#FeNrIs WoUlD TaKe YoU SlAvEr hUnTiNg

[barbex]

Hello! Number 13 for Fenders from the angst/fluff prompt list for DADWC please? Love your writing!

Thank you, darling! Prompt 13 is: “I won’t let anyone hurt you, you’re safe with me.” My goodness, that's just perfect for a little fenders ficlet for tonight's @dadrunkwriting

---

"Where is Anders?" Hawke's question sounds innocent enough, but it hits like an arrow in Fenris' neck. He lost sight of him. How could that happen? How did he forget to check on Anders, when the mage keeps occupying his thoughts nearly every waking minute?

"I will look for him." Not waiting for Hawke to answer or asking questions, Fenris stalks through the battlefield of dead slavers they hunted out here at the Wounded Coast. He counts eleven dead men and women as he steps around pools of blood in the warm sand. Avoiding the aftermath of battle is a habit of his, unlike Isabela and Hawke, who search the dead bodies for loot with excited exclamations. It's not an activity he ever liked to join in. Not after being the one who killed them.

Hasty tracks lead away from the site, they must have missed one or two slavers in the chaos. One set of the tracks is deeper in the sand, as if the person was very heavy. Possibly carrying someone. Fenris hurries his steps.

It only takes him a few minutes to see the slavers, two of them. One carries a body over his shoulders and Fenris suppresses a snarl when he recognises the familiar blond hair. He doesn't have his coat. Fenris can just imagine how sad Anders will be over the loss of that monstrosity and it's enough to make him even more angry.

He follows the slavers at a distance, waiting for an opportunity to attack without endangering Anders in his unconscious state. That also worries him. Anders, unconscious, despite being such a powerful mage. 

Worried. About the mage. 

A lot has changed between them in these past few weeks. When at first he hated his very existence, then began to accept his healing magic, and at last somewhat understood his fight for freedom, he now cares for the mage more than he likes to admit. 

Yes. He worries. He worries a lot about the mage now.

If the others knew, they would surely laugh at him. 

Ahead of him, the slavers have stopped, and put Anders on the ground. Anders may be skinny, much too skinny actually, but he is tall. The man who carried him rolls his shoulder with a pained expression. That expression never leaves his face. The other slaver stares at his dead partner, too slow to even raise his sword against Fenris' controlled rage as he cleaves off his head.

He sheathes his sword and rushes over to Anders. He untangles his body, stretching out his legs, and folds his hands over his stomach. Sitting down in the warm sand, he lays Anders' head in his lap, brushing his hair out of his face. Anders is breathing calmly, he looks like he's sleeping. They must have given him some sort of drug. There is nothing he can do but wait.

After what feels like half a lifetime, but is probably only half an hour, Anders stirs. At first, his fingers twitch, then his eyes, and then he looks at Fenris with wide eyes. "What?"

"You are safe."

Casting his eyes about Anders sees the dead slavers. "You killed them?"

"Yes." 

"You saved me."

Fenris nods. 

Anders just stares at him. 

"You don't believe me?" Fenris strokes over Anders' cheek. "I won’t let anyone hurt you, you’re safe with me."

"But..." Anders sits up, brushing over his shirt. "But why?"

Fenris takes Anders' hand, stopping him from getting up, from running away from him. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Yes, I do. You are you and I'm just me."

It hurts hearing Anders think so low of himself. Fenris pulls him back, turning his face towards himself. "I distinctly remember that you kissed me."

A beautiful smile spreads on Anders' face. "I remember you kissed me." His lips brush over Fenris'. 

"You flirted with me," Fenris protests, letting his lips catch on Anders'.

"As if you didn't," Anders says, moving closer.

"I knew it!" Isabela comes through the bushes with a triumphant fist bump. 

Anders flinches away, but Fenris holds him back, threading his gauntleted fingers into the back of Anders' neck and kisses him. Ignoring Isabela's enthusiastic comments to Hawke, he keeps kissing him until they both run out of air.

With a smile, Anders stares at him. "You really mean that."

"I usually do, but what are you talking about now?"

"That I'm safe with you."

Fenris slides his thumb over Anders' lips. "Yes, I mean that."

Anders' smile is beautiful. Fenris will not let him out of his sight again.

[new-austin]

💕 and ⚰️ for Aaron

What are your muse’s thoughts on parenting and being a parent even if they aren’t one?

I actually gave Aaron and Fenris two kids, eventually. I haven't posted about them yet but their names are Ezra and Lyra. They are two siblings that Fenris and Aaron acquired while hunting slavers near a tevinter boarder. They were young, they had no family. They planned to just take care of them for a bit but eventually they all live together in northern Fereldan, turning a "safe house" of sorts into a real home. Aaron loves being a parent, which surprises him. He's a good dad.

How would the loss of a family member affect them? Does it vary based on type of family member?

Well, well, well, you ARE asking about my Hawke. *Slaps the roof of my Aaron* this boy can fit so much dead family members haunting him.

Malcolm's death really drove a wrench in the entire family's dynamics. Aaron was expected to step up, to be the replacement Malcolm but he fails often. They're big shoes to fill. Before the game, and at the beginning, Aaron doesn't have a great relationship with Bethany or Carver, mostly due to how Malcolm's treated all the children. Everyone is jealous of everyone. Bethany dying... It wasn't supposed to happen.

She was a good mage, how did this happen? Why wasnt it me.

Aaron feels like Leandra and Carver wanted him to die instead, it's more complicated than that of course, but not as far off as it should be, on Leandra's side at least. Her blaming and coldness after really solidifies this for him. Him and Carver eventually work past this, they stop bringing up their dead sister to win arguments, instead bringing up find memories and stories.

Leandra dying.... well it's not a good time for Aaron. They had a ROUGH relationship but they loved eachother. Aaron's already dealing with losing his entire family. He's been trying to get closer to Leandra, to prevent her in some way from following her husband and daughter's path. But then, she dies. A horrific death that he could have prevented if he had been there. He doesn't know where her body is, he's unable to bring her to be cremated, just a head. He doesn't cope well with Leandra's death. A lot of alcohol and sex, but eventually, he actually deals with it.

I know Carver will die before Aaron, being a grey warden. I haven't thought too much about it if I'm being honest. I think Aaron knows that his time is limited. Carver is very open about this fact. Carver visits the home in fereldan, it's not far from amaranthine, where he's stationed. Eventually, a visit where Carver seems distracted. He looks like he did down in the deep roads all those years ago, just older. The taint creeping across the veins of his face, his color ashen. Carver acts like it's a normal visit, but they both know that he'll be on his calling when he leaves. Maybe when Carver leaves, the hug goodbye lasts longer than usual, maybe there are tears in their eyes. Who can say really? Carver leaves and they both know this was their final goodbye. He doesn't hear from Carver again. He doesn't contact the grey wardens to confirm what he already knows.

[the-tale-of-the-champions]

David gaider hurts my FKN head

[ellana-lavellan-rp]

. INTO OBLIVION ,

(( plotted thread with @dreadwxlf; ellana steals the red lyrium idol and solas's agents capture her. ))

 i have burned the cliffs of Damascus, i have drunk deep of it. my heart is my leg and a black line etched on the paper all along this boat without a bottom. you are all the world like a nest to me, in which eggs unbroken form like fossils, come together, shatter and send small black flowers to the very air. from this infection, hope. from this island, flight. from this grief, love.  come back.

It takes longer than Ellana expects - spies, and months of Leliana's plots beyond plots, all with hardened eyes (and perhaps too much blood spilled) - but she does it. The idol is hers, taken from under her vhenan's nose (and it feels like triumph; he can't finish his plan, not now). She makes sure she gives it to Fenris to hold, her dear partner for the last couple of years (they’re about to part ways from hunting slavers with bittersweet sorrow, and it's unlikely she will see him again in this lifetime). She hopes the idol is destroyed promptly; she would do it herself but she has to make sure that it won't accidentally make things worse.  She’s dealt with enough messes to last a lifetime. Fenris is set to deliver the idol to Leliana for study, while her vhenan is currently out there believing that it's still within her possession. And isn't it something that the thought of him still leaves her breathless? She loves him still, even though his plan in its entirety is monstrous. A world without her dearest friends is a world she wants no part of, and she'll fight him until the end if it's necessary.

why cling so hard to the rock? because it is the only thing that stops us from sliding into the ocean.

into oblivion.

Eventually Fen’harel’s agents catch up to her, eager to fix their mistake. Ellana smirks, bids Fenris farewell (buying him time to get out of harm’s way, though he protests) - truly outnumbered - and takes out her spirit blade. “Lost something?” She jeers at the group, letting her winter magic spread across the ground, freezing most of them into place. “You’ll have to come get it, if you want it.”  She has no mercy for the elves that follow her vhenan; some of them young, some of them misguided, but they fall to her blade all the same. She’s taken a dragon by herself, these elves are nothing: but there are too many of them, and she is just one, no matter how accomplished she is with her magic. One sneaks from behind, a blow to her head, and -

black.

-x-

When she wakes, she is in a sparse cell, her weapons and possessions taken from her - even her obsidian arm gone. She squints, a copper taste in her mouth, an overwhelming pounding in her head and nose. Her nose is broken, she concludes as she takes in the sight of the meager dungeon cell, and there’s an wound at her temple, dried blood down the side of her face. She winces as she tries to sit up, and then collapses back down, her legs asleep, a twinge in her ribs, and her one good arm chained to the ceiling.  She hears footsteps approach - light and familiar - and she looks up into the violet eyes of her one and only love. “Hello, vhenan,” she says, mouth dry and cracked, her voice coming out hoarse, “I must say, your hospitality is quite lacking.”  She closes her eyes, almost involuntarily, against the pounding of her head, and rests the back of it against the stone wall, “Not even a glass of water, how shameful.”

[transfenris-truther]

1, 2, 5, 9, and 19?

1. What are things they both find funny?

Each day Fenris is horrified to learn that he and Hawke have the exact same sense of humor. They both love dad jokes, although Hawke delivers them with childlike joy and Fenris delivers them with deadpan seriousness. They both think Varric's novels are extremely bad and funny, especially Swords and Shields. They also both have an unfortunate habit of finding irony and humor in their worst experiences. It can be uncomfortable for people who don't know them well.

2. If they could each describe each other in one sentence, what would it be?

Hawke: Fenris is like- He's so much fun, so expressive, funny, and smart, but then he's also brave, beautiful, and strong. There's too much to say! I need more sentences.

Fenris: Hawke is possibly the most irritating man I have ever met and I'd be a fool not to love him.

5. What activities do they enjoy together?

Reading more than anything else. Hawke didn't care much for books until he saw how much Fenris appreciated them. They like to lie in each other's laps and read the best and worst passages aloud. Sometimes one will read some piece of smut so absurd that it will make the other laugh uncontrollably. Other times (usually when Fenris is deep into histories) they'll read something that will spark a debate that almost always ends with kissing

They like fighting together, but the fun wears off fast as they grow older. Eventually hunting slavers is the only reason Fenris breaks out his sword. Fenris takes exercise and stretching very seriously long after Hawke's knees decide that adventuring isn't for him anymore. Even so, they still wrestle together long after they're much too old.

They both end up spending a lot of time in the wilderness when they're on the run after Kirkwall. Fenris finds himself enjoying it, being out under the sky with Hawke, bathing in rivers, looking at the stars. Hawke likes the wilderness even more than that.

9. Have they made each other cry?

The first time Fenris left Hawke a note, he was so proud he cried over it. He kept it in a chest as a keepsake, but the chest was lost when they fled Kirkwall. He cries over sentimental things fairly often. He cried when Fenris agreed to marry him. Not immediately, but in short little bursts for days after when he thinks about it. Fenris doesn't know that Hawke cried when Fenris lashed out at him after Hadrianna. He doesn't know that Hawke cried to Varric after Fenris left him. Hawke will never tell him.

Fenris doesn't cry. There are certain things you can't get back after you've lost them. Crying is one of those things.

19. If they could each write a single line in their marriage vows, what would they be?

Neither of them are equipped to write marriage vows, but oh boy they try.

Hawke lets the pressure get to him and procrastinates writing vows until the day before the wedding. He tries to enlist help form Varric and, in desperation, Isabela. This is an unmitigated disaster. Eventually he ends up says something off the cuff that he doesn't remember even minutes afterwards. Fenris acts like he was extremely moved by the whole speech, when it was really just a long list of things Hawke likes about him.

Fenris doesn't really understand what marriage vows are for. He makes promises instead. Swears that he will follow Hawke where ever he leads, that Hawke will always have his sword. He attests to his devotion, his admiration and his love. The whole thing comes off like he's trying to convince Hawke to go through with it. Most people find the ceremony somewhat awkward. Merrill thinks it's all very sweet.

[rhyske]

Couple: Fenris/Female Hawke

Prompt: “I am yours.”

----

The words left his lips, slipping across his tongue like a fine wine. There was more than one way to get intoxicated, he’d found; the feel of her body pressed against his, the taste of her lips, the tickle of her hair against his cheek. When it came to himself and his emotions, words became almost like sand - slipping easily between his threads of concentration, tumbling in the gust of irritation as he desperately tried to catch something understandable. 

Add in a distraction like her gentle touch and the feel of her tongue, and it was a wonder he even remembered language at all.

So the words came unbidden, unfiltered, encompassing everything within his heart, feathering against her lips as he breathes out:

“I am yours.”

She freezes, an inhale caught within her throat. He only has enough time to glimpse her brows furrowing before she’s taking a step back, those lips once so inviting now pressing closed.

“Fenris.”

There’s fire in her hues, that flame so common whenever someone tried using his past against him that he’s momentarily shocked to see it now. That shock turns to warmth, blooming into a fondness that steals his breath as she continues her sentence.

“You are not mine.” Those beautiful eyes search his, determined and set. “You are my partner, but you are not mine.”

No, he would never be anyone’s again. Set in chains, forced to choose between obedience or pain. He was free, to choose who he was and where his future took him.

"That is not what I meant,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. She watches him as his eyes dip, following the trail of his fingers down her arm. “No one has control over me.” His thumb presses against her palm, and she turns it upright in response. Such delicate hands callused and rough. “I choose my future with you. I choose to give you my heart.”

Her free hand curls around the one holding hers, that step retaken as she catches his gaze. Vulnerability, trust, love, everything she gave him written within her hues.

She’d had the choice to turn him over to Danarius, and he’d known then, even within his broken and distraught state, that she would never strike a deal without his consent. Hawke would hunt down every slaver who meant to wrap him in constraints, and as such he knew she would never be chains herself.

She was safety. She was honesty. Somehow he’d handed over his heart and his trust and she’d never once broken or taken advantage of them, even after she’d endured years of heartache.

He was hers, in a sense only one could be another’s out of choice. 

“I choose to be yours.”

It was the only way he could communicate it with words, how simple and incomplete they may be.

[tsuraiwrites]

“I won’t lose you too.” Maybe some post DA2 Fenders? 👀

for @dadrunkwriting​

thank you so much for the prompt! 💜

Fic: Light and Rhythm

In the end, it’s not a Templar blade that almost takes the light out of Anders’ world. 

He and Fenris have a rhythm established from years of battle together – even parting from Hawke and their other friends had barely put a wrinkle in their awareness of each other, the give and take of blade and magic turned against those who would seek to kill them. And there are many people seeking to kill them these days. For one, theTemplars never stop hunting Anders, but it’s on one of Fenris’ jaunts to ambush a slaver route that they actually run into trouble. Specifically, a camp of slavers twice as large as they’d been led to believe by the trail left behind. 

In hindsight, it was obviously a trap. Rumors of the Lyrium Ghost and the apostate who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry traveled faster than they could walk, even with their quick pace. Maybe if they had one of the others at their back, Varric with his crossbow or Merrill with her powerful magic, they could have withstood the onslaught, but before they know it they’re hemmed in on all sides.

It ends with them here, a pile of slaver corpses building around them, backs to each other as they take on wave after wave of attack. Anders throws up walls of ice to block several warriors trying to take him on the left before he sweeps his staff to the right, sending a wash of fire over a rogue who goes down with a scream. 

“Anders!” Fenris calls, and Anders jerks his staff up, casting a barrier over them both just in time to repel the fireball cast their way by a slaver mage. Without word or signal they whirl around to opposite sides, Anders now facing the mage while Fenris concentrates on the warriors coming around his ice wall. 

He sends Winter’s Grasp to trap the mage in place, and the slaver curses, losing her balance as ice creeps up to her knees. Then the slaver brings out a long dagger, and before Anders can do anything to stop her she drags a long line across her arm.

“Maleficar!” he warns Fenris, met with a vehement curse. Blood wells up into the air and coalesces into the form of a trio of shades, whose bear down on Anders with a particular focus. He blasts one with an arcane bolt; it shrieks and dissipates. The fireball he aims at the maleficar next is swift, but she sees it coming and shields, deflecting the most of fire away. He hears a clash of steel and a grunt as Fenris works on taking down the warriors behind them. 

The two remaining shades cross the remaining distance, and he throws up a cone of ice to try to capture them, but one is too fast for it, heading right for him-

No, not him, Anders realizes as it slips past him, heading for Fenris’ unprotected back. “Fenris!” rips out of his throat, the warning coming too late for the elf still distracted with one remaining slavers, their blades clashing as the shade raises its massive hand to strike.

The blow lands. 

“No!” Anders shouts, becoming a roar as Justice blazes to the surface, and together they scrape enough mana to shoot the demon through with lightning, but the damage has been done, its long, jagged claws ripping out of Fenris’ back almost in slow motion as it falls. 

Fenris falls too, and Anders’ world sinks into a haze of red. 

When he comes to, it’s with blood all over his bare hands, the clearing where the slavers’ previous encampment stands a silent ruin but for Anders’ babbling, the tumble of words from his mouth barely paid attention to as he scrambles for his last lyrium potion. 

