#( lyrium potions save lives; kids! )

[frcgment]

Any tips for a witch in training?

     “If you can’t generate enough of your own mana, store-bought is fine.”

[notabloodmage]

Anders Clinic: early Act 1

hello! i am handers trash! here is the first time my hawke helped Anders around the clinic! thank u!

The clinic was crowded today. There was another fever burning its way through Darktown. Anders was stretched thin as it is, with very few volunteers in recent days to help him keep the clinic running and safely hidden. As it turned out-- operating for free meant that help was hard to find. His mana was low, even with the extra reserves that Justice granted him. The clinic was overrun with patients-- his little corner of Darktown a filled with a cacophony of retching and the groans of the ill. He shuffled tiredly, but with purpose, from patient to patient. He was grateful that Justice wouldn’t let him rest until the job was done. It wasn’t good for Anders, sure, but it helped save the lives of all these people, so it had to be worth it, right? 

“Uh, Anders?” A familiar voice broke through the crowd. Hawke was… unexpected. The little rogue had weaved her way through the crowd somehow to make it to his side. He didn’t even look up from his work to greet here, focusing on blue fade-energy pulsing at his fingertips. 

“Sorry, Hawke, but I really don’t think I can be of any help to you today,” Anders said balefully. He was knelt over an old woman, a Ferelden refugee not unlike the rogue before him.

“Er, actually, I was wondering if I could help you…” 

That made him look up, and the sight was so beautiful it made his head spin (or perhaps it was the fact that he was going on 50+ hours without sleep). 

Hawke was looking down with her signature crooked grin, brow cocked with concern at his appearance. She wasn’t wearing her armour like usual, he’d never seen her without it before, all that tan freckled skin in the open. She was wearing a casual peasant shirt with a hastily lased collar and simple trousers torn at the knees. He snapped his eyes onto her warm brown gaze to keep them from wandering. Her eyes always had a twinkle in them, somehow, like she knew something you didn’t. 

She just had a way with people, Anders supposed, even the woman he was treating seemed to relax at her mere presence. 

And more than that, he realised, she may as well have been handing him a pot of gold. She was holding out a basket of fresh picked herbs. Elfroot, Embrium, Blood Lotus-- everything he could possibly need to treat this flu. She beamed when he looked up at her incredulously. 

“Bethany is here too, somewhere-- healing isn’t her speciality but Father did teach her the basics. And I may not be a mage, but I do know my way around a cauldron.” She winked down at him, turning toward the back of the shop. “You do have a cauldron, right? Or at least a pot I can cook with?” 

“I… What?” Anders gaped--half-convinced the exhaustion had finally gotten to him and he was hallucinating. Hawke giggled.

“A cauldron, Anders, so I can make some healing potions for these people. Father used to make this awful potion for us whenever we were sick, it tastes like the void itself but it always works! I’m not as good as he was but I do know the recipe!” She looked back at him quizzically.

“There’s a cauldron on the fire near the back, miss.” One of his other patients, a young boy who had been in the clinic before spoke up for him. 

Anders still couldn’t believe this was happening. This couldn’t be some kind of stress-induced hallucination, could it? Hawke wasn’t really just sweeping in to solve his problems again was she? First with Karl and now this...

“That’s… I…”

Before Anders could fully process the situation he was whisked back into his work. 

The sunset bled the day into night, the work still hard but going significantly more smoothly now. He’d bumped shoulders with Bethany a few times throughout the day, who’d always given him an encouraging smile before returning to her work, she may not have been as adept as he was at healing but she did better than fine. Her proficiency with the elements kept the fire burning and kept them supplied with clean water so Anders could focus solely on his healing abilities. The atmosphere of the clinic had changed, it was no longer so frantic, and although he felt as though he was about to collapse with exhaustion, Anders was cautiously optimistic. With all the help they’d been able to give it looked like most of the refugees would actually survive this. 

Plus, Hawke wasn’t kidding. She did know her way around a cauldron. Between patients Anders caught glimpses at her slicing up herbs at an alarming speed, Anders hadn’t considered that he proficiency with daggers would translate to something as mundane as chopping up potion ingredients. She’d brought more than enough, too.  With this potion a little goes a long way, she’d assured him, and she proved herself right. Sip after agonising sip of the sludge-like fluid had patients perking up already. She’d even been able to slip in a lyrium potion or two to keep Bethany and Anders running late into the evening. 

She hummed a cheery little tune to herself as she stirred away, serving patients with a smile and a joke. She made it look so easy, but she had to tired by now...

The clinic finally began to slow around midnight, most of the patients had cleared out and those that remained were asleep. Hawke had sent Bethany home before sundown-- Leandra got nervous when Bethany was out late, apparently-- so it was just the two of them that remained, in the back of the clinic. Anders was warming himself by the fireplace, hands gripping his mug tightly to keep them from trembling with exhaustion, as he sipped the tea Hawke had pushed into his hands. It smelled like like home somehow-- Ferelden. 

Mint, fennel and elfroot, sweetened with honey.

Hawke bit back a yawn, she was sat on a stool, scrubbing out his old cauldron-- he’d gotten it second-hand after he’d set up shop down here.

Her curly brown hair was tied back with a white rag, and at some point she had lost her overshirt, leaving her in tight camisole. Anders tried desperately to ignore how it gave him the perfect view of the way her chest heaved as she worked. Her toned, tanned arms were in full view, every inch of her skin patterned intricately with freckles. Sweat dripped down her neck into the valley between her breasts and Anders cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

“Thank you for today, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” He fixed his gaze on hers once more. She was smiling at him with something that looked like admiration her amber eyes, and he didn’t know if that terrified him or turned him on. 

Maybe both.

“I can’t believe you do this every day… I don’t even think I can stand back up…” Hawke leaned back, setting the cauldron aside so she could stretch, letting out a sweet sound of satisfaction at the relief on her sore muscles.

Anders nearly cursed aloud when Justice forced him to avert his gaze.

“It’s not always this bad…” He stammered out, as Hawke stood focusing his eyes on the hearth, where the fire had burned down to coals. She was looking at him again. He could see it from the corner of his eye, she was studying him intently, it seemed. 

The silence hung over them--warm, wanting, and not quite comfortable. 

Anders wanted to thank her again, but he couldn’t find the words. He still couldn’t believe she’d come at all. Completely unprompted, unasked. He’d asked her a few hours in what she was doing there and all she’d said was that Varric told her was busy at the clinic and she wanted to help. She didn’t say how she got the herbs or found the time, in her busy schedule though, and Anders thought that maybe he should ask if he could pay for those... not that he could afford them, he thought bitterly. 

The silence was broken by Hawke bursting into a fit of giggles. 

He looked at her, brow creasing. She was… Odd. Always smiling, always laughing at something or other. She’d tripped over her feet on the way up the Chantry steps that first night they’d met and he could’ve sworn her laugh echoed through all of Hightown, far too loud for someone as small in stature as she. In that moment she’d put him at ease, and even though his meeting with Karl went as terribly as it did she stuck by his side, even inviting him out on jobs with her in the days after, knowing full well that he could use the money, and time out of Darktown. 

Her eyes glimmered with mirth as she turned to him.

“I just realised I never told you my name.”

Huh. 

So she hadn’t. 

It was strange, given how much they’d been through together in the, what, few weeks? Since they’d met? Anders found himself laughing alongside her. 

Maybe they were delirious-- maybe the fever had finally caught up to them-- but Maker did the two of them laugh.  A gross, hard day full of grief and sickness that had left them both worn and covered in vomit and the pair laughed themselves to tears. 

Justice was confused. Anders was laughing. Why was Anders laughing? 

Anders didn’t quite know the answer himself, but he figured it didn’t matter as Hawke extended a hand to him. 

“I’m Minerva Marian Hawke, and you are?”

He took her hand in his. His handshake was a little too firm in an attempt to disguise how his hands were trembling. 

“Anders. Just Anders.”

“Just Anders, hm? Coooool~” She grinned, voice regaining its familiar teasing quality. He couldn’t help but return her grin. “Well, Just Anders, I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? I think it’s time to get some rest. Both of us, okay?” Her eyes flickered over him, an expression of genuine concern on her face. Anders didn’t know what he’d done to earn such kindness from her, but he couldn’t deny the way it made his heart pound in his chest.

She smiled her farewell and turned to leave.

“Goodnight, Minerva.” Her name tasted sweet on his lips. “And thank you.”

[chaosride]

A Divine Appointment (x7)

Chapter One

“Anyone who does anything to help a child is a hero to me.” — Fred Rogers

Anders had always been good with children. Even when he was younger, before the Circle, the other village kids had adored him. Sometimes he would see his mother watch him with sad eyes as he carried around whichever smaller kid had requested it. He hadn’t understood until after the last time he would see her that she was sad he was an only child, that she hadn’t been able to give him siblings to dote on or his father the gaggle of children he wanted.

For the first few months of being at the Circle, the other children all avoided him. Before, it would have been something he would have tried to rectify. Especially some of the younger children who clung to the robes of older apprentice mages who clearly didn’t have the patience for them. But at that time he didn’t want to talk to anyone ever again; childishly he had sworn that if they took his freedom, they took his voice too. After his first escape, which earned him a good whipping and a relatively short stay of three weeks in solitary, the younger children had become something of a balm to him. They were trapped here, same as he was, and he could protect them in some small measure while he was there. Every escape after they clambered into his bunk with their blankets and demanded to know the details.

When Anders returned from his year-long stay in solitary many of them were gone and the ones who remained were older in ways he wished he didn’t understand. One of the templars who had escorted him to his personal worst nightmare had taunted him that it was a shame that no one had been around to mind the younger mages while he was away, though the nasty smirk on his face said he thought the opposite. Anders knew that they had taken it out on the children in his place, and any hurts were his fault. He wished he had never started speaking again sometimes.

The children were sometimes the only reason Anders lit the lantern and opened the clinic. The adult refugees of Darktown were able to look after themselves for a day, but the urchins that littered Kirkwall’s underbelly couldn’t. Often there was a pack or two that came by per day, bringing this friend or that sibling who had gotten hurt doing jobs they shouldn’t have to in order to survive. He steadfastly ignored Lirene’s chiding to stop giving all his food away to them; he could figure something out, he was an adult.

Besides that, they had saved his life more than once in a variety of ways. Between warnings about templar patrols, acting as distractions, and fetching aid when he needed it, Anders would have been dead ten times over. Even so he was careful to keep them at arm's length, for their sakes. He had learned from the children he cared for in the Circle and from Karl, he was a dangerous person to love. They deserved that fate even less than they deserved to be living on the streets.

Every week saw a wash of new faces mixed with familiar ones, as well as a lack of others. Some of the groups move on to different cities, but many of them are lost to the grisly beast that is Kirkwall. Though he sees children every day it is rarely the same group within a week if not better when Anders first came to the city. They came to him with teary eyes and gingerly cradled wounds, ate his food and then left again.

