#I could not bear to cover up solas’ neck and shoulders

[telanadasvhenan]

Slaps my lavellan this bad boy can fit so many abandonment issues

edit: uploaded the right picture lol

[pikapeppa]

Solavellan smut: Patience

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to @elbenherzart, my smutmate (i.e. smut soulmate)!!! In honour of my beloved friend’s existence, I have made her some PWP featuring voice kink and dom!Solas. 😍😍😍

This also coincidentally matches up with Day 14 of @scharoux​‘s @14daysofdalovers​ prompts:  NSFW. (OBVIOUSLY I was going to jump in on this one because I am garbage.)

Read here on AO3 instead. ~3100 words. OH, ALSO, THERE IS NSFW ART ON AO3 by Elbenherz. GO CHECK IT OUT.

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“Be patient, Nare.”

“I’m trying,” she panted. 

Solas smiled faintly at her. Patience was hardly her strong suit. Which was, of course, why he was asking it of her.

In all fairness, Nare boasted a multitude of other strengths. She was decisive and firm when difficult choices needed to be made – necessary qualities in any good leader. Her mind was sharp and quick, and Solas often found himself simply watching her face while she was thinking, admiring the way her bright blue eyes darted from side to side as though they were tracing the shapes of her thoughts in the air. She was a quick student of magic, absorbing his teachings about the Fade and picking up the dirth’ena enasalin with a speed that would have made the ancient Sentinels proud. 

Yes, Nare was a woman of many fine qualities. But patience was not one of them. 

She was breathing hard through her parted lips, and her palms were flat on his abs: a way to brace herself as she ground herself against his lap. But as soon as her fingers started to slide down toward his unlaced breeches, Solas grabbed her hands. 

“Patience,” he said firmly.

“I-I’m trying,” she whimpered. She twined her fingers with his as she rolled her hips toward him, and Solas forced himself to take a slow and even breath. The silk of Nare’s smallclothes was visibly damp, rendering the slippery fabric even slicker still, and every time she bucked her hips, the feel of the silk sliding smoothly against his shaft was like a call for him to thrust toward her in turn.

With a great effort of will, he resisted the urge. He resisted the siren call of her body and the primal scent of the heat between her legs. Instead, he took slow and even breaths, and he relaxed into the couch and simply watched her as she rubbed herself against him in a rising storm of desperation. 

She bucked her hips again, rubbing her silk-covered cleft along the length of his shaft, and her breath left her lips on a shaky sigh. “Solas…”

“Be calm, Nare,” he told her. “Try to do as I told you. Settle your mind on the feeling. Breathe into it as you move.” 

“But I need more,” she gasped. “I – i-it – it feels…” She broke off with another shuddery breath.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels like I need you to fuck me,” she blurted. She bucked toward him again, sending a ripple of pleasure through his cock and down to his thighs.

He released a careful, even breath to calm himself. “That is insufficient, da’len,” he said. “Tell me more of what it is like. Tell me of the sensations that you feel.” 

“Like what?” she whined. “It feels… good. I feel good, but if you touch me, I’ll–”

He interrupted her. “Is it a buzzing sensation that you feel? A constant thrum of thwarted pleasure?”

She arched her spine and let out a shaky laugh. “Are you asking if there are bees in my breeches?” 

He huffed in amusement at her irreverent reference to Sera. When she rolled her pelvis toward him again, he tilted his hips away from her as a tiny punishment. 

She mewled and arched her back again. “Solas, please!” 

He ignored her plea. “Tell me, Nare. Is it a thrumming between your legs, like the beat of a second heart?”

She gasped shakily and nodded her head. “Yes.”

“Does it bear the likeness of a pulse, as though the wanting is swelling to life with every passing breath?” he asked.

“Yes, yes!” she whined.

He gave her a chiding look. “Do you truly feel this way, Nare? Or are you simply agreeing in the hopes of gaining my approval?”

A beautiful grin lit her face, and she broke into a breathy laugh. “No, I’m not! The – the heartbeat, the pulse, that’s…” She strained her hips towards him. “Gods, please, I need you…”

“Focus on that pulse, Nare,” he murmured. “Sink your mind into that sensation, and you will get there on your own.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You really think I can come just from riding you and barely any touching?”

“I do not think you can,” he said. “I know it.”

She twisted her hips in frustration. “How can you know that?”

“I know your body, Nare,” he said softly. He released one of her hands and stroked her cheek. “More importantly, I know your mind. I know what you are capable of. It not unlike mustering the energy required to form your spirit blade.”

She released another slow breath and rubbed herself against his cock. “Talk me through it. Please,” she begged.

He swallowed hard against another surge of pleasure. “I would be happy to do so,” he said. He slipped his hand around to the back of her neck, then gently pulled her closer and lifted his lips to her ear. 

She was panting already, desperate already before he’d even said a word. Her breathing was a whimper of untamed lust, and the wanton rocking of her hips was fast and uncontrolled, and with every stroke of her silk-veiled cleft, the pulse in his cock was beating just as strongly as the thrum that she claimed was rising between her legs.

He forced himself to relax into the cushions of the couch. Patience, he thought. It may not be Nare’s strong suit, but it was his, and he was fully prepared to use it to his advantage for both their sakes.

He brushed his lips against her ear in a feather-light touch. “Focus on that pulse,” he instructed. “Find the rhythm of it. Move your hips in time with that rhythm.”

 She instantly slowed her frantic bucking to a slow and rhythmic grind, and in the matter of moments, her breathing was growing deeper and steadier too.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now imagine me touching you.”

She moaned and dug her nails into the back of his hand. Solas smirked and continued to guide her. “Imagine my fingers finding that pulse between your legs,” he suggested. “Imagine how it feels to have my tongue sweeping across that tender pulse.”

She dragged in a whimpering breath. “Please, please, I need that…”

He shook his head slightly. “You don’t need it, Nare. You simply want it. You will find your pleasure without my fingers and without my tongue.” 

She whined in frustration, but Solas continued to speak. “Focus on the promise in that pulse. That sharp and beating pulse will grow and blossom when your pleasure peaks. I am certain of this.”

She released a little laugh that was more moan than mirth. “Promises, promises,” she taunted.

He smiled at her sass. “This is an unequivocal promise,” he said. He released her hand and curved his palm over her hip.

Nare gasped loudly, and his cock jerked at the perfect sound. She was so wanton and willing, splayed across his lap wearing only her sodden smallclothes, and as was often the case when they moved together, he was struck by the odd and vertiginous novelty of being wanted this badly. Of being wanted at all, if truth be told. Of being seen not as a god or a monster or the wolf who broke the elvhen race, but as a simple man… 

A bitter twist of gratefulness and guilt squeezed his heart. He had much to appreciate about Nare, the least of it being the sheer unstoppable greed with which she savoured every moment of their sex, but this was no time to indulge in such melancholy. 