“Maker, please. Damn it, Fenris. Don’t leave me, I can’t lose you, too!” The lyrium burns a path down his throat but he doesn’t notice, can’t care when Fenris’ blood is soaking into his robes as he kneels beside the elf. Mana wells up, rushing through his veins, and Anders just as quickly presses a glowing hand to the gaping wound in Fenris’ back.

Fenris groans, tries to move, but Anders clamps a free hand down on his shoulder, pressing him back to the dirt.

“Mage?” Fenris asks, his voice thick, barely clinging to consciousness. 

“I’m here, I’m here. Hold still, love,” he assures, before the rest of his concentration is taken up with healing. He loses track of time, kneeling there amidst the blood and the corpses, patching up a wound that well could have killed his lover if Anders were any less skilled. 

Or if he hadn’t been carefully hoarding his lyrium just in case something like this ever happened. 

He works from the inside out, patching ragged tears in organs and soft tissues until he finally, finally reaches the skin. Through it all, Fenris lies quiescent under his hands but for the occasional grunt as the healing shifts everything back in place, his head turned to watch Anders do his work. Anders pulls his hands back after one last check, pulling at the edges of the ragged hole in Fenris’ leathers to ascertain the wound has well and truly scarred over. 

“Okay, you can sit up, but… slowly,” he sighs, then moves to help Fenris turn over and sit up. He watches, eagle-eyed, as Fenris reaches around to feel at the hole in his back. “It scarred, sorry.” 

Fenris grunts dismissively. 

“It does not matter.” And it doesn’t, not to Fenris – the elf has a collection of scars from the past decade alone, despite Anders’ best efforts. “We must move.” 

He has a point. Where there are slavers, there are often captured people in need of freedom, and possibly more slavers who might come to this camp in search of their dead compatriots. Still, Anders hovers, ready to catch Fenris when he unsteadily climbs to his feet. Anders bends to grab Fenris’ discarded sword, stumbling under its unexpected weight before he can hand it off. Fenris takes it, and though his face is lined with the remnants of pain he slings it into the holster on his back without strain. 

“Come, amatus,” Fenris says. He bumps his shoulder against Anders’. “You can fuss at me when we have freed any captives.” 

That is enough to wring a tired laugh from the healer. 

“Don’t think I won’t,” he warns, and turns away from the clearing full of blood and corpses, a smile on his lips. 

[hisfavoritewolf]

Good for You.

"You can do what you like, Fenris.”

He’d been wondering when this would come. When he finally posed too much of a problem for Hawke. It was always like that. He offered his own aid, even extra coin for potions and supplies, but no. The moment he needs help with something important, he’s on his own again.

“That’s what I thought.” Fenris growled, turning to leave. “May our paths not cross again, Hawke.”

Years passed. 

So much running. So much fighting. He’d decided to only ask for help in brief stretches. A barn to sleep in when he could, hunting in exchange for coin, an extra hand for particularly difficult hunters. It never went on longer than that. He didn’t care if he seemed closed off; Because he was. He’d made that decision.

He hadn’t wanted to get anywhere near Kirkwall again after all that mess, but the matter was pressing. There was a group of slavers near the Bone Pits and, as far as he knew, he was the only one willing and able to remove them. Oddly enough, Anso was the one who sent him the tip. The only contact Fenris had kept from Kirkwall.

Of course it would turn out sour.

The slavers were killed, of course, and expertly at that. Perhaps he’d used his rage at the betrayal to hone his skills even further. Perhaps he’d just gotten used to fighting alone and used it to his benefit. Either way, they hadn’t stood a chance. He freed the slaves and told them to go where they could. Kirkwall wasn’t really in any state to accept more refugees, but any elves in the group could likely go to the Dalish clan in the mountains. He even told them to take his horse.

He didn’t expect to find someone familiar when he was coming out of the caves. He would have preferred them to be someone he could kill. Not the Champion of Kirkwall.

Fenris’ usual frown was pulled further when he saw Hawke. He looked well, which only made him angrier.

“Vishante kaffass.”

“Well, hello to you too,” Hawke grinned. “It’s been a while.”

“Get out of my way, Hawke.”

The man chuckled and crossed his arms. Why was he alone? “Is that the way to treat an old friend? And a Champion, at that?”

“I have killed ‘champions’ of the Imperium before. You had best watch your tongue before I cut it out. You are no friend to me, and your words mean nothing to me.”

Hawke huffed and shifted his weight.

“What are you even doing out here?”

“Oh, I’m checking on my investment in the Bone Pit. Or don’t you remember fighting a dragon?” He laughed. He laughed. "You’re looking well..!” Starting right off with the sarcasm, then. Fenris was covered with blood and ichor, scratches, scrapes, and a rather nasty bruise that was starting to show on his temple.

“And you look absolutely abhorrent, as per the usual.” He replaced Lethendralis in its sheathe and tried to take a deep breath. Something, anything to calm down.

“That’s a rather nasty word, Fenris,” He feigned hurt, putting a hand over his heart. Or what should pass as his heart. “Why are you here, then?”

“Cleaning up. Apparently the Champion has better things to do than help more than the rich and influential,” He scowled. “Someone had to do something. I would not have come anywhere near Kirkwall if I didn’t have to.”

When he started to walk past, Hawke stepped in his path. “Oh, come on. Why are you so angry? Well, more than usual.”

“Thanks to you, this is my ‘usual’, now. Let me pass.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad! Is this about Hadriana..?”

“What else would it be about?!” He finally snapped. “I doubt I’ve had a full night of sleep since you abandoned me when I needed your help! I’ve been running... For so long. You’ve been raising hell in Kirkwall, and apparently did not heed my warning when I raised questions about Anders.” He held up a hand before Hawke could cut him off.

“Hadriana and Danarius are still alive, when one of them could have been dead. Perhaps even both, with your help! The slave trade worsens every day and I keep hearing about her everywhere I go. They are both still searching for me, and all I can do is run and fight. Whether it’s fighting for my life, or the life of slaves being carted away and disposed of like rubbish. None of which you seem to care about.”

Looks like he ran out of steam.

Hawke stood for a moment, mouth agape, uncertain of what he could say that wouldn’t end with Fenris’ hand in his chest. He backed away slowly. “I had... Other things to do, Fenris.”

“Oh, yes, I’m well aware. One day out of your busy schedule of playing cards and smuggling blood mages out of the city would have been far too much. I understand.”

Hawke took another step back when he saw the lyrium across Fenris starting to glow. Never a great sign when people you know start glowing.

“I’ll be certain to stay out of your territory from now on. Enjoy the hunters I’m sure Hadriana will send to the city looking for me.” He pushed past Hawke and stormed off. He could deal with the wounds later. He needed something else to punch.

[berryshiara]

Interview with an Ardat-Yakshi Chapter 1 Unexpected Things

AO3 Link How best to approach a problem? And by the Goddess... What to wear? Fen makes good on her promise to visit Vanguard XPress in Kari's behalf... Our story continues... Sleep… when she awoke despite the interruptions by Kari, Fen felt good… really good. With a sigh she stretched leisurely and sighed, there was something cathartic about making her home a better place.

During the stretch she found a companion in bed with her. Ludis…

“Hey…” She said rolling towards them and pushing on broad shoulders. “What do you think you are doing in my bed?”

A paw came up on the far side as Ludis rolled on their back towards her, pushing with one paw on the bed, offering the other in a submissive gesture.

“Don’t you play nice with me buster.” She half heartedly grumbled when they rolled over and pushed their face against her, giving Fen a light buzz. The buzz grew in intensity as they expressed their excitement for her to finally be awake.

“Wah!” She pulled her face away with a frown, pushing the over exuberant hulk back with both hands. “Stop, stop it… Goddess.” She grumbled but just as quickly sighed when her Fenris thumped down on the bed beside her, resting the curve of it’s big face on her shoulder.

Fen stared at Ludis only briefly. “You really should not be up here.” Rolling towards her captured arm she wrapped the free one around Ludis and let her body rest against theirs, cheek pressed against a warm shoulder. “I’m in too good of a mood to be upset.” She admitted with a deep sigh. Ludis lay there seemingly content in Fen’s embrace, their mechanical legs stilling on the bed, the red glow of their face softening. She sighed again pressing her brow to their short neck.

For a long moment they stayed that way, Ludis laying quietly as Fen held them… a learned behavior that Fen was grateful for. “Where were you when I was invaded this morning by a giant?” She asked, her fingers playing over the pocked marks on Ludis’ paws, time left its mark on all things…

Ludis remained unforthcoming to her question. With a tight squeeze to the barrel of their chest Fen unrolled and pushed the FENRIS mech just enough to free herself. She didn’t have the heart to bully it off the bed, something that wasn’t a worry any way. The moment Fen’s feet made the floor Ludis was up, in fact Ludis beat her to the door. Its face glowing intensely bright with excitement. As if to prove her belief in its anthropomorphic performance, Ludis did a little dance against the door, putting a paw on it then backing up and spinning in a circle before looking back at Fen expectantly.

“Okay, yes. I got it.” Reaching for her omnitool and slipping it on as she made for the door. When another paw came up to the door she barked discouragement at him. “NO!” Grumbling softly afterwards “Don’t do that” Already the door held marks of their passing, gouges where mechanical toes had scarred the cheap material. “I swear, between you and Kari I can’t keep a decent door.” She was still grumbling about it when they made it to the kitchen where the early morning meeting had been held. Her cup of cold coffee on the small table a reminder of promises made…

Pursing her lips she plucked it up, swirled it thoughtfully and then turned back to the bedroom. Ludis sat back on metallic haunches as she brushed past them again.

“What does one wear to impress a Batarian business man?” Fen asked her four legged friend as she took a long drink of the cold coffee and inspected the wardrobe objectively.

Honestly did she really care to impress him? Was she looking to beguile him into doing what she wanted? Did she wish to have him beholden to her? Or terrify him into compliance?

Setting the coffee down she let her fingers run through the choices, feeling the fabrics as she thought about what it was she wanted to accomplish in this meeting?

“No… no…” Blue fingers paused, slipping against silk that drew a smile, pulling the dress out she held it against her body as that smile grew. Fingers caressed the black silk, down her body to the short hem of the dress. Her mind jumping to that night in Afterlife, when a certain someone approached her with an almost unheard clearing of their throat. An uncertain request by an unsure maiden… Fen had almost dismissed her without even looking up, she remembered feeling annoyed that the hulk that stood in front of her blocked her view. That is until she focused on what the wall was… powerful thighs, leading to slender hips, strong abs, broad shoulders before finally meeting hesitant blue… eyes.

Her skin tingled as she thought about her friend, gorgeous, powerful… perfection.

Pressing her lips together Fen put that dress back with a shake of her head “I don’t want to ruin that memory.”

Giving the dress a final caress Fen sighed. Really what did she want to do to this Batarian besides make it clear that Jessa was her own person? But was she? Batarians were known to be slavers… did she have the information needed to approach this objectively?

Gold eyes shifted to the slim shoulder of that little black dress, awakening a shimmer of dancing fish in her chest and stomach. Honestly, when it came to Pallikári could she be objective at all?

##

Just as promised Foínix came to Vanguard XPress; who’s motto was Anything, Anywhere, for the right price. On Omega that really did mean anything… Like most businesses on this shithole it had two faces. That which provided a legitimate service - moving goods and messages, the second.. included bodies - living and dead, drugs of all kinds, … in hell, nothing was sacred.

Dressed in a black on black outfit pants suite she stepped through the front door with Ludis at her side.

Jess was at the front desk to welcome her, her smile warm and genuine.

“Can I help you?”

“Hello.” Foínix took up a comfortable pose on the desk leaning a little in towards Jess resting an arm on the low partition to one side. She took up a posture that both exposed herself and displayed it. With just the right tip of her jaw she greeted Fen’s, Jess.

Jess blinked at her, no doubt trying to figure out what about her body language was bothering her... and how best to politely decline; but her request was not for the woman at the desk, but rather to her Batarian boss. Like a peacock with extravagant plumage spread, Fen waited for him to take notice. That she was offering this display to the lowly front desk worker would make them respond to her silent offer all the quicker, after all… they were the master, anything offered in their establishment, belonged to them first. Batarians were fun like that… the wrong twitch meant the difference between insult and matrimony…

Jess blinked at her even as she leaned in, a confused look touched the humans eyes and ever so briefly her lips just before she returned the smile. “I’m good, and you?”

Though she was not there to test Kari’s human, it sort of worked out that way, and her response was heartening. A human who was not so easily enticed by another Asari meant that they were not doing it for the novelty.

“I am doing well, thank you.” A little impatient she gave a final silent request, shifting off the partition Fen leaned forward into Jess’s space.

As if reeled in, the back door opened… she gave a brief glance to Vath, assessing him and their safety. He carried himself strong, with exposed arms, and a form fitting top.

“What is it we can do for you?” He interrupted Jess, standing as a man in power to her right. His chest was puffed up, his head held high. He was strutting back, showing this was his domain, and that it was to him she should appeal. Not to his hired help.

Raising a brow she resisted the urge to cant her head the wrong way. Instead she gave an easy smile and lowered her chin in response. “Were I to guess, you were a man in charge. I was hoping to speak to you about a lucrative venture. There is many things I need moved… and I have little desire to do so myself. If I…”

He raised a hand as he moved from the front desk to the side gate, motioning her to come around. “Please, let us continue this discussion in my office.”

Giving a brief look to Jess she bowed her head ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

Fen wondered how much Jess dismissed in her job… but left it alone. She would be setting some clear boundaries soon enough for the Batarian business man.

"Wait..." He held his hand up when he caught sight of her FENRIS.

"Ludis, sit." Pointing to a spot just outside the gate. Her mech came to that exact point and looking up at her, plunked its haunches right on it. "Stay." She rubbed the rim of his head and let him buzz the back of her hand as she rubbed the back of her fingers against his face.

Looking up she gave a look to the Batarian before he dropped his arm and then led the way to his office.

##

Vath’s office was surprisingly… perfect.

It’s presentation was so well done that it left very little to imagination... There was a picture frame on his desk, its contents rotating through several captured memories, most of them very proud men showing their overly large guns, and the poor animals they had hunted to death.

A few personal items, not one of which had anything to do with his big game hunting. That actually surprised her. There were no stuffed animals or pieces of them mounted as trophies. . . His desk was tidy but showed a functioning work space rather than a picture perfect one. The furniture was not ostentatious, nor something that would have made clients uncomfortable.

The space was so maintained it felt like it belonged in a magazine.

Vath stepped into the room and turned sitting on the desk while motioning for her to take a seat.

While giving the illusion of being courteous he was taking a very dominant position, both by remaining in her space, and by keeping his head higher than hers. Honestly though, being a short woman, it was not hard to do.

Playing the game, Foínix took the offered seat.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Or something stronger?” He motioned to the neat little set of decorative decanted alcoholic beverages sitting in an alcove.

“Thank you, no. I am not here to play a perfectly poised game. I want to make a deal that will benefit us both, but I have very specific conditions that must be met before we can get down to making money.”

The Batarian shifted, his body expressing reservation, and a little curiosity.

“I thought about ways I could get what I want. Beguiling you does not appeal to me, nor does appealing to your vanity, which I would quickly find exhausting. I also thought about terrifying you to get what I want, but I feel that is a shallow one time trick that will do little good unless I am truly willing to kill you and replace you.” She looked at him as she revealed all this. A quirk to her lips when he stiffened. She made a soothing gesture. “I was merely covering my options. I have no intention on following on any of the aforementioned ideas. While you are not the best of men, you are what Father calls a necessary evil… Having covered all that, I come to but one option, I want you to give me what I want, so that you can make lots of money doing what I want you to do.”

To his credit Vath remained perched on the desk, studying her. Thick lips pursed as he chewed on her words. Like his room he was very careful in studying the case presented to him, before he laughed and then stood up to circle around the desk, plopping into his chair he leaned forward, elbows on the desktop.

Fen had a feeling she would have lost a week’s worth of credits if she had made the bet that this was not Vath’s true office.

“Well, you have my attention. Tell me what these conditions are so we can get to the good bits!”

“I want to know if you actually own papers on Jessa Pell, and if you do, I want you to tear them up.”

“Pell…” His brow furrowed, all four of his eyes narrowing as he struck a haughty pose. Slave ownership was a touchy subject with the Hegemony, most Batarians felt it was their ancestral right to own, buy and sell others as a commodity. “Why Pell specifically? I have slips on nearly all my workers.”

“I have a vested interest… I am not here to say you have to give up your slaving ways, but I do need Jessa to be released from any contracts you may have on her… and I need her to be free in every way imaginable.”

“Ok, those are the conditions, what is the business opportunity I was promised that would be worth this… investment.” He sat back stroking the coarse hairs on his chin.

“I have lots of merch that I have no need for. I sell it to you at a considerable discount, and you take whatever profit there is to be made.”

“What merch.”

Fen raised her omnitool leaning forward so that she could share the information with Vath.

Looking over the list for a few minutes, he grunted. “How often do you get these… shipments.”

“When I do you will be the first to know.”

“Payment?”

“Thirty percent.”

“Twenty.” He countered, his eyes narrowing.

She shifted. “Twenty eight.”

“Twenty five.” He came back quickly, a playful smile touching thick lips.

Fen pretended to think about the number before speaking. “And Jessa’s papers.”

“Deal.”

“You will add a note to your personal file after you send me all you have on Ms. Pell.” Opening the screen up on her omni-tool Fen flicked a file in his direction.

Vath grunted, his brows drawing tight before one set of eyes raised to look at her over his device. “Is this a threat?”

Fen stood up and straightened her bodice. “To a successful & wiley business man such as yourself, it is a friendly reminder. Who owns Jessa Pell now?” She asked.

After a moment of silence and moving of documents between their devices he gave nod to her. “You do.” Standing he leaned forward on his desk, hands placed flat, neck extended jaw at a sassy jaunt as he wore a toothy grin. “And before you destroy those documents, I would gladly tell you why you should keep them… over drinks and dinner.”