Sometime after they returned from the Deep Roads, that changed but only with one group of children. They had a decent number to their little family, and Anders had never seen less than four of them together. They had started setting up near the clinic at night, and he had noticed them a few times coming back late from drinks or whatever fights Hawke had gotten them into that day. He remembered thinking that the youngest of them were no more than babies, still toddlers and hoping that they found a safer place to spend their nights soon.

The first time the children came by, it was before the clinic had actually opened for the day. Anders had been up boiling bandages and washing what few linens he had for the cots. The knock at the door had been so soft that he figured it was a breeze rattling the flimsy door in its frame. If it hadn’t been so quiet, he might not have realized they were out there, but the soft sound of whispers bleeding through the door caught his attention. The second knock was louder and more deliberate.

It took Anders a moment to wipe his hands off and get to the door. When he opened it there was a huddle of kids towards the stairs, having obviously decided Anders wasn’t going to answer.

“What are we supposed to do now?” One of them, a young elven girl, whispered. “Why isn’t anyone answering?”

“It’s early Bree, most people aren’t up yet. We’ll have to find someone else or wait for Delilah,” a dwarven boy answered her.

“But it’s an emergency, Cat’s really sick. Why close at night, emergencies happen at night too. What are you supposed to do?”

“Everyone has to sleep sometime. And you just have to survive and get help as soon as you can.”

Anders stepped out of the clinic towards them.

“Someone’s sick?” Anders called to them when they backed away from him in tandem. “I’m a healer, I can help,” he soothed and held his hands up.

The girl who had been speaking before turned towards him, her little face hopeful.

“You’ll help Cat?”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Anders assured her. “What’s wrong?”

“She had a fever last night but now it’s worse and she was coughing and won’t eat or drink,” the girl told him all in one breath. She went to step closer but the boy held her back. He regarded Anders with distrusting eyes.

“What do you charge for healing?” He asked Anders carefully.

“Nothing, I run a free clinic, it doesn’t cost any money. It sounds like she may have caught that bug that’s going around, I have herbs to help with fever. Come in, let me take a look at her.”

“If we don’t have to pay in coin, what do we have to do in return?” The boy didn’t move closer and didn’t release the girl who had spoken.

“It’s free, you don’t have to do anything in return.”

“Nothing's free,” the boy said with chilling certainty.

“Not much in life is," Anders agreed, "but this is. If you want me to help, come in and let me take a look.”

“We can… we can leave the door open? And leave anytime we want?”

“Of course.”

Finally the boy nodded and stepped forward. He and the other children followed Anders into the clinic. In total there were five children, including the sick toddler the oldest girl was carrying. The dwarven boy was wary, and made Anders eat from the food he offered them to prove it wasn’t poisoned. The oldest girl, Rosalyn was elven as well, tall and waifish. She watched him with sharp eyes as the other toddler, a boy who looked startlingly like the sick girl, sat in her lap. Bree, the other elven girl, had none of the learned paranoia her companions did and followed Anders around the clinic, asking him about what he was doing and if she could help. Anders let her help with small things like linens and rolling bandages. The herbs he gave to Cat helped lower her fever and he sent another piece of bread for the girl to have when she woke up with them when they left.

Like all the children before, they left once he had healed them and Anders figured they too would eventually stop coming around.

They didn’t. After that they came by for healing every now and then, but they all recognized Anders as he went through Darktown. Bree waved enthusiastically usually, and more than once little Cat and her twin brother Cahir ran to him to be picked up. Slowly even Tanner, the cautious dwarven boy, warmed up to Anders.

It was the early hours of the morning when Anders led Hawke, Varric, Fenris and Isabela towards the clinic. Isabela had taken a bad hit to the head and Anders had healed her as well as he could before the finally began the long trek home and to the clinic where he can treat her more comprehensively. There was a potion that would help with the concussion and a lyrium potion that would give Anders the juice he needed to finish fixing the damage.

“Mage,” Fenris called to him from where he had rounded the corner to the clinic. “There are children gathered at your door.”

“Huh?” Anders said, looking at the elf. He and Hawke were supporting Isabela to help her walk and when they rounded the corner together he saw what Fenris was talking about.

There were in fact children huddled against the door to his clinic. As they drew closer, Bree broke from the group and ran to him, her little face alarmed. She was already speaking when she reached their little group, nearly wailing from how distraught she was.

“-and you’ll help, won’t you healer?” she gasped out, and Anders felt bad that all he had understood was the end of her tirade. He was still carefully sliding Isabela’s weight to Hawke when Fenris stepped forward and elegantly knelt to be on the girl’s level.

“It’s okay,” he told her, “tell us what’s wrong and we will help,” the warrior assured the girl.

“Raelnor got hurt really bad today, he’s been working at the dock, his arm’s bent all wrong and he can’t move his fingers, and then he just said it hurt real bad and fell over and we can’t wake him up,” she told him, her breath still hitching with tears.

“I can help him, sweetheart, go with Fenris and help get him into the clinic, alright?”

She nodded. Fenris shot Anders a look over his shoulder, likely for the mage  daring to tell him what to do, but he said nothing and allowed Bree to lead him to the clinic with one small hand carefully holding his gauntleted hand. Anders watched as Fenris bent his head to speak to her ahead of them and as he helped them carry a new boy Anders had never seen before inside to a cot. The sight of the elf swarmed by curious children made something in Anders’ chest ache like there was a festering wound behind his breastbone.

Once Isabela had been healed and given a potion to help her headache, she helped keep the children entertained while Anders healed Raelnor. Tanner had given them all distrustful looks when they pulled the door shut and locked it but once he saw how Anders’ hands glowed with magic as he prepared to heal Raelnor he seemed to understand.

Raelnor was older and the children called him their brother despite how much darker his coloring was than any of the rest of them. Tanner and Bree could perhaps have passed as his siblings with their dark hair if Bree had not been an elf and Tanner a dwarf. Neither Rosalyn, with her almost white blonde hair, pointed ears and pale skin, nor the twins, with their red curly hair, had any resemblance to the rest. Regardless they were clearly a family unit, a package deal.

From what Anders could gather when he asked them about the accident, Raelnor had been working on the docks to make money for them and had come back late the night before with twice the usual pay and a shattered arm. Once Raelnor himself actually woke up, he was reluctant to say more on what had happened.

“A crate fell when we were unloading our last shipment of the day and my boss gave me extra money to see a healer.”

“But you didn’t?”

“We needed the money, and everyone I tried to see charged more than I could afford,” he had ground out and refused to look at them. “Thank you for healing me, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Anders told him. “Come to me as soon as possible next time, I’ll heal you free of charge every time.”

It was true for him and the children because it was true for everyone. If Anders could help someone he would, but even if he did charge the healer wouldn’t have been able to accept a single cent from children. He had become a healer because he wanted to help people, not because he wanted coin or thanks.

“Yeah, I will,” Raelnor lied, still looking at his hands in his lap.

“Be careful with that arm, it will still be prone to rebreaks even with healing. You broke it pretty badly,” Anders cautioned him. “Just a moment, I’ll get you something to help with the pain, it will ache for a while still.”

Anders ended up sending them with several pain relieving potions and a basket with most of the food he had just bought for himself. He tried to ignore Fenris’ eyes on him, knowing the other man likely thought him a sucker for giving away so much of his food.

“Well, this has all been very exciting but Bianca and I are going home. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Late afternoon at the earliest, Hawke ,” Varric said. He stretched his stocky arms above his head and rolled his shoulders.

“I hear you, I’ll avoid early morning emergencies to the best of my ability,” Hawke replied.

“Greatly appreciated, Chuckles.”

Anders went about setting the clinic to right for the morning, half listening as the others said their goodbyes and distractedly bidding them farewell as they ambled out of the clinic and back into the night. It was only because he looked up to check if they had shut the door behind them that he realized that Fenris had lingered.

“Mage…” Fenris began before trailing off as he struggled to say what was on his mind.

“You think it’s stupid for me to give them so much?” Anders guessed. He had heard others say that about the children he fed.

“No. I think how someone treats the most defenseless among us speaks to their character. I was going to say that I’m glad they knew to come to you for healing. Have a good evening Anders,” the warrior said before turning and leaving. He shut the door firmly behind him, leaving Anders stunned in his wake.

After that, the younger children became something of a fixture in the clinic when it was open. Anders would often open the door in the morning to find them in a puppy pile beneath the lantern, waiting for the clinic to open for the day after Raelnor had gone to work.

Anders learned they had one other older sister, a young woman named Delilah who worked at the Rose most nights. She came by once or twice to try and give Anders food in payment for healing Raelnor, who became a regular patient in the early hours of the morning.

He tried not to worry about them the nights that he spent away from the clinic with Hawke; they weren’t his children, he had no claim over them. If he got too attached, it would only end in tears as it always had before.

That was until they came to find him somewhere besides the clinic.

They had spent a long, hot day assisting Aveline with some slavers out on the Wounded Coast. Once they had returned to Kirkwall they had all agreed to retire to the Hanged Man for their weekly round of Wicked Grace. Not everyone in their rag tag band was able to make it every week, but they had a decent crowd that night. Only missing Merril and Sebastian, the elf busy with some research she was doing and Sebastian with something for the Chantry.

Isabela was just laying her winning hand down for their fourth round of the night with a thwip and flourish of her hand when Norah gave her normal brisk two raps on the door before it swung open.

“Ah, Norah, you don’t have to bring our drinks to us,” Varric said with a grin at the woman. She rolled her eyes at him.

“You can come get your drinks like everyone else unless you order food, Varric. Actually, I came up because there are kids here asking after your healer, tried to tell them this wasn’t the place for little ones but they’re insistent,” she informed them before turning away and leaving.

A cluster of familiar young faces tumbled through the door and Anders rose to his feet immediately, his heart in his throat. A headcount showed that all five of the younger kids were there, though Raelnor wasn’t with them despite how late it was.

“Mage, it would appear your children are here,” Fenris drawled even as Anders lumbered to his feet.

The healer was exhausted, his mana drained, and he had been looking forward to cards. Could just tell them it’s not clinic hours, Anders considered for a split moment. He had already cast the idea aside when Justice chided him for it.

The trust of children is precious, and they have sought you out. Help them, Anders. The spirit urged.

As Anders rounded the table to come closer, little Cat broke free from where she and Cahir were clinging to Rosalyn’s leg. She wobbled towards him, her arms held out expectantly. Anders scooped her up before she could fall without thinking, and tried to ignore how familiar of a weight she was on his hip. She was warm against his side and wound her arms trustingly around his neck.

“We’re really sorry, healer, it’s just- you weren’t at the clinic and Miss Lirene said you may be here,” Rosalyn said quietly. It was the most he had heard the blonde elf girl speak all at once. “Rae is hurt really bad. He just said that his chest hurt, and he was coughing up blood. Please,” she sniffled. Anders didn’t let her say anything more.