He gently tilted her hips toward his cock. “Feel the rhythm as you move, da’len,” he whispered. “Focus on that feeling, and imagine me bringing it forth with my mouth between your legs.”

She gasped and rocked her hips in time with his hand. “Y-yes…”

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asked.

She nodded erratically. “I… please, keep – don’t stop talking.”

He smiled faintly, then carefully slid the fingers of his other hand from her nape to the side of her neck. By the time his fingers were framing her throat in a gentle grip, she was gasping fitfully and grinding her hips toward him, even though his hand on her hip was stopping her from rubbing against his cock with more than a gentle brush of pressure.

He murmured to her again. “I know you can feel it growing stronger. I can hear it in your breath. Are you thinking of my lips between your legs?”

“Yes,” she panted.

“Are you imagining the caress of my tongue?” he asked.

She whimpered. “Yes, yes!”

“Can you imagine the way I will fill you when your pleasure has crested?” he whispered, and he gently squeezed her throat.

She gasped loudly. “Y-yes! Yes, I – fuck, ah!” She broke off with a wild cry, and a convulsive shudder rocked through her body as she came. She arched her spine and thrust her breasts toward him, and Solas shamelessly admired the peaks of her nipples as she twisted on his lap in the throes of the pleasure she’d procured through the power of her own focus. 

“Good,” he said approvingly. “That is very good, da’len.”

She sobbed and stroked his bare chest. “Solas, please…”

Without releasing her throat, he curved the tips of his fingers into the slick crotch of her smallclothes and brushed his knuckle over her swollen bud. 

She cried out again and bucked toward his hand, and Solas nodded. “This is excellent, Nare,” he said. He tugged gently at her smalls. “Take these off now.”

She immediately stood up and shed her smalls, then straddled his lap once more, and Solas watched avidly as she shoved away the fabric of his breeches to fully expose his cock. A heartbeat later, she was clasping his shoulders and spreading her creamy heat over the hardness of his shaft. 

He gasped, thrilled by the sudden blissful warmth. Before he could say anything more or give her any further instructions, she was rising on her knees and grasping his shaft and her hand was so smooth and warm, fenedhis–

She slid down onto his cock in one swift thrust, and he burst out a helpless groan. “Nare…”

“Yes!” she screamed, and a moment later, she was fucking him hard and fast. 

He gasped and lifted his hips, meeting her thrust for thrust for a shining blissful moment, then grabbed her hips and forced her to stop. 

She strained and dug her nails into his collarbones. “Solas, please!” she cried. “Please, please, let me fuck you, plea– Oh gods!” She gasped and shuddered once more, and for good reason: he was rubbing his knuckles softly over her clit. 

She shook her head and sobbed, even as she spread her legs wider to allow the gentle touch. “Please, I need you!” she begged. “Solas, let me fuck you, I can’t wait…”

“You can, Nare,” he replied. “You will come for me once more.” There was a guttural edge to his own voice, and he knew Nare could hear it too, for she strained and twisted even harder with another fitful sob. 

“I can’t wait!” she cried. “I can’t, I can’t, please...”

Her hips were moving still, taking him blissfully deeper with the tiny rocking motions that his grip on her hip would allow, but he forced himself to remain still. “Be patient,” he said – both for her benefit and his. 

“I can’t!” she sobbed. “I need you! I need you so much, Solas, I – I need this all the time, every day, all the time, I – I think about you fucking me and I can’t… I can’t do anything else, I…” 

He ran his knuckle softly over her slick and swollen center. “I know, da’len,” he told her. “In every spare moment, I too find myself thinking about this.” He gazed at the crux of her thighs, the shining evidence of her desire as it graced his body, then lifted his eyes back to her flushed and lovely face. 

“You are far more preoccupying than you have any right to be,” he said softly. 

A brilliant smile lifted her lips. “Sweet talker,” she teased.

He smiled back at her, then released her hip and took her chin in a gentle grip. “Not nearly as sweet as the way you taste,” he purred.

Her smile instantly fell into a desperate gasp. “Gods, fucking Fen’Harel take me,” she mewled. 

Not yet, he thought with a bittersweet pang. A few minutes more, minutes of Nare writhing on his lap and taking her pleasure from his teasing touch, and then she would have exactly what she was asking for, whether she knew it or not. 

He pulled her closer with his hand on her chin and brushed his lips to hers. “Focus and patience, da’len. Place your mind right here.” He stroked her clit in a soft and gentle rhythm.

She nodded furiously. Her breathing evened and slowed, matching the slow and careful slide of his fingers between her legs, and Solas watched carefully as the pleasure flickered across her face.

“Tell me what you need,” he said in a low and coaxing tone.

She drew a tremulous breath. “Ah… I…”

“Do you desire a firmer touch?” he asked.

She bit her lip. “Y-yes, a bit more…?” She broke off with a gasp as he rubbed her clit more firmly, and once again, he forced himself to breathe through the lustful clamour of his cock. 

He brushed his thumb over her lips. “Does this suit you better?”

She nodded again. “Yes, yes!”

“Good,” he murmured. “When you reach your heights, you can have what you want the most.”

She gasped again. “Tell me!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me what I want!” she burst out.

He smirked. “Do you not know?”

She let out a breathless little laugh. “I do, I do, I just – please, I want to hear you say it, please…”

He ran his thumb over her lower lip once more. “You want me to take you as deeply and roughly as the Waking Sea pounds the Storm Coast shore.”

Her lips dropped open on a shameless moan. “Fuck yes, I do,” she whined.

“Then find your pleasure, Nare,” he commanded. “A moment more of patience, and you will have what you want.”

This time, she didn’t reply. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her nails were a sharp bite in his shoulders, and Solas held his breath as he rubbed the delicious little nub between her legs–

She cried out in climax and arched her spine. “Please!” she wailed. “Please, Solas, fuck me!”

And so he did. He grabbed her hips and slammed himself deep, gasping loudly as his own thwarted rapture ratcheted toward him. An instant later, she was riding him with such a furious speed that he could barely catch his breath. 

He groaned. Patience, patience, he coached himself, but it was too late; he’d waited for long enough, holding back his own pleasure with the same force of mind that Nare had used to will her climax forth. At long last, he allowed himself to relax completely into the heated weight of her hips and the slick and heated pressure of her body embracing his eager cock.

She clasped his neck, thrusting toward him with such force that she made the couch creak, and all the while he was gasping, gasping in time with the rising pulse that was thrumming between his legs–

She dipped her head and kissed him hard. Her tongue slid into his mouth in sleek thrust, and Solas came. 

He dug his fingers into her hips and moaned shamelessly into her mouth, and her nails scored his shoulders as she fucked him through the pulsing roar of his climax. A few blinding, disorienting moments later, when his mind was no longer a senseless buzz of ecstasy, Nare peeled away from his lips and pressed her forehead to his. 

“I love you so much,” she panted.

He smiled at her. “Are you certain you are not blinded by your climax?” he teased.

