#'how can everyone be a Hahren??!? who's the head Hahren??'

[attractthecrows]

god i wish i had the knack for comics. i'd be doing oc comics all goddamn day. id be unstoppable

[psalacanthea]

A lil’ bit more of Solas hanging out with the Arainai-Mahariel-Tabris kiddos (and their mom).  Just a blood mage and a traitor god teaching four year olds about how change requires suffering.

Adaia   Ashalle  Cyris and Tamlen

...

Liana glanced up from her food as Cyris and Tamlen came barreling into the Skyhold kitchen, the courtyard door thrown wide.

The servants glanced over, but when it was only the Inquisitor’s children, they went back to work.  Much like Lia herself, her children had become an expected thing, as all of them preferred to use side entrances and be out of sight, rather than marching through that big noisy hall.  She wished desperately that there was an alternate exit to her rooms, but alas.

Her nearly four-year-olds were both scuffed and red-faced, but Zevran had kept his word and they weren’t muddy.  When they came to a stop at her side, Cyris beaming delightedly up at her, she returned the smiles and tilted her head.  The twins shared a look.

“Yes, loves?” she prompted.

Like usual, Cyris took the lead.  “Mumae, Tamlen wants an earring.”

“Can Tamlen tell me that’s true?” she asked, and then sighed and reinforced when the twins immediately looked at each other again instead of at her.  Creators that could be frustrating.  “I need Tamlen to tell me himself, please.”

“Tamlen says–”

“Cyris, let him speak for himself,” Lia interrupted chidingly, and turned her attention to her solemn, blond-haired, golden-eyed son.  He looked, much to everyone’s eternal amusement, almost exactly like his papa Zevran, but was the quietest and gentlest of their children.

All of their da’len were rather pragmatic apart from Tamlen, who would cry over a crushed flower and agonize over every mistake.  Instinctively, all the other children tended to protect him.  It was sweet, but it would make things difficult when they tried to do everything for him.

Tamlen nodded, eyes serious and calm.  “Yes.  Cyris too, mumma.”

“Like papa an’ da!” Cyris agreed, voice scaling up in excitement.

“Well, we’ve had this talk before, and you know the rules.  I will do your ears, or just one ear, but when you say stop, I stop.  Because it will hurt.  If you’re ready, you’ll be able to sit and not say stop for the whole time.  Yes?”  Lia smiled at their shared nod, giving one of her own.  “It’s okay if you need to cry, you can even yell!  Nobody likes pain.  But if you want to wear earrings, there has to be pain.  Yes, cubs?  Do you understand that?”

She got her ‘yes mamae’s before she would relent.  Lia had known this would happen eventually, all of the children loved to emulate their parents.  An earring wasn’t too far, in her opinion, they were so young that even if they healed the ears with magic, they would still grow over in time.  There was no reason to say no.  

Well, she doubted either of them would actually manage to go through it, but she’d been surprised too many times by children to rule it out.

Especially hers.

“Well, let us see if Hahren has time to help us,” she decided, before gathering up her chicks.

Once she’d retrieved her kit and informed Derry and Zevran of what was happening (and they’d bet on if the twins would go through with it), they found Solas and asked if he would come be their healer.  Lia was annoyed with the necessity, but she’d promised herself to limit her blood magic usage when in Chantry custody.  Every time she called it custody she knew Leliana would get annoyed, which might have been why she was still saying it.

They’d even forced her to be Inquisitor, she’d say what she wanted.

Things were…rocky between her and Leliana.

Solas seemed interested in the proposition, and they adjourned to a nearby balcony, where there were no witnesses to berate her for piercing her four year olds’ ears at their request.  Humans could be odd.  Even some city elves– their grandfather Cyrion still would fuss over the idea of the children getting tattoos.

As if she would deny them a perfectly reasonable request.

Clasping the brightly-dyed, felted piercing kit her foster mother had made for her, Lia gazed down at her sons, crouching before them as they sat on the balcony.  She met Cyris’ fearless brown eyes, and then Tamlen’s sober golden ones.  They still seemed steadfast, though Cyris was upset because he wanted a ‘ring earring, not a dot’.  But she had her limits, and risking a ripped earlobe on a four year old was one of them.

“Now,” Lia said once they were settled, Solas standing by with curiosity, his hands clasped behind his back.  “It is time for an important speech, because you decided you’re old enough for this, yes?”

The twins looked at one another, and then Cyris nodded firmly.  Lia waited, though, until Tamlen nodded as well.  It wasn’t hesitance, just his usual habit of forgetting that he had to speak for himself.  She returned the nod.

“You did not choose your body.  You were born with it, yes?”

“Not like Cole,” Cyris said, as quick as always.  “Cole was a spirit, mumae.  Like Justice!”  He confided this with the air of someone sharing a great secret.

“Mmh.  Like your friend Justice.  But we are talking of your bodies, little mischief.  A body is important for many things.  It keeps you safe, and can keep others safe, and helps you take care of others.  It lets you make life, like mamae and papa made you.  It lets you experience joys spirits do not understand.  Like sweets, and swimming–”

“An’ frogs,” Cyris interrupted, gleefully off-track as usual.

Creators, they were probably too young for this talk, but it had to be done.

“And frogs,” Lia said, and she knew she hadn’t hidden her exasperation as much as she’d wanted, because Solas smiled faintly.  “We must take care of our bodies, so it can bring us joy.  But sometimes our bodies don’t look the way we want, so we change them.  With clothes, art, or jewelry, or even bigger things, like when Uncle Gaharan from clan Lavellan removed his breasts.  Do you remember?”

Cyris shook his head, but Tamlen nodded hesitantly.  That was fair.  They hadn’t seen any of the clans since they were newly turned three, and a four year old’s memory could be quite short.  

“Do you remember when Tamlen cried because we had to cut off some of his hair that got caught in the bramble?”  This time she got very emphatic nods from both of them, and even a little tearing up from her most sensitive child.  Cyris took his hand firmly, a little protective gesture that softened her heart as always.  “It hurt Tamlen’s heart, but things like tattoos and piercings hurt your body.  Earrings will hurt.”

“A lot, mumma?” Tamlen asked nervously.

“It will.  To change is difficult,” Lia said, lifting the needle in two fingers.

“Mumae, does it hurt the frog?  To be frog?” Cyris asked, little voice stilted by his concern.

Lia understood why it was coming up again– Derry had told her frogs and tadpoles were a current obsession for Cyris’ very hands-on curiosity.  Very well, if frogs it had to be, frogs it would be.  “To change from a little pollywiggle to a frog?  I don’t know if it does, but…growing up always hurts a little, I think.  Do you think hurting a little to have legs and to be able to jump up is okay or–”

“Yes!  Up, up, up!” Cyris agreed, throwing both hands into the air.

“Sometimes to gain something we desire, it hurts,” Solas said quietly. 

Tamlen nodded, voice quiet.  “It’s trade.”

Lia beamed, all the more amused to see Solas’ proud smile as well.  She knew they would wriggle through his defenses eventually.  She’d known it all along.  He had a temperament to get along with children quite well, if he let himself.  Which he had.

“Very good, da’len.  You understood very well,”  Solas complimented Tamlen, who glanced down and fidgeted with his fringed belt shyly.

“When Addie got her t’too, mum said it’s trade for hurt, Hahren.”

Lia flushed, embarrassed to have been caught out.  Solas lifted his gaze slowly, and gave her a condescendingly knowing look.  With a little huff, she rolled her eyes to the side.

“Well, perhaps I’ve given this speech before,” she admitted, ignoring his silent laugh.  Creators.  It wasn’t like she could be blamed for some repetition, she was trying to teach the same things to four very different little people.

“Adaia has a tattoo?”  Solas asked, both eyebrows raising.

“A small one, in a spot that will be easy to cover over when it stretches as she grows,” Lia dismissed, finding it silly to hear Solas say things she’d heard a thousand times from Derry’s side of the family.  “Her da and papa are covered in them, it’s natural to her.  If a child is prepared for the consequences and the discomfort, who am I to say no?”

Solas didn’t bother to hide the subtle smirk that curved up the corner of his wide mouth.  “Their mother, perhaps?  She is only six, Lianalle.”

Lia lifted a hand and flickered it in dismissal, annoyed with him for the very rare usage of her full name.  She knew he did it on purpose.  Smug old man.  “A tattoo does no harm but the pain of receiving it.  Besides, it will be good practice to know what it feels like, for when she receives her Vallaslin.”

Solas’ silence was sudden and profound.  She glanced sidelong at his face, absently using a hand to pull Cyris away from the balcony’s edge.  Although Solas’ face was placid, there was a sudden tension in the muscles at the back of his jaw, a curiously pained emotion in his eyes.  He was hiding something.

She followed his gaze down to Tamlen, who was sitting on the floor still holding Cyris’ hand, gazing at his twin with a small, gentle smile.

Why did it give Solas such an uneasy expression?

“I'm going to poke your fingers with the needle,” she informed her sons.  If Lia was right, that would be enough for one of them to give in, which would make the other one give in.  “If you can stand the finger poke and still want your ear afterwards, I will do your ear.”

“And I will heal you,” Solas agreed.  They shared a look, and he shook his head slightly at her, obviously amused.

She wasn’t as certain as him that they would give up after a single poke.  While neither of them was nearly the bulwark of stubbornness that Adaia was, nor as carefully thoughtful, they were quite adventurous.  For four year olds.

They both took the needle to their cautiously outstretched finger quite well, though Tamlen immediately teared up when he saw the little drop of blood.  Luckily his brother was there to kiss it better, and then Solas to heal it afterward.  Much to her surprise, however, it was at that point that they diverged.

Usually when Tamlen decided to back down about something, Cyris would immediately follow him.  But this time, after their small twin conversation that involved more significant looks than words, Cyris decided he wanted to keep going.  And Tamlen…was all right with that, instead of immediately bursting into tears.

She was rather proud of them both for that choice.

Of course, she only got halfway through piercing Cyris’ ear before he gave up, left with a little bloody hole that Solas healed over.  Thankfully without judgment.  Solas seemed highly amused by the whole process, but interested as well, as she’d rather thought he would be.  

It was an endlessly fascinating thing to watch children learning the rules of life.

When the boys ran off after she dried their tears, unharmed and declaring they would be ‘brave enough soon’, Lia opened the soft felted case again, gazing down at the gleaming needles.

She had no doubt they would be ready sooner rather than later.

“Liana…”

“Mmh?” she asked, glancing up at Solas as she rose from the stone, knees chilled.

“The Vallaslin…” he trailed off, but not out of awkwardness.  More because he knew just how far to push her by now, she thought.  His face was still perfectly composed when she met his measuring gaze.

“Were you going to say something about ‘Dalish nonsense’ again?” she asked him mildly, not worrying too much about it if he were.  By now, at least, she felt comfortable scolding him.  “I thought we already agreed not to have that fight any more.  I let my children call you Hahren, Solas, don’t make me regret it.”

Solas chuckled faintly, the sound a hint strained.  But when she glanced sidelong, his face was placid, and his voice even as he spoke.  “I wonder, as a mother, do you ever fear that the teachings you impart to your children may be…wrong?”

Lia considered that for a moment, and then took a moment longer to filter it through her understanding of his mind.  He thought her gods a farce, or worse, dangerous.  He found Dalish culture to be a misshapen thing because it did not conform to the truths he thought he had seen in the Fade that contradicted it.  Yet he could not truly understand Dalish culture.

How could he educate that which he didn’t first understand?

She knew that he was earnest that the Vallaslin was what bothered him, but wouldn’t doubt for a moment that there was more to his distaste than the process of tattooing young people.  “The details may not all be correct, and I will make mistakes, and pass on some of the mistakes that were taught to me.  But what I worry about are the things the world will teach them when I am not there to protect them.  So I suppose, Solas, the best I can do is teach them to understand the world, how it works for ones such as they, and why it is better to live in it with kindness, nobility of spirit, and resilience.  So that when I, or their fathers are not here, they can pass through the trials and suffering of this world with those qualities intact.”

“Resilience.  Well, their mother certainly exemplifies that quality,” Solas said with an incline of his head.  And then he chuckled.  “Fathers as well, though with a great deal less…dignity.”

Lia laughed, not needing to argue that point with him when he was so very correct. “Zevran and Darian are far more good-hearted than I, however.  I am not kind.  Perhaps that’s why I need them both, to anchor me.  You know, if you found someone to temper your need to always be correct, falon, you might be a good father yourself.”

“You claim I require a partner to correct me?  Do you not find that sentiment as distasteful as I?” Solas countered, raising an eyebrow.

She hid her amusement that she’d needled him.  “Everything we do and everyone we meet changes us, doesn’t it?  Life isn’t a road, and it isn’t a lonely one.  It’s a pond that is constantly shifting, surface rippling with even the most delicate of contacts.  Everything we are touched by changes us, in curious and unexpected ways.”  Unbidden, she glanced down at her marked hand, forehead furrowing as she flexed her fingers.

Solas’ voice eased, softening as it always would when they spoke of her difficulties with the Anchor.  “You would know.  This is your second world-ending cataclysm, after all.”

“The Blight was…different,”  Lia said, troubled as always.  Would that saving the world twice followed the same pattern– she would have preferred it.  “We were so young, and we never had time to look at the scale of what we fought.  It was not so entangled in complications and Thedas-wide politics.  They claim they need these politics to garner the forces we–” She cut off, swallowing her many tearful, terrified speeches that she had only shared with her husbands.  Face and mind calm; emotions should not be so easily shared.  “I fear what ripples I am being forced to make.  And for whom I make them.”

“Yes,” Solas said, an echo of many other conversations they had engaged in, once she had trusted him enough to be honest.  His voice was sober and quiet, thoughtful.  “But necessity must drive us, da’len.”

Lia shot him a sidelong look, lips pursing.  “Da’len?”

“Ir abelas,” Solas said, with the faintest twitch of his lips.

She narrowed her eyes at him.  “You should be calling me hahren.”

“I beg your pardon?” Solas scoffed.

She lifted a needle, spinning it in her fingers.  “Will you be brave, then, Solas?  I’m here prepared, but with nothing to pierce.”

“I find myself in no need of decoration,” he replied, eyeing the needle in her hand.  “We struggle through a time of great change, and there are enough without my adding to them.”

“Or you could embrace the change, and let yourself change as well, falon.  Even if only a little, and frivolously.  In a way that brings you joy.”  With a sad smile she tucked the needle away into the felt case, voice slowing.  “Joys are in short enough supply.  We must take what small ones we can.”

Solas was quiet for a time, but when she glanced away from the vista of distant mountains to his face, there was a ghost of a smile at the very corners of his eyes, nearly reaching his lips.

“Perhaps another time,” he said quietly.

With a small nod, she turned back for the door, slipping the woven leather cord around the case and tying it securely.  She had a foot past the threshold when Solas spoke again.  She was pleased to hear a hint of humor in it.

“Were you aware that your husband cheats at cards?”

Lia smirked to herself, tucking the case into the front of her tunic.  “Oh my, yes.  Zevran mentioned you’d demanded another game.  He will cheat again.”  That thought was tinged with overwhelming affection.

“And he will lose,” Solas replied with calm confidence.

“I look forward to seeing it.  It will doubtless be very entertaining,” she said, smiling to herself as she departed.

A small joy– a brief reprieve from the pain.

[thevikingwoman]

(Talesfromthefade) Goldenrod, marketplace, the gloaming, streetlights?

Thank you! This is a very old prompt, but I'll use it to follow up on an even older story :P. For @dadrunkwriting.

Set after Dirt, where Solas proposes to Iwyn while visiting her clan after they reunited. For those who don't know, Branwen is Iwyn's little brother.

Fandom: Dragon Age. Words: 685

Solas x Iwyn Lavellan, Iwyn Lavellan & Raina Lavellan | post-reunion | romance, friendship Rating: G. Love, family, friendship.

Soar

“So, how you doing? Really doing, Iwyn?”

Raina puts their drinks down, and sits down across from Iwyn. The table, tucked away in a corner of the marketplace, was miraculously empty when Iwyn found it. Solas is off getting their food, leaving Raina and Iwyn alone. That was probably on purpose, though Iwyn isn’t sure if Raina or Solas orchestrated it.