“Where is he? Take me to him, love.”

He was already following them down the stairs, Cat still clinging to him like a limpet, when he heard Aveline’s and Isabela’s voices.

“I didn’t realize Anders had kids,” Aveline sounded surprised.

“I don’t think he was aware either,” Isabela laughed. “Looks like we can go ahead and pack it up, big girl. Looks like we lost the rest of our competition to them as well.”

Anders glanced back over his shoulder in confusion at her last statement to see Marian, Varric and Fenris following after him. Isabela and Aveline appear at the top of the stairs together.

“Now this I have to see,” Aveline said. She sounded much too pleased about it.

“It is all rather darling,” Isabela agreed.

They spill out into the dark streets and Anders almost laughed at the sight they must have made; three grown men, three grown women, and a veritable crowd of chattering children.

Rosalyn shifted Cahir in her arms as Tanner told them that Raelnor was still in Darktown. The boy reached for Fenris with a hesitant look on his face even as he leaned nearly completely out of his sister’s grip seeking him. The warrior looked startled and Rosalyn bounced Cahir.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “he normally doesn’t want anyone to hold him, I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“I can’t carry him wearing my gauntlets, I don’t want them to hurt him,” Fenris said.

Anders realized all of his friends had put their armor and weapons back to rights before following them and Fenris had his staff on his back with his own greatsword.

Rosalyn nodded, pulled Cahir closer to herself and stepped farther from the elf. “So give me a moment to remove them and then I will take him,” Fenris finished.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It is no trouble.”

The girl watched with sharp eyes as Fenris stripped his spiked gauntlets off and tied them to hang from his pouch, still within quick reach. Once he was ready she stepped closer and this time when Cahir reached for him, Fenris met him and lifted the boy into his arms. One of Cahir’s small hands curled around the jutting edge of the breastplate of Fenris’ armor.

Anders forced himself to look away from the display and hoped if anyone saw his stare it hadn’t been as transparently fond as he feared it had been. From the look Varric gave him, Anders had no such luck.

They make their way unscathed through Lowtown and into Darktown. Perhaps because even criminals didn’t want to attack children but more likely it was due to luck and how well all of them were known for their fighting prowess. Raelnor was in their cramped little camp set up against one of the walls. Anders had noticed that the group was moving every night a little closer to the clinic; at the rate they are going, they will take to camping outside his front door by month's end.

The boy was pale, his skin clammy and cool to the touch when Anders carefully brushed fingers against his cheek. From how tense he was, Raelnor was conscious if barely. His breath whistled and gurgled in a concerning way, and his teeth were pink with blood.  He settled beside him and scanned him with trained eyes, assessing the possible causes. Anders was just preparing to start casting diagnostic spells to see if it is a rib puncturing the boy’s lung like he thought when Fenris touched his shoulder.

“Anders,” he said his name carefully. “It is too open here, people are watching.”

Anders scanned the refugees littered around them. He knew many of their faces but not all of them. He swallowed and nodded. The clinic isn’t far but they can’t risk jostling Raelnor too much by carrying him if it is a broken rib.

“We can put together a makeshift stretcher,” Aveline said. “There are beams we can use over this way and we can fix them to the blanket he’s on.”

Under her direction, they find pieces of wood long and sturdy enough to fit their needs. They secure the blanket to it and test it to ensure it will hold. Hawke and Aveline waved Fenris and Anders off when they tried to put the twins down.

“Get the rest of your kids into the clinic, we got him,” Hawke told them. Her grin said that she would not soon be letting this go. Anders decided any teasing was well worth it as he held Cat closer to him and let Bree take his hand to drag him towards the clinic.

He could almost imagine he was someone else, somewhere else for a few moments as he listened to Tanner and Rosalyn ask Fenris questions, followed by the warrior's deep voice answering. As if they were just a family returning home after a day at the market as he fumbled, shifting the toddler in his arms in order to retrieve the key to get the door unlocked and open for them. Cat, for her part, simply ignored the jostling and clung tighter to him.

When he tried to put her down inside and she blinked up dazedly at him Anders realized she must have fallen asleep at some point during the walk. He found a cot to lay her down on before going to get a warm blanket and pillow from his own bed to give her. When he returned, Fenris was carefully laying Cahir next to his sister. The twins curled into one another sweetly, both already stilling. Together Anders and Fenris got the pillow beneath both their heads before Anders tucked the now sleeping children under the blanket.

“Okay, where should we set him, Anders?” Marian asked as she and Aveline carefully navigated the stretcher into the clinic. Anders guided them to one of the larger cots and had them set Raelnor, stretcher and all, on it. Fenris shut and locked the door before he returned to help coral the children away to give Anders room to work.

Anders immediately began to check the boy over. His magic had been crackling beneath his skin as soon as he saw the blood on Raelnor’s lips and it surged forward when he called it.

As he had suspected, it was a broken rib in his lung. Anders pulled the potions he would need to give Raelnor afterward he was done healing him and downed his emergency lyrium potion before he set to work. He forced himself to tune out his companions talking to the children, keeping them distracted so the healer could focus. Once the rib was back in place and his lung healed as much as Anders could with magic, he sent another pulse of magic to check for other injuries.

He found four of his other ribs were cracked and Anders was certain Raelnor had lost a tooth recently. His jaw was still swollen but it didn’t seem to be infected. Anders certainly had a few questions for Raelnor once he woke up. Once the pain had been alleviated, Raelnor had gone limp, unconscious without it or his struggle to breathe to keep him awake. Anders stepped away and found a sheet to cover him with. Having already determined he will have a clinic full of kids for the remainder of the night, he found what blankets and pillows he could for the remaining three children and set them out on cots near their siblings.

“Is Rae going to be okay?” Bree asked once she saw Anders had stepped away from her injured brother.

“Yes, he is,” he assured. He saw all of their eyes turned to where Raelnor was still sleeping deeply, unmoving besides his deep breaths beneath the sheet. “He needs to rest, his body still needs time to recover, but he’ll be right as rain in the morning. Now, it’s bedtime for everyone. Come on, come get settled.”

Bree came over willingly and ran her fingers over one of the blankets he had set out with awed eyes. She arranged it on the cot carefully before curling up beneath it at his gentle encouragement.

“Ros, Tanner, you too, c’mon. Bedtime.”

Startled, the two looked at each other.

“I- you are really okay with all staying here tonight?” Tanner asked, “even after we ruined your evening with your friends?”

“You didn’t ruin anything, sweet thing,” Isabela assured him, “me winning every time was getting boring and this was all very exciting.”

“She’s right. Not about winning every time but about it not being ruined. Of course you can stay here tonight, come lay down.”

“Can… can we stay the night more after this?” Rosalyn asked, her voice so hesitant that Anders felt it hit him like a physical blow.

“Of course,” he told her before he could question himself. “Come lay down, love, get some sleep.”

Once he got them settled, Anders returned to where his friends were watching him with various expressions. They mainly looked amused, Aveline still looked a little gobsmacked and Varric’s smirk and sly glances at Isabela said they were already planning a friend-fiction together about the evening. However it was the almost fond expression that Fenris wore that stole Anders' breath from his throat.

It’s because of the children , he told himself firmly. Fenris was good with them, with most children when given the chance, and he never seemed to run out of patience with questions or demands to be carried. It’s because he is fond of the children.

There was no denying that Fenris was handsome, devastatingly so if you asked Anders, but before when all they had done was snap and snarl at each other their differences had been too great to analyze that too closely.

“It’s clear you have it well in hand here, let me know if you need anything,” Hawke said and clapped him on the shoulder as she passed him to leave the clinic. Isabela pressed a kiss to his cheek before jogging to catch up with Marian.

“You got good kids, Blondie,” Varric teased. Aveline waved at him over her shoulder as she and the rogue followed Hawke and Isabela.

Then he and Fenris were alone, besides the children. “They are lucky to have you, mage.”

“I can be pretty handy to have around,” Anders deflected weakly. “I’m just the only one they know to go to.”

“Doubtful, they appear to be very resourceful. They have chosen you because you are a good man. I will see you later, good night Anders,” Fenris said.

“Be safe, you have a good night too,” he answered lamely, tongue tied by this new, earnest side of Fenris he had never seen. He wanted to call out, tell Fenris he was a good man too but the warrior was already gone, the clinic door closed behind him.

Since the children had come into Anders’ life, since that first night Fenris had seen him heal Raelnor, something had shifted between them. It was something new and fragile that Anders refused to examine too closely for fear of breaking it, but nonetheless it was something. It had softened their fights to just bickering and the elf seemed to stop and truly listen to Anders more than he had in the past. Anders hadn’t felt inclined to pray to the Maker or Andraste since Karl’s death, but he prayed that night.

Please, Maker, keep this little family safe, he prayed. I know they aren’t mine, I know I don’t deserve any of them, but please look after Fenris and the children.

(please leave kudos and comments on ao3 if you enjoyed!)

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe Additional Tags: Established Relationship Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one who was shackled next to you? What do you have in common, save for the chains that bound you both?

A part of Yvanne found it chilling to see Loriel speaking so calmly and evenly with a monster, as though it was simply another person that needed her help and not a corrupted monstrosity. Her skin crawled to see its beady too-alive eyes, set above a noseless skeletal face, its pale skin standing out in the driving rain.

But the greater part of her was thinking only of what the thing had told her.

The Keep. The Keep was under attack.

“What are we waiting for?” she yelled, over the rain and the thunder and the sounds of the chaos coming from within the city. “We need to go back!”

Loriel turned her head slowly to look at her, as though surprised to hear her speak. Yvanne could vaguely hear Constable Aiden agreeing with her, urging the Commander to go back to defend the Keep, but all she could focus on was Loriel’s pale wet face.

She shook her head, so slightly. “We aren’t going back.”

“Wh-what?” The slopping cold rain was making her teeth chatter. She looked back at the city, but she wasn’t really seeing it. “The city’s already lost! We have to go back to the Keep before everyone’s killed!”

Lightning flashed and briefly illuminated the Warden-Commander’s expression. “We have to try,” she said. “There may be survivors.”

It was exactly the same thing she had said at Kinloch. Yvanne was suddenly thrown back there, and every muscle in her body tensed. She hated thinking about that horrible stretch of days. She hated to think about the kind of person she had revealed herself to be.

And then she thought about the Keep, her high grey walls, her fluttering banners, and she thought of those walls falling, those banners burning, and every part of her cried out, no!

She couldn’t let that happen, she couldn’t, she just needed to make Loriel understand how serious it was—

“Fine,” she said, “Then I’m going back myself.”

Loriel’s big eyes went bigger. The heavy rain had plastered her hair to her forehead. “What? No. No, no, whatever we do, we should do it together.”

“Exactly! So come back with me—help me save our home.”

