#Elio Tabris

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Got letter in Veilguard and first thing I saw was “Yours, Elio”

My heart soared as I once again naively thought it was MY Elio, the Hero of Fereldan, writing to me. Alas, it was the Veil Jumper Elio again.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

I Don't Understand, But I Want To Hear You Talking Still

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Elio grimaced as he removed the last bit of armor, setting it neatly beside his pack. They’d been unlucky enough to have crossed paths with a party of soldiers who were rather extreme in their support of Loghain and their… opposition of Wardens, to put it kindly. Since words never seemed enough to settle any dispute these days, Elio and his companions had to resolve their disagreements the old-fashioned way.

Which, of course, meant a hearty use of violence.

The nameless soldiers and radicals had gotten more than a few good hits on him, and while Elio was hardly on the cusp of death when all was done, he did have to down a few elfroot potions before he could get back on his feet.

So… he was more than a little sore when they found a safe place to set up camp.

There was still an hour or so of sunlight, time spent preparing camp. His companions had scattered about, gathering and hunting as needed.

For his part, Elio was sitting on the dirt, a map of the kingdom spread out in front of him, several smaller, local maps surrounding it. He needed to figure out where they’d go in the morning. They needed to find the Dalish, but their being a nomadic group made that task somewhat difficult. As far as anyone knew, they shouldbe in the Brecilian Forest. The key word being should.

His gaze flickered to the local forest maps. There were a few pockets of villages around the forest. With luck, one of the settlements may have traded with the Dalish or had seen signs of them recently enough to give Elio a direction to go in so they wouldn’t have to wander the forest blind.

Despite his best efforts, Elio couldn’t help but feel… uneasy about meeting the Dalish.

Sure, he was an elf, and they were elves. In theory, they should all be able to get along swimmingly! Except theories rarely panned out, and the alienage back home painted a mixed picture when it came to them. Alarith said they’d saved him when he was a child, so Elio hoped things would go okay. But Valendrian never seemed too impressed by the clans.

Elio squeezed his eyes shut as he thought back to the alienage. In the months of travel, his home still felt like a fresh wound, gaping and bleeding. He missed his family and his friends, and he still grieved the life he was forced to give up. He hoped Shianni was doing okay and his father was caring for her. He hoped that Soris’ marriage to Valora had been happy and that Nesiara was doing okay. Maybe she’d found herself a better groom and was happily engaged to someone better than him.

Now, he felt even worse. Great.

Shaking his head, Elio rolled the maps back up and tucked them safely into his pack before looking around. Most of the party was still out doing their tasks. Sten was over by his freshly erected tent, kneeling on the dirt in what looked like meditation, and Garahel was happily sleeping in the dirt.

He spotted Morrigan off to the side, and his gaze focused on the flashes of magic around her.

Curious—and when was Elio ever not curious when it came to her? Curious, invested, enthralled, there was a whole vocabulary list that could be used—he pushed himself back to his feet with a pained grunt and made his way over to her, a limp in his step as his wounds were jostled.

Seeing his approach, Morrigan paused in whatever arcane act she had been working on to watch him close the distance. A small smile was on her lips, a smile different from the one she had when mocking and taunting the other companions; this one was reserved only for him.

“Ah, the Grey Warden himself; how kind of you to check up on me,” Morrigan teased, hands on her hip as she looked down at him. Elio couldn’t help but grin back at her, feeling his heart flutter.

He wasn’t sure what they were. It wasn’t something they discussed. They were more than friends; he knew that much; after all, friends didn’t regularly kiss each other or roll around the bed sheets together. What he did know was that he always felt inexplicably delighted when he was with their residential witch.

“You know me, have to make sure everyone’s content and not planning to kill our wayward prince,” Elio quipped back lightly, breaking off into a slight hiss of pain when he twisted the wrong way, agitating a gash on his side.

For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of concern in Morrigan’s eyes, and maybe it was just wishful thinking, as she was just as quick to look slightly irritable. Then again, irritable was her default expression. "Are your wounds from our last little fight causing you trouble?”

“Nothing more than I can handle.”

Morrigan’s gaze was a skeptical one. “So you say,” she countered, looking him over with a raised eyebrow. “Try not to drink all our potions in the meantime, hm? The road ahead is long, and who knows when we’ll have the chance to restock with so many villages razed by the Blight or overtaken by Loghain’s Warden-hating forces.”

She had a point—she always did. And so Elio did what he did best: He smiled and laughed slightly awkwardly before responding, “You’re right. I’ll have to ask Wynne when she gets back if she could patch me up.”

It was easy to miss for most, but Elio caught her scoff. “I’m no spirit healer, but no self-respecting mage would go on their merry way without knowing a healing spell or two,” she said, holding him in her steely gaze before holding out a hand with all the tenderness of a porcupine. “This will, at the least, ease the pain.”

There was a moment of pause, a silent asking for permission, and Elio gave her a slight nod. Moments later, he felt the rush of magic—a sensation that he was becoming increasingly familiar with—flow through him, and with it, his pain faded.

“Feeling better?” Morrigan asked as she pulled her hand back.

“Much.”

The witch nodded. “Marvelous. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve work to return to,” she said as she retrieved her staff again. Catching Elio’s gaze and his silent question, she exaggerated her sigh. “If you must know, I was doing the same as I do every time we settle down for the night in the wilderness. I’m in the process of casting wards.”

That was a curious thing. He’d never seen her casting wards before, and Wynne had never commented on it, so clearly, it wasn’t harmful. But… well, Elio didn’t know enough about magic to understand, and he’d never pass up a chance to provoke Morrigan into talking more about her craft.

“Care to elaborate on these wards?”

Humming, he saw Morrigan silently debate her answer; he could see the urge to respond with something sarcastic in her gaze. “Deterrents, of a sort. To keep dangers from the camp.” His surprise must have been more evident than he thought if her disapproving look was anything to go by. “Did you truly believe the wandering darkspawn, bandits, and beast chose to avoid us on a whim?”

“Well…” He never thought much about why nothing ever came to bother them at night, no matter how deep in the wilderness they got. Apparently, he should have.

Morrigan, at least, took it in stride with an amused huff. “T’was no coincidence we’ve remained undisturbed since we began our journey. Should I fear for your common sense if you were unaware?” she asked mockingly.

He held his hands up in surrender. “It’s not as if I just assume we’ll be fine, and I do make sure we have someone keeping watch while the rest of our group sleeps,” Elio defended. Sure, most of the time, the one keeping watch was him; the nightmares made it hard to sleep, so he figured he’d get some use out of it. But the point still stood.

But he couldn’t be expected to understand or know every little magic-related thing Morrigan or Wynne did. He’d never had any contact with mages before the Blight, and magic was still new to him.

She watched him a few seconds longer before shaking her head, “I suppose you are correct. And you are not entirely hopeless; your delegation skills, at least, have been impressive.” She said it with a much more approving tone, which relaxed him. “We arrive here at camp, and within minutes, you had Sten setting the tents, Wynne collecting herbs and berries for our supplies, Leliana hunting game, and even that miserable oaf off to collect wood for the fire. It’s remarkable how they are all so quick and ready to rally behind you, and you are most adept at using their individual skills.”

Morrigan leaned slightly on her staff as she looked at him, her sudden slouch bringing her closer to his height. “That leadership quality will take you far in life, when utilized correctly, of course.”

Unable to help himself, Elio grinned and pushed himself onto his toes to be higher, and closer to Morrigan. “Aww, if you’re trying to butter me up with flattery, it’s working.”

Morrigan snorted back a laugh and gently shoved him back. “Oh, you are insufferable. You know t’was not meant to be flattery.”

“I don’t know. All I’m hearing is that the group would have fallen apart without me,” Elio said, still as playful as he shrugged. “Alistair doesn’t like to lead, and the others are unqualified or would have never been recruited to our little group. And you certainly are not leader material.” Not that he really thought anyone in their group was.

Still, he was rewarded with a light smack to his shoulder.

“I’ll have you know I possess excellent leadership qualities, should the situation require,” Morrigan said crossly. “But you are the Gray Warden, and thus, I shall follow your lead when it comes to the issue of darkspawn,” and then her irritated expression shifted into a taunting one. “Unless you would rather I gather my own Blight-conquering troupe and saunter off, leaving you alone and unprotected in spider-infested wilds?”

It was a joke. He knew she was only teasing, and she wouldn’t actually leave them, but the thought made him pause, the unease showing, however brief it was.

Satisfied at his discomfort, Morrigan crossed her arms and smirked. “I thought not. You may kneel and beg for forgiveness now.”

He relaxed as the topic eased back into familiar territory, and not one to let an opportunity such as this slip by, Elio dropped to his knees, prostrating himself in a most exaggerated way. “Oh, please do forgive me, my dear Morrigan, for I know not what I say,” Elio begged, fighting hard to hold back his laughter as he brought his face as close to the ground as he could. “Of course, you are by far a superior leader, and I am humbled that you would allow me to guide this group in your stead. I am not but an idiot to dare question your abilities.”

Morrigan had a more challenging time containing her laughter than him as hers came bubbling out. “Enough, enough. Oh, stand up, you adorable fool,” she laughed, tugging at his shoulders to drag him back to his feet. “Cease this scene at once!”

They continued laughing for a short time, long enough for Garahel to perk up and for Sten to look their way. They recovered soon enough, too.

Moments like that felt far and few between, given how haggard and dismal their days often were. Elio couldn’t help but cherish the moments when he made her laugh like that.

Catching her breath, Morrigan stepped back and took a moment to collect herself before speaking again. “Anyway. Allow me a minute to concentrate, and I shall finish these barriers so we can sleep properly.”

Taking his cue, Elio stepped back to give her space to work, watching curiously all the same.

Morrigan caught his eye as she raised her staff to the air. “Now then… a smoke-dispelling spell to start with. We can’t have everyone seeing our fires from miles away, now can we?” she asked him, and seconds later, a soft flood of magic filled the area as she cast her spell. Elio watched the magic, picking out fading particles of stardust in the air before turning his gaze back to the mage, who looked far more focused as she prepared for her next spell. “Another little one so our allies won’t be left stumbling blindly through the woods all night seeking us out.”

There was another gentle flash as her magic worked its way through the air. Morrigan cast an illusionary spell to hide them from the senses and another, subtler one she called it, to dissuade people from getting too close to their camp. Elio watched her cast each one with as much wonder as a child watching his first sunrise.