“I’m good, Raina. Everything has calmed down a little. I still get invitations for Orlesian nobles, or the Enchanters College, or something else, but Skyhold is thriving. We have had so many elves come to live and work there.”

She’s proud of the work she’s done, leveraging her influence to create a free city, for Dalish and City Elves both. Humans, Tal-Vashoth and dwarves are welcome too, but mostly it’s a place where no one should live in fear.

Raina takes a sip of her beer.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean it’s good, Iwyn, it’s great. I’m going to visit and all, but how are you? And you know…”

Raina tosses her head towards the market’s food stalls, her curls flying about her head.

“Solas.”

“Yeah. The guy who left you, leaving you angry and depressed and I don’t know what, in a way I’ve never seen before. And who apparently is the thing the Keeper; all the Hahrens, warn us all about.”

“Solas is not a thing.”

“You know what I mean, and don’t deflect.”

“I was fine, it was – we needed to work things out.”

“You might have fooled everyone else, but I know you Iwyn. I’ve known you forever. You weren’t really calm.”

Raina reaches across the table, and squeezes her hand.

“If you’re that good at knowing me, then you should know we’re good now. It’s good.” Iwyn glances across the bustle of Wycome Market, elves and humans mostly, but others too. Solas is a shadow in the twilight, bald head and broad shoulders, waiting for their Antivan flatbreads. “As for the Dread Wolf thing – even after everything, it’s hard to understand. Living, sleeping, for so long. I don’t expect it will be easy for others. I just want to protect him.”

“Oh, Iwyn.” Raina threads her fingers through Iwyn’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nice to him. As long as he doesn’t hurt you again, of course.”

“Thank you.” She pauses. Somehow it shouldn’t feel like a big deal, when they’ve chosen this path together in so many other ways, but somehow it is. “Solas asked me to marry him. Last night.”

“What? Are you serious? What did you say? Did you tell anyone? Congratulations! When is the wedding?”

Iwyn laughs, happiness bubbling through her. She agreed with Solas not to talk to anyone yet, but Raina is her oldest friend, and while she knows she will win her family over, it might take a little work. She’s happy to have Raina in her corner.

“I did say yes, and we didn’t tell anyone, yet, and I’ve no idea. About the wedding.”

“Yay!” Raina launches herself halfway across the table, embracing Iwyn. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Hello? The food is ready.” Solas puts down the flatbread, mouthwatering smell of tomato and basil and bread around them.

“Congratulations!” Raina exclaims.

“Ah. Thank you.”

“I told her,” Iwyn says. She kisses his cheek.

“Mmm, I’m starving.” Raina pulls a slice of bread from the tray and takes a bite. Brandishing the piece at Solas, she continues when she’s done chewing. “If you hurt her again, I’ll chase you across the void, Dread Wolf.”

“Noted.”

They eat for a while, enjoying the food.

“So you haven’t told Branwen, yet? Or your parents?”

“No. They’ll come around though,” Iwyn says.

“Maybe we can send a letter?” Solas asks.

“No,” Iwyn says.

“Don’t worry. You got me in your corner now,” Raina says.

“Thank you, Raina.”

Behind them, the lamplighter uses his magic on the streetlights as they sputter to life. Iwyn kisses Solas again, and he blushes. Life continues around them, laughter and beer and somewhere someone plays a fiddle. No one pays any heed to three elves sharing a meal.

[choccy-zefirka]

While yeeting off my AO3 to start over, I found this ficlet I wrote for @sky-scribbles ! In it, my Maedhros Lavellan is the companion to their Elera Lavellan.

This is foolish. Bizarre. Uncalled for.

He should never have allowed the idea to take root. To grow within his mind — rustling with ceaseless whispers. Scraping demandingly at the back of his skull. Till he could stand it no longer and had to leap up. And take off. And march in broad, purposeful strides across the wilds, while the milky mist lapped against his waist, and cloaked his shoulders, and condensed in sweat-like dewdrops on the stem of the unlit pipe that he kept chewing at with a quiet ferocity.

He should never. Should never have heeded the rustles, the scraping, whatever.

He should have just stayed put at Skyhold, where he has been graciously allowed to stay as an agent of the Inquisition.

Should have minded his own business.

But fenedhis, that's his problem, isn't? He never does mind his own business.

He presents himself as this grumpy forest hermit type.

Morose, taciturn. Glaring at people through strands of greying red hair that he has been growing out for Creators know how long. Claiming that he gets a headache from being around anyone everyone except for Blackwall (oh, that human knows the value of silence; of just sitting there, breathing in the tangy pipe smoke, and working with your hands, at a pace that is steady and measured like your own heartbeat).

But he never properly acts the part.

He never stays away from the crowds, the people, that he claims to hate so much.

Even before he joined the Inquisition — getting it into his stupid old head that they might have use for more hedge mages with a penchant of strangling people with hostile plant life — he would always keep emerging from the dark, well-like depths of his beloved woodlands. To shame shemkind. And stay the hand of those who would hurt one of the People, vallaslin or no.

Or those who would hurt a less fortunate shem, for that matter: some cowering, sniffling farmboy behind with his rent to a whip-happy landlord; or a maid in an all-too-tight corset that detests the squeezing hand upon her breast but cannot afford to lose the position that helps her feed her family.

And when he sees someone like that — someone vulnerable, someone suffering, someone cornered by a greed-swollen, spider-like shem that will look so good impaled on conjured brambles — he just... He forgets that he is supposed to mind his own business.

This has earned him the reputation of a “Wandering Keeper”.

A legendary figure; little short of a new-age god who, when summoned, will punish those who wronged you, and guide you down a winding forest path to a place where you can start anew.

Oh, Dread Wolf's matted gut fur — he detests that title!

He is no Keeper. Not any longer.

His clan is gone, murdered by a demon through his own negligence. He does not deserve to be called that — Keeper, hahren, guardian — just as he does not deserve the markings of Dirthamen. Etched into his cheekbones long ago, they were once bright emerald-green like the woodland realm of his ancestors, but now have turned pale against his sun-bronzed skin. Sometimes, desperately, blasphemously, he wishes they would vanish completely.

He is no Keeper — but when he was... It was his job to remember. To follow the guidance of Dirthamen. To pass on what scant knowledge of the old ways that he has been entrusted with, and make certain that the da'len absorb it.

And this is what has been bothering him, he supposes. Finding a way to pass knowledge to Inquisitor Lavellan.

She holds her ground just fine, that stout-hearted da'len. With skin as white as the silken fur of the halla, whose goddess's markings weave across her brow. And hair as pale and brittle as the dry, wilting grass that carpets the cliff-framed badlands that the People still remember as Dirthavaren, The Promise, and the humans call Exalted Plains — because to them, apparently, the torment of other gods' children is something to exalt.

She holds her ground just fine. And woe is the fool that would dare think otherwise.

Woe is the growling demon, or sneering cultist, or lumbering husk of vile red crystal that thinks a blind woman would make easy prey.

She holds her ground just fine. Though rendered sightless by the same condition that makes her so pale and painfully sensitive to sunlight, she holds her ground.

She perseveres.

She fights, a deadly whirlwind of green on the battlefield, a sight that often makes poor Blackwall choke on something unsaid but very definitely awestruck, his face red like an exceedingly hairy tomato.

And she explores, and she learns.

She never ceases to study the world. Both worlds.

She delves into the Fade, where the spirits build clear images for her, on the foundation of her childhood memories, left from a time when her world still had colours in it.

And she takes in the sounds and the smells and the textures of the waking realm.

The textures. Yes. The textures.

Any artifact of the Elvhenan that they find on their journeys, every etching with ancient text and every fragment of a shattered statue, she can study by touch, passing her long white fingers along every crevice, every notch and every bump on the grainy stone surface, with her face turned up and set into an intent, almost stern expression.

She has it covered; she holds her ground.

But what worries him are those bits of timeless legacy, left by the elves of old on their landmarks before their grand empire crumbled, that cannot be rebuilt within her mindscape by sheer touch.

Those bits of legacy that do not have three dimensions. That do not have etched writing or prominent sculpted details. Frescoes. Depictions of gods' visages, and majestic forest beasts that render their aid when treated with respect, and scenes from the gatherings of the People. Bold chalky lines, seeping through the canvas-like cliffsides.

Frescoes are flat, and if you pass your hand across them, the only thing you are going to feel will be rock. Coarse and porous, with an occasional sharp, protruding bit, moist and fuzzy with moss in some places, and warm like an oven in others, where the afternoon sun lingers the most.

Touch will tell you — will tell her — all of that; it will tell the story of a rock. But not the story of the

colours that it bears. And for him, that is unfair.

Because human hunters and soldiers see these frescoes every day, as they make their way along the twists and turns of the faint, semi-nonexistent pathway in the shelter of the cliffs: to stalk game or to scout the movements of their “enemy” (the very same humans, just ones that wear slightly different heraldry in that civil war of theirs).

They see these frescoes, and pass by them, unaware of their meaning. While a Keeper's First, whose job, when she completes her training, will be to remember, sees nothing but pitch blackness, and feels nothing under her hand but sun-kissed stone. That is not right; that has to be fixed!

And she is perfectly capable of fixing it herself. She can just visit the Fade around these cliffs, and study the frescoes to her heart's content. This ought to be enough for him; he ought to mind his own business.

But he never has.

Instead of making himself useful at Skyhold, he ventures out into the mist. And revisits each of the ancient Elvhen sites that the Inquisitor and her companions have encountered. And sits down, cross-legged, in front of each fresco, his pipe puffing, his eyes squinting through the spectacles that Lady Montilyet has kindly procured for him — ah, Lady Montilyet... A rare human with both sense and grace. Beautiful and unreachable like a golden sunrise. Ah. Never mind.

He sits, and he smokes, and he carves, the motions of his knobby fingers practiced and precise.

He takes little chips of wood, no more than half his palm in size (and after all the excess has been chiselled off, even smaller than that), and copies onto them the images on the stone before him, turning them into miniscule reliefs.

A halla with antler like the tangled canopy of an age-old tree, forever frozen in mid-leap. A great bear with a gaping toothy maw, trampling the undergrowth outlined in simple circular shapes. A hunter watchful on a hilltop, his body traced in a single flowing contour from which only three things stand out: his bow, the gull wing spread of his eyebrows, and the half-moon indentations to mark his eyes.

He recreates them all, adding volume and dimension and form that can be studied by careful touch of pale fingertips.

He completes one carving after the other, until he is left with an entire necklace of them: a string of sculpted tablets, to always wear around the neck. To always remember.

He does not know if he will ever give the necklace to her. If he will at least leave it in her quarters, and then ask Blackwall — whom she trusts more than anyone else — to place it into her hand next time he drops by to see her, and explain what it is.

He does not even know why he has bothered to go through all of this.

It is a foolish notion, after all. Bizarre. Uncalled for.

He is not a Keeper, passing on what he has discovered to an eager First. He is not even a respected hahren, sharing insights into the life of the ancestors. He does not deserve to call himself that.

It is no longer his job.

And yet.

[silvanils]

Interview with your OC

Thanks to @noire-pandora​ and @morganlefaye79​ for the tags!

Introduction

Can you introduce yourself?

I’m Ashiran Talin Lavellan, but most of my friends call me Ash. I’m also known as the Inquisitor, Lord Lavellan in certain circles, but I’m still not particularly used to that. It gets stuck on my tongue.

What are your gender identity, orientation, and relationship status?

Haha, are you serious? That’s a bit nosy of you. But if you insist… I’m a man who has enjoyed the company of many different sorts of people, but I am very happily taken by a wonderful man from Tevinter.

Where and when were you born?

I was born in the Green Dales in 9:16 Dragon. I was fourteen when the Fifth Blight happened in Ferelden and twenty-five when I became the Inquisitor.

What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?

I use daggers or a bow, depending on the situation and terrain. I’ve always been pretty stealthy and good at hand-to-hand fighting, but I’ve really honed my close combat skills during my work with the Inquisition.

Lastly, are you happy?

Absolutely. Things could be better, of course, but that’s always true. I’m taking things one step at a time, and enjoying every day as it comes.

Family and friends

What’s your family like? What is your relationship with them?

I have three younger siblings: my sisters, Saeris and Tamaris, and my brother Isasha. They’re all much younger than I am, so I was a third caretaker for them when they were small, but we get along well despite the years between us.

Tamaris wants to be just like me, and Saeris is such a little tease. Isa’s a bit shy and skittish in general, but he came to me a lot when he got scared and wanted someone to be there with him.

My parents, Faron and Sena, are the clan’s head craftsman and Keeper’s First, respectively. They’re both always pushing the boundaries of their crafts. They always used to joke that I got the best of both of them - my mother’s wisdom and my father’s bravery.

My father also has siblings who still live with his original clan, and my mother has family in Wycome — but I don’t know any of my distant relatives very well.

Have you ever run away from home?

No, never.

Would you consider marriage or having children?

Yes, on both counts. I’d like to tie the knot whenever my lover is ready for it, and… maybe once things settle down, we could talk about raising a child together, too.

Do you secretly hate any of your friends?

No? If I hated someone, I wouldn’t call them my friend.

Which friend knows everything about you?

Well, I’ve told Varric and Dorian plenty of stories, and Leliana and Bull are good at gathering information even when I don’t tell them things… So, those four would probably know the most about me. But I doubt anyone knows everything about me.

Asked by fans

Are you literate? Have you been to school?

My mother taught me to read and write, and I studied a lot of different things with our clan’s teachers and hahren. Ultimately, I chose to apprentice as a hunter, but my parents still taught me about their trades as well.

The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?

I’m not sure if this counts, but not long after we came to Skyhold I told Cassandra that historians would probably try to forget I was an elf and she told me that was preposterous. Then, when we were investigating the Jaws of Hakkon I started to think “well, this feels familiar.” So I told Cassandra “I think Ameridan was like me.” And I was right.

What is something you were embarrassingly late to realise?

My father likes to embellish stories and make up silly stories just to entertain the little ones. This only dawned on me when he started telling stories to my little sisters, and I was already about fifteen then. I called him out on it when they were asleep and he just ruffled my hair, pinched my nose, and told me I was still a “silly little wean.”

Of course, he did grow up near Arlathan forest, and that place does have some weird shit going on. So, who knows. Maybe his stories are all true, and I’ll be embarrassed again later...

Do you have mental or physical problems?

As far as I know I’m mentally sound. Of course, I am under constant stress, worry about a lot of things, and have mild social anxiety, but it’s nothing I can’t cope with. Physically, the anchor is my worst problem — it does hurt sometimes.

What is your current main goal?

To keep the peace and mend any rifts that still remain. It’s… no easy task. I’ve had less trouble getting little children to behave.

Choices

Drink or food?

How is this a choice, exactly? A person needs both to live?

I will say my favorite drink is coffee and I love a good hearty stew with meat and tubers. Or sweet pastries. I probably enjoy those a bit too much...

Cats or dogs?

Cats, though I never had one of my own before coming to Skyhold.

Optimist or pessimist?

Optimist, usually. I think it’s better to look on the bright side and remain hopeful that things will turn out all right, even if you have to be prepared for the worst case scenario.

Sassy or sarcastic?

A bit of both — it depends on the situation.

Have You Ever

Been caught sneaking out?

Oh, yes. Several times. My family lived in a little aravel, it was nearly impossible to sneak out without waking someone up. It was a bit embarrassing, sometimes, all things considered. My father eventually told me I might as well stay over with my lover instead, if this was going to continue happening.

Broken a bone?

Yes. I snapped my left arm falling out of a tree, once. And I fractured my right femur when I slipped in a shallow river. My mother was able to heal my femur because she was there when that happened, but I broke my arm when I was out scouting. She was able to mend it once the clan caught up with me, but the other scouts had to set that one for me.

Received flowers?

A girl at an Arlathvhen once gave me a whole bundle of wildflowers to let me know she liked me. And a pinecone, for my hair, later. Ithelan used to bring me moss and mushrooms he grew himself, which was awfully sweet of him. And one night, Dorian brought me flowers, wine, and chocolate all at once because I’d been teasing him about wanting to be properly wooed.

That was nice, though. Very nice.

Ghosted someone?

Not intentionally. I wasn’t exactly able to reach out to my family for a long time after the Conclave, and a LOT happened in that short span of time...

Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn't get?

On occasion, but I’m not very good at it. Everyone always seems to know.

[noire-pandora]

Continuing with the prompts from this list. Also on ao3.

Edit: I decided to also submit this to genuary 2021 event.

Picnic.

Words: 1804

Warnings: Elluin will go hunting in this piece. While there aren’t graphic descriptions, keep in mind to avoid reading if the idea bothers you. Thanks! 

The sun shone above the Hinterlands, no cloud on the bright blue sky. The birds trilled their song, and Elluin found herself smiling at their joy. 

She travelled at a slow, steady pace, her horse strolling proudly, as she and three companions made their way back to Haven. Master Dennet offered to the Inquisition the best horses, and now they could travel faster and safer. She enjoyed riding, feeling the muscles of the horse move under her, and appreciated the bond between a rider and a horse. 

Slowly, Elluin got lost in her thoughts, mesmerized by the beauty of the nature, rocked by the calm movement of the horse. She found herself at peace, after weeks of worry and running around. 

“Can we stop already? I’m hungry!”

Sera’s voice woke Elluin from her reverie, and she sighed. She almost forgot about them. 

“We cannot,” Cassandra quickly retorted. “We need to get back to Haven as fast as possible and tell the others we will get the horses, we don’t have time to waste.”

“But we already sent a raven to Leliana, she already knows! We’ve been riding for four hours, my butt hurts and I’m hungry!”

Cassandra scoffed and opened her mouth to reply, but Varric chimed in. “She is right, Seeker. I doubt we can ride faster than a raven can fly. We’re hurrying for no reason. And my butt is starting to get sore too.”

“No!”

“But--!”

“ We should ask the Herald” Solas calmly intervened, pointing towards Elluin as she rode a few meters ahead of them. “You do listen to her judgment, Seeker.”

Cassandra glared at Solas for a second but she cued her horse to move closer to Elluin’s.

“You do believe I am right, no?”

Elluin smiled and tugged on the reins to stop the horse. She jumped on the ground and looked around, scratching her head.

“I think Sera and Varric are right. It’s midday and we have five hours until we reach Haven. If we take a break now, we will reach it in time for dinner.”

“But, Herald, the task--“

“We finished our task, Cassandra. We got the horses and the stable master. The raven already reached Leliana. All we have to do is to get back and I see no rush with that. Plus, the horses need a break. Master Dennet will kill us if we overwork them."

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose and nodded, defeated. “As you wish.”

“Finally,” Sera exclaimed. “I need to pee so bad.”

Elluin giggled and shook her head. She turned towards her horse to tend it. The horse’s mane felt soft to the touch, and she ran her fingers through it.

“What are we going to eat, Sparks?” Varric asked as he looked around the meadow, the sun forcing him to squint his eyes.

“I’ve seen a few rabbits in those bushes up ahead. I think there are a few rabbit nests there. I’m quick enough to try to catch a few of them.”

“Rabbit stew sounds good to me”, Varric smiled, patting his belly as it grumbled.

“Then you could set up a small camp while we are away. Is that ok with you?”

“Sure, Sparks, on it.”

Elluin looked around for Solas. He tended to his horse, removing its saddle, and spoke with it in Elvhen.

“Since you’re already doing it, Solas, could you take care of the other horses, please? Make sure they are fed?”

“Of course, Herald,” he confirmed and bowed his head.

“Ah, wait! When Sera comes back, can you tell her to gather some wood?”

He nodded again, too concentrated with feeding the horse.

“You and me, Cassandra, we’re going hunting!"

Cassandra just nodded, and Elluin noticed the irritation written on her face. In this short time span she spent with the Seeker, she learned  the warrior didn’t like to be contradicted.

They walked in silence, Cassandra’s scabbard clinking against her hip as she stepped. Elluin hummed, loving the stroll in the grass, eyes focused at the rabbit's nest ahead, waiting for any signs of rabbits running around. They hid in the bushes next to the nest and waited.

“Are you all right there, Cass?” she asked in a low voice, careful not to alert the will-be lunch.

“Yes.”

“You know, you’re a tough person, Cassandra and I admire that.You learned how to control yourself and pushed your body to withstand any pain. You are a mighty warrior, you have fought dragons and saved the Divine. You have travelled all around Thedas and I’m sure your butt won’t get sore anymore, travelling for hours and hours on a horse."

She squinted as a rabbit left the burrow, sniffing the air, looking around for any predators. Elluin’s body tensed, ready to jump at the first opportunity. The rabbit suddenly retreated to the safety of its den.

“The thing is,” Elluin continued, her body relaxing once again but her eyes never leaving the burrow. “Varric and Sera aren’t warriors. They can’t do the things you do. They can’t ride for hours and hours without stopping and eating.”

“You’re not a warrior and I didn’t hear you complain,” Cassandra whispered back, annoyance in her voice.

“That’s because I’ve been travelling since I was nineteen years old. The dirty road has been my home for so many years, I got used with being uncomfortable. But Varric and Sera are the usual people, used with taking it easy. They aren’t ready to push themselves right now. In a few months, they won’t have any problems with sore butts. We need to be patient with them. Being on the road so often isn’t easy for someone who rarely left their cities. You know Varric loves Kirkwall, he told us how much he hated leaving it.”

Cassandra sighed but said nothing. They stayed in silence, hidden in the bushes, still looking ahead for any movement. After ten more minutes, Elluin tsked and shook her head. “Right, time to do this the hard way!”

She rolled up her sleeves above her elbows and left the bush. She strolled towards the rabbit's nest and crammed her arm inside, her chin touching the ground. After a few grunts and grimaces of pain, she withdrew her arm, a small rabbit struggling to escape her grip.

“Aha! Here, hold this one, Cassandra! Hold it by its ears so it won’t bite you! Gotta find another one.”

Cassandra watched with wide eyes as Elluin went in for another one. A few minutes more and her hand emerged once again, another rabbit yelling and struggling to run away.

“Right, I think this will do. Let’s get back to camp and ready our meal,” Elluin said, her hands and clothes soiled with mud and leaves.

“How did you do that? I have never seen anyone do it!” Cassandra asked, amazement colouring her voice.

They strolled back to the camp, Elluin proudly smirking. “Every Dalish knows how to do this. We’re taught how to hunt since childhood, in case we end up lost from the Clan. The priority of the Hahren is to make sure any child can fend from themselves as they grow up. I’m not that good at it, but at least I won’t die of hunger.”

“I see. Impressive.”

They walked in silence again, Elluin not daring to bother Cassandra, visibly deep in thought. When Cassandra frowned, it was safer to let her be.

“Thank you, Herald. Sometimes I forget how hard it was for me at the beginning.”

“No harm done,” Elluin replied, relief washing over her. Cassandra wasn’t mad anymore. She could breathe in peace.

Cassandra and Elluin took care of the lunch, the stew steaming and spreading a delicious smell. Even Solas, who rarely cared about food, seemed eager to taste it.

They sat on the ground, around the fire, eating and slurping the food, none of them talking.

“Hey, Chuckles, do you wanna hear a joke?” Varric asked, breaking the silence.

“Do I have a choice, Master Tethras?”

“Nope, not really. How about this one: how do you get a squirrel to like you?”

“I do not have the faintest idea,” Solas said, sarcasm in his voice.

“Act like a nut.”

Silence. Only a small snort escaped Elluin’s lips.

“Oh, c’mon, that was funny!” Varric said, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine, here’s another one: What do you call a row of rabbits hopping away? A receding hare line!”

“Ugh, Varric, this is even worse than the first one. You have bad jokes,” Cassandra chimed in, rolling her eyes. “No one likes your jokes.”

“I liked this one. It was funny because we’re eating rabbits. Get it? Rabbits,” Sera replied, laughing with her mouth full, a few droplets flying in the air.

“Please don’t encourage him, Sera!”

Elluin watched their exchange, a small smile tugging at her lips. It has been a while since she could just sit and enjoy the company of others. She slowly learned to appreciate her companions even if at first she didn’t trust them. They were loud, had bad jokes, but they were there to help her. She wasn’t alone anymore.

“Jolly crowd, eh?,” Sera asked, conspicuously leaning towards her. “It’s almost like a picnic. We’re missing the fancy blanket and the expensive glasses, but this is nice.”

“Yes, it is. Never had a better picnic than this one.”

“You did well back then, you know. When you told Cassandra what you told,” Sera continued, as she bit from the meat, the juice dripping down on her chin and spoke again, mouth full with meat. “She forgot not everyone is like her.”

“Where you spying on us??”

“Nah," she stopped for a second to swallow "I was close and I have good hearing. I thought you aren’t made to be a leader, but now I’m doubting that.”

“I’m not cut to be a leader, Sera, I have no idea what I’m doing!”

“Your no idea is working well. Look at them, how happy they look. Even that sour face Solas is smiling. You did well.”

Sera slapped Elluin on her back, but she retreated fast, her voice going up a notch. “Why are you looking at me like that, eh? Please don’t tell me you’re going to start crying!”

Elluin laughed, wiping the corner of her eye. “That means a lot to me, Sera. Especially coming from you. You’re leading a secret organisation. It’s almost like my mother praised me.”

“I’m not your mother, you’re older than me, you weirdo!” she yelled as she smacked her shoulder. “ Don’t you try to hug me or I’ll cut your fingers!”

“ But I want a hug now!”

Sera yelled and got up, running around them to dodge Elluin as she chased her for a hug. The others laughed and shook their heads, not bothering to yell at them to stop. And all this time, Elluin’s smile grew bigger and bigger.

[traci0417]

So I had an concept that just exploded in my head & I have to post this somewhere. No idea if this has already been done, but please let me know if it has so I can tag stories like it.

V long post- sorry. I’ll add a ‘read more’ if I can.

[spoliers, trauma, angst, alt trespasser ending, abandonment, found family ect - Youll get it in a min]

•Imagine if the inquisitor was a child. A little slip of an elven girl no more than 12. Who was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. Her mother, a scout for her clan who wanted to bring her too curious daughter to see shems In person.

•Cassandras heart cracks at the sight of the kneeling prisoner in the cell. They didn’t even bother restraining her, the chains slipped off her thin wrists any time she moved. She’s a child! A child! Cassandra looks down, and the girl looks up at her with too big, too green bloodshot eyes. The tear stains on her face finally break Cassandras resolve, in the best way she can, she kneels, & as gently as Cassandra can, she asks “What happened?” The girl hiccups, her face crumples into another sob, and in between gasps she tells her all she knows.

•The trek up the mountain is no easy feat on a good day- So nevermind adding holding the hand of a little elf and fighting demons in the mix. But they do well, the girl doesn’t get in the way or scream every time an attack comes to close- then halfway up, the girl picks up a discarded mages staff, “So you are a mage?” The girl looks up at the seeker, cracking the first smile the woman has seen from her ,”With arms like these, I don’t think I’d do too well with a sword.” Cassandra gives a rare chuckle, ”no, I suppose not- are you proficient enough to defend yourself?” The elf stands straighter, “yes ma’am” “Then you must protect yourself well- we still have much to go.” And they continued.

•When Solas sees her- he feels something shoot him through the heart- grief? Remorse? You are only a child, I am so sorry, I have put you on a path that was not meant for you, you survived only for me to set you on the path of death once again. He is so angry, so enraged, it was not enough for Fen’Harel to damn his world, but in order to set it right he has to put a burden too great on a child? There is no atonement for what he means to do- but every time he sees that green glow on too small hands- he truly feels like the monster that this world thinks he is.

•Back at haven, she is getting more life back, her spirits are high despite the odds, She asks too many questions, but no one can deny her. Every time they see her flit about the encampment, smiling and laughing with the soldiers, the blacksmiths, no one knows how they should treat her, the herald, so they treat her as a child. She sits with Lilianna while she is writing messages, asks if she can help, and lilianna gives a gentle smile, because no way the girl can copy down & understand the codes needed, “I think just you being here helps” and the girls smile is filled with such joy that the spymasters heart aches- after she leaves, and goes to ask Jospehine, Cullen, Varrik, Blackwall, Bull & Solas a million questions- they all th ink the same thing after she turns in for the night. A child must bear this burden- we are so sorry for the pain that you must go though- we are so sorry that we cannot help you more, you were not meant for this path, but we will protect you with our lives.

•Despite the odds, she saves everyone. Haven is destroyed, she faced an arch demon, but she lived. The small settlement blooms with newfound hope because the herald is back. Solas holds her hand while she sleeps on the cot, healing magic Long spent, but he cannot bear to leave her, he underestimated her, she sacrificed herself, this little elf barely even 12, had saved them and faced against the abomination- Solas is in awe- he vows to protect her better. The advisers looked to her cot, seeing her sleeping body, tears running down their faces, although no one says anything about it, they’ve never been so relieved. They all vow to protect her better.

•Although the ceremony is symbolic, and the sword is taller than her, she accepted. Did her best to keep the sword steady.- but, naming her inquisitor was something they never wanted to put on her.

in the war room, hours before the ceremony had taken place, Josephine, with teary eyes and a lump in her throat, looks at red faced Cullen & Cassandra, who have been screaming at her for the better part of an hour. (“How could we even consider this!?” “She is a child, she has already done enough for us!” “We cannot possibly put more responsibility on those shoulders!” “Isn’t this needlessly cruel?”) Josephine stands taller, even though she has never felt so small,”I cannot think of a worse thing to do to her- but to name her inquisitor gives us a political edge, if we do not have a clear appointed leader, we will not be taken seriously- and to not name the only one who can close the rifts, the herald of Andraste, the inquisitor- would be political suicide.” “Damn the game!” Cullen bellows, “no amount of coin or favor can be worth what we are putting her though!” Lelianna has stayed silent, but as Cullen finishes his outburst, she clears her throat, and whispers, “we must.” And with that, the fight leaves the advisors, and despair replaces it.

•She loves freely, as only a child can, despite the sorrow. She triumphs, she charms, she is one of the strongest mages Solas has ever seen. She calls him Hahren & he calls her Da’Len. She never strays far from him, and it is clear to all that she loves the apostate & there is little Solas can do but love her just as much. it could just be homesickness on her part- but the attachment that she has formed with the mage, one cannot help but think it is that of what a daughter forms with a father.

•Solas is weak against her, as is everyone, but Solas in particular. Which is ironic considering he tried everything to put up a boundary between them- he knows how this will turn out- but he is helpless against the too curious, too bright eyes. He has infinite patience for her, her constant questions, her empathy, her aptitude for magic all pull at him. No one teases him for it. Although, one day, as he was walking through the courtyard, Iron Bull ran to him, “Solas! You’re daughter is on the roof- mind getting her down before Josephine bas a heart attack?” Solas’ heart flipped, he was not the childs father- the furthest thing, in fact, but he found he did not have it in him to correct the qunari.

•Despite her gentle nature, they have sharpened her into something to be feared. It haunts them, but they did not have a choice. She always helps, always saves, seems to always make the most righteous judgements- but as Adolescent, 13 now- she is growing before their eyes. Sometimes even going on missions alone(she lets Cole come, of course). No one says anything, but they all see how Solas & her circle leave on horses a few hours after she departed because “they need to check on something.”

•At 13, she charms the courts, Halamshiral was a success and Josephine couldn’t be more proud. Solas could nearly see her in the parties in arlathan, His daughter did so beautifully that he knows she would be the most feared, but he Tamps the thought down, it hurts to think about.

•Dorian and Sera love her more than they thought they could love anybody. She teaches them to look beyond themselves. They are her closets friends, and when it all becomes to much for Da’Len, they do their best to make mischief, so she never forgets to have fun as well.

•ever since she was 12, she has called Solas ‘Father’. It is a sweet pang in his heart every time, but he does not stop her. Just like no one stops her when she calls Iron Bull ‘uncle’ or lilianna, “Aunt”. But Skyhold does notice when the spy master is in a particular good mood for weeks, or how uncharacteristically quite Bull is after that.