Fen looked up from her omni-tool to see the offer he gave her, surprise touching her face before she could hide it.

@maskydoolovesmasseffect @maskydoo-main id like to thank masky for their kind encouragement, and what seems unending generosity. Thanks~

[sinsbymanka]

Thank you so much @zuendwinkel​ for donating! I am SO GLAD to add this lovely Hawke x Fenris to the collection, writing them was a joy! I’m also SO EXCITED to share the artwork you created that goes along with it! Thank you so much for blessing us with something so soft, beautiful, and detailed!! 

I’m not longer accepting RAINN Commissions but you can see the ones that are already finished in this series on AO3. Thank you to everyone who has supported me!

Title: A Flock of Trouble Pairing: Male Hawke x Fenris Rating: T Content Warnings: Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Dragon Age II, Fluff and Angst, Reunions

Read on AO3

Broody,

Listen. We got into a bit of a situation in the Western Approach. Fell tits over ass right into the Fade. I wish I was shitting you. Do you remember those giant spiders outside Kirkwall? They’ve got nothing on fade demon spiders. I have had enough of the whole thing for the rest of my life. Hawke took off with the Wardens to tell Weisshaupt that their whole fighting force is at risk of being controlled like finger puppets by an ancient magister. I got the worse job of telling you where the fuck he was going (Remember, don’t murder the messenger. Who else would get you that wine you like from Tevinter?)

He said not to follow him. Doesn’t want your Broody arse that close to Tevinter, I expect. I’m fully aware you’ll be going anyway. Take the note attached to my solicitor and get some coin to tide you over. Don’t get captured by slavers. Try to lie low.

When you see Hawke - ask him what happened in the Fade. Somebody needs to kick some sense into his ass. You’re the best person for it.

Sincerely, Varric Tethras

P.S. I’m adding the money Hawke lost to me to your gambling debts. Wicked Grace soon?

Weisshaupt appeared as foreboding and desolate as Fenris had expected. 

Sun-bleached stone soared into a clear, burning sky. Walls meant for defense rather than appeal ringed a fortress that looked as if it could withstand an archdemon itself. If Fenris remembered correctly, it had survived at least two. Perhaps three. 

Of course, if Garrett Hawke were there currently, it may soon fall into the blighted land surrounding it. That did seem to be the man’s luck.  And if Garrett Hawke wasn’t there, Fenris would hunt him down, if only to give the man the tongue lashing he richly deserved. 

In truth, Fenris felt uneasy. The Tevinter border at his back reminded him of the last time he’d been so far north. He’d been running then, as fast as he could go, a desperate chase that led to Kirkwall, an empty box, an abandoned mansion and…

And Garrett Hawke. 

Fenris remembered clearly everything that happened after he met Garrett. He had spent hours examining the path he took with a cynic’s wary gaze, looking for the moment it had all changed, the second he stopped running and made a choice. 

A choice that led him here, to the edge of the world, chasing instead of being chased. 

“What business do you have here?” A rough voice barked. It belonged to a woman, old for a Warden, her long brown hair braided neatly down her back. Her hand rested easily on the hilt of the sword on her hip with a warrior’s preparedness. But her stance was casual. Eyes alert and pleasant. There was no whiff of danger here, not for him at any rate. It did not quite reassure him, but there was no reason to reach for the blade on his back. Yet.

“I am here for the Champion of Kirkwall.” He informed the guard politely, wrapping the reins around his fist while he smoothly dismounted. 

The woman rocked back on her heels, a started, humorless laugh slipping from her lips. “The Champion of Kirkwall?” 

Fenris’s heart sunk, but he kept his face impassive. He could not help the way his gauntlets tightened on the leather bridle. “He is not here.” 

“Oh no! The blighted fool is still here. Are you here to take him back to wherever he came from? Cause I’d be grateful, Serah. May even slip some coin in your pocket.” 

Something broke inside him, a fever finally easing. Fenris had been traveling for longer than he wished to recount, and had not allowed himself to consider the end of the journey or who he wished to find there. 

“Where may I find him?” 

The woman opened her mouth to reply, but whatever response she meant to give was cut off by an unholy clatter and what sounded like a small explosion. Her expression darkened and she jerked her thumb to a thin trail of smoke rising above the walls. 

“Wherever there’s trouble, typically.” She sighed. 

Fenris knew Garrett far too well to disagree with that statement. 

The smoke smelled of herbs Fenris recognized, elfroot chief among them, and it was billowing from within a stable of all things. Soldiers, Fenris assumed they were Grey Wardens, stood with various expressions of shock, dismay, and annoyance. 

The nobles in Kirkwall wore the same looks the day Garrett knocked over six of the merchant’s stalls in Hightown. He’d been chasing a dog, who was chasing a street urchin, who was trying to catch a nug with a kitten in it’s mouth. 

Maker only knew how Garrett had gotten roped into the whole thing. 

Fenris simply remembered the chaos unspooling below him from his perch on the steps and that bubble of emotion that rose up in his chest while he chuckled ruefully and Isabela cheered. He hadn’t known what to call that feeling, not then, not watching Garrett retrieve the kitten and present it to the street urchin while the rich nobility stared in bewilderment. 

But when he saw Garrett in the stable doors, waving his arms like a windmill to disperse the smoke, Fenris felt it again. This time he knew its name.  

Joy. 

Knots loosened in his chest. Only to be replaced by a sharp spike of annoyance more than a match for the cloud of irritation hovering around Garrett. 

Except, of course, Garrett was impervious to the mood. He cast his dark eyes around the courtyard, flitting right over Fenris in his search for something. Then, a half second later, sliding back to where he stood. 

“Fen!” Garrett shouted, a joyful grin splitting his face. “You’re here!” 

Garrett bounded away from the smoking door, arms swinging. He wasn’t in armor, wasn’t armed, and a part of that struck a chord that made Fenris both wary and wistful. When was the last time Garrett had abandoned his armor around strangers? 

Garrett stumbled to a stop in front of him, arms out, waiting while his eyes dragged themselves over every inch of Fenris’s lyrium lined face. 

“You’re really here.” Garrett whispered. 

Almost as if he thought he’d never see him again. 

“Yes.” Fenris snapped instead, jerking his chin at the ancient fortress. “I have, once again, followed you to the edge of civilization.” 

At least Garrett had the good grace to look contrite. “I mean. They do have that wine here you like.” 

“It is more easily obtainable this close to Tevinter.” 

Garrett winced. “I told Varric to tell you-” 

“It was too much trouble to write to me with your own hand?” 

That made his lover recoil. Garrett did not grab for him, although he lifted his arm, fingers outstretched in silent plea. “Fen that… that wasn’t it at all. There was an army of demons. Giant spider. Marching across the blighted desert. Griffon eggs…” 

“Griffon eggs?” Fenris repeated, incredulous. 

Garrett’s whole face brightened. “Griffon eggs! I swear on the Maker’s hairy asscheeks, Fen, you won’t believe-” 

Fenris swallowed his anger and shook his head. In one movement, he turned on his heel and stomped away from the human with his beaming smile, warm eyes, and new wrinkles from sorrow on his forehead. 

It was always safest to walk away when he did not know whether to slap Garrett or kiss him, after all. 

Garrett found Fenris on the battlements while the sun was dipping below the western horizon. He stood, awkward and yet endearing, cradling a large white object gently in his arms. On second look, it was indeed the largest egg Fenris had ever seen. 

“I should have written.” Garrett murmured. “I… wasn’t thinking clearly.” 

Fenris did not pull his eyes from the pink and orange sky. “That is hardly unusual.” 

Garrett chuckled to himself, shifting his weight from side to side. “Fair. But… it was bad, Fen.” 

He knew it must have been. Varric would not have mentioned it otherwise. “Do you wish to tell me about it?”

“Yes.” Garrett sighed, placing the egg tenderly on top of a crate. He rested one large hand over it before casting a baleful look at Fenris. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m just… I’m just fucking thrilled to see you. Even if you’re fuming.” 

“I am not fuming.” Fenris stated on instinct. 

Garrett grinned. “Ah. Is this brooding then?” 

Fenris’s lips twitched. “I do not brood.” 

“Not even a little bit.” Garrett stepped closer, holding his arms out with a shy, uncertain tip of his lips. “I missed you.” 

Fenris pushed himself away from the warm stone. For a breathless second, the two men looked at each other. Garrett’s eyes shimmered with emotion, an expression torn between longing and hope. 

Fenris stepped into the man’s embrace and allowed himself to be tugged towards his broad chest. His sword rough fingers yanked on Hawke’s hair immediately, scowling into the grinning face. 

“You are a fool, and I am a worse one for loving you.” 

Garrett laughed, ducking down to press an eager kiss to Fenris’s lips. Fenris closed his eyes, drifting on the sparking heat between them, the way the world settled back into place. Garrett smelled of home, of warm hay, leather, salt and sun. 

They broke the kiss, but clung to each other as Garrett pressed his forehead to Fenris’s. 

“Griffon eggs?” Fenris finally asked.

Garrett smiled. “My newest adventure, Fenris. Much better than the last one, I assure you.” 

Fenris simply sighed and melted into his lover’s embrace under the burning sun. As with most of Garrett’s adventures, it would be nothing but trouble.

Fenris found he did not mind much at all.

[ahrorha]

The Splintered Road

Hey,

So this is my second attempt at a fanfic. This time it is about my second favourite elf Fenris. (That voice....melts)

I know Dragon Age II got a lot of hate, but I truly loved the game and its compact setting of a single city. I liked the concept of what happens if you are the town's hero and how much crap you have to deal with if you are the go-to person for everyone. I found the companions you got phenomenal, they had all their flaws, and even if the time jumps were a little awkward at times, I got really invested in their development and the many disagreements you can have as a group of friends.

This story will add another OC to the mix of friends in Kirkwall. I like to add things to stories and give them my own spin ;) I hope you will enjoy my take on Kirkwall through the eyes of one of Hawke's companions, rather than focusing on the main character himself.

Chapter 1

.

.

A forest covered the jagged landscape, its deciduous trees slowly changing colour with the onset of autumn. A shallow river rushed over rocks and fallen trees through it, carving a winding path down the Vinmark Mountains. The sun was setting, casting long shadows between the trees and the moss-covered rock formations. A halla stepped out of the brushwood, listening cautiously before lowering its horned head to drink from the river. Abruptly it raised its head again when it heard the sound of naked feet drawing closer. On the opposite side of the river, a hooded figure appeared. For a moment, they both stared at each other; not sensing any danger, the halla lowered its head again and resumed drinking from the river.

Yssil's piercing amber eyes looked carefully around before lowering her hood. Not wanting to startle the halla, she kept her movements slow and calm. Her left ear twitched as the hood's fabric slipped over the sensitive tip. Kneeling down, she washed her hands before drinking from the river. Her dark brown wavy hair dropped from behind her ear, obscuring her view. Annoyed, she pushed it back, wondering if she should cut it and make life easier for herself. But as soon as she thought it, she remembered her mother and how she combed her hair every evening and morning when she was a child. No, she wouldn't cut it. Not now; she was finally able to grow it again. With a sigh, she shook her head, shaking the memories of the past away. Now was not the time to dwell on them.

She observed her surroundings anew; the terrain had slowly changed in the last couple of days. Though the landscape was still rocky and uneven, she was clearly descending from the mountains. The pine trees had disappeared, making way for oaks and other deciduous trees, and the underbrush was becoming thicker. It was also slowly becoming warmer, though that wouldn't last. With the beginning of autumn, the nights would soon grow colder, and the weather would turn fouler, just like today. She eyed the thick clouds gathering above her head. It wouldn't stay dry much longer. At least with the lower altitude, it became easier for her to breathe.

No, Yssil felt relieved that she finally managed to pass the high peaks of the Vimmark Mountains. The journey hadn't been easy, and it had depleted the few reserves she had. She looked at her thin wrist, cursing that she again had lost some weight. With a sigh, she looked down the river; at least in this forest, she would be able to find more food. And maybe when she eventually would reach the coast of the Waking Sea, she could find a place where she could stay for a while. She sure needed it after months of travelling.

As relieved as she was that she soon would reach the coast, it was also worrisome. It had been her goal for such a long time that now she was finally near it, her nerves started to kick in. She would need to make a decision on what her next move would be. On the one hand, she could try to find a place in one of the smaller villages along the coast. It would be easy to find simple work and make a living, but villages were terrible places to hide. Gossip was ripe in those places, and she would need to be careful not to be sold out to the next slaver or templar. Like it happened in the last place she had tried to stay.

Her other option was to head east to Ostwick or west to Kirkwall and disappear in the anonymity of living in a big city. It would be more challenging to make a living, but no one in a city looked twice at a poor knife-ear. And maybe she would be lucky and find a family that needed a maid or a storekeeper looking for diligent hands. There was also the possibility to travel even farther south, to Ferelden. But that required funds to pay for a ship voyage, money that she didn't have at the moment.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep rumble in the sky. Above her head, the trees were swooshing by the wind that had picked up. Yssil shook her head. Here she was worrying about money when she had other problems to deal with. Soon it would start to rain, and by the sound of it, it would be an ugly night. Luckily she already had found a place to shelter, an old abandoned hut, broken and decaying, but it would keep her dry enough. The bummer was that she wouldn't have time to scout this area any further without getting wet.

“You should also find a place to stay.” Yssil murmured to the halla that had started to graze. Quickly she refilled her waterskin when she noticed a stump of a cut-down tree. She cursed silently; this was already the third one she had spotted. She must be closer to a village or a road than she thought.

Suddenly the halla raised its head, its ears twitching nervously, before it bolted, startling Yssil. She listened and could hear weapons clashing in the distance. Quickly she got to her feet, moving back into the forest, away from whoever was fighting.

“GET HIM!” someone yelled.

Yssil froze; someone was being pursued.

“Surround him!”

Shaking her head, she turned back and skipped over the rocks across the river. Berating herself that this was a terrible idea. Quietly she slipped through the trees, moving carefully closer to the fight.

.

“Venhedis.” Fenris cursed.

Even with the detour of not taking the direct route to Kirkwall, the hunters had found him. He shouldn't have travelled the trade route through the mountains, now the hunters had caught up with him again. In an attempt to lose them, he had abandoned the road and fled into the forest. But it hadn't helped. The hunters had moved quickly and efficiently and now were surrounding him. These were no ordinary slavers but a group of seasoned hunters. Danarius must have paid them well for them to come all the way out here.

Their leader, a broad warrior with a heavy war hammer, stepped forward. “Stand down, slave!”

The words cut Fenris deep, fuelling his anger.

How far did he need to run before they would leave him alone?

When would he finally be free?

In a smooth motion, he grabbed his greatsword.

“I am NOT a slave!” he yelled as his markings flared. Enraged, he stormed forward. His sword slashing one of the hunters, cutting him open across his chest, ending his despicable life. Without a pause, he turned towards his next target. Under Danarius, he had trained for these kinds of situations. He had fought droves of men for hours until his body gave out from exhaustion. Over and over again, he had been punished for not fighting longer. Now he would make use of that training. He would make these slavers regret the day they decided to hunt him.

“GET HIM!” their leader yelled, and the hunters stormed towards him.

.

With care, Yssil climbed onto a rock formation and glanced down onto the clearing. She couldn't believe her eyes when she saw an elven warrior fight against a large group of men. His markings flashing as he moved with grace and speed from foe to foe. He was wielding a sword as long as he himself was. But it didn't seem to hinder him. As if the sword weighed nothing, he swung the sword around, felling the men that opposed him.

With an open mouth, she stared at the fight. Suddenly the elf's markings flashed again, and he disappeared only to reappear again behind another foe, cutting him down. Those markings, his abilities, she recognised them from the stories she had heard. It had to be Fenris, Danarius' fabled magical creation and bodyguard.

But what was he doing here?

She watched as he spun around, swinging his sword at another opponent, a big warrior handling a war hammer. It looked like he was the group leader, and he was barking orders while fighting Fenris. Many of his men were already dead or lay wounded on the ground, but the leader managed to stand his ground against the lean elf.

Fear ran through Yssil when she noticed two men carrying mancatchers, trying to close in on Fenris. She also noticed that some of the men had shackles hanging from their belts.

They were slavers. She needed to get away from here.

“This will get him.” she heard someone muttering below her.

Slowly she looked down over the edge of the rocks she hid on and saw two archers below her. They were tipping their arrowheads into a sticky substance.

“He will never know what hit him.” one of them grinned.

His companion was laughing dirty. “He is getting tired; he can't keep this speed up for much longer.”

“The boss will keep his attention.”

With care, they both aimed their bows at Fenris.

Startled, she realised they were going to try and poison him.

“Watch out! Behind you!” she yelled without thinking, but it was too late. The arrows flew already towards their mark.

.

Fenris heard the unexpected yell. On instinct and after years of combat training, he turned his body slightly, dodging another sweep of the war hammer and let his marking flare. He noticed an arrow flying past him, but at the same time, he was hit by another one. A piercing pain flared up from his right shoulder, but he had no time to deal with the archers as the slave leader increased his attacks.

There was a sudden flash behind him as parts of a huge overhanging rock exploded into pieces and crashed down. Judging by the screams, several people were buried under the rubble. Distracted by the explosion, the group leader before him looked past him. In a blink of an eye, Fenris took the opportunity and punched his fist inside the man's chest, crushing his heart.

Fenris blinked and shook his head as his vision started to blur. A cold numbness was slowly spreading through him. His right shoulder and arm were slowly becoming stiff and unresponsive. Venhedis! He realised that they had used poison. Gritting his teeth, he rushed to the next hunter. He needed to finish this fight before the poison would take its full effect. Only three hunters left, but they tried to encircle him, attacking him from different sides. He parried one blow, coming from the left, leaving his right side open. With poison in his system, he wasn't quick enough to turn away and dodge the attack that came from the right.