He was sure he was supposed to feel something different about her magic, that he was supposed to feel uneasy at seeing her work. After all, the Chantry claimed magic was an evil power if wielded by those outside the circles. But for Elio, he just felt a buzzing warmth beneath his skin, and for as sharp as she may come off as, he had a hard time believing Morrigan was any shade of evil.

She must have finished with the last of the protective wards as she lowered her staff back against her pack, looking satisfied with her work.

The others hadn’t returned yet, but the sun hadn’t finished its descent either. Morrigan glanced to the setting sun and then to their still near-empty camp before giving a hum. “Now that I’ve finished and we’ve some time still to ourselves, I would like to take a look at your Gray Warden treaties once more?” she asked and gave a slow, languid shrug. “Had I known of their importance before, I undoubtedly would have paid them closer attention. But, alas, my mother has many more books and tomes that interested me more than mere politics.”

He could understand that. Had he not been thrust into the role he now held, Elio would certainly have never had any interest or drive to read through treaties or other political papers. To be fair, he could hardly make sense of them, either. The alienages did not offer much in terms of education; humans often felt oddly threatened by the idea of an educated elf, and he had only ever learned enough of the written language to get by. His companions—excluding Sten and Morrigan, of course—had been so helpful in helping him to improve.

“Of course,” Elio said, returning to his tent with Morrigan in tow. “You’re always welcome to look over these documents whenever you wish. We wouldn’t have had them if not for you and your mother, after all. Mind if I ask what’s piqued your interest in them so suddenly?”

Reaching his corner of the camp, Elio knelt to rummage through his bag, seeking out the old papers. Garahel barked in greeting, panting happily, but made no move to get up, far too comfortable where he was already lying.

“I fear the wording of these treaties may not be as binding as we may need to convince our targets of the necessity of their assistance,” Morrigan explained as she stood over him. “These are ancient agreements, possibly lost or forgotten by the very people we seek to approach. I wonder, what sway does a tattered parchment signed by a distant ancestor still hold over the people we seek?”

“Hopefully, enough sway to have them send aid. The Blight will affect them too; after all, it's better to unite against it than die in our own secluded corners,” Elio offered as he found the pages in question and handed them off. “Is there a specific one you’re nervous about?” She gave him a sharp look, so Elio quickly amended, “I mean, you’re skeptical of?”

Morrigan hummed as she sat beside him in the shade of his tent. “I am particularly interested in the Dalish we’re already in pursuit of,” she conceded as she began leafing through the documents. “It’ll be enlightening to see if they’ve maintained the knowledge of shapeshifting magic. I’ve yet to encounter another who knows it beyond my Mother.”

Ellio nodded along. He could imagine it wasn’t a kind of magic the circles were keen to teach. “Might just be because it’s you, but it seems so fascinating,” He was rewarded with another light swat from her. His flirting was unappreciated.

“It is more than just ‘fascinating,’” Morrigan responded. “Even if you put aside the fighting utilities you often see, it can be a blessing when you wish to be alone.”

“How so?”

She hummed, her eye briefly skimming over the documents before looking back at him. “Imagine; if I desire some time to think, some space from others, I can simply become one of the forest creatures and slink off into the night,” Morrigan explained, smiling ever so softly yet again. “To run with the wolves or to soar through the night sky like an owl, there is nothing quite like it to unburden one’s mind.”

He tried to imagine it and found himself smiling along with her. “It sounds nice. Freeing, in a way.”

Morrigan watched him for a moment, her expression still that rare bit of warmth, before breaking away with a sigh as she leaned against him ever so slightly in their seated positions. He’d never grow tired of the heat of her body against his own. “Such a shame the Chantry ruled such magics forbidden,” she lamented. “They do so enjoy forbidding any magic that they do not understand.”

Alistair was the first to return to their camp. Under one arm, he carried a bundle of small sticks for kindling and handfuls of what looked like cotton for tinder. The basket on his back was filled with heaver sticks and chopped branches. All in all, it looked like he’d gathered enough wood to keep their fire burning through the night.

As his fellow Warden made his way through camp, Elio caught his eye and raised his hand in greeting with a smile. Immediately, Alistair smiled, looking like he was about to say something. Still, that expression soured when he saw Morrigan beside him, who had pressed herself closer to Elio in response. As expected, his friend made an obscene gesture to their mage, and Morrigan mirrored it right back at him.

Face flushed, Alistair stalked off with a grumble, finding a spot in the center of the camp to get the fire going rather than letting himself get pulled into some argument or verbal fight.

“Such a jealous man,” Morrigan murmured as she rested her head tauntingly on Elio’s shoulder when Alistair glanced their way again and smirked as she continued. “Perhaps later, you should throw him a bone.”

Elio didn’t really get what she was talking about or what Alistair had to be jealous about, so he hummed in response. He had no problem finding Alistair later; he would have regardless of Morrigan’s suggestion. That was his best friend, after all.

“Anyway,” Morrigan said, changing subjects quickly and pushing herself away from him again now that Alistair’s attention was no longer on them. “Tis come to my attention that I’ve spoken far too much of myself. It is only fair you share something of yourself in exchange—don’t look at me like that; I do not actually care about your life; it is simply a matter of principle. You dig out secrets from your companions and give nothing in return about yourself; I intend to change that.”

She shoved him slightly when Elio didn’t wipe his bemused expression off his face, and he laughed in response.

“Okay, okay… something about myself,” Elio grinned, tapping his chin as he considered it. It wasn’t as if he had anything especially fascinating about himself, nothing like his companions. He was just a poor elf living in the slums of Denerim. The most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him before he became a Warden was the wedding day disaster, and that wasn’t a story he really wanted to share with them.

A few seconds went by as he sifted through possible things to share. “Well… I worked as a carpenter's assistant before, well, everything,” Elio offered and rolled his eyes when he saw Morrigan’s expression. “Don’t get any weird ideas in your head. The shem I worked for didn’t let me work on any projects. Most of what I did was run around as a fancy errand boy for them.”

“But you did pick up some carpentry skills, I presume?”

“A few,” Ellio nodded as he scratched at the ground. “I know how to repair a roof and can make and install a door, too. That was one of my favorite things—not the installation, but the making. I got to leave the alienage with little harassment when I went to the shop, and sometimes they let me make and carve things.”

Morrigan stifled a laugh, “I suppose should we ever find ourselves in need of crafting a hut, you will be best suited for it. It’s a wonder your insistent need to help every downtrodden person we come across hasn’t sent you to rooftops to patch up holes.”

He grinned at her, “Don’t tempt fate; I might just start looking for people who need roof repairs in the next village!” he teased and bumped his shoulder into hers. “Should you need a home built, I’d be happy to help, and for free, too.”

“Implying you’d have charged us otherwise?”

“Of course,” Elio chirped back, trying to hide his laughter. “Friends of Elio’s Carpentry get their work done, free of charge.”

She shook her head and looked at him fondly, making him feel all light inside. “I suppose once the Blight is over and you grow tired of being a Grey Warden, you’ve your next career all planned out,” she said, and her gaze flickered away to where Wynne and Leliana were, breaking free from the forest edge with their stock. “Ah, I see they have returned, and Leliana has even brought us our dinner. I suppose we’ll have to continue this conversation for another time.”

As reluctant as Elio was about it, Morrigan was right. Their time for a chat was done; he had to return to his work—it was his turn to cook, after all—and surely she would like to have time to give the treaties her undivided attention while she read. Something she wouldn’t be able to do if Elio hung around bothering her.

He shook his head and rose to his feet, feeling his joints and back pop as he did so. “All right then. You have fun with those; I’ll go get our food cooking.”

Morrigan nodded, looking up at him. He was about to say something when Elio leaned down to steal a quick, chaste kiss. He was then off, jogging towards the other women with a bubbling laughter before she could shove him away. Rejuvenated by his time with Morrigan, his earlier exhaustion was a distant memory.

Elio grinned as he glanced back at Morrigan and saw the faint blush of her cheeks in the setting sunlight.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

About half done with the one shot. Some of my favorite lines so far;

Since words never seemed enough to settle any dispute these days, Elio and his companions had to resolve their disagreements the old-fashioned way. Which, of course, meant a hearty use of violence.

Sure, he was an elf, and they were elves. In theory, they should all be able to get along swimmingly! Except theories rarely panned out.

“I’m no spirit healer, but no self-respecting mage would go on their merry way without knowing a healing spell or two,” she said, trapping him in her steely gaze before holding out a hand with all the tenderness of a porcupine. “This will, at the least, ease the pain.”

Not one to let an opportunity such as this slip by, Elio dropped to his knees, prostrating himself in a most exaggerated way. “Oh, please do forgive me, my dear Morrigan, for I know not what I say,”

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Reminisence

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The tent grew darker as the candles burned out, one by one, their small and flickering flames dying in a puddle of melted wax. The night was quiet, except for the rush of winter wind and the cawing of ravens not yet asleep. Leliana set her quill down and pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes as if it would cure the ache from reading and writing an endless number of reports.

It did nothing to alleviate the pain.

She took a deep breath and lifted the quill again, returning to her report only to find that the inked words on the parchment had become a blurred, unreadable mess to her swirling vision.

There was still much work to do—there would always be work for her to do—but even she knew there was nothing she could do in her current state. Trying and forcing herself to keep going now would only bring mistakes, and even the smallest of errors could have catastrophic consequences for the Inquisition, as new, small, and fragile as it currently was. She could allow herself a few moments of rest, a few minutes to close her eyes and give them a break before she returned to her work.

She set the quill back down and, with a groan, rose from her seat and felt her spine and neck pop and crack as she stretched.

Her ravens cooed and cawed as Leliana pulled back the flap of her tent to step out. With another stretch, another wince, she raised her head to look above. The cloudless sky above Haven glittered with countless stars, their beauty marred by the pulsating, green hole torn into the heavens. It was a disheartening sight, but one that also fueled her desire to work, to do everything she could to make sure that the Inquisition succeeded—that the Herald succeeded.

There were very few still awake at the late hour. Most only being guards patrolling the village and stragglers in the tavern. However, she could hear the faint sound of metal on metal further out, a sign that at least a few soldiers were training, even now, too restless and anxious to sleep and thus throwing that nervous energy into something productive. It was hard to say if Cullen would be proud of it or if he would chastise them for it.

She took another deep breath, feeling the frigid air stinging her throat as it filled her lungs, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Haven. To say that Leliana had mixed feelings about the village was an understatement. She was grateful that they had found refuge here, that the Inquisition had a place to call home for the time being, but she could still remember the first time she had been to this little hamlet.

They had been fighting the end of the world, then, too.