•She defeats Corypheous, and Solas tells her how proud he is as he holds the broken orb, that he needs to go to do something important. And that he will be back. She begs to come with him, tells him to wait, that she is his daughter and fathers are never supposed to leave, & it is the first time she sees her father cry, she begs him to wait, but when he turns around. He is already gone,

•2 years have passed and she is 15. She is turning into a great beauty and an even greater mage. Her people worship her like a god, despite her protests. Ever since Solas left, Cullen and varrik have taken up the mantle as best they can, though they know it’s not enough, & Josephine teaches her all she knows, then lelianna teaches her how to hide it. They have done there best despite the worst and she knows that, the seeker is her closet to a mother though, with all of her harshness, she would do anything for the growing elf.

•The exalted council flurries past, she saves everyone yet again, but she is dying, and Da’len knows it. Her anchor is melting down and she tells everyone that she loves them- that she had the greatest family, that she was so grateful to help. She goes through the eluvian alone, leaving her patched up family screaming and crying behind her, to do this one last thing

•Fen’Harel was not prepared. He did not account for how much it would devastate him to see his daughter again. Hunched over in pain, the anchor killing her and oh maker it’s all his fault- but she still looks up at him, her face older, more wise, beautiful, she smiles a bloody smile, “Father, I‘ve missed you so much .”

•Fen’harel swallows down a sob, kneels before her, calms the anchor slightly, “My daughter, I suspect you have questions.”

•she lunges for him, wrapping her arms around his neck in the first hug he’s had since before he left her, “Father, I’ll never ask another question again if it means I can come with you.” He never heard her beg for anything, but she’s begging now. “Let me stay with you, Please never leave, not you, not again.”

•Fen’Harel was always weak when it came to his Da’Len. He carries his daughter through the eluvian, and together they’ll try to build a better future, for everyone.

[5lazarus]

Anders in Autumn, Ch. 11

inspired by @cozy-autumn-prompts, number 11, hay ride. it was really that prompt that prompted the whole plot. I can extrapolate wildly! Check it out on AO3 here!

The elf has the blade of her staff right at Varric’s throat. Varric, of course, has his finger on Bianca’s trigger. Merrill looks absolutely despairing. Lavellan is staring at her, not the dwarf, and she does not look pleased. Her lip curls into a sneer, and the temperature rises uncomfortably hot for such a cool evening. Anders shifts. She must be a fire mage. “Varric,” Fenris warns, “put your crossbow down.” “Her first,” Varric says, not moving an inch. Merrill begins backing towards the door. “You good, Daisy?” “Oh, Merrill is always fine,” Lavellan sneers. “Clan Sabrae’s runaway First always comes away her hands clean, doesn’t she? Tell me, child, does the alienage hahren know you consort with the likes of him?” She jerks her chin at Varric. “She let you do the burial. You’ve dishonored the dead.” “I didn’t tell anyone anything,” Merrill protests. “Stop patronizing me! I’m barely younger than you, Imladris Ashallin. You have no right--” “I have every right,” Imladris snaps, “Marethari is dead because of you! And you’ve wiggled your way into the Kirkwall alienage. You should face the consequences of your disgrace.”

Anders raises his hands. He is beginning to sense he is losing track of the plot. First Fenris in his bed, well, sitting on his bed, then the grief and mess of Kirkwall and surviving, and he’s killed a guard, at least he did it with a sword, and now even more mess: it has been a long fucking night. Before he can open his mouth, though, Varric snorts. “Don’t you elves ever play nice?” he says. “I’m not here for your man. Not yet, anyway. The Merchants’ Guild doesn’t know his name. Yet. Put your weapon down.” The Dalish woman twists the grip of her staff, and Anders has had enough. He steps in. “This is a clinic,” he snaps. Justice is pushing behind his eyes, and lending his voice a reverberation. “No fighting. Both of you, calm down. I’m not having more bloodshed today, I’ve had enough.” Varric sighs. “Bad choice in friends, Blondie.” He lowers Bianca and steps back. Lavellan shifts her stance, but Anders can feel her twisting at the ambient magic in the room. Merrill is staring at from the other end of the room. His patients are beginning to stir. It isn’t right, they’ve been through enough, and he’s not having whatever Merrill’s made wreck through his shop. “I don’t even know who these people are,” Anders lies. He knows that they are agitators from Clan Lavellan from Wycombe, that they are Fenris’ friends, that, for the moment, they are his too--comrades, more than Varric is. “You know more than me.” Maybe Varric will volunteer information. He is feeling very clever. Varric eyes him: less clever than he thinks. He tries to deflect, a classic strategy he would employ in the Circle. It was always fun to mess with the aequitarians and the traditionalists; maybe that was why they all hated him. “Maybe Merrill can help.” “Yes,” Fenris says darkly. “Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.” He is angry, vibrating with tension, and Anders leans into his heat. The elf has not reached for his sword once. “I didn’t sell you out,” Merrill snaps. “I never did. Just because I don’t want to get involved in your--machineering, doesn’t make me a traitor. I serve the People in my own way. And Marethari’s death was not my fault. The demon had taken her. It didn’t take me.” Anders is irritated. Merrill had woken the demon from the Sundermount, she had brokered the deal, and she had exposed her entire clan to its influence, and everyone knew the elves were more susceptible to the temptations of the Fade--though that is what the Circle taught, and really the elvhen mages passed the Harrowing as often as the human mages, so perhaps that wasn’t fair, even though they didn’t have the training to understand demons as Andraste taught, breaking down into the seven sins, but then again Audacity was beyond that, and old, old as Arlathan itself, and--he blinked. Justice said, pay attention. Dirthara ma, lethallin, suledin. Fenris let loose a huff of air through his nose, like an angry horse. “We don’t have time for this. Varric, why are you here? What did you say about the Guild?” Varric said, “When this is all over, you and I need to have a long talk about how you treat your friends. Especially when your friends disagree. If Hawke can deal with you and Blondie and Sebastian and Merrill and Aveline--really, take a page from Hawke’s book. They manage to get everyone to get along. You can try, you know. Communicate. Talk to me, Broody. And not just at poker night.” Fenris says, “Varric--don’t prevaricate. You came here for a reason. What is it?” Motion distracts Anders from their conversation. The Lavellan woman is inching closer to her husband. She wakes him gently, and there is a softness in her gaze that wrenches at his heart. He tastes envy, metallic on his tongue, as the man wakes up and reaches a weak hand to stroke her face. She clutches it to her, and he thinks, no one’s ever looked at me like that. Anders looks at Fenris and bites his lip nervously. There is nothing to expect. It would be wrong to expect anything, in times like these. “You four killed a guard,” Varric says. “And, listen. I don’t care about the guards. I’m happy to keep them off my back. And half the time they’re more trouble than they’re worth. But you chose exactly the worst time to kill one, and the Merchants’ Guild is talking about justice for the family.” Anders snorts. “Well, she was supporting a family.” “Supporting them by extorting local residents and beating strikers to death, but okay,” Anders says. Varric glares at him. “Moving on, the Merchants’ Guild promised justice to the family. Easiest and least controversial way to kill the agitators. No one likes a guard-killer, makes you all look bad.” “Except, of course, it’s okay when the guards are letting the magistrate’s son kill little kids,” Anders says, “or kill mages rather than send them to the templars. Or sell people to the Blind Men. Guard-killers, that’s what makes us look bad. Right.” Varric says, “I’m trying to give you a warning, alright? Get out of town. Ran into Daisy on my way here--apparently she’s heard similar. Someone in the alienage sold the Lavellans out, said they were here. So you guys need to get out of town for awhile. Especially you, Blondie. Smart that you killed her with a sword, but there’s only so many blond Fereldens running around Darktown. I’ve arranged you a way out.” Anders said wildly, “What about my patients? What about the strikers?” He saw Lavellan looking at them, supporting her man as he tried to climb out of bed. He was nowhere near well enough to be on his feet yet, not with the bash he got to the head. Anders hurried over and took his other arm, and settled him in a chair. What had Fenris said his name was? Mahanon. Perhaps it was better he didn’t remember. He stared at Varric. “What about them? I won’t abandon my patient, Varric. That’s got to be a ticket out for three.” “Four,” Fenris said. Varric raised an eyebrow. “I’m coming with you.” Anders blushes slightly. He wants him to come, of course he does, because Fenris is reliable in a fight. He knows these two elves. He knows the Free Marches better than him, too, since he had spent a few years in hiding before settling in Kirkwall. He doesn’t want to leave his clinic, though. He doesn’t want to abandon the Mage Underground, his friends locked in the Gallows. Meredith is planning something evil, she always is, and justice must return to Kirkwall, he cannot flee-- Lavellan says, “Stop.” She looks at the dwarf. “What will happen to the dockworkers?” Varric passes a hand through his hair. “The less I talk to you, the better,” he says. “I don’t want to remember you. I don’t want to know you. And you don’t want to know--well, we’ll reach some sort of settlement. Those ships need to move. And dead workers can’t load ships.” “How long do I need to be gone?” Anders says, heart sinking. This is where he belongs. This is where the work must be done. Bethany is expecting him to shepherd two apprentices through the sewers and hand them off to Samson, who will escort them to Rivain. Samson liked mages, and used to pass along messages for Karl before his friend was tranquilized, and would do anything for enough lyrium. “Give me a month to clean things up,” Varric says. “But you need to be gone before dawn.” He gestures to the door. “A farmer’s taking hay as far as the Sundermount. From there, you’re on your own. But you better act fast--before someone robs him of his horse.” Anders gestures at Merrill to follow him as he hurries into his bedroom, packing quickly. He stashes his few favorite things--the shawl Mahariel made him, his journal, his cracked phylactery, and that small embroidered pillow his mother sewed him, a lifetime ago. Hurriedly he informs her rapidfire about Messere Pounce-the-Second’s peculiar diet, what Bethany needs for the drop, and how to handle Samson when he’s in withdrawal. “You’re involved now,” he says. “Congratulations. No more excuses for complacency apparently, according to Lavellan.” “Imladris Ashallin is just like you,” Merrill says angrily. “Both of you expect everyone to throw away all their life’s work and dreams and passion for some abstract dream of justice. Just because you can do it doesn’t mean I can. Or that I want to. I serve the People in my own way--mages too, you know. Not everyone can do what you do.” “But you’ll do it,” Anders presses. “For Bethany, if not for me. Meredith’ll have them made Tranquil--and they’re children, Merrill. Do you want more blood on your hands? You’re complicit in this, we all are. We apostates have an obligation to those who are stuck in the Circle. What do you think they’d do to you, if they caught you? Wouldn’t you want someone on the outside, working to get you out?” Merrill makes a face. “I’ll do it for Messere Pounce,” she says. “Don’t tell Hawke. Please. They don’t--I don’t know what they’d do, if they knew how bad things were in the Gallows.” Anders grabs his bag. “Just remember--two scoops of the pumpkin, and make sure he doesn’t get into the cheese, it makes him sick. And he’s allergic to sardines!” Outside, in the cold predawn light,  is a horse and cart. The cart is loaded with bales of hay. He looks at it distastefully. He can already feel himself itching. They make a space for the four of them to curl up together, and then cover them again with hay. When he moves to sneeze, Fenris pinches his nose and he chokes on a giggle. Imladris has Mahanon’s head resting in her arms, and she scratches a cooling sigil into the wooden floor of the cart. It only makes it marginally better as the driver sets off. They jostle uncomfortably against each other as they drive into the sunset. It is not the most uncomfortable way Anders has escaped a city, but it is definitely the itchiest. He tries to say something to Fenris, an apology or a jeer, but Fenris just leaves his hand resting at his jaw and presses against him. That too is uncomfortable. The cart rattles on a particularly rough part of cobblestone, and Fenris snakes a hand around his waist to keep himself from being thrown against the cart. Anders leans against him with bated breath. It is suffocating in the cart, and he is afraid. Mahanon’s breathing is not as even as it should be. Fenris has also obviously eaten something garlicky the night before. He tries not to think too much about proximity. Instead, he worries about Merrill, and the mages, and his cat. He decides he will think about his cat, because that’s better than thinking about the alternative. An eternity passes as Anders listens to the rattle and jostle of cart over cobble transition to the paved road leading towards Ostwick. Then they are all nearly thrown out as it takes a sharp left and begins to escalate: the driver must be taking them in the Sundermount. He focuses on his breathing, on the mana thrumming in the people around him and the landscape unfolding him, and sinks into the wonder of it. The Dalish mage is all tightly controlled heat, like a planned burn on a field. She reminds him of a story Mahariel told him, about the Burning Man she met in the Fade at Kinloch Hold. Her husband, Mahanon, is less vibrant of course--he isn’t a mage--but all living things except dwarves exude some mana. When he closes his eyes he can see Fenris tattooed to the back of him. Danarius’s magic moves around his body, in those lyrium brands. Horrible, horrible, he thinks: Danarius should’ve died worse, we let Fenris go too easy on him. Finally the cart stops. They all tense. Fenris’ hand moves from his waist to his short sword, and Anders concentrates to bring  a quick mana blast. If he hits whoever’s inspecting them hard enough they’ll be stunned enough for the rest to run for it. Then a Ferelden-accented voice says, “Easy, mages. Just give me a bit to unload this. You’re in friendly hands now.” They push the bales off and blink into a beautifully clear autumn morning. Anders recognizes the small homestead they are parked at--friends of Hawke through Athenril. He breathes in that wonderfully sharp, woodsy air as they lurch out of the cart. He turns to help Imladris get Mahanon out, but Fenris is already half-carrying him. Anders hurries over, hands glowing. Mahanon gives him a weak smile and pushes him away. “Well,” the Ferelden smuggler says, “that’s you sorted. Dwarf says I don’t get paid ‘til you come home safe, so--farm’s yours for the month. But you’ll work for your keep. I need extra if there are templars involved.” The farmhouse is cute and clean, surprisingly prosperous for a Ferelden’s homestead--but of course Varric is paying him to hide whomever. He wonders if this is where Varrics disappear sometimes. Isabela has a theory Varric has a lover, probably named Bianca, and Merrill thinks it’s forbidden love, that she is a human noble or an Orlesian bard or something exciting. Anders really does not care. They settle Mahanon into a bed, and Anders changes his bandages. The cuts have scabbed over, but his ribs are still purpled and he cannot move particularly well. He leaves his patient to the tender care of his wife, and then collapses into the plush armchair by the fireplace. Fenris follows, and Anders reaches for him, exhausted. Fenris takes his hand and squeezes it. He meets their gaze and Anders sees an naked vulnerability there as exhaustion forces him to drop his usual guarded expression. For once Anders holds his tongue. Anders squeezes his hand back, and Fenris pulls away, and as he falls asleep he feels a blanket being draped around him. When he wakes up he finds his shawl tucked around him and his boots off: Fenris, and what has he done to deserve this sort of tenderness?

[snarky-bee]

ZevWarden Week Day 3

Oh Maker: Faith

***

Before heading back down the winding paths of the mountain road, the warden called for everyone to rest within the town of Haven and they would start the trek in the morning. Some might have found it uncomfortable to take up residence in the homes of the dead, but Zevran wasn’t overly bothered by it. Perhaps he ought to have been. Today more than ever he wondered what things he ought to have been feeling, what was right or wrong, and why that ache had filled him as he watched his warden fall to her knees, tears in her eyes as they reached the fabled urn of sacred ashes.

He felt only confusion. Was he supposed to fall down and sing the chant at the top of his lungs? He had coughed and uttered a snippy response. ‘Nice vase.’ 

Now he waited for his warden to come to bed. A pleasant habit, he fondly called it. Instead she was sitting on the floor staring deep into the flames of the fireplace as if they would answer her questions. It was strange to see her so quiet, distanced from everyone else.

“What is on your mind?” he finally asked, coming to sit next to her.

To his surprise, Kallian dragged in a ragged breath, raw as if she had still been crying. “I never thought it would actually be real,” she whispered.

“We found some dusty ashes in a pot. Who is to say there is anything special or magical about them? If they are even Andraste’s at all,” he replied.

She turned to him, that childlike wide eyed look on her face. “You don’t believe in the prophet?”

It was his turn to stare into the fire. He didn’t like such questions being turned around on him. Not when he had so few answers. “Tch. Of course I believe.”

“Then how can you go through all that and think it’s just some bloody ashes, Zev! I saw-” her mouth clamped shut. She swallowed hard and turned back to the fire. 

