#“if they say anything about Inquisitor Lavellan its that he hated stairs”

[luckylolabug]

God so I started another playthrough of Inquisition after finishing Veilguard because I missed it. And somehow forgot that half of running around the Exlated Plains is me going HOW THE FUCK DO I GET OVER THERE.

I hate the ramparts. Thanks.

[feralrosie]

Lullabies at Night

Fandom: Dragon Age Relationships: M!Lavellan/Dorian Pavus Rating: General Audiences Tags: Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3

Skyhold was hardly ever quiet, even during the coldest hours of the night and, Maker, it was cold. Dorian woke up with the sound of wind escaping through the door and a chilly shiver running down on his spine. He looked for the blankets, patting the bed around him, but suddenly realized there was more missing. Sitting on the bed in a startle, he found himself alone in the Inquisitor's bed. Took a few seconds of drunken thought, but he quickly stepped out of the bed to change into proper clothing and leave the room, avoiding the looks of occasional guardsmen who were chatting in low voices. There were few torches lit at that time, so Dorian could easily sneak past them while looking around the castle—not that he needed to, but wished to avoid gossips later. Anything related to his relationship with the Inquisitor seemed to be specially tasteful for the tongues of nobles in Skyhold.

He searched everywhere and begun to really worry for his lover. Would he leave the castle all by himself? Or was he back to his bedroom? Where else could he be hiding? The mage looked around once more, standing in the middle of the central courtyard. His gaze fell on the main gate, which led to the longest bridge he'd ever seen in any old castles, and noticed that one of the escape doors was slightly open. Lifting one eyebrow, he followed that lead, taking the road on the bridge to reach the lonely tower that watched over for the rest of the castle, despite not being used by the Inquisition's forces at the moment. As he approached, he thought he heard a soft lullaby playing in distance and every new step confirmed there was indeed music playing on top of the tower. The door was open and the stone staircase was large enough for it not to be claustrophobic, so Dorian got up the tower fast and in silence. On the last level, where the stairs met the battlement's floor, he peaked through, wishing to have a look on what was happening.

His Elven lover was sitting on one of the large crenels between the even larger merlons, hugging his knees with his arms while his hands held an ocarina. He was playing the most lonely lullaby, soft and slow, echoing into the night. His golden curls were loose and seemed like dancing with the cold breeze, following the movements of the green cloak he had wrapped around his shoulders. Dorian had never noticed that cloak, but it looked old and overused, showing up a few tears here and there, but nothing that could not be fixed by skilled hands. The full moon was shining over his pale skin and hair, like his whole body was made of polished marble. It was a delightful sight.

The inquisitor did not seem to notice as the man stood a few centimeters behind him, enjoying the music. Dorian thought it felt like a song a mother would sing to her children after telling them that their father could not come back home and was watching them from the stars. His heart skipped a beat and he let the thought perish.

"I did not know you could play" he said finally in a tender voice. Elrian jumped harshly on a startle, almost letting his ocarina fall off the battlement, but the mage behind him was quick to hold it in the air, chuckling softly. "I am sorry, Amatus. I did not mean to scare you"

"Dorian!" he cried in some sort of relief "Don't creep behind me like this, I could have fallen down"

"A risk that could easily be avoided if you have stayed in bed with me" Dorian approached, leaning down to rest the weight of his body on his arms against the parapet where his lover was seated "What troubles you?" his voice was soft but still packed with concern.

The inquisitor bit his lip, looking away, "I just couldn't sleep. Had a dream and woke up"

"A nightmare? Do you wish to talk about it?"

"Not a nightmare. It was a good dream." he sighed, then continued in a low voice, trying to not sound too sad "I was back at my clan. It was summer and we were celebrating someone's birthday, dancing and feasting. My father was showing tricks to the little children, they loved his magic. And my mother was calling me and trying to put flowers on my hair." he smiled and his eyes glittered as tears came to life.

"I am sorry, Amatus" Dorian reached for the other's hand, but Elrian was quick to turn his palm up to show the glowing anchor underneath his skin.

"I hate this thing." he confessed, "And yet I'm grateful I can do some good to the world because of it. I just wish I could do more." he closed his hand on a tight fist "I wish I could have saved them"

Dorian slid his hand over the elf's wrist and made his way to hold his hand, opening his fist softly to tangle their fingers together, "Your family would be very proud of you, Elrian. Do not think otherwise. Their love did not fade away"

"I… know" he wrapped the cloak more around his body, as if trying to shrink his own size "I just miss them so much"

The Tevinter said nothing, for there was nothing else to be said. He passed his right arm around Elrian's body and held his left hand with his own, spooning him and resting his head on his lover's shoulder, kissing it softly. They stood there for a couple minutes before Dorian begun to shake a bit, still not used to the Ferelden cold.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Vhenan. Get in here" Elrian chuckled, opening the cloak and putting over Dorian's shoulders as well.

"Thank you for acknowledging my presence here" he provoked, joking, and hug the elf underneath their improvised blanket, still standing up on the battlement behind. "I've never seen you wear this one. Where did you get it?"

Elrian smiled, caressing the green fabric along the lines of golden embroidery that formed the pattern of vines. "I was wearing it at the Conclave. My mother gave it to me when I got my vallaslin and it was my only fancy piece back home. It survived that night's events pretty well, I think"  

"It is beautiful." Dorian was also appreciating the details "I take the ocarina was also with you that day?"

"It was. It was my father's. Have I ever told you about them?"

"I don't think so." he tightened the embrace "but I would love to hear"

Elrian smiled tenderly. "My mother was a hunter. She taught me how to fight and survive in the woods if I ever needed to. And my father was the Halla Keeper, First to our clan. I was the Second and therefore had to learn both from him and from our Keeper. He told me how to take care of the Hallas and how they seemed to enjoy the sound of the ocarina, so if one of them got lost I could play and let it come back on its own. I enjoyed it just as much. Once all my friends made fun of me because I spent a whole afternoon playing and by night there were dozens of Hallas around me, sleeping" he laughed to himself "They told me I was so boring that not even the animals could stay awake"

"Oh, how dare them?" Dorian laughed.

"When I turned 16, I was convinced my vallaslin would be Ghilan'nain's, the mother of Hallas" he continued "But it was Mythal's, the great protector. At the time I was reluctant and not sure if I was worth it. From that day on, my free time was consumed by extensive lectures from both my father and the Keeper, since I was bound to assume the clan's guidance someday. I think I was failing, to be honest"

"Why do you think that?"

"I was too soft and insecure. Still am, I guess. My father sent me to the Conclave so I could put all my training to test and deal with it all by myself. And when I was made Inquisitor, he sent me a letter saying he always knew I had the soul of a Keeper and was sure I could assume the responsibility. My mother also wrote this letter and said they were very proud. She also told me to be respectful but not bow my head"

"Excellent advise. In my opinion, you are following it just right." Dorian placed a few more kisses on the Inquisitor's shoulder "Sounds like they were great people, I'd loved to have met them"

"My mother would have loved you. She loved all my friends and boyfriends, as long as they took good care of me"

"And do I?" he mumbled, caressing Elrian with his lips.

"More than you can imagine" the answer came in a low and loving voice, the type that usually accompanied blushing. Dorian didn't need to look at his face to know he had colour on his cheeks.

"What about your father? Would he also have approved us?"

"You're from Tevinter, Vhenan" he chuckled as it was an obvious counterpoint.

"Oh, right" he laughed.

"But eventually he would, yes" Elrian leaned down to steal a kiss from his lover's lips "You'd always be welcome"

"That's good to know, Amatus. I mean it" he whispered against his lips "Not only were you destined to make yourself great, but you were also raised as such" he moved away so their eyes could meet "Do not doubt yourself. Your roots are stronger than you think and I trust my life to your leadership and reason. You may think you're too soft, but a passionate heart is greater than the strongest army"

"Thank you, Vhenan" the elven mage whispered back, smiling, but letting a rogue tear run down his cheek.

"Now, now, don't do that. You know I'm awful with feelings" he wiped the tear out, taking the chance to also caress Elrian's face and hair "Say, why don't we go back to your room and you play to me that boring song that makes cattle sleep? We can put it to test"

Laughing, Elrian got down of the crenel "You're a jerk"

"So I'm told. Also spectacularly handsome"  

Both of the men walked side by side, holding hands in the most soft manner, whispering jokes for one another. Elrian also took his cloak off to cover his lover's shoulders and shield him from the cold, which was accepted without ceremony. Back at the Inquisitor's room, Elrian discovered that stroking Dorian's hair was just as effective to put the man to sleep as that lullaby was for the Hallas.

[himluv]

Discoveries

Another Solavellan oneshot! This one takes place a few days after Drowning. Also, just a reminder that, if you’d like to binge all of these stories (there’s WAY more of them than I anticipated), there’s a collection on AO3!

When Riallan asked Solas to come with her to investigate an ancient ruin the Inquisition had discovered, he’d imagined a few crumbling walls, maybe a dank room or two, with barely anything to explore.

He had not imagined she had unearthed Dirthamen’s temple. Like most of the pantheon, Dirthamen had many such places, but this had been his favorite, the jewel in his midnight crown.

Solas had always hated it.

Walking the halls again, though now overgrown and flooded, filled him with an intense dread, the memories of his youth flashing in his mind, relentless.

His trepidation was matched only by Riallan’s excitement. This was her preferred deity after all. In the halls of Dirthamen her usual curiosity transformed into something sharp and unyielding. She paused at every mural, eyes roving the paintings, consuming every detail, desperate to discern the meaning behind each symbol. She was the First of her clan, their destined Keeper of knowledge and lore. It was her passion and it showed.

Even in the dank, dripping, dark of the temple, in a place he hadn’t walked in millennia, Solas was helpless against her charm.

She found the first glyph on the wolf statue, which he’d been surprised to see still stood. He imagined the priests would have defiled it or tore it down after he raised the veil. He was the reason Dirthamen abandoned them, after all.

Riallan held her veilfire torch closer to get a good look and froze.

Solas reached for her, but stopped short of touching her shoulder. He could feel the power, ancient and viscous, slow and slick like oil spilled from a lamp. “Inquisitor?”

She blinked rapidly, her eyes unfocused and wild, then she found him and returned to herself. “I… I understood that. How…?”

He pursed his lips, fighting the frown that tugged at his mouth. “The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known.” He ignored the crawling terror in his guts. “What did it say?”

Her brow furrowed. “It was a poem, about truths and secrets.” She looked around the room, but it was dark and there was nothing here but trees and sky and water. “There must be more further into the Temple.”

And so they went, exploring every corner of the dilapidated temple. Cassandra commented only when they found the dead explorers.

“I do not like this place,” she said. “It feels malevolent.”

“Whispers wanting, wasting, waiting for the Keeper of Secrets to come once more,” Cole said. He’d been especially quiet as they moved through the temple, and Solas worried that the veil might be too thin here. That the spirit might be vulnerable to the insidious magics that yet lingered.

Dirthamen had never been straightforward, nor one to forgive the merest slight. If there was anyone left in Thedas the elvhen would want to hurt, it would be Solas.

Cassandra sighed. “And now it is even creepier. Thank you, Cole.”

“You’re welcome.”

Riallan had no time for their banter. Torch in hand, she read another glyph, then turned wide eyes on him. “They went mad. Without Dirthamen, the secrets ate at them and they became paranoid. Convinced that their High Priest had betrayed them.” She shook her head. “They dismembered him and cursed his spirit to an eternity in this temple.”

Solas closed his eyes at the words. There had been a time when he’d known Dirthamen’s High Priest. They had never been friendly, since his relationship with Dirthamen had been tense even at the best of times, but knowing the man’s fate after he’d sealed his god away hurt him nonetheless.

She ran a hand through her wet hair, anger replacing confusion on her face. “Dirthamen was supposed to be the God of Secrets, the Keeper of Knowledge. Of learning!” Her eyes shone in the moonlight, “but this wasn’t a library or a school. It was a crypt, where knowledge came to die. They hoarded it to gain power, leverage. They were nothing more than spies!”

Her anger would have surprised him only months ago, but now he understood her a little better. She had chosen her vallaslin because of her love of elvhen lore, because she took her future as Clan Lavellan’s Keeper seriously. She would learn everything the world could teach her, and spread it to her people.