Something flashed in her face at the mention of home, something dark and pained. “I can’t,” she said. “I’m the Commander. I have a duty…”

Yes! Yes, you do! Yvanne wanted to shriek. To the Keep! To our people! To me! Why do you have a duty to everyone but me?

She opened her mouth to say so, but nothing came out. She couldn’t string the words together. All she could think about was the Vigil burning, everything she had built up in flames, all her efforts gone just like that. What could she say to make Loriel understand?

Nothing. Maybe there was nothing. She realized it all at once, in a flash. It had been like this back during the Blight, too. Yvanne could never change Loriel’s mind, not about anything.

“We need to do this together,” Loriel said, sounding weaker and shriller than she’d probably intended.

“Then please— please— come with me.”

She worried her hands. Yvanne could tell she wanted to bite her knuckle and was resisting it. “I can’t keep discussing this. There may be survivors. I’m sorry, I just—I can’t!”

Yvanne heaved a breath. She couldn’t think straight. She needed to...she needed…

Surely she wouldn’t really do it. Surely she couldn’t leave now. Who was she if she left now? But she found herself saying, and meaning, “Fine. You can’t. But I will.”

And she turned to go.

“ What?” Loriel went electric, darting forward to grab her hand. “Yvanne, don’t leave. I need you.”

It was so good to hear, but it wasn’t true. “You don’t,” she laughed. “Who are you kidding? I’m a nothing-mage compared to you. You don’t need me at all.”

“No,” Loriel said evenly. “I mean, I need you. Don’t make me—don’t make me do this alone.”

It almost broke her resolve. Yvanne had nothing to say. She was finding it difficult to breathe.

“But what if something happens?” Loriel said wretchedly.

“It’s already happening,” Yvanne said, and as she did her heart leapt into her throat—her soldiers all in silver, her high granite walls, her warm halls and high ceilings. Her people. She had never thought of herself as having a people before.

There was a long moment when neither spoke. Yvanne thought, surely she won’t let me go, just like that. Surely, she’ll see—

Loriel stepped forward, and cupped her cheek, murmuring. An enchantment flowed over her, cool and tingling and feeling so familiar. Loriel’s magic would always feel familiar.

“There,” she said quietly. “For protection.”

No, this isn’t right, Yvanne was thinking, this can’t possibly be— but her mouth was saying. “Stay safe. For me.”

“For you? Anything.”

She kissed her. And then she said, “Half the forces are yours to command.”  Yvanne thought to protest—to divide their meager forces was madness—but they were not simple mortal women. They were mages, fire made flesh.

Loriel went towards Amaranthine, and Yvanne went towards the Keep, and for as long as she lived, Yvanne would never know which one of them stepped away first.

—

Yvanne had let a handful of tears fall, on the frantic journey back. Loriel had just let her go, and it hurt, it hurt—but she’d been right. Loriel didn’t need her. But the others did.

When she reached the Keep, it was already under attack. These darkspawn they dispatched at once. They had made it before the battle had truly begun. Inside, the soldier’s eyes brightened at the sight of her. Oghren roared joyfully and waved, and the Seneschal’s shoulders slumped in relief, clasping her hand and asking her orders.

It would turn out not to matter.

The darkspawn came, and they kept coming, and her men and women died, and they kept dying. Yvanne had begun the battle as an eye of a storm, crackling and striking bright burning death from above at any that came close, but soon enough she was forced to spend all her mana on healing spell after healing spell. She found herself desperately wishing she’d paid more attention to Wynne’s lessons.

She just wasn’t much of a healer, and a healer was what they needed right now.

Eventually she had to sleep. She retreated, let Garahel take command for a while. She collapsed on a bedroll in the great hall, and slept.

No dreamless sleep was to be had, for a mage overindulging in lyrium. She awoke in the Fade, lucid and aware that she was dreaming. Her heart sank. In a state like this, she would awake physically rested, but mentally as exhausted as ever.

She found herself on a ghostly shore of Fade-stuff. At first she was alone. Then she reached out.

Loriel! she not-quite-called.

And there she was in the dream. Alive, wherever she was. However she was doing in the material realm, in the Fade she looked as she always did—luminous, transcendent. Yvanne couldn’t touch her, not really, but she could see her.

Ever since the Battle  of Denerim, when Yvanne had nearly been lost to the mortal realm forever and Loriel had brought her back, they’d been connected. They’d created this place together, though mostly on accident, this ghostly shore that functioned as their private demesne. When they dreamt, they could find each other, but mostly the dreams remained dreams, senseless and half-forgotten, with nothing much more than a gut feeling to confirm that they really were meeting here, in the world beneath the world. But Yvanne had learned to trust her gut feelings.

I miss you, Yvanne said, hoping she could somehow hear her. I’m sorry.

The waves rolled in and out and for a time their dreaming selves could sit together. And before she knew it, before she was ready, Yvanne was being shaken awake, and the battle went on.

And on. And on. And on...

Wave after wave came. She drank potion after cobalt potion. This was enough lyrium to have rendered her comatose only a year ago, but now it wasn’t enough, it was never enough. Soldier after soldier fell. Soldier after soldier rose again. Yvanne fought like a hellcat for every drop of blood, for every life she could. And it was still not enough.

On the third day, the Seneschal fell. Yvanne had been distracted with a complex revival spell, to raise a dozen men from near-death. Halfway through the incantation, the ogre had charged through, right at her. The Seneschal had stopped it. With all her strength, with all her magic, Yvanne could not save him. Not enough lyrium, not enough time. And choking on his blood, his ribcage crushed, the Seneschal had died.

Yvanne had spent months working with this man. She’d grown used to his reserved voice, his fond chuckle, his guidance, his respect. She’d begun to think of him as part of the Keep’s foundations. He’d saved Loriel’s life, saved her life, and she hadn’t saved him back. She’d let him die, because she was busy doing something else.

And she couldn’t even spare a thought to grieve him. She was just too tired.

After the third day she couldn’t permit herself more potions, and consented to sleep. The dream began almost as soon as her head hit the bedroll.

She stood on the ghostly shore again. She knew better than to hope for restful sleep. But this time she was alone. She called out—but received no answer. She really was alone here.

Was Loriel—Yvanne tried and failed to keep herself from thinking it—could she be dead?

No! No, not dead. She would have known if she was dead. She was alive, just...remote, somehow, for some reason. It was more than wishful thinking; Yvanne could see a shimmering golden thread, emerging from her chest, attached to something, someone else on the other side, and it felt familiar. It had to be her.

The thread trailed through the sand and off into the verdant Fade-wrought jungle behind her. She had always been taught not to wander the Fade. Horrors lurked in places just off the path, and Yvanne had by now seen enough horrors to not want to see them again.

But she had to know. She had to be sure. She needed to see Loriel more than she was afraid of anything she might find looking for her.

The Fade twisted and changed. The jungle warped strangely, growing and shifting, resolving into something that was not a jungle, into a dark place Yvanne didn’t understand. Loriel! she called. Where are you?

And suddenly there she was, crouched behind something, looking tired and bloody but living, unhurt. Yvanne called out to her, reached out to her, but her hand passed right through Loriel’s shoulder. She was a ghost here. Loriel had no idea she was there.

Where was here, anyhow? It was a dark grey place of shades and shadows, flickering at the outlines as though it was underwater. With difficulty, Yvanne could make it out—Amaranthine. And the figures by Lorie, who she spoke to with soft authority—yes, that was Anders, and Justice, and Sigrun. They were crouched behind an enormous piece of rubble, a city already fractured.

But if this was Fade-Amaranthine, whose memory was this? And how had she gotten here, from Vigil’s Keep? It looked like no demesne of the Fade. In fact, it…

All of a sudden Yvanne understood. This was not Fade-Amaranthine. This was the real Amaranthine. She’d followed Loriel here, through the Fade, and now she walked the mortal world as a spirit.

Anders, she said, aren’t you a spirit healer? Pay attention, would you? Hey! Tell her I’m here!

When she touched him, she felt him shudder, but he otherwise did not react. Justice? she tried. Surely him if anything.

Nothing! If she had to guess, it was because Loriel was anchoring her here. But if that was the case, why couldn’t she see her?

Blood magic, Yvanne realized. It eroded one’s connection to the Fade. Of course. Then she got worried. Loriel rarely used blood magic. How much of her own blood had she spilled in this conflict.

I wish you could see me, she said.

Loriel’s lips were moving, incanting, and with a start Yvanne beheld her face. She looked so cold. All around her were dead bodies that she had raised to serve her in this battle, and she surveyed them with utter calculation. Even as she crouched and considered her next move, the screams of the dying and the wounded—though Yvanne could barely hear them, how loud they must have been—reached her, and moved her not at all. She finished saying something to Anders, who nodded, shying away, and then Loriel leapt out from behind the rubble and cast her spell, and—

Yvanne found herself yanked from one battlefield back to another, feeling no more rested than before.

Someone handed her another potion of wakefulness, two of lyrium. She drank them as fast as she could without throwing up, and dragged herself up.

Do not give an inch.

On the fifth day, Velanna disappeared. Yvanne didn’t know exactly when. She had seen her that day, calling up the earth itself to swallow up its enemies, ensnaring them, and then Yvanne had taken her eyes off her to concentrate on something else. And then Velanna was gone, and at first Yvanne thought nothing of it, hadn’t even noticed. When she did not appear again, there was no time to search for a body. There was hardly even time to mourn her presumed loss.

Yvanne held the line. Her body forgot exhaustion, forgot pain. It knew only the lyrium song, the determination not to give an inch. It would all come crawling back for her, but not yet, not yet.

On the seventh day, Yvanne slew the Herald. It had been stupid enough to come forward, to attempt to engage her directly, and she’d taken it down with every dirty trick in the book. No triumph, no glory, no heroism, but once it was dead, the remainder of its force retreated. The stragglers were picked off in short order. Now all that was left was to tend to the survivors.

Blearily, Yvanne realized she had won.

If Loriel had been here, it would all have been over within a day. She was so powerful. She was holding a whole city practically by herself, and here Yvanne was with a whole army, all the supplies she could possibly need, and she’d still struggled so much. And so many had died. And the Keep was still standing, but only just.

The siege was over. She stood in her ruined Keep, its flagstones slick with blood both red and black. There were more living men than corpses here, but only just.

She had won. But only just.

She fell backwards a long way, a far longer way than merely to the ground, into a dark so deep that even for her it could be dreamless.

—

On the dawn after the seventh day, the siege of Amaranthine broke. The handful of survivors emerged from hiding. The streets of the city ran black with darkspawn blood. Much of it was destroyed, but much remained. Loriel had won. Amaranthine was saved. And she felt…

Nothing in particular.

She’d saved these people, and they knew it, and besides, she was the Arlessa and the famous Warden-Commander—but they’d also seen how she’d done it. They’d seen her raise the dead, make puppets of the living, drain them of life to augment her own, and it had worked . She’d saved them.