She drew her knees to her chest, flames flickering in the warmth of her eyes, seeing something far away. Fiddling with the laces on her shirt she looked up to the ceiling. Liquid rimmed the bottom of her eyes, and guilt wormed its way into his stomach. He wanted to push it away. What did he have to feel guilty for? What did he owe her, or Andraste, or anyone?

“I thought she must have abandoned us. That not even Andraste was looking out for her children.”

“Andraste?” Zevran asked in spite of himself. “Not the Maker?”

She wrinkled her nose and her mouth twisted to one side. “Eh kind of. The Hahren teaches us that Andraste didn’t just hear the Maker. That she spoke for the Maker, or was a physical form of the Maker, sent to save us.”

“The Maker is a woman?” Zevran raised his eyebrows. 

“I dunno. Maybe. Maybe he’s everything. But… point is. Andraste worked miracles. She was supposed to have saved the elves with Shartan. But… I stopped believing she was looking out for any of us. How could Andraste let my mother die? How could she let all these fucking terrible things happen?”

“That is why people like you and I have to learn to look out for ourselves,” Zevran said sagely. “Why depend on prophets and prayers when you can only trust your wit. This world was never made for us.”

Kallian’s shoulders shook. “But it was her. It was my mother there Zev,” she sobbed brokenly. “She- she was there. She was at Andraste’s side!” Kallian exclaimed, pulling an amulet from her shirt.

It wasn’t the strings on her shirt she fiddled with, but a necklace he had never seen her wear before. Bronze in colour, a fine chain with an ovular pendant hanging from it. He frowned and cupped it against his fingers, saw the flames of the Chantry’s symbolism that was so familiar. And on the back: “This says…”

“Yeah.” Kallian clutched it back. “Bare your blade, and raise it high.” More shining tears poured down her face. 

“The Chant?” Zevran frowned. “Surely anyone could-”

“-It was from mum. She used to sing that hymn. I know it was from her, sent by Andraste,” Kallian said vehemently. “She’s waiting for me there… When my time comes.”

Now Zevran understood. They weren’t tears of sorrow, but profound joy. The kind he wished he could feel, the kind he ached for when he ran to the chantry crying to please join as a brother before the Crows pulled him back by his leash. He envied Kallian’s certainty. Faith, as they say. 

They sat in strange silence, the kind he almost feared to break. The flames flickered in the fireplace reminding him of the wall they walked through - licking them with warmth rather than lashing with burning tongues. Flames even he, Zevran Arainai - assassin, whoreson, murderer - had passed through unscathed.

“Perhaps someday I, too, will be forgiven,” he finally gave voice to his unspoken prayer, “and be welcomed by her side…”

Suddenly a smaller hand was in his, as warm and comforting as the flames of the gauntlet. But this warmth was for him alone.

“What could there possibly be to forgive?” Kallian whispered. She tiltined her head to one side to look at him with those startling big brown eyes with droplets of tears still clinging to her eyelashes. 

Zevran froze. His heart nearly stopped. Just a rhetorical question, surely. Waves of grief nearly washed over him until he promptly repressed it all again. The mask slid back into place. His lips turned up in a practiced smile. “Ah my warden, but think of the many sins of the flesh I have committed, and the many more I plan to commit. I am but a man plagued with lust!” He leaned in close to her and put on an exaggerated pout. “Please forgive me, I am utterly terrible.”

Kallian snorted and his shoulders relaxed a little. “Zev,” she said in that same steady, earnest voice, “you are not terrible.” 

He had to look away. She didn’t know everything he had done. Selfishly, he tightened his hand around hers. Her hand was enough for now. 

[merrybandofmurderers]

hey so forgive me if you've already told me this, but yuo's a blood mage, right? what caused him to turn to blood magic? does he feel guilty about it, considering the stigma surrounding it, or does he say fuck all that jazz? and have there ever been lasting consequences to using blood magic? sorry if that's a lot, thank you ily :)

no no no, i LOVE answering questions!! yes, yuo is a blood mage (and also a battle mage, a pretty good combo imo, but also one that’s hard on his body). he doesn’t really use blood magic a lot, just when he really needs it (and obviously when he’s in the inquisition, he REALLY tries to be discreet, which being a battle mage covers up for).

there’s only a few ppl he openly uses blood magic around at first (solas, cuz he gleans it from their magic convos and won’t out him despite their contentious relationship; cole, cuz he reads yuo’s mind basically; bull, cuz he figures it out and doesn’t judge yuo for it).

SO. the backstory. yuo’s mom died when he was 19, just before he received his vallaslin, which has always weighed heavy on him. his dad died when he was.. 22? i think? (both of them die in skirmishes with humans, which is where his dislike of humans really started). the death of his mom he was able to handle somewhat cuz he had his dad and his sister.

when his dad died, his sister did not handle it well either, so yuo was a mess. at that time is also when he and his sister adopted three young elves who were orphaned. he was desperate for more power to protect his loved ones, so he asked his keeper (newly appointed and his sister’s best friend) for permission to learn blood magic. she was worried what he would do if she denied him, so at the next arlathvhen they found him a hahren to teach him ethical blood magic.

he never expected himself to turn to blood magic, becuz blood magic is not widely accepted among the dalish. but he accepted it becuz he figured it would help him (he ultimately comes to the conclusion that nothing he does can protect his loved ones, but he doesn’t stop using blood magic becuz it does make him stronger.)

around his clan he didnt need to hide it. they understood his grief and trusted him. he only really learned the necessity of discretion when he fell in love with a human apostate and trusted him to teach him blood magic and then was betrayed by him (which is the root of his trust issues).

this didn’t stop him from using blood magic, but he realized how careful he needed to be, and the lasting consequence from that was his trust issues which has definitely impacted him negatively. aside from that, as i said, his combined specs are hard on his body, which have left him with recurring pain as well as needing to treat his scars regularly.

(EDIT: okay so i tried to put a cut here to make it not so long, but apparantly tumblr does not like them anymore so i had to remove it to save the formatting :/ thanks tumblr

EDIT TWO: apparantly removing the cut did NOT save the formatting it just put the cut at the beginning :))))

i talked a bit about about the effects of his specializations here, and i talked about his blood magic and grief allowing him to relate to alexius here.

dorian, sera, and blackwall find out about his blood magic during the reclaiming of suledin keep. they agree to keep his secret but it’s a rough process of acceptance for all of them, especially dorian.

these are some excerpts of the confrontations dorian and yuo have about yuo lying about his blood magic

“Have you ever used blood magic on me?”

Dorian hates himself for asking. He hates himself because he knows the answer will be no, it must be. He asks anyway.

Lavellan stays quiet so long, Dorian starts to hate him more than he hates himself. Dread and genuine fear coil in his gut.

“Once. Only once. In Coracavus, when that darkspawn hit you. Dorian, I was afraid you were going to get the Blight. I couldn’t—” He stops, breathes. “That was the only time. Just, to stop the bleeding, keep it clean. Nothing more than I do for myself.”

*

“I don’t understand why you think you need it. You’re powerful enough already—”

“No, I’m not, Dorian. Don’t you understand? I’m not powerful enough—I’ll never be powerful enough. And I have to remember that, I have to remember… nothing will ever be enough. I have to hold onto that every time some fucking demon thinks it can use me by promising to give me what I want. When a demon promises to give me back my parents, to protect my sister, my clan, to save everyone I care about, to keep everything I have—I need to remember that it’s not enough. I have to accept that. Because if I believe—if I hope—for even a moment that there might be some power capable of that—of restoring what’s lost, preserving what I have—I won’t be able to fight them. I have to know it, that no power will ever be enough; I’ll never be enough.”

and here is when yuo ultimately tells dorian the story behind his using blood magic

Dorian sat next to him on the battlements. “Who was it? That you were wrong about?”

Lavellan was silent for a long moment, then, “His name was Rory. He was an apostate.”

“A human.”

“Yes, human. He wasn’t the first I’d been with, though. He wasn’t special… in that way. That wasn’t… a red flag for me. Then. It’s—” He sighed.

“Let me start from the beginning. My mother died when I was nineteen, just before I received my vallaslin, my father when I was twenty-two. My mother’s death, I managed well enough. But when my father died… Anavi didn’t know how to deal with it either. She… closed off. And it was hard to be around her because she reminded me so much of them. She looked just like him but acted just like our mother. It was a mess, we both were, but especially me. I didn’t have anything to—to tether me. I was so desperate. Every night I had these horrific dreams of losing her.

“What I wanted was power. That’s what everyone wants when it comes to blood magic, isn’t it? The power? To protect my sister, my remaining family, my clan, I decided I needed more power. But I was going to do it right. So, I went to our Keeper and asked permission to learn blood magic. Our Keeper by that time was my sister’s closest friend and knew me well. She knew I wouldn’t disobey her if she forbade it, but I needed something to hold on to, and if she didn’t give this to me, she was afraid of what could happen to me. What I would do.

“That year, there was an Arlathvhen. My Keeper found a hahren for me to learn blood magic from. I told you it is not widely accepted amongst the Dalish, but it does happen. So, I lived with this hahren’s clan for a time to learn from them. It got me some space from my sister, from the grief. And they gave me the instruction I needed. The power I wanted, but still drawn from our beliefs. It would have been so easy for me to get twisted, but my hahren guided me, showed me what to do. They reminded me what my magic was for, kept my head on straight. A few years later, I returned to my clan—sooner than I meant to, sooner than perhaps I should have, but another of the clan had died; I needed to be with them, so I went.

“That winter we settled near a village, and that’s where I met Rory.”

Lavellan was silent for a long time, staring into nothing. Dorian sat quietly, watching his somber profile.

“Rory wasn’t special,” he finally continued, “he wasn’t different. He was easy to fall in love with, and I did, and more than that, I trusted him. I didn’t hide my blood magic from him, and he asked me to teach him. I’d already been showing him some magic; he hadn’t really had anyone to learn from. I never thought his questions or intentions were strange or sinister. To me, blood magic was just magic you had to be a little more careful with. So, I taught him.

“Well, the Templars caught him. I don’t know what he did, I don’t know if he actually used blood magic—or any magic—in front of them, if they just suspected, or what. I don’t know if he hurt someone, I just know that they found him, and the reason I know that is because he sold me out to them.”

He sneered. “He told them I had seduced him, bewitched him, used my magic on him, whatever. I’d tricked him into it, coerced him, forced him to use blood magic. All the words that meant he couldn’t be culpable. My clan had been there for several months, and our welcome was already wearing thin. I don’t know if he mentioned them specifically or if it was just me, but the Templars, of course, wouldn’t be taking chances.

“No one died, no one was hurt, but we had to leave, unprepared. And I don’t know what happened to him. All I know is that I loved someone and trusted them, and it turned out I was wrong, and because of that everything I ever cared about protecting almost…”

His hands clasped together, white knuckled. “So, this time the stakes are a lot fucking higher, aren’t they? I’m not going to compare the two of you, because there isn’t any comparison to be had. I was younger then, and eager to be in love with him, and I fought for so long to not feel for you the way I do, but still I love you more than I thought I’d ever love anyone, and once you earned it, my trust in you has never wavered—and that’s why I won’t hate you if you decide you can’t accept this, or—or forgive me, or move on, because you deserved to know and I didn’t tell you.

“Creators, Dorian, if it were just me, I wouldn’t have thought for a second about it. But in this position, it’s not just me—it never was, but he really fucking drove that home for me. My people will always come first, because no matter what, they’re a part of me. I will never be just me; I will always be Dalish. My people will always be there, and I will always have to care about them. However much more love and trust I had for you, the fear was even greater, and I couldn’t—Dorian, I almost lost them, and it was my fault because I was wrong about someone I loved, and I couldn’t take that risk again, I couldn’t. And that’s all I can say for myself, is that I was afraid.”

(please forgive any typos, these are first drafts u.u)

[lcgacyofages]

The News: Returning Home

A continuation from this drabble because I wanted to write Idrilla and Rajmahel’s parents.

Idrilla neared the camp on her halla, taking in the brightly colored aravels and the people she knew going back and forth, the camp as busy as ever. She kept her scarf on her head, having had to forgo her typical style of dress for something which would better fit her changing form. As she neared the camp, one of her clanmates looked up and he immediately recognized her. A wide, excited smile spread across his face and he turned back to the camp.

“Hahren Belavahn! Rajasha! It’s Idrilla!”

“Hello, Ellas,” Idrilla greeted him as he took the reins from her hands and helped her dismount. “How are you and Siona?”

“We are well, and I am sure Siona will be pleased her fellow harellan has returned,” Ellas teased. “I’m sure you two will find new ways to make the elders tear their hair out with your remarks.”

“Hardly, I merely voice my opinion, as does your bondmate,” Idrilla responded cheekily. “It’s not my fault if ‘it’s not the way it’s been.’” Ellas rolled his eyes in amusement, waving as her parents neared.

“’Ma’vherlin!” The brightly red-haired and fair skinned man shouted, rushing over to her, and taking her in a big hug. Idrilla returned the tall elf’s hug, glad to be enveloped in such a welcoming presence. She took a step back to look at him, seeing the dashes of gray around his temples and the freckles littering his face and lacing around his lightly done and black Andruil vallaslin. He looked at her with warmth in his amber-orange gaze, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Savh, vheraan’bae,” Idrilla greeted him warmly. She looked beside him to see the much smaller woman, even a little shorter than her walk up beside Belavahn. Her dark brown hair had streaks of white in it now, green eyes looking pleased to see her. She was a contrast to her father, his skin so light and hers so dark, with the contrast even going to the hair and eyes, with her light yellow Ghilain’nain vallaslin a compliment to his own. “Lovro’mae.”

“Th’ea, da’len,” Rajasha greeted her. “You are home without your brother or your niece? Has something hap—”

“Let me look at you!” Belavahn remarked, taking Idrilla’s face in his hands and looking her over. He pushed off her head scarf. “You look no worse for wear, Drilla. In fact—”

“What your father means, is we have missed you dearly,” Rajasha interrupted, placing a hand on her bondmate’s arm. “Ellas, can you see to the halla? We would like to speak with our daughter in private.”

“Of course,” Ellas said with a nod, taking the halla to the others. Rajasha watched as he walked off, keeping a hand on Belavahn’s arm to keep him at ease.

“Now then, what news?” Rajasha asked, turning back to her daughter. “How are your brother and Elera?”

“They are well,” Idrilla explained, “but Rajmahel cannot come home. He’s still needed.”

“I see,” Belavahn said, his features dropping a bit at that news.

“But he wished for me to relay his love,” Idrilla stated. “I am sure he will come when he can.”

“You did not come all this way merely to convey your brother’s affections,” Rajasha pointed out. “And your attire is not your usual choice, da’len.”

“Well,” Idrilla considered her response, avoiding their gaze. There were social expectations with the Dalish, especially as to who one would join with. And while it wouldn’t be the first time she had had relations with a non-Dalish elf, before hadn’t resulted in a child. “I am with child.”

“What?! While you were among all those shemlen?!” Belavahn’s shock and concern was apparent. “Idrilla, if one of them touched you…”

“No, no, not a shemlen,” Idrilla stopped him. “The father is an elf, but he is not Dalish. And it was a mutual affection.”

“Oh, well then.”

“Bel, you know if any of them had tried to touch her without her wanting it, they would be flayed,” Rajasha remarked dryly. “Do not worry so much.” She gently placed her hands on either of Idrilla’s shoulders and drew her to walk with her. “So, you had liasons with a non-Dalish elven man and you are concerned what others might think.”

“Hardly concerned about other people’s thoughts,” Idrilla scoffed.

“Not about yourself, but your child,” Rajasha corrected. The look on Idrilla’s features confirmed what she had said. “Well, no grandchild of ours will be judged and the child’s home is with us as long as you desire.”

“That’s right,” Belavahn chimed in, his tone offering reassurance. “And if any of the others take issue with it, they can contend with your mother’s temper and we all know how that goes.” That earned a little laugh from Idrilla and Belavahn wrapped an arm around both women, drawing them in for a hug. “We are Dalish, but first and foremost, we are family. That means we are always there for each other, no matter what.”

“No matter the child’s father, by the way,” Rajasha told her. “But at least he’s an elf.”

“Speaking of which, will I get to meet him?” Belavahn asked, drawing back.