She laughed and pinched his ear. “No! Of course not. I…” She nibbled her lip for a moment before speaking. “That thing you said before. That you know my… body and my mind?” 

He tilted his head quizzically, and she shyly ducked her head and tucked her russet hair behind her ear. “No one knows me like you do, Solas. No one has ever…” She swallowed hard, then lifted her eyes to his once more. “Thank you,” she said seriously. “For, um, taking the time.” 

He gazed at her with a suddenly aching heart. It is I who should be thanking you, he thought. The time that she had taken, time spent in the rotunda with him and walking side-by-side across the continent on their endless journeys, speaking with him despite their occasional disagreements and learning from him despite her long and arduous days dealing with Inquisition business… 

Nare knew him, too. She knew him as Solas, a patient and studious man who studied spirits and walked happily in the Fade. She knew him as Solas, the mild-mannered man who could strip her bare and give her the precise sort of pleasure that her body was starving for. And in moments like this, wrapped in her loving and sweat-laced embrace, he wished from the bottom of his breaking heart that Solas was all he was. 

He cradled her slender neck in his palms. “Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he whispered. “More than I can possibly say.”

She smiled slowly at him, like a sunrise of happiness bursting across her beautiful face, and Solas kissed her once more. He pulled gently at her lower lip with his own, savouring the plumpness of her lip and the needy little gasp that left her throat.   

“Please,” she breathed. “Fuck me again?”

He smiled, genuinely amused by her insatiability. He was still inside of her from the first time around. 

He smoothed his hands over the silken curves of her body until she arched into his hands. “Patience, Nare,” he said. “We have all night.” 

She nodded eagerly. “Yes,” she panted. 

He smiled more widely still, then tilted his chin up and kissed her once again. There would come a day when Solas would curse himself for letting her close, for permitting himself to dip so thoughtlessly into the blissful taste of everything she had to offer. But for now, he would savour her acceptance and her adoration. 

For now, Solas would content himself with teaching Nare a little patience. 

[johaerys-writes]

Witcher AU: Viper In Tall Grass

Chapter (2/3): Silver Is For Monsters

Summary: Tristan of Toussaint is a witcher, his life dedicated to following the Path of the Viper. It is curiosity more than anything that leads him to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis's court. That is where he meets Dorian Pavus, lead sorcerer and advisor to the crown of Nilfgaard, and his life as he knows it changes for good.

They say that destiny is inexorable. Tristan is starting to see the wisdom in that saying.

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This is the second part of the prequel fic I’ve written for the as-yet-untitled Witcher AU my beloved friendo @solas-disapproves​ and I have been working on! I hope you enjoy :)

Read here or on AO3! 

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The acrid smell of drowner blood and the stale, murky waters of Crookback bog reached Tristan’s nostrils several hours before the low reaching branches of the marsh trees rolled into view. The ground had already started becoming slippery a good way back, after they had left Downwarren, the only village in that area whose occupants still dared to live that close to the bog. Brave bastards. Or foolish. Perhaps both.

Tristan steered Almond around a wide dip along the half-abandoned dirt road that led to the swamps, his senses perked up for any possible threat. Animal sounds had started to become scarcer the deeper the rode in, settlements and signs of human activity even more so. Tristan couldn’t blame them - the bog was said to be haunted, cursed, home only to witches, ghosts and monsters. He himself had killed a fair amount of them, but even he was always reluctant to stray too far, lest he never made it out again. Crookbag bog was treacherous, and its inhabitants even more so.

Even Pavus had stopped his merry chatting a while before, keeping to himself most of the time. It felt odd to Tristan that he was so quiet. The hours rolled on far more slowly than before, his nerves stretching thinner and thinner the more the light was obscured by the dense foliage and the shadows grew longer with the setting sun. It was with more than a hint of reluctance that he admitted to himself that perhaps he did, in fact, appreciate the mage’s teasing jokes, even though he rarely, if ever, responded to them.

Perhaps he had grown sentimental, after all.

It took half a day of riding before Tristan started noticing deep and heavy hoofprints that looked nothing like deer or fox or wolf prints. Few foxes or wolves would linger in these parts, and certainly no deer. When they passed through a small clearing and Tristan saw a tree deeply scratched by something that looked like stag antlers, only twice as tall and perhaps three times as thick, he pulled Almond’s reins and dismounted.

“The Fiend’s lair must be close,” he grunted, more so to himself than to the mage.

Pavus shifted on his saddle, his eyes following him intently. “How do you know?”

Tristan’s fingers skimmed the deep, ragged scars on the tree trunk. “It’s a young male, probably, judging by the smell,” he said. Relatively young, at least. Fiends could live for hundreds of years. “Its antlers are sharp. Fiends only scratch their antlers when they feel safe, and nothing speaks safety more clearly than a lair.” He looked around him, lifting his head to sniff the air. An intense smell of pheromones and relict glands reached him. He scrunched his nose, frowning. “That way,” he said pointing to the east. He returned to his horse, pulling her reins towards the west.

“Aren’t we going that way?” Pavus asked, lifting his brows, nodding towards the east.

Tristan scoffed. “We would be, if we were suicidal. Have you never heard that a witcher’s preparation takes time?”

“Ah, yes. I was wondering when you would start sacrificing roosters and praying to… which god do you witchers pray to, again?”

“None,” Tristan replied gruffly. “But if you do believe in one, you should pray to them tonight. Tomorrow we attack, and we’ll need all the help we can get.”

**

Wind and Fire, Water and Earth. Four elements, bound as one. Order and Chaos, Life and Death, each one a side of the viper’s forked tongue. When the winds are low, when the night is dark, beware the venom of the viper’s fang.

Tristan ran the chant over and over in his mind, going through each step as he sank into a deeper and deeper meditation. It was among the first things he had been trained to do, even before taking up a sword. He was barely ten years old, fresh from the ritual, when he’d been left in a cell at the top of the highest tower in Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper School’s donjon in the deep chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. He had stayed there for days, weeks, until his mind was empty of all thoughts and all that was left was focus. Pure focus. The strength of the witcher, and the source of his power.

Skill at arms makes you a fighter, Heir would always say. Focus is what makes you a witcher. Sometimes it was like he could still see her from the corner of his eye, leaning against a wall and twirling a dagger between her fingers as she watched him train. He hadn’t seen her in years. He idly wondered how she was.

Tristan opened his eyes slowly, the faint light around him shining just that tiny bit more brightly than before he entered his meditation. Pavus hadn’t woken up yet, even though it was almost dawn, a stark line of grey peeking over the eastern mountains in the distance. Tristan approached their camp slowly, careful not to wake him. His features were soft, lids moving gently as he dreamt, his blanket rising and falling with his breaths. He looked so peaceful, so serene in his sleep. Without his clever quips and witty comebacks, or the wide teasing smile he usually wore like a suit of armour, he seemed… delicate. Tangible. Beautiful and vulnerable, and so very achingly real. Tristan watched him in silence, transfixed, listening to the beating of his heart as the seconds languidly rolled on.