“It is so unnecessarily cold. Why does it need to be so bloody cold?” Elio had complained, sneezing loudly as he pulled his fur cloak tighter around his narrow shoulder. It was old, smelled, likely had fleas, and was bought from a very shady merchant, but considering their group was—to put it kindly—broke, no one dared complain at what little warmth they could get from the harsh winter wind and deep snow. “Let’s just get Genitivi, get the ashes, and get someplace warmer.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him; I’ve so many questions I want to ask about his work,” Leliana breathed as she fiddled with the strap to her quiver. So excited had she been to meet someone as renowned as Brother Genitivi.

Their group hadn’t even entered the village before they were stopped by a man at the entrance, hostile and reluctant to allow them in, outsiders not being welcomed. When they mentioned a Chantry brother, he had stiffed and scoffed, denying ever seeing one in their little hamlet. A lie that Leliana had recognized immediately.

The village had been dead. Not a soul to be seen, all supposedly at the Chantry further in, listening to a sermon from a Father Eirik.

“A Father and not a Mother, huh?” Elio murmured as they slowly made their way to the building, looking for anyone and seeing no one. “If it weren’t for this ‘Disciples of Andraste’ talk, I’d suspect the Imperial Chantry is taking root here. Though I still have a bad feeling about this, stay on your guard.”

When they had reached the Chantry doors, there was still no one. But they could hear the screaming and cries from within clearly. It wasn’t the screams of pain or fear but of jubilation and worship. Fervent, passionate, and unsettling.

Elio took point, standing before them as if to be their shield as he pushed the doors open.

The Chantry was empty. It didn’t look the same when she first stepped foot inside all those years ago. Candles burned to provide dim lighting, and books on the Chantry and of the Chant filled several shelves. Some cobwebs had yet to be cleaned out, and several pews empty save for forgotten papers and books.

Most of the furniture from her first visit was gone. The wooden platform at the front where speeches and sermons were made was done away with, as were most of the shelves and desks covered in scrolls and books, burned—if Leliana remembered correctly—for their heretical, blasphemous contents. The Chantry looked barren now compared to when the Disciples of Andraste had made it their home.

Not for the first time, Leliana wondered if she looked hard enough, if she would be able to see the bloodstains from that night. She could still remember, vividly, where each person had been felled. How could she not? It hadn’t been soldiers or monsters that they had killed that night, but normal men and women, farmers and bakers and crafters.

Her eyes flickered to front of the space. A podium now stood over where Elio had cut Eirik down, his sword had cut through the man’s neck so deeply he had nearly lopped his whole head off. Not for the first time, but it was always a grisly sight. Even now it chilled her knowing just how easily he could decapitate someone in a fight—a feat that needed the executioner to be either incredibly precise in how they land that final blow, or incredibly strong to not worry about the resistance of muscle and bone.

And yet despite the nervous fear there was always a rush of admiration, of awe. Her Warden had always been a stalwart leader to their party, and when he fought, no matter how soaked in blood he became from the carnage he carved, he always incited a flutter in her chest, left Leliana wanting to reach out to him and—

She never did. Theirs was a friendship, close as it may have been at the time, but nothing more.

Leliana walked onwards, towards the end where the door to their makeshift war room was. She didn’t go inside, instead stopping at the statues that stood on either side, and knelt at the foot of one, her head bowed as a silent prayer was made. Faith could only get them so far, she knew that now, but that wouldn’t stop her from asking the Maker to aid them on their quest.

The shadows flickered and she realized she was not alone.

Raising her head and turning, she spotted the Herald sitting in the corner on an empty barrel, fiddling with a trinket in his hands. He was staring owlishly at her, as if he hadn’t expected someone else to come here, or for someone else to catch him here. She must have been more tired—more distracted—than she had realized to have not noticed him when she entered the Chantry.

For a moment, she considered leaving. The Herald, for all the good he had done for them so far, was still an unknown with dangerous powers, potentially blessed by and brought to them by Andraste herself. A part of her wanted to back away, unworthy to be in the presence of someone like that. But—no. Blessings or no blessings, she had just as much right to be in the Chantry as him. So she rose from her knees and discreetly pulled her hand away from the concealed knife at her belt.

The Herald blinked, wide eyes not leaving her as his fingers tightened around his trinket. “Leliana,” he greeted with a nervous bite to the name. She didn’t need to be observant to know that he was still just as nervous around them as most were around him.

“Herald,” Leliana greeted.

His attention stayed on her as the silence settled back in between them. Like most of his kind, his eyes were large, colored a deep, vivid green, like a vibrant forest, that mixed perfectly with the brilliant red locks of hair that fell just past his ears in tussled—fluffy—curls. He looked older than the Hero of Ferelden had been, yet somehow his gaze felt younger, full of the wonder and fear of a child. He was in his early twenties, this much Leliana knew, while Elio had barely been twenty when they met, old enough to be married off, old enough to go to war, and still a child.

She shook her head at the thoughts. “I apologize if I disturbed you, I hadn’t expected anyone else to be here so late at night.”

“No,” the Herald coughed, looking away from her and at the candles, the books, at anything but her. “It’s fine, anyone’s allowed to come and go in here.” He was taller than the Hero had been, she noted. Elio had been the shortest in their group until Oghren joined. The Herald was taller—more at an average height for their race, she supposed—and just as slender as any other Dalish Hunter she’d seen—toned arms and legs, slender features, lithe.

How ironic, Leliana thought, the last time the world was in danger, it was an elf from the slums who rose above all to save them, fighting on even as the rest of them fell in the final battle, striking the Archdemon down and ending the Blight. Now, as the sky is left wounded, torn open into the Fade, their fate and salvation rests upon the shoulders of an elf yet again.

She settled into a seat of her own, not too far from the Herald, but not beside him either. “What brings you out here so late, anyway?” she found herself asking, and then knitted her brows together. “You’re supposed to be leaving for Val Royeaux at dawn, are you not? You should be resting.” It was going to take several weeks, even with horses and if they travelled along the Imperial Highway, to get there. Cassandra would have his head if he was exhausted when they began their journey.

The Herald looked at the trinket in his hands again—a Dalish necklace, Leliana finally saw, an amulet for one of their Gods. “Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured quietly, “Everything’s just been so….” Pausing, he shook his head. “Sleep just kept eluding me.”

She understood that feeling more than she cared to admit.

Humming, the Herald reached down with his free hand, and she took note of the mabari that had been sleeping beside him, the young one he’d rescued from the Hinterlands—Buddy, if she remembered correctly. The Herald absentmindedly ran his fingers through the dogs short fur and wrinkled skin, looking the part of someone being crushed under the weight of the world, and Leliana was once again struck with memory by the resemblance to her old friend.

Gently running his fingers up and down Garahel’s back, Elio stared at the fire in contemplative silence. The rest of their camp had long since gone to sleep, only he and Leliana remained awake to guard them for the first few hours of the night.

There were bags under his eyes, she had noticed. They were worsening each night, his face aging rapidly from the stress of all that they had faced—and all that they still had to fight. In the quiet of night, he no longer looked the same friendly, cheerful Warden she knew, this was instead a man who was carrying the world on his shoulders, a man whose knees were finally buckling under the weight.

No words were said as Leliana sat beside him. His attention remained fixed, and she looked to the fire as if she might see whatever he did in the crackling flames, and then she turned her gaze away, afraid of what she might see.

Hand still on his war hound, gaze still fixed to the crackling flames, Elio spoke after an eternity of silence. “Do you think we can win this?”

She had been taken aback by the question, not that it had been asked but that it had been the elf who had asked it.

Elio was always the one to assuage their worries of fate and defeat, the one who told them that they were going to win, no matter how terrible the odds were against them. He never doubted, never shied, and treated the future as if their victory over Loghain and the Archdemon was already carved into stone by the Maker.

She couldn’t answer him, and they returned to silence.

Looking back on it, it had been a humanizing moment. Up until then, Leliana had seen her friend as an undefeatable hero, blessed by the Maker himself to be their shield and their sword, a soldier who would never be defeated. To have him express his doubts to her, it meant that he was still mortal, like all of them, that he was human—generally speaking, of course.

She saw that same look of doubt and exhaustion on the Herald’s face, now.

At the time, Leliana hadn’t been able to help Elio, she didn’t have the words, she didn’t have the confidence, and to this day she still wondered how much things would have changed if she had been able to soothe his own fears the same as he did for all of theirs. She hadn’t been able to help Elio, but she could at least help the Herald of—she could help Cian.

“We are going to win this,” Leliana said, her voice firm in the quiet, dim space. She watched as green eyes lifted to meet hers, and she continued. “You’re not doing this alone, Cian. You have me and the others here to support you whenever you ask, you have the Inquisition forces ready to spring to action the moment they are needed—and more still join every day.”

She straightened her back as she spoke, her gaze not leaving his, locked on his wide, wonder filled eyes, “Us winning isn’t a question of ‘if’, it’s a matter of ‘when’. We’ll prove ourselves and gain the Chantry’s support, absolving you of the crimes they claimed, we’ll seal the Breach, and we will find who is responsible. You don’t have to feel like you’re doing this alone, you can share some of your burdens with us.”

Slowly, Cian lowered his head, “I—thank you,” he whispered, his shoulders sagging as he let out a deep breath. “I needed that, I didn’t realize how badly I needed that.”

Of course he hadn’t. Leliana smiled, nevertheless, as she watched the tension fade away from his face.

Cracking a smile, struck by an idea, Leliana leaned forward, “You know…? I was with the Hero of Ferelden when we rediscovered the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” she whispered, feeling her smile widen as she saw curiosity and awe dance across the elf’s face. “At the time, Haven belonged to a cult who believed Andraste was a dragon and worshipped it—we had to fight through so many drakes, dragonlings, and cultists to reach the temple, and the Warden even struck down a high dragon.”

Cian leaned forward in his seat; his mouth opened slightly. “Seriously?” he asked, tapping his fingers to his legs with anxious energy. “I thought it was some Chantry guy who found it, but you helped rediscover the temple?”

“We did, we needed the urn to save the Arl of Redcliffe,” Leliana agreed, her heart feeling feather-light in her chest at the memory of the adventure. “Would you like me to tell you the whole story? It was quite the experience.”

At Cian’s eager ‘yes’, she launched into retelling how Eamon had grown sick from Loghain’s poison, and the journey they took to locate Brother Genitivi and the Urn. It had been a while since had had been a storyteller, but she found that she fell back into the role naturally as she recounted each fight and twist that took them to the Frostback Mountains.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Elio Tabris never wanted to become a Grey Warden.