“No, I don’t…Believe so,” Idrilla said, uncertainty in her tone as well as a small bit of pain. “He’s a bit of a drifter and he left after Rajmahel defeated Corypheus. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“What? He left my wonderful daughter?” Belavahn scoffed. “That was a mistake.” Rajasha gave Idrilla’s shoulder a small squeeze of comfort. “But I’m sure we can speak more later. You must be hungry and dying for some of your aunt’s cooking, hm?”

“I would like that, a lot actually,” Idrilla gave a slight smile.

“Good, I will go and give her a hand and your father shall go and see to setting your place back up, hm?” Rajasha said, giving Belavahn a pointed look.

“Of course! You should see to seeing the others, of course,” Belavahn stated. “I’m sure everyone has missed you.”

“I will,” Idrilla said, her hand moving up to the scarf laying about her neck. She watched as her parents walked further into the encampment. She took a moment to take in everyone moving about the camp, everyone always working and keeping things going smoothly. She found herself glancing back to the woods just beyond the camp, finding herself wondering for a moment where Solas could be and if he would find out. She let out a sigh, turning back to the camp and waving at one of her old friends who was waiting for her.

For now, she would focus on what was before her and the path she would need to take for her child. A home for both of them. And right now, her clan was the best home within her reach.

[heartslogos]

the declassified texts of the inquisition’s elite [127]

(304):  At one point I believe I was despencing medical advice while wearing a sombrero and a hulk hand - (780):  I possibly am a tad bit not really but maybe slightly intoxicated. -

“So…Anders like the costume party?” Evelyn hedges. Because when it comes to Varric and his friends there’s no real way to be sure about anything. Varric’s follow up could be anything from Anders having a good time to the entire city-state going into lock down because of a mutant locust swarm. There’s genuinely no sure, logical, banal, somewhat in the realm of expected and wanted, next sentence Varric can put out there that Evelyn can guess at beforehand.

“I mean, he showed up and he had some drinks, and he stayed for clean up,” Varric replies. “He’s a good guy.”

“Every single time you talk about any of your friends from Kirkwall you have to either preface, or tack at the end, the phrase that they’re a good person,” Dorian says. “Isn’t that fascinating? Do you do that about us too? Oh yes, so I was out helping the Inquisitor chat up some witnesses to see if I could find any discrepancies in their stories, and the Inquisitor goes to buy them some coffee as a gesture of good will. The Inquisitor is a good person. Tacking on that last part without any real cause to makes the entire thing seem suspect.”

“Look, it’s Kirkwall. It’s — “ Varric waves his hand in a vague circle. “Everyone. I know our reputation.”

“Varric, you wrote the book that gave them a reputation,” Evelyn says dryly. “You are their reputation.”

“They had a reputation inside of Kirkwall, too,” Varric protests. “I was just doing my best to share that reputation in a good way.”

Evelyn and Dorian share a bemused glance before focusing back on Varric.

“I take it you had a good time visiting?” Evelyn asks. “Well. I hope you did. You came back in one piece and I haven’t had any complaints filed against the Inquisition from Kirkwall’s general direction yet. So I’m sincerely hoping you had a good time and I’m not about to get some kind of lawsuit or cold case thrown at me.”

“We had a good time. Went back, met up with everyone, caught up with stuff we forget to say in our calls or texts.” Varric shrugs. “Had a party for Bethany and Carver’s birthday.”

“You didn’t say what their costumes were.”

“Carver was a bear, Bethany was Goldilocks, and the elder Hawkes were the other two bears.”

“Cute.”

“Half assed. Cheap bear masks for Carver, Marian, and Garrett, and a bow in Bethany’s hair.” Varric shrugs. “I have a feeling the elder Hawkes’ real costumes didn’t come together right, and Carver didn’t care enough to get one. Bethany probably had something but went along with the other three just because it would’ve been easier than actually using her costume.”

“That’s one easy going family,” Evelyn says. “Though I suppose when the world throws that much at you at once you must adapt.”

“Says the woman who’s been thrust into the world’s spotlight and into the most dangerous, undesirable jobs in all of history,” Dorian says. “And with a resume that consists solely of researcher and then professor.”

Evelyn dips her head in acknowledgement of his point.

“Next time I head back you should come with me,” Varric says. “The Hawke’s were asking about you. I guess you’ve been ignoring their texts recently?”

“Thank the uncaring Maker that they don’t know who I am,” Dorian says.

“I haven’t been ignoring their texts. They just send about thirty of them per day when they’re being quiet,” Evelyn says. “I’ve got other things to do. You know. As the woman with the most dangerous and undesirable job in all of history with work experience that’s research and teaching based.”

-

“Oh, Merrill,” Garrett sighs as he switches from his messaging app to his location tracking one. “Merrill, Merrill, Merrill, you sweet lamb. I told her she needs to install some kind of ride share app. But no. Carver, call Merrill for me and see if you can get her to say where she is and who she’s with while I send a cab or something her way.”

Carver nods, pulling out his own phone. He goes to voicemail the first time, the call drops the second time, and the third time he gets the sound of ambient traffic and out of breath huffs of air.

“Merrill?” Carver asks, hesitant. He shoots Garrett a look and Garrett frowns. “Is that you?”

“Ellana Lavellan. Carver, is that you? I could’ve sworn Merrill was texting Garrett or Bethany.”

Carver relaxes a little, waving at his brother who nods and goes back to getting the cab.

“She was, but he’s sending a cab to Merrill’s phone location right now so he had me call. I didn’t know you were in Kirkwall.”

“Well, technically I’m not. I’m heading back to Skyhold from Ostwick but my flight got cancelled so I had to book another route. So Ostwick to Kirkwall, Kirkwall to Redcliffe.” Ellana sighs. “And I figured. Hey! I’m in town! I’ll go meet up with Merrill.”

“And not the rest of us? Careful, Lavellan. You’re going to hurt some feelings. And by some I mean most of Garrett and Marian’s.”

“I’ll apologize later. I didn’t think Merrill and I would actually go drinking is the thing,” Ellana says. “We were just going to visit the sacred tree in the old alienage area and drop by some of the hahren’s houses, pick up some of the latest goss, maybe some Dalish stuff. But then we ran into a group of newly fledged da’len and well. We’re respectable hahren to our da’len, you know? And they know Merrill because Merrill’s active in the community. They know me because I’m like. Inquisition. So they ask us to come for drinks and give advice. As an elder should. And like. How can we say no to that? Anyway at some point we’re drinking home brew and now here we are. Slightly off kilter.”

“Only slightly?”

“Carver, I know we text more than we talk, but I’ll have you know I am always this verbose. Now. About that cab.”

[patricianandclerk]

I don't know shit about dragon age and you know that so here is a prompt that you should feel free to ignore, but if you're looking for something, uuhhh Eggman™️ and #24.

21. a song sung in a tavern after last call (x)

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

Solas didn’t think he’d ever seen so many elves in the Herald’s Rest. It was very late in the night, now, and Cabot was no longer serving, but everyone was sipping at the last of their drinks, and Solas sat in the corner beside young Cremisius, away from the crowded centre. 

There was a strange mood on the air. 

It had been a long day for all, and they had come straight to the tavern after returning - many of these elves had walked with the caravan. They were mostly from one Dalish clan, whose Keeper and First had been killed in the same attack by the Red Templars, and Lavellan had offered that they come to Skyhold and set their camp under the safety of the Inquisition’s banners whilst they contacted other clans for a new keeper.

“You say a word, Solas, I won’t speak to you for a month,” he’d hissed before Solas could even open his mouth to offer commentary, and he’d been too surprised to object when he had then become all comforting smiles, speaking with the hahrens in his easy, quiet elvish. 

And now…

Lavellan sat amidst them, a young girl in his lap, no older than four, and he was rocking her gently as he talked. She was fast asleep all ready - all of the children were asleep in their places, curled in the laps of their parents or against the side of one of the elders, but for one young boy of ten or eleven, who was sitting upon the Iron Bull’s shoulder and watching Lavellan, spellbound.

It made the Andrastians uncomfortable, seeing Lavellan amongst his people, so at ease, that much was to be certain. They saw the vallaslin all these people shared (Solas didn’t allow his fist to clench), heard them share their language, but no one had dared speak against the Dalish, not when Lavellan had led them in, when he was so plain amidst them, and yet of them. Other elves had come as though drawn to the wonder of the evening, and Solas could see the city elves who had crept in to see all of their supposed fellows in one group. There were those who were Dalish themselves - the mage that called herself Dalish; Minaeve; young Loranil - but then there were elves he recognised from the kitchens, or from the refugees, even some from the Circle.

“Do you sing, lethallin?” asked an old woman whose vallaslin marked her as property of one pledged to Elgar’nan, and Lavellan laughed softly.

“Not well, I fear, hahren,” he said. “I can carry a tune and I know well the words, but my voice is no great pleasure to hear.”

“Won’t you lead our singers, then?” the elder asked. “I shall play for you, if you will sing.”

“Suledin?”

“Suledin.”

The Dalish knew well the first verses, but Lavellan, it became clear, knew them all, and when their voices faltered his remained strong, carrying up through the tavern. He had been telling the truth - he had a voice best heard amongst a dozen others, but Solas could see the wonder in the eyes of his fellow elves, that they heard this supposed Herald sing in such easy elvish, who knew the tales and who the poetry and most of all knew the song. 

It was spellbinding.

Solas wished he could remain scornful, but hearing all those voices, raised in song… He remembered the first long walk, and how those freed people had sung, unable yet to raise their arms, so they had raised their voices instead, and oh, how beautiful a music it had been, in a language not so far removed from this one, and with much the same lyrics, at that - lath aravel ena, arla ven tu vir mahvir–

“You okay, messere?” Cremisius asked softly. 

Solas glanced at him, saw the expression of concern on his face, and he wondered what his own face had looked like, taken away as he’d been with memory.

“I am well, Cremisius. Thank you, for your concern.”

Cremisius nodded, sipping at his drink, and Solas sighed at the energy in the tavern now. Nostalgic, yes, but… full of hope. Such hope.

A hand touched his, squeezing it, and he looked up to meet Lavellan’s gaze, cradling as he was the young girl against his chest. She was such a small thing, so delicate, her face not yet marred by the vallaslin, freckles scattered on her nose and her brow. Solas’ heart ached, to look at her.

“Would you teach us a song, Solas?” Lavellan asked. “The elders would fall over themselves singing your praises if you taught them a song from long ago.”

“Appealing to my ego, Inquisitor?”

“I can call you handsome too, if you like,” Lavellan murmured. “Next on my list is petty bribery.”

Solas shook his head, though he squeezed Lavellan’s hand back, and it didn’t surprise him that Lavellan nodded his head in understanding, that he didn’t press or pressure for Solas to do as he said he would not. Solas stood to his feet, though, and he oughtn’t, he oughtn’t–

“What’s her name?” Solas asked quietly.

“Shanna,” Lavellan murmured. “Daughter of the clan’s late halla keeper.”

Solas put out his hands, knowing he oughtn’t, and the girl was such a tiny weight in his arms, her head falling forward against his shoulder, her arms wrapping loosely about his neck. The distant scent of ash still clung to her clothes, and Solas sighed, supporting her in his arms as he met Lavellan’s gaze.

“I’m not one of you,” Solas reminded him.

“No,” Lavellan said. “Look at you, prince among us mortal elves.” Solas set his jaw, but Lavellan was already sighing, and said, “I’m sorry, Solas. It was selfish of me to ask, I know you don’t like the Dalish.”

“It wasn’t selfish,” Solas said. “But it is not a request I can fulfill. Do you know Ma Vhenan, Arala?”

“My Love, Waiting For Me,” Lavellan murmured. “That one isn’t very commonly sung. I barely know the tune.”

“Will that suit you, then?”

“I suppose you have a lovely singing voice.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“So modest,” Lavellan murmured, but he was looking at Solas as though Solas was made of moonlight after a hundred moonless nights, as though he could barely tear his eyes away, he was so grateful to set his eyes on him. “You don’t have to.”

“For you,” Solas said. “And for the children. And I may well return to your offer of petty bribery, at that.”

“Your nobility in service of the elvhen people comes at the greatest of prices, Solas, yes, I understand,” Lavellan said, so carelessly that Solas very nearly made a noise in response, but he focused on the weight of young Shanni in his arms as he came to join the elves. So many of them. So many of them, and when all was over–

“This is Solas,” Lavellan said. “He has a better voice than I do, I promise you.”

“The H–” Solas started, but Lavellan turned such a pleading look on him that he remembered, long ago, a young man wearing the heavy weight of a scornful epithet on his back, the way it had grown into legend upon legend. That young man had been so young once, hadn’t he? Solas could scarcely remember what it had been like. “Mahanon,” he murmured, adjusting the weight of the little girl in his arms, and turning a serious look to the hahrens watching him, “tells me Ma Vhenan, Arala, might offer some novelty to the night’s musical interlude.”

“Oh, I haven’t sung that since I was a child,” whispered the old woman, and when she looked at Solas with her crinkling vallaslin… “There aren’t many young men who know the song of a wandering widower.”

“I’m not quite so young as I look,” Solas murmured, and gestured for her to take up her instrument to play. 

[faejilly]

Lath'enansalen

(heart’s blessings)

so hey there. Instead of continuing/finishing any of my idk half-a-dozen posted WIPS or myriad prompt fills, I decided to write something else entirely today. Have some DAI melancholy romance! Because I love Blackwall. (Because I lack sense?)

***

Creators forgive me, I'm in love with a human.

And everyone knows.

And everyone talks about it.

It's not as if The People don't gossip, as if we don't have more than our fair share of politics, questions of power and influence and duty and friendships and rivalries and romances between Firsts and Hahrens, scouts and teachers, Clan to Clan. But it's different when it's shem, when none of the accents are right, and so few of the words. 

It's different when it's so very often about sex. 

It startles, whispers of Grey Warden stamina and exotic Dalish techniques that die down whenever the speakers notice me, embarrassed blushes and mutters replacing them as they pretend to focus on anything and everything else near-by. But few enough people remember to look up, even in a place like Skyhold, and I have heard more than I would have preferred, carried by evening breezes up to my favorite perches. It is somehow unsurprising that this is something my ears would decide to have no trouble hearing.

At least the stables are safe, the grooms and keepers having adopted Blackwall under their care, ignoring all whispers and rumours attempting to pass the weathered planks of their walls. They stomp quite loudly whenever they must walk by or through Blackwall's work-room, and thump the ceiling with their fists before they climb up to the hayloft. They are kind, and it is difficult not to smile at the earnest way the youngest stable-boy always stares at the toes of his boots when he sees me there, so determined not to intrude.

I have extra reasons to enjoy the stable roof, the quiet below almost as beautiful as the expanse of sky above, almost as beautiful as the company I keep.

The quiet in the library is not so kind, the taut silence of held-in whispers following me as I walk through the shelves.

Dorian, of course, refrains from quiet. And would never let me remain ignorant of the... choicest rumors, his smirk bright and his arms spread wide as he repeats them. Such deplorable behavior, he proclaims, even as he appears to indulge in it himself. But his eyes are soft, and the silence around us deepens as a few shamed heads bow, and I know he worries, the ridiculous man, that I should let my heart make such choices for me.

He refrains from doing so in front of Blackwall at least, for which I am grateful. Blackwall stomps loudly enough after Sera teases him about them, his shoulders hunched and hands tight. They bother him, in a way they do not me, in a way I have yet to quite understand. They bring his shadows closer to the surface.

My shadows feel thinner now than I would have ever thought possible. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, to shake my head. How strange is the world, and however did I end up here? However did here end up with me? However did here fill up with people gossiping about me? I wonder how they come up with them, these soldiers and merchants and refugees who somehow find my every word and deed worthy of interest.

I wonder if they would be disappointed to know the truth.

For all I can feel heat pressing up beneath his skin until we are both full of it, for all there is nothing I enjoy so much as the feel of his shoulders or back beneath my fingers, we are not intimate in the way so many seem to expect.

I have seldom been particularly interested in sex, for all I knew I ought to have married and added children to the Clan. But now that guilt is lost, one small shred of quiet relief amongst all the other worries, and I find myself wondering if, perhaps, with him it might be different.

Perhaps I just needed my heart to ache, before my body would follow.

My heart aches so much more than is wise.