A sharp pain erupted from his side as one of the hunter's took advantage of his weakened state. Fenris was hit by his waist, and he quickly jumped backwards. Panting heavily, he was facing his attackers, but the world looked more blurry by the minute. His movements felt sluggish. He was running out of time.

Suddenly an arrow flew past him, hitting a hunter in his chest, killing him.

Another arrow was shot; it missed but distracted the remaining two hunters. This was his chance.

Crying out, Fenris' markings flared as he leapt forward, his sword slashing through the air, hitting the remaining hunters in their chests. They flew back from his powerful attack. One hunter fell and didn't move anymore; the other managed to stay on his feet. But before he could take a step, he was hit by another arrow, ending the hunter's life.

Finally, it was over. Breathing heavily, Fenris staggered. Struggling to stay on his feet, he leaned on his sword. He blinked several times as the world started to spin. He squinted his eyes and could just make out a figure moving in the distance. But before he could focus, everything went dark, and he fell to the ground.

.

After Fenris fell over, Yssil slowly stepped into the clearing. Over a dozen hunters lay on the ground, some of them still moving and moaning. Drawing her dagger, she slit the throat of the first one before quickly moving to the next. She couldn't and wouldn't allow them to recover.

Having finished her bloody task, she carefully approached Fenris. She was hesitant to touch him, fearing he would jump up at any minute. His tinted skin was marked with swirling white lines that crept up his arms and neck like vines. She could only imagine he had them all over his body. She could feel the faint hum of the lyrium that was contained within them. Hesitantly she brushed her fingers over them; they were slightly raised from his skin, like faint scars imbued with lyrium. She could instantly feel the hum of the lyrium under her fingertips. She also noticed how his skin was irritated around the lyrium edges. They must hurt him constantly, she realised.

She had heard stories of his wondrous markings, but she always thought it was simply that, just stories. Now she saw those stories were genuine, making this situation only more dangerous for her. Pushing her fears aside, she checked Fenris' vitals. He was still breathing, but he was seriously injured. Yssil cursed silently. Why did she get herself involved? And what should she do now?

She looked around. What a mess she got herself into this time. Not only had she an unconscious dangerous warrior to deal with, but she was also out in the open, surrounded by corpses. She half expected more hunters to appear at any second. Looking back at Fenris, she thought of leaving him here and disappear back into the forest, where she would be safe. Why was he even here, she wondered? Had he been free since his escape? Or was he send here to find her? She shook her head, no that wasn't likely; no one knew she was here. She sighed, knowing she could hardly leave him here.

Above her head, another thunder sounded, and the first drops fell from the sky. “Great! Just what I needed.” she grumbled. “Come on! You have started this.” she said to herself and walked towards the corpse of the leader. The hole in his chest was clearly visible, and where his heart had once been was just pulp. She almost gagged at the sight but managed to strip him from his cloak.

Now, how had her father explained the construction of a stretcher again?

.

The downpour of rain was the first thing Fenris heard.

His head was pounding, and his body hurt, but that was nothing new. Still dazed, he felt someone touching his shoulder. His reaction was immediate. His eyes shot open, and ignoring his wounds, he twisted around. The person let out a startled yell as he grabbed and pinned whoever it was to the ground. To his surprise, it was a woman, another elf. Terrified, she stared at him.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening. Having one hand at her throat, he squeezed.

Shaken by his abrupt use of force, Yssil stared at him. The few counts of hesitation were enough for him to get the upper hand. He used his strength and heavier body to pin her down. As he squeezed her throat shut, she panicked. Desperately she grabbed his hand and tried to pry it away, but his grip was like iron. With a deadly glare, he slowly strangled her. She couldn't breathe; she needed to get away.

A wave of force hit Fenris in the chest, and he was hurled back.

A mage!

Fenris shook his head as he tried to get up. Pain pierced through him from his wounds, agitated by his rough landing. Angry, he venomously glared at the woman, who scrambled quickly backwards until her back hit the wall. She was coughing heavily and drew an old dagger.

Of course, she is a filthy blood mage, he thought. He was about to use his markings and jump towards her. But to his surprise, she just held the dagger in front of her, pointing it towards him. Her hands were shaking.

“You lost consciousness.” she coughed. “I was treating your wounds.”

Not taking his eyes off of her, Fenris quickly scanned his surroundings. They were in what looked like an abandoned broken hut. Outside, night had already fallen, and it was raining heavily. The forest outside was occasionally illuminated by lighting, followed by the rolling sound of thunder. The hut itself was in a sore state, the wood had rotted away in several places, and the roof had several holes where the rain leaked through. A small fire burned not far from him, with a small pot hanging over it. Next to the fire, on some broad leaves, lay a collection of herbs, a bowl with steaming water, a small knife and clean strips of linen. In another corner lay his sword and armor.

“Please, we need to get the arrowhead out.”

He focussed back on her; she looked thin and exhausted like so many other elves. Her skin was olive in colour and slightly darker than his own. Her clothes were a strange mismatched mix of leather and cloth. They didn't fit her properly and were mended in several places. His first thought was that she was Dalish, but she missed the telltale vallaslin. She stared at him, and he could tell she was frightened. She was also missing the air of arrogance and confidence he expected from any mage. What was going on?

“Please, let me treat your wounds.” she lowered her dagger.

“Stay where you are, witch!”

“There is still poison in your wound. If more slavers come to search for their comrades, they will catch us. I can't fight them alone. Please let me help.”

From all the things this mage would say to him, this would have been last on his list. She pointed to the corner. “There are your things. You can hold your weapon if you want, but let me get that arrowhead out.”

Fenris couldn't deny that he was still feeling dizzy, and he could feel the warm wetness of blood seeping out from his waist. His abrupt movements must have reopened the wound. Also, his shoulder burned with pain, and he could feel the arrowhead pierce his flesh with each move he made. There was a numbness radiating down into his right arm. The witch was right; that arrowhead needed to come out.

Quickly he went to his possessions and took his dagger from his belt. He needed a more practical weapon in these close quarters if he needed to take the witch out. Then he stalked over to her, grabbed her dagger and threw it to the other side of the cottage. She flinched from his action, and he could feel the fear in her. Good! She had every reason to be afraid. He sat back down next to the bandages, pointing at her with his dagger.

“Make it quick and no sudden movements. Also, no magic!”

She nodded her head. “I promise no magic.”

.

Weary of him, Yssil moved closer. After washing her hands, she grabbed the small knife she had prepared.

Fenris readied himself to stab her if she made a wrong move.

“Here, chew these. It will help with the pain.” She offered him a few leaves of elfroot.

“No need.” he growled.

He needed to stay alert and watch her every move. Looking over his shoulder, he observed how she hesitantly touched him. Suppressing the revolt, he felt, from being touched by a mage again, he watched her work. With greater care than he expected, she carefully widened the wound. To her credit, her hands were more steady than he expected. He could practically feel her nervousness. Soon though, the wound was wide enough for her to get hold of the arrowhead.

“This will hurt.” she took hold of the remaining shaft and started to pull.

Fenris gritted his teeth and groaned as the barbed arrowhead pulled free from his flesh. Immediately Yssil started to press the wound to encourage the bleeding. Then she used the elfroot tea, she had prepared, to flush the wound. Satisfied the injury was clean, and there were no traces of the poison left, she took her boiled needle and threat. Stitching evenly, she slowly closed the wound as best as she could. After that, she bandaged it with a compress of elfroot and healing moss.

“This will help close it faster and prevent an infection.” she explained.

Fenris noticed she was touching him as little as possible during the whole procedure, which he welcomed. It was already bad enough he had to accept the help of an unknown mage.

When she was finished, she moved to wash his other wound, but he grabbed the cloth out of her hands.

“Don't!”

Yssil let go of the cloth and moved back. The more distance there was between them, the better, she thought. She kept a weary eye on him as Fenris cleaned and bandaged the wound himself. The wound at his side was luckily not deep, but the cut was in an inconvenient place and would easily reopen again if he wasn't careful. When he was finished, he put his armor back on. Though she noticed, he didn't let her out of his sight.

At least he hadn't killed her …... yet, she thought.

After cleaning up her meagre healing supplies, she turned her attention to her cooking pot. Carefully she put half of the wild vegetables and some of the rabbit meat in a bowl. It wasn't much, and she hadn't expected she had to share her rations. She lifted the pot with a piece of cloth and brought it towards him.

“Here, you need to eat. I have only one bowl, so don't burn yourself.” she handed him the pot with her spoon.

Retreating back towards the other side of the fire, she sat down and began to eat.

Fenris eyed her wearily, and he waited for her to start to eat first. Occasionally she glanced at him while she ate. She was as wary of him as he was of her. Now in the light of the fire, and taking his time to observe her. He noticed that one of her ears was frayed; someone had crudely cut off the tip with what looked like a blunt knife.

“Aren't you hungry?” she asked him after having already finished half of her meal.

He watched her some more, but nothing happened to her, so he decided it was safe enough for him to eat. It was a simple but good meal. He noticed how hungry he was; with the hunters on his tail, he had little rest, and his last meal was three days ago.

Seeing Fenris finally eat calmed Yssil down. Judging by his demeanour, he was wary of her, but it didn't look like he would attack her. She shouldn't get herself involved. Now she had to deal with the dangers of him and having a group of hunters too close for comfort. Who knows if those hunters weren't also looking for her. She eyed him again; he was still watching her. Could she trust him? He looked tired but was physical in a much better shape than herself. Not that it did matter; if he wanted to harm her, she knew she was in no condition to fight him off.

You made your choice when you yelled to warn him, she reminded herself.

Having finished her bowl, she grabbed her blanket and wrapped it around herself.

“It has been a long day. Good night.” she said to him.

Hoping she would still be alive the following day, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Bewildered, Fenris watched her fall asleep. He couldn't believe she would simply go to sleep after he had attacked her. She was acting like the total opposite of what he expected from a mage. Why had she even helped him? What was her motive, her agenda? Not trusting her, he kept his sword at hand and leaned back against the cottage wall. He wouldn't sleep tonight, but he needed a place to rest, and with the storm outside, this hut was at least dry.

.

It was in the early morning when Fenris startled out of his sleep. He must have been more tired than he thought. Immediately he searched for the mage, but she was still bundled up in her blanket. Sunlight fell into the hut through the door opening and the holes in the roof. The storm outside had finally settled down. He wondered where in the forest he was; she couldn't have brought him far on her own. He could hear the rushing of a river close by. The mage stirred, and he whipped his head back around to watch her.

Yssil stretched and yawned before she got another coughing fit. Quickly she took a piece of the dried embrium roots she kept in her pouch. There were only a few pieces left; she needed to find another plant soon. With her cough residing, she looked at Fenris, who was staring at her. Slowly she began to pack her things.

“How is your wound?” she asked.

He moved his shoulder, it was a little stiff, but it wasn't hurting as much.

“Better.” he grumbled.

“That is good to hear. If you want, I can try to heal your shoulder.” she offered.

“No!”

Taking out a few herbs, she packed them carefully in a strip of cloth. “Here. You need to change your bandage around midday. You can use these to help with the healing process.”

Saying nothing, he took them and watched as she finished packing. Shouldering her pack and bow, she walked outside. Not wanting to leave her out of his sight Fenris grabbed his sword and bag and followed her.

She was pointing to the left. “Over there is where you were attacked.” she explained. “I hope you will find your way back and won't encounter any more trouble.” she smiled nervously at him. “Goodbye, and stay safe.”

He stared after her as she walked away until she disappeared between the trees. It was strange; she had helped him and didn't demand anything from him in return. He had checked his few belongings while she slept and had found them undisturbed. It didn't matter anyway; she was a mage and couldn't be trusted.

Weary for any signs of trouble, he walked in the direction she had pointed out. After not five minutes, he came to the clearing where the hunters lay. Moving between the corpses, he noticed a few of them had their throats slit. She must have done it, preventing any of the hunters to recover from their wounds. It dawned on him that had she not been there, he would have been captured. It confused him; why had she risked her life to help him? What was her motive? He knew his own value, especially to a mage, but she hadn't touched his lyrium nor asked for any compensation.

Leaving the clearing, he moved back to the road when the sound of a distant scream pricked his ears. He whirled around; it had come from the direction she had disappeared to. He listened but heard nothing further. The sound had been very faint, and if he hadn't been an elf, he doubted he would have heard it. Hearing nothing more, he turned back and began to walk again. Whatever it had been, it had nothing to do with him. He froze when another scream reached his ears.

.

It didn't take Yssil long to reach the river. She felt anxious; she needed to get deeper into the forest. There were too many traces here left by people, and when a group of slavers suddenly could show up, it was not a place she wanted to stay. If the map she had copied was correct, this forest would expand farther to the south, and any roads would lead to the villages to the west. Hoping she wouldn't encounter anything else, she decided to keep following the river; it was a valuable source of water and food.

After a few minutes, she heard the bleating sound of a deer in distress. Quickening her step, she soon found a deer lying between the trees with two arrows sticking out of its flank. It trashed around, trying to get back on its feet, but it was too weak from blood loss. Judging by the blood and the stirred up ground, it had already been here for a while, slowly succumbing to its wounds. It bleated again, panting heavily. Shocked by her find, Yssil froze and listened, but she couldn't hear anything but the deer and the rushing of the river.

She hesitated for a moment before she approached the deer; judging by its state, the hunter had lost its track. Looking around, she tried to come closer, but the deer only trashed around more. It looked at her with wide, panicked eyes. The deer was too far gone for her to help; there was nothing she could do but end its suffering. With the deer thrashing around, she didn't dare to come close enough to use her knife; she charged her hand with magic.

“At least I can give you a quick death.” she muttered.

A twig snapped behind her.

“Told you the deer had to be somewhere. Never expected to find a mage with it, though.”

Two hunters with bows came through the bushes towards her. To her horror, they both had a flaming sword engraved on their armor.

Templars!

They would catch her; she needed to get away. Springing to her feet, she ran.

.

Out of nowhere, a force hit Yssil. She screamed as she was knocked to the ground. She couldn't breathe, her mana, her connection to the Fade, her magic was gone. Gasping for air, she saw a third templar stepping out from the bushes in front of her. Roughly he took her left arm and twisted it behind her back; with his other hand, he grabbed her by the neck. He knelt down, placing his armored knee on her back, pinning her to the ground.

“What have we here?” he asked, his voice ice-cold. “A small, wild apostate and here I thought we were only hunting for our dinner tonight.”

With the templars weight pushing her down, Yssil struggled to breathe. She tried to push herself up, but the templar only pressed his knee down further and twisted her arm more.

“Let me go!” she called out.

“And why would we do that?”

The other templars had closed in on her; one had his sword drawn, the other grabbed her free arm and pushed up her sleeve, uncovering her scars. Disgusted, he let her arm fall again.

“A filthy blood mage, that's what she is.”

“I am not!” she shivered in fear. She was caught again. They would lock her up; she would be locked up again.

The templar, with his sword drawn, looked around. “Where there is one maleficar, there is usually more.”

The one holding her gave a hard jerk at her arm, making her scream in pain.

“Where is the rest knife-ear?”

“I am alone!” she cried out.

“You're lying!” he twisting her arm more. When she screamed out in pain, he grabbed her hair and pulled her head up, only to smack it back onto the ground. “Talk! Now!”

“There is no one.” she whimpered, feeling blood trickle down her face.

“We should just kill her and send a report. We can comb out these woods when the reinforcements arrive.”

“Good idea, but before that, let's have some fun.” the templar holding her let go of her head and slipped his hand into her leggings, grabbing her ass.

“NO!” she screamed and struggled, but the templar leaning on her had her trapped. Depleted from her magic, she had no way of escaping.

The sound of someone crashing through the bushes alerted them. The second templar also drew his sword, and they readied themselves.

.

Fenris jumped out from the woods and stopped, taking in the scene before him.

Two templars stood ready, their weapons drawn; a third had the mage pinned to the ground. Her forehead was bleeding, and she was struggling under the weight of the bigger and armoured man holding her.

Fenris narrowed his eyes when he saw the templars hand inside her leggings. He had always thought the south was blessed with their templars and circles, keeping magic and mages under strict control. He couldn't agree more of the necessity of their existence, but seeing the person that had helped him in pain, wounded and touched against her will gave him pause.

“Who are you!” One of the templars demanded.

“I knew it, where there is one knife-ear, there is always more. They are like rats. Take him for questioning!” the one holding the mage commanded.

“NO! Leave him alone!” Yssil yelled.

The templar holding her gave a jerk to her arm, making her whimper in pain. “Keep quiet knife-ear!”

The other two templars stepped towards Fenris. “By the templar order, you are under arrest.”

Fenris took a step back, unsure what he should do; he knew one thing, there was no way he would let himself get arrested. A sickening crack sounded, accompanied by a piercing scream as the mages arm gave way after the templar gave it another jerk. This made Fenris snap. He rushed towards the templars with a flash, cutting one down before they knew what hit them. The one holding the mage unleashed his power onto her again before jumping to his feet and storming towards him.

Fighting the other templar, Fenris watched with fascination at the effect the templar had on the mage. She was gasping for air as if an invisible fist had hit her, rendering her powerless and weak. With both templars attacking him, he shifted his attention back on his opponents. He needed to be careful, or he would open his wounds again. He jumped to the side as one of the templars tried to rush him. With ease, he swung around and cut the templar in his back. Though more seasoned than the simple bandits he often fought, he soon got the upper hand. After a few well-placed strikes, the second templar fell. What remained was the third templar, who tripped as he tried to retreat, making it easier for Fenris to kill him.

.

As quickly as the combat erupted, it was over. The forest turned back to its peaceful state with the singing of a few birds, the rustling of the trees and the river's rushing waters. Yssil slowly struggled to sit up, dazed by another smite. She had the feeling she was going to be sick. Whimpering, she cradled her arm that was twisted at an odd angle. She looked up at Fenris.