He'd been content enough with how his life had been. He was reasonably liked within the alienage, had close friends, close family- blood or not. He was close to his father, his cousins Shianni and Soris were more siblings than cousins to him, and he often joined the children in their games, playing the monster for them to battle, or making up stories of elven heroes so they had someone to look up to.

Even his marriage, though not by his own will, wasn't something he was against. Nesiara had been a sweet girl, someone that he wouldn't have minded settling down with. Even though it had only been a short period, they had hit it off from the start. Both nervous, but eager to see where their lives together would take them.

But then Vaughan happened.

Abuse from the humans was hardly new. Old Geryn, now a beggar with a lame leg, was testament to that. But this? This was too far.

Lordling or not, a line had been crossed.

It surprised him how... unbothered... he was by the bloodshed. Slitting the sleeping guards throat, poisoning the drunkards while they played wicked grace, cutting down every guard that got in his and Soris way.

Violence was the only option they had, he had reasoned. They needed to rescue the women Vaughan had kidnapped. But then they found Nola. She'd always been kind. They had grown up together, their fathers friends, their families had dinner together once every other week. Her body was still warm, the blood still wet and fresh, if they'd just been faster!

Elio felt no guilt killing the three blighted bastards. It was the only justice he could give her.

And yet... whatever anger he had felt at seeing Nola's dead body had been nothing compared to the storm that was born when he found Shianna.

She had been on the floor, shaking and sobbing, begging to go home, her clothing torn, her face bruised. The thick musk in the air was just as much confirmation as her appearance.

He saw red. Bargains and talks fell on deaf ears.

The rage, the bloodlust had been alien to him, but it was still all his, and Elio took pleasure in watching Vaughan choke to death on his own blood.

Elio never wanted to be a Grey Warden, never cared to be more than what he already was. But he was a Grey Warden because he stood up to the lordling bastard, because he killed the monsters who hurt his family.

Nothing would ever make him regret that choice.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Not to be a lil nsfwy but

in my main trilogy lore, Elio Tabris is trans, ya? think I've discussed this before.

Alistair? in love with our ticking time bomb of a rage-fueled massacre warden. Hates Morrigan, super jealous of her relationship. Absolutely antagonizes her out of pettiness.

Morrigan? In a relationship with the warden, much to everyone's chagrin. Loves to rub it in Alistair's face, and get jealous when our warden spends more time with him than her.

It's a weird love triangle where the only one unaware there even is one is Elio.

Loghain? Dead as fuck because that's what he deserves so he ain't even in the picture.

Elio? ftm. Has no dick. Can't sire kids. Which is a problem in regards to the ritual.

So, to produce Kieran and to have a not dead warden, the only viable option to bang it out is Alistair. So what ends up happening is a threesome.

Alistair gets to sleep with Elio, Morrigan gets an Old God Baby, and Elio gets a boost to their collective survivability. So it's a win all around.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

The Warden in the Wilds Pt. 1

Obligatory AO3 Link

Morrigan knew the group were not simple soldiers when she saw them step into the Wilds.

For one, the soldiers sent out to scout the Wilds did not intentionally search out the darkspawn seeking a fight. Soldiers were also not, to her knowledge, in the business of collecting the blood of the creatures. And yet here this group of four well-armed and questionably trained warriors were, stalking the Wilds in search of darkspawn and something more.

Her mother had sent to the ruins to watch the soldiers, to gauge how they lay fair against the coming hoard. So it was only right that she followed this strange group to see who they were, what they were up to, and how far they would march. Would they even live long enough to complete their goal, or would the beasts of the Wilds or the foul darkspawn kill them first?

She followed them in the form of the animals. They have no reason to think much of a bird perched in the trees or a mouse scurrying on the ground.

The longer Morrigan followed the group, the more certain she became that the group were Grey Wardens. She could see a certain… how should she put it… familiar enmity between them and the darkspawn. Just as these warriors seemed to seek the darkspawn, the straggling monstrosities seemed to seek their group out just the same, as if they were tracking the warriors, as if they sensed them, in a way only Wardens and darkspawn could feel each other.

It made a certain degree of sense. With the blight upon them, it was only natural that the Grey Wardens had joined the foolhardy king's army. They were the only components in this war necessary to win. All the others could be removed, added, or shuffled around with different armies of different lands, but the blight would not end without the Wardens fighting alongside them.

Still, that was not enough to satiate her curiosity. They sought out more than the darkspawn; she wished to know what. What were they looking for? Where were they going?

Morrigan was certain that two of the humans were new, and this was part of some initiation test. While both men seemed confident with their weapons, they seemed like frightened schoolboys whenever they came upon a darkspawn. On the contrary, the other human and the small elf had confidence in them, suggesting this was not their first time facing horrors. However, it was rather curious that out of the group, the elf of all people led them and not a human. She knew about the disparity between the two races, even in the Wilds. But perhaps the elf had some seniority over the other.

He was far more skilled than the two recruits. Morrigan observed that he carried his sword and shield like extensions of himself, blocking, parrying, and attacking with a fluidity that he somehow made look easy. Morrigan was curious about him.

She was never close enough to hear what the elf said, hardly close enough to ever get a good look at any of them; she could only truly differentiate the human men from her distance by the colors of their heads and the armor they wore. The elf was much shorter than the others, making it easy to pick him out from the rest, even if one ignored the obvious ears. But even without hearing what was being said, she could assume the topic would have bored her regardless.

The elven Warden continued to raise her interest and curiosity as she watched. As he gathered a bundle of flowers, she wondered if he was trying to be romantic, but when she went to investigate them, she was pleasantly amused to see the white and red flower was one such ingredient used for treating a taint-born sickness. It was not a sickeningly sweet romantic gesture, then, but just a clever boy recognizing the value of a wildflower. Then there was the treasure the missionary left that the Warden tracked down—better it be used by them rather than the darkspawn.

Eventually, after hours of wandering and battling, they finally reached their supposed destination: the abandoned Warden outpost.

Their little leader spread them out—they had just finished a tough battle with the darkspawn, and it seemed he wanted to make sure none were lying in wait. Only once he was seemingly satisfied did the group reconvene in front of the battered, broken chest.

She took to her own form once again as the Wardens muttered to themselves over the empty cache, standing above them on the risen path of the ruins tower.

“Well, well, what have we here?” she asked with an amused tone at how all four men snapped to attention at her sudden appearance, and so she began her descent down the path at a languid pace. She already knew who they were and likely what they came in search of. But where was the fun if she told them directly? “Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of an easy prey?”

As she descended, the elf also moved, coming to meet her at the bottom. One of the humans reached out to stop him from getting too close.

She reached the bottom, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared at them, a spider watching the flies caught in her web. “What say you, hm?” she asked, her gaze on the elf as she waited for him alone to answer. “Scavenger or intruder?”

While the human men looked visibly unnerved and wary, the elven man stood firm, showing neither fear nor anger at her appearance and accusations. Now that she was here, she could get a good, proper look at the man. He was rather cute, in a way, his features were softer, rounder than the others. Shorter than herself, slim despite being a warrior, with soft, blue eyes. 

“I am neither,” he said, and now that Morrigan was close enough to truly hear him, she noted a softness to his voice—soft, but not weak. “I am a Grey Warden; our order once owned this tower.”

 This confirmed her suspicions and observations. Good. She also did not miss how the two in the back looked uncertain at being called Wardens, making her more certain they were newly recruited.

Still, she offered a short, sharp laugh. “Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desecrated corpse.” One of the humans, the fellow senior Warden, if she were to guess, looked like he was about to speak, but Morrigan cut him off before he could even start. "I have watched your progress for some time.” With that confession, she began walking, circling them, aware that the elf was trailing after her as she moved. “’ Where do they go?’ I wondered, ‘Why are they here?’” she echoed, reaching the edge of the stone platform overlooking the Wilds and turning to face them again. “And now you disturb ashes none have touched in so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer that,” the other Warden whispered to the elf. “She looks chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

 Morrigan rolled her eyes, utterly unimpressed with him. “Oh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?”

“Yes, swooping is bad,” the man retorted, his words dripping in sarcasm.

One of the recruits tugged at him like a child would their mother’s skirt. “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is,” he accused, his panic not even hidden in his voice. “She’ll turn us into toads!” The other recruit looked visibly sick at the thought as if Morrigan’s presence was more frightening than the darkspawn they’d fought to reach here.

“Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies. Have you no minds of your own?” she scoffed, shaking her head at them before looking back to the elf. He had remained quiet after identifying himself as a Warden, and she had an inkling he was content to listen more than he was to talk. He did not look bothered by the accusations—right as they may have been—his recruits threw out; he watched her with curiosity and only a healthy amount of suspicion. “You there,” she decided, gesturing to him. “Elves are not frightened little boys. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine.”

He watched her for a second more, his gaze briefly flickering to his companion, the one who had told her not to answer, before he took a step forward and bowed his head respectfully at her. “I am Elio. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

She was pleasantly impressed by his manners and allowed a small smile to grace her face. “Now that is a proper, civil greeting, even here in the Wilds,” she praised, watching the way the elf—the way Elio—perked up at her pleasant tone. “You may call me Morrigan.”

The other Warden tugged at Elio once again. “You’re treading on dangerous waters here; she’s a witch, Elio; be careful.”

She ignored him, crossing her arms over her chest once again. “Shall I guess your purpose?” she asked them, letting her gaze sweep the group. “You sought something in that chest, something that is no longer here?”

The older Warden’s gaze snapped to her immediately as she said that. “Oh, something that is here no longer, huh? You stole them, didn’t you?” he accused, already reaching for his sword. If he wanted to escalate the situation, well, Morrigan was sure he’d quickly regret it. You’re… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!”

“How very eloquent,” Morrigan snarked, taking satisfaction in how even Elio looked utterly unimpressed with the man’s words. “Tell me, how exactly does one steal from dead men?”

“Quiet easily, it seems,” the man gritted out, only letting go of his sword when Elio rested his hand on his arm. He didn’t look any less tense, however. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them, now.”

The ‘or else’ went unspoken.

Maybe he expected his words and his posturing to intimidate her, but Morrigan was not some little girl who was terrified of a big man with a sword. She had seen far more frightening things than this Warden.

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them,” Morrigan countered, narrowing her eyes at him. “Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened.”

Elio frowned and stepped forward again, placing himself between her and his companion as if to be a living buffer for them. “If it was not you, do you know who removed them?” he asked her.

She uncrossed her arms, bringing them to hang at her sides. “’Twas my mother, in fact.”