Like so many other things about Elvhenan, the Dalish had misinterpreted the truth. And now her faith was in crisis.

“Every society has great need of spies, lethallan,” he said, trying to soften the blow. There had been a time, when the Evanuris were of one mind, when Dirthamen had been a respected leader of Elvhenan. He helped build education centers, like the Vir Dirthara. Once, too many millennia ago to really count, he had been the God she believed him to be. Before greed and fear corrupted him, just like it did all the others.

She met his gaze, her eyes wondering and so disappointed. This place was not what she had hoped for. He would have told her as much, if he could tell her the truth at all.

“Let’s raise this priest and get it over with,” she said, turning away from him. “I want to put this place behind me.”

She marched ahead, down the grand staircase and into the knee-deep water that had filled Dirthamen’s sanctum. He thought it fitting that Dirthamen’s legacy would drown under the weight of all he’d hoarded.

“Will you tell me why the Inquisitor is so upset?” Cassandra asked once Riallan was far enough ahead of them.

For a moment he had forgotten the Seeker was even there. Of course that conversation would mean little to her. What the Dalish remembered was a vast library of knowledge compared to what the humans knew of the Elvhen.

He tilted his head toward her as they walked in tandem down the stairs. “The vallaslin, her face tattoos, the Dalish bear them to honor their gods. Each Creator has a design, each Dalish must pick a Creator to devote their life to.”

“Ah.” Cassandra frowned. “She has pledged herself to this Dirthamen?” The elvhen name rattled off her tongue, foreign and stilted.

He nodded. “Imagine learning that Andraste had not led a rebellion, but instead helped quash it.”

“That would be…”

“Faith-shattering?”

“Possibly,” she admitted. “I would require time.”

“Yes, and in that time you would be able to read the Chant, speak to your priests, and pray to your god.” He sighed. “Your doctrine was never forgotten, shattered into fragments for you to piece back together. Riallan has only her legends, her Keeper, and herself.”

“I- I think I understand.” She gave him a tiny, flickering smile. “Thank you, Solas.”

“If you’re finished talking about me,” Riallan called from the ritual platform, “I’d like to summon an ancient dead priest now.”

Her anger seeped into her every move. Her voice, her eyes flashing in the magic aura around the Priest’s body parts, the clench of her jaw. He wondered if she wanted to conjure him just so she could take her aggression out on something. Someone, who had once mattered to Dirthamen.

While he did not believe summoning the cursed spirit of the priest was a wise decision, he would not keep her from her vengeance. Especially not one so small as this.

They could handle whatever the High One had become.

He should have expected the Despair Demon. The entire temple reeked of it, and its presence had no doubt aided in its deterioration. As fights went, it was not the most difficult they had encountered, and in the end they perhaps did a service to the priest. He was free of his curse now, his spirit’s energy returned to the Fade.

They made camp a few miles beyond the temple, the fresh air and night sky a sweet relief to the dank and damp they’d spent hours in. Across the fire, Riallan was restless. She sat cross-legged, tearing blades of grass from the dirt with furious fingers.

“Dirth ma, lethallan,” he called. He spoke elvhen in an endeavor to give her privacy from the others, though he knew her grasp of the language was incomplete.

And Cole would understand regardless.

She didn’t look at him. “Tel’nuvena dirth, Solas.”

“Ir abelas, Riallan. Mala dhru’danem. Tel’dan’latha, mala sulevin tel’himem.” In fact, her desire to find the truth of the elvhen people had led her here. The temple was a great discovery, one she would celebrate if it weren’t for her damaged beliefs.

She shook her head. “Banal’dirtha. Elvhen tel’dhrua’em.”

“Ah,” he said. It seemed her crisis of faith had passed. Now she worried that the Dalish would not accept her findings. “Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru.”

She smiled at that, just a little. She had said the same to him when he’d told her it didn’t matter if she wasn’t truly the Herald of Andraste. Belief should not outweigh the truth.

Her anger at the knowledge in Dirthamen’s temple had burned hot and fast, leaving behind not even grudging acceptance. Her god was not what she had come to believe. She couldn’t change that, but that didn’t mean she would stop honoring who she thought he was. She would keep the ideals that had shaped her.

It made him wonder if she would handle all unpleasant revelations with such grace. A dangerous thought indeed.

“You’re right, Solas,” she said. She looked at him, and some of the tension had left her neck and shoulders. “Ma serannas.”

“Sathem, Riallan.”

Watching her in the fading firelight, after walking by her side as she discovered ancient secrets and battled heart-shattering truths, Solas came to a decision. Really, there had never been a doubt, no matter how he knew it must end.

Once they returned to Skyhold, he would take what happiness he could find.

Elvhen translations, based on Project Elvhen:

Dirth ma, lethallan - Talk to me, kin

Tel’nuvena dirth - I don’t want to talk

Ir abelas - I’m sorry

Mala dhru’danem - Your faith is shattered

Tel’dan’latha, mala sulvein tel’himem - Do not weep/mourn, your purpose has not changed

Banal’dirtha - I’ll never speak (of this)

Elvhen tel’dhrua’em - The People will not believe me

Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru - Belief shall not drown the truth (reference to Perseverance)

Ma serannas - My thanks/thank you

Sathem - You’re welcome (informal)

[impossible-rat-babies]

Writing Snippet #51

--

I asked @dirthara-mama earlier today about what Ayelet would think of Dimitri and then I got this itch to write and three hours later, here we are! Woooo!

--

Ayelet hummed a curse under her breath, pausing to tap her foot on the cobblestones of the ramparts above the Skyhold garden. Surely there were only so many places a mage like him could disappear to; he was hardly conspicuous with his long white hair and striking eyes, but the curious mage Dimitri Enallasani still managed to evade her attempts to find him.

A breath blew out of the corner of her lips and she looked back over the garden, scanning her eyes across the plants and people gathered below, eyes sweeping up and across to the rooms above. Her eyes glazed over the row of doors until one opening snatched her gaze back and she knew well the young man that walked out. 

Only around eight years old, she knew him as Daniel, one of the children who had come with Dimitri when he sought refuge for many children abandoned in the chaos of the rebellion, both magical and nonmagical. Many had been taken to other families and other mages to be cared for, but Daniel had remained firmly at Dimitri’s side. He was far from a shy child and had happily told her that Dimitri--his Papae--had been caring for him as long as he could remember. Just as before, he spotted her and he grinned, quickly running over to her.

“Lady Ayelet!” He greeted her happily and Yel couldn't help but smile at his energy. The young man’s enthusiasm was infectious, a sharp contrast from his father.

“Hello there Daniel. Where is your father?” She asked and he pointed back at the room he had come from.

“He is in our room, working. I was just off to get more herbs from Elan down in the garden, but I can show you back there if you would like.” He offered her, his smiling consisting of several missing baby teeth.

“Thank you Daniel, but I can manage my way. You should get your errand done.” She ushered him off with a warm smile and he grinned brightly, quickly turning for the stairs. With a short walk and a knock on the door, Yel waited patiently, wiggling her fingers behind her back.

A moment later the door opened and a familiar, but a still scarred and jarring face appeared in the doorway. “Inquisitor Lavellan.” Dimitri greeted smoothly in his accented voice, stepping aside to allow her inside. She gave a small nod and stepped into the warm room. 

The sharp smell of jasmine with undertones of sandalwood and brewing alchemical potions hit her, tickling the inside of her nose. The room was rather warm for the castle, even with the nearby window half ajar to allow the constant breeze in. The roaring fireplace was to blame for the strong heat and undoubtably magic spilling about. There was no shortage of it, not with the various wisps floating about in the ceiling like they were dancing with each other. They casted their own glow across the stones and the floor covered in worn and warm carpets undoubtably dragged here by Dimitri and Daniel themselves.

“You have certainly made a home for yourself here.” She remarked, her gaze taking in all the other assortments of items about the room. The bed was filled with mismatched blankets and pillows, a well worn rabbit toy and small blanket hiding amongst the colorful menagerie. A borrowed table had been filled with enough alchemical items to rival an apothecary and a window ledge full of plants in various containers. Ingredients if her knowledge didn’t deceive her; she knew of a few of the herbs, but others were foreign still.

“I have been exchanging some alchemical services to your spymaster as compensation for both Daniel and I remaining within your Keep. These items are necessary ones to facilitate the construction of various poisons and elixirs. Reagents if you will.” He explained carefully and slowly as she approached, nodding at the complex system. She recognized parts of the set up as distilleries and jars to heat over plain or magical heat.

“An apostate and an alchemist?” She asked and he hummed, a smile spreading on his lips, but not to his eyes. He stood straight, arms tucked behind his back, posture evident on someone on their guard. He had stood like that at every meeting they had since his arrival.

“Yes. A skill that has proved rather useful over the years.” He answered and she nodded several times.

“Where did you learn?” She questioned him.

“Any reason for the line of questioning, da’len?” He asked her, the formalness of his speech clashing with his words--catching her off guard. A trait she had seen more than once in him, but one she hadn’t quite gotten used to. She looked up at him, a brow arching above his cloudy blinded eye.

“Nothing more than getting to know you better, Dimitri. You are a stranger in my Keep. We could call you a ghost with how hard you are to find.” She answered honestly him and he gave a sharp nod.

“Would like to know who is making dangerous reagents within your fortress for your spymaster to use on targets?” He asked and she cocked a curious brow. A smile turned his scarred lips, exposing his pointed teeth. 

“A jest. These are experiments for now.” He explained. “Anything deemed usable will go through your approval. If you wish some for yourself, I would not blame you.”

“Possibly.” She replied. “You still evaded my response. I would like to get to know you better.” She gave him a smile to put him at ease, but it was if it hit a brick wall.

“What would you like to know?” He responded rather simply, leaving everything open and to her as he had always managed to do.

Yel looked back at the alchemical potions bubbling, eyes following the glass reflecting the afternoon sun. “Where did you learn your alchemy?” She inquired and he hummed.

“My father. He was our apothecary in my clan. He turned much of the poisonous and venomous wildlife in the Anderfels to useable elixirs and poisons.” He answered honestly and she nodded, looking back at the plants.

“Are these your own? I don’t recognize some of these.” She spoke and he stepped closer to her.

“Yes, some of these are. Seeds from back home, either imported or from my own collections. Many have taken to the clean mountain air and the chill well. I have been surprised.” He explained and continued along the various plants, telling her of each of them as she asked. The questions soon faded to conversation, the pair talking back and forth with unexpected ease. Despite his closed off nature, each answer lended itself to her learning more about him. 

The whole of Dimitri was rather unusual in his way. He stood close to her, but not as close for her to touch him. He kept his hands to himself, still as he explained and purposeful when he pointed. His whole manner struck of a man caught in a situation he was not versed in, but still tried to make sense of. He was trying to sink into everything--remain anonymous--but he was painfully aware of his inability to do as such. It took only a look to see how different he was--how life had marked him out for everyone to take notice.

It reminded Ayelet of herself in its way. The amount of shemlen about was staggering, the isolation in a tucked away corner, the way Dimitri’s eyes looked about trying to find the fastest way to escape should it be required. The way life had both given them a spotlight and a way to stand out, especially in ways they would rather have not. They both bore the same discomfort the Inquisition had given them, but Ayelet couldn’t so easily discard her attachment as Dimitri could. It raised the inevitable question in her mind and she bit her lip as he finished speaking.

“Why are you staying?” She asked, the question not unprovoked with the feeling in the air. “You brought us those who you were taking care of and you could have left. You brought them to Skyhold, not to one of our outposts. You could have easily left, but you remain with Daniel. Why?” She questioned and it stuck to Dimitri, giving him pause for a long moment. His mismatched eyes searched the floor below him, twitching arms betraying his fidgeting hands.

“Safety.” He answered rather simply, looking at her. “It is a selfish thing, but the Inquisition is the safest place to be in these times. Apostates are hated and...Maleficarum twice as much. Nowadays the distinction matters little, but it mattered before the Circles were turned to their present state. I do not use this organization as a shield for myself, but...” He paused in his speech as if saying that much had exhausted him. “For Daniel’s sake, he deserves some peace.” He finished clearly with the conclusion clear. He had been an apostate alone for many years--naturally with the ways in which she had see templars conduct themselves, it was only a matter of time before he was labeled a Maleficarum. Whether he deserved it mattered little once the label was already stuck to him.