“Thank you.” she panted, wincing as another shot of pain went through her arm.

Fenris stood still, not knowing what he should do or feel. He wasn't expecting her thanks, nor was he expecting that he himself was helping a mage without an order nor command. He knew he didn't want the templars to take him, but it was more unsettling that he had acted because they were hurting her.

It shouldn't be that way. She was a mage; therefore, the templars had been in their right to hold her, and he had stopped them out of his own free will. Was it because he was conditioned to help a mage in need, or was it something else.

Angry and irritated, he watched as she staggered to her feet, her face twisted by pain. He readied himself when she bent down, taking a dagger from one of the templars. Only to watch her cut and break several branches from a nearby bush. Having only one arm available, it was a little difficult for her, but she managed it. Then she went to the river and submerged her broken arm in it to cool it down.

She looked back at him; her cheeks were wet with tears, and her face was pale from the pain.

“Could you help me, please? I need to set my arm.”

For a moment, he didn't move, then he stepped towards her. She had helped him when he was attacked and wounded; he owed her a favour in return. Promising himself that he would leave once her arm was taken care of, he knelt down beside her.

He took her arm in his hands and looked at her. After taking a few deep breaths, she nodded, and he pulled. She took a sharp breath and squeezed her eyes shut, whimpering. He could feel the bone slip back. Together they bound several of the straight branches against her arm, securing the break in place.

“Thank you.” she exhaled.

“You should heal yourself.” he grumbled, not believing he was suggesting a mage to use her magic.

She looked as surprised at him before shaking her head. “I... I can't.”

She must still be drained by that templar, he thought. Such a drain was a helpful ability, and he wondered how long it would last.

.

Yssil grabbed one of the elfroot leaves out of her pack and started to chew it to combat the pain. She was shaken, not wanting to know what may have happened if Fenris hadn't come to her aid. She could feel his eyes on her while she removed one of the fallen templars belts to make a sling for her arm. The pouches hanging from it she stuffed in her bag.

Slowly she calmed down, and she started to think. This is a problem, she thought, looking at her arm. With it broken, she would have a hard time continuing her journey through the forest. She looked at the, now bled out, deer not far from her. There was a good chance there were more templars; she needed to move fast. Knowing she had to take another risk, she turned back to Fenris, who was still watching her.

“I...” she walked towards him. “Would you please hear me out?”

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed, but slightly nodded when she waited for him to react.

“I think that we need to get out of here. With both, slavers and templars dead, there will be people coming to look for them, and I don't think those will be people you and I want to meet. I have a proposition. Judging by what I heard yesterday, those slavers were looking for you. These forests reach as far as the coast. I can guide you through them; we would be invisible from prying eyes. I won't lie to you; I will need help the next couple of days.” she gestured to her broken arm that rested in the sling. “Please, could you come with me? I can keep us invisible and fed until we reach the coast. Then we will part ways, and you don't have to see me ever again.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

With him saying nothing, she bit her lip nervously. “I... I will give you some time to think.”

She looked around; with or without him coming with her, she needed to move. Turning to the dead templars, she removed the remaining belts, stuffing them and their pouches into her bag. She would go through the pouches later. She also removed a scabbard with a shortsword and tied it around her waist. One of the templars had dropped a sack, turning it over; it contained some cooking equipment, clothing, an extra blanket and a small healing kit. She took the healing kit and rolled a shirt and the blanket up, and bound it to her own pack. All of it was done a little clumsy with having only one arm to work with, but she managed. At last, she went to the deer and roughly cut a piece of its hind legs off, putting it into her cooking pot. Afterwards, she cut into its guts, exposing them. She turned back to Fenris. “With luck, this will attract enough wildlife to cover our trail.”

Fenris had watched her quietly. He was stunned; she wasn't acting like any mage he had ever met. She said thank you and please like she meant it, and he couldn't detect any deception from her. He was also baffled how she stripped the corpses systematically, not wasting too much time. But he was wondering why she needed that sword. Her actions were so far off from what he was expecting that it threw him for a loop.

Having collected everything she needed, Yssil returned to the river and washed her hands and face. Luckily her wound on her forehead had closed, and feeling it, it wasn't too deep. She was ready to move. Fenris hadn't moved at all and was watching her like a hawk. Well, here goes nothing, she thought.

“If you want to come, then we need to leave now. It should get us enough of a head start to shake off any people that will come to investigate.”

She crossed the river and began to walk along the water to the south. After a few minutes, she turned around and smiled, relieved when she saw him following her.

Mimicking her path Fenris followed her. He didn't know exactly why, but the promise of a journey away from prying eyes was an offer he couldn't refuse. Also, he told himself it was better to keep an eye on this strange mage.

[lesetoilesfous]

ON THE RIGHTS OF MAGES - AND THE LIBERATION OF THEDAS

(Here’s my version of Anders’ manifesto. I wrote it for my Fenris/Anders fic, A Song of Love from Long Ago, but I figured it might be fun to share with y’all. I cannot believe I have now written a manifesto for a video game, but here we are. Also, writing manifestos is HARD. Please be kind)

The Maker’s Children

Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters. Thus, she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters’ actions in the Black City, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker.

Andraste said “Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.” Perhaps mages are the least of the Maker’s children: if they were, would not harm without provocation break the law of the Maker?

What provocation justifies the harm of children in the eyes of the Maker? If a child breaks a pot, is this provocation? Without magic, certainly not. And yet with magic, I have seen children barely walking harmed severely for far lesser crimes. At what point is a mage child provoking harm? By using magic? This is as natural to them as breathing, weeping, laughing.

Can a follower of Andraste truly say they have listened to Her words, and obeyed them, when they would harm a child for existing?

Furthermore, are not we all children in the eyes of the Maker? Magic is more than just a weapon. It heals. It brings joy. Only turn your gaze to such apostates as the Darktown Healer for evidence of this.

If those who bring harm without provocation are accursed and hated by the Maker, what of those who prevent healing? Who would stop mages using their Maker given gifts, who would extort the free citizens of Thedas for the privilege, and keep their healers locked and beaten behind walls built by slaves?

No citizen of the Free Marches should live in fear of abuse. This includes the mages.

The Fereldan Blight

Where do donations to the Chantry end up? Following the Fereldan Blight, thousands of refugees found themselves on the shores of Kirkwall, neither welcomed into the city nor able to return home. This, surely, was a time for the holy sisters and mothers of the Chantry to act - for the Templars to act, to provide aid and safety to all in need.

Are we not all the Maker’s children?

But such action didn’t come. Hundreds died of their injuries below the cliffs of Kirkwall. Hundreds died of starvation and disease. Many who survived those first months and years came to regret it later, forced into work that was dangerous or illegal or both. What freedom is this? Can it be called Justice?

The plight of the Fereldans, like so many in our free lands, could have been eased by magic.

Mages can heal: even the most common hedge witch can prevent infection. They can help boil water and purify it, clearing disease. They can cook food, prevent illness. But where were Kirkwall’s mages, when they were so badly needed?

They were locked in their tower. They are still locked in their tower. Reader: the mages wanted to help. The Circle would not let them.

On Community

There is much that the poor of Thedas and its mages have in common. If you have lived as a citizen of the Free Marches, you have seen its injustices. You have seen the way in which ordinary people are treated by the rich and powerful. How many amongst you have lost a sibling or a child to an Arl’s lustful eye? How many have served in so-called noble houses only to be kicked and beaten like dogs? This is not justice. This is not freedom.

If you have lived with your head bowed, afraid of meeting the eye of the rich and powerful, then you know what is to be a mage.

We are not so different! Together, we are so much stronger than the sum of our parts. Kirkwall was reclaimed by a slave rebellion. We can free Thedas. Freeing the mages returns power to the people of the Free Marches, redistributing it across our lands. No longer are the mighty only those with coin enough to buy a sword. Our power is in our children and our neighbours, our friends and our lovers.

Our oppressors seek to divide us. They seek to make us hate one another, because it is so much easier and less frightening than engaging in a battle we may not win.

Remember these words: We can. We shall. We will.

The Matter of Tevinter

If Mages are to have their freedom, it cannot follow the route of destruction cleared by the Tevinter Imperium. Freedom built on the backs of slaves is no freedom at all.

Many believe that mages in Thedas see Tevinter as a paradise. This is not true. Consider the following, and you will understand why no mage should ever wish to be a magister.

Point the first: the matter of the elvhen. In the Circles of the Free Marches, there are many powerful, respected elvhen Enchanters. First Enchanter Orsino is a great example, a man with a reputation for kindness and just dealings. The human mages of Thedas are not taught to see elvhen people as below them. They are their colleagues and friends. No human mage would wish the perverse brutality of the Tevinter magisters on any one of their friends, on anyone at all. This includes the elvhen.

Point the second: the question of power. Not all mages are powerful. Their power, like the body’s strength, varies from person to person. If one woman can lift a hay bale, another boy might not. It is the same with mages. Some apprentices may only ever be able to summon sparks. Others can rain down fire storms. In Tevinter, weak mages face slavery and humiliation as much as those without magic. As with the body’s strength, ‘weak’ magic is normally tied to factors like diet, lineage, and illness. Our weak, our poor, our sick, would be enslaved. That is no paradise.

Point the third: common suffering. Do you truly think a mage who has fled across the Free Marches - who has risked Blighted townships and beast infested mountains just to seek their liberty, has no concept of how it might feel to be a slave? It’s true that the brutality faced by slaves in Tevinter is exceptional, and not every Circle is as cruel as that of Kirkwall.

But mages do know something of captivity. If you have too, you will understand why they would not wish to inflict it on another.

The Brutality of Templars

One of the most crucial arguments for the liberation of mages is the abuses of the Templars. Founded under allegedly noble principles, the order has become a sanctuary for the cruel and cowardly: people who hide behind the name of Andraste, and use Her name and kindness to excuse everything from needless humiliation to the torture of children.

Both within and without the Circle, the Templars rule with an iron fist, and it is the poor, the elvhen, the mages, who suffer for it. Unsupervised, corruption runs rife, with Templars extorting innocent neighbourhoods for protection money and inspiring fear in the vulnerable populations which they claim to protect. This is to say nothing of the illegal trade in Lyrium.

The working people of Thedas do not see a Templar and relax, knowing themselves to be safe and guarded by a servant of the Maker. They get out of the way. There is something wrong, here.

If you have ever known the edge of a Templar’s blade, consider now the plight of the mages. Most are sent to Circles in childhood, where they are kept away from the sun and open fields, where their magic is monitored and leashed. They are not taught to fight: why would they be?

Never mind that their Harrowing will demand the greatest struggle of their lives. It serves the Templars far more effectively to see their mages defanged and dull. If the result is a few teenage corpses which could have survived their Harrowing, had they only been taught how to lift a sword? So be it. It is a sacrifice the Templars are willing to make in the name of Andraste, regardless of Her will.

Free mages: apostates and hedge witches, must learn to fight if they are to survive, and resist the attentions of thieves and slavers, as so many citizens of the Free Marches are forced to do. But if you are an ordinary person, if you must work to eat, if you have ever known a Blight or been a refugee - then you understand the profound disadvantage at which lack of coin might leave you.

How can a poor hedge witch who has only ever served his community afford anything that will protect him from greatswords and plate armour? How can an apostate, with her stolen staff, hope to protect herself from cavalry and crossbows? We are hunted, like animals. And we are beaten when we are caught.

Magical Knowledge

The improvement of magical knowledge is a thing that is not only of use to mages.

Any person who has been treated by a magical healer should know this: because almost every healer owes what they know to the mages who have come before them. Circles have long been centres of study and learning.

Reader, it is not the Circle itself with which I take issue, necessarily. It is the removal of choice. It is control by the Chantry. It is the abuses of the Templars. It is the limitation of magical knowledge.

Due to an increasing atmosphere of paranoia and outright slander, the Chantry has begun to stifle magical learning with more and more prejudice in recent decades. The progression of magical knowledge in Thedas has ground almost to a halt, whilst our neighbours in Tevinter have moved forward in leaps and bounds. I do not, perhaps, need to explain to you the danger of having a power-hungry slave-trading nation at our borders which knows more of how to weaponise magic than we do.

Beyond the practicalities of war, perhaps the most egregious area in which this suffocation of knowledge has taken effect is that of healing. Issues that were solved in Tevinter half a century ago are barely understood here: treatments for chronic illness and disease, ways to ease pregnancy and childbirth, effective and safer methods of surgery. For what possible reason could the Chantry wish to limit this knowledge, and restrict the movement of those who could use it for good?

I can find only one conclusion. They fear mages more than they claim to care for their people. To use a Fereldan idiom: they would cut off the nose to spite the face. The Chantry has decided your sacrifice, your illness, your injury, is a price they are willing to pay. Have you?

Safety in the Circle

The fundamental principle behind the Chantry’s interference in the Circles of Thedas is, ostensibly, one of safety. They claim that the Templars exist to protect the mages - from external threats, from demonic temptation, and, if necessary, from themselves. The reality of course is that the Chantry oversees the Circles in order to control them.

The Chantry has at its fingertips a concentrated force of every healer and magic user powerful enough to present a threat to them. Thus, they stifle the possibility of rebellion. Thus, they wield more power across the Free Marches than any city-state.

Templars do not protect mages. Some might claim to do so, might even mean to do so. But throughout their training Templars are taught that mages are poisonous and corrupt, fallen from the Maker’s light, spurned by the mercy of Andraste. Combine this with the common side effects of the lyrium onto which they are weaned: obsession, paranoia, waking nightmares and delusion - and perhaps you can imagine how a Templar begins to abuse their charges.

Heavily armed as they are against unarmed mages as young as six, there is little that can be done to protect oneself from a Templar within the Circles. They see crimes and disobedience everywhere - agitated by their lyrium, haunted by their faith. And this is only those who would not otherwise have seen the opportunity to bully and intimidate hundreds of unarmed people and exploited it without hesitation.

Templars of both schools run rife throughout the Circles of Thedas - mad and cruel, they rarely see consequences for their actions. Instead, mages learn to live with these abuses, and do as they are told, even when what is asked for them is violent or humiliating. Even when it is a violation.

I repeat. There are mages in the Circles as young as six. Is this the will of Andraste?

The Freedom to Love

In the Circle, love is only a game. It gives the Templars too much power over the mages in their care if there is something they couldn’t stand to lose.

Can you imagine that? Being afraid to love, from childhood, for the rest of your life, for fear that you and your lover would be torn apart?

Over the centuries, mages have found other ways to share these things: coded languages and secret intimacies that are all we can borrow from the simple freedoms enjoyed by the people of Thedas outside our towers. We cannot marry, we cannot have children. We can only exchange secrets, and take one another’s hands in the hope that no one sees us.

If you are one of those who has loved a mage, you will understand something of the agony of this. If you have been in any way imprisoned, or abused, or enslaved, then you may well understand the things of which I speak. If you have not, I am afraid I cannot explain it. Only look at the people you love, and imagine being as afraid of your own affections as you are commanded by them. It is a terrible thing, to be afraid to love.

Instead, within the Circles, mages are forced to perform a twisted mockery of love. It is not uncommon for Templars to become fixated on one or more of their charges, driven by the madness of lyrium and obsession. The mages are asked to do ‘favours’ for their captors. I will not detail the nature of these things. Suffice it to say that there are children in our Circles, and that these are things that should never be asked under threat of violence, from anyone.

Tranquility

The Rite of Tranquility is intended to protect a mage and those around them from suffering the devastating effects of demonic temptation. It is, legally, meant to be used only on mages who have not passed their Harrowing. A mage who has passed their Harrowing has proven, at risk of their own life, that they are able to resist the many dangers of demons in the Fade.

However - not only have multiple mages who have passed their Harrowing been illegally made Tranquil, many more have been prevented from undergoing their Harrowing in order to force a Rite of Tranquility on mages deemed troublesome or, in too many unsavoury cases, desirable, by their Templar keepers.

Some mages request the Rite of Tranquility. This, to an uninformed reader, might be difficult to understand. I must remind you: we are taught from birth that we are poison. Corrupted. Demonic. Evil. We repeat these lessons daily. We are taught to love Andraste, we are taught that she despises and fears us. The most common cause of death for mages in a Circle is suicide. It is not difficult to find books on parenting in Thedas that suggest drowning a child is a better fate than letting them live with magic.

I am sure that there are some mages who make the choice to become Tranquil with a clear mind and peace in their hearts. But I am also sure that there are many who make the choice out of fear and self-hatred, sickness of the mind and grief of the heart.

Imagine how unhappy you must be to willingly forego the right to dream, to love, to laugh, to live freely and with feeling as you once did, only in order to cut away a part of yourself.

Then imagine that you could not, would not part with those things. Imagine the anger that has kept you alive when you were in danger, the grief you felt for those you lost, the love you have for your companions. Remember the joy you feel when you dance. Imagine these things being taken from you, against your will, because you disagreed with a Templar.

The Rite of Tranquility is unjust.

Every mage in Thedas fears it, and the Tranquil themselves - who are still thinking, living, breathing people - are treated as little more than slaves. At best, they are tolerated. But they receive no care, no reprieve. They make convenient workers because they do not possess the desire to protest. So they work.

If the mages of Thedas are to be free, the Rite of Tranquility must be abolished.

If the people of Thedas are to be free, we must treat the Tranquil with respect and dignity, as we should do to all. They are people. They must be treated as such.

Revolution and Freedom

It has often been said that if those who are oppressed seek freedom, they must pursue their cause with non-violent means. It strikes the writer that it has most often been said by those who wish to perpetuate oppression, or else live among the ranks of those powerful and privileged enough to live freely and safe from harm.

Who, in our society, defines what we count as violence?

Is it violent to imprison someone for the rest of their life because of who they are?

Is it violent to remove children from their parents?

Is it violent to force lovers apart?

Is Tranquility violence?