That earned a look of curiosity from the elf, and she could see in his expression that he had so many questions he wanted to ask from that one statement. But he decided on only one. “I see. Would you be so kind as to take us to her?”

Morrigan smirked, laughing a little. “Now, there is a sensible request. I like you.”

The other Warden scowled. “I’d be careful,” he warned Elio, trying to whisper, unaware of how loud he still was. “First’s ‘I like you,’ and then zap. Frog time.”

“She’ll put us all in the pot; she will, just you watch,” one of the recruits whimpered, and Morrigan was unsure how someone so cowardly could be a Warden.

The other Warden recruit slapped him on the back. “If the pot is warmer than this forest, it’ll be a welcome change.”

Rolling her eyes at their banter, Morrigan looked back to Elio with a raised brow, and Elio only gave her a helpless shrug as if to tell her, ‘Sorry, they are like this.’ She frowned and turned. “Follow me, then, if it pleases you.”

The trip back to her mother’s hut took a while, far longer than she would have liked in their presence.

Elio was a fine companion, but the humans were not so much. They filled the walk with whispers of what they thought Morrigan would do to them, what they thought a Witch of the Wild did, talking as if she could not hear their accusations of cannibalism or dark magic—and who were they to decide what was ‘dark magic’ and not? Their leader tried to keep the peace, but Morrigan could not wait to be rid of them.

Her mother was… well, her usual self. Sarcasm, pointed remarks, and vague advice. She took satisfaction that the others were just as unnerved by her mother as they had been of her.

She watched her mother verbally knock them around for a bit before handing them their precious documents and was then forced to escort them back to their own camp because they were her ‘guests.’ Oh, how Morrigan had loathed that; they had been miserable company taking them to her mother, and the trip to their own camp was longer.

It was well after nightfall when she made it home. As far as she was concerned, her dealings with the Wardens were over. The Ferelden army would fight the darkspawn, win or lose; they were no longer her concern.

Then, her mother dragged Elio and the annoying Warden, both badly wounded, back to their hut after the battle.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Elio Tabris is what I jokingly call blessed with wrath.

For the most part? He’s a very friendly and kind person. Always ready and willing to help others, always generous, giving away silvers and sovereigns to those who he believes need them more than him, always looking out for the little people. People look at him and the first thing they think is he’s a happy, chill elf whose maybe a bit empty headed.

But he’s got a hair-trigger temper. He’s so easily angered, though he hides it well, has learned how to act happy and relaxed even when seething. When he’s in battle, all that anger is let out and he’s a true Beserker. He will keep fighting no matter how many new holes swords and arrows make in him, the fury left him numb to pain, and he’s just an unstoppable killing machine. If he’s fighting someone he truly despises with all his heart? Absolute monster, he’ll keep stabbing even after the body stops moving. He won’t stop until the battle is over or until the rage has lessened.

It makes him an effective grey warden, though, he’s able to channel all that rage into killing darkspawn.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

The Warden & A Hawke

Obligatory AO3 Link

Elio hated the Deep Roads. He hated them with a burning passion. He despised being underground in general. But the Deep Roads were the worst, for a myriad of reasons.

Laughable to some, reasonable to others. He was a Warden. They were associated with the underground almost as much as they were associated with griffins, war, and bloodshed. Their order went deep into the ground more than any other, second only to the dwarves, and they would continue to delve into the darkness below until the darkspawn were gone and the Blights a memory to never be replayed.

But forgetting the darkspawn, forgetting his role as a Warden, there were other reasons that Elio hated the Deep Roads. He hated how claustrophobic the tunnels felt, for starters. There was always a never-ending undercurrent of anxiety that filled his veins whenever he replaced the vast, open sky for nonfinite ceiling of stone and stalagmites—or were they stalactites? He could never remember the difference.

There was also the fear that he may get lost—the tunnels tended to look the same, and without obvious markers, his sense of direction could become terribly muddled. And was there a place worst than the Deep Roads to be lost in, to be forever wandering, aimlessly in? Well, there was the Fade… he already had the joy of experiencing what it was like to be lost and trapped in the Fade. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.

He had hoped that when the Blight had ended and his group had disbanded, that he’d never have to go into the Deep Roads again anytime soon. But then, as he had begun rebuilding the Ferelden order, he was dragged back in by that stupid, stupid civil war—between the darkspawn no less! He was dragged back in, and not only did he have to deal with being underground once more, he had to deal with fucking intelligent darkspawn. Darkspawn were already bad enough, why did the Maker have to make some smart? Was this all some sick joke?

The idea of an intelligent darkspawn—truly intelligent, not a kind of intellect given by the Archdemon’s influence—was understandably frightening on many levels. And yet there had not been one. No, no, there hadn’t even been two, or three; there had been several darkspawn with intelligence enough to reason and rationalize beyond the desire for savage violence. Intelligent enough to speak.

Once was a fluke. Twice was concerning and questionable. But the amount they had found leading the civil war? That was a pattern.

A pattern was bad. A pattern suggested that the darkspawn might be evolving.

If more darkspawn awoke such as the Architect and the Mother, and all their followers had, then it may become a point that the darkspawn didn’t need to awake an Archdemon to start a Blight, and the Grey Warden’s wouldn’t be able to end a Blight simply by killing the Archdemon. It could, potentially, bring forth a Blight on the surface that never ended, with darkspawn that could potentially outsmart and out-strategize the armies of Thedas.

That was terrifying.

That terrifying notion was why Elio was back in the Deep Roads, only months after the Archdemon was felled, months after the resolution of the Darkspawn Civil War. With Wardens he did not know, ordered by the higher ups at Weisshaupt of all things to assist in the expedition as the residential ‘expert on intelligent darkspawn.’ Maker forbid he send someone else from his order who had been involved, it’s not as if he had his own hands full in Ferelden rebuilding an order from scratch, juggling being the ‘Hero of Ferelden’, new Warden-Commander, and all the important matters and duties that came with it. No, no, none of that was important to political figureheads in the Anderfells, and so Elio had to march his happy ass into the Deep Roads with a bunch of Orlesian’s he’d never met, following the orders of some Stroud.

Needless to say, Elio was miserable.

And maybe he was being a bit unfair. He was exhausted, had been long before being dragged back underground. No one said being a Warden was easy, but nevertheless…

He missed Alistair and Leliana, joking and chatting, and listening to them compare their experiences living in the Chantry. He missed his campfire talks with Wynne and Zevran as they talked about their past, of time spent in the Circle and exciting adventures with the Crows. He missed drinking himself numb with Oghren in one-sided drinking competitions, of battling him and learning how to control how his rage was unleashed in battle. He missed the silent nights watching over the camp with Sten and Shale, comfortable with each other’s presence enough that they did not need to speak.

He missed the nights in Morrigan’s tent, curled up with her, finding comfort and solace in her embrace, the nights where they fell together on her bedroll and did nothing but hold each other, whispering until sleep took them.

Elio missed that the most.

He hadn’t had a decent rest since Morrigan had left, the nightmares always overwhelming, waking him at the early hours of night, keeping him from falling back to sleep for hours. Alistair had warned that some Wardens were especially sensitive, and he supposed it was just his luck that he was one of them.

“Look alive, men,” Stroud called out from ahead of the pack, breaking Elio from his thoughts as the group of Wardens stalled in an ancient lava-lit tunnel.

They could all sense it. A tingling in the backs of their necks, the hairs rising, a chill down their spines, a hushed, animalistic growl and scream in the recesses of their minds. Darkspawn.

There had been plenty that they came across, but even the small swarms had been nothing compared to the thickness of the horde that usually occupied the tunnels. A post-Blight blessing. It wouldn’t last, of course. Every day their numbers grew, and Elio would guess that within a month there would hardly be room to stretch without brushing up against a darkspawn bastard.

Still, it never hurt to take out whatever lingering pocket of the monsters that they came across, thin the numbers down a little, for whatever it was worth.

Weapons drawn, the group of six marched down the halls, following the whispers in their minds, pulling them to the creatures they were intrinsically bound to by blood and taint. They marched to the swarm, to slay the creatures or die trying, as their oaths demanded.

And yet, the fight had ended before their blades had even cut through poisoned flesh, the small swarm scattered across the floor in pools of toxic blood, taken down by a small band of four.

The group was clearly exhausted, run ragged by combat and travel, a common sight within the Deep Roads. Two men, two women. Two humans, a fellow elf, and a dwarf, all looking as if they had seen better days.

“Grey Wardens,” the elf greeted when he looked upon them, his voice deep and smooth, yet the tone giving no opinion, positive or negative as he wiped away the corrupted blood from his sword. Elio could have swore he heard the dwarf behind him muttering ‘Finally some sodding good luck,’ as he brought his crossbow to hang on his back.

The humans hobbled towards him, and Elio sensed the taint on them before he saw the discolored skin and black veins across the younger of the two women. She had the look of death on her, and he understood what had happened.

“Please,” the older one said, her voice strained as she supported the other, holding her up so that her legs would not give out. “Please, you have to help her. My sister—she’s sick.”

This was more than a sickness, and it was no wonder the group would look to him and his fellow Wardens as salvation. Many believed that they were a cure to the taint—few understood that this was it’s own punishment. That death could very well be more kind than the oath. But this group did not know that, they came upon Elio and his party, and saw in them hope.

He saw the refusal on Stroud’s face. “I’m sorry,” the man said, his tone sympathetic, but unyielding. “I know this comes as no comfort to you, but we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. This is no kindness.”

The woman’s lip curled back in anger. “You think it’s kinder to let Bethany die from the Blight?” she demanded.

“Sometimes it is,” Stroud confirmed, echoing Elio’s own thoughts. “We cannot recruit her just because she has fallen to the taint.”

On principle, Elio did not disagree with Stroud. The path of a Warden was not for everyone. Even those who took the oath and passed the Joining, who had seemed so eager and full of hope, could grow to resent it, resulting in knives in the back or—more painfully—disappearing. His mind drifted to blond hair, a staff twirling in the air, breathless laughter as enemies were frozen and allies were healed, of a fade-touched corpse and a strange, valiant friend, shielding allies from those who would cause harm, keeping them safe however he could.

Still, though…

Morrigan always mocked and lamented in equal measures about how his heart was too soft for the decisions he needed to make. Perhaps it was a good thing that she could not see him now, for she would surely be providing commentary, disapproving of what he was about to do.