“You didn't need to confess to me, Dimitri.” She spoke and he spared a weak chuckle, shaking his head and tapping his toes.

“I would rather share such things myself, lest you hear of them secondhand. Many rumors are not kind.” He mused, lips pursing. “As you can imagine from those spread about yourself. Courtly intrigue and the Chantry have hardly been kind to the Inquisition, much less yourself, da’len.” He spoke and she made a disgusted sound in agreement, one that made Dimitri crack a smile and a small laugh. The sound warmed her chest, a crack forming in his hard exterior. A crack was all it took.

“Still,” Ayelet spoke as she regained her composure, straightening herself up a bit, “thank you for telling me, Dimitri. I appreciate your candor.” She smiled and he returned it, it almost shining his own eyes.

Almost.

“You’re welcome, da’len.” His smile faded back to his impassive face. They heard the creak of the door and both of them turned, Daniel grinning as he walked in.

“I got the herbs, Papae! Hello Lady Yel!” He said and Dimitri shook his head and smiled as his son approached, handing the herbs off to him.

“Ma serannas, ma da’len.” He leaned down to kiss the top of his head, smoothing his hair. Yel smiled at the two of them, but cleared her throat.

“I will be seeing you two later?” She asked and they both turned to her, Daniel eagerly nodding.

“Of course!” He grinned brightly and Dimitri nodded, wrapping his arms around Daniel.

“Of course, Lady Lavellan.” He smiled like he meant it and Yel smiled back.

[fanfoolishness]

no words for heaven or for earth (3/?)

Hawke was left in the Fade, but Varric thinks, or hopes, that she’s still alive. And he has some surprising evidence. Read here at AO3.

Part 1: Where’s Hawke? |  Part 2: because you aren’t here

Part 3: the lonely ruined tower

Hawke sat on the stairs of a lonely, ruined tower. She knew the place. This was the grand tower in Ostagar, the Tower of Ishal, the one the Wardens were to send the signal from. Alistair had told her what happened that day, Loghain turning his back on the King.

She hadn’t known all that at the time. She had only known the confusing crush of human bodies, the smell of darkspawn, the brave mabari fallen on the battlefield. She hadn’t been an officer; she’d just been another body, one that would have joined the blooded field if the trampling retreat hadn’t taken her. Her blades had never felt so small and weak. She’d wished, again, for her father’s magic.

Not that that would have helped anything.

She leaned back, gazing to the top of the tower. There was no beacon shining, only a broken roof against a jade-swirled sky.

She had never spoken of Ostagar to anyone.  Everything had happened so quickly. She and Carver had both been shaken, too frightened by what they had seen to talk of anything but the little things.  

“There were some glorious dogs there, sister.  It would have been grand to bring home a pup for Molossus to train,” said Carver.

Min had been expecting him ever since she saw the tower, ever since she walked through shifting waves to reach it.  Had she been here moments? Hours? Days? It was hard to say.

“You’re not Carver,” she said, but she kept her eyes averted, only looking at him from the corners.  Her little brother looked the same as he always had, dark hair straight but somehow always tousled, his face set in a perpetual scowl until those rare moments that he grinned.  His voice pierced her heart, and she stifled a gasp at the shock of it.

“You’ve changed, Min.  You don’t care for sparring now?”  She could see his sword at the edge of her vision.  She held up her daggers to parry the thrust, but it hadn’t been a killing blow, only a testing one.  She leapt to her feet, her side aching.

“I told you.  You’re not Carver,” she spat.  “You’re just a demon.”

“This is just like you,” he spat.  “Refusing to let me do my part. You held me back at Ostagar.  I should have been there.”

“You’d have died then with the others!”

“Instead of a week later saving you and Mum and Bethany, you mean?  Yes, a real use of my talents, that,” said Carver. The sword shimmered in his hands.  Claws. Hands. She wasn’t sure which.

“You aren’t Carver,” she said again.  “Carver was an ass sometimes, but he wasn’t this childish.  We used to --” We used to get along, she wanted to say.   We used to play when Bethany had her lessons.  But she couldn’t say that to him.  Couldn’t look in his blue eyes, blue like their father’s, like her own, couldn’t tell him how much she missed him, couldn’t tell him she was so, so sorry she hadn’t been there --

“You aren’t him!” she screamed, and before he could raise his sword she struck, shifting and misdirecting, and drew her daggers across his throat.  

The thing that had pretended to be him slithered out, an insubstantial bit of spirit, and it fell away before she could fully catch its size or shape.  Carver disappeared. Hawke pulled her daggers to her chest, forming a protective X across her body, and turned and fled up the stairs.

She only stopped running when she reached a little room in the tower, the one beneath the open the sky.  Papers and daggers and staves hung around her like a constellation. She collapsed to the floor, the papers fluttering and wafting above her, and she wished as hard as she could that she was home.  

Somewhere, she could hear birdsong -- just a few whistled phrases, fading away into the wind.  “Chaffinch,” she murmured. She closed her eyes, trying to remember a world of sunlight and open air, a world where a little bird could dance in the branches of a Lothering farm.  

“Help,” she whispered, but the chaffinch answered not, and the wind was quiet.  She looked at her hands. A quill appeared in her left hand, and she stared at it, her chest aching.  It was the beautiful golden eagle quill Varric had given her years back, when she first moved into the Amell estate.  He’d called it fit for a noble, and though she’d snorted at the idea, she had had to admit he was right.

Ink.  She needed ink.  Red ink appeared beside her, and she ripped one of the vellum pages out of the air, setting it down and beginning to write.

The first dream, he mistook for memory.  There was that unnatural Fade-light, green and pale and wrong; stones floating far into the sky, the constant drip of water in the background.  A candle burning at a writing desk, and quills scattered on the rocks below. Papers fluttered, suspended in the air as if on a wire, never falling to the ground.  And somewhere far off, somewhere farther than the moon, he heard a scream.

He hadn’t realized he was sleeping.  He’d been fighting off flashes of memory all day, his brain spinning to try and accept it.   Where’s Hawke? he asked again and again, an idiot who hadn’t yet realized his world was broken.  He’d never hated the sound of his own voice more.

So when he saw the Fade again, he’d thought it just another flashback, one more attempt to understand the entirety of what had happened.

The second dream, he wasn’t so sure.  He walked along stone paths, and wisps and spirit-things floated nearby, lost in their own thoughts and desires.  Sometimes he thought he knew them, but that didn’t make any sense. They didn’t seem to notice him, even when he accidentally walked right through one.

He climbed stairs to half-built towers overlooking a green and endless sea.  It reminded him of what Namira had told him about Redcliffe in the future. He looked carefully for signs of red lyrium, but found none.

He climbed to the top of one of the towers, and found another writing desk beneath an open sky.  Like before, parchment hung, mysteriously suspended in the air around him. He reached out and took one of the pages.  The red ink slid around, dancing and speckling the paper as he watched.

A sound behind him startled him. Was that a bird?  He whirled, but found nothing there.

The paper vanished in his hands, and he realized that there was no stone around him; there were only the walls of his tent, travel-stained and sand-encrusted.  Varric lay there in the dark, disquieted.

The third dream was when he knew.  

He took the stone steps two at a time, his legs somehow long enough or the stairs somehow short enough for it to be possible.  The little wisps danced around him, and he flew past them, determined to get the hell out of the Fade.

He’d spent more time in the Fade than any dwarf had a right to.  First the debacle with Hawke in Kirkwall, when he’d shamefully given the demon everything it wanted just so he could be the favored brother.  That would have been bad enough if not for actually stepping foot in the blasted place like some Tevinter magister. And of course, that was when they left her --

He rubbed at his face, and the water he dashed from his eyes hovered behind him, refusing to fall.  

The tower climbed up and up.  He found surprises on the way, cunning traps laid into the stonework of the steps.  He managed to sidestep them. Something about them seemed familiar.

The writing desk was still there when he reached the top.  He reached for the first parchment, smoothing it carefully.  The scarlet ink began to shimmer, but before it melted off of the paper, he recognized a familiar left-handed slant.  My name is Hawke, and I am trapped.  

Varric tried to tuck the paper inside his shirt, but when he looked at his hand the paper was nowhere to be seen.  He glanced up and saw it a hundred feet away, hovering over nothingness. He let out a string of profanity, and halfway through fucking shit weirdass Fade he woke up.  

He woke up.

“I have never heard of anything like it,” said Solas quietly after Varric finished his tale.  “The children of the Stone dream not, and never have.”

“If that’s what dreams are normally like,” said Varric, “I don’t think dwarves are missing much.  How do I make it stop?”

Solas stood, conjuring a blue shimmer in the palm of his hand.  He carefully held it out, then with a flick of his fingers, the blue shimmer coalesced around Varric into a hazy curtain.  

Varric twitched irritably.  If it was a barrier, it felt different than the kinds he’d been used to with other mages, or even the sort Solas himself usually cast.  This one was uncomfortable, sparking and fizzing off his skin, even though the blue light looked static.

“So is this a… a de-dreaming spell?”

“No,” said Solas.  “I am attempting to determine the source of your dreams.  It should not be possible. ...then again, it should not have been possible to enter the Fade in the flesh.”

“So?  We do impossible shit every day.  What makes this different?”

The blue light sputtered, then faded.  Solas looked impressed. “You are Fade-touched, Varric.”

“And what does that mean?”  He thought back to some of the weird shit Lavellan had been telling him about, giant spiders that got that way because of their contact with the Fade.  “Please don’t tell me I’m going to turn into a bigass spider.”

Solas chuckled.  “Nothing of the sort.  It appears to be a temporary effect of your time in the Fade.  As Dorian, the Inquisitor, and myself were already mages, it seems we did not sustain any additional effects from our time there.  For now, though, you maintain a connection to the Fade similar to what a mage possesses. You can walk consciously in the Fade while you sleep.”

Varric stared down at his hands, wondering if fire was about to sprout out of him.  That would be the last thing he needed right now.  “But I can’t --”

“Work magic, no,” said Solas.  “I sense no ability to control mana or manipulate the elements.  At this moment, you read to me the way a mage child does; the potential is there, but not the power.  I suspect the connection will fade with time, but how long it will take, I cannot yet estimate. ”

“Still fucked up.”

“I agree,” said Solas, and for a moment, Varric could swear the elf winked.  

Varric hesitated.  He hadn’t told Solas what he read in the last dream.  He took a breath. Remembered the blood on her face, the determination in her eyes, the way she’d kissed him before pushing him into the rift--  

“Look, Solas, I… dreamed … that she was trying to send a message.  She wrote that she needed help. That she was trapped.”  He looked at the lamplight, soothing yellow flame dancing in its cage.  “Is there a chance? Any chance at all that it’s her?”

Solas turned aside, holding his hands behind his back.  Varric recognized the start of a lie when he saw one, and raised his hand.  “Don’t do that, Chuckles. Just be honest. I can handle it.”

Solas’ mouth was a thin, faintly approving line.  “You are most insightful, friend.” He shook his head.  “It is almost certainly a spirit, playing off of your desires.  They will do everything in their power to reshape the Fade to your wishes.  Including impersonating your friend.”

She was more than a friend.   She is more.  “But we were all physically there,” said Varric carefully.  “Which means this isn’t necessarily business as usual.”

Solas’ face was calm; calm and somehow sad.  Varric couldn’t say what had changed. Something in the eyes, maybe.  “There is a faint chance that Hawke survived the Nightmare, yes. If that were true, despite her lack of magic, perhaps she would have been affected enough to exert her will on the Fade around her.  And... perhaps you would be able to perceive some of those effects in dreams.” He gave Varric a warning look. “Yet she would have to battle spirits drawn to the fight, as well as survive in a realm where nothing can sustain the physical form for long.  Even if she still lives, the possibility of opening a rift again in the exact place she is in is nigh impossible. The Inquisitor has already tried, if you recall.”