A breeze blew past them, ruffling Pavus’ dark hair, stirring Tristan out of his reverie. He knelt beside him, carefully lifting the thick woollen blanket until its hem rested under Pavus’ chin. The sun was steadily rising, its golden rays slithering through the gaps in the thick foliage overhead, yet the night chill still lingered in the air. It would be a good time to start their journey to the Fiend’s lair, he knew, yet Tristan couldn’t bear the thought of waking him. Time of day did not make much difference to Fiends, yet it did to humans. No one knew exactly what they would be facing, or whether they would be getting out whole. Better let the man get some rest, now that he could.

Tristan took a step back, his gaze lingering on Pavus’s sleeping form for a breath before turning away. He sat by the fire, stirring the glowing embers. The fire crackled, flames licking up at a half-burned log, hungrily seeking the fresh wood underneath the charred edges. Tristan watched quietly for a moment before fishing a small pot out of his bag, along with a bag of tough rolled oats. The least he could do while he waited for Pavus to wake up was to prepare a decent breakfast. They both needed the strength. Besides, a warm meal could do wonders for one’s mood before a battle. Tristan was never one to care too much about food, but Pavus had evidently grown up in luxury. Perhaps it would do him some good to eat something wholesome after all the hard travel bread and cheese they’d been having for days.

He was absently stirring the porridge in the pot when Pavus rose from his slumber. He pushed himself up with a groan, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Good morning, my delightful travelling companion.”

“Morning.”

“It’s so early,” he moaned, stretching his limbs. “Practically still night.”

“It’s late,” Tristan said flatly, banging his small ladle against the rim of the pot. He kept his eyes on the porridge, avoiding the mage’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Figured you needed the sleep.”

“Ah, yes,” Pavus said, tossing the covers off him. “Beauty sleep is just the thing one needs before taking on a legendary beast.”

The laces at the top of his shirt had come undone, a swath of bronze skin peeking through the fabric. Tristan swallowed thickly, tearing his gaze away to rummage through his bag for a bowl and a spoon. He gave a small start when he realised Pavus had come close, peering over his shoulder at the porridge simmering in the pot. His scent, that heady, spicy, intoxicating scent, flooded his senses, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Now that he was so close he could make out the distinct undertones of his cologne, lingering on his skin from the previous day, but there was something else, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Was it aniseed? Or caraway? Or maybe...

Tristan clenched his jaw, fighting the sudden, unbearable urge to lean closer and bury his nose in his neck, let that scent fill his lungs. He dropped a generous helping of the porridge into the bowl, unceremoniously handing it over to Pavus. The mage glanced quizzically at it, then at him, hesitating for a moment before accepting.

“You cooked for me?”

“For both of us,” Tristan corrected. “Thought we could have something heartier than stale bread and cheese for a change.” He stood up to remove the pot from the fire, sitting back down a good distance away. He idly stirred the porridge with the small ladle, letting it cool down for a bit before bringing a spoonful to his mouth.

“Do you not have a bowl?” Pavus asked him.

“I travel alone. Why would I need a second bowl?”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you for giving me your solitary bowl, then.” Pavus smiled at him from across the fire, sniffing the porridge before trying it. Then his long, aquiline nose wrinkled in a disgusted frown. "My, is this bland."

A spark of irritation flared in Tristan's chest. "Next time, you cook the damned porridge. We're on the road, not in a bloody palace."

"Just because we aren't in a palace doesn't mean we need to suffer," Pavus replied before procuring a small pouch from one of the many pockets of his coat. He sprinkled some on his porridge, then handed it over to him.

"What is it?" Tristan asked, reluctantly accepting.

"It's a very rare spice. I bought it from a merchant who had just returned from Zerrikania."

"Zerrikania? I thought no merchants went there."

"Not the merchants you're familiar with, evidently," Pavus replied with a sniff, stirring his porridge.

Tristan carefully, almost reverentially opened the pouch, glancing inside it. Whatever it was, if it had come from Zerrikania, it must have cost a fortune. He had heard countless tales of odd items from that faraway eastern land making their way to the west, yet he had never seen anything up close. He caught some of the spice with his finger, then dabbed it on his tongue. And quirked an eyebrow at the mage. "That's just sugar and cinnamon."

Pavus's full lips widened in a grin. "I had you fooled there for a minute, didn't I?"

Tristan shot him a disgruntled frown as he sprinkled some of the concoction into his pot. He was loathe to admit it, yet the porridge did taste a lot better with Pavus's addition. He grunted silently as he chewed, gazing at the leaves stirring with the wind above them. The swamp air was rank and rancid, yet there was still wind coming from somewhere. He could sense the faint smell of sea water, drifting with the breeze. Perhaps they were closer to the sea than he had thought. Or perhaps there was a salt water lake nearby, that he had failed to notice the last time he had been there. Or perhaps…

Idle thoughts and musings were somewhat successful in distracting him from the mage’s gaze, that seemed to fall on him more often than not. He prayed his cheeks would remain their normal colour when he heard Pavus clearing his throat.

“I can’t help but wonder.” Tristan raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and the mage continued. “You let me sleep in. You made breakfast. Why is that?”

Tristan shrugged. “No particular reason.”

“You don’t strike me as a man that does anything for no reason.” Sterling grey eyes fixed themselves intently on him, the golden flecks in them sparkling with the light of the fire. “I’m starting to think that our quest is more perilous than I initially thought.”

“Possibly. If either you or Emhyr knew exactly how dangerous a Fiend can be, you wouldn’t have hired just one witcher to kill it.” Tristan’s lips tightened in a line. “Fiends are deadly. You should prepare yourself for that possibility.”

Pavus stayed silent for a long moment, peering at the crackling flames. Then, he glanced at the bowl in his hands and scoffed. “If you think that a simple bowl of porridge is a fit preparation for possible death, you are thoroughly mistaken.” He set the bowl down, fished his flask of brandy out of his bag and leaned back on his arm, a smirk playing on his lips. “I believe this is as good a time as any for a story. Don’t you?” Tristan gaped at him, confused. He opened his mouth to refuse, when Pavus held up a finger. “Before you say no again, remember that this might be your last chance. If what you say is true, that Fiend might well get the better of me. Or you. Wouldn’t you want to at least have imparted one of your precious stories to a -very- willing ear?”

Tristan frowned at him. He was ready to retort, then noticed the edges of Pavus’ mouth twitching just a hair. It was only for a moment, a blink of an eye, but it was enough for Tristan to see the unease hiding under his smooth, glossy surface. The expectancy. The hope. He snapped his mouth shut, his frown deepening. What was it that Pavus wanted of him? Why were Tristan’s stories so important to him? Why… why did he want to get to know him?