I love his hands, that never pause before they touch me. He doesn't touch me like anyone I've known, not like friends or family or Clan, not even like those few who wanted things other than friendship. Almost shy, no matter how many times I invite him closer, each slight touch so very gentle, as if to make up for the feel of the skin on his hands, thick and hard and calloused. Not that I begrudge the weight of his life, the marks of his labor, but it clearly bothers him. His touch almost catches against my skin, almost jealous, never willing to let go, not completely. His hands are different than a hunter's hands, or even the other soldiers I've been forced to know in this Inquisition. He shrugged when I tried to ask him, his palm held loosely between my hands, just one almost as broad as both my hands together. I want to know every step that led him here, to me, but I let him go as he pulled his hand back, and have not asked again.

There are many things he is not ready to tell me. There are things I don't know how to tell him, either, but it doesn't bother me. It does not make the current path less valuable, just because there's so much more left to go.

When he ducks his head before he drinks, or turns away from my face to look in the fire, it seems he is afraid of the twists in our path. I wonder what he thinks is beyond them. Sometimes I can see his hands turn at his sides as if he wants to touch, but cannot quite make himself reach towards me; I cannot tell if he is afraid for me, or of himself.

Sometimes I see his shadow across a doorway, made long and narrow by the angle of the sun, and the air goes too thin in my throat and my hands reach for my daggers, because I am afraid, so afraid, of what can happen to The People when surrounded by shem'len. Especially ones so dedicated to their Maker.

But then it is Blackwall, not a shem, and I step close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to lean against the solid weight of his chest, to remember that I love him, because and in spite of the fact that he isn't one of The People.

Because and in spite of the weight of his secrets, so like and unlike my own.

I wonder if he was a murderer, before the Wardens. They say they give the condemned another chance, something worth dying for beyond their petty crimes. I wonder if they would have given me a second chance, if I'd been caught, if there'd ever been a Warden to stand between me and a lynching.

Somehow I don't think so.

Unless of course it was Blackwall. I can't imagine a version of our lives where he doesn't look so carefully, so thoroughly, at everyone before him. He would not have wasted someone as angry as I used to be, not when that anger could be turned against the 'spawn.

I wonder who Warden Erana would have been, fifteen years of her anger being encouraged rather than soothed, surrounded by shem instead of family, the beast let free instead of hobbled. I am not sure I would like that Erana, or that Blackwall could love her, but oh, the shem'len never would have ignored her. Never would have been safe from her.

I'm not sure why that makes me smile, the sort of smile that makes most everyone look away from me, eyes dropping too quickly towards the ground.

Except for Blackwall. He was never shem'len. He never expects me to be something I'm not. The rest of them seem to try to forgot what I am when I'm not staring at them, forget elf, forget Dalish, forget the flare of the mark in favor of Inquisitor, of treaties and troops, of Lady Lavellan. Blackwall calls me his lady, but when he says it I feel warm, cherished. Not like those human titles, pushing against me, everyone trying to shove me in a human box to make themselves more comfortable.

I love his eyes, pale and sad and always willing to meet mine. Even when the air is dark and the shine flares up bright enough I can feel the shadows move as I look at them, as I look at him. His eyes are as old as any Hahren I've ever met, and he never looks away.

Or if he does it is because of the heat behind them, because he sees me before him and wants to see more, never less. I wonder if there is a more that I could give him that would ever be enough. A more that could be too much?

I cannot imagine not wanting more of him, every touch, every breath, every day.

I cannot ever seem to ask him that, can never really be sure of what my question is, much less what answer I want to hear, to feel. Luckily it is not a question I need to voice, not yet. He holds himself back from it, goes so far as to leave my company sometimes when the fire behind his eyes is too bright.

He has ducked his head in more than one mountain stream, which is a sight I enjoy as well, the shudder of his back at the shock of it, the way his face eases as he stands, the way the water catches in his hair, darkening the black and making the threads of grey shine in the light.

Sometimes, he notices me watching him, and I can catch the glint of water in his eyelashes as he looks at me, and there is heat beneath his eyes again, and then he swears, and I have to swallow an absurd bubble of laughter as he turns around and stomps back to the stream for another attempt.

Usually I am kind enough to turn away, so as not to distract him again.

Only once am I not, once do I stay, enjoying his mostly amused frustration too much to leave, until he goes back four times, and I lose all ability at feigned composure, falling back against the sun-warmed rock behind me, laughing so hard I'm not sure I quite remember how to breathe.

I feel the weight of him against the ground as he marches over to me, can sense the low growl of his breath through the air between us, but all I can do is gasp as he picks me up and carts me over his shoulder to the middle of the pond.

I shriek as I fall, loudly enough I'm surprised the mountain doesn't slide down upon us, and he laughs, even louder, louder than I've ever heard, not just his usual soft rumbling chuckle, and I'm smiling as I gasp again from the cold, and then I'm sputtering and coughing and laughing, bright and ragged, even as I'm trying to find my feet and push hair out of my eyes.

He helps, fingers catching on new damp tangles no matter how carefully he smooths his hand back, and then his palm rests against my cheek, cooler than the usual heat of his skin on mine, but still warm, and I sigh, and my eyes close as I lean into his touch.

He grunts, low in his chest, so low I can feel it, though not quite hear it. His fingers curl against my skin, and I am painfully aware of wet leathers and clinging linens and one shockingly cold drop of water working its way past my collar and down my spine.

"You are not usually so cruel, my lady."

I open my eyes, so close to his face for a moment I can see nothing but a blur of skin and hair and a sharp pale gaze; I have to take a breath before I can focus, can see the way the skin beside his eyes is too tight, his lips are too thin, the spread of a flush across his cheeks.

"I did not ask you to leave." I let my hand rest against his chest, fingers spread as if there was some way to encompass the strength of his heartbeat, the breadth of his chest, with but a single hand. "I am not the one who sent you to the pond."

Something hardens behind his eyes, brittle and terrible, and the weight of it fills his face, pushes out, until his cheekbones seem too pale and sharp, weapons poised to strike. "Perhaps you should."

"How can I?" My voice is thick, and my free hand reaches up, fingers paused just before his lips. "What part of me could ever wish to see you go?"

I lean in closer, and I am not sure if I should shiver or burn as his hands slide to my hips to hold me close against him, without pause or thought, as if he cannot help it. Something kindles in my chest, low in my stomach, heat and want and worry.

His hands tighten, even as his head shakes, as his mouth opens, and I know he is going to try and argue with me again. But my hands are in his hair now, thick and coarse against my knuckles, and I kiss him, our lips cool from the water and the air, my arms pulling me closer, my body pressed to his, the rumble of his rough groan pressing against the unsteady rhythm of my heart.

I can feel the catch of his breath before his lips move against mine, before he kisses me back, hard and hot and my feet are numb and my mouth burns, and ...

He pulls his mouth away from mine, breaks away, and I feel it like the first crack of ice across a Vinmark lake in spring, deep and echoing.

My eyes close, my fingers curl, tight and tighter still, 'til I hear the hiss of his breath at the pain as his hair pulls.

If you cannot make yourself leave, please, please, why do you refuse to stay?

I let go, step back, feel the water part slowly around us. I wish I could leave, if he will not, but I don't, I can't, I never want to leave, but it hurts, this endless terrible balance, and I am afraid, so afraid that when one of us finally falls it will be too far; we will not stand again.

I hear his voice, no words, not yet, just a rough breath, and I shake my head, my eyes still closed. I cannot trust myself if he apologizes again. I want to slap him, knee him in the stomach, knee him somewhere lower, force him to react, to say, to do ... something.

But what if his choice is to finally turn away completely?

I growl, frustration twisting in my chest, and I turn around, away, blink my eyes at light on water, at light bouncing off ripples, dancing around me. I hear 'Aral's laugh in my head, his offer to stab Blackwall for me, carefully I promise lethallan, no terribly important organs, just enough he can't stagger off. How does that sound?

I am laughing, weak and restless, hand lifting to cover my mouth, oh that sounds perfect, ma serannas.

"Erana." My laugh is gone, as sharp and clean a break as a freshly cut rope at the sound of my name, so rare these days, at the barest brush of his fingertips against my shoulder. Butterfly kisses, Nala always called such things, the touch so light you felt it against your heart more than your skin.

Does she still? Or is her heart too dark to feel such things, after...

My tears are almost as cold as the lake, each breath a stab in my chest, cold and hot and pain; I have not let myself cry for them before.

I am sorry, sorry, I am...

I have never cried for myself before.

Perhaps I am flying, but it is warm, not cold as the air above the mountains must surely be, and there is Blackwall's heartbeat, steady and familiar, and the rest of the world faded and echoing, too far away to bother me, and still I am sobbing, my face pressed to his shoulder as he carries me out of the water.

We stop moving, and the sun is hot and his body surrounds me, warm and solid, and I feel his lips press to the top of my head, and then there is nothing but his heartbeat and his breath and my tears.

After, when my head hurts and my fingers grip too tight, he is still there, his hand soothing up and down my back. I lift my head and his face is too still, too sad, and his lips are cool when I kiss him.

I pull myself closer, push harder against him, and his breath is hot as his lips part for me, as he lets me in; his tongue is in my mouth and I make a noise I've never heard before, need caught in my throat, in the scratch of my nails against his skin as my fingers curl through his hair, as I pull myself closer, closer, pressed against him as hard as I can and it's still not enough, never enough, please, Blackwall, more.

His arms are as hard as ironbark around me, holding me together, holding me in place, but even as my breath burns in my chest his lips soften, and his voice is warm against my skin when he speaks.

"I am sorry for all you've lost, my lady."

I press my forehead against his temple, shudder out something that is almost a sigh. "I don't want to lose you, too." I don't know if I could bear it.

"I cannot promise you tomorrow."

I squeeze my eyes tight, and swallow hard, not sure if it's a sob or a scream that I can't let free.

"But I am here for you today." His voice is steady, his heartbeat even, and I know that if he could hold time still for me, he would. "And my heart will always be yours."

"Prefer to keep all of you, vhenan, not just your heart."

He laughs at the pout in my voice, a warm chuckle that eases the last of my shivers. I shift my weight enough that I can relax, legs sprawled as I lean against his chest.

"Let's not go back to camp, not yet." Stay with me, as long as you can.

"Of course." His hand rubs along my arm, and his breath is just heavy enough I can feel it against my hair. We stay like that, as the sunlight slowly fades, and we both pretend that our peace will last forever.

It won't, but I will treasure it forever. No matter what tomorrow brings, today is enough.

[elellan]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford Summary:

Riwan Lavellan wakes up after the Conclave only to find her world shattered into pieces. She strains to adjust to her new life in the Inquisition, especially after discovering that the Commander of its forces is an ex-templar.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

That night she fully understood why Varric had opted for crazy as her nickname. As she stood there in front of that ancient Darkspawn calling itself Corypheus she only felt like laughing. Laughing incredulously at that self-proclaiming god who doubled her height and exuded evil magic and smelled like rotten corpses, just like the dragon that blocked the way at her shoulders. She had let her party go and she had stayed there, her role was to buy them time, be the bait and hope to survive long enough for them to run away. She looked at that indescribable thing in front of her and she felt laughter piling up her throat.

“This must be the death of me”, she thought, “I wouldn’t be so lucid otherwise”.

Had she known that in a few hours she would have died she would have made the best out of the celebrations in Haven. She would have acted irresponsibly and eaten more cake and drank more booze. She would have joined the dancing couples and sang with Sera and Bull. She would have hugged Cassandra and all of the advisors for their work and patience. She would have saluted them all and she would have liked to see Cullen looking at her with that smug smirk on his face just for one more time.

It took them some time to actually decide to gear up and seal the breach. First of all for practical reasons: it would take a while for the mages to reach Haven and in the meanwhile they had to make sure that they had enough space and accommodation for them all. Then, for political reasons: since the alliance had been proclaimed, Riwan and the advisors had been submerged by crows and messengers as it seemed that everyone in Thedas demanded their attention. They were busy coming and going from Haven and receiving guests and travelling all around to meet with someone or to close rifts or to save someone else.

They even had to arrange a trip to the Fallow Mire, where, to Dorian’s greatest relief, Riwan had to bring with her Vivienne instead of him or Solas, for the undead were said to be vulnerable to fire.

It was one of the worst weeks in her entire life: when they were not fighting corpses or demons or Avvars, Varric and Riwan spent their time complaining and making disgusted noises that rivalled the ones that Cassandra usually made. The Seeker was soon put out and followed them around more grumpily than before. As for Vivienne herself, Riwan had dreaded her company, for the mage had made quite clear that she utterly disapproved of her alliance with the rebellion. She was instead polite if not nice and found a less noisy way to cope with the disgusting Mire than Varric and Riwan’s one. After four torturing days in the always rainy and gloomy place they finally reached the Avvar’s fortress, where a group of Inquisition soldiers had been taken captive – ‘Unless they’re not dead yet’, the elf thought to herself. They somehow survived the legion of undead that welcomed them in front of the main gate only thanks to a fire wall that Vivienne could keep up long enough for Riwan to run and find a lever that could close the access to the fort.

“I’m glad to tell you that we’re almost out of healing potions!”, Varric exclaimed, as they climbed towards the fortress.

“How nice of you to remind us of it, darling”, Vivienne retorted, exhausted from her last effort and draining her last lyrium bottle.

They were all starting to hate each other deeply. “Let’s get this over with”, Riwan said, eager to put an end to their struggle.

In the end they defeated the Avvar’s chief and rescued the soldiers. When they arrived back in Haven she was saluted as the triumphant winner of a bloody duel and nothing she said could make them change their minds: the truth had been that she had managed to kill Korth only by accident. The man seemed immune to fire and only by chance Vivienne was able to conjure a lightning bolt from time to time, the only thing that seemed to slow him down. Cassandra had been stoic, if not heroic, in keeping him at bay with her perfect guard, while Varric and Riwan had taken care of the archers pouring arrows down on them from the stairs that faced the main hall of the keep. After what seemed like an eternity made of aiming and shooting and avoiding and trying to stay alive and when it seemed that they were all about to die, Riwan had decided to aim yet another explosive shot directed to the man’s feet, only to trip on a brick at the last moment and to shoot the arrow at the ceiling. The impact of the shot made a fierce sound and they all escaped just in time to see part of ceiling collapsing on Korth’s head.

“Let them believe what they wish to believe, Herald”, Cassandra said when they met for the first time after their return, “It will only be good publicity for the Inquisition and for you”. She smiled, secretly proud of their achievements.

Amidst all of those obligations, she tried to spar with Cullen whenever she or he had time. One morning she woke up to find a note written by the Commander himself, asking her to meet him in armour at the training fields at 10 am, if she could. She went there confident enough that he had invited her to a sparring session but to her surprise she was asked instead to give an archery lessons to some of the new recruits that had reached the Inquisition in the last month. She hesitantly agreed, completely at a loss of what was expected from her.

“I’ll leave you to it”, Cullen said, following his shield and weapon soldiers on the other side of the training fields.

The most embarrassing moments of her life ensued, where she found herself in the middle of all those expectant faces waiting for her to reveal some secret truth to archery that may give them the key to the art of bow and arrows.

“Well, hello everybody. Uhm… I’m not sure why your Commander would want me to teach you something, because I’m sure that he has a lot of soldiers more fitting to the position… . Wow, what a great way to introduce myself!”, some of them laughed, “Well, as some of you may know I was a hunter before arriving here and being a… killer? Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way”, some laughed, some looked at her like she was a madwoman, “Anyway, what say you, I can start with the basis of what my hahrens told me and add something that I learnt in my months here, I guess”.

The practical part went far more better than the spoken one and in the end they continued until all the other soldiers were already gone and only the Commander and one of his lieutenants remained there, contemplating the scene from a distance.

She looked sideways towards them while surveilling the recruits and felt in someway annoyed by seeing them chatting comfortably enough and… laughing?! Was he laughing at what she was saying?

“I’m sorry Herald… Herald! Is my position correct?”, a blond and shy girl was waiting for her answer.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was distracted… Did you ask me something?”.

When her lesson was finished she was satisfied enough to see the recruits thanking her, some of them were even beaming and thanked her personally.