Namira Lavellan had tried.  Tried for hours, in fact, tears streaming down her pale face.  Kept trying, while around her, Wardens dispersed and Inquisition soldiers began to dispose of the dead.  Kept trying until the sun fell, her hand sparking green in the dark, until Cullen and Solas and Dorian said things to her and led her away with her head bowed.  Varric hadn’t been able to make out their words. He’d been too busy slumping against a stone battlement with his hands limp and nerveless beside him, trying to remember how to breathe.

Varric ran a trembling hand through his hair.  “Sure. I recall.”

“I am sorry, Varric.”

He shrugged.  “Pleasant dreams, Solas.”

The stone stairs wound far, far into the sky, much higher than he had ever climbed before.  He kept climbing, never flagging, never wavering. He only stopped to undo her traps. He was certain now that they were hers; every rogue had a style all their own, and he remembered teaching her in the Hanged Man after too many drinks.  How long ago was it? Six years? Seven? Even then, he’d been a fool for her, savoring her smiles far more than he should have.

He reset each trap after he moved past them.  Her work had always been clever. He hoped it would be enough.

“Min!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.  How’d it work here, again? You used your will, right? “Hawke!”  And he willed his voice to be a beacon, willed it far over the endless green sea, willed it through the yellow-green sky.

Did it work?  He wasn’t sure.  He kept climbing.  

The tower room was different.  Daggers were laid out on the floor, shifting position and size as he watched them.  There were tapestries hung on the wall, their ragged edges fluttering. Their sigils wavered, their designs crawling up the cloth and sliding off of them into nothingness, but he was certain he was able to make them out for a moment.  The old Amell crest.

The writing desk floated in the center of the room, bobbing lazily up and down.  Varric reached into his pocket. It’s about will.  He pulled out a fountain pen that felt real as real, and began to write.  

Sparrow, I’m not giving up.  I’m going to find you.

The message ravens were burdened that day.  One of them glared at the dwarf with the reddened eyes, pecking at his hand as he tried to fix a letter to her leg.  She’d already seen him weigh down several of her kin with letters.

“Oh, come on,” he muttered.  The raven relented, finally holding still.  Once the letter was attached, she took to her wings, her mind suddenly sharp and focused.  She knew where to fly and what to do, and she soared high on the desert wind, and the dwarf watched her go.

[kagetsukai]

If I wait a thousand days [Cullen x Eurydice]

I’m behind on Kissing Day posting!!! That being said, here’s a story I wrote for the wonderful @star--nymph, whose stories give me life. I absolutely love and adore Eurydice, so writing a Kissing Day blurb about her was NOT difficult. I hope you all enjoy!

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Eurydice Lavellan (pre-relationship)

Prompt: Touching

Read on AO3

Accompanying song: Trespassers William - I know

Cullen had heard of the nights at the Herald’s Rest, where the members of the Inquisition’s inner circle got together to share stories and get unbelievably drunk, but he had never attended any of them himself. Not that he was against socializing, of course; every so often he would find himself at the tavern with his lieutenants in tow, drinking, laughing, and swapping barrack stories. The problem was that the constant guest of these parties was the Inquisitor and the sole thought of her piercing eyes on him made his chest constrict with lack of air.

“There’s a gathering at the tavern tonight. You should join us, Commander.”

Josephine’s voice had a interesting lilt to it and Cullen had a distinct impression she wasn’t giving him an option on the matter. The four of them stood around the war table, their meeting finished, and he could feel the pressure of their stares against his neck.

“I don’t think--”

“Everybody will be there, Commander,” Leliana added and briefly glanced at Eurydice.

The Inquisitor’s exotic eyes met his and for a second he felt the world fall away. In his youth, he had read poets speaking about love completely changing a man, but he never thought his life would become tinted with purple.

He realized he was yet to respond.

“I…” he hesitated.

Her eyes fell down to the table and she spoke in a shy, quiet voice.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

Words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “No, I’ll be there. I’ll come.”

Cullen could have sworn he saw a smug expressions on both Leliana and Josephine’s face, but in that moment all that mattered was how Eurydice had a ghost of a smile that brightened the shadows around her eyes..

When the time came to head for the tavern, he found himself fussing excessively with his appearance, especially uncertain of what he should wear. In the end he chose to leave his armor on, wanting to have at least one thing that made him feel comfortable. As he slowly stepped along the battlements towards the Herald’s Rest, he let the high winds cool his overheated skin; just thinking of the crowds he’d have to deal with made his temperature spike.

As he stepped through the door, he noted how the third story of the tavern didn’t have any patrons; people usually felt a presence there, invisible eyes watching from a corner, and most preferred brighter tables closer to the bar. Cullen felt certain that Cole would probably already be downstairs with the rest of the companions so he didn’t look around to see if he could spot the strange boy. In certain and almost-steady steps, he took the stairs and joined the chaos on the ground floor.

The inner circle had taken up an entire table to themselves and when he approached it, he could hear Varric recounting yet another one of Hawke’s tales that Cullen was fairly certain never happened. Instead of the usual chairs, benches had been pulled up to fit everybody and he tried to find a spot to sit down.

“Commander! You made it,” Dorian cried out loud. “Here, I saved you a spot next to me.”

The exclamation only briefly stuttered Varric’s tale, though he could tell a lot of eyes turned to watch him sit down.

“I’m glad you could make it. I know how much you hate coming to the tavern.”

Cullen shrugged. “I come here often enough. I just don’t like it when it’s this crowded.”

Dorian chuckled and took a long sip of his wine.

“People do like to come down here when they know the Inquisitor will make an appearance.”

The mention of Eurydice had Cullen quickly looking around the table, but the signature shock of white hair was nowhere to be found.

“She had to step outside for a moment,” Dorian supplied helpfully. “Something about having too much ale all at once. Should be back shortly.”

Cullen nodded, not willing to interpret the knowing smirk on the other man’s face. He flagged down one of the maids, asked for an ale, and willed himself to relax. Listening to Varric finish the story about Hawke riding a dragon’s head into its death made him smile and shake his head.

“Are any of these stories true?”

A soft voice at his elbow almost made Cullen jump out of his skin. He quickly turned in his seat, only to come face to face with Eurydice.

“Inquisitor, I didn’t hear you--”

“There you are!” Dorian interjected. “Here, sit between us. I’m sure the Commander and myself can make enough space for your cute little arse.”

A few chuckles sounded next to them and Cullen’s ears prickled with embarrassment. He shifted closer to Josephine and tried his best to not think about Eurydice’s perfectly round and pert posterior.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile for the men around her and plopped down in the space provided. “But tell me, Cullen, how made up are Varric’s stories?”

Their thighs were touching, her scent assaulted his nose and Cullen had a hard time focusing his thoughts on anything other than her beautiful eyes.

“I must admit that I’m not as intimately familiar with Hawke’s exploits as you might think,” he admitted quietly, for her ears only. “I found it healthier for my sanity to keep out of her way.”

Eurydice giggled behind her hand and the sound immediately lifted corners of his mouth.

“If even half of Varric’s stories are true, I think you made a good choice.”

Cullen actually chuckled at the sentiment and nodded in agreement. Before he could say anything else, his ale arrived and he leaned back to let the girl set the mug down in front of him. She was a pretty redhead and she definitely leaned in too much to give him a perfect view down her shirt; he politely turned away his face, hoping his face didn’t betray his discomfort. The moment she went away, he noticed how Eurydice’s face had fallen and she was staring down at her hands. He desperately needed to hear her laugh again.

“So, what’s the occasion for this get-together?” he intoned as he took a sip of his drink.

Eurydice shrugged and nodded in Varric’s direction again.

“It was his idea. Apparently Kirkwall celebrates a Kissing Day today and he wanted to get everyone here because, and I quote, people shouldn’t be alone on Kissing Day.”

It took all of Cullen’s willpower to not spit out the mouthful of ale he just took. With narrowed eyes he glanced around the table and caught several people giving him knowing looks, while Dorian shot him a very obvious wink. He tried his best not to groan, but it was a battle hard won. Of course; he should have known.

“That’s very thoughtful of him,” he commented through his teeth.

A ghost of a smile danced across her lips and she looked into his eyes.

“Have you ever celebrated a Kissing Day with anybody?” she asked innocently.

Sweet Maker, he was going to turn beet-red from this line of questioning, wasn’t he? In a valiant effort to keep his wits, he shook his head and took another sip of his ale.

“The Templar Order doesn’t explicitly forbid romance, but I have always been too focused on my duty to seek out company on Kissing Day,” he explained. “Plus, I am of the mind that romance should not be limited to one day only. I think love should be celebrated everyday, otherwise it means nothing.”

Cullen had no idea where these words were coming from, but he blamed the alcohol. He chanced a look down at Eurydice and his heart did a wonderful little flip in his chest: her eyes were still turned up at him, the purple irises glittering in the copious candle light, and her lips spread into a happy smile that turned his brain to mush. One sharp tooth lodged itself into the corner of her lip, drawing his eyes there, and he suddenly felt really, really warm.

“I am glad you feel that way,” she whispered and shyly looked down.

He was going to say something else, ask for clarification of her words, but all thoughts went silent the moment he felt her shift even closer to him, her thigh firmly pressed against his. And just when his night couldn’t get any better, he felt a tiny hand timidly loop his elbow.

While Cullen used to be indifferent to this holiday, perhaps he could grow to enjoy Kissing Day, as long the day could be tinted with the shades of purple.

[irlaimsaaralath]

Drawn By Sorrow - Part 1 - Abelas/Lavellan

So, I decided to write a thing.  This is the first part of the first piece of the thing.  It occurs after the game, but before Trespasser.  Situation is standard:  Inquisitor is Niyera, the one featured in the rest of my fics, who romanced Solas. 

Nothing unsafe here.  Just normal life and things and stuff.

Cheers.

A low, even voice echoed through the crystal, distorted faintly by the magic of the item, “This will not be easy for you.  She will resist.  We must not be discovered.”  A second voice, deeper and with a different inflection, replied, “Leave the Inquisitor to me.  I will make sure the endeavor is a success.”  The crystal pulsed with a faint golden glow as the echo of a final word fell through the crystal, “Good.”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine scolded impatiently as she shooed Niyera’s hands away from the laces of her bodice, “It is important that we dress according to the aesthetic of the nation we’re visiting.  Consider it a show of respect.”  The elf sighed as she forced her hands down to her sides before turning an eye down her body once more.  “Why can’t the Nevarrans respect my profound need to breathe?” she complained, already back to tugging at the laces of her bodice.  The diplomat rolled her eyes as she slapped at the Inquisitor’s hands, “You can breathe.  If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be complaining so much.”  Niyera leveled a bland stare on the Antivan, screwed her lips into a distinct downward turn, and straightened the line of her back.  “Why can’t we just wear those frightful red wool get-ups?  Even they were better than this.”  Josephine gasped as if she’d just suggested that they all run naked through the ballroom and pressed a hand to her chest.  “We can’t be seen in the same outfit twice!  Besides, that was business.  This is a celebration,” the woman finished as she gestured grandly.  Niyera sucked on her teeth with full knowledge that her advisor hated when she made that sound and threw up her hands in resignation.  Josephine smiled in triumph, but couldn’t resist adding another jab:  “Honestly.  You’re harder to dress than Cullen.”

She had never felt so simultaneously naked and overdressed.  The skirt of the gown was long, full, and heavy, tailored of a thick velvet in a shade of green so dark, it almost seemed black.  She also wore a chemise of the same hue, but that was only obvious because the sleeves were visible.  The deep neckline barely peeked above the upper hem of the gold brocade bodice, where her breasts were pushed together and perched by and on the garment’s stiff boning.  Hardly anything at all was covered!  Her hair was ridiculous, all piled on one side beneath a garish ornament that looked rather like the remains of a dead raven.  It’s necessary, Leliana had said.  The elf was letting her hair grow out from its formerly side-shaved style, and it had only managed to grow to brush the tip of her ear.  The spymaster had insisted that it was a minor disaster.  Creators forbid anyone in the world see her as she actually was.  With her vallaslin gone, she could almost pass for human on first glance.  If seen at a distance.  The ears always gave it away, of course.  “There!” Josephine exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work.  The Inquisitor’s mind had drifted as the Antivan went about her makeup, and now that she was fully aware of tacky paste on her lips and the kohl on her eyes, she really felt uncomfortable.