But it didn’t matter. They were afraid of her now, not the darkspawn.

She stalked through the ruined streets, halfheartedly looking for survivors. She had expended more mana here than ever before. More even than at Denerim, where she had had armies at her beck and call, where she had needed only to stay alive long enough to stab an oversized Blight-worm. Here she had fought and struggled for every inch, for every life. She’d tried so hard.

Here she hadn’t even had Yvanne. It didn’t matter, in some ways. Yvanne had been right about their relative skill. Anders served fine as a healer. It had been the right choice, to split up. They were more than capable, separately, and they were responsible for people’s lives. They’d done the right thing. Loriel knew that.

Still, every time she thought about it, something dark and furious roared inside her heart.

Of course she knew that Yvanne cared about the Keep, and it’s people, too, when it came to that. She would have had to have been truly blind to have missed that. But she had somehow always thought that it was...a side project, something to occupy her time with. That’s how it had always been with Yvanne.

Since when did Yvanne care that much about anything at all?

Loriel had always prided herself on knowing exactly what was going on inside her mind. She had to—fine control over one’s mental state was part and parcel with fine control over one’s magic. So it took her no time at all to figure it out. Loriel had asked Yvanne to make a choice, and she hadn’t chosen her. Of course it hurt. It would have been absurd, for it not to have hurt.

She noted it, that antipathy, that despair, examining it like a curious artifact picked up in an ancient ruin. It was an old, jealous, ugly feeling, that she had, for all these years, kept in a little box, latched tight, where it could do no harm.

But now it was out, and she could not get away from it. All throughout the battle it had followed her, feeding her spells, surrounding her like a murky cloud, corrosive like rust, like the vilest corrupting agent.

She paused in her search to lean against some rubble and drink from her water skin. She’d inhaled an awful lot of dust over the past few days. That couldn’t possibly have been good for her.

The problem was…

Before she and Yvanne had—sorted things out—Loriel had had no expectations. She’d had no reason, no right, to expect anything from her. To be regarded by her as a friend, a best friend, even that had felt like a secret miracle. Like something she didn’t deserve, and was only getting as a result of some kind of cosmic fluke, stolen in a moment when the Maker’s attention was elsewhere.

But now, over the past year…

Now it felt like she had something to lose.

And the worst part of it was, that it shouldn’t have felt like losing anything. Yvanne had been right. It was her Keep. These were her people, as much a people as she could have.

Unbidden, she remembered something Velanna had said to her.

She scowled and resumed her search.

Maybe she didn’t want a people. Maybe she didn’t want to be anything to any of them. Maybe she just wanted to live unbeholden. And she could have, if not for Yvanne, if not for Yvanne caring so much that she would abandon her, for the first time in all their lives, she’d really done it—all for this futile, dying, facsimile of a family that they were all a part of—

And because Loriel prided herself on knowing what was going on inside her own mind so well, she recognized these thoughts and feelings as what they were. Emotional garbage. Irrational, harmful, and ridiculous, in every way imaginable. She let herself feel them, really feel them, there was no point in not feeling them. She let them flow through her, tear at her heart, nearly consume her—and then she took them all, and put them away, and crushed them into nothingness.

Now she felt calm again.

Amaranthine was saved. But there was still work to be done. There would be no time to return to the Keep, to see who—to see what—well, there was no time. She would have to press on.

The work ahead would suit her better.

—

They had already begun to clean up the bodies. Nathaniel was doing his level best to direct things, along with Captain Garavel. Two pyres were being built. One inside the walls, for their men—one outside, for the spawn.

Velanna had not appeared. Yvanne ordered them to keep searching. Oghren was gone, too, but him they found not too much later, passed out drunk on the roof, and Maker only knew how he’d gotten up there.

Things were running well enough without her. Of course they were. She’d arranged it that way. Arranged all of this, with a zealous mania whose source she did not dare question, for months and months. And there still stood the high granite walls, and there still gleamed the silverite armor, and there still stood her soldiers. Some of them, anyway.

Yvanne was thrown violently back to the last time she had been in Kinloch. Suddenly she was two years younger and so angry and so sad, so horrified, so miserable, even though that place had been a prison, that place had never been a home.

Could anyplace be her home? She was just fooling herself in thinking as much, wasn’t she? Who had she ever been kidding? What was she trying to prove?  She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere. She needed to get out—

A gloved hand landed on her shoulder. Nathaniel.

“Commander,” he said. “They didn’t find a body. She could still be alive.”

And all the sadness fled, because somebody needed her, and she’d never really been needed before, and it felt like liquid sunlight, to be needed. So she said with ease and grace, “’Course she’s alive. Don’t be morbid.”

“Right,” he said, half-believing in her confidence. “We could use some help getting Oghren off the roof.”

“Of course you do. Point me to where I need to be.”

She turned back to the mess, ready to face it. Yvanne did not pray, but in what might have halfway passed for one, she prayed for Loriel’s swift return. Because the Keep was almost, but not quite, a home. Not without her.

She dreamt that night again, of a dark place she had no name for. It wasn’t Amaranthine...but then, what was it? There was Loriel, face carefully neutral, though every muscle in her body spoke of warning. She was arguing...with who? Justice? The spirit did like to argue, but with Loriel? Loriel and the spirit hardly ever disagreed…

No, not only Justice. Sigrun, too. Her gaunt features were furious—her hand twitching near her weapon. What had happened?

The argument ended. Justice backed off. So did Sigrun. Yvanne could barely see Anders’ shoulders relax—he’d been tense. But Anders was always tense. She couldn’t hear him, but she could see his forced grin, see his mouth move in what was assuredly a dreadful joke of some kind.

Loriel turned away from the Wardens and stepped towards another figure, one Yvanne hadn’t noticed. Now she beheld it and at first couldn’t tell what she was looking at. It was a man, or something like a man, but warped and twisted, all save the lower half of its face. Was that—the thing in the silverite mines?

Was she talking to the Architect?

Yvanne searched desperately for an answer, but couldn’t figure out why Loriel would possibly be treating with it.

But she was. She spoke with it at length—Yvanne wished that she could read lips—and then waved the party on into the darkness, leaving the Architect unharmed. The scene dissolved into shards of light and feeling, and Yvanne saw no more.

She woke more sore and aching than before. At first she lay there, considered her dream, wondered desperately what was happening. What could it have meant, what did any of it mean?

But then all at once she decided that it didn’t matter. She trusted Loriel to do what needed to be done, whatever it was. And anyway, she had work to do.

—

On the ninth day the Warden-Commander returned to the ruined Keep. She was weary, acrid black blood mixed with no small amount of her own soaking her garments. But no lasting harm had been done to her. She’d halfway expected a welcome; now she saw the broken walls and plumes of smoke, and her heart seized with terror.

Surely—surely if Yvanne—she would have known. She would have felt it!

She broke into a run.

The gates were gone, in pieces. There was the source of smoke—a great pyre, high with the bodies of the dead. It must have been burning for days. Littering the courtyard were the bodies of the wounded, those tending to them. She searched and searched, ignoring the cries of relief and surprise at the Commander’s return. She cared about one thing and one thing exactly.

She wasn’t being a good leader, wasn’t supporting people who’d sworn to be in her service, and she didn’t care.

In the panicked fog, it only occurred to her several minutes later simply to ask — “ Where is the Warden-Lieutenant?”

Someone pointed her towards the courtyard, but that didn’t mean she was alive. She wouldn’t believe it until she saw. Somehow her heart was already grieving. Why had she let her go alone? She’d been so stupid! For some stupid city she didn’t even care about! She’d grieve her whole life, never stop regretting—

Then she saw her, those tending to the wounded, directing other non-magical healers, looking tired and sweaty, but alive.

She looked up and saw her while Loriel was still busy staring in stupefied relief, and smiled. She didn’t look surprised to see her. Happy, but not surprised. Why not surprised? Hadn’t she been worried at all?  She crossed the distance between them and all at once everything was fine again.

“Well it’s about time you showed up,” she said lightly, when it had been long enough that they could stand to let go for a moment. Loriel could smell the lyrium on her; she’d been taking too much again.  “How very like you, you know, to leave me with all the hard work while you go off on wild adventures into the blue. Very bold of you. Do you have any idea how bored I’ve been without you? Nothing but darkspawn for company. Awful. I suppose you saved Amaranthine singlehandedly? Figures nobody would tell me you were back, not like I didn’t just spend over a week keeping this place together.”

She carried on like that for several minutes, catching Loriel up on everything that had transpired, alluding only vaguely to the major events of the siege and going into precise detail about all the various minor annoyances she’d experienced, like a shortage of spindleweed and the incompetence of her temporary teenage assistant. Somehow she managed to talk nonstop for minutes at a time without letting on at all who was dead and who was alive. Loriel followed her silently, listening, and then she thought, Something’s not right.

She'd figure all that out later. “How long have you been awake for?”

“Oh, you know,” Yvanne said vaguely. “Now that you mention it I suppose I am a bit tired. I’m sure you’re tired, too. Ugh, and you need a bath. I’ll have someone run a bath.”

She went on like that, giving instructions to an endlessly rotating cast of underlings, none of whom Loriel recognized and could only assume had materialized out of thin air, right up until they were out of sight.  As they went up the stairs and the hallways and up to their chambers, Yvanne trailed off, her words growing choked and heavy and stopping altogether.

There it is, Loriel thought, realizing. Yvanne knew better than to let that show where people could see her, when they were looking to her for strength. Because she was a real leader, not like the so-called Warden-Commander. She had learned how to be what people needed her to be. When had she learned how to do that? When had Loriel forgotten it?

“Yvanne? Are you alright?”

“It’s been,” she said, rubbing at her eyes, “it’s been a difficult couple of days.” To Loriel’s complete surprise, she began to weep. She wept into Loriel’s hair, wept and wept and couldn’t seem to stop. She hadn’t cried like this in, oh, years and years.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Loriel said, rubbing small circles into her shoulders.

“Why were you talking to the Architect?” Yvanne asked suddenly, in a stronger, clearer voice than Loriel was expecting. It had the taste of a question she'd been waiting to ask for a while.

She stared. “I...how could you possibly know about that?”

“Did you dream at all, while we were apart?” Yvanne asked, which made no sense at all.

“No, I—I haven’t been remembering my dreams recently. I’m sure I have them, but…”

“I see.” She wasn’t weeping any longer. Now she was back to just looking tired, maybe more tired than she’d ever been. More tired than Loriel had ever seen her, anyway.

“I think,” Loriel said carefully, “I think there’s rather a lot I need to tell you.”

“Right. Me, too.”

They looked at each other, as though checking if maybe nine days apart had permanently changed anything about either one of them.

Of course that was ridiculous. Of course they were always changing, at every moment of every day.

“Let’s start with…” Loriel hesitated, but only a moment. “There’s a chamber, in the depths of the Keep. I should show it to you.”