He looked stubbornly away, past the line of trees that surrounded their small camp, keeping them safe from view. He thought he heard Pavus sighing softly, then stilling as Tristan's voice broke the silence. “There was a contract I took up once. In Redania." Pavus' eyes snapped to him. Tristan stirred the porridge in his pot, that was now starting to get sticky and thick, letting the silence stretch between them before he continued. "It was for an alpor. Do you know what that is?"

"I've heard stories," Pavus said slowly, carefully. "They’re said to prey on the blood of sleeping people and creatures. There are tales of them using their charm to seduce handsome young men."

Tristan scoffed. “Have you ever seen an alpor up close?” He shook his head. “No. They’re not seducing anyone. Don’t need to. They move so soundlessly, sometimes not even witchers can hear them. They inject their victims with the venom of their fangs, putting them to sleep while they suck their blood dry.” Tristan paused, gazing into the distance as he recounted his story. "I'd heard the rumours while riding through Blaviken. That alpor had been terrorizing the countryside for months. Animals, travellers, some farmhands working late in the fields. Even children, straight from their beds. I stopped by a village and the townsfolk begged me to kill her. The reward they offered me was twice as high the normal pay. Alpors are vicious. Often, one person isn't enough to take them down. I agreed to take up the contract if some men from the village agreed to come with me, work up a distraction while I attacked her. Four of them did. Young ones, their blood boiling for a fight." He took a bite of his porridge, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch. "We set out that night. I'd fixed my armour, prepared my potions, my poisons, sharpened my blades. Alpors need patience to kill. They appear and disappear on their own terms. We camped out close to where I had found her lair to be to wait her out. The hours went on and on, yet still there was no sign of her. Some of the men got impatient."

"Impatient?" Pavus blinked as he took a draught of his brandy. "I can't picture anyone being impatient to meet such a being."

"As I said,” Tristan scraped the last of his porridge from the bottom of the pot as he spoke, "they were young. Not the best help for a contract like that, but I didn't have much of a choice. One of them had brought a couple bottles of whisky he had made himself. It was foul stuff. It burnt its way down your throat, made your eyes water. A couple swigs and you were done for. I urged them not to drink too much, but they wouldn't listen. A couple hours went by and they were all sloshed." He gave Pavus a small smirk. "Me included."

Pavus' eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Truly? You decided to get drunk with that creature lurking about?"

Tristan huffed a laugh, setting his empty pot aside. "It would have probably been fine if that was all we decided to do. Some of the lads got peckish. Decided to go to the nearest village to get some food. I told them that nothing would be open at that hour, but-”

“Let me guess. They wouldn’t listen.”

"Exactly. So, next thing you know, we are walking through the woods to the nearby town. We split, each one looking for an open tavern or inn. I scoured the place, yet the only tavern was closed. I went back to our meeting point, and..."

Pavus' eyes widened. "What happened then?"

"One of the lads had stolen a cart full of carrots from a nearby stable.”

“Carrots?” Pavus scoffed derisively. “Quite a feast that would have been.”

“I tried to get them to put it back where they'd found it, but they'd already started rolling it out. I guess I should have left them then, but…" he sighed. "I’d become quite fond of them, I suppose. And I was very, very drunk. So, I strapped the cart to my back and helped them get it out while they pushed from behind. We hadn't gone half a mile before a guard from the village stopped us. At this point I noticed that the cart was very heavy all of a sudden."

"The boys had disappeared, I take it?"

Tristan nodded, rubbing his mouth over the grin that threatened to slither to the surface. "They had all ran away to hide as soon as they saw the guard approaching. So there I am, in my full armour and all my daggers, strapped to a cart like a beast of burden, with a guard shoving a lamp in my face and asking me what business a witcher has rolling a cart full of carrots in the dead of night."

"And what did you tell him?"

Tristan cleared his throat, straightening up where he sat. "I have to remind you that I was very inebriated at this point. Redanians don't mess around when it comes to their moonshine." Pavus raised a brow and Tristan let out a soft sigh. "I told him I'd confiscated the cart because I needed the carrots to lure a mighty beast."

"A mighty beast?" Pavus asked, huffing an incredulous laugh. "What beast?"

"....a horse."

Pavus gaped at him for a long moment, blinking in confusion. His bewildered expression melted away to be replaced by a wide smile, his shoulders trembling as his laughter echoed through the small clearing. He really was beautiful when he laughed, Tristan noticed, joining him. His eyes that glinted and sparked with amusement, the tiny lines at their corners, soft and feathery as if they had been drawn by a painter's brush, the neat rows of teeth, white like peeled almonds. The sound of his laugh, bright and crystal clear like water from a babbling brook. Had he ever heard anything as pleasant? Tristan wondered.

“A horse? A dratted horse? Great Sun Almighty,” Pavus said after taking a deep breath, wiping mirth from his eyes. “You really couldn’t have thought of anything else?”

“It was the first animal that sprung to mind!” Tristan protested. “There’s no other beast I know that likes carrots as much as horses. Do you?”

“Rabbits do," Pavus shrugged. "Or groundhogs.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, yes. Because what other beast is more terrifying than horse, other than a rabbit or a groundhog?”

“Have you ever watched groundhogs fight over a pile of pears? I have, and I assure you it’s quite the sight. Blood chilling. Certainly more sensational than watching a drunk witcher try to bait a runaway horse with carrots, if there are to be comparisons.” Pavus leaned forward to offer him his flask, and Tristan took it gratefully. "If you tell me the guard believed you, I'm leaving you here and going back to Vizima on foot."

Tristan bit his lip, still chuckling. He tipped the mouth of the flask over his lips, savouring the rich taste of the brandy. He tried not to think of Pavus’ lips, that had closed over its rim only a moment before and were now quirked in a smile as he watched him. "No, he didn't," he replied, shaking his head. "Naturally. I guess I could have used Axii on him…" he noticed Pavus' brows furrowing, and he waved the thought away. "Nevermind. What the guard did was drag me to the sheriff's office in Blaviken and have me locked in a cell. Stayed there for two days until the alpor attacked again and they realised I was the only person within miles that could kill her. They agreed to forget about the whole incident if I took care of her. So I did. She was a tough one, though. Gave me a nasty scar." He pulled down the top of his shirt to show him a deep scar underneath his collarbone. It was ragged and pink, one of the many, many scars he had gotten along the way. "I've never set foot in that place since."

Pavus’ eyes slowly drifted from Tristan's collarbone up to his face when Tristan glanced at him. "That was quite the entertaining story, if I've ever heard any," he said. "It puts the palace bards to shame."

"I'm glad it was amusing,” Tristan said, rearranging his shirt. “That was the point, after all, wasn't it?"

"It was.” Pavus rested back on his arm and tilted his head to the side. "I'd love to hear more of your stories after we kill that Fiend. If you've a mind."

Tristan blinked at him, taken aback by the softness in his voice. The mage was watching him carefully, a dreamy expression on his features, a smile still painted at the edges of his lips.  Tristan's heart thumped steadily against his ribcage as he handed him back his flask. "Perhaps. If we return in one piece."