“She seems more than capable. If she is willing… why not?” Elio spoke up, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them carefully. Many of the darkspawn corpses were still burning on the ground, and there was a layer of ice across the stone floors. It was evident, even without a staff, that this woman was a mage. “The Blight is over, and with any sort of eager flood of recruits to fill the ranks.” And, with the Architect and intelligent darkspawn showing up, they couldn’t risk their forces shrinking or weakening.

Stroud look at him, his face tightening. “Elio, this is no simple matter,” he said, patient but urging. “You know as well as I that this could be just as much a death sentence as the sickness.”

Of course he knew. He recalled Daveth, who died drinking from the chalice. Jory, who was cut down by Duncan when he tried to flee. He remembered every Warden he brought into the fold who did not survive the Joining. No one ever said it was an easy process.

“Maybe so, but maybe she will live,” he said, and turned his back on Stroud to face the group before him. “The Orlesian Order may be reluctant to take her in, but I’m not,” he said, looking at the girl—at Bethany. “This is your choice, and your choice alone. If you choose to do this, then Ferelden will be happy to have you.”

“Ferelden?” the girl whispered; her voice hoarse.

The elf took a half-step forward. “You would be returning home,” he pointed out. Elio paid it little mind. There were countless who had fled Ferelden to escape the Blight, though he supposed he should have realized it by the accent she carried. Now that he thought of it, the elf spoke with a tint to his voice that wasn’t quite of the area, either.

Shaking that thought from his mind, he stepped forward and offered his hand. “This is by no means a mercy, and you may even grow to resent all of us for this,” he warned her, his voice careful as his gaze shifted to the other woman, a quiet warning to her. She may grow to resent you, too, he said wordlessly, before looking back to Bethany. “If you are to come with us, you come with us now and you might never see your friends again. Is this a path you are willing to take?”

Bethany looked up at the other, “Are you sure about this, sister?” she asked, coughing, the veins darkening across her skin, and Elio wanted to stop her—this was her choice to make, not a choice made because others wanted her to. But he bit his tongue and kept his silence.

It didn’t matter, anyway. The decision was made, and Bethany hugged her companions goodbye, tears wetting their cheeks and leaving their eyes glistening.

Elio took her and let her sling her arm around his shoulder, leaning on him for support as he, like her sister before him, supported her weight as they walked, leaving her group behind them as the Wardens marched on.

“Welcome to the Wardens, and I’m sorry it ever came to this,” he whispered as they walked. “Since you will be one of us, might I know your name?”

The girl groaned as the taint coursed through her, but she kept standing even despite the pain and suffering. “Bethany… Bethany Hawke.”

A familiar name, he could have swore he heard the name Hawke in Lothering, in what felt like a lifetime ago. He’d have to ask her later. If there was a later. Still, he pushed those thoughts away and offered a smile. “Elio Tabris. Warden-Commander of Ferelden. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bethany.”

[andrastesflamingknickers]

My warden was an elf named Elio.

I cannot express how confused I was walking through the veil jumpers camp and seeing a character, another elf, named Elio calling out to me. I had to take a minute because my initial thought was Tabris had come home (and it woulda made sense cause Morrigan has been hanging around the camp!)

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Jealousy Is A Bitter Flavor Pt. 1

Obligatory AO3 Link

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The blighted woman stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” Morrigan purred with obvious delight. “You're jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

Orzammar was a peculiar place. Impressive, certainly. Alistair was baffled just trying to figure out how people so small could make ceilings so grand, but the dwarves of old had always been unmatched in their architectural skills, or so the legends went, and the dwarves of now were just as impressive with their crafts work, so really, he shouldn’t try to question it too much.

They had been travelling for a good number of months, and after all their hard work, the only one left to call upon for their obligations to the Wardens were the dwarves. Personally, Alistair was looking forward to their help the most; they were more familiar with fighting the darkspawn than any of their allies. That, and dwarves were hardy fighters. He was liking their chances of ending this Blight more and more.

Outsiders were rare enough in the city that they were collecting stares and whispers as they trudged onward. Many recognized them as Wardens, but that knowledge did nothing to curb the suspicion and curiosity.

“Perhaps we should have dressed in the likeness of merchants or of the such,” Morrigan muttered as they walked. “We are gaining a following of onlookers.”

“Really? I can’t picture you in a merchant’s bland tunic,” Elio Tabris said with a short laugh that had a wheeze to it, yet sounded like bells to Alistair. He felt something in his stomach twist as the man sidled up to Morrigan to bump affectionately against her. “I’m sure they’ve just never seen someone quite as lovely as you. Perhaps if you hunched a little and added years to your face, their ogling will cease.”

Morrigan’s face twisted in distaste, “I’d rather not find out if I’ll grow to resemble my mother, thank you very much.”

Elio laughed again, and by all accounts his laugh wasn’t some harmonious, musical thing. Sten had even said one night that the young man’s laughter sounded more like a dying horse than anything else, and yet Alistair couldn’t help but enjoy it all the same. It always brought a smile to his face when he heard the long wheeze followed by several beating chuckles.

But that smile was quick to go away as he watched Elio push himself onto the tips of his toes for some extra height, all so he could give Morrigan a swift peck on the cheek. He was gone with several quick, long strides just as fast, joining Wynne a few paces ahead as the elder woman examined a rune carving of some kind on a wall, too far ahead now for him to hear what the elf was saying.

That twist in his stomach worsened, a bitter poison on his tongue as he watched Morrigan bring a hand to her cheek and smile softly as she watched Elio.

They had been like this for a while, now. Alistair hadn’t thought much of it at first, not when the flirting began. Elio was just like that; he flirted with pretty much everyone in their group, to a point that Alistair was sure that the man wasn’t even aware he came off as flirty. He was just trying to be nice and playful, and was just too charming for his own good.

So, when Elio and Morrigan began their playful back and forth banter, Alistair ignored it as his friend just being friendly, wanting to be on good terms with the maleficar. When Elio began spending more time at camp with her, lingering with Morrigan for talks that went on longer and longer, Alistair shrugged it off. Elio always made time to talk to everyone when they set up camp, Morrigan was hardly anything special in that regard. Their elf was just a considerate fellow.

Andraste’s blood! He even went out of his way to find gifts for everyone, he actually paid attention to their interests, to what they said, and would always find something to gift them. To try and make them all a little happier in these dismal times, he had put it.

He’d even found and returned to Alistair his mother’s amulet. Alistair had honestly never expected his friend to have even paid attention when he rambled on about his pathetic life and how he broke it during a childish fit of anger at Eamon. Yet Elio found it while exploring the castle for clues on what had happened to the boy, and for other way to save him and Eamon, and he had returned it to Alistair for no other reason than that it had been important to the older Warden.

Perhaps that was when Alistair started looking at Elio and seeing something more than a fellow Warden or a friend.

But then he started noticing the way Elio would blush, the way his ears would burn red at Morrigan’s teasing, and the almost loopy smile he’d have when returning to the campfire each night after talking with her. There was an obvious shift to the banter between them, what he had shrugged off as meaningless, idle flirtation becoming something real. Alistair felt the bitter taste return when he remembered the first morning he’d seen Elio returning to the rest of the camp from the tent Morrigan always kept away from the others, the way his hair was tousled more than it normally was in the morning, the way he glowed, and of the hint of love bites that covered his neck that his armor almost completely hid.

As the months progressed, their relationship, whatever it may be, had also progressed—and the bitter seed inside of Alistair, that burned worse than the darkspawn blood during the Joining, continued to grow.

Elio was his friend, and even though he was far from fond of Morrigan, he should be happy and supportive that Elio was able to find joy and love in whatever his relationship with the witch was, be it physical intimacy or something deeper. He should be happy for his friend. But he wasn’t, and Alistair wasn’t sure what bothered him more. That he had chosen Morrigan, out of everyone in their group, to be with.

Or that he chose Morrigan over Alistair.

Biting his tongue, the older warden tried to shake those thoughts of jealousy and bitterness from his mind. Tried to shrug off how much it hurt to see Elio getting so close and chummy and intimate with someone as cruel and vile as Morrigan. Surely the ache in his chest wouldn’t hurt half as much if his friend was wooing Leliana or Zevran. Maker knows the two rogues were both making cow eyes at the man when they thought no one was looking. Alistair was probably no better in that regard.

He watched as Elio began chatting with a young and rather excitable looking dwarven woman for a minute, before he gestured for Wynne to come over. Alistair only heard bits of the conversation, a word here and there, that made it clear the subject was of magic.

Leaving the two to their conversation, Alistair tried to busy himself with their surroundings. Tried to distract himself by marveling at the wonders that was the architecture of the thaig, of the light and warmth they had despite being so deep underground, and just how much more structurally sound everything down here felt in comparison to topside. He tried to keep his attention on everything but the pain in his chest and the source of the ache.

Yet it wasn’t enough. Eventually his gaze landed on Morrigan who was admiring the statue of one of the dwarven Paragons. Or, perhaps admiring wasn’t the right word. Knowing Morrigan, she was likely judging and mocking it, Alistair wasn’t even sure she had the capability to genuinely admire and praise something.

In spite of common sense, Alistair approached the witch. “So,” he started, keeping his voice quiet enough that it wouldn’t catch Elio’ attention, though he was sure he could be yelling, and his friend wouldn’t noticed. Too engrossed in whatever conversation he was having with Wynne and the dwarf. “Dare I ask? What’s the deal with you and him?”

Alistair knew better than to ask, knew that this topic was in dangerous waters. Leliana had tried to broach the subject not too long ago, while they were making the long hike up the Frostback Mountains just to get to Orzammar in the first place. She had asked Morrigan about her relationship with Elio, and while Alistair knew it was a private conversation, he had eavesdropped anyways. Morrigan had denied there being any love, claimed it was purely passion—and that that made it superior to one of love.

He didn’t agree with the sentiment.

He didn’t like the implications, either.

Elio was clearly head over heels for her, for reasons he would never understand. He had seen the looks he gave the witch, the soft expressions, the silly smiles, the look of pure adoration whenever she wasn’t paying attention. If Morrigan didn’t love him back, then she didn’t deserve to be with him. Disregarding Alistairs own feelings on the relationship, his friend didn’t deserve someone who didn’t love him back, someone only wanted him for the physicality of a relationship.

Morrigan looked at him with a look of disdain he was all too familiar with from her, a mutual animosity between them. “Him? Him, who?” she asked, her brow quirking and her tone taking on exasperated confusion. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

The worst part was that he couldn’t tell if she was mocking him by purposely pretending not to know, or truly didn’t get who he was referring to. “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Alistair gestured to where Elio was, attention too engrossed with his own business to notice their own conversation. “You and Mister Let’s-Make-Kissy-Faces over there,” he said, and tried to ignore the following twist to his chest as he said it.