Peace is, always, an ideal to which we must aspire. Violence is chaotic and unpredictable. It is not moral. It cannot be moral. None of us can ever predict the true consequences of our actions.

However, if one group of people assigns moral superiority to their own violence and calls it Justice, what must we do then?

We are asked, told, taught, to turn the other cheek as we are beaten. Our priests demand that we accept our suffering as divine, even when it is borne from the hands of men.

I do not wish to start a war. It has already begun. I only want it to end.

We cannot defeat an army without violence. Others have tried. They were murdered.

My people are dying. Our people are dying. Children are dying.

We must fight.

It will not be perfect. It will not be right. The greatest lie ever told is that there is morality in violence. There is only suffering, and survival.

But I am a man, and I love my people. I want to survive. I want to be free.

I believe it is the right of every person, in every land, to live freely, to love freely, and to exist without fear of abuse.

If you agree, reader, I have one final question.

Will you join me?

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: The Love That Grows From Violence, Chap 2

The second chapter of Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan is up on AO3! (It was since yesterday, too, but I guess I’ll crosspost everything here anyway.

The first chapter (the prologue) is here on Tumbles.

~5100 words; read on AO3 instead.

******************************

Kirkwall, one year after the Exalted Council...

Varric handed Tamaris a set of keys. “All right, here it is. Home sweet home.”

Tamaris stared blankly at the mansion. It was… frankly, it was huge. And fancy. Two gold-plated Orlesian lion statuettes flanked the front door, which was carved with an elaborate pattern of fleur-de-lis. The windows were made of elaborate stained glass that would make a Chantry sister envious, and she was fairly certain that the front door handle was made of gold. The outdoor fixtures alone must have cost a fortune, and she hadn’t even seen the interior of the house yet. 

She shot Varric an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

He chuckled. “Nope. It’s yours. Your name is on the deed and everything.” He folded his arms. “I’ve kind of been waiting to see your face when you saw it.” 

“Well, I hope my total sense of bemusement isn’t a disappointment,” she said. Honestly, she didn’t know how Varric expected her to live in this place. She was used to aravels and tents, for fuck’s sake. Moving to Skyhold had been a stretch for her, and Skyhold at least was a functional fortress as well as being a huge grand castle.

This mansion, on the other hand, looked totally frivolous. Tamaris could only hope that it was less gaudy on the inside than the outside. 

She hefted her travelling pack onto her shoulder and unlocked the door. She took one step into the house and stopped dead in disbelief. 

The floor was shiny rose marble with gold veins, and the wallpaper was cream silk with gold stripes. As Tamaris slowly made her way through the foyer into the main room, she wrinkled her nose; the fireplace, the staircase bannister, the chandelier hanging from the ceiling: all of it was gold.

She unceremoniously dropped her pack on the floor. “Varric, you’re not serious,” she complained. 

He laughed again. “Trust me, Cuddles, this is restrained for an Orlesian mansion in Hightown. Orlesians who settle here think they need to remind us that they’re not from here. As if we could ever forget.” He patted the fireplace. “Don’t worry, you can get it all redone. Tear out the floors, maybe put in some sod so you can pretend you’re in a forest or something?”

Tamaris snorted. “Should I set up a ritual circle too, for the evil Dalish child sacrifices that I perform every other week?”

“You could,” Varric said wryly. “Just don’t tell our Captain of the Guard. She tends to get a little antsy about blood magic here. Well, we all do, really.”

Tamaris looked at him. He was smiling, but it only now just occurred to her how she must sound. 

She sighed. “Varric, I’m sorry. I’m being an ungrateful bitch. This is… I mean, you gave me a fucking house. This is really nice of you. Even if it’s the gaudiest house in Thedas.”

He snorted a laugh, and Tamaris gave him a rare smile. “I mean it. This is really kind. Thank you.” 

He waved her off. “Ah, don’t worry about it. And you don’t have to apologize. I’m used to moody elves, remember?” 

“Right, right,” Tamaris said dryly. “Hawke’s husband and all that. Hey, you said her mansion was in Hightown too, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Her uncle lives in it now, though. Hawke is off hunting slavers with Fenris or whatever it is that he’s doing.” 

Tamaris nodded in acknowledgement, then looked idly around at the vaulted ceilings. Shit, this house was big. And empty. 

Oh, there was furniture, sure: a big ugly carved dining table with matching chairs and a writing desk in this room, and some plush velvet sofas in the study to the left. But the house still felt so… empty. It was going to be so quiet living here all by herself. After spending the better part of the year doing contract work with Bull and the Chargers, Tamaris couldn’t decide if she was grateful or not for the impending quiet. 

“So,” Varric said. “Do you want to hear the updates on the wolf hunt now, or do you want to settle in first?”

Solas. Her gut twisted unpleasantly, like the feeling of stepping into a pothole that you didn’t realize was there. 

“Sure, let’s hear it,” she said. She rifled around in her bag with her mechanical left hand and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Rivaini rum. “Fancy a drink?”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, but I’m good. I’ll wait until it’s past noon.”

She shrugged and pulled the cork out of the bottle. “Suit yourself.” She took three big gulps, then shoved the cork back into the bottle and plopped down in one of the padded dining chairs. “All right, let’s hear it. I don’t suppose we’ve actually been lucky enough to find him.”

“Not yet,” Varric said. “A couple interesting leads, though. You actually got back just in time. Rhys and Evangeline are on their way here from the Hunterhorn Mountains. Should be arriving in the next day or two.”

Tamaris blinked. “Rhys and Evangeline? But I thought Cassandra needed them.”

“She does,” Varric said. “Their work at the Tranquil sanctuary has been going pretty smoothly so far. But they recently had someone staying with them who, uh, might be interesting for you to meet.”

That’s cryptic, Tamaris thought. “Okay,” she said slowly. “I’m listening.” 

Varric leaned casually against the fireplace. “An elf with Dalish tattoos,” he said. “Only he says he isn’t Dalish. And he says he knows Solas.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, from… before.”

Tamaris’s eyebrows shot up. Then she folded her arms. “Uh-huh. And we don’t think he’s full of shit because…?”

“Tranquil don’t lie,” Varric said. “He told Cassandra about Solas before they reversed his Tranquility.” 

Tamaris narrowed her eyes appraisingly. Then she straightened. “Hang on. You said… Are Rhys and Evangeline are bringing him here?”

Varric nodded, and Tamaris stared at him. “Varric, that’s insane. Solas definitely has spies in Kirkwall. This is the last place in Thedas that someone who knew Solas from before should be coming.” 

Varric grimaced. “Well… Cassandra wanted you to go to the sanctuary instead. But we, uh, had some trouble getting in touch with you…”

Tamaris rubbed her forehead guiltily. Going off to mindlessly do a bunch of contracts with Bull and his company had been a selfish move, and Tamaris knew it. But the whole Exalted Council incident had been just… so much fucking bullshit, with the qunari attack and the Shattered Library and the crossroads and Solas. 

Fucking Solas. Fucking Fen’Harel. 

A year later, the truth still chafed. Tamaris had always known there were things he wasn’t telling her, and it had always grated at her nerves. Even during the moments when he was at his sweetest, it had always felt like there was some undercurrent of subtext behind his affectionate words. But Tamaris had never imagined that his lies were so spectacular.

Only by omission, he’d said, but in Tamaris’s opinion, that only made it worse. That he’d been so careful to omit things — so careful to stick to the truth without telling the most important parts of it…

She could feel her ears getting hot with anger. Varric stepped a little closer to her. “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “Rhys and Evangeline are used to travelling incognito, and apparently the mystery elf is too. No reason to think they won’t make it here safe and sound.”

She took another gulp of rum, then placed the bottle back on the table. “Fine. A mysterious former friend of Solas’s is coming to pay me a visit. Anything else?”

Varric eyed her warily, then sat in a chair beside her. “How about a hand of wicked grace?”

Tamaris lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t have to coddle me, you know.”

“I’m not,” Varric said. “I’m trying to avoid Bran, really. You’re doing me a favour by showing up here so early in the day.” He pulled a pack of cards out of his coat pocket and began shuffling them. 

She scoffed and propped her dirty bare feet up on the pristine table. “All right, since I’m doing you a favour.” They played wicked grace for a couple of hours, and by the time Varric finally got up to leave, Tamaris was nicely buzzed. 

She lazily followed Varric to the door. “Can I swing by your office later? See how tightly the Viscount of Kirkwall runs his ship?”

“Sure,” Varric said. He opened the door and smirked up at her. “Or tomorrow, or whenever.”

She leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were ashamed of my drunken ass.”

“Not ashamed,” Varric said. “Just a little concerned, that’s all.”

She shrugged. There was no point denying that she wasn’t really okay. “I’m probably not the most stabilizing influence for a newly de-Tranquilized mage at the moment,” she said baldly.

“Ah, you’ll be fine,” Varric said. “You’ll be good for him, probably. You’ve got a knack for this kind of thing.”

“What, dealing with hysterical people?” she said sarcastically.

“Yeah, actually,” Varric said. 

Tamaris scoffed and looked away. “Lucky me.”

“Let me know if you want to talk,” Varric said casually. “That’s all I’m saying.”

She shrugged again. “I probably won’t,” she replied. “If you want to hit me with a stick Bull-style, though, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass,” he said dryly. “Hey, I should have asked — this arm’s doing okay by you, huh?” He tapped her mechanical arm.  

“Yeah, it’s great,” she said. “The lyrium powers it perfectly.” She flexed her arm and fingers to demonstrate. “I wrote Dagna a couple months ago to thank her, but you should let Bianca know it works almost as well as my real hand.”

Varric smiled. “I will. See you later.” He started to walk away, then paused and turned back. “Hey, I should have said. It’s, uh. It’s good to have you back.”

Tamaris managed a smile. “Thanks. It’s… well, it’s good to see you.”

He nodded understandingly, then gave her a little salute before taking his leave. Tamaris tottered back inside of her gaudy house, then toppled onto one of the big fat couches and fell fast asleep. 

When she woke up a few hours later, it was with a raging headache, a stomach cramping from hunger, and a very dry mouth. She gulped down some water, then strapped a couple of daggers to her belt and put on her cloak. She pulled up the hood — more to shelter her pounding eyes from the lingering rays of the early evening sun than to hide her identity. She didn’t much care if anyone knew she was in Kirkwall, especially since she’d been out of the loop all this time and had no interesting contacts here aside from Varric. If Solas’s spies wanted to give him the useless information that she was here, they could fucking feel free. 

Even so, she wasn’t particularly keen to be spoken to. So instead of leaving through the front door, she made her way up the stairs and into the first bedroom on the left. 

She raised her eyebrows appreciatively when she opened the door; the bedroom decor was a Free Marcher style instead of Orlesian, and way more simple and plain than the rest of the house. Varric must have set this bedroom up just for her. 

She smiled faintly, then headed for the window and pushed it open. After a careful peek into the alley to discern that no one was looking, she slipped out of the window and quickly climbed up the brick wall to the roof. 

Once she was on the roof, she breathed a sigh of relief. The air was fresher up here, and the openness of the sky was frankly a relief. From up here, she could clearly see the shifting shades of the sky as the sun started to set, and she could almost pretend that she was on the shores of Hercinia admiring the sky instead of on the roof of a noisy city.

She drew another deep lungful of air, then began making her way to the Lowtown market via the rooftops. She made it to the market unnoticed and bought herself enough food for three days, then returned to her house using back alleys so no one would talk to her, and the furtive journey was challenging enough with the added weight of her bags to distract her from her headache. 

Once she’d returned to her house, she immediately went back up to the roof with her indulgent supper of fish and chips. She spent the next little while on the roof watching the sun sink down behind the squat buildings of Lowtown. When it started getting dark and her thoughts started darkening to match, she moved over to the edge of the roof so she could watch the people below instead of the sky above. 

She dangled her feet carelessly over the edge of the roof; no one ever looked up, so no one would see her anyway. She reached into the pocket of her vest and pulled out a slender joint and a matchbook, then lit the joint and took a deep drag. 

The sweet-and-bitter smoke filled her mouth, and she held it for a few leisurely seconds before releasing it to the cool evening air. And as usual in the evenings when she had nothing else to do, she started mulling over her mistakes and failings of the past. 

First and foremost, as always, was Solas. Was there anything she could have done to stop him when they’d been together? Should she have realized sooner that he was from an earlier age? Solas wasn't the only concern, though; the news about the qunari’s activities on the Tevinter coastline were frankly alarming, and Tamaris couldn't help but wonder if she should have foreseen that as well. She and her companions might have stopped the Viddasala from killing the leadership of Thedas during the Exalted Council a year ago, but had they really achieved anything if the qunari were attacking Tevinter so aggressively now? 

Another huge concern was where the fuck the Grey Wardens were. Tamaris had thought she was doing the right thing by sending them to Weisshaupt until Corypheus was gone, but there had been no word of them since then, and their silence made her wonder whether sending them away had been a good idea after all. Solas certainly approved of her action, but in truth, Tamaris had never been clear on exactly why he’d approved. Even now, after what he’d told her about the Evanuris and the Veil, she still didn’t understand why he got so irate about the Grey Wardens.

Solas, she thought moodily. Her thoughts cycled back to wondering if she should have foreseen his betrayal during the time that they’d been lovers. She smoked her joint slowly and mulled over her gloomy thoughts, and all the while she was watching the streets below for anything strange. 

It wasn’t until late that night that something caught her eye: a pair of figures, one tall and slim and the other shorter and a bit more broad. They were cloaked and moving quietly along Hightown’s largely silent streets, but not sticking to the shadows. 

Humans, she thought. Only humans walked around at night with that much confidence. But these humans were being quiet and subtle, so they didn’t want to be noticed. 

She peered more carefully at them, and that’s when she noticed the signature style of the shorter figure’s gauntlets. A Templar, she thought, and she relaxed slightly. It must be Rhys and Evangeline. But where was their former Tranquil companion, then? 

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the streets; no one else was around. Curious now, Tamaris waited until the two cloaked people were closer – not so close that they were under her, but close enough that they could hear her. 

She let out a low whistle, and the cloaked figures looked up sharply; sure enough, it was Rhys and Evangeline. 

Rhys smiled at her, and Evangeline visibly relaxed. “Lady Lavellan,” she called out quietly. “What are you doing up there?”

“Skulking, obviously,” Tamaris replied. “Nobody ever looks up.”

“You’re right,” a man’s voice said behind her. “They don’t.” 

Tamaris was on her feet with a dagger in hand before he finished speaking. But even before she could turn around to face him, a spill of goosebumps was rippling down her neck. The voice was unfamiliar to her, but the accent… 

It was like Solas’s accent. Not exactly the same, but close enough to Solas’s smooth lilt that it gave her a chill of recognition.

The former Tranquil, she thought tensely. She eyed the stranger in silence for a moment. He was a tall elf, barefoot and cloaked and apparently unarmed, and he was leaning languidly against one of the chimneys with a smirk lifting the corners of his lips. 

“It’s all right,” Rhys called from the ground below. “He’s with us.”

“You don’t say,” Tamaris retorted. 

The former Tranquil’s smirk widened slightly, and Tamaris raised an eyebrow before restoring her dagger to the sheath at her hip. “It’s your lucky day,” she told him. “I’ve decided not to gut you on the spot for sneaking up on me.”

“Very gracious of you,” he said with a little half-bow. 

She eyed him suspiciously. His words were polite enough, but his tone was faintly mocking. 

She pursed her lips, then started toward the side of the roof that led back to the bedroom window. “Come on, then,” she said to the strange elf. “If you’re bringing trouble to my doorstep, I might as well roll with it.” She swung down from the edge of the roof and back into the window, then made her way through the bedroom without waiting to see if he was following her.

He was, of course; if he was nimble enough to sneak up on her via the roof, he was nimble enough to follow her back through the window. He chuckled as he followed her out of the bedroom. “And what a doorstep it is,” he said. “A fan of gold, are you?”

She scoffed and traipsed down the stairs. “Hardly. This house was a gift from a dwarf with an overdeveloped sense of humour.” 

“My kind of dwarf,” the elf said.

She shot him an odd look, then paused in surprise at the bottom of the stairs. She’d just realized something odd about his appearance. He had vallaslin branching across his cheekbones and his forehead, but it wasn’t the marks on his face that surprised her per se; it was the lack of a particular kind of mark. 

He didn’t have a scar on his forehead from the Templars’ lyrium brand. But Varric had said he was a Tranquil…? 

He raised his eyebrows. “Something I can do for you?”

“Um,” she said distractedly. “Let me just…” She nodded at the front door, then went to open it for Evangeline and Rhys.

She stood back to let them in, then gestured at the dining table with its padded chairs. “Have a seat. Are you hungry?”

“Starving, but we should get going,” Rhys said. 

“Yes,” Evangeline agreed. “We don’t want to linger in Kirkwall for too long. And Lady Cassandra requires our services.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “But — wait, you just got here. I don’t think Cassandra would begrudge you a night’s rest.”

“Of course,” Evangeline said. “But we are anxious to return to our duties as well. For now, Rhys remains the only mage at the sanctuary who can safely guide the spirits through the Veil. We can’t cure any more Tranquil until he has returned.”

Rhys let out a little laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m hardly the fulcrum of this whole operation,” he mumbled.

“Don’t be so modest, cher,” Evangeline said firmly. “In any case, we should be going.”

Tamaris held up a hand. “Hang on. You’re not going to explain anything to me before you go? For example: who the fuck is he, exactly?” She jerked her thumb at the raven-haired elf, who had availed himself of one of the dining table chairs.

He gave her a charming smile. “I was wondering when you’d remember I was here. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. There’s something quite powerful about being forgotten, under the right circumstances.”

Tamaris narrowed her eyes at this cryptic remark, and Rhys smacked his forehead. “Maker, I’m sorry, Tamaris. This is Felassan. He came from — well, the whole story will probably be more coherent if you hear it from him, which is why we accompanied him here, obviously.”