"I'll hold you to that." Pavus reached out to accept the flask, fingers brushing gently over Tristan's. A shiver ran up Tristan's arm at the contact, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

"Right," Tristan said, clearing his throat and standing up. He kicked some dirt over the burning logs, putting the fire out. "I think this is as good a time as any to get started."

Pavus nodded, standing up as well. His gaze lingered on Tristan’s face for a breath before he turned away. “I suppose we won’t be needing any carrots this time, yes?” he called to him over his shoulder as he walked towards his bags.

Tristan chuckled softly, running his fingers through his hair. “I should hope not.”

***

Leaving their horses behind, they walked through the bog on soundless feet. Tristan had expected Pavus to be a hindrance at first, making too much noise, attracting too much attention from the bog creatures, but he was surprised to find out how nimble and agile he actually was. His feet barely made a sound as they walked through the marsh, even lowering his breaths to a soft, steady rhythm. Tristan caught himself eyeing him sideways on multiple occasions. Making his way through the unfamiliar terrain, hardly missing a step, he looked every inch the battle mage Tristan had hoped he would be.

After what felt like hours, Tristan managed to find enough tracks to lead them to the Fiend’s lair. There was a thin trail, leading up to a small mount, at what looked like a small clearing hidden behind a large, flat rock. The smell of Fiend refuse drifted towards him with the wind as they moved closer. He scrunched his nose and coughed, gagging silently. Yes, the lair was definitely close by.

Sliding his silver shortswords out of their scabbards, Tristan coated them with the relict oil he had prepared. He patted his pockets, making sure his samum bombs were in place and easily accessible. Just before walking ahead, he paused, turning to Pavus. He reached out and caught his arm, holding his gaze firmly.

“I’ll go in first and attract its attention,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “You will attack it from a distance. Do not come close, and do not, under any circumstances, look straight into his third eye. If you do, it will hypnotise you. If you’re hypnotised, you’re dead. Get it?”

Pavus nodded slowly, his sterling silver eyes fixed on his. The morning sun washed over the contours of his face just so as he moved, illuminating his velvety bronze skin, catching in his dark, glossy waves. For a moment, Tristan pictured that beautiful face, mangled by the Fiend’s claws, and his heart clenched. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it.

His lips tightened in a line and he turned away, when Pavus’s hand closed over his own.

“Be careful,” the mage whispered.

Tristan gazed at him for a quick moment, startled by the concern in his eyes. His touch was soft and gentle, surprisingly so. He gave Pavus’ arm a tiny squeeze before letting go, blending into the shadows.

A deep humming noise rumbled through the clearing as Tristan moved closer. Concealed in the dense shadows, he could examine the Fiend without it noticing him. It was large, perhaps not quite as large as a fully grown one, but that didn’t make its limbs any less thick than tree trunks. Its large, ugly snout was pressed against its folded legs as it slept, its curved back moving steadily with breaths.

Tristan moved closer, holding his breath, daggers at the ready, his senses fixed to pick up the slightest change in the creature’s heartbeat. He edged closer, ever closer, gliding through the shifting shadows of the leaves stirring with the wind. Just another step, enough to be able to plunge his shortsword straight into the base of its thick skull-

The Fiend’s eyes, dark and round like smooth, polished pebbles, fluttered open, its menacing gaze piercing him where he stood.

Tristan ducked back as the Fiend rose to his feet, a rumble coming from deep within its large body. Its enormous paws, the claws on them thicker than tree branches and sharper than fleshly whetted blades, scratched at the ground, leaving thick welts on the grass in their wake. Its third eye was still closed, but Tristan knew well that it wouldn’t be for long.

He rolled to the side, just in time to get out of the Fiend’s way before it charged straight ahead. He landed agilely on his feet - the ground was even there, thankfully,- and brandished his blades. A Fiend’s most vulnerable spot was its rear, all witchers knew this well, and that was where he would focus his attack. He dashed forward, slashing and hacking as quickly and deeply as he could before the beast turned on him again. It roared furiously as Tristan’s daggers tore through its skin, the poisonous relict oil burning deep into its flesh. It turned around in a flurry of moving antlers and sharp claws, ready to pounce, when the viper amulet by Tristan’s neck vibrated, as it always did when magic was being cast. A fireball crackled right past Tristan’s ear to land on the beast’s face with a loud whoosh.

“Take that, you filth!” Pavus exclaimed.

Tristan glanced at him from the corner of his eye before dodging out of the way of the Fiend’s whirling antlers. It shook its head furiously, trying to get the flames off it, before another fireball caught it in the rear.

The mage laughed from his spot atop an upturned tree. “I could do this all day!”

“Careful what you wish for,” Tristan grunted, taking several careful steps away from the roaring monster. Reapplying the relict oil would take no time at all, but it would mean taking his eyes off the Fiend, and taking your eyes from the target during a fight, even for a moment, even for a breath, could mean death - or worse. Witchers were trained not to fear death. Death during a fight with a monster was a natural consequence to their way of life. In fact, not many witchers expected to die in a different manner. Yet, no one was fool enough to seek it.

“Cover for me!” he growled to the mage, rolling away behind a tree. The relict oil was in its own little compartment in his specially designed belt, made for easy access during battle. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, messily splashing the oil onto his blades. No time to be careful and thorough about it. Pressing himself against the tree trunk, giving as little target as he could, he peered behind him. Pavus was doing a good job distracting the beast, drawing its attention away from where Tristan was. Strong gusts of air and fire were keeping it at bay, but Tristan could see how close the Fiend was getting to reaching him.

“Get back!” he called to the mage as he threw the empty relict oil bottle away.

“Not a chance.” Pavus’ voice was a tad breathless when he spoke, cutting through the beast’s roar. “Someone has to keep that thing off you, yes?”

Gritting his teeth, Tristan stepped out of his hiding place, rolling soundlessly behind it. The Fiend’s ear pricked up, following the sound of the grass shifting under Tristan’s feet. It turned abruptly to him, brandishing its large incisors.

“Get over here, you ugly bastard,” Tristan grunted, reaching for the samum bomb hanging by his belt. The Fiend viciously pawed the ground, as if responding to his challenge. A deep rumble echoed through the clearing, making the stone behind Tristan tremble as the beast charged forward. With a smirk, Tristan pulled the bomb’s safety cap off before throwing it straight to the Fiend’s face.

An explosion of heat and sound. Bright white light, smoke and sizzling fire breaking free from the small, stealthy container. The Fiend reared, howling, bolting away from the bomb that was still crackling on the ground. Fiends disliked loud noises, intense heat, too bright lights- and this one was no exception. The edges of Tristan’s daggers glinted in the sun before he leapt towards the beast once more.