The blighted witch stared at him for a few moments longer before her red lips twisted into an all-too-familiar mocking smile. “My, my…” she purred with obvious delight. “You are jealous, aren’t you? Did I take your favorite Grey Warden away from you?”

He hated her so, so much. “I’m not jealous!” Alistair argued back, louder than he meant to, feeling his face flush at her teasing. What did Elio see in this wretched woman? “I’m horrified!” Horrified that his friend would ever find her likable to such a degree. She had a pretty face, sure, but a pretty face didn’t change the fact that she was a horrible woman who took pleasure from tormenting others.

“Those blushing cheeks of yours tell a different tale,” Morrigan smirked as she reached out, pointing at his face, a glimmer in her eyes that always told him there was trouble afoot.

Alistair took a step away from her, his blush worsened, and he hated that it was because she was right. “These blushing cheeks are terrified that you’ll suck all the blood out of them once you’re done with him,” he lied.

Morrigan laughed again, bringing a curled finger to hover over her smirk. “If I feel the need to suck on anything of yours, Alistair, you will be the first to know,” she said, and the flush in his face began to pale at the innuendo, at the thought of him and her together. “Though I am sure it is not me you would prefer to do the sucking. Perhaps you would rather join in the next time he and I share a bed, so that he might touch you the way he touches me?”

Just as fast the flush was back with an even greater intensity as Alistair stuttered and spluttered, his mind fraying at the seams, trying to find the words to respond to what she had said, trying to even comprehend what she had said. “I—no, that’s not—you know that’s not—” he started and stopped, verbally flailing pathetically like a drowning man.

It only served to amuse the witch even more as she turned her attention to Elio, who it had seemed had finished up whatever business he had with the dwarf and Wynne. “Or better yet, we should go and tell him together of your touching concerns,” she said, taking a step towards them as she said it, and looked back at him with a predatory smile. “Perhaps he will pay more attention to you if you ask him nicely.”

Alistair turned his back to her, “Uh-huh, I think we’re done here,” he said, and it was the only thing he could think of to end this wreck of a conversation before it got worst. The more she had spoken, the more he wanted to bury himself deeper into the ground. He knew he shouldn’t have talked to her, why, oh, why did he go ahead and do it anyway?

“Done before you started, in fact,” Morrigan added, just to rub salt into his wounds.

When he turned to look back, she had left and had joined Elio at his side, the two of them and Wynne discussing something between just them. The only comfort Alistair got from the sight was the look of annoyance that flashed across Morrigan’s face, telling him that she, at the very least, didn’t like the conversation.

For a moment, Elio looked up and their eyes met, and Alistair felt warmth blossom in his chest at the smile his fellow Warden gave him. But that warmth was gone just as quick when Elio turned his gaze to Morrigan—busy arguing with Wynne over something Circle-magic-mage related to even notice him—and his smile grew softer, lovelorn. Alistair wanted to throw up.

“Right,” Alistair said, pushing those feelings down deep inside of himself as he approached the rest of the group. “What now? By the sounds of everything, we’re not going to find much support from the dwarves until their whole kind debacle is solved. So, what’s our plan?” he asked, and tried not to think of how Orzammar’s civil war of succession hit a little too close to home with Ferelden’s civil war of succession.

Elio hummed, a hand to his chin as he thought about it. “I really hate being in this position,” he said after a long pause, moving his hand from his chin to his head, running it through his chestnut brown strands of hair. “We need the dwarves help in battling the darkspawn, but it’s as they told us over and over; the treaty only says the king is obligated to help us, not their Assembly or whatever. Until a new king is chosen, it’s unlikely we’ll be getting their help at all.”

“The dwarves are in a never-ending war with the darkspawn, is it little wonder that our Blight might seem inconsequential to their foolhardy Assembly?” Morrigan asked with a slight scoff. “I dare say they might be rather happy that the darkspawn have migrated to the surface. It makes for emptier tunnels, and an easier time for their own futile attempts to reclaim their ancient thaigs.”

“I’m sure they’re not celebrating Ferelden’s turmoil,” Elio said with a soft smile before shaking his head, “But, back on the topic at hand, she’s right. The Assembly isn’t obligated to help us, and right now the Blight is the least of their concerns.”

Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really hate to say it, but since they’re in a deadlock on finding a new king, we might have to step in and put someone on the throne just so we can get the treaties fulfilled.” He hated saying it. The Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to be involved in politics; they weren’t supposed to get involved in matters of civil dispute. But… he supposed they were both rather piss poor wardens in that regard.

Elio just had a knack for getting involved in every little problem. It was like he was a bloodhound when it came to people in need, and Alistair had yet to see him actually turn down helping someone, no matter how out of his way it was. On one hand, Alistair admired that part of his friend—it showed that he truly did have a heart of gold. He wanted to make the world better, not just in protecting them from darkspawn, but in the little things, too. On the other hand, it got frustrating being dragged into every little problem that were really none of their concern.

Helping Orzammar get a new king was a massive overstep, one that Alistair knew Duncan would never have approved of. But it was necessary. Right now, it was the only way he could think of to get the dwarves aid in the Blight.

“You’re right,” Elio agreed, which soothed some of the guilt Alistair felt. “The downside is, we don’t actually know enough about either candidate or of Orzammar in general to be able to choose who would be best for us and the people.”

“In that case, just take a copper and flip it,” Morrigan said as she placed a hand on her hip, her other raised, drawing loops in the air with her finger. “It should make little difference to us whether tis the blood son or the advisor who sits on the throne, they will both be obligated by your precious treaties to aide you.”

Wynne had a disapproving frown at the notion. “Something like this is far too important and delicate of a matter to leave up to something as simplistic as a toss of a coin,” she scolded, though it was clear Morrigan wasn’t even listening to her. “I suggest we ask around, try to learn more about this Bhelen and Harrowmont before we make a decision one way or the other.”

And that was part of why Alistair liked Wynne. She was so sensible, far more than many of their companions were. Always a soothing voice of reason. “I agree with her,” he said, raising his hand up slightly. “I’d like to make sure that whoever we lend our support to isn’t anti-Grey Warden, that we can trust will actually follow through with their promise of aide.”

Another moment of silence filled the air around them, broken only by the sounds and chatters of Orzammar itself, before Elio broke it with another hum. “Okay, yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ll split up, ask around, and meet up at the tavern after a while to put together everything we’ve learned. Then we can make a decision. That sound okay with everyone?”

With no one having any arguments, they all split off to investigate different parts for the next handful of hours, careful to avoid Dust Town on their own.

Alistair was a generally friendly person, but the dwarves weren’t necessarily as open to his friendship as most were, and he was hardly a pro at bargaining. But there were enough locals who seemed fascinated by him enough, whether by being human or by being a Warden, that he was able to get bits and pieces, much of it contradicting due to the nature of the ones telling him being biased to either Harrowmont or Bhelen. Nevertheless, he took what information he could find and stitched it together like a poorly made patchwork quilt until he could get some semblance of a picture of what was going on.

The old king was dead, that was a set-in stone fact.

What was heavily debated was the cause of his and his older two sons deaths. The oldest one was killed by fratricide, the middle son given the blame and without so much as a proper investigation or trial, was sent to the Deep Roads in exile to die. Harrowmont’s following believed Bhelen to have been involved, that he was the one who actually killed the eldest, and they claimed that even the old king had suspected his son’s involvement, and that was why he chose Harrowmont as his successor instead.

On the other hand, Bhelen’s supporters accused Harrowmont of weakening Orzammar. That he took advantage of the king’s failing health to plant the seeds of lies and doubt in his mind, and that he was never actually named successor—he was the only one in the room when the king died, no one could prove or disprove what Endrin said to him in his final moments. What Alistair found most concerning were the whispers that he’d further worsen the divide between nobles and casteless, and that he would rather cut the city off from the surface entirely, even at the cost of their own wellbeing.

Bhelen was called a reformist, which was good, that he wanted to strengthen their ties with the surface where Harrowmont wanted to weaken them. But he was possibly a murderer, possibly behind his brothers and fathers deaths. Harrowmont, for all that he could find, seemed like a man of strong morals, and seemed more politically savvy, but he seemed to cling dangerously tight to traditions.

Personally, the more he learned and listened, the more he wasn’t sure about either side. They were reasons to support and oppose in equal measures. Freaking politics, second only to the Darkspawn in his list of things he hated.

After a few hours, Alistair made his way back to the inn that Elio had chosen for them to stay at for the night. There was little else in terms of information he had been able to find, to the point he felt like he was just wandering around like an aimless idiot. He did, however, come across a merchant during his search, and even managed to buy something at a discount. Or the merchant told him it was a discount, for all Alistair knew, it could have been double the price. Which was fine, he was willing to pay triple the price for it.

It wasn’t anything especially fancy, but it was a necklace with a stone carved to look like a dog in the center. Elio liked dogs. He’d talked at lengths during the first few days after the mabari joined them about how he had always wanted one as a kid. But you don’t get dogs in the alienage unless they’re with the guards and dragging people out of their homes by the jaws.  Other than that, there was always the occasional starving stray that never stuck around for long. He’d been so happy when the mabari, named Garahel; after the hero of the last Blight, had chosen him as its new master.

It was stupid, Alistair knew this, and yet as soon as he’d seen the stone dog necklace, he had to buy it. Elio was always giving them gifts, and yet he wasn’t sure if any of them had ever gotten him something in return. There was a swell of guilt that rushed through him at the thought.

When he finally reached the tavern, after only getting lost once, he was unsurprised to find that Elio was already there. He was, however, surprised to find him in an argument with a drunken dwarf at one of the tables.

Or perhaps argument wasn’t the right word. The man was flushed in the face and yelling, and Elio was just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, staring the dwarf down as he was being yelled at. There was a tightness to his expression, and he kept gripping his own bicep between clenched fingers, all signs Alistair knew and recognized as his friend trying his hardest to stay calm, to not start yelling back at the dwarf—or worse.

For as much as he came off as cheerful, as easy to get along with, and was shown to be exceptionally kind; Alistair had met few who possessed the same level of rage that his fellow Warden harbored. Part of Alistair couldn’t blame him for the anger, he’d be angry too if he had gone through everything the other had. Regardless, Alistair had learned rather quickly that just because Elio was better at hiding his anger and better at controlling it than most, it didn’t mean the wrath was not there. When that anger came out; blood was spilled.

An angry Elio was a more terrifying foe to fight than the darkspawn.