The night was a procession of drinks and dances, dull dignitaries and their demanding egos.  Stealing a dance here and there with Dorian or Bull were the only highlights of the night.  Well, that and the miniature chocolate tarts that kept making the rounds.  Caramel-laced crusts with a chocolate creme brulee filling and a plump, seedless blackberry on top.  They were sinfully delicious.  Leliana did what Leliana does, which is pleasantly mingle, laugh, admire shoes, and watch everyone like a hawk while listening to five different conversations all at once.  Josephine kept casually glancing her way and miming a reminder for her to watch for crumbs in her decollete and to smile.  Every once and in a while, she would petulantly stuff another tart into her mouth and smile around it just to see Josephine’s frustration flare hot on her cheeks while she was in a position to do nothing about it.  It’s the little pleasures in life.  Cullen lingered just at the edge of the ballroom, dodging clusters of fawning women in an attempt to keep a sharp eye on security.  He would pass her a timid smile from time to time; she’d months ago forgiven him for his lyrium addiction-induced indiscretion in her chambers, but he still seemed to harbor a lack of forgiveness for himself.

Cassandra was the only person here that seemed as equally uncomfortable as she did, which surprised Niyera a little being that this was the Seeker’s homeland.  Too many memories, she would say, and the Inquisitor couldn’t fault her.  In one way or another, they all had that problem.  --  When she found a spare moment when neither Josephine nor Cullen’s eyes were watching, she slipped outside into the courtyard to get some fresh air.  The immediate area was lit with oil lamps held on lofty stands, casting a golden blanket of light across the courtyard and deepening the shadows that the flames couldn’t reach.  Guards stood on either side of the castle’s doors, and another pair could be found at the bottom of the stairs.  They were dressed smartly and bobbed their heads in greeting as she passed.  She returned the gesture and was grateful for the small talk they didn’t make.  A spare few sounds reached her ears:  the burbling of the fountain, the guttering of the lamps, and the occasional whisper of a breeze.  She savored the relative silence.  She found it challenging to endure the constant roar of ballrooms and great courts and dining halls, where so many voices blurred into one dissonant hum.  Her exhaled breath painted a cloudy plume of steam on the chilled air as she passed her gaze up to the sky.  It was dark, sparse with clouds, while the stars winked in the breaks in between.

Somewhere behind her, she heard a heavy thud then the noise of metal on stone.  She turned just in time to see the first guard fall, clutching at his neck, then the second.  The guards at the top of the steps raised the alarm and had begun to run toward her.  Immediately, she raised a barrier around the men and herself, just in time to see an arrow lance off the ephemeral curve of the dome.  Tracing the arrow’s path back to the source, she found a dark-clad figure atop the courtyard wall, and when he whistled, she found another on ground level at her back.  The nearer attacker must have been a mage as her barriers began to waver, forcing her to struggle to maintain them.  Around one of the guards, her barrier was breached, and an arrow found its way into the man’s shoulder.  She screamed at the shrouded archer in fury, even as Cullen and his detail began to surge out of the castle.  Static in white-violet threads broke across her eyes as she threw out a hand toward the archer, who was now on the ground and running toward her.  Lightning lanced between them, and the attacker was knocked off his feet and stunned.

“Inquisitor!  Behind you!” she heard Cullen shout, and she turned, reinforcing her barrier as she found herself face to face with her attacker.  An effort make herself smaller to avoid any incoming strike proved useless; she couldn’t move in this Blight-damned gown.  However, before the figure could strike, a haze of sooty smoke flared up behind him, and she saw only the silver flash of a blade before the attacker dropped dead at her feet, throat gashed open.  In a whoosh that sounded like the night sucking in a breath, the smoke was displaced, and she heard the sound again at her back.  She whipped around in time to see the same smoke materialize over the man she’d downed, the same flash of a blade, and the same disappearance afterward.  Confusion etched lines in her brow as she looked over to Cullen, whose detail had fanned out, covering every inch of the courtyard.  

When she was reasonably certain the threat had passed, she let the power of her barriers dissipate and motioned for assistance for the wounded guard.  “What in the Maker’s name was that?” Cullen shouted, followed quickly by a turn on his heel and a demand, “Get the Captain of the Guard.  NOW.”  Her brow was still furrowed in frustration when Dorian and Josephine quickly came to her side as Bull and Leliana remained behind to inspect the murdered guards.  “Were you hurt?” the Tevinter asked, and she answered with a shake of her head.  Now that the blood was no longer rushing in her ears, something stirred beneath her own thoughts -- the voices of the Well whispered, calmly, quietly.  It was something that sounded familiar but that she couldn’t immediately place.  She shook her head again as she turned her eyes to Josephine.  “Next time, I pick my clothes.  I can’t fight in this...monstrosity,” Niyera said, her tone serious, but with just a hint of a “I told you so” in her voice.  Josephine made a disgusted noise that sounded suspiciously like Cassandra was rubbing off on her, but she really didn’t have much room to argue.  “Fine,” was all the Antivan said as she grumbled and folded her arms.

When they finally returned to Skyhold, she had but a scant few days of rest before a host of foreign ambassadors arrived for negotiations and socializing and diplomatic acrobatics.  She wasn’t particularly interested in any of those things, primarily because she felt her attentions would be more effective elsewhere.  Josephine had spent an adequate amount of time schooling her on human politics and such, and if pressed, she could put on a good act.  But, since Corypheus had been killed, the days had blurred together and left her with a tangle of time that had seen her engaged in endeavors she simply didn’t find to be of the highest importance.  “Victory” tours and balls and grandstanding.  A lot of pompous nobles standing around, clapping themselves on the back for having had the wisdom to advance her as the Inquisitor, when it fact, she (and the rest of the Inquisition) had to fight, tooth and nail, for recognition.  The lot of it had drawn her patience thin, and she struggled to care for everyone else’s sake, if not her own.  But her mind, along with her heart, were somewhere else entirely.  Solas had disappeared.  He hadn’t just wandered off.  He hadn’t just slipped away.  He vanished; even Leliana couldn’t find him.  That usually meant one of two things:  you’re very, very good, or very, very dead.  The latter she simply wasn’t willing to consider.  There was no hint of him anywhere.  For months now, the spymaster’s scouts had been hunting, but there wasn’t even the barest whisper to be found.

He had long ago told her that they couldn’t be together.  Attempting to come to terms with that had nearly killed her, quite literally.  She never did accept it fully.  Of course, she logically understood the situation, even if she didn’t understand why.  But, the heart cares nothing for logic.  She had hoped, however she had tried to deny it, that things would change.  Circumstances could be different or that he could be swayed or that maybe, just once, something might go as it should instead of how it must.  In the end, he was as good as his word.  The last place she’d seen him had been on the battlefield.  It was a brief shared glance.  It troubled her at the time, the darkness that had settled in his eyes and the soft whisper of the Well’s voices in the back of her head.  She should have listened.  But, instead, she allowed an offer of congratulations to turn her attention for the merest second, and when she looked back, he was gone.  That night in Skyhold, she’d found a short stack of books waiting for her on the couch.  She instantly recognized them as the ones that had sat for so long on the corner of Solas’s desk.  They were books on art, the arcane, ancient Elvhen -- that last was written in his own hand, for her, in an effort to help her learn the language.  She realized only slowly that he must have placed them here before they left for the final confrontation and, if that was the case, he had intended to leave regardless of the outcome.  She had opened each of them, flipped through the pages, and found the offering of a pressed flower in every one.  A stalk of purple hyacinth for sorrow and regret.  A white clover blossom for remembrance.  A sprig of heliotrope for everlasting love.  And, a gold-hearted dark pink zinnia to invoke thoughts of absent friends.  What little remained of her heart had fallen to pieces and left her as tears.

A quick fluttering of her eyes blinked back the memory, and she gazed down the length of the hall from her place on her throne.  Her throne.  Creators, it was so pretentious.  She was grateful when she saw Josephine beckoning her with a wave of her hand and immediately rose to join her advisor.  “Inquisitor, I’d like for you to meet -,” and it was at that point she mostly stopped listening.  Of course, she smiled at the appropriate times, shook the outstretched hands, and thoughtlessly made pleasantries with Lord or Duke Suchandwhat, but she was distracted.  The voices that were always a hum, at minimum, in her head rose in volume, and while she couldn’t make out the words, an understanding settled on her.  Danger.  Her viridian eyes danced away from the dignitary before her, scanning the crowd gathered as she hunted.  Golden hair, the voices said, eyes like freshly turned earth.  A dagger.  Before she realized, she had turned away from Josephine, much to the woman’s dismay, and was pushing her way through the crowd.  She saw it, a flash of hair, a glance of the eyes.  Her body vibrated as she lost the figure in the crowd, and her expression scrunched in frustration as she shouldered her way through clusters of her guests.  She stopped almost dead center in the hall as the Well’s voices rose as one, ringing through her mind in a single, clear tone:  Behind you.  

The words of a spell were on her lips even as she turned and the air thickened around her as she raised a hand.  Time slowed, seconds ticked by like hours, as everything ground to a crawl.  An orb of concentrated force burst from her palm and caught, only a foot or so from her face, a double-edged dagger.  The collective gasp of those gathered brought time rushing back to her, and she sucked in a quick breath as she stared into the eyes of her attacker.  Cullen’s men, the commander himself, and Cassandra were all advancing even as she plucked the dagger from the air.  Before any of them could reach the man, a haze of smoke burst behind him, and a flash of silver opened his throat.  The fine nobles caught in the spray of blood shrieked, the ones that hadn’t fainted straight away, and stampeded toward the exit.  Fighting through them was like trying to guide a rowboat through a tidal wave, but when she finally broke free of the mindless throng, she found the golden-haired man dead and another struggling between Cullen and one of the guard.  Cassandra had drawn her sword down on the captive, who was still shrouded in a cloak and hood, and she barked, “Take him to the dungeon.”  The commander yanked on the man’s arm, and Niyera saw the white flash of a braid fall from his hood.  In her head, the voices murmured softly.  “Wait,” she said, breaking through the line of the guard.  She caught another glimpse, this time of a coppery-sheened leg guard.  The voices were insistent now.  “Cullen!  Wait!” she shouted, and the conveyance stopped short, the captive forcibly turned to face the Inquisitor.  

From within the shadows of the captive’s hood, the long tail of a white braid had escaped, and when she was close enough to touch him, she instantly knew.  “Abelas,” she murmured, slipping her hand into the hood to push it back from the elf’s face.  Pale golden eyes regarded her evenly, a small slip of a smile on his lips.  “En'an'sal'en, Inquisitor,” he offered in return, no longer struggling against his captors.  She glanced between Cullen and his guard briefly, “Let him go, Commander.  He is no danger to me.”  The soldier looked at his commander, and the commander looked to the Inquisitor.  “Niyera,” Cullen started, but Cassandra cut him off as she sheathed her sword and approached.  “She’s right.  He was at Mythal’s temple.  He and his people aided us against Sampson.”  Reluctantly, Cullen and his guard relinquished their hold on Abelas, and he straightened, adjusting his cloak back into place.  “’Ma Serannas,” the elf said, nodding briefly to Cassandra, then to the Inquisitor.  “It was you...back in Nevarra,” Niyera said, head tilting as she idly thumbed the hilt of the dagger in her hand.  “Indeed,” he answered simply, the distinct cadence of his voice seeming to lull the Well’s chorus in her mind.  

“I think I am owed an explanation,” she suggested, and from behind Abelas, Cullen quipped, “I think we all are.”  The elf didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder, but instead looked unerringly at the Inquisitor.  “You are, and I would give you one,” he paused, turning his eyes to the stragglers and gossip-mongers beginning to gather again in the hall.  “But, not here,” he finished.  She nodded her understanding, then passed a look between Cassandra and Cullen.  “If you both could, let’s clear the hall so we can address this matter,” she said as she glanced to the corpse bleeding out on the stone, “with a minimum of fuss.  And, commander, if you could double the guard and make a thorough sweep of the grounds.  The assassin got by us somehow, and I’d like to know how that was.”  The Seeker nodded, the Commander tapped a hand to his chest, and both stoically turned to go about their orders.  “And you, Abelas, come with me,” she said, motioning for him to join her as she started toward her quarters.