She eyed Rhys skeptically. “And his whole story is good enough that you’re willing to leave him with me, even though he’s only been cured for…” She trailed off, then turned to Felassan. “How long have you been, um, back to yourself?”

He looked at Rhys. “It’s been, what? Three months?”

“That’s right,” Rhys said. “About three months.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “It only takes three months for former Tranquil to become stable?”

“Oh, I’m not stable,” Felassan said cheerfully. “I can be quite volatile, unfortunately.”

Tamaris stared at him. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

Evangeline answered her unspoken question. “That’s true, unfortunately. Felassan is still getting… adjusted.”

“Adjusted?” Tamaris said warily. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning,” Felassan said, “that she had to neutralize me several times during our journey here. Not that I hold it against you,” he said pleasantly to Evangeline. “It’s been interesting, in fact. I never had a chance to see a Templar in action before.”

Evangeline nodded politely to him, but Tamaris wrinkled her nose in confusion. How was that possible? He’d been made Tranquil. He had to have seen a Templar in action before.  

She didn’t have time to ask, however; Rhys and Evangeline were already making their way back to the door. She hurried after them. “So — so he’s… he’s supposed to just stay here with me, then.”

“That’s what Cassandra wanted, yes,” Rhys said.

Tamaris sighed. At least Rhys had the courtesy to sound apologetic. “And if he gets volatile? I suppose she was confident that I could just… handle it.”

“She was very confident,” Evangeline said. 

Rhys smiled faintly. “I believe her words were something along the lines of ‘Tamaris has a special talent for highly charged situations such as this.’”

“Of course,” she muttered. “Well… I suppose I should thank you for bringing him here.”

“I think it will be worth your while, once you hear what he has to say,” Rhys said earnestly. “There’s a good reason we didn’t just send you a report.”

Tamaris pursed her lips. “If you say so. Well, travel safe.”

Rhys gave her a little salute and Evangeline bowed her head politely, and they took their leave. Tamaris sighed, then locked the door and returned to the dining table.

Felassan was sitting cross-legged on his chair and idly twirling a short length of wood in his fingers. Tamaris folded her arms and eyed him. “It sounds like I’m in for a good story, hm? Or a long one, at least.”

He quirked a brow. “I suppose that depends. Do you enjoy hearing tales of Fen’Harel?”

Fen’Harel. Fucking Solas, she thought bitterly. “I enjoy it as much as I enjoy lancing a boil,” she said snidely. “It’s distasteful but necessary, especially given… you know, everything.” She waved her hand in a vague gesture meant to encompass the entire world. 

His ever-present smirk widened into a broad smile, and he let out a burbling laugh. “I think you and I will get along just fine, then.”

His laughter was knowing and playful at the same time, and she couldn’t decide if she liked the sound of it or not. She pursed her lips, then turned toward the kitchen. “You must be hungry. I’ll get you something.” 

“I’ll join you,” he said, and he rose from the chair and tucked the piece of wood back inside of his cloak. 

Tamaris raised her eyebrows, then shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourself. I thought you’d be tired, though. It’s a long way here from the Hunterhorn Mountains.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “A long and perilous journey, fraught with bandits and poor weather and the odd Tevinter refugee. Is that really what you want to talk about?”

“What do you mean?” Tamaris said. She opened a cupboard and pulled out an apple, then tossed it to him.

He caught it deftly. “I mean that I was brought here to speak with you about our… mutual friend. I assumed you would have questions.” 

I suspect you have questions. Felassan’s words were almost an echo of the ones that Solas had greeted her with a year ago, and the memory made her curl her lip. 

He lifted one dark eyebrow, and Tamaris carefully smoothed out her expression. “I would rather talk about you,” she said. “Like why you don’t have that fucked-up sunburst scar on your face, for example. Does the Tranquility cure involve removing that scar?”

He smiled slowly. “They mentioned that you were blunt. They weren’t wrong.”

Tamaris huffed, then opened the enchanted icebox and pulled out some hard Fereldan cheese. “Uh-huh. What else did they tell you about me?”

Felassan leaned back against the counter. “They said you can be aloof, sarcastic, and hard to crack. That you get things done through force of will more than charm.” His smile widened slightly. “They said that you allowed Empress Celene to be assassinated at the Winter Palace, and that you helped Briala to become the true power behind the throne.” 

Tamaris shrugged. “They weren’t wrong about any of that.”

Felassan nodded and idly rolled the apple between his palms. “They also say that you are far more compassionate than you seem, and that you and Fen’Harel were lovers.”

She paused in her cutting of the cheese and gave him a hard look, but his expression was pleasantly neutral. He shrugged and took a bite of the apple. “I don’t blame you,” he said through his full mouth. “He’s undeniably compelling.”

Tamaris stared at him for a moment longer, then continued cutting the cheese. “You didn’t answer my question. Why don’t you have a scar on your forehead?”

Felassan made an apologetic face. “If you were hoping to talk about something other than Fen’Harel, I’m afraid you’re taking the wrong tack.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

He idly flicked the side of his half-eaten apple. “I mean that it wasn’t that delightful Templar order that made me Tranquil,” he said. “It was him.”

Tamaris went still. “It… what?”

He looked up from the apple and met her eyes, and her belly jolted. For the first time since they’d met, his expression was utterly serious. There wasn’t even a hint of laughter in his strange amethyst-coloured eyes.

“Fen’Harel made me Tranquil,” Felassan said.

She stared breathlessly at him. Solas had made him Tranquil? No. No, that... it couldn’t be true. Solas abhorred the idea of Tranquility. He’d initially thought all the people of her time were Tranquil, and his horror at this misguided impression had fuelled his original plans to bring the Veil down on all of them. There was no way Solas would have done something so terrible to someone.

But Felassan looked so serious, and he had no reason to lie to her. And Solas had told her that he would see his plans to fruition, by any means necessary… 

Her heart was pounding, and she couldn't tell if it was because of agitation or disgust or fear. She swallowed hard. “Felassan, I am so sorry,” she said. “Do you want a drink?”

His expression went slack for a moment. Then some of his usual humour returned to his face. “That’s… not the response I expected.”

“Glad I’m still capable of surprising people sometimes,” she said. “Do you want a drink or not?”

He chuckled. “I do. Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. She carefully placed his impromptu meal of cheese and bread on a plate, then picked up a bottle of cider and headed back to the main room with the dining table. “So, Felassan. That’s a strange name. Who decided to call you a slow arrow?”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” he said wryly.

She raised her eyebrows and set the food on the table before taking a seat. “Why would you call yourself that?”

He sat in the chair beside her and studied her quietly for a moment, and she lifted an eyebrow. “What?” 

“This is truly what you want to talk about?” he asked. 

She wilted in exasperation. “Cassandra might not have told you this, but I hate small talk. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t actually want to know. If you don’t want to answer the question, just say so.”

A smile lit his face again, and Tamaris idly noted that he was quite handsome. His hair was as black as her own unruly waves, and probably about half as long if he were to unbind it from its leather wrap. A few faint wrinkles creased his tawny skin, giving the impression that he was maybe ten to fifteen years older than her, but his dimpled smile held a boyish sense of mischief. And then there were his unusual and luminous violet eyes. 

She dropped his gaze and started peeling the wax seal off of the bottle of cider. “So? Are you going to tell me about your name or not?” 

“I wouldn't dare to turn down my gracious hostess’s request,” he said. “But I have to warn you, our dear friend Fen’Harel plays into the tale.”

Of course he does, Tamaris thought bitterly. It seemed like she could barely talk to anyone about anything these days without Solas coming up somehow.

She pulled the cork out of the bottle of cider, then took a gulp of the tart-and-sweet booze before offering it to him. “All right. Let’s hear it. Tell me about fucking Fen’Harel.”

[zmediaoutlet]

whatever we were before

finally posting my masquerade fill! The anon asked for a Dragon Age/SPN crossover, in which Dean is Hawke. I screeched lightly under my breath when I saw it, and delivered. (I hope!)

title: whatever we were before pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E

summary: After the expedition into the Deep Roads, Dean's a rich man. He bought back the ancestral family manor, and he's safe. He's not okay, though, because for all they gained on the expedition--he lost so much more.

(read on AO3)

Kirkwall’s never quiet at night. Dean’s gotten used to it, although it’s a far cry from the farm back home in Ferelden. There, the most he was likely to hear at night was a fox trying to get into the chickens, or Dad coming home soused from the inn, sleeping in the mudroom because he couldn’t work out the lock Dean had built to keep the Templars out. Here, surrounded by people, it feels—he used to think it was crowded, but now it just feels like life, being lived. People always working, the city humming along with each part always moving. He still remembers lying awake at his uncle’s house in Lowtown, that horrible week after they’d first arrived, staring at the ceiling in the narrow room and unable to shut it out—the city, a throbbing entity. He’s glad he can sleep, now. Makes things easier to bear.

His legs have stopped aching, too, after this many months walking up and down the Great Stairs. Isabela says they’ve done great work for his physique; Dean’s just glad his arse and thighs will agree to support him after the long climb from the docks to Hightown. This morning Aveline had guilted him into doing an errand for her, something the city guard should’ve taken care of, but really it didn’t take that much guilting—she and he both knew that he’d be able to do it faster, better, and cleaner, and anyway it was good to get out, into the fresh air. He's moneyed now, and maybe a lordling of a sort, if the Free Marches would only admit that their merchant-princes were no different from the nobility of the south, but still. He’d grown up using his muscles and his mind, and it felt right to be out on the cliffs, salt-spray in his face and his armor settled comfortably on his shoulders, his sword ready at his hip. So. They’d gone out, and he’d—killed. Quite a few. Slavers, they were, and he didn’t feel bad about killing them but the battle had been messy, and he’d had to wash the blood off in the sea, the salt gritting into the crevices of his mail and stiffening the leather. He’s glad he didn’t bring Fenris; there would’ve been so much more blood.

His legs don’t ache, but it feels like every other part does, when he gets to the top of the stairs. The guards at Hightown’s gates nod to him, deferent like they weren’t three years ago, and he doesn’t respond. Pricks, the lot of them, granting respect only for fine clothes and finer real estate. He wishes he’d gotten back hours ago, when he might've blended in to the general throng, but he’s made it a habit to walk his friends home, to make sure they're safe. He saw Merrill back to her little house, and Isabela and Varric back to their inn, and stayed there for a pint or two, celebrating a successful job.

A job—ha. Still how he thinks of it, after all that time of scrambling in Lowtown, trying to put food on the family’s table. He walks the now-familiar streets, slate stones laid down on the neat boulevards the merchants control, and he misses—sort of—yes, he misses the rolled-cobbles and grit of the old neighborhoods, and the wild-grown weeds among the stones by the Hanged Man. Used to the city, but missing the city. He can hear a sarcastic voice in his ear, saying, Dean, that doesn't make any sense, but he ignores it. He’s tired. No energy for misery, not now.

Winchester Manor still has lamps lit in the entry when he comes to the square. Despite everything, his shoulders relax a little, seeing it. He unlocks the door and it’s warm inside, smells of bread baking, and in the time it takes for him to set his sword and shield on their rack in the armory off the entry, Bodahn appears, and pops his head around the corner to say, "Ah, Master Winchester. Good hunting, I trust?"

Dean smiles, and it’s only partly an effort. "Good enough, Bodahn. Send a runner to the palace, to let Aveline know I’ll see her tomorrow afternoon, all right?"

"Very good, sir," Bodahn says, agreeable as always, but then looks at him critically. "I’ll have dinner sent up to your chambers, yes? Sandal will have gotten a bath ready."

Even after years, he’s still not used to servants, but— "Yes," he says, and the relief that washes through him is probably ridiculous, but. "Yes, thank you."

The parlor’s warm enough, but dark, the only light coming from the banked fire. Other than Bodahn and Sandal, the house is always empty. He stands and looks at the great tapestry, the family crest tracing the family down to their father’s name. The embroidery stops there. He licks his lips, looking at the faded silk, and turns away, and trudges up the broad stairs, aware that his boots are tracking the dust and dirt of the lower city on the thick carpets. Sandal will clean it up.

The master room is so big. Bigger than his uncle’s whole house, he thinks. He’s paced it; he’s pretty sure. The fire in here is roaring, and the lamps are lit by the bedside and on the desk, and his armor stand is waiting for him to strip, piece by piece. The chest plate, and the pauldrons, and his gauntlets, and the mail, and the boots, and the leather weskit, and when he’s left in his shirt he shivers, all over, though the room’s more than warm enough. In the corner, by the pushed-aside screen, the bath sits steaming by some magic Sandal’s very proud of and that Dean doesn’t at all understand, but he’s grateful when he sinks down into it. It’s big enough that he can fit his shoulders against one edge and keep his feet below the water on the other, a luxury he’d never imagined as a child and which, still, by every measure, is the greatest advantage of his life as he lives it now. Some kind of fragrant oil scenting the steam—elfroot maybe, or the arbor blessing Bodahn was bragging about acquiring a few weeks ago. Makes the water slip like silk against his skin while the soothing heat works its way past muscle to the bone. Makes it easy not to think, to relax. Finally.

"You look so spoiled," he hears, and he surges up—because—

"Sam," he breathes. He's so sure he’s dreaming, that a desire demon has worked its way into his mind and is showing him some helplessly sought-after vision, that he digs his nails deep enough into his own thigh that he’ll bruise—but Sam’s still standing there, in the doorway. Sam.

"It’s me," Sam says, and—yes. Of course it is. Sam, with dirt on his cheek, and a healed-over scrape under that, and his hair grown long and falling into his eyes. Sam, wearing the uniform of the Wardens just like the last time Dean saw him, studded leather over his chest and the blue-and-white tabard still belted around his narrow waist. Sam, leaning his staff into the corner—a new one, blackened oak and a stone Dean doesn’t recognize—and Sam, walking across the room with his boots thudding into the carpet—and Sam, crouching by the bath, and touching Dean’s cheek, and Dean surging halfway out of the bath and sloshing water everywhere and kissing him, kissing him, because—Sam, here. Here, when Dean had thought—

"It’s me," Sam says again, "Dean, I’m here," and Dean says, "I can see you’re fuckin’ here, Sammy, I—Sam—" and Sam laughs and says, "I know, sorry, I—" and kisses him again, hand cupping the back of Dean's skull and Dean’s hands tight in Sam’s hair and hurting his nails against the leather of Sam’s brigandine because—three years, it’s been three goddamn years and no letters, no word, and Dean hadn’t known—hadn’t had anything beyond hope—that Sam was alive and well at the fortress at Weisshaupt and that he hadn’t met his end by the claws of some darkspawn or a warg or—by all gods, by all faith, Sam.

It’s a while—Dean on his knees in the bath, and Sam kneeling in the puddle he’d made, and their hands locked into each other, and Dean breathing Sam and his smell of the road and rancid sweat and campfires and old blood, and Sam’s forehead against Dean’s and his hair tickling, and the taste of his mouth—his mouth—it’s a while, before Dean’s brain unfogs enough to realize that he’s just holding Sam, and they’re only breathing with their mouths barely touching, and Sam’s stomach is growling. Loud, in fact, and Sam’s nose wrinkles. "Sorry," he says, and Dean says, "You idiot," soft as soft, and struggles up to standing with the water streaming down from his body, and Sam looks up at him for a moment with his eyes dark and almost unfamiliar.

Dean hesitates, water up to his calves, naked. Aware of new scars, ones Sam hasn’t seen—his body, not the one Sam left. Sam stands, then, and Dean blinks. "You’re tall," he says, stupid-sounding even to his own ears, and Sam smiles at him all smug. He was tall already, at twenty—not at all fair, not at all, that he’s gained even more inches, and Dean steps out of the bath and shoves at Sam’s broad chest and fetches his dressing gown off the screen where Sandal always leaves it and tries to muster some kind of dignity as he wraps it around himself.

His dinner’s waiting on the sideboard outside his room, as always—Bodahn overly respectful of his privacy, as always—but it’s good, now, not to have to see anyone else, not to have another person interrupt. He turns with the tray and Sam’s unfastening his brigandine, slinging it untidily on the ground and wrestling his tabard over his chest so he’s left in his weskit and linen shirt and trousers, his boots still carrying gods know how many miles of mud, and he sniffs and says, "Is that stew?" all hopeful, and oh, oh, it’s Dean’s little brother, home.

He still eats like a teenager. Dean pours wine for both of them, watches Sam tear into the bread and meat like he’s starving. "Don’t they feed you at Weisshaupt?" Dean says, rhetorical, and Sam rolls his eyes and takes his goblet and gulps the wine down, gasping. "Oh, that’s—fantastic," he says, and takes a slower draught, eyes closed, and Dean watches him with his heart surging so high he’s surprised Sam can’t see the throb of it, in his throat and wrists and gut. Sam’s got days of not shaving thickening his stubble almost to a beard, and he tucks his hair behind his ears but it keeps falling forward, unruly. Without the Warden uniform he’s big, broad. Muscles thick in his shoulders, his arms, like they weren’t when he was a boy and he’d complain about having to help Dean on the farm, about training with a short sword, whining that he had magic and I’ll just throw a fireball at the darkspawn, Dean, and back then Dean could still cuff him over the head and drag him into Dean’s armpit and say yeah, but I’m in charge, and you're not allowed to throw a fireball at me, so—

Feels like a lifetime ago. Sam scrapes the last piece of bread around his bowl, sopping up the rich gravy, and then slumps back in his chair, sighing. "Long time since I’ve had food like this," he says, and Dean wants to ask—has so many questions. When was it, he wants to know, and where have you been, and are you okay—are you okay, the only question that matters, and he can’t face asking it right now with Sam sated and warm and here, here, and Sam’s eyes slit open and he looks at Dean, then, steady.

"What," Dean says, when it’s been too long without talking.