Blood, thick and bright red, sticky like glue poured forth from the Fiend’s wounds as Tristan slashed mercilessly at it, barely stopping to take a breath. He plunged his daggers into its rear and its sides, the fine silver of his blades and his own hands painted crimson. He cut through vital arteries, pierced thick hide and flesh to injure the sensitive organs underneath, slashed and hacked at tendons that were thicker than ship rope. It wouldn’t last for long, not with the multitude of lacerations Tristan had managed on it, and the relict oil working deep inside the creature’s flesh to undo it from the inside. He attacked in a whirlwind of slashes, taking advantage of the beast’s confusion, hacking deeper, deeper-

With a furious howl, the Fiend turned around, fixing him with a heated glare. A heated glare from the solitary eye in the center of its forehead.

Fuck.

Tristan backed away, almost falling flat on his back with his haste. He had been too careless, too greedy, attacking without taking care to cover himself from the Fiend’s biggest threat. The world started spinning, spinning, darkening, plunging into blackness-

And then there was nothing.

The sounds died away. The shifting of the leaves overhead, the wind, the sound of Pavus’ fireballs as they sizzled and crackled through the air, his voice, calling to him, the Fiend’s angry howls, all fading into a dull, hollow murmur. Tristan blinked, again and again, struggling to see something, anything in the expansive abyss that suddenly surrounded him. His pulse pounded in his ears while his stomach was gripped in a tight vice. He shifted and turned, fingers wrapped around the hilts of his shortswords like they were his lifeline. He spun around, hoping for something in the darkness - when he finally saw it.

A light, small and flickering at first, that slowly grew larger, steadier. The light at the end of an endless tunnel. Tristan’s first instinct was to move towards it, when his feet planted themselves firmly on the ground.

The Fiend’s burning eye, disguised as the only hope of escape in that never-ending darkness, flickered before him, drawing him in. Tristan gritted his teeth, holding on to his daggers for dear life, focusing on the weight of the viper amulet hanging by his neck, vibrating softly each time Pavus cast a spell. Watch the eye, Heir would have said. Watch its movements. Wherever the eye is, that’s where the Fiend is. You’re the hunter and it is the prey, not the other way round.

The light moved closer to him, slowly and steadily, but Tristan knew that this was only one of the Fiend’s tricks. Lulling its victims into this state of hypnosis, dulling their senses so they thought the light was moving at a snail’s pace, when in reality the Fiend ran towards them at full speed. He would not fall into yet another trap. He would not.

Drawing on his focus, Tristan let the power of Chaos suffuse him. It tingled as it spread through his limbs, pooling at his fingertips. He raised his hand and drew an upside triangle, calling forth a protective barrier around him. The Wind Blowing Through the Oak Trees, Heir used to call it, to help him visualise it when he was a child. The shimmering barrier settled on him like a second skin, and he rolled away, just as the burning eye dove towards him. Recreating the image of the clearing as accurately as he could from memory, he spun around, dashing forth to plunge his daggers in the Fiend’s flesh.

First try and he slashed at air, miscalculating. The Fiend was far more nimble that Tristan had expected, moving quickly and efficiently, using his disorientation to its advantage. His breath was almost knocked out of him when a large paw crashed against him, making his barrier explode, sending him reeling backwards.

“Fuck,” Tristan muttered, drawing himself upright on unsteady feet. The eye was moving again, a burning, menacing light in the darkness, the surety of death lurking underneath what looked like the last lingering hope for life. It sped towards him and Tristan dodged away again, this time plunging his shortswords deep in the Fiend’s flank as it rushed by him.

A hollow, distant howl split the nothingness that surrounded him. The dark lifted only slightly, enough for Tristan to make out the outline of his surroundings. The Fiend was a little way away from him, its coat glistening with fresh blood. The ground was riddled with long, ragged scars where the Fiend had raked it with its enormous claws, and a few of the trees that surrounded the clearing had been knocked down. Tristan blinked hard, forcing his mind to focus through the hazy mist, frantically searching for Pavus. How long had he been under the Fiend’s influence? Time got warped when in a state of hypnosis, that he knew. Even so, Tristan could swear that it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes that he was under the beast’s control, but one could never tell for sure. If it had managed to get to him while Tristan was out...

Beads of sweat ran cold down his back as he spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of the mage. The Fiend was already shifting, making the ground tremble with its angry rumbles. Tristan edged backwards, away from the beast. He was about to reach for another of his samum bombs and retreat while the Fiend was still confused, when he saw Pavus emerging from behind a tall rock. He looked pale and drawn, his brow glistening with the effort of calling forth another spell. Tristan didn’t know much about how sorcerers used magic, but he knew well that, no matter how strong they were, they could only use so much magic in one go without reaching their limits. And Pavus seemed like he was rapidly approaching his.

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat, icy tentacles of fear making their way up his spine as he turned to the Fiend, that had now forgotten all about him to focus its glare on the mage, drawn by the iridescent light that was gathering in the air between Pavus’s fingertips. It growled and pawed at the earth, sending big clumps of earth flying behind it. Tristan watched as if in slow motion as it braced on its hind legs and shot forth, charging straight for Pavus.

Tristan forgot his own exhaustion, forcing his trembling legs to carry him forward, towards the rapidly advancing beast. “Get back!” he growled at the mage, reaching for one of his bombs at the same time. The bomb exploded just as Pavus ducked behind the rock, making the Fiend stop dead in its tracks. It screamed and moved back, away from the sudden flash of light and the smoke that erupted from the bomb’s small pouch.

Taking advantage of the Fiend’s momentary confusion, Tristan leapt onto its back, grabbing its antlers. “Go away!” he yelled at Pavus, who blinked blearily at him, eyes red from the samum bomb’s smoke.

“Are you mad?!” the mage yelled back, emerging from behind the rock. “That thing’s going to-”

“Leave!” Tristan growled, gripping the antlers more tightly. “Just go!”

The Fiend screamed painfully, tossing its head left and right, furiously trying to get him off its back. Tristan held on for dear life, shifting his weight to the side to make the beast turn away from Pavus to the opposite direction. The beast staggered to the left, head drooping under Tristan’s weight, yet it still didn’t stop its frantic attempts to shake him off. He clenched his jaw, the sharp edges of the antlers digging into his sides, his palms raw and bloody from trying to hold on to both the beast and his daggers. His breath was now coming in short bursts from the effort of staying upright, sweat running down his forehead in small streams. He just needed to hold it together, just long enough for the beast to exhaust itself, and then-

With a sudden howl, the Fiend charged towards the tall rock at the edge of the clearing. Tristan watched, wide eyed, as the rock got closer and closer, bracing himself for the impact. Before he could realise what had happened, the beast planted its paws on the ground, sending him flying forward. The air was knocked from his lungs when he crashed against the rock and landed on the ground in a tangled heap. His head spun as he tried to push himself up, wheezing. A warm trickle of blood ran down his brow, mingling with his sweat, blurring his vision. His limbs were barely obeying him anymore, legs wobbling, arms trembling, lungs burning. He blinked furiously, scrambling to regain his focus, when the ground shivered beneath his feet.