[teiranlavellan]

Compassion and the Lady of Iron

Thank you @honestly-wilde​ for the prompt!

(Talesfromthefade): “Cole trying to help Vivienne, for the DWC?”

@dadrunkwriting​

Madam Vivienne de Fer stared into the darkness of the canvas tent she shared with three other people in the middle of the forest wilderness.  She had waited, her eyes closed and her hands folded—still visually striking even when in repose—until she heard the semi-silence of sleep from the three tents that housed the Inquisition’s Inner Circle.  She had chosen this tent of her three options because it lacked Blackwall’s stench and Bull’s tendency to take up most of the available space.  Now she listened for the signs that she was relatively alone; the only moments of solitude when traveling with nine companions: Sera’s sleep-mumbling at a predicable broken pace, Teiran’s still-asleep flip from one side to the other and Cassandra’s snore.  She listened to the nocturnal silence outside their tent, the crackle of their ember-filled fire pit being punctuated by various snores and deep breathing. Vivienne was safe.  She could scrub away the invisible mask she always wore.

Fingers running along her soft skin, Vivienne’s façade began to crack and pull away. Bastien’s death had been two weeks ago, but with so much to do at Skyhold, she had made herself believe it didn’t hurt that much.  Not really.  The many threads to pull, cut and tangle amongst the visiting nobles and long-distance contact with Val Royeaux had been a suitable distraction.  But ever since they had left the safety of those ancient, stone walls, Vivienne had felt the bubble of grief begin push its way from beneath the surface.  If she didn’t allow herself some leeway, it would burst at an inopportune time.  So, Madam de Fer had counted on this moment of privacy.

She wept beneath her hands, silently and without a single sob escaping her beautiful lips.  Her heart overflowing with loss, every sentiment she had pushed down and denied leaking through her mute cries.

A voice that wasn’t hers but perfectly mimicking the timbre of her own voice whispered near her head, “Bastien . . . Bastien, how dare you leave me.  How dare you die—It’s alright Vivienne.  I can hel—”

Caught in her moment of vulnerability and sensing a demon in their midst, a stray thought of “Am I in the Fade?” passed through Vivienne’s mind before the blow. Lightening arcing from her palm, she struck above her with the speed and grace of a snake.  Throwing her bedroll aside, Vivienne twisted away from the demon and stood, tears fresh on her face and her finely shaved head brushing the top of the tent’s canvas and pole.

Two screams registered on Vivienne’s right, one following the other.  The mage glanced over and froze in shock.  Sera was hysterical, jumping around like a rabbit caught in a snare.  Teiran’s back was to the enchanter, but the gleam of steel and a knife’s handle protruded grotesquely from the elf’s side.  The horror on Cassandra’s face and the blood on the Seeker’s hands as she held the Inquisitor in place made Vivienne feel as if she had been the one struck by lightning.

Alarmed exclamations and the sound of sleepy confusion outside the tent reached Cassandra’s perception.  The warrior had been plunged headfirst into a crisis, but this wasn’t the first time. She tried to remain calm as the blood pooled around her hand on Teiran’s side, but Sera’s hysterics were jarring her half-asleep mind and the smell of ozone and blood permeated the small space. Looking for aid, Cassandra glanced up at Vivienne, but the enchanter was uncharacteristically frozen in shock and, even more unusual, in tears.  The tent was sliced open as one of Bull’s horns pierced the fabric and then his two meaty, gray hands grabbed and pulled at the wide slash.  The tent fell slack and enveloped them for a brief moment before being flipped off by many hands.  When the fresh night air hit her, Cassandra saw them all stop and stare at the scene lit by Solas’ veil fire.

Solas, clad only in a pair of long pants, was the first to move: a single, hesitant step halfway between the smoldering heap that was Cole and the gasping, bloody mess that was Teiran.  Solas’ face was lined with indecision and reeling with the possibilities; calculating that he could save them both on his own, in this instant if he showed his true capabilities.  His imagination worked out the consequences of his dilemma: either he saved them both right now or risked losing the one he didn’t personally attend to.  However, saving both simultaneously would raise too many questions and then he might lose her in the end.  But could he live with himself if he lost the precious spirit of Compassion to this world of his own creation?  Could he live with himself if he lost the Anchor too?  Solas’ mind railed against his heart, “What was most important to him?”

The eye of the storm, Cassandra took control of the situation.  Drawn by the movement of Solas’ step and seeing the intense swirl of emotions in the typically composed elf, Cassandra decided how best to delegate the healers, “Solas!  Help Cole.” Cassandra moved along the line of faces until she landed on the handsome Tevinter, “Dorian. Help me with her.”

Solas hesitated only for a moment, hovering between mutiny and affront at the decision being made for him, before lithely fade-stepping over to the still-sparking Cole. Checking the spirit for breath, Solas infused as much power behind the healing spell as he dared.

“What happened?” Dorian spat out, yelling over Sera’s string of nearly-incoherent profanities.  

Dorian, wearing a sleeveless robe with a fabric belt, navigated the folds of canvas hiding the contents of the tent until he stepped upon them almost losing his balance in the cramped space.

“Worry about that later.  Vivienne!” Cassandra rounded on the frozen mage in the outline of what was moments before their tent, “Help Dorian.”

Feeling Teiran convulse under her hand, Cassandra braced her.  Dorian kneeled behind the elf.  Teiran coughed blood, her lungs spasming from the puncture of Sera’s knife.

“Ma’am?”  Bull asked cautiously, his eye darting between Dorian and Vivienne.  “Can you walk, ma’am?”

With a swipe of her hand, Vivienne replaced her mask, “Of course dear.”  She held the slit hem of her low-cut dress as she stepped around Sera and sat down beside Dorian, who was muttering agitatedly to himself.  

“No.”  Came the hollow but nonetheless powerful sound emitting from Solas.  He took a step away from Cole and fixed his distant gaze on Vivienne as if he meant to remove her physically from Teiran’s side.  His healing magic was still swirling between his outstretched hand and Cole.  Cole twitched, slowly fading back to consciousness. Solas’ distant gaze, still seeing Cole’s injuries, fell on Cassandra, “Look at what she has done.  We cannot trust her.”

Cassandra looked between Vivienne, Teiran and Solas, then she took hold of the handle of the knife. “Solas, you have enough to deal with healing Cole on your own.  We cannot lose the Inquisitor.  We will deal with that after the danger has passed.”  She turned to Dorian and Vivienne, “Ready.  Now!”  She pulled the dagger free and let it clatter to the ground.  The blood pooled quickly and Teiran slumped unconscious in Cassandra’s arms.  Cassandra, bearing the elf’s weight, gently lowered her on her back.  Dorian and Vivienne followed the body, eyes glazed and green-hued magic swirling and mending.

Solas bared his teeth in frustration, watching the Enchanter closely.  He monitored the internal and external damage being repaired by Dorian and Vivienne from Cole’s side of the tent.  Cole revived under Solas’ hands and took his first shaky breath since being struck.  Solas refocused exclusively on his own patient, sending soothing thoughts and magic to the spirit who was now experiencing a previously unknown facet of having a body: physical pain that cannot be waylaid by will or intent.  Solas reviewed his own first experience in this realm and tried to decide how best to heal Cole’s mind as well as body.

All this time, Sera had continued to stare at the knife, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.  Blackwall stepped up and over to the distraught elf, tucking her under his shoulder, leading her out of the destroyed tent and towards the fire that Varric was building up again.  

Blackwall positioned Sera near the fire.  “This is bad. Bad.  Bad.  Shite. Piss-balls.  I’ve killed her.  I’ve killed Quizzy.” Sera yelled sporadically, sitting on the ground in her underwear.  

Varric sighed heavily at the thought of getting anything out of Buttercup.  Instead the dwarf let Blackwall take over rebuilding the fire and he rejoined the group gathered around the sundered tent.

Seeing Cole’s eyes open and staring, Varric approached and sat opposite Solas, “Kid? Can you hear me, Kid?”

“I still don’t understand.  No matter how I pull at it, the pain won’t go away.”  Cole muttered softly, staring into the stars above rather than looking at either the elf nor the dwarf beside him.

The lines of concentration on Solas’ face deepened, trying to communicate and heal the spirit simultaneously and quickly.

“It’s not that kinda pain, Kid.  You just gotta wait for your body to heal.  But don’t worry, I’ve seen Solas do this before.  It’ll be alright.”  Varric reassured Cole with a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The sound of glass clinking together announced the return of the Iron Bull.  The Qunari pushed a healing potion into Varric’s hand and then held a blue bottle of lyrium out to Solas.

Eyes still glazed, Solas shook his head, “Give it to Dorian please.  I am almost finished here.”  Solas reached over and grabbed Cassandra’s blanket, throwing it over Cole with an efficient grace. Varric slowly tucked the blanket under Cole’s sides and feet while Solas continued healing the last of Cole’s charred flesh.

Taking a few steps to the right, the Iron Bull kneeled beside Dorian and put a hand on his arm, “Here. Drink this.”

Dorian’s glazed eyes roamed over the uncapped lyrium potion, then one of his bloody hands reached for it.  The mage downed it in three long gulps then returned the blood-smeared vial to Bull. His mustache twitched with the sudden burst of magical energy and his magic took on a more turquoise shade of green as it continued to swirl around the Dalish elf.  Bull handed a red healing potion to Cassandra, who accepted it without taking her eyes off of Teiran’s slack face.  Then Bull stood and came to kneel before Vivienne, offering her a blue vial.

“I have no need of it.  Thank you darling.”  Vivienne refused graciously, never taking her glazed gaze away from the tree line beyond Cassandra’s shoulder.  

Bull grunted and then left the healers to replace the vials in their respective stashes.  Still looking for something to do, Bull pulled the ripped tent completely free of its supports and dragged it over to the newly revived campfire Blackwall had made.  Seeing the rigidity of stress in both Blackwall and Sera, he offered them a thick needle and thread.  Blackwall accepted with a nod, rolling up the sleeves of his shapeless, long nightshirt and the two men began stitching the hole in the tent.  Sera didn’t even look up, her forehead still on her knees.

“Cole?  Can you stand?”  Solas asked, his magic dissipating and his task complete.

           “I can.”  Cole said in his own voice before switching to an imitation of Solas’ voice, “I would see you safe, but I must . . . I need to. . . I need to. . .”  Cole blinked at Solas, “Where did you go?”

           Solas pulled Cole slowly to his feet, then supported his weight under the boy’s shoulder.  Varric lead the way back to the tent he and Cole shared with Iron Bull, holding the tent flap open and then stepping back inside the tent.  Solas tucked Compassion into his bedroll then turned to Varric, “Will you—”

           “I got this Chuckles.  Go help them.”  Varric replaced Solas by Cole’s side.  “Alright Kid, now this is going to taste awful.  But you need to drink it, alright?”  The dwarf said as he uncorked the healing potion.  Solas left them and returned to the other healers, appearing at Cassandra’s side in moments.