Which was why he was immediately worried that a fight was about to break out, that Elio was about to do something that would, at the very best, get them exiled from Orzammar.

He quickly made his way to them.

“We need someone like Harrowmont leading us! Bhelen is nothing more than fatricidal scum! Tyrant in the mah-making!” the dwarf screamed, broken by a hiccup as he pointed at Elio with a glower. “If you’re gunna side with Bhelen, then you’d be better off dying. I don’t care Warden or not, you go against Harrowmont an’ I’ll kill ya myself! Right here!”

Elio said nothing, but his lip curled back with a wordless snarl.

Alistair shouldered his way between them with a wary laugh, “Hey, friends! What’s going on over here?” he asked, nervous energy biting at his words. “Getting rather worked up over here, I hope my friend here isn’t causing you any problems.”

“Causing problems?” The dwarf repeated with another hiccup. “Asking about Bhelen, and—and whether he’d be better—your friend’s askin’ for a knife is what he’s doing!”

He must have said something wrong when asking around, with such high tensions it was little wonder some might be a bit testy about the topic. Through in the excessive amount of alcohol the dwarf smelled of? More volatile than a puddle of oil. Still, this situation was still salvageable.

“I’m sure he meant nothing bad by it,” Alistair said, glancing to Elio who remained silent, wisely biting his tongue so he wouldn’t say something to make matters worse, though the fire in his eyes was burning intensely. Just as fast, Alistair turned his attention back to the dwarf before he could get trapped by his gaze. “We’re new to the city, as you can tell, we’re just trying to get a grasp of the situation, that’s all.”

The dwarf had the audacity to actually spit onto the floor, a big wet glob that just about hit Alistair’s boot. Absolutely disgusting. But he forced his expression not to show those thoughts. “Being new an’ dumb ain’t an excuse for being dumb,” the drunkard said, as if that made any sense. He looked them over once more before nodding to the bar counter. “Give me a few silvers for a few more rounds an’ we can call this dispute resolved. How’s that sound?”

Sounded like a scam as far as Alistair was concerned, but if it would keep the peace, then he was willing to give up a few silvers. Knowing their luck of being attacked, and of Morrigan and Elio’ questionable habit of ransacking the corpses, they’d make back whatever he gave up quickly enough in resold equipment and valuables.

So, he passed him twenty silvers, more than enough to keep him nice and drunk, and hopefully unconscious.

The man took it happily enough, stuffing the coins into his own coin purse, and made his way to the counter. Not before, of course, giving Elio one last nasty look. “Next time watch your fucking mouth. Keep saying that shit about Harrowmont, and next time I won’t be so nice. I’ll clip your damn tongue,” he threatened before staggering off.

Elio growled lowly once he was gone, but then let his shoulders slump as tension rolled off him. “Usually, I’m being threatened about my ears being cut. Tongue is a first,” he muttered before shaking his head. Just as fast that anger was stuffed deep into whatever internal locked box he had and a smile was on his face. “Thanks for the help, Alistair. Maker’s breath, your timing was miraculous.”

He felt his cheeks flush at the praise. “Well, I guess we were lucky I showed up when I did, aren’t we?” he puffed up his chest in pride.

It didn’t take long after that for Wynne and Morrigan to wander in, and once they had joined them, the four had taken a seat at the corner, furthest from any prying ears, to discuss what they had found.

For the most part, their information all seemed to be the same, if not worded differently here or there. Half of the public was in favor of Bhelen for his progressive stances and disproved of Harrowmont for his isolationist policies. The other half preferred Harrowmont for the stability he’d bring, while despising Bhelen for whispered involvement in his brothers’ deaths. Alistair wasn’t quite sure yet who was the better option.

In the end, however, after weighing everything they knew, Elio chose Bhelen. It was decided that they’d seek him out in the morning, figure out what they had to do to help put him on the throne so they could get the alliance sorted out and go back to dealing with the Blight. With any luck, they could get everything sorted out in a day or two, though Alistair knew better than to hope for something like that.

There was little else to do for the night. Their task for the day completed, their rooms paid for, and the rest of their party camped outside the gates informed of what was happening. The group had the rest of the night to do as they pleased.

Alistair allowed himself a single drink. For the confidence only alcohol could bring, before seeking Elio out. The necklace bounced about in his pocket with each step, and he felt giddy for the chance to give it to him, to see that same look of surprised joy that Alistair always felt receiving a gift from him mirrored on his friends face. Perhaps it was the buzz of ales coursing through him, but Alistair even felt bold enough to try and… well, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe flirt? Maybe ask for a kiss in return? He’d figure it out, he just knew he felt confident enough to try.

It took a little looking to even find where Elio had gone. He hadn’t been in the tavern, nor in the rented room. Alistair had thought for a moment perhaps he went to the surface to visit with the others. But, no, he found the man in question just outside the tavern.

Outside with Morrigan.

His stomach dropped.

Hiding around the corner, Alistair unashamedly spied on the two as they interacted. He watched as Elio pulled from his own bag a small, golden hand mirror. A lovely piece of craftsmanship that must have cost a pretty silver. Maybe even some gold. Even from where he hid, he could tell the mirror was clear and smooth, that it’s silver surface was as flawless as it could be.

He couldn’t hear what Morrigan had whispered, but he had seen the look of awe and amazement as she took the gift from Elio’s hands.

“A pretty mirror for a pretty woman,” Elio said with that all too familiar lovelorn look on his face. “I’d remembered you telling me about the mirror you had found—and I’m sure it’s not the same, but I thought of you when I saw it.”

Morrigan’s thin fingers traced the edges, her expression softer than anything Alistair had ever seen. A softness he suspected she only ever showed Elio. “Such a romantic,” she teased, her voice gentle, far from the haughty, sarcastic bite she generally had.

“You know me, a sappy romantic at heart, always looking for ways to woo you,” Elio joked back, and yet Alistair knew it wasn’t a joke.

Their voices dropped back to whispers, too quiet for him to hear. But he could read their body language and expression well enough that he didn’t need to heard the words they said. The touches and smiles spoke volumes. His chest burned worse than any wound he received as he watched the two draw closer and closer to each other, foreheads connecting before they went in for a kiss.

Alistair hated what he was seeing. He hated how happy Elio looked, how he melted and swooned to the woman’s every touch and word, and how gentle and soft Morrigan was to him when she was nothing but a viper to everyone else. He hated how happy they seemed to be with just the two of them.

Most of all, he hated the vile, wretched feeling of jealousy that ate away at him from the inside.

With the necklace heavy like lead in his pocket, Alistair turned on his heel and marched back into the tavern before he could see anything else. He ignored Wynne’s concerned look as he made straight for the bar, giving up silver and coppers for tankards of ale, hoping that the alcohol would make him forget, would make him numb to the ache in his chest.

Hoping that when Elio came back inside with Morrigan in tow, the sight of the two of them wouldn’t feel like a sword driven through his chest.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Elio Tabris at the start of Origins: a bit of ptsd by what’s happened (the Vaughan and Ostegar shiz). But full of wonder, hope, and idealistic determination. Heart of gold, dumb of ass. Lots of rage hidden under a kind face, easily triggered into a battle frenzy in combat.

Elio Tabris by the end of Origins: trauma baby, so tired. Sad boi all friends are gone/went separate ways, and now has so much responsibility. Determined but no longer naively idealistic, still harbors a lot of rage, but far better at controlling it during a battle frenzy.

Elio Tabris by Inquisiton: So Fucking Exhausted Dear Maker Let Him Sleep. Overworked. Overstressed. Misses his wife so damn much. Will punch the Maker in the dick for one month. One blighted month, of peace and calm. Rage is gone. Now is only sad.

[andrastesflamingknickers]

Wanna talk about my Warden. Vibrating with excitement while drafting short fics regarding him and how to tie him in with the Inquisition story.

Elio Tabris, city elf. Trans dude who was about to get in a t4t marriage with Nesiara before Vaughan decided to be a douchenozzle. He was even looking forward to the wedding and had had taken a liking to Nesiara right off the bat.

He is a twink. An absolute twink, and no one let's him forget it. He wants the broad shoulders and bulging boulder-like biceps, he wants the bear bod, alas he is doomed to never get it. On the bright side, no one ever expects such raw, overwhelming brute strength from him.

A warrior through and through. Give him a sword and a shield and he will charge right in, no one is getting past him. He will aggro every enemy in the vicinity to target him and him only so his companions can focus on causing as much damage as they can while minimizing their own injuries. He thinks it's a sound tactic, his companions absolutely hate it and his death-seeking ways.

He's a nice guy, the kind who is more than willing to jump in and help others if he can. That's how he was raised; to put as much good into the world as you can, that even the little things matter.

Took an immediate liking to Morrigan. He enjoyed the way she spoke, the sarcasm and roundabout comments. He was often a mediator between her and Alistair, who was hands down his best friend and practically a brother to him as they continued to travel.

A romantic. Like he will give you flowers, serenade you with sappy poetry, take you on midnight picnics. He loves with all his heart and soul.

Always seeks out gifts for his companions whenever they enter a town. Like, this dude's love language is to give. Give gifts and words of affirmation. He will make sure that it's impossible for you to even consider that he doesn't care about you.

Fell for Morrigan really freaking fast. Like by the time they reached Lothering, he already had a full on crush that only got stronger and stronger as they travelled and playfully flirted. So his story involved a whole shitton of yearning while being in a FWB relationship with her until they were finally able to bring feelings into it.

Alistair is the one who fathered Kieran, but it was unanimously agreed that for all intents and purposes Elio was the dad. Until Morrigan dipped.

After Morrigan left, like pretty much during the whole Awakening period, Elio was just a miserable, depressed soul.

"I miss my wife, Anders. I miss her so damn much"

The nightmares had affected him rather strongly from the start, and even as time progressed, they never really weakened. He was one of the unlucky 'extra sensitive' ones, and has never once known a peaceful nights sleep since the Joining. To the point that he sleeps as little as he can, and it shows. By the time the Archdemon is gone, guy is pale as death and his eyebags have eyebags.

He remains Warden Commander of Fereldan because I absolutely hate that the HoF loses the position at some point between DAO and DA2.

He looks up to Wynne as a surrogate mom just as much as Alistair, but he's a little better at hiding those feelings.

He absolutely thought Morrigan was proposing when she gave him the enchanted ring.

Whichever Hawke joined the Wardens? He straight up kicked down the doors and took them from Stroud. Sorry, man, but they're ferelden, that makes them his by right. Got a problem with it? Don't care.