Without question, the Sentinel had followed her, and he stood watching her with reserved and impassive eyes as she settled on the couch.  When she crossed her legs, she motioned for him to join her, but he remained unmoving.  “I would rather stand.”  A quirk of her brow acknowledged the rebuff, and she folded her arms across her lap at the wrists.  “As you like.  I have to say, I’m quite surprised to see you.  I’d thought you’d gone,” she offered.  He was just as she remembered him, all stiff lines and upright stature, at ease with himself, but at the same time poised and ready.  Though, she had never seen him with his hood completely down.  Once, she’d seen the tip of his braid as he was chasing Morrigan to the well and again when he departed, but she hadn’t realized it was so long.  It fell in a neat plait from a shock white-blonde hair atop his head, which was shorn close on each side.  The vallaslin that gracefully arched across his brow trailed back over his scalp, terminating just above his ears, which themselves were adorned with several gold hoops and studs.  “I did go for a time.  But, I was called back.  It was...unexpected,” he replied, gilded eyes lingering on hers.  “Called?  By whom?” she queried, brow inching up a fraction as the Well’s voices rose above a hum in her mind.  

For a moment, he seemed surprised by her asking, then even that small hint of emotion slipped back behind the facade of his neutral expression.  “You, Inquisitor,” he answered simply, head canting to one side as he regarded her.  “Me?  I-,” and she paused, the chorus of voices in her head solidifying to one that she could clearly understand.  “Ah, the Well, you mean,” and she nodded her understanding as she stood from the couch and approached him.  His body shifted to keep her in his sights as she moved; it made the coarse fabric of his cloak rustle and the plates of his armor tink together.  “Is that why you were following me?” her eyes tilted up to his with the question, and the smooth gravel of his voice answered without hesitation, “Partially, yes.”  Her arms crossed as her brow lifted, “Only partially?  What is the rest of the reason?”  Placidly, he clasped his hands behind his back, and though there was certainly no smile on his lips, she could hear something of the smug expression in his words, “I find your security lacking.  I think you leave yourself unnecessarily vulnerable to attack.”  

She couldn’t help the huff of laughter, and the immovable lines of Abelas’s face finally moved, his lips turning into a deep frown and his brow creasing as it lowered over his eyes.  “I fail to see the humor in this, Inquisitor.  You were nearly slain in Nevarra.”  She waved dismissively as she pressed her lips down tight over the laughter, smiling reservedly before she finally spoke, “I’m sorry, you’re right.  It isn’t funny.  I was just imagining the look on Cullen’s face when I tell him this.”  One corner of the elf’s mouth quirked, “I will inform him, if you prefer.”  Niyera shook her head lightly, “I think I can manage, though you will have to be the one to detail the failings.”  The Sentinel nodded, but offered nothing further as she gazed across at him.  Silence stretched between them as she waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t, she shifted uneasily and cleared her throat.  “What are your intentions, then?  What are your plans after we talk to Cullen?”  The tone in his voice told her he hadn’t expected her to need to ask.  “I will be staying.  Your safety can obviously not be trusted to these shem.”

At first, Cullen had railed sternly against the idea of Abelas staying.  If he wanted to be of aid, why not just come to us?  “Would you have been any more accepting then?  This way, he’s already proven his worth.  He’s saved my life...twice,” she had reminded the Commander.  She thought perhaps Cullen was still a bit stung at having his defenses dissected by the elf, though every one of his points and suggestions had been valid.  With help from Cassandra, she finally convinced Cullen to relent, and Abelas was invited to stay in an official capacity.  He was assigned quarters, and Niyera took him on a tour throughout the keep to introduce him to the quartermaster, smiths and armorers, guards and healers.  

It had taken a while for the elf to settle in, though it wasn’t because of any outward indications.  Abelas carried himself always with poise and restraint, the strictest mask she’d ever seen worn outside of an Orleasian ball.  It was only in small moments when she caught him when he thought he was alone or unwatched that she could see his unease.  And, even then, it wasn’t so much a lack of comfort with his surroundings in particular, but perhaps a general unfamiliarity with being back in the world at all.  By his own admission, he and his Sentinel’s had slept for ages, and she could only imagine what it would be like to be thrown back into the middle of life unexpectedly.  Especially life outside of the temple where he’d spent the majority of his life.  

So, she tried to make it a little easier for him.  She might happen to turn up during meals to eat with him and keep him company or ask his advice on whatever she might be working on at the time.  She talked him into training her in swordplay, and this he seemed to take a considerable interest in.  Perhaps it was because it was something familiar, like the training of a new Sentinel, as well as being something that engaged both his mind and his body.  But, for the most part, he remained largely quiet and reserved, never divulging too much or getting too friendly, despite being courteous, if a little curt.  However, he was always especially mindful of the staff, and always treated them with the utmost respect.

After several weeks, she had noticed that Abelas seemed to leave small sketches in his wake.  Wherever he might sit for any amount of time, alone and thinking, there usually remained a small piece of parchment when he left.  Sometimes it was a scrap, sometimes the back of a missive.  They were like little windows of how the ancient elf viewed the world and recalled the past.  Some were architectural details of a clearly elven style, but in buildings and locales she’d never seen.  Some were portraits, both of people she recognized and those she didn’t.  Some were doodles, practice patches of thatched shading or textures.  So, she thought it only natural to procure a sketchbook for him while on a brief trip to Val Royeaux, along with a set of charcoals.  She had left the little bundle on his bed while he was in the courtyard aiding with the instruction of newly recruited bowmen, then went about her day without giving it much more thought.

At the end of the evening, however, after meetings were finished, dinner taken, and she had retired to her quarters, there came an unexpected knock at her door.  When she opened it, Abelas stood before her, the small bundle she’d left for him clutched in his hands.  He was dressed down for the evening, armor retired for the day to leave him standing before her in a simple tunic and breeches.  “Abelas, I-,” she started, surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so, before he cut her off as he offered the sketchbook and charcoals back out to her.  “I cannot accept this,” he said brusquely.  Her brows knitted together as she glanced down at the bundle then back up to his face.  “Why not?  You seem to enjoy sketching, and I just thou-,” she said, but was interrupted again as he extended his arms a little further out insistently.  “Because I do not...have things,” he said, a little haltingly as if he was explaining something that should be known.  

When she only looked on in confusion, he drew his arms back, took a breath, and draped the shroud of calm back over his features.  “Possessions are distraction, and I cannot be distracted from my duty.  It is unacceptable,” he explained stiffly as if reciting.  She gave him a small smile, but it was tinged with a touch of sadness.  “You are no longer bound to such duty, Abelas.  You are allowed,” she drew off, pushing the bundle back until it was pressed against his chest.  There was a ripple of something in his golden eyes that plucked at her heart as he unwaveringly stared at her.  The corners of his mouth tightened just slightly, and he nodded just once at her.  “Very well.  Enaste,” he said, with less tension in his voice than before.  She offered him a smile and said, “Ma neral, Abelas,” before he nodded again and retreated from her doorway.

She had barely closed the door to the undercroft when she heard a chorus of voices drift in from the courtyard.  The hall’s doors stood open, and a few people lingered on the upper stairs, gazing down at the courtyard.  She approached from behind, laid a hand on the shoulder of the nearest person, “What is going on?”  The man under her hand began to speak, but with a glance over his shoulder to her, quickly averted his eyes and bowed.  “Inquisitor.  The Commander and the Sentinel are going to spar.”  Her brows shot up sharply, and she muttered a quiet Excuse me as she began to push through the people to make her way down the steps.  When she arrived at the edge of the sparring ring, Dorian and Cassandra were standing close by, while Bull and a few others were on the opposite side of the ring.  “Inquisitor,” Dorian said in greeting, quickly following up with a cheerful, “Glorious day, isn’t it?”  It was no coincidence that the Tevinter happened to be watching Cullen shed his mantle and cloak before stretching his arms to settle the fit of his armor.  At that point, she realized it would be useless to ask Dorian, so she inclined her head to Cassandra.  “What’s going on here?  Was someone’s honor impugned?”  The Seeker made a noise that was only slightly less disgusted than usual and spoke without returning Niyera’s gaze.  “I don’t think so.  I think we just have a pair of lions fighting over the pride.”  The Inquisitor leaned her elbows against the wooden railing of the ring, offered a quiet ah, then proceeded to become a spectator like everyone else.  

Abelas was in his armor, but no cloak, and his long braid fell unfettered down his back.  Cullen stood across the ring, also in his armor, with a shield braced on one arm and a sword in the other hand.  “Blades, then?” the Commander called across to Abelas, who turned to the page who offered a silverite broadsword out to him.  The elf took the blade in hand, turned it one way, then the other, testing its balance, before glancing over at his opponent.  “I am used to wielding something considerably longer, but if this is what you are accustomed to handling, I will abide,” the elf said without even the slightest hint of mirth, though the crowd behind him offered up a mixture of laughter, jeers, and cheers.  Even Dorian uttered an appreciative Maker that was almost lost beneath the noise of the spectators.  She thought she detected a hint of blush in the Commander’s cheeks that hadn’t been there a moment before, and she couldn’t help but smile as she looked back to Abelas, who remained as stoic as ever.  He caught her eye, giving only the slightest inclination of his head, before he paced to the center of the ring.  Cullen eyed the elf as he joined him at the heart of the ring, asking, “Where’s your shield?  Someone get him a shield!”  Abelas raised a hand to halt the page, then shook his head at the Commander.  “I have been offered one, but I have no need.”  The former templar turned his gaze over to Cassandra, who only offered a shrug.  “Very well,” Cullen relented, tapping the flat of his blade against his breastplate in salute, and Abelas did the same.  

The dance began as a slow circling, each of the men graceful in their own way.  Cullen was a mix of carefully orchestrated steps, routine and discipline hardened over time until it was no longer a thought, but rather a series of coordinated movements that had become natural.  Abelas, on the other hand, was less tense and less formal, and his steps were more like a dancer’s.  His footwork had the look of a complicated Orleasian dance, but he executed it with exceptional ease.  The air in the courtyard had grown tense, the crowd calming to a low hum of whispers with the occasional yelp of a prompt to action.  Niyera found herself leaning heavily against the railing in anticipation.  Cullen was the first to strike, a shallow stroke that Abelas batted away with little more than a glancing brush of swords.  A few more steps around the ring, and the elf made his move, an upward swipe that Cullen barely deflected with his shield.  Then, the match had really begun.  Their swords were a constant ring of metal on metal as they pressed each other back and forth across the ring.  Abelas was a blur of copper and gold, and his lack of need for a shield was evidenced in his ability to dodge.  Cullen, on the other hand, drove the elf back and forth with authority, an assuredness born out of years of practice.  The crowd cheered and gasped in accordance with the match’s highs and lows, near misses and skillful parries holding everyone in rapt attention.  Off-handedly, without ever looking away from the men, Dorian said, “Thirty gold pieces on the Commander.”  With a lack of hesitation that surprised her, she answered with, “I’ll take that wager.”  Neither of them noticed the glance Cassandra cut between them.

The sun overhead beat down on the men, and both had broken out with a sheen of sweat with their exertions.  With a series of swift strikes from his sword, Cullen pushed Abelas to the edge of the ring, where he reversed to catch the off-balance elf with a slam of his shield that drove him to one knee.  The crowd around them rose up in cheer, and Dorian had a disgustingly smug look on his face as the Commander drove an overhead swing down at Abelas to finish the match.  Instead of defeat, Cullen found only disappointment as the elf braced an arm against the blow, and the sword met his gauntlet with a resounding clang of metal that sent sparks into the air.  Energy rippled along the coppery metal of the armor and forced back the blow, which set Cullen off-center.  In response, Abelas rose, body angled to sweep beneath the Commander’s arm and around, catching Cullen’s shins with his heel to knock him from his feet.  As the man fell, the elf snatched the shield from his grip and came fully to his feet in time to watch the Commander hit the ground on his back with a solid thud.  Cullen’s sword was knocked from his hand, and Abelas was left standing above with his own sword and now with the Commander’s shield.  There were a few whoops of cheering and a lot of clapping, though some of it more earnest than the rest.  Abelas propped the Commander’s shield against the rail before he offered down a hand to the man.  Cullen took it without hesitation and clapped the elf good-naturedly on the shoulder when he was on his feet.