           Cassandra started at the elf suddenly next to her, but relaxed when she realized it was just the apostate.  She watched Solas add his healing magic to the other two and marveled at his magical stamina.

           Teiran’s eyes flew open and she struggled to breathe fully, her body shaking and convulsing.  Cassandra and Vivienne held Teiran’s shoulders against the ground in an attempt to keep her body still while the last bits of organ and flesh were healed.

           Solas’ soothing voice broke through Teiran’s sudden distress of consciousness with the calming and foreign sound of Ancient Elven mixing seamlessly with Elven, “You will be able to breathe in a moment.  Lie still and take shallow breaths.”  he instructed, trying to calm her and focus her mind on the challenge of the new language rather than the physical pain.

           Teiran bit her lip and scrunched her face against the pain, trying to block it out and understand what was being said to her but her oxygen-deprived brain swam without focus.

Cassandra gripped Teiran’s shoulder, but it was no longer necessary.  Teiran stayed still of her own will.  The Seeker and turned to Solas, “What was that?”

Ignoring the question, Solas repeated himself with a new mixture of the two elven languages, trying to remember which phrases and words he had already taught Teiran and which ones she would struggle to understand.

Teiran’s breathing came easier as the three mages finally completed their work on her lung and her nearby organs.  Dorian sat back with an exhausted sigh, leaving the other two to do the relatively easy work of stitching the remaining flesh.  When it was done, Vivienne sat back on her heels and narrowed her eyes at the blood soaking her high-collared and embroidered night gown.  With a flick of her hand, she stood and used the dregs of her magical supply to force the liquid from her dress and into the nearby grass.

Solas’ magic still flickered through his grip on Teiran’s left forearm, the Anchor sputtering in response as Solas searched for any flaw in the elf’s healed body.  Once satisfied, he released his grip and turned his lethal gaze on Vivienne, who folded her arms against his condemnation and waited patiently for Teiran to rise.

Palms pressed flat against the tent’s ground cover, Teiran focused on taking deep breaths until the pain in her head cleared and she could feel blood pumping through her limbs. Teiran pulled herself up to her elbows then Cassandra steadied her and pushed the healing potion between her lips. After draining the vial, Teiran felt the rush of vigor and turned to look at each of the faces around her.  Then she ran her hands along her bloody and torn sleeveless tunic and felt the drying pool of blood under her soaked capri-length pants. Dazedly, Teiran asked Cassandra, “Is everyone alright?  Were we attacked?”

Cassandra swallowed, “You were stabbed.  Sera was frightened and likely believed we were under attack.”

Dorian stood, “The question is, why was Cole here at all?  Much less injured.”  The Tevene threw the blood from his clothes into the night air carelessly and turned an eye on Vivienne.

Teiran’s eyes widened and she looked around quickly, her voice wavering, “Co-ole?”

           “Cole is well.  It would appear our First Enchanter struck him down with a bolt of lightning.” Solas spoke through clenched jaw.

           Vivienne cleared her throat and addressed only Teiran, “Inquisitor, I apologize for my part in this unfortunate affair.  Your pet demon came into our tent unannounced and I responded accordingly. However, I could not have anticipated you would also be injured.  Rest assured, we should ensure this does not happen again by sending the demon away and forbidding Sera to sleep in such close proximity to weapons.  It really would be in everybody’s best interest; don’t you agree dear?”

           Solas was deathly still, except for his hands, they were twitching lividly, “It is Cole who is owed an apology from you.  Yet you would use this situation to demean others and ingratiate yourself farther. Truly, it is you who should be sent away.  Cole was only performing his function as a spirit of Compassion.”

“You expect me to apologize to a demon?”  Vivienne asked incredulously.

           Teiran took a deep breath, marveling over the ease with which she could now do so. She understood now, Cole had been trying to help Vivienne who had, of course, reacted poorly.  Putting aside her curiosity over why Vivienne had elicited that response in the spirit, Teiran glanced from Solas to Vivienne.

Over the past couple of months, Teiran had taken to secretly thinking herself Keeper of her own, relatively new Clan.  She refused to turn any of them away, but getting them to work together and become the Clan she saw them potentially being someday was proving a monumental task. Mustering all her leadership skills, she quickly thought of a way to administer justice to restore the relative harmony of the diverse group rather than punish any of its members.

           “I accept your apology, Vivienne.”  Teiran started to stand with Cassandra’s aid, “But you should apologize to Cole as well. I know that you think Cole is a demon who means you harm, but you are the one who harmed him.  And if he surprised you by entering without anyone’s knowledge then he had the chance to harm you, but he didn’t.”  Teiran took another deep breath, then left the stunned mages with Cassandra supporting her steps.  Pulling upon her own magic, Teiran wiped away the blood that clung to her clothes and body.

Solas watched them leave, staring after the Inquisitor and evaluating the fond feeling that was beginning to appear more and more frequently when he interacted with the Dalish elf.

Dorian was the first to move, clearing his throat, he followed Teiran and Cassandra to the campfire and sat beside Iron Bull, who was weaving thick stitches through the tent’s canvas and still sporting only a pair of loose shorts as his nightly garb.

           Teiran, upon entering the company gathered around the flames, was greeted with varying exclamations of joy at seeing her fully recovered.  Teiran approached Sera without Cassandra’s support and sat down next to her.  

Poking out from behind her knees, Sera and Teiran conversed softly, mending the situation.  Soon, Sera was spreading her typical vibrant energy as she moved from person to person to engage them in broken, laughing conversation.  Then, stealing the thread and needle from Blackwall, she snuck up beside Teiran and began flamboyantly sewing the hole her dagger had made in Teiran’s tunic.  Cassandra stiffened at the sight of Sera wielding a sharp instrument so close to Teiran, but the Dalish elf survived the encounter without further injury.

Watching the scene from afar, neither Solas nor Vivienne had moved yet.  Then without looking at the other, Vivienne and Solas each departed. Once they both realized they were heading in the same direction, they paused just outside Cole’s tent.  

Vivienne broke the tense silence, “If I might have a moment of privacy?”

Solas hesitated, then stood aside but remained at the entrance to the tent.

“That is unnecessary, but if it pleases you by all means stay.”  Vivienne replied as she entered the tent.  She found Varric sitting next to and chatting amiably with the gangly, cross-legged teenager.  Vivienne had to remind herself that this was a demon, however much he appeared fragile and naïve.  Swallowing her misgivings and putting the finishing touches of sincerity on her mask, Vivienne steeled herself and completed her task of making an apology for causing “it” harm.  Then she politely reminded “it” to refrain from entering without permission and never at night before taking her leave.  She passed by Solas’ disapproving set of his jaw and rejoined the other companions sitting around the fire.

[bigfan-fanfic]

About Tash Adaar

I know nobody asked, but I want to tell! :) Check out more about Tash using the tash adaar tag - link here or at the bottom.

what is your inquisitor’s name & race? Ataashi “Tash” Adaar - later Lord Ataashi “Tash” Adaar Hawke-Tethras of Kirkwall.

what is their sexual orientation? When Tash grows up, he prefers the company of men.

what do they look like? Drawing here.

how did they feel about being called “the herald of andraste”? Tash finds it strange, but to be frank, enjoys the preferential treatment he gets from it.

what are their religious beliefs, if they have any? Tash believes in the Maker, but he doesn’t subscribe to the Chant of Light. He has a pretty philosophical belief for one so young, and often wonders if all the gods of all the cultures are real, or if none of them are, or both. Solas’ musings on the Fade do nothing to help him determine the answers.

what is their opinion on the mage/templar war? Tash really wishes everyone would stop fighting each other and talk things out more. He understands why people fear mages, but thinks templars are supposed to protect mages and help them become better, not fight and abuse them.

who is your inquisitor’s best friend? Technically Varric or Cole, although they’re more surrogate family. Being so young, most of the Inner Circle serves a parental or uncle/aunt/older sibling role. So... his best friend might have to be Kieran. Morrigan is a bit surprised at the friendship between them.

who is their rival? Tash has not found it in him to forgive Sera for putting a sack full of lizards over his head and seriously freaking him out. But even so he considers Sera a friend, and while she didn’t apologize, she told him she’d prank anyone he wanted if he asked.

who is their love interest, if they chose one? do you ship them with anyone else/non-romanceable options? Tash is a kid of about 11-12, so no love interests. However... I do sort of ship him with Kieran, as they both are sweethearts, and I think when they’re older, they’ll be really sweet together.

warrior, rogue, or mage? Mage. Knight-Enchanter.

how do they feel about the dalish? Tash thinks the Dalish are unnecessarily unfriendly. He thinks that generally they’re rather mean. However, he is fascinated by the stories of their gods, and pesters Solas to no end for more Dalish tales.

how do they feel about the qun? Tash thinks that the Qun is no better than slavery, and is absolutely disgusted by it. 

how do they feel about the chantry? Tash feels persecuted by the Chantry due to his magic and his horns. He wonders if Cassandra is right and it does more good than ill, but Tash believes that it is unlikely for mortals to actually know the will of the Maker.

which demon is most frightening to them? Imshael was the most frightening demon Tash encountered, even more so than the Nightmare, because Imshael could likely convince anyone to do anything.

did they choose the qun or the chargers in iron bull’s personal quest? why? The Chargers. Not only does Tash have utter disdain for the Qun, he realized that it was a test for Bull and can’t stand how they put him through that. He saves the Chargers without hesitation.

when are they the happiest? Before the Inquisition, he was happiest when his fathers and brother would take him to the Grand Tourney to see the melee. Now he’s happiest sitting in front of the fire, writing or reading while Varric writes on the desk behind him and Hawke plays with the mabari.

how do they feel about the mark/the anchor? Tash feels weird about the mark. It’s definitely useful, and is indirectly responsible for him making so many friends, but he hates when it hurts him, and it makes the whispers he hears grow ever stronger...

upon first meeting cole, were they afraid of him? Tash adores Cole, and loves how he can voice the strange thoughts whirling in the back of his mind. Tash also uses Cole as a human teddy bear sometimes when the nightmares get to be too much, as it reminds him of when his brother used to hug him.

did they use the templars or the mages to close the breach? Tash used the mages, although there’s a part of him that feels very guilty after hearing that Therinfal Redoubt fell to demons.

what was their court approval like at the winter palace? did they have any fun at all? Tash quickly achieved 100 Court Approval at the Winter Palace, mostly by just being polite, despite starting out at a huge deficit due to being a Qunari and a child. Tash loves dancing, and also danced his way to the top of the Court, even getting in dances with Cyril de Montfort and Lady Mantillon.

someone is encroaching on their love interest. how do they respond? Young Tash will be very petty, maybe even set Sera on the encroacher. As he grows older, he becomes more proficient in the Jane Austen school of polite put-downs under the tutelage of Vivienne.