He pushed himself up just in time to see the Fiend lunging towards him. The world moved at an unbearably slow pace as he was pinned against the rock, trapped between dense stone and thick, branch-like antlers. Pain such that he had never known burst through his focus, blocking out everything else. He peered down to see one of the antler edges piercing his armour, straight through his abdomen. Everything was red and unbearably sharp, the sunlight scorching his eyes, the Fiend’s vile breath overpowering his senses. The world around him flickered and tilted, spinning, whirling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not even to ease the antler out of him. Perhaps his time to die a witcher’s death had finally come.

He lifted his head, glancing at Pavus through his haze. He was standing perfectly still, watching him wide-eyed from a distance. All colour was sapped from his face, his features suddenly looking as if carved from pale stone. His beautiful face.

Tristan gritted his teeth, breathing through the agony. He turned his gaze to the Fiend that was still holding him fast, and tightened his hold on his daggers. He would be damned if he didn’t take the bastard down with him.

With the last dregs of his strength, he lifted his long daggers, plunging them straight into the Fiend’s eyes, piercing its brain. The Fiend howled one last time before it collapsed on the ground, taking Tristan with it. The feel of grass and dirt on his face, the warmth of fresh blood on his skin, and everything faded to black.

[herald-divine-hell]

WIP Wednesday

Chapter “1″, ‘The Steeds of the Marshes’, of Woven Memories. 

Tagged by: @solas-disapproves, and some other people that Tumblr won’t remind me. 

Tagging: @rachelleofalltrades, @andrasste, @bigfan-fanfic, @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressary, @darlingrutherford, @lyrium-lavellan, @rivainisomniari, @sasshole-for-rent, @dharma-writes, @roseategales, @somniaran, @kittimau, and @lostinfantasies38

-

The visitors poured through the gate in a river of gold and silver with banners withering overhead; banners of gold and green; of silver and blue; of black and crimson. The banners of House Trevelyan danced upon poles of polished silver, waving in the wind high up in the ramparts. The golden steed of Trevelyan reared upon its black stable in defiance, proclaiming its command over all the earth that it may step its hooves upon.

But, Amayian saw, there were others like it as well. The purple-black checkered field emblazoned with the silver steed of Trevelyan-Hasburn from Wycome; the silver-blue quartered with the black steed and golden rose of Trevelyan-DŐrthar from Hercinia. Cousins upon cousins that Amayian did not even know existed, much less related to him. The Trevelyans were a large family, his tutors often spoke of. One of the greatest houses in the Free Marches, spanning from the Trevalius in Minrathous to distant relations in Ferelden. Beside him, his younger brother, Rhyis, shifted on the balls of his feet, eagerness lighting his eyes and features. 

“Do you think Cousen Alexandra is with them?” asked Rhyis. The wind stirred his thick, wavy locks of russet-brown, falling like a crown of dark brown that framed his features. His face was soft, cheeks flushed with pink from the cold, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and splattered across the crimson and white skin. Like his sister, Ashania, Rhyis had their father’s eyes - violet that shone with a light which made them even brighter than Lord Rhyis’. He wore a black doublet, striped with trimmings of gold. A cape of golden-embroidered darkness tumbled down his slant shoulders, a white wolf’s fur trimming at its borders. It looked almost too big on him, but their father, the Lady Jacqueline had warned of stern punishment had she seen his brother stripped of it. Even Amayian had been warned, and he had never been one to defy the will of the Orlesian matron.

Amayian pushed up on the tips of his toes, narrowing his eyes as they flickered from banner to banner, seeking for House Trevelyan-Dulaphin of Kirkwall. Sunlight sparkled like glittering beads and caused the white marble walls of Vasenarg to shone as if wrapped eternally in its golden embraced. The wind came soft and gentle and sweet, fresh morning dew dancing with the cool air. Despite his mother’s many worries, Amayian had doubted that either his brother, his sister, or himself would have caught any shivers. But there would have been no point in bringing that up to his mother. Uncle Esmarian had once jested that their mother had been Andraste herself, with the way she conducted herself in a very clean and stern matter, but caring nevertheless. Lady Jacqueline had not denied it.

“I don’t see it,” he whispered back, and turned to find his brother’s lips pulled into a pout. “She’ll be here soon, no doubt.” Amayian understood his brother’s disappointment. Even he was filled with a sense of it when the great sea of multi-hued banners were neither the one they searched for nor sought. Yet, a part of him knew that the Trevelyan-Dulaphins would not turn their noses to Lord Rhyis Trevelyan. No one could even do that, not even Uncle Maxalias. 

He tugged his cloak closer over his shoulders and hunched a little over, taking a soft breath. Without Alexandra’s presence, Amayian knew that this visit would not be a good one in any sort of manner. The bailey was soon filled with shining armor gleaming silver with scabbards clacking against metal-covered thighs. The sounds rang in his ears like thunder across a storm-filled sky. His fingers twitched and clawed at the soft texture of his cloak, and he wished he had the ability to disappear into the shadows, away from the rising tide of Templars who had blood connections to his family. 

A feeling pulled at his stomach, a heated flame that sought to escape from the confines of his body. It boiled his blood, seared and sizzled beneath his skin to make it feel like his flesh was shifting with burning water. A brittle, chilled hand clawed at his chest, hammering icy pains across his shoulders and down to his fingertips. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A storm of fire and ice, flecked with lightning which crackled tendrils with the frosted hand. 

For the briefest of moments, only the sound of the wind was in his ears, tilted with the clacking scabbards against the armor of Templar family members. But he straightened himself, clamped his hands together and halted their trembling. His fears of the Templars were often abdicated with the knowledge that his father would protect him from any of their zealous actions. It did not keep the fear entirely at bay or subsided in any meaningful way. 

Though, he did wanted to flee into the shadows, hide in the safety of his bedroom. But he did not. Instead, he shifted his heels, dug his feet into the softening mud, and stood his ground, like his father had. Hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

The sea of banners rode forward like an unsheathed blade, before spreading like colorful wings. Allowing more to thumped forward, Amayian worried that there would be no more room for any other visiting lords. It seemed to him that all of Thedas swarmed the bailey, like a buzzing hive of silver-gleaming swords and burnished armor of gold and copper and white, with clouds of purple and black and crimson and gold and emerald and azure whirling and whipping overhead. 

Glancing a little to his right, passed his sister who wore a gown of white laced with gold, Lord Rhyis and Lady Jacqueline of Vasenarg stood erect and rooted, like the Vimmarck Mountains themselves. Though, Amayian thought them more terrifying.

Lord Rhyis wore a black doublet with golden buttons flashing with pale light down the center. A cape as dark as his doublet trembled down his broad-shoulders, like a river of darkness trickling down the face of a mountain. Little adorned it, besides the bear fur trimming across its shoulders and borders. His long, lush black hair fell in raven waves, peppered with hints of gray. His features were sharp and chiseled, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline with a close-cropped beard covering his cheeks and jaw. His