Wordlessly, Niyera held out an open hand to Dorian, and the Tevinter dropped a small velvet pouch into her palm.  “Don’t be smug, Inquisitor,” he chided, and she smiled as she hefted the small bag.  “But, I didn’t say anything!” she protested.  Dorian cut his eyes at her, smirking, as he said, “Yes, but you were thinking it, and I could just feel it.”

[bloodxredxwolf]

The Fall of The Wolf Chapter 5

Solas paced the room, three books open on his desk, another in his hands. Sweat gathered on his brow as he silently mouthed the words he read. “How is this possible? And to have magic of that magnitude?” A knock on the door echoed in the room, followed by a small voice, “Solas? Is everything alright?” He stopped and slammed the book shut with one hand, looking up. “Virana, yes. Come in, I didn’t even hear you knock.” The young elf entered his study, the door closing behind her. She looked at the books on the desk, the papers on the floor, then Solas, his brow wracked with confusion. She approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “What’s going on? This isn’t like you.” He met her stare, smiling warmly in an attempt to play off his worry. “It’s nothing, Lethallan. I just had a very...unexpected dream. I thought perhaps it meant something, but I can find nothing.” The Inquisitor smiled as she kissed his cheek, catching him by surprise and causing his ears to tint red. “Well, if you’re sure it’s nothing, then I would like your help with something. My clan, Lavellan, sent word that one of their hunters has gone missing. My leader thinks she may be headed here since we were close before all this, but it is a long journey and I fear for her safety. While I travel to Adamant Fortress, would you meet some of Leliana’s scouts in the Hinterlands and search for her?” Solas looked down for a moment. “I rather expected to accompany you to Adamant.” Virana shifted before placing a hand on his arm. “Solas, they are binding demons to mages. If something were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself. It’s bad enough that I am at risk because of my magic, I can’t risk you as well.” Solas nodded, sighing deeply. “Very well, ma vhenan. I will do as you ask.” He reached for her hand. “Just promise me you’ll come back in one piece.” “Of course!” She smiled. “I could never leave you alone, Solas.” “This hunter’s name,” he called as she walked to the stairs leading to the upper levels of the castle, “What’s is it?” Her rose colored eyes sparkled. “Dayora. You’ll know her when you see her.” ************************** Fenris stretched as sunlight began to peek into the cave. He put his hands on his face, ran his fingers through his hair, even wiggled his toes as he smiled.. He was finally himself again and the feeling was surreal. He almost felt as if he had dreamed it all. He brushed his trousers off as he walked outside, squinting from the early morning sun. Ana sat on the edge of the hill, overlooking the trees and the fields. The gentle breeze played with her hair, as she sighed. “How was your first night as you?” Fenris stood beside her, taking in the greenery before him. He couldn’t help but smile. “Odd to say the least. After what felt like years trapped like a beast, it’s an odd feeling to wake up as yourself. Thank you, you did not have to break the curse, yet you did. Knowing it could kill you-” Ana chuckled, “Trust me, it will take a lot more than an ancient elven ritual to kill me. But you’re welcome.” Fenris sat beside her, knees level with his chest and his arms on top of them. “Can I ask why? My experience with mages has shown them to be selfish and deceitful, killing others without a second thought if it granted them more power. So why expend all your energy helping me when you didn’t even know me?” A coldness glazed over her eyes, but only for a second. It was as though she fell into a memory she tried desperately to forget. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to be locked inside a prison you didn’t ask for. Besides, we made a deal. I help you, you help me.” “You still have yet to tell me what it is you need help with.” Ana stood and began walking back to the cavern. “Nuh uh. One revenge plot at a time. I broke your curse so you could give that old magister what he deserves. After that, maybe I’ll tell you about mine.” “Ah, yes. That blood magic you used.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Confliction flashed across his face. “I was not aware you were that type of mage.” “That type of magic is the only reason you are restored. Blood magic does not always call upon the power of a demon, only weak mages use it in that manner. In its most basic form, it simply calls forth the magic directly flowing through one’s veins. That is what I did, no demon aid required.” “Magic and mages. I must be cursed, I can’t get away from it.” Ana looked at him, the deep scars magic left on his very core showing through his eyes. “I am not a magister. I am not a weak mage who summons demons in a poor attempt to gain power. I use magic to protect myself, to keep myself and any I care about alive. If you want to leave, fine, go. But if you stay, I will show you that magic does not have to be dark. It does not have to leave scars. It can help you kill the one who wounded you so deeply. Let me show you what a true magic wielder looks like.” Fenris paused for a moment, considering her words. “You saved my life, and your request is fair. I will stay, but before we go any further, I’ll need my sword. That bastard took it from me when-” he stopped suddenly and shook his head. “Let’s just go kill him.” Ana dragged her foot through the last of the symbols drawn into the cavern floor. “Well, then let’s get this show on the road. We know he’s in Redcliffe, so let’s go kill him.” Fenris grinned as she walked past him, her eyes meeting his. Was there an almost flirtatious glint in her stare? No, he must have mistaken it. He shook his head as he walked after her, his focus now on killing his former master. The walk to Redcliffe was short and silent. As they passed through the village gates, Ana stopped and looked around. They received the occasional odd stare or quick lookaway, nothing either of them weren’t used to. There was no sign of Danarius or his men in the market. “Let’s check the tavern. If there was anything my former master liked to do, it was drink,” Fenris growled. Ana pursed her lips, pushing them to the side. “Unless I’m missing something, such as you having magic, shouldn’t you get a weapon before you confront him? I doubt he’s going to hand your sword over to you, assuming he even has it on him.” Fenris glared at her. Dammit, she was right. “How do you plan on getting a sword with no gold?” She smiled at him, confidence dancing in her eyes as she gestured for him to follow her. She walked into the armory and to the wall lined with short swords. She pulled one down and swung it around, spinning it in her palm a time or two before tossing it to Fenris. He stared at it awkwardly for a moment. “It’s..not what I am used to, but I suppose it will cut his flesh all the same.” “Good,” Ana said as she grabbed the shopkeeper's hand. “You remember selling us this sword. A young married couple, the husband leaving for battle. Two customers with no definitive marks in their appearance.” The shopkeeper's eyes widened and he nodded. Fenris inhaled once, then a second time, a little deeper. “Is that lavender?” Ana tilted her head and smirked. “Impressive. Yes, that is how it tends to translate to the nose” He looked at her questioningly. “‘Only for defense’?” She sighed. “Fine, mostly for defense. It’s a unique ability I have. I can compel people to do whatever I want. Think what I want, say what I want. It’s a very handy ability, especially when used to avoid needless bloodshed. It is strongest through touch, but it seems to work in that a fog is created in which they are dazed and accepting of what I tell them. The only difference is that if I didn’t make skin contact, they just lose the memory altogether. For some reason it smells like lavender and lilac.” She shrugged as she walked past him, “Now come. You have a magister to kill.” As they stood before The Gull and Lantern, Fenris hesitated. Last time he had this opportunity it didn’t go as he expected. The memories of his betrayal flashed before his eyes as he gripped the sword hilt tighter. “Cold feet?” Ana joked as she crossed her arms. “No. Just-” he steeled himself. “Just didn’t expect this moment to ever arrive.” With that, Fenris raised his leg and kicked in the door. The few patrons scattered and screamed as they either ran for cover or jumped out the windows to escape. Fenris walked to the center of the tavern, Ana behind him. “Danarius! Show yourself, coward!” Fenris screamed. A few seconds passed before footfalls were heard from the steps leading up to the rooms. Fenris glowered as a magister came into view. “Ah, Fenris. It is so good to see you in your natural form again. So kind of your mistress to undo that spell for Danarius, I was worried we would have to sacrifice the rest of the slaves to have enough power to do it ourselves.” “Where is Danarius?!” The magister paused as the corner of his mouth tilted up while he turned to face Ana. “Have you considered my master’s proposition? A mage of your talent would do well in the Imperium. He has connections, he could offer you all the wealth and power you desire.” Ana leaned agasint the wall and shook her head. “I have no desire to give you a life that doesn’t belong to you. I broke his curse so he could kill your master.” The man sighed and shook his head as he held up his mage’s staff. “That is truly a shame. I’d hate to have to kill two remarkable specimens such as yourselves. Danarius won’t be pleased” “Enough talk!” Fenris yelled as he rushed the mage. The Tevinter flung his wrist at Fenris, a blast of snow and ice hitting him, pushing him back. He then spun his staff and slammed it down as ice surged from the staff’s base, covering the floor. Fenris struggled to keep his footing as he placed a hand on a table while slamming the point of the sword down, cracking the sheet of ice. Fenris cried out as he regained his footing and charged him again. He swung down, but he was blocked by the staff. Fenris was pushed to the side, a blast of ice, sharper than daggers raced toward the him. Fenris was able to dodge most of them, however one connected with its target, leaving a gash across his cheek. Blood ran down his face as he stood. “Magic.” He spat “Why not fight me like a man?” At the smell of blood, Ana stiffened. Her eyes flashed black while her markings deepened in color before reverting back. Danarius’s lackey eyed her with a sly grin. “Does your friend not wish to aide you? Or is the sight of blood too much outside of a ritual circle?” “Leave her out of this,” Fenris snarled. “Your fight is with me.” “Now what fun would that be?” he replied as he pushed his hand forward, fire erupting and heading straight for Ana. She stood upright, threw her hands up and pushed them forward, a wall of ice rising up and pushing towards the fire. Fog filled the room as the fire met the ice wall, the elements cancelling each other out. Fenris went to rush the magister, but he was no longer at the base of the stairs. He turned and saw him with Ana, his staff blade swinging up, aimed at her face. Fenris watched as she kicked the blade away, grabbing the magister by the throat and throwing him across the room. “He said, your fight is not with me. Come at me again and I will end you.” He smiled as he stood, showing his bleeding wrists. “Is that so? Foolish. Danarius felt the dark magic in your blood. Do you not know how easy it is to manipulate such blood? Danarius showed me how, just in case you became a problem.” Ana’s brow furrowed as he thrust his palm toward her. Immediately, she dropped to the floor, her hands on her head. She could feel her bloodlust fighting to come through, her fangs trying to rip at her gums. “Ana!” Fenris cried as he turned to his opponent. “What did you do?!” “Oh, just turning your friend into the weapon she is.” “Fenris, kill him!” Ana growled, her head on the floor, nails digging at the wood. “I...can’t...fight it! Kill him before I redefine why this place is called ‘Redcliffe’!” Fenris grabbed a bottle off the table nearby, breaking half of it. He rushed the occupied mage, throwing the broken glass. He cried out as the edges connected with his forearm, turning just in time to see Fenris leaping off a table, coming down on him. He moved to dodge, but found himself backed against the wall. “No, it can’t be-” he whispered as Fenris’s blade hit the staff from the magister’s hand and pierced his shoulder, running through his flesh and into the wall behind him. Ana screamed again, her eyes black, her body trembling. “Kill...him! He’s...controlling...my magic!” Fenris turned to his enemy and smiled as he leaned beside his ear. “ I truly revel in the feeling of your blood on my hands.” The man grunted as Fenris’s hand pierced his chest, ripping his heart from his rib cage. The body fell limp as Fenris dropped the heart onto the floor, accomplished satisfaction brandishing his face. He turned to look at Ana, her body limp on the ground. He pushed the chairs aside and knelt beside her, brushing her hair from her face. “Ana? Ana, wake up!” He said as he lifted her head into his lap. She moaned and grimaced as she regained consciousness. She opened her eyes, her golden irises shining. “Fen...ris?” “Yes, I am here. Are you alright? What did he do to you?” “Blood.” Fenris tilted his head, confused. “I need...blood. Whatever he did...please. I need to feed.” She turned her head to the dead magister, his blood pooling on the ground. She reached, crawling from Fenris’s lap. Her hair had become dull, her skin rough, her lips dry and cracked. Fenris watched