She reached the Commander and the lieutenant - she remembered her being called Lynette or Lysette. ‘Of course, she is a templar, they must have a lot in common’, she thought.

“So, it seems it went quite well!”, the Commander said.

“Herald. Good job”, the woman said.

“Well, yes, I somehow managed to do it. I would have appreciated if you would have told me in advance of this sick plan of yours though, Commander. I’m not used to teaching…”.

He gave a curt laugh and said, “Of course, I’m sorry, Lysette and I had this epiphany this morning”, Lysette laughed too and they looked at each other in amusement, “We thought that it would be a great incentive for the new archers to have such a distinctive figure as a teacher from time to time. If you like the idea we could organise some lessons and we could ask Varric too. I don’t mean to burden you, of course! I would ask Sera too, but I highly doubt she would willingly agree to it…”. They made small talk for a few minutes as Riwan mastered the fakest smile she could find in her arsenal before she could escape from their grip.

‘I shouldn’t be jealous’, she thought to herself. ‘We are friends and it’s okay if he doesn’t feel as at ease with me as he seems to be with her. And why should I care’, she continued, ‘we don’t need to chat more than is needed for our cooperation to run smoothly’.

During that week she also managed to gift everyone with some weapon or piece of armour made of ironbark, as she had dearly wished to from the beginning of their journeys. She equipped Bianca with a new scope and handle, much to Varric’s delight. They passed an entire afternoon shooting targets and he even blew a dummy off the ground. Cassandra didn’t go gentle on their activity, but was soon sedated when Riwan presented her with her new, shiny greaves and gauntlets. “I want you to be well protected, Cassandra”, she said. “You are the biggest ruffian that ever set foot in Ferelden, you know that, don’t you?”, the Seeker said, but smiled and blushed shyly contemplating her gift. She then provided the mages with spikes for their staffs, making sure that Dorian received the fanciest one. “Thank you, I shall impale our enemies with even more grace now”, he said. She then provided Bull with a new spaulder, Blackwall with a hilt and Sera with a sturdier handle for her bow. ‘I’m the goddess of gifts’, she thought, satisfied with herself.

Eventually, the time came for them to seal the breach.

The day was solemn. It seemed like all of Haven’s inhabitants had poured on the narrow streets just to catch a glimpse of the Herald and her entourage as they were headed to the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Riwan felt excitement shaking her very own bones as she walked at a measured pace on the stony path. Cassandra was on her right and Solas on her left. The mages assigned to the task of assisting her with her duty followed suit, guided by Fiona herself. Cullen followed them with a contingent of soldiers and templars who would be assigned to watching the perimeter of the temple and the area surrounding the breach.

Solas sensed Riwan’s distress and said quietly: “Don’t worry, lethallan. Keep focused on the mark and be steady on your goal. You can do it”.

She shot him an insecure glance: “Thank you, lethallin. I hope so”.

They reached the breach and Riwan steadied her ground in front of it. Her eyes could hardly stand its green glow and her mark was emitting sparks and bolts that made her shiver through her whole body.

“Whenever you’re ready, Herald”, Cassandra said. Riwan gave a curt nod and took a few steps forward.

“Mages!”, Solas shouted, “Focus your power on the Herald! Let her will draw from you!”.

Riwan shot a final glance behind her shoulders. She saw the mages focus, their staffs starting to sparkle in different colours and with different elements as they thrusted them towards the ground, some kneeled, while others bowed their heads as if in prayer. She felt their power surrounding her as she took a deep breath and moved forward, eyeing the gigantic rift in front of her and letting herself be guided by her intuition, as she raised her arm and forced her open hand forward towards the electric sensation of the green strands of the Veil.

She felt a jolt as of electricity or fire inside her, but she couldn’t and wouldn’t avert her hand from its purpose, the magic surrounding her keeping her standing, feeding her of the energy that was being drained from her. She felt a fissure in the breach, she sensed it giving slowly in: she focused all her might towards that crevice, forcing it to submit to her will. After a few seconds of impasse she yelled as she gave a final push to the flaps of the Veil.

It shattered, the impact of both magics so strong that it pushed them all to the ground. Dust covered them as they eventually got up, coughing and panting, the exhausted mages shook from head to toes. Cassandra was the first one who regained her senses: she immediately bolted from her position towards the centre of the explosion, anguish assaulting her heart, for who could survive such an unnatural event, such a blast of magic from the Fade?

But she saw her slowly standing up. “Herald!”, she cried out, as she catched her before Riwan could stumble on the ground. The elf’s face was soaked in sweat, she was panting deeply and looked burnt out; she smiled at her. “You did it. You did it, Herald”, the Seeker looked fondly at her. People all around them cheered , they shouted her name, mages and soldiers were exchanging embraces. Solas smiled at Riwan from afar. She did it.

Celebrations took place in all of Haven, bonfires were erected and bards played. Everyone left their duty to commemorate the day that the Herald of Andraste sealed the breach and freed them from the demons and from terror. Cakes had been baked and the advisors joined the celebrations, all seemed oblivious of ranks and titles and drank and ate together. The heavens seemed to be smiling upon them again.

This had happened just a few hours ago, but it seemed in that moment like it had happened in someone else’s life. She knew that she had only to close her eyes to recall all of their faces, but not now. She knew that she may be a few steps away from seeing Brian again, but not right now. Right now she was all alone, she had to buy them time, she had to grant them their survival. Now she facing Corypheus and his dragon, and nothing but laughter made her avert her eyes from the horrid view.

[carterhaughs]

vir lath sa’vunin

The end of the Fifth Blight heralds a new dawn for Ferelden and her peoples, but consolidating support for the young new king will not be easy, and rebuilding would be an arduous task even without the threat of residual darkspawn and fresh new horrors lingering in the wake of the Archdemon. Aelinor Surana and Alistair Theirin will need all the strength, savvy, cunning, and knowledge they can muster if they are to heal their country's hurts. With help from friends new and old and their love for each other, they will face down adversity as they always have: together.

Read @ Ao3

Note: "Vir Lath Sa'vunin" is a line from Leliana's Song - the one she sings to the warden after Zathrian and/or the Lady of the Forest die during the Nature of the Beast quest line. It is an old elven song that Keeper Lanaya may share with you in the form of a codex entry. The line means "we love one more day."

Relevant to this chapter: I recorded myself singing the song I wrote for Leliana here.

Chapter 4: Song and Dance

“The golden eyes I knew so well

Turned far their gaze from me

Foresworn was I to break the spell

But adamant was she

By dark of night she stole away

Far-flung her path did range

O’er heart and soul she still held sway

Folk found me passing strange

For in the depths of moonless night

I sought that spark of gold

Without her flame to keep it bright

I found my heart grew cold.”

Leliana finished up her song at the head of the dais to a smattering of applause. When she took her seat above the salt, she thought it would have set off more indignation among the nobles, but most of that seemed to be reserved for the two elven women she seated herself near: Aelinor Surana, hero of Ferelden and the new royal chamberlain, and Shianni, the new hahren of the Denerim Alienage. She’d taken her place at Aelinor’s right hand and stuck out slightly less there because they were both elves, but her manner of dress certainly drew the eye–simple linen and brocade but finely stitched in the manner practiced in many elven alienages.

“That was a beautiful ballad, Leliana,” said Aelinor. Her coppery hair seemed to shift from red to gold and back at once in the warmth of the torchlight, and Leliana was proud of her for wearing it down. It had taken some coaxing to get her to grow it out as she had kept it short ever since she could remember for practical reasons.

“Thank you. I thought I might try something new and not obviously Orlesian for my first day in court here. But ultimately I think it may not have mattered because all eyes were on the two of you.”

“For better or worse,” scoffed Shianni. But she grinned. “But surprisingly mostly for better, I think.”

“Indeed.” Leliana surveyed the room and noted that most of those seated at the table were preoccupied with their food now. “You’ve both conducted yourself with enough finesse that their attention has been successfully diverted by the cheese platter. They don’t find you as threatening as they expected.”

“Because they’re starting to accept us? Or because they think us token members of the king’s court?” asked Shianni, idly stirring her stew.

“From what I was able to gather, a bit of both, and neither. Some of them think you, pardon my phrasing, the king’s pet project because he has a certain...inclination towards elven women. Which is something I’m sure will always be bandied about court so long as he remains unmarried and works with the elven community. I think that would be true even if you weren’t his chamberlain, Aelinor. But your reputation as the savior of Fereldan is not without weight, and a fair few powerful nobles were open in their support of you, especially the younger set who finds the stuffiness of a staid and complacent royal court suffocating. You are their breath of fresh air, and Seranni with you. Keep your sharp tongue at the ready, Seranni, for it will mostly serve to remind them that you speak with authority under the king’s protection now. Aelinor must play the diplomat, but you can remain a firebrand.”

Shianni blinked, slightly dazzled. “Your friend is as savvy as you said, Aeli. I’m impressed.” Aelinor, however, appeared somewhat anxious as she craned her neck to get a better view of the room beyond the taller human guests at the table.

“And what of Anora, Leliana? How did the court find my handling of her insinuation?”

Leliana nodded in the direction of the dais, where Anora was in conversation with the king himself. “I think you must have handled it well, or she would not so readily admit defeat by speaking with the king himself in front of all the court. That looks too much like begging for her taste, even if it matters comparatively little to her peers. She is prideful, and not unlike her father in that way.” Alistair looked vaguely annoyed, one eyebrow raised in irritation, but other than that their conversation seemed peaceable. Aelinor breathed a sigh of relief.

“I know that won’t be the last time I’m confronted in such a way but I am glad to know you think I’ve successfully deflected her best efforts this time. But what is it that you think she intends?”

Leliana narrowed her eyes and watched Anora on the dais, the way she held herself ramrod straight and clasped her hands at the base of her spine, behind her back.

“My guess is that she is looking for a way to divide the two of you. To lessen your importance or presence here so other matters more to her liking will take priority. She has no hatred for the elves, but I doubt she wants the country’s resources spent on them more than she thinks necessary. She wants to control the political direction of the country, even without her throne.” Leliana turned to Aelinor and smiled. “I think she will find that difficult. Like everyone else here, I think she has found your bond with Alistair to be much stronger than they could have imagined–you are a formidable political force and you’ve presented them with a united front. So far, your reconstruction of the country has proceeded in a straightforward, efficient fashion they have found to be as fair as it is effective and you make a romantic pair, given your heroism. You give them hope, as you once gave me.”

Aelinor smiled in that slow tentative way she had, the way of all people Leliana knew who had little reason to smile for much of their life and were afraid of assuming it would last. She put a hand on her shoulder. “That is good to know. I will have to tell him so, later. I know he’s probably more worried than even I am, he’s just better at hiding it.”

“The two of you are the talk of the alienage,” added Shianni. “And that’s no small feat considering how little love we bear for humans. We won’t forget how you saved your own, and how you fought for us when the Blight was at your door. They sing songs in the street of how you and the witch summoned a storm to rend the heavens and struck down the ogre the moment it breached the barricade.” Morrigan. Leliana felt something cold and hard in the back of her throat, and swallowed it down.

Aelinor smiled, a distant look in her eyes as she thought back on their adventures. “One of my better efforts. I couldn’t have done it without her. I’m overjoyed to have a place in your songs and stories. I spent little enough of my life in the Lothering Alienage before I was taken to Kinloch Hold, but I tried to remember all of the songs and stories I could. I’ve had to grow up far away from the traditions of our people, and to be a part of that now...I can’t think of a higher honor.”

The reedy sound of pipes being tuned drifted across the room from the end of the hall, and Shianni’s ears perked up. “Speaking of our people...” She lobbed a thumb toward the growing ensemble of elven musicians opposite the trestle table. “They’ll be needing me on the lyre.”

Aelinor grinned in delight. “I didn’t know you were musical, Shianni! Or that you would be playing for us tonight!”

“It was the king’s idea; I assumed he told you. Perhaps he meant it to be a surprise.” She and Leliana exchanged knowing looks and Leliana could tell Aelinor was fighting back the urge to look in Alistair’s direction, staring fixedly at the spoon in her hand, eyes half-lidded with longing. Instead, she turned to Leliana.

“Now that it’s just the two of us...” she spoke in hushed tones. “I know you sang for her tonight."

Leliana looked into the middle distance at nothing in particular, restlessly shucking her spoon between her knuckles. She’d often perform tricks with silverware to make Aelinor laugh and to attempt to outdo Zevran’s sleight of hand, honed with far deadlier tools in his line of work. But tonight she did so only to give her hands something to touch, lacking what they used to hold.

"How are you faring? As soon as I can get away, I still plan on searching for Morrigan. Will you wait with me, until the time is right?”

She nodded. “I could never desert you while the kingdom still dances on the edge of a knife. Ferelden is not so big as Morrigan thinks. We will find her.” Aelinor did not ask what she would do if they did find her, and for that Leliana was grateful, because she had no answer.

The music started up–a high, keen, silver-noted tune the likes of which Leliana had rarely heard. It was a shame the elves kept so much to themselves, even in the cities. There was so much hidden beauty in their understanding of the world. Of course, that is a choice that was made for them, she reminded herself. It was something she hadn’t really thought on until she and Aelinor had grown close and she had explained on many an occasion that city elves did not relish their lot but made the best of it and protected what they could of what remained to them with as much ferocity as the Dalish.

Slowly but surely, most of the assembled nobles drifted towards the dance floor. Leliana looked for Alistair, expecting him to dance with some female dignitary or other out of politeness as she had told him he ought, but found he was headed directly for their side of the trestle table. She leaned over to whisper into Aelinor’s ear.

“His Majesty is feeling bold tonight, but after all that has transpired, I think you should too.” Aelinor continued to stare determinedly at her spoon. “He will ask you to dance, and I believe you should say yes. There will be no stemming the rumors, so you should give them something to talk about that you can control. The king will dance with his greatest champion tonight, and there will be no question as to who rules this country. Give them the certainty they require.”

Aelinor smoothed the pale blue linen of her dress beneath her as she stood and turned to meet his eyes as he approached. Leliana recognized the fear in her, the slight crease between her brows and the stiff, still way she held herself. She curtsied carefully and with painstaking precision, slow enough to gather her courage. Alistair, for his part, appeared perfectly at ease with his choice to bind himself to her so publicly. He gently tugged her up and out of her show of obeisance and took her hand in his. She was so small beside him, and over Aelinor’s shoulder, Leliana could see he looked on her with a clear-eyed intensity that asked nothing even as it offered everything.

“Lady Surana, may I have this dance?”

“With your leave, Your Majesty, you may. But I may be a poor partner, as I do not know the steps.” He chuckled softly, his eyes bright.

“It’s a good thing Shianni taught me, then, isn’t it?” Aelinor looked between him and the company of musicians at the end of the hall, and her reply caught in her throat even as her eyes glimmered faintly with what could only be tears. “I’ll take the lead for once.” And he led her hand in hand to the middle of the floor, which cleared immediately at his approach.

Alistair wasted no time, his hand sliding to her waist as he lifted the other to lead her through the steps, a series of quick and intricate movements so unlike the stately, measured court dances typical of Ferelden nobility. Aelinor caught on quickly, as it was not too unlike the movement required of her in combat as an arcane warrior, finessing the sure, swift movements of melee combat with the preternatural awareness of the resonance of her steps in realms beyond this one. Leliana wondered then if elves had danced over and through the Veil many centuries past, when they had reigned immortal. Alistair had chosen this dance with the intention of showing how much her culture meant to him, no doubt, but he was also giving the court an opportunity to understand what he saw in her and her people. It was an effective political maneuver, intentional or no.

Anora watched from the fringes of the crowd, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. It was time for Leliana to put her own gambit into motion. She made her way towards her, and curtsied. Anora nodded in acknowledgement and Leliana rose up to meet her steely gaze.

“And you are...? A bard, or something more sinister?”

“I am merely an adventurer and former Chantry sister, traveling companion to the hero of Ferelden.”

“Ah, yes. Leliana.” Anora narrowed her eyes. “And what would you ask of me?”

“Why, only your hand, Lady Anora. I have made a quick study of this new court dance and know you to be a talented partner, or so it is said.”

Anora rolled her eyes. “I had not heard as such. But knowing your sort, the exact opposite would be said of me were I to refuse you. Very well. Lead on...Sister Leliana.”