Sam smiles, brief. "What," he echoes, and seems right then—older than Dean, decades older—but he just leans forward and hooks his hand into the hollow of Dean’s bare knee, squeezes. Dean’s skin shivers in shock, all over, and Sam smiles deeper then, dimples carving into his cheeks. "I want—" Sam says, and shakes his head, and laughs under his breath. "Too much."

Dean takes a deep breath. "You reek," he says, and Sam huffs and looks down, as though Dean were saying it like a complaint.

"Yeah," Sam says, and pushes back from the table and strips bare. Bare, right there, in their ancestral home, until he stands naked with his feet on the carpet, linens and leathers piled stinking next to him, and he raises his eyebrows at Dean like a challenge and then walks back across to the bath and steps in, sinks down. Still hot, through that enchantment, and Dean watches dry-mouthed as the steam rises, as Sam slips his hands along his skin. He has scars, too. He’d never had much interest in healing magic. Welted-white lines on his arms, and an ugly twisting thing on his chest. The bite-mark, from the darkspawn, which sent him to the Wardens in the first place.

He rinses off the scented soap, splashes his face with the fragrant water, scrubs his scalp. The hair on his chest and in his armpits and at his groin has blackened with wet, and he runs a hand over his head, pushing the wet hair back from his face and looking at Dean while he does it, and Dean says, finally, "Sammy, you’re killing me," in a voice he doesn’t recognize. Sam smiles at him and gets up out of the bath in a surge of dripping water and meets Dean in the middle of the room and kisses him again, leaning down this time with his hands cupped around Dean’s ears, all the long wet of him soaking into Dean’s dressing gown but it’s—it’s okay, it’s better than okay.

The bed’s so big. So much bigger than any they ever had, when they were kids. Sam leans over him still dripping, his hair hanging down around Dean’s face and his shoulders blocking out the firelight. He pushes a hand into Dean’s gown, pets down his chest—his stomach—and Dean doesn’t know why it’s a shock when Sam grabs up his dick but it is, it is, and Dean grips Sam’s shoulders and shudders, bites his lip. "Yeah," Sam says, soft, sweet like he used to be, sometimes. When they were kids in the wheat fields, and hiding in the summer from chores Dean should’ve been making them do, and Sam asked soft for a kiss and Dean didn’t, couldn’t, say no. Sam noses against his cheek, smelling like herbs, and he says, "I missed you," gripping Dean hard and knowing. Different, to how it was, and in the grip Dean feels whoever Sam’s been with in the time between, and shoves his hips up, groaning. Sam kisses below his ear and says, "Dean, I—missed you, so much," and Dean makes a strangled noise he’ll be embarrassed by later and pushes Sam over, because new height and muscle or not, Dean’s the big brother here, and he ends up with Sam under him, tanned and young and beautiful, and staring at him like—like Dean doesn’t know, but he leans down and kisses him because he has to, he has to, because if he doesn’t he’ll say crazy things, things he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear, much less for Sam to hear—

Sam groans, grips at his arms, pushes his hips up. Oh—oh, Sammy’s dick, and that hasn’t changed, big and urgent and pressing against Dean’s thigh. Sam unties his dressing gown, somewhere in the shadows between them, and grips at Dean’s ass, tugging him in tight. Ah—and that, that is like being a teenager again, Sam grasping and desperate. He pushes his dick against Sam’s tight belly, makes a noise. "Sam," he says, stupid, and Sam grips his hips and tilts and his dick slides up between the cheeks of Dean’s ass, solid, bulling.

"Oh," Sam breathes, against his mouth, and drops his head back to the pillow, wet hair spread out around his face. He blinks at Dean, while he pumps his hips—sawing back and forth, damp and threatening, while Dean breathes open-mouthed and stares down at him. His dick throbs, trapped against Sam’s belly. "Have you—" Sam says, and bites his lower lip, and shakes his head. "How long? Can we—"

How long. Dean remembers that morning in exact, perfect detail. Varric had said to meet in the square at noon and so that left hours, hours, and he’d woken at dawn and washed himself, red-faced and hoping his uncle would have the usual hangover that kept him abed well past the two o’clock hour. Then he’d come to Sam in the tiny mud-spattered room they shared and woken him with a finger to his lips and they’d—all morning, while the city churned just outside the thin walls, and the appointed hour crawled closer. He’d fucked Sam, and Sam hadn’t come and had pushed him over onto his belly after he was done and fucked him right back, just as Dean had known he would, and he’d kissed all over Dean’s shoulders and covered his back and said, take me, and Dean had known Sam meant into the Deep Roads, and Dean had said no, Sammy, shaking, wanting—it’s too dangerous, come on, and Sam had pushed into him and trapped Dean’s wrists against the blanket covering their awful straw-tick pallet and said against his ear, I’m coming, like it was already decided, and Dean had shuddered and come again, and he’d shown up at the square with Anders at his left shoulder and Sam at his right, smug, and Varric had shrugged and said, don’t slow us down, short stuff, to Sam, and the night before Sam got bitten by a darkspawn Sam had looked at him from his bedroll inches away in the camp and smiled, happy—unaccountably happy, like Sam almost never was.

Sam swallows, in the face of Dean’s silence. "Really," he says, but not like he’s asking. He grips at Dean’s ass, pulling the cheeks apart, dragging him in so his dick smears wet all over Sam’s stomach, and then lifts up on one elbow and kisses Dean—soft, soft, lips pulling slow and easy, like a winter morning with only snow outside and no responsibility to anyone but this.

No one could ever be what Sam was, to Dean. He’s screwed around with Isabela, a few times, deep in their cups at the Hanged Man and nothing waiting for either of them, but it meant nothing—she slapped his ass when he was done and said well done, soldier, and he laughed, and left her there and didn’t think about it outside of that room. Once, with Fenris, when they were so piss-drunk on wine he didn’t even remember what had happened, other than an impression of lyrium-brightness, and a mouth on his throat. Not something they’ve spoken of since. He doesn’t know what Sam’s done, at Weisshaupt or on the roads between here and there, and he doesn’t care because what matters is that Sam’s in his bed. Whether Sam will be here in the morning, whether he’s deserted or if there’s some other quest waiting, some new hardship that’ll sweep them both away—he can't think about that, right now. Not when he has this in front of him.

"Do it," he mumbles, his mouth pressed against Sam’s shoulder, and feels Sam shudder, all against him. He wants it—wants the hurt, like that first time when Sam was sixteen and they’d hidden in the woods behind the Chantry, fumbling—he’s a warrior, he knows from pain, and having Sam is the kind that’s worth it.

Sam shakes his head, though—shakes his head, and smears his mouth against Dean’s throat, lips dragging, says—"I want—" and flips them, surge of muscle, and descends to get his lips on Dean’s dick, going down so fast that he chokes, and Dean’s legs seize and draw up but Sam’s shoulders are wide enough to keep them apart and he’s left arching, shocked, body seizing. Oh—this, this—nights in their room at home, learning each other while Dad was gone, Sam daring to make spark-lights above their heads, the magic just enough to see the way Sam’s cheekbone stood out above the hollowed dark of his cheek—and now, the firelight setting Sam’s hair to auburn where it’s half-dried and standing out messy around his head, and the steady practiced working of his tongue, and the gliding silk of his cheek when he lets Dean’s cockhead push against it. Dean’s balls clutch up, too fast. Sam knows, somehow—pulls back, gasping, spit connecting him to Dean’s dick in a sloppy string that he licks up only after a second hanging there—and he looks at Dean up the stretch of his torso, pink burnt into his cheeks and patchy on his chest, want in his eyes. Want, and nothing else, and Dean thumbs over the wet dark of his lips and holds his jaw, and Sam leans in still watching him and suckles at the head, sparky jolting pressure crushing up in Dean’s gut and balls and in his fingertips, his toes curling, and Sam closes his eyes and goes down, his hand on Dean’s stomach like a ton weight, his hair brushing Dean’s belly, his mouth warm, and Dean—

It’s only after, that Dean works up the courage. When Sam’s spilled over his stomach and Dean’s cleaned them both up, haphazard, with the skirt of his dressing gown. With wine still in the bottle, while they pass it back and forth between them, and the fire gilding amber light over Sam’s shoulders. He meets Dean’s eyes and they both laugh, for what reason Dean doesn’t know but it feels good, right. Sam’s mouth is curled still at the corners, and Dean rolls close and drags his thumb along Sam’s ribs, where they used to stand out against the hungry pit of his belly, and says, before he can chicken out, "Gonna stay, Sammy?"

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear the answer, but he needs to hear it. Sooner, rather than later, so he’ll know if he can rest now, or if he needs to plan for a sleepless night of taking in every single ounce of Sam that he can—every story, every kiss. Every ounce of blood it’ll take to last more years, without him. If he even can.

Sam sighs, and settles his hand on Dean’s hip. "I ran," he says, very quietly. Dean looks at him and Sam’s watching his face. "We went on patrol, into the Anderfels, and I slipped my commander and stole a horse and rode. East, as far as I could go before the horse went lame, and then I kept going." Sam shrugs, with one shoulder. "There’s a lot of east, between the Anderfels and the Free Marches. But I didn’t stop."

Dean breathes, shaky, imagining. The world opening up, when it's been so long of his compacted, empty nothing. Okay. Hiding Sam from the Wardens—and his neighbors—and what they’ll do. How they'll live—will they have to run? He doesn't know, and realizes after so long of grinding to get to this place, he doesn't care. The house doesn't matter, the city doesn't matter. Nothing has mattered, without Sam.

Sam’s still watching him, eyes dark, and Dean reaches out and tucks his hair back from his forehead, pushing it behind his ear. "You’ll have to tell me about Orlais sometime," he says, and Sam smiles at him.

"Bunch of cheese-eaters," he says, leaning in close like it’s a secret, and Dean laughs, soft and tired and feeling, for the first time in three years, like he’s whole.

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

Quiddity: the essence or inherent nature of a person or thing / an eccentricity; an odd feature / a trifle; a nicety or quibble. For f!Hawke/Merrill!

f!Hawke/Merrill, “That Thing About You” (AO3)

“The Dread Wolf take you!”, Merrill screamed, slicing her hand and powering a deadly spell.

An unsuspecting slaver at first felt a brief discomfort, then an excruciating, bone-rending pain as his own insides came under her thrall, twisting and turning beyond human tolerance before he collapsed dead on the floor, blood streaming from his eyes and ears, and a few other orifices besides.

Moments later, the detached head, shoulder and arm of his henchman hit the floor next to him, followed by the rest of his body, the two halves having been cleaved apart from each other by Fenris’ greatsword.

“That should it for now,” he wryly commented, continuing, “and the world’s no poorer with them out of it. Tevinters, you noticed?”

Abigail Hawke looked over the corpses, noting their clothes and weapons. “Without a doubt. Either hunting escaped ones or looking for new ones down in these parts. You think they’ve got any connection to…”

Fenris shook his head. “I doubt it. These seem like men of lower ranks—just peons of bosses far away. Still, they’re reasonably well-equipped, and even managed to hire a couple of blood mages. I suppose we’ve done the world a favour here, even without these mages’ employers here to join them.”

Hawke raised her eyebrow pointedly as Merrill looked off to the side.

Rolling his eyes, Fenris clarified, “Slavers, Tevinters, whichever of the two. Do I have to say, ‘present company excluded’ every time?”

“I guess not,” Hawke said, “but the least you could do is not go out of your way to disparage your present company.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Fenris said, “I don’t we’re going to get anywhere with this. I’ll go scout ahead and see if they’ve any stragglers.”

With that, he was gone, Merrill coming over to Hawke’s side as she began her ritual of rifling through the pockets of everyone they’d just killed to see if there was anything worth pawning off once they got back to Kirkwall.

“You know, you don’t have to rise to meet it every time he tries to goad me,” Merrill said, crouching by Hawke as Abigail fished out a few silver coins from the bifurcated slaver’s purse.

Abigail asked, shoving the coins into her own pocket, “And what would you have me do? Stand there and let him vaguely, or not-so-vaguely murmur about mages and blood magic and all that while you’re in his presence? The least I can do for you is to tell him to shut up, at least for a while.”

“And what do you think?”, Merrill asked, standing up to look over at the slaver she’d eviscerated with her blood magic.

“Of what?”, Hawke asked innocently.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Merrill said, pressing on, “Are you worried about my blood magic, Hawke?”

Standing up to face her, Abigail said, “You know that I trust you—”

“That wasn’t the question I was asking, Hawke,” Merrill insisted, saying, “I…need to know. You can be honest with me.”

“If we’re being perfectly honest?”, Hawke asked. “I’m as worried about it as anything I don’t really understand and which can blow up in my face. But the same goes for Fenris’ glowing fist thing or Bianca whenever Varric’s testing the hair-trigger mechanism. So no, it doesn’t worry me any more than anything we encounter on a daily basis, Merrill.”

Taking a few moments to settle her thoughts, Merrill said, “Thank you, Hawke. I know it doesn’t make me the easiest person to—”

Hawke swept her hands in front of her dismissively. “That’s the part where you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean?”, Merrill asked.

“If I’d run into a random stranger wielding blood magic I’d be worried, or on my guard if they were a Tevinter like our late friends here. But I know you wouldn’t do anything to harm me, or any of our companions, or even Fenris at his worst.”

“I…thank you,” Merrill said, adding, “That means so much to me.”

“As I said,” Hawke explained as she took Merrill’s hands in hers, “It’s really the least I can do, Merrill.”

Fenris walked in, covered in fresh blood.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but there was one left. He’s been, ah, dealt with.”

“Ah, right,” Hawke said, letting go of her lover’s hands. “Thanks, Fenris.”

“And…” Fenris said, catching his breath first. “Thank you, Merrill. I do appreciate you taking out the enemies I can’t reach with my ‘glowing fist thing’.”

“Oh!”, she said, surprised. “You’re very welcome, Fenris. And I value your, uh, glowing fist thing when you deploy it. That…doesn’t sound all that right.”

“Let’s be honest, Isabela’s driven all our minds into the gutter,” Abigail said. “Come on, let’s turn in these miscreants for our reward.”

Merrill led the way out of the mine, with Hawke and Fenris following behind.

“So,” Hawke asked, “how much of that did you hear?”

“Enough,” Fenris said. “You’re very good to her.”

Hawke turned to him, asking, “But…?”

“No buts about it. You’re not about to change my opinion of blood magic in a single afternoon, Hawke, but if you trust her, I won’t argue.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Fenris,” Hawke said, “Still, you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What is that?”, Fenris asked.

“There was a ‘but’ in there after all,” Abigail explained, chuckling slightly at the end. “A ‘but’ in there…Maker, we’ve all been spending too much time around Isabela.”

“The opposite of ‘no butts about it’ wholly applies there,” he commented wryly, following Hawke and Merrill where they led.

-

@dadrunkwriting

[felassanis]

I CANNOT SLEEP MY MIND IS BUZZING ABOUT FENRIS OH MY LORD

I just need to spew my insomnia induced thoughts about my favourite Elf alright?

So, I have watched and re-done the Fenhawke romance A BILLION times over and I just need to point out how fucking PARANOID this man is. It’s really scary and disturbingly realistic how Bioware portrayed this character and his mental health. I get why he’s so on edge obviously he’s on the run from a slaver and is constantly being hunted but I feel like I need to point out how Fenris in the game is shown to be paranoid and scared and what certain aspects of him I have analysed and deduced.

For one he sleeps with a sword next to his bed. If you go into his mansion and look by the bed there is a sword there unless I fucking imagined it. I don’t have a picture and I can’t boot up the game rn to check it but I SWEAR if my memory serves me he sleeps with a sword next to him.

I also HAVE TO BRING UP that piece of dialogue after he kills Hadriana and another bit of dialogue before the fateful tavern scene.

“Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would be suicide! Danarius has to know about her and has to know that Hadriana knows,” and “The more it seems he doesn’t know the more certain I am that he does!” Like...The first dialogue is just manic RAMBLING and him jumping to conclusions based on his now fight or flight response to the revelation that he has a sister. He’s trying to process everything and is fucking freaking out because  ‘DANARIUS DANARIUS DANARIUS!’ and the second dialogue is also a tidbit of that jumping to conclusions habit and just straight up being haunted by his master and always expecting him to have some kind of one up on Fenris. It’s like deep down Fenris thinks Danarius will win no matter what. It’s not a part of him strong enough to dull his fighting spirit of course but it is a seed of doubt very well planted within him.

His idle animation has this little part where he whips his head round to look over his shoulder. He doesn’t do it once either he looks and then looks around some more and then does a double-take by looking again as if he didn’t trust himself the first time. He also slouches which is, of course, a typical stance for slaves; the head bowed, makes himself look small and minor but it could also have connotations to him being battle-ready 24/7. He looks primal almost. However, it also suggests that he can’t bring himself to sit straight and relax...he’s used to sitting hunched over. Maybe to conceal his face when in public or due to his stress. It might just be because he’s also got the weight of the massive chip on his shoulder lol...

Speaking of stress I KNOW his hair is white because of the Lyrium but from an aesthetic look, the white hair has connotations to stress and is a reflection of the hardships this character has endured. And the SPIKES ON HIS ARMOUR. My god the spikes...Varric calling him a ‘porcupine’ just seals the deal that his armour is meant to mirror that animal. I’m no expert on porcupines but I’m pretty sure they extend their spikes when threatened and to keep threats away. So the spikes on Fenris’s armour are meant to connote to his tendency to keep people at a distance and how he constantly feels threatened. I also have to note that the color scheme of Fenris has connotations to Coldness and emptiness (Because of the silver, blue, white and black) a color scheme that fits his past. 

And when Fenris wears Hawke’s red token it’s a sign of him letting warmth into his life. Since red = warmth (and also love so he’s taking in love too) and it is a very nice contrast with his armour.

So yeah...I just needed to get that out. I use the word the ‘connotation’ a lot I know but it’s a good word so deal with it.