what is their favourite weapon? Tash likes his staff, but he really admires warriors using swords and shields. This stems from his early crushes on the warriors, knights, sellswords, mercenaries, and chevaliers in the Grand Tourney of Markham.

are there any creatures in the wild that they refuse to/are reluctant to kill? why? Fennecs, because they are adorable. He also cried when they had to hunt rams. Tash likes meat, but he prefers not to see it when it was alive. Also Tash doesn’t like killing snofluers because they don’t do anything but waddle around. Tash tends to have a way with animals, even once befriending a bear in the Hinterlands, so he doesn’t like killing any wild animals he’s bonded with.

what is their opinion on blood magic? would they ever use it, if given the chance? Privately, Tash thinks blood magic isn’t so bad if the blood is given consensually. Mostly Tash is afraid of the sight of blood, so he probably would never use it and publicly displays a conservative opinion of the practice. 

what is their favourite place within playable regions? The Storm Coast. Tash loves the combination of the rain and ocean, although the shiny and sparkly Val Royeaux is a close second.

did they feel suspicious of dorian upon first meeting him, because of his tevinter heritage? Tash was slightly afraid of getting to know Dorian because he was afraid the whole Qunari-Tevinter thing would mean Dorian would hate him on principle. But he quickly warmed to Dorian after the altus correctly determined he was a Vashoth.

as a whole, how do they feel about tevinter + the imperium? Tash likes the idea of mages being able to govern, but hates the idea of slavery. Besides, Tevinters tend to hate him on sight, so he’s wary of them. He’s also SO over their pointy outfits and asymmetrical fashion.

did they encourage cullen to continue taking lyrium, or to stop? for what reasons? Tash urged Cullen to stop, not only because Tash gets really weirded out by lyrium, even the blue kind (sometimes he thinks he hears it whispering and refuses to even take lyrium potions) but also because he doesn’t want Cullen to lose his mind to it. Cullen was so ashamed when he threw his lyrium kit and nearly hit Tash in the head with it that he became that much more motivated to quit.

does it bother them to sleep in tents when on the road with the inquisition? Tash dislikes sleeping in tents, because his horns don’t let him get comfortable. It gets even worse after Josephine commissions special horn cushions for him at Skyhold. 

are they an optimist, a pessimist, or neutral? An eternal optimist. An optimist who is scared of everything. Although living with Varric and Hawke makes him slightly more of a cynicial optimist.

if varric wrote a book about your inquisitor, how would they feel about that? Tash loves Varric’s writings, and is super excited and honored to be written about. Of course, it gets annoying later when people start expecting him to be more like his self in the book.

do they get along with vivienne? Tash gets along exceptionally well with Vivienne, to the amusement and confusion of many of the Inner Circle. He respects her skill in both magic and the Game, and although he disagrees with her about the Circles, he even becomes known as her protegee.

are they afraid of anything specifically? Spiders, all insects, Tranquility, blood, darkspawn, dragons, heights, the dark, the Qun, archers, and nugs.

what was their reaction to the destruction of haven? Tash was more than a little traumatized by the events. He already had a fear of dragons, and now he is terrified of them, as well as iffy around fire. Thankfully he helped get most of the people out of Haven or he’d be even more fearful.

how do they feel about “the game”? Tash enjoys playing the Grand Game of Orlais, as he has a natural flair for etiquette, and loves being able to use it to his advantage. He also loves the sparkly masks.

are they especially protective of certain inquisition members, even those capable of defending themselves? Tash had a huge crush on Blackwall, and was very protective of him. Tash is likewise close to Cole, Josephine, Varric, and Cullen.

do they like their skyhold pajamas? Tash finds them to be comfortable, but wants to wear something in brighter colors, immediately going to Vivienne or Josephine to make it happen.

are there any insults they find to be especially offensive? (i.e. “knife ear”/”rabbit” for elves, “oxmen” for qunari, ect.) Tash hates being referred to as an “ox,” but also can’t stand being called “Qunari.” He prefers to be known as a Vashoth, or at the very least a Tal-Vashoth.

if varric gave them a nickname, what would it be? Tash’s nickname is Dimples, for the little divots that appear whenever he smiles, which is frequently.

do they enjoy being the inquisitor? Tash enjoys being able to help people and influence events towards helping people. However he was slightly traumatized at losing his arm and immediately stepped down afterwards.

[assortedcorn]

Fire in Her Veins

[Solavellan HELL]

- - - - - - - - -

Processing everything just said to her, Ellana white-knuckled the edge of the wooden table and sighed heavily. She looked at everyone who had stayed beside her all these years and none of them looked happy. The hair on the back of her neck and arms started to stand, a large vein visible on the side of her neck.

They had returned to the place that started it all, Haven. After all, it was Ellana’s favorite place and has always been incredibly special to her. Haven had been completely decimated after the attack so, they all lived underground in the caves. It seemed barbaric, but with the help of many, they turned the tunnels into homes. It looked no different than the outside world or the inside of a cottage, it was home and it was enough.

“We cannot ask you to agree to this in good conscience, my friend.” Cassandra states. “It is entirely up to you.”

Reaching up to touch the scarred and ridged skin above her prosthetic arm, she rubbed the sore flesh tenderly, like she was hugging herself. Ellana still felt the phantom pain every night before bed, it was even worse when she thought of him.

What was she to do?

“Ellana.” Cullen’s voice found her as he took his place next to her. Cullen rests his hand on her back and began to rub small circles, trying to calm her nerves. She looked at him and studied his eyes, his expression, and she knew he understood what she was thinking.

She and Cullen had grown incredibly close since she returned from the Crossroads one arm short and half a heart to match. She’s helped him run a sanctuary for former Templars, watching and aiding in them recovering from Lyrium addiction. It gave her purpose and a distraction from the hell she was going through. Soon enough, Cullen professed his undying loyalty and love for her one night when they were mixing potions. It took her by surprise but she had decided she felt the same way, that she deserved to be happy and to be loved by someone who wouldn’t abandon her. She gave him a friendship he desperately needed and he gave her a future, it was more than she could ask.

“If Leliana were here, you know she would support any decision you’d make.” Josephine made known, trying to reassure her that she can choose whatever path she believes in.

A few moments of silence had passed between them. Ellana had been weighing her options and deciding the outcomes of said options, hoping there was another way.

You know this is the only way, Lavellan.

“Boss, you know the guys and I could do it for you.” Bull suggests, putting his arms across his chest.

Uneasiness began to chip away at her.

How could she possibly do something like this? Would she succeed or would she die trying? If something happened to her, who would help Cullen? Who would write to Cassandra every day? Who would send Leliana homemade sweet treats? All of these unanswered questions made her anxiety spike, along with her pulse. I’m not afraid of him, am I? She questioned herself. He would never see it coming, I have the perfect advantage. She then sucked in a sharp breath of air before speaking.

“No.” Ellana said to Bull, then looked around the room to see her closest friends. “It must be me.”

“With all due respect, ‘cause you know I respect you heaps but don’t ya think he’ll see this coming? You suddenly meeting him after denying multiple requests doesn’t sound fishy to you?” Varric questions.

“I cannot say I have not thought of that myself.” Cassandra admits. “I am sure his spies have been following our every move.”

“I have been taking a drought since that day to cut my connection to the Fade.” Ellana confesses. “To be honest, it has been nice not feeling the nightmares but that is not why I started taking it. He could always follow me there, hear my thoughts, read my mind. Since then, he’s been completely in the dark so to speak.”

“Ellana, I am sorry you had to sever something so special to you.” Josie sighs, sadly. Everyone who knew Ellana, knew she and Solas visited the Fade frequently, they spent a substantial amount of time there. There were countless, vast places he showed her, a myriad of things she learned from him, and it made her heart ache with melancholy thinking of going back. “Do you...believe him redeemable?”

Ellana stares at Josie, hesitant to answer. The thought of him changing his mind and trying to fix it all, it made her want to laugh and cry. He has caused so much damage and hurt or killed thousands of people in Thedas already.

“He is too far gone, Josie.” Ellana felt her lip tremble as her voice broke. This was painful for her, she was not a liar and now she would have to be for the sake of Thedas.

“Love.” Cullen tries to calmly smile at her. “Whatever you decide, I will be right here when you return.”

“I do not deserve you.” Ellana tears up as she caresses his face. If I die, I am going to miss those beautiful amber eyes and that handsome smile.

His hand reached up to touch hers, gently squeezing it before taking it in his own. Using his other hand to cover hers, he begins to speak. “It is I who does not deserve you.”

“Leave the romance for when she comes back alive.” Varric chuckles, half-heartedly.

Squeezing Cullen’s hand back, Ellana could feel searing heat behind her chest and the pins and needles on her neck. She was about to change the course of history and save the world once more, if she could pull it off. Almost immediately, the idea of how she would do it came to her and the less her friends knew, the easier it would be to keep them safe.

“Okay.” She breathes.

“Then it is decided?” Cassandra asks, shocked.

“Are you sure?” Cullen asks, looking intently at her.

“I am sure. I am the only one who can do this, I am the last person he will suspect.” Ellana answers. “I will need all the protection I can get, we will rendezvous in my quarters at dawn.”

“We’ll be ready, kid.” Varric smiles.

“I will make sure we have the best healers available to ensure your safety in the fade.” Josephine adds in, a smile on her face. “We must protect our only hope.”

“Once again she is risking her life for the fate of this world.” Cullen’s tone a little darker now.

“I will be all right, Cullen.” She leans against him, their arms touching along with their hands.

“Are you absolutely certain you are ready?” Cassandra asks, clearly double checking to make sure.

“I am ready.” Ellana answers, strength in her wavering voice. “I am going to kill the Dread Wolf.”

- - - - - -

Posting Part Two tomorrow, if anyone wants to read it! 😁😁

[elevanetheirin]

For the Warden ask: 3, 4, 6 - SassyLavellen

3. Who does your Warden most struggle to get along with? Elevane has a problem with getting along with Morrigan, not because she’s an Apostate but because she just doesn’t understand her their lives are so different. Leana has issues with Oghren, mostly because he’s crude and a drunk and she’s been sheltered for as long as she can remember.4. What, besides their weapon, does your Warden carry with them at all times? They both carry Alistair’s rose, they even take it to Amaranthine with them. They also carry, bandages, Elevane carries a picture of her parents and a journal Ser Gilmore gave her for her birthday. She had gone back to Cousland Castle to get those things after Howe was killed.  Leana just carries a few letters from some of the kids at Kinloch from after she saved the Circle and the regular stuff, lyrium potions, elfroot etc.

6.What is your Warden’s favourite food? Elevane likes cheeses and breads, preferably together. Leana likes to have meat, but not stew, Alistair’s “stew” pretty much put her off of that. She got so little meat in the Circle that she often begs the others to go hunting for rabbit and deer and things but she won’t eat a nug, she just can’t, especially since Leliana got one as a pet, now that’s all she can see when she looks at one.