as she crawled to the body. His face twisted into a combination of confusion and disgust as her fangs emerged and she sank her teeth in. It wasn’t long before her appearance improved and her strength returned. After a moment she stood, angled away from Fenris, afraid to meet his eye. “If you want to run, I understand. Seeing me like this wasn’t part of the deal, but I promise you, I am no monster. I wasn’t always this way.” Fenris hesitated. He could hear the twinge of shame in her voice. The expectant fear that he would run for his life. But something in him told him to stay. He couldn’t explain why, but he didn’t fear her. If anything, he was curious though still very disgusted. “I’m going to search his room while you get cleaned up.” Ana waited for Fenris to disappear up the stairs before looking in the large mirror behind the bar. She grabbed a cloth off the counter and wiped her face. Why wasn’t he running? Surely he hated her now. More importantly, however, how did that mage draw out the beast within? How many more mages are capable of immobilizing her like that? She heard crashing upstairs and turned. She was at the top before the rag even hit the floor. She walked cautiously toward the room the sound came from. She heard no voices, no sounds of struggle. As she rounded the door frame, she saw Fenris, armor on his chest and shoulder reminiscent of feathers, metal claws covering his fingers. In his lap lay a large sword, grooves etched into the blade glowing yellow. “It’s a Blade of Mercy. It was given to me by someone I once called friend.” Ana stood silently and watched as he sheathed the greatsword on his back. “We should probably get out of here. I would rather not have to cut my way through the rest of the village.” ******** The sun had just begun to set as Ana and Fenris reached the top of the small mountain they were climbing, Redcliffe several hours behind them. The trek was mostly in silence, Fenris suggesting they find a place to camp being the first words spoken since they left. They found a small area, shaded by trees, but open enough that nothing could sneak up on them. Fenris gathered some stones and placed them in a circle, wood standing in the center. Ana sat and watched as he struck two stones together repeatedly, attempting to start a fire. She chuckled as she leaned forward. “May I?” Before he could even answer, she snapped her fingers and flames ignited from beneath the wood. Ana sat, her knees against her chest, watching the fire dance wildly. Fenris shifted his gaze from Ana to the fire, then back again. He struggled with whether he should speak or sit in peace. Finally he decided to break the silence. “They left some provisions in the packs I took. There’s enough for both of us if you wish to eat.” Ana shook her head. “I don’t-I can’t. No, thank you.” Fenris sighed. “You don’t have to tell me your life story, but will you at least tell me why you needed to drink his blood? That is unlike any sort of blood magic I have ever seen.” Ana sighed, still refusing to meet his eye. “I don’t know. I just do. It’s not ‘blood magic’ in the sense of which you speak. I just remember that I woke up surrounded by strangers in a forest I didn’t recognize and everything was different. I craved it in the way you crave meat or sugar. It’s a food source for me. I don’t do it for pleasure.” “What do you mean? Were you attacked? Did someone make you like this?” She hesitated. “I don’t remember. I have glimpses, I remember being betrayed by someone, but not much else I just- when I woke up I was different. I could hear things, heartbeats from those around me, I could see for miles in an open field, I could move so fast that nobody could see me. I couldn’t eat food. I craved blood, I needed it. If I don’t drink it, I’ll die.” “I have never heard of such magic.” Ana scoffed as she smirked. “That’s because I’m the only one of my kind. The land I woke up in, it’s distant. Far past Seheron and the Amaranthine ocean. The elves would call me ‘vunal din’, which means ‘living death’. I guess that got twisted along the road because before long, they were calling me ‘vampire’.” Fenris looked back at the fire and hissed as some ash landed on the open wound on his cheek. “I can help with that too. It looks painful.” He met her eyes for the first time. “In case you weren’t aware, I’m really not enthusiastic about magic.” She shook her head as she knelt beside him. “It’s not magic, per say. Maybe just a benefit to being whatever I am.” She bit her finger, blood dripping into the grass. Fenris watched warily as she slowly pressed her bloodied digit against his wound. To his amazement, the gash began to heal. It was seconds before the pain and injury were both completely gone. “See? Not a total monster.” Fenris touched his face in awe. “Why did you decide to help me?” Ana sighed as she returned to her spot on the other side of the fire, stretching out and laying her head on her arm. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to have a fate thrust upon you that you didn’t ask for. You didn’t ask to be trapped in the body of a dire wolf.” She met his eyes. “I kill people, I feed on their blood, but I’m not a complete monster. Sometimes the beast inside sleeps and I remember what it’s like to feel.” Fenris stared at her, taking in everything that had just happened. He watched as her eyes never left the flames. Part of him wanted to hate her, afterall, she was a mage, but she used her magic to help him when she didn’t have to. She was a killer, but so was he. Beyond a killer, WHAT was she? One thing was certain, he had never met someone like her before. **** Ana’s eyes slowly opened to voices in the distance. She sat up as her blurred vision began to clear and shook her head. Why was everything green? Why was there a waterfall flowing toward the sky? “Is this the Fade?” “Inquisitor!” “Is everyone alright?” Then, a voice she recognized, Hawke. “The Fade looks so different from the last time I was here.” Ana walked through the ankle deep water surrounding the little dirt mound where she had awoken. Before her was a flight of stairs, at the bottom, a small group of people, including Virana and Hawke. She watched as they conversed with a spirit in the form of The Divine. After a moment, the spirit vanished and the group began to venture forward. Ana followed behind, walking down the stairs, staying just far enough behind that she didn’t raise suspicion. “Man, this isn’t right.” a large Qunari said as he shivered and looked around. “I did always have a slight curiosity as to what the Fade looked like. Not that I ever truly wanted to visit physically, unlike some of my countrymen.” said a dark skinned mage with even darker hair. Ana followed them until the spirit appeared again, this time followed by a deep, booming voice. “You can’t defeat me. Your fear only makes me stronger. Even now, things creep in the shadows without your knowledge.” “Do not listen to him!” the first spirit cried. “He grows stronger when you are afraid.” Suddenly the group stopped as a dark silhouettes climbed down the walls and rushed toward them. Ana froze as the shadows took the forms of twisted elves, each holding a dagger aimed in her direction. The mage and the Inquisitor began casting spells while the qunari began swinging his two handed axe wildly. Hawke and a man in armor emblazoned with griffons began defending the flank. Ana watched as they cut through the creatures, one by one until the last one curled up with a screech. “Wait! Behind us!” the mage called out as he threw an arcane bolt in Ana’s direction. Ana leaned back, easily dodging the blast before stepping out from her place of concealment. She held her hands up as she approached the group. “Not a spider, you can calm down.” Immediately, Hawke narrowed her eyes. “You!” Ana raised her eyebrows. “Hawke! What a surprise to see you here.” Hawke clenched her fists and rushed Ana. “You murdered Merrill! I’ll kill you!” The edges of Ana’s mouth tilted up in a small smile. “Murdered? I assure you, she cast the first spell. It was merely self defense.” Hawke growled as she swung her dagger down at Ana, who stepped aside, easily dodging the blow. That only enraged Hawke further. She spun, lifting her heel at the last moment, connecting with Ana’s jaw. Ana staggered backwards, struggling to keep her balance, one hand reaching back to the ground, the other holding the place where Hawke connected. Ana’s head whipped around, her hair dancing in her eyes as she snarled. Her claws extended and she charged Hawke, swinging at her cheek. Hawke tried to evade, but she wasn’t fast enough. Blood dripped from Ana’s fingers as Hawke held her hand against her wound. Steeling herself, Hawke stood and prepared for another attack. “Stop!” The Inquisitor’s voice echoed through the canyon. Ana and Hawke froze, their eyes turning to the elf. “We have more important things to worry about right now. How are we going to get out of the Fade and away from this fear demon if we are too busy fighting amongst ourselves?” “I quite agree.” the other mage said as he stepped forward, a hand stroking his chin. “Whatever your vendetta is against this young woman, it can be settled once we are out of this dreadful place.” “I want to know how she got here,” the man in griffon armor mused. “We fell in through the tear at Adamant, but you...I don’t recognize you.” Ana cocked her head to the side, inhaling deeply. “I don’t know. I woke up and heard you all talking. I figured if this was the Fade, and you were real, maybe we could all help each other return to reality.” “Alistair, this woman is a murderer,” Hawke growled. “She deserves to rot in here.” “If I may, we’re all killers. ‘Murderer’ is just a matter of context,” the qunari interjected. “As far as I’m concerned, we should take all the help we can get.” “Fine,” Hawke said as she brushed herself off. “But this isn’t over. We will finish this fight and I will avenge my friend.” Ana dipped her head. “I can’t wait.” “I’m Virana.” the Inquisitor said, reaching her hand toward Ana. “This is Dorian, Iron Bull, and Alistair, the Grey Warden.” Ana looked at her extended hand for a moment before grabbing it. “Ana.” Before she could say more, the ground began to shake and the spirit guiding them began to sound worried. “Hurry! We must not linger! It knows where you are now!” Virana nodded, waving her hand forward. They could see a breach in the distance, a fortress courtyard on the other side, but nobody knew how long they had before it closed. As they drew closer and closer to the exit, more and more nightmares came for them. To Ana, they were spiders, but each member saw something different. Ana paused as they came upon a gate made purely of magical energy. She could sense the dark and enormous power that was the nightmare. The spirit broke the barrier and issued them a warning before turning to Virana. “Tell Leliana, I failed her, too.” Before them stood a creature roughly the size of a mountain. Ana stood in disbelief as it laughed, a horror appearing between the group and their exit. Virana, Alistair, and Hawke charged the creature while Bull and Dorian fought off more spiders. Ana watched, debating on where her place was in this fight. As if hearing her thoughts, the Fear demon turned its attention to her. “You’re right. You don’t belong here. And you never will. Just like you didn’t belong with your clan, or their clan. Neither did you have a place in his world.” Ana jumped as she felt hands grab her shoulders, but saw nothing. Ana! ANA! Echoed around her. She grabbed her head as everything became blurry. ANA! ANA, WAKE UP! Everything went white. As her vision cleared, she saw Fenris’s face above hers, his mouth moving and his voice distant but growing closer. “ANA! WAKE UP, ANA!” She sat up and looked around. She was still at the camp with Fenris. In the ground were claw marks along with a small amount of blood. She touched her face and felt soreness fade from where Hawke had kicked her. Confused, she finally turned to Fenris, worry spread clearly across his brow. “What happened?” “I think you were dreaming. You were tossing and turning, clawing the ground. You kept yelling ‘Hawke’ and ‘Inquisitor’.” “No. No, that was real. I was dreaming but...I was there.” Suddenly she grunted in pain, her head rushing into her hands. Visions danced before her eyes, as if memories long forgotten, or buried, were trying to break through. She saw a young girl sitting in the woods, a young man with a single brown braid hanging over his shoulders sitting across from her. “Lethallin, I can’t do it. I can’t connect with the spirits like you do.” “Of course you can, vhenan. You just need to concentrate.” the man replied, a kind smile holding back a chuckle. “Now, hold my hands and try again.” The girl pushed her black hair out of her face and closed her eyes, grabbing his hands. “Fine, but this is the last time. I really think you’re just trying to make a fool of me” “Focus. Concentrate. Feel the energy of the spirits, the grass, the trees. Open your mind.” The two were quiet for a moment before the girl let out an excited gasp. “I see us! Lethallin, I see us! It is as if I am a spirit outside my body!” She opened her eyes and threw her arms around his neck. He smiled proudly as he embraced her tightly. “Congratulations. You are now a Somniari, a dreamer.” Ana lifted her head up, gasping for air. She looked to Fenris, who was still clearly worried, and shook her head. “What is happening?” he asked cautiously. She paused. “I’m not sure. I think-I think my memories from before the Breach are returning.” “Your memories? I didn’t realize you had lost them all.” “When I awoke, I knew what I was, and I knew who locked me away, but not why. I’m starting to remember the ‘why’.” Fenris waited a moment, his eyes on the dying embers of the fire. “Where are we headed?” “Skyhold.”