in cages.”

“Were they planning to transport them?” Dorian demands.

“Not then. Perhaps later, they didn’t say...” Marius rubs at his forehead, and his hands come away bloody. “I’m sorry, I...” He lapses into silence, listing slightly.

“Josephine, can you...” Dorian starts.

“I will find him something to eat,” she says. “He appears to be in shock.”

“Thank you.” He hands over the shivering, bloody mage, who Josephine manages to support admirably, the way she does most things. Then he reaches out and feels the Veil: better-reinforced since Gal’s efforts, but it’s still little effort to reach through. He has enough mana. He can -

“You must send troops. Surely you can stay here.”

He looks sharply back to Josephine, who’s managing to project worried concern at him even with Marius listing against her. Am I that obvious? he wants to ask.

“You have a certain expression when you are planning,” she says, in answer to his unvoiced question. “But you must remain here, to - “

“No.” He doesn’t patronise her by starting an argument; they’re both better than that. His voice is quiet, but it is firm. “I sat here comfortably and sent troops, and this happened. Those are my people, my… Our soldiers and the Inquisitor – former Inquisitor, as if it bloody matters – are captive in Maker-knows-what conditions. I’m not about to sit and do paperwork when I should be...” He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, because he can’t stand to look at all that sensible concern. “I should have been there.”

depth over distance

Gal doesn’t run. It’s fleeing and he won’t pretend, but he doesn’t run. 

He doesn’t know how he finds himself there, but somewhere along the way Ostwick stone turns to sand, dipping beneath his boots. It’s been… three years. More. Must be. But his feet carry him until he’s standing, looking out at the ocean and feeling the breeze against his face.

He closes his eyes. Thinks of his mother’s words and her pale face and They’ll laugh at you, they’ll drag your name through the mud...

No. He blinks against the sun in his eyes. He’d forgotten how warm it was here, after months in Ferelden and in the Frostbacks. The sea is here in front of him but vast, a blue ribbon to the horizon. Calm and bright, sparkling in the sun, like it was when he was twelve and it looked like the world, and twenty and it was the only place his parents couldn’t find him, and now, when it’s...

Home’s a fortress and a warm voice in his ear and cursing in Tevene at dropped books. Home’s salt and the wind in his hair and knowing he hasn’t given in yet, and it has been for years.

The boots are the first to go. He steps out of them, and then throws aside the socks, too, keeps walking. The sand’s warm between his toes. Then he throws aside his hairtie and the stiff tabard; the things he only wears for court, that he used to wear for his mother’s bloody parties. (My son turned quickly to my guest. It always does, in the end.)

Sand turns to sea, water lapping at his feet. He keeps going, tosses aside his shirt. He should do something about the breeches, or at least care; once he would have.

Please tell me there are tales of skinny dipping, he remembers Dorian saying, grinning fiendishly, and he’d responded sheepishly, Maybe a few. He’d said, I miss the sea. Ostwick’s coastal. Always made me feel better being near it, like that explained it. Like that was even half of it.

It’s been hot recently – Ostwick often is, this time of year – but the water’s still bracing. He inhales and keeps going. The cold’s almost enough -

My own son, and I passed you on like chattel.

Almost enough.

He remembers being twenty-one and being told he was going to marry one of the de Launcets, and this time he wouldn’t escape it. They’d already found him when he’d run from the Chantry. He remembers wading in and thinking he could just keep walking. Not come back. Quiet and simple. He remembers going back and ending up with another tattoo because at least the pain was a decent distraction and it reminded him he was… well. He absentmindedly touches the design on his hip, runs his hands over waves of ink, then shoves them back into the sea and keeps wading.

He left you, Galahad. He’s probably already found someone new.

He left you.

When the water reaches his chest, he holds his breath and ducks under –

And then there’s only the cold on his face and the roar of water in his ears and the shock in his system. It drowns everything else out, and it’s…

Enough.

He surfaces, gasping and then grinning at the sky like he’s Fade-touched, pushing soaking hair out of his face and blinking at the sun.

Sodding cold, he remembers some nobles’ son hissing, shivering, and he’d just grinned and replied, Tells you you’re alive.

You mad bastard, Dorian had said, the time Gal dived in at the Storm Coast – but he’d been grinning, and he’d added, Have you ever had a spell-warm towel, by the way? I’ll be here when you want to shiver your way back onto shore, amatus.

Gal stands there, looking at the Waking Sea. Vast and bigger than any of this, but… He’s been through the Fade and through half of Thedas. A sea’s not so far. Two months isn’t that long.  He looks out to the horizon – not like he’ll see Tevinter, but he closes his eyes and knows there’s a tired mage on another coast thinking of him. It’s enough.

He thinks of the nearly-last thing he said to his mother, the thing that made them both stop and stare. Never something he thought he’d want, but… there’s a lot about him that’s changed. Maybe this one’s Dorian’s fault too. He tilts his head, considers it, and then throws himself back into the water. Might as well swim, now he’s here.

that not-actually-a-villain AU

He remembers Josephine’s words. You must be careful, Galahad. We know the lord is Venatori, and his asking to meet with you is surely a trap.

He’d shrugged. I ought to go. It worked out well last time I walked into one.

He remembers that twisted Redcliffe. The song all around him and the sky torn open. Red lyrium tang on the tongue. Leliana dying with the Chant half-said. Being certain he’d be next. And then the strange rift that pulled him into the present, left him gasping and bloody on a stone floor but alive enough to defeat Alexius.

He’s shown into a study. A fire and a few candles cast low light, and shadows flicker on the walls. Past the couches, a desk is littered with papers - he sees strange symbols and equations, and one looks like it’s… something about reversing temporal flow? But that’s impossible. He squints at it. Looks again. It almost seems like…

“That one took me three days to solve. Impressive, isn’t it?”

He tries not to show his surprise, and probably fails. He glances behind him and can’t stop himself from saying, “You’re manipulating rifts.”

“In a minor way, yes. Nothing compared to what you can do, but then I have less to work with. My pathway to the Fade isn’t nearly so direct.” The Tevinter sits on one of the couches, gestures to the other. “Please, rest your legs. Marching here to kill me must have been exhausting.”

Fuck.

Gal makes his way to the couch and lowers himself onto it, looking around. The servants have gone, and it looks like they’re alone, though if he believes that then he really is the Herald of Andraste. He looks at the man who’s called him here, and he admits, he’s surprised. He’d expected some grey, hook-nosed magister with spiked robes and armed guards. Instead he’s sitting opposite a man who can’t be older than him by much, if anything, who’s wearing simple battlemage leathers. Not that it matters.

He tries to find the words. “Why would I be here to kill you?”

The Tevinter - Pavus, that was it - smiles. “Because I’m Venatori, of course.” He lifts a decanter. “Brandy?”

that weird time travel thing

Dorian is nineteen, and the world has just ended. It’s his own fault, of course. He misread the signals, and he made a foolish, stupid attempt... He just hadn’t expected to be rejected so thoroughly. Or publicly. He didn’t especially appreciate the split lip, either. He supposes he’d given Saul more credit.

It might have been salvageable if the bastard hadn’t gone to his father. He could have dealt with anything but the look of disappointed horror. I will deal with him, Father had said. And then there had been the talk about this being a phase, and discretion, and the family name - it’s always the family name, as if a house that has lasted through generations and Blights and the Magisterium’s disapproval will be destroyed by a bit of buggery. Shouting is easy enough to grow deaf to, but the quiet disappointment, the resignation, they’re more difficult to deal with.

His father, for all his neat words about phases and being too young to know what you want, Dorian, is beginning to realise. This isn’t something to grow out of and cast aside; he will always be this, and there will never be a woman, an exception to marry and have miserable but acceptable heirs with. And it’s the bloody shame in his father’s eyes. All the prizes, all the spells... It’ll never be enough, because his son is this, and it disgusts him.

He could take family friends’ scorn if it came to it, he could even take the rejections and the blows - but his father seeing the truth of who he is and turning away from him? A different matter entirely.

And so he’s here, sitting in the darkness of his room, wondering if there’s anything decent to drink. Likely a pointless consideration, because his father will no doubt have locked it away. He’s about to head for the study - his father will have left already, probably to apologise to the Valerius family for the attempted besmirching of their son’s honour - when there is a flash, a clatter.

He steps back, quietly reaching for the staff he’s propped against the bookcase, and he has a grip on it when the smoke clears.

In his room is... a man, apparently, sprawled inelegantly across the floor. Big, looking like any other soldier, except for the long hair that can’t be regulation, the lack of one arm and the unfamiliar armour. The stranger coughs, attempting to climb to his feet, before looking up. And then freezes.

There’s something about his eyes... Dorian doesn’t know why a shiver runs up his spine, or why he lowers his staff. He tries to keep his voice level, calm, as he says, “Is there a reason you’re ruining the carpets?”

Knight Shop daftness

“So. Modern History.”

The sound of hammering stops. There are steps, and then Gal’s leaning around the door, and those startlingly blue eyes are squinting at him. “Who told you?”

“Your professor, actually. I’d forgotten how much of a bore Wilhelm can be when he starts on the brandy.” He sees the inevitable wariness and says, “No, it wasn’t intentional, yes, it was a coincidence. I hadn’t expected you to come up in conversation.” He sighs. “Here I’d hoped for something more… medieval. The disappointment is crushing, you know.”

Gal’s eyes narrow further. “You’ll live. Give me back that tape measure.”

He complies with a raised brow, playing at hardship.

Gal hesitates, exhaling. “I do quite like the medieval era,” he says, as he heads back into the room. “I just wanted something more… relevant. Considered Political Science.”

“Was there a reason for this sudden interest in academia? Most people start before twenty-nine.”

“I wanted to do it myself.” Gal looks intent on his measuring, but it must be an act. He also seems to be thinking over his words carefully before he speaks, as if seeking to be diplomatic. “Had a few jobs. My parents weren’t impressed.”

“Were they the sort who wanted to shuffle you straight off to Oxbridge?”

A low noise that might be a snort. “There’s that. But Trevelyans don’t work. Not unless they’re surgeons, or barristers.”

…Ah. He can’t help himself. He moves closer and takes a seat on the bed, wondering why he feels like a visitor in what’s meant to be his room. “I didn’t know you were one of that clan.”

Definitely a snort, sharp and without humour. “Most people don’t.”

[valerie-royeaux]

Rainbow

Blood & Dust - Chapter 5

Junia and John arrive in Kirkwall and make a stop to meet Junia's mothers. As John goes to bed and Junia joins Lucia and Mara for a late night family moment, she learns that the plans the Maker has for her are the opposite of what she thought.

Word count: 3,979 Read it on AO3, or continue below

Previous chapters: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

John was a religious man, but for some reason the statues of Andraste’s trials and all the saints, when in large numbers, surrounded by those many candles, bothered him. Luckily, he was not there. Junia was alone with her moms, as she liked to call the elderly couple sharing the lavish room with her. The windows were ample and would oversee the monastery's orchard if it was daytime. Right now, the sheer size of that garden could only be inferred by the numerous light sconces that were lit in Kirkwall’s warm spring night. If John was there, he would also be able to infer Lucia’s importance: the two broad oak shelves were filled with rolls of documents, more than one could count. On the opposite side of the ample room, the marble oratory with the many saints, Andrastes and candles. A broad desk next to the oratory was illuminated by another plethora of candles, but the women were on the opposite side, by the window: the humans sat next to each other on a comfortable chesterfield; although describing it as “next to” doesn’t do it justice.

Their closeness lifted Junia’s soul, reflecting in the way they rested what went on inside their hearts. This was likely her favorite place in the world: she was lying down in a comfortable white carpet made of thick, fluffy fur, that felt like laying on a giant cat. Her legs and bare feet rested idly, and her arms were folded under her chestnut waves. A simple cotton dress, shapeless, revealed the shape of her belly and breasts. And the large brown eyes rejoiced at the sight of the elderly couple: Mara was smaller than Lucia by a full foot, with long white hair kept in a careful braid, its tip nonchalantly twisted by Lucia’s fingers. She had small dark eyes, starting to hide behind the corner of her lids. And even with a quite lithe build, she was sitting on Lucia’s lap, both arms lazily clasped around her lover and hands resting on the other woman’s far shoulder. Lucia’s hair hadn’t been completely taken by the white. It fought the pale blonde in thin strokes to her shoulder line. Her features were stronger and chiseled, although eased by pink cheeks carefully crafted in the rich diet of the cloister. Her eyes were as dark as Mara’s, and fired with a passion that did not seem to reflect the familial moment they were having. The ease with which they reposed on each other showed clearly that the many wrinkles on their faces were younger than their love. The couple wore the same simple cotton dress as Junia, which was also a ritual: a late night relaxing family time, in simple night gown.

“I still have to say I am surprised to see you with that man, Junina .” Mara said in her calm, almost inaudible tone. Her voice was sweet and her words elongated, lasting just enough to please whoever was listening to it. “I never thought you were the kind to fall for knights.”

“But he is not any knight, my love”, Lucia, too loud for that quiet room, intervened, and slapped Mara’s cheek with the tip of Mara’s own braid and a quick peck. “I had the chance to talk to the gentleman, and I liked what I saw. Junina found this new brand of knights that have read too many tales for their own good, and lived a life too soft to harden them. You can say by how good his Orlesian is. I wish you had the chance to talk to him, my life.”

“He is not soft, Lucia.” It was Junia’s time to intervene. One listening would not be able to tell she was not a native of Chiesaforte . She spoke the language of Kirkwall without any trace of an accent. Only traces of a lingering smile that at first had her cheeks aching, and now, two weeks after her first night with John, gave her words a sweet, docile flow neither of the humans saw before. “He’s seen death. You should have seen how he dealt with the sodders that were hunting him. And he’s been to other battles before. He told me he always rode in any campaign his father led.”

“He is a knight of tournaments.” Mara said with increasing disdain seeping from the musical flow of her soft words. “He is a knight of brave displays of nothing, and fighting because nobles have to do something in times of peace.”

Mara’s words reflected much of Junia’s own views, and she felt the sting pierce and let leak some of the comfort which had been filling her up  in these past two weeks since they left the Deep Roads. She did not offer a reply; that came from Lucia instead. “This is irrelevant, my life. It doesn’t matter whether or not he is green as a wand, or a seasoned warrior. Junina is clearly happy and infatuated with the gentleman. We haven’t seen her this way since… All Merciful Andraste, we have never seen our Junina in love!”

Junia blushed and brought her barely naked shoulders closer to her face in a way that would have John spinning. But alas, he was not there to see any of that. And Mara sang to that silly little smile on the dwarf’s full lips. “That is indeed true, my heart.” She paused for yet another quick peck to Lucia’s lips. Junia could never have enough of watching them unleash their affection. Which was completely absent outside of those walls. “You do seem very happy, Junina. Lulu is right, we have never seen you like that. And it helps that the young man is wealthy, no?”

“That’s not it”, Junia was quick to add, sitting forward in a quick movement. She held her soles pressed together with her hands, and rocked back and forth ever so slightly, taking the time to organize the thoughts in her head. Thoughts she had been trying to avoid and ignore since the moment she noticed she had feelings for John. Thoughts which had grown to silence her for a time Lucia and Mara respected. “He says I can be one of the members of his… How is the word again? Menee… Meenee…

“Mesnie”, Mara completed softly.

“Yes, this. Well, a group of warriors sworn to his service. He still doesn’t have one, but he says he will start one when we arrive. He has a good friend, this sodder called Roland, who would like to join.”

“Not warriors, dear,” Mara intervened again. “Knights.”

“I know!” Junia expelled, looking up straight at her mothers with defensive wide eyes. “But he says he will knight me. We just need to get there, and get the blessing from this mother Malol woman.”

Lucia frowned, still petting Mara’s braid tip in her hands. Some silence elapsed, as these reactions were not common for Junia. “My dear daughter, why do you try so hard? You don’t have to do this for wealth. You don’t even need to thieve for coin, Junina. Mara and I can --”

“No!” Junia’s tone rose as her brows furrowed even deeper. “I already told you both, I will not live off of Mara’s husband coin. And I will never be poor again.”

Mara would never raise her voice. Instead, her words became longer, slithered past Junia’s guard to brush at her bare core. The loudest one would hear from Mara would be either a giggle or a sob. And this was none. “And will you be this gentleman’s concubine instead?”

The unsaid reverberated through the quiet. Junia even murmured “I will be his knight”, but Mara’s words rang true, and Junia’s voice did not rise above the silence. Mara stood from Lucia’s lap, not before holding the other woman’s face in both her hands and leaving a soft, slow kiss in her wake. She groaned slightly as she knelt in front of Junia, caressing her daughter’s locks with lazy, long fingers. “This is not wrong, Junina. As it would not be wrong for you to accept the money I have through my husband. You would not need to be with your… Other questionable company, either. The Maker made you for loving, my dear, dear daughter. Your lips are for kissing, your voice for singing. These beautiful hands…”

Lucia watched it all, amazed at how Mara’s kind smile persevered through their daughter’s turmoil. Her own face was contorted in pity, and her eyes full of water. She much rather preferred when Junia’s soul was light and feathery, and love sublimated all around her. Now… Unfortunately, and to a point that it crushed Lucia’s heart, she was the usual beautiful dwarf, crushed by the weight of being exactly that: an outcast, both among her kin and her faith.

“He told me he would…” Junia hesitated, and raised her large dark eyes to Mara, made shiny by tears unshed. “...He would make me honest, mom. He did say that. And I punched him in the shoulder and told him to go fuck himself. Yesterday.”

Mara shook her head and brought Junia to herself in a tight embrace. She caressed her daughter’s chestnut locks and dropped little careful kisses on the top of her head. “These knights of peace say a lot of things, Junina. They rarely can act on it. Even if they really mean it at the moment they say it. The word of a tournament knight is a rainbow. Colorful and beautiful, but distant, and never attainable.”

Lucia shook her head, with a voice tenfold more potent than Mara’s. “This one may be different, my life. You didn’t speak to him, I did. He is not any knight, he is a second son of a high baron, with a twin sister, and no pressures for sitting his father’s throne. Giovanni Cousland is a good man, I am a good judge of character, I’ll--”

In an instant Mara had her small black eyes widened and inches from Lucia’s. Even Junia broke out of her gloom at the sudden and quick movement of her smaller mom. “What is the gentleman’s name, you say?” Lucia started with “Giovanni. No, not Giovanni, he says it John, but--” She stopped speaking as Mara stepped away, covering her mouth with both hands and shaking her head as vigorously as she was capable, which was really slow. “Andraste all merciful mother of souls who weighs our sins and finds us pure!..”, she exclaimed under her breath.

“Mara, what is it?” Junia inquired, springing to her feet, exchanging puzzled eyes with Lucia.

“The fleet Master brought my husband the news this morning. Highever was taken by assault. The Couslands were killed. No hostage made. Their fleet is scattered and being chased in the sea.”

---

Junia did not need light to traverse the alleyways of La Città Bassa , mostly because her dwarven eyes could deal with the almost total darkness of empty paths that would be mostly crowded under sunlight. It was the middle of the night, and no stars shone in what would be a clouded sky. She knew she would be able to see any sodder before they could see her, elves included. Elves can see far away and hear like dogs, but the darkness belongs to the Carta. And she knew she would be able to deal with any duster who came her way, especially after Behrat took over. No one in the Carta messes with someone working directly for him. And in case they changed their minds, she had her daggers ready under her cloak. Junia was back in breeches, boots, shirt and leather jerkin, with no time to waste.

The last two weeks had been… Heavenly. She had convinced herself that the Maker had sent John as a reward for her bravery, for trusting the closed body He had given her, for spreading His testimony in blood. Raska , he was even a man, the first one who had managed to hold her interest for more than a day ever since she knew what feeling attracted meant. And he was faithful, ready to share and embrace Lucia’s theology of love. No, she still hadn't told him she was with the Carta, and wouldn’t have to! She would become a knight of Highever and… She wiped tears with the back of a clenched fist at the possibility of marriage. They already knew each other as man and woman, and the weeks together only made them yearn for more. Those were his words spilling through her mind, but she felt like they were becoming just like her moms! Like she always wanted to be.

But no, she got it all wrong. Is was she who had been sent by the Maker to save him. To rescue him from captors, twice. Why did she think the Maker would act through men? Junia halted her pace, in between two tall walls somewhere in Lowtown’s mazes. She looked around her with fear in her eyes. Slowly Junia registered the dirt, the trash, the cracks and stench in which she treaded. Light caught her gaze, and she followed it, to find the many candles and sconces of Hightown shining above that garden of filth which was Lowtown. If the Couslands had been wiped out, John was destitute. She had been sent to rescue him, not the other way around. She would not become a knight, she would still be a thief and a lyrium smuggler, or else… Or else she would be poor again!

A pang somewhere in the middle of her chest stiffened her. Holy Maker , she thought to herself, with a weird mix of dread and relief. She touched that throbbing pulse in between her breasts and pursed her thick lips in a smile which would be worthy of candid Mara. Junia knew what was going on, and she wasn’t nearly close to know how to deal with it. But she was sure of what to do now . And leaving John to fend for himself was not it.

Her quick steps soon brought her to the poorly lit areas of the harbour. There was no such thing as nighttime in there, and numerous lanterns illuminated the as numerous taverns and watering holes of the wharf. Coterie thugs controlled the area, but this was one of the few parts of Kirkwall where competing factions would lay down their differences and allow business, their own, that is, to flow. At least, while sober heads were in charge. When inebriated minds prevailed, the Coterie would step in to make sure things would flow back to normal. That did not mean anyone would be able to just walk in, but Junia’s face was known, and the only objection she faced was a few nods from sodders who were there to keep the order.

She slid in a pisshole where she knew she could find a few useful contacts. Actually, if things were bad in Highever, it was very likely this is where the smugglers running that ring would have ran too. And she wasn’t wrong. The place, which was not large to start with, was crawling with people, and the heat inside was unbearable. The stench of sweat of different races, bad spirits, and burned food should make it all very familiar to the same dwarf who felt at home at the clean, scented, lavish room where she had been with her moms moments before. But Junia was not comfortable in that place, even if she felt safe and in her element. Realizing this wouldn’t have bothered her before Mara’s revelation. But now, she could not allow herself to grow out of her trade.

“Salroka!” Came the shout before she could recognize anyone, most taller than her, in the midst of the hovering smoke. Junia turned to see a familiar, goofy, dwarven face, of Behlen’s Nose. She didn’t know his name, but Junia never really bothered to ask. “How’s Trian’s Nose, salroka?” They found an empty spot by the counter and talked a bit, amidst all the ruckus, about Behlen’s Nose’s brother. In the end, she did not need to even ask about Highever. “You shoulda seen that, Junia. Out of nothing, sodders from Amaranthine, everywhere.” And they went on talking - Behlen’s Nose, mostly. Junia was focused on not letting the news of the attack of Amaranthine show too much through her, at the same time she judged her own self for caring so much. Piss ale was brought, and Behlen’s Nose kept talking. Junia kept listening.

In the end, there were two good things Junia learned: Highever had been war ready, and Amaranthine seized the opportunity that their army had marched south to deal with Darkspawn. That made sense, the Deep Roads under Ferelden had been impossible to deal with lately. It was logical that they would at one point pour on the surface. And as they had been ready for deployment most of Highever’s fleet was able to escape before Amaranthine’s could blockade it. They made it to the Storm Coast, but they had no leader. The boats were still not in Amaranthine’s hands - but soon would be, as the invading fleet was ready to sail there - as soon as the Storm Coast’s weather did not make true to its name. But the teyrn, the teyrna, and everyone else in the Castle were murdered. No hostages taken.

“We’re heading to Orzammar in the morrow. We’ve a ship set up. We bound to Jader, aye? And go from there? We cants go through north Ferelden, the whole thing is a mess in ‘ere.” Junia was listening, and appalled that she did not want to go to Orzammar with Behlen’s Nose. She knew, though, she needed an excuse for this. It was common knowledge among the Carta that she went to pick something for Behrat - even if most people didn’t know exactly what.

“I might try my chances through Ferelden, salroka. Lots of good plunder to be had in war times. People just leave things behind. I may even get some merchandise back I sold to templars there not long ago.” Behlen’s Nose seemed to have bought into it, as he cracked a laugh, raised a glass, and said Junia would be Behrat’s second in no time, and then he would have her killed, because Behrat doesn’t trust seconds. Well. Maybe he trusts she-seconds, since Jarvia had been with him for a while now. “And ye wouldnst be able to provide ‘im with the same loyalty she provides, eh, salroka? Unless ye provide somes loyalty to her instead!” More laughter, and Junia was glad he had started drinking earlier, and was already past the point of being able to remember much. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember her?

She was about to stand and leave when Behlen’s Nose held her wrist and pulled her closer, in that awful need drunkards have for speaking way too close. “And I’ll tell ye what! But just for ya, because I really, really like ya, way more than I like Jarvia, I’ll tell ya. They’re expecting one of them Highevers to come through ‘ere, aye? Says he looks Fereldan, with a long ginger beard. Shouldn’t be hard to spot. Five, I says, five sovereigns on the sodder’s head, Junia! Donts even have to be alive, aye? If ye’re staying here, could be a good catch for ya. If ya catch him, gimme me some coins, will ya? Of the golden ones? Whole coterie is aware, though. Might be too many cooks for this broth, aye?”

---

Junia felt her whole body ache, as if she had taken the longest track of her life. Her feet throbbed with pain, her neck was stiff, and her legs felt like they had given up on trying to make up for their lack of length. Still, she tried her best not to make too much noise as she walked in the small yet comfortable room. Outside, through the crack of the window, an orange line crisscrossed the sky, dividing it in dark and light shades of blue. She rested her dark eyes on the sleeping man on the bed. She had to giggle. His dick was stiffer than her neck. It was so weird that men had hard-ons early in the morning, even if they had recently… She had started to bend to remove her pants and, coincidentally, felt his seed ooze from her. Junia was still getting used to it, specially after the past two weeks. John loved cumming inside. And he did so almost every night since their first time. It pleased her to see him that happy, and she was actually adjusting to the new… ritual of sharing a bed with a man every night. Not that particular night, though.

She had intended to spend this night with him as well. The plan was to have the late nighter with her moms, and come to him after that. Not spending the night surrounded by the scum of Kirkwall. Yet, he slept through like an angel, unaware of what she knew, of the news she would need to break to him as soon as he woke up. She would need to be the one to tell him those. And was she damned if she intended to explain to him how she learned the details Mara was not able to provide. She didn’t want to be with the Carta any longer. She was going to be John’s knight, and maybe even… The pang on her chest again. The Maker makes do with no fools. She would never tell him about the Carta. Never. She sniffed a couple of times, sniffed under her armpits, and shook her head.

By the time she came back to the bed, the sky was light blue outside. The clouds had cleared up, and Junia was back to her simple gown, ready to strip and go to bed, dark hair wet, and eyes as well. She had too much to tell John, and nothing she wanted to. Like a good person, a person with nothing to hide, a knight of tournaments, he shifted in bed and opened his eyes as soon as he felt the light of day and Junia’s knee touching the bed. He was not like the bad ones, who are going to sleep now. His hard-on was still there, she noted.

“Oh, it’s morning. Good morning, my love.” He paused in a curious and sleepy smile, scratching the back of his messy hair “You smell good. Did you just wash yourself?”

He had started calling her “love” a few days ago. Just like Mara and Lucia, before her moms started using more clever pet names. She liked the whole pet name game. “Good morning, Johnny”.

John moved to get out of bed, but Junia held him down. “I woke up awhile ago, but…” John was looking at her, and - Oh, Maker - he knew nothing of what she was holding on. He started to note how her expression was shifting into despair, but Junia held it together and pursed her whole face into a gentle smile, and before it could get undone, she held his face between her hands and dropped a gentle, long kiss on his lips. “This is the closest I have to home. I would like to linger a tad more. Hm? Would you mind coming back to to bed?”

“Sure thing, love. I just need to take a piss.”

She recomposed herself as she waited. Noticing his hard-on was gone when he returned helped her with it, as she giggled sheepishly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. Come here, Johnny”. They embraced, and soon both were asleep. Junia welcomed the slumber that gave her respite from carrying all the things she didn’t want John to ever come to know. Hopefully all would be solved when they woke up.

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

The worst part about having two Inquisitors is that they should be able to split them up, get twice as much done! Especially with nine party members they have more than enough people, but no, no, they refuse to split up and honestly they need constant supervision anyway.

You know in a modern AU they're just like "DON'T SPLIT THE PARTY" "You know what happens in horror movies when you split up!" and Cassandra makes a [disgusted noise]

But you know seriously that for the first several weeks, they were impossible to split up. They tell Cassandra and Leliana that they met each other at the Conclave, but Cassandra doesn’t see how that’s possible. What do a Trevelyan and a Dalish elf have in common to draw them together in such a short time? - But if they had known each other before, then how would they have met? They are still from very different walks of life.

- Similar enough, both young, maybe mid-twenties, and both clearly terrified. They have not strayed more than two feet apart from one another. The elf girl is lighter on her feet than the human boy, but as she nimbly picks her way up the snowy hills she stops each time and waits for him to catch up to her.

She did not let either of them lay hand to a weapon, and she thinks she may regret that when they tumble down to an icy expanse filled with demons. "Get behind me!" she shouts, raising her shield, praying that they will get to cover as she strikes. The demons fall, one by one, but one must have gone around her, as she hears Trevelyan yell. She turns in time to see him pulling a sword loose from the wreckage of a cart, but the elf has already bounded across the ice, past him, pushing him away so that she stands between him and the demon. From her hands she forms a giant fireball and she throws it. It explodes on the ice in front of the demon and the creature shrieks as the flames batter it. She waves a hand and they rise higher, and the second one she tosses catches the demon squarely, and when the flames pull apart, the demon does too, in a howling mass of blood and guts.

Oh, Cassandra thinks, far too belatedly for the fact that she already has her shield up again, between her and the survivors, this time, not the demons. A mage. She's a mage.

-

Chancellor Roderick glares at them with all of the force he can muster. “Murderers!” he snarls, and they stand there huddled together like two druffalo trying to shield each other from the wind. “Heathen -”

Trevelyan shifts forward slightly, as though to shield Esti from the accusations. (If she had a surname, or a clan name, she hasn’t given it.) He stares the chancellor down, the way Etsti stood between him and the demon, and finally with pressure from Leliana and Cassandra, he yields and lets them pass, still spitting curses after them though he does.

-

Brennan wakes first, confused for a while as to where this warm house with these warm quilts is, but he finds a scribbled note from a healer mentioning the Breach and the mark and everything comes rushing back. He dresses in clothes to leave but instead sits back down on his bed, reading and rereading the paper in his hands, trying to ignore the twinge in his left palm. Esti is just sitting up, blinking at the bright light filtering in through the windows, when an elven serving girl enters, squeaks, and rushes away as soon as she can, no matter how Esti tries to hurry after her, “Wait, there’s no reason to be afraid of me! Why are you-”

She stands there in the middle of the room in her undershirt and leggings and Brennan glances away, but she doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the issue of modesty - much less bothered than the many other matters plaguing them. He searches the room again for anything he can lay hands on as a weapon but finds nothing. He remembers demons buckling under flames that Esti summoned in her hands, no staff required. They’ll be fine, he thinks, and Esti looks at him as she pulls on her gloves. “Should we go find the chantry?” she asks.

"I don't want to make" - what is her name? - "Cassandra angry."

Esti's lips twitch into a smile. "I suppose I don't either."

He pushes the door open and stops dead. A crowd has gathered alongside the house, forming a gauntlet along the path that they will have to walk. They explode in a cacophony of noise and for a horrible paralyzing moment he is in Ostwick, in the Circle, a crowd of Templars gathered to lay a verdict on his head and throw him out; in the estate, in court, and dozens of eyes turning to him, again and again and never for a good reason. He can catch halves of phrases: "-that them?" "-closed the-" "-the Breach-" "-the Breach-" "-Andraste-" "-the Fade-" "-saved us-" 

"Andraste saved them."

He blinks stupidly, not understanding. 

“They saved us.”

"They saved us!"

He hears it again and still does not understand, but Esti has straightened up, breathing out a sharp puff of air. "Come on," she says, tugging on his arm. Then she steps forward and silence falls for half a second before the chatter renews. No one tries to touch her or speak to her and Brennan follows. She walks like a noble, like royalty, until they have woven their way in between the tents, away from the crowd, and she seems to fold back into herself, shoulders and head dropping and curling down. "You walk like you know what you're doing," he says.

She laughs shakily. "It's how Keeper does, and I'm supposed to be the next Keeper." She glances back over her shoulder to where the crowd was. "I can walk like it but as soon as I have to say something profound and...leader-ly, then it all..." She drags the statement out like she's searching for a word and then she shrugs and says, "You know."

He does, he thinks - the Trevelyan's shameful son. 

-

Chancellor Roderick calls them "lying heathen murderers" again, but Cassandra chases him off with quiet fury and a confidence that Brennan admires. She and Leliana call in the other heads of their Inquisition, a former Templar - oh, this will be great, Brennan thinks, imagining that Cassandra must know his own sordid history with the Templars, and Esti a mage - and an Antivan noblelady who greets Esti in elvish. Her face lights up and Brennan tries to replay the words in his mind to learn them. He'll ask the ambassador later.

-

In the Hinterlands, it rains one day, and Esti raises a hand and the air around it shimmers and then Brennan no longer feels drops of water on his face. He looks up to see the air shimmering and rain splattering like it has hit an invisible force above their heads. "How - that's - that's magic," he says. "That's really useful." 

Esti grins. "The way the Templars in Ostwick said it, there's nothing useful like this you can do with magic, just maim and murder and they are missing out." 

He hears Solas snort quietly nearby.

The cleric, Mother Giselle, they find suggests a trip to Val Royeaux, to find the surviving Chantry clerics, and Brennan thinks that is a terrible idea. He looks at Esti. She is looking back at him. They look at Cassandra.-

The Lord Seeker punches a cleric and curses at Cassandra and Esti shrinks behind Brennan, trying to escape their notice. "I know the Lord Seeker," Cassandra says after. "He and the Seekers, and their Templars, are not like this."

Brennan looks all around, seeming confused, and Esti thinks he is looking for her and steps back up to his side. He catches her eye and then rolls his. "Sure they're not," he mutters.

-

Leliana marks on the war table map the location in the Hinterlands where a Grey Warden has been spotted. Josephine points out the Storm Coast where the mercenary company will be. "You could split up," Cullen suggests. Esti's head jerks up in alarm. She frantically shakes it as he continues on, "If Cassandra and Brennan and Solas went to the Hinterlands, and Esti and... Sera, and.... Varric..."He trails off, seeming to realize how unwise that combination would be. "If Leliana were to..."

"No," she says.

"You could," Esti says. She's heard Varric laugh about Curly. There is no way in all the abyss that Cullen would agree to a trek out to the Storm Coast with Varric.

He looks at her and she reminds herself that he is only a few years older than Brennan and she could probably kick his ass if she wanted to. She pictures him meeting Essa and any lingering fear of Templar fades into amusement. She thinks he is probably trying to decide if she is serious. "If," he says, "Cassandra and Brennan and Varric -"

"No," Cassandra says.

"You don't like our company, Seeker?" Brennan asks. Josephine holds her clipboard to her face but Esti can hear her giggle. "That hurts."

"You are both insufferable," Cassandra says, "and you make her" - she nods at Esti - "insufferable."

-

"Could we send delegations to both the rebel mages and the Templars?" Josephine asks. 

"Cassandra and several others to Therinfall Redoubt, and Esti and I and whoever to Redcliffe?" Brennan suggests.

"The Templars likely will want to negotiate with one of the Heralds," Josephine says. Esti starts to repeat her and Brennan's frequent motto of, we are not the Heralds of anyone! but what is the use. 

"So if Cassandra and..." Cullen looks at Esti. "You won't want to march into a fortress full of Templars, I'm sure." She nods. She appreciates the notice. "Brennan, Cassandra and Brennan go to Therinfall Redoubt with -"

"I, uh, don't really want to go to a fortress full of Templars, either," Brennan says. He fidgets and stares down at his hands. "I was a Templar recruit in Ostwick. And I got - thrown out of the Order." He winces as though bracing himself for an outburst. "Me and Templars don't get along very much."

Cullen sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "So neither of you are willing to negotiate with the Templars?"

"I would be plenty willing if I expected that they would be willing to work with me, but the Lord Seeker punched an old woman and told us to fuck off, in more formal terms, and I don't think they'll have suddenly changed. Or their opinion of me. If I was one of my siblings, now, maybe..."

"We're going to Redcliffe, together," Esti says, over Brennan's fumbling to find a way to end his ramble, nudging his arm with her shoulder. "Forget the Templars. We can sort them out when the Breach is closed."

-

Cullen had expectations of how the meeting with the rebel mages could go poorly. Tevinter being involved was not one of his predictions. The magister's son leaves a note in Brennan's hand, the chantry, and Esti knows instantly that it's a trap. So Brennan seems to, as well. They stare at each other and as she starts to speak, he is already saying the same words, unplanned, uncoordinated. "Spring the trap."

Brennan making doe eyes at another magister - altus, what-fuckin-ever, fenedhis, 'Vints are annoying! - is something that Cullen would also not have predicted in his nightmares. Esti wouldn't have, either. She digs her elbow into Brennan's side. "C'mon, Bren," she hisses, and when the 'Vint, Dorian, looks at Esti, she twists her mouth in a snarl. Go away, now. 

-

There is a lot that Esti could not conjure up in her worst nightmares, but she knows that she will be seeing it again in her dreams for the rest of her life. Dorian works his magic and she and Brennan stand there, waiting, and she prays to each of the Creators in turn and then Fen'Harel for good measure, I'll give you my life or my cursed hand or my soul for this to never happen, and the castle shakes around them with another onslaught of demons.

She doesn't notice herself reaching for Brennan's hand until she is squeezing it in a death grip, but he doesn't seem to mind.

-

Dorian catches her alone, once, and flashes her a grin meant to be charming and says, "You're quite possessive of him, aren't you?"

"He's my friend and I don't like you or trust you," she snaps back.

She realizes what he probably meant about two hours later and spaces out in the middle of a conversation with Solas, which is admittedly not an infrequent occurrence. It takes her until the next day to find a moment when she is not with Brennan, but Brennan is not with Dorian. "It's not like that," she says. "Did you notice how he's hanging around you? Looking at you like you're not a - a snake!"

"That's a creative insult. Being from Tevinter, I certainly have never heard that before."

"Great," she says. "I don't have more energy to spare on unique insults for a magister. I -"

"Ah, hello there, Brennan," Dorian says over her head. "How are you this fine day?"

Brennan gives each of them a quizzical look, but he answers Dorian cheerfully enough. Esti remains planted there in silence, making sure that Dorian will catch her eye every few minutes to see her glaring.

-

"What happens after?" Esti asks, stopping for a moment to lean her hands on a boulder as they climb back up to the ruins of the temple. Brennan watches the Breach and the ever-shifting shades of green within. "Can we go home?"

His heart drops. "There'll probably be rifts to close," he says. He shouldn't want this madness to last. Tell him at the start of this, the last time he stood in the Temple beneath the Breach, that he would want to stay with the Inquisition, and he would call it madness. But Ostwick is no more home than Haven - it is less home.

"But after," Esti says. She scrambles up a loose patch of dirt and turns around in the path and looks back at him. "After, we'll be able to leave, right?" She looks at Cassandra. 

"I wouldn't make plans yet," Cullen says. "Everything has a way of..."

"Destroying every hope we begin to have in our tiny mortal lives in a fit of great godly antipathy?" Esti offers.

"And people say I talk funny," Sera mutters.

"You could come meet my clan," Esti says to Brennan. "Close all the rifts along the road to Wycome and go visit them."

"They'd let me stay with them?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'd say you're okay and that'd be fine," she says, and for a few moments, his heart feels lighter. Then his hand twinges and he stares back up at the Breach. As long as this doesn't kill us.

-

It's okay, and then it isn't, and a thousand prayers to the Maker float past Brennan's ears, and right by his side, a string of curses at the Dread Wolf and the "shemlen's damned stupid gods." The chantry bells clang loudly over the crackling of the fires eating away at Haven and almost carelessly Esti tosses magically formed ice at each. They can't wait to see if it halts the spread of the flames at all, and they are down past the gates, where the Templars have regrouped, red crystals springing from their armor like that which filled Redcliffe Castle. 

Dorian nearby is cursing in Tevene, while Blackwall, Cassandra, and Solas are quiet, speaking only to call out positions of the enemy. Varric is rambling something that he can't quite make out. Brennan reaches the controls of the second catapult and he feels at his back the variant heat of flames cast and thrown, fading in and out of existence, that Esti controls. She yells something and suddenly a wall of ice stretches up over them, toward the sky. "Hurry," she gasps. "Fenedhis, Cullen's signal better come soon -"

They're going to bury themselves and the thought rises with clarity in his mind and then shatters to make way for immediate matters as the ice fractures into a thousand glistening pieces that suddenly vanish. He lashes out at a nearby Templar with a dagger. It almost seems quieter, now, before a roar shakes the ground and the catapult and Brennan's very soul inside of him. He ducks his head and Esti shrinks back against him. "What is that!" he yells.

He lifts his head and sees the dragon.

They scatter, all of them, as it spits fire to the ground. Brennan is thrown from his feet and collides with the ground hard enough that for a moment the world goes quiet but for a ringing, and it spins as he starts to sit back up. He sees the dragon, and Esti, and some giant figure, perhaps another of the huge red lyrium beasts, but no sign of any of the others. He hopes they got away. He hopes a few of them will survive.

He doesn't know of any words to describe the creature that looms up out of the smoke. It has a few red crystals breaking through its skin but bears no further resemblance to the warped terrors that may once have been Templars. It speaks, with a voice that is smoother than it has any right to be, and it speaks of the Conclave and the Breach and the rifts and the marks on their hands. In its own hand it raises an orb that glows, two jagged strings of light like lightning reaching out from it and finding their way to his marked hand, and Esti's. It feels as though something has grabbed his hand and is dragging him across the ground. He digs his feet into the dirt and tries to stop the movement, but Esti is closer to the creature and it grabs her by the arm and holds her up, dangling ten feet above the ground.

"Put her down!" Brennan yells. He finds at his side only a small dagger left on his body, but he charges the creature - Corypheus, it named itself - anyway. Before he reaches it, it flings Esti down at him and she crashes into him and bowls him over.

"The anchor is permanent," it sneers. "You two foolish children have spoiled it with your stumbling."

They both yell angry questions at him, words Brennan doesn't even remember moments after speaking them, because the creature cannot speak a straight sentence and will not deign to offer them more of an explanation than its desire to be worshiped as a god. They are desperately stalling until the bright flare of Cullen's signal scrapes the dark winter sky.

"Go," Esti whispers and they spring up. Brennan lunges for the catapult controls and Esti throws a fireball up toward Corypheus' face. The catapult unwinds, the projectile flying off toward the mountains, and Corypheus stares at it. He slowly turns his head toward them as the rumbling of the coming avalanche shakes the ground. 

"Time to go," Brennan says. He grabs Esti's arm and they run, diving for a hole in the ground as the snow swallows up the town. He hears the dragon roar.

-

"Well, shit," Brennan says. The mouth of the caverns opens into a raging snowstorm, masking the world in white and gray. The path the rest of the Inquisition took could be anywhere. 

Esti laughs and winces, wrapping her arm around her ribs. "Well," she agrees, "shit."

Brennan leans on her to take the weight off of the burning through his leg. At least he isn’t alone. If he dies, he won’t be alone. 

Carrying each other, they stumble out into the storm. 

-

"We've lost contact with some Fereldan and Inquisition soldiers in the Fallow Mire," Cullen says. "There have also been rumors of darkspawn and red templar activity on the Storm Coast. If Brennan, Blackwall, and Cassandra were to investigate, Esti can take-"

"I am not going to anywhere named the 'Fallow Mire' unless Brennan is going to come suffer along with me," Esti says.

"Thanks," Brennan says.

[dragon-tooth-collection]

for the uncommon questions: 2, 8, 32, 38, B, G and H pls? skip some if that's too many!

I answered all of them even though it took me a few days, because while lately I’ve had times where I’m too stricken with anxiety and anticipatory grief to find any words in my head, writing used to be what calmed me down and kept me sane and I don’t want to give up on it. Even if it’s just silly headcanon rambling like this. I hope I didn’t make it sound like I have too hard of a time with it for people to send me asks or whatever because that really does help cheer me up

Anyway, now it is time for Words About My Son:

[Uncommon Questions for OCs and Their Creators] - [My ask box is always open~]

2. How easy is it for your character to laugh?

It is incredibly easy. Adam's more easygoing nature seems to have made him more easily amused by... Almost anything, really. Lame puns, dirty limericks, people falling over, whatever, it'll at least get a dopey low-voiced little chuckle out of him.

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

He was always being told to stop climbing things. There was no rhyme or reason to it; he just really liked to climb. Of course sometimes I joke to myself about his middle name being "how did you even get up there" when he's an adult, too.

As a young adolescent he was told to start learning how to use a sword if he was going to be the Templar his father wanted him to be. He was too young at the time to see it as Bann Trevelyan trying to use his only child to live out his dreams of Templar-hood he didn't reach before becoming disabled, and mostly had a 'swords are cool' outlook on the whole thing. He tended to gravitate toward two-handed weapons even at that age.

32. Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke?

He's got a few of them, actually:

- The one time he and a group of his cousins were playing with an uncle's pack of hunting dogs at said uncle's estate. They'd usually be let loose in a vast courtyard to do as they pleased, and basically what happened is one cousin threw a stick into the massive decorative pool that made up the courtyard's center, and one of the dogs took off and bowled over another cousin, sending both kid and dog into the pool. This was the height of hilarity to young Adam.

- When he and, yet again, some of his mischievious cousins caught a box full of bunnies and let them loose on the stage of an Antivan opera performance (this is what I headcanon his story during Wicked Grace was about);

- And when a pair of rowdy brigands started a fistfight that somehow turned into a food fight that involved everyone in the tavern. Adam himself had tried to stay uninvolved until a wayward slice of Starkhaven fish and egg pie hit him in the face.

38. What memory do they revisit the most often?

He does a lot of thinking back to the moment the Inquisition was declared reborn. He knew next to nothing about the Inquisition of old, and had no idea what his role in it would be beyond whatever 'Herald of Andraste' meant, but he felt he was finally given the purpose in life he'd spent part of his adulthood trying to find.

It was the first time, despite growing up part of a prestigious noble family, that he felt like he was truly a part of something bigger than himself. That he could make a name for himself doing something he was proud to do, which was helping those displaced and downtrodden by the wars that had broken out across southern Thedas. He had no idea how much of a name he'd be making for himself; as far as he was concerned he was just a random nobody (despite the whole marked hand thing) who wanted to help.

also he thinks back on he and Dorian's first night together a lot

B) What inspired you to create them?

I kind of... admittedly had a nice little 'brain off' trip through DA:I's character creator and tried my best to make someone I'd find appealing visually, or the closest I could get because I've never been all that great with character creators. My original intention was for his hair to be longer, draped over a side of his face, and for him to have a bit of facial hair as well.

He was also supposed to have more of a Serious Knightly Hero Guy personality, but the beginning of the game just has way too much of a 'where am I and also wtf is happening' vibe, and I managed to forget how great Dragon Age's characters are and I wanted to be friends with everyone, so that's how Adam got to be so... Adam.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

It's actually very rare for him to show any actual seething rage, like yelling and thrashing at things; while this doesn't entirely sound like a bad thing, I myself have just been super angry at all the things the universe keeps throwing at me and Adam's Chill Dude disposition makes it hard to project these things onto him. Luckily I've got other OCs and things like that AU where Thergwen is a werewolf.

Also he's very food-motivated and can be way too easily coerced with some good food. why are you like this son.

H) What trait do you admire most?

The Inquisitor goes through a nearly insurmountable amount of bullshit throughout basically the entire game, with a world's worth of responsibility on thier shoulders. With all the bullshit I'm going through now, and family being the opposite of reassuring by constantly telling me how much responsibility I'm going to have to take on, I've come to admire Adam's ability to not give into anger or bitterness or sadness. He's not immune to these things by any means, but despite everything, he's still a relatively chill, kind dude.

When bad things happen, it lays him low for a while, but he doesn't let it break him. He might have to lean on his friends for support sometimes, but he always comes back stronger and more driven than ever. If he hits an obstacle, he'll just try to find a way to go around it, or over it, or maybe even under it I don't know it's hypothetical

He is the Mountain Goat because not even mountains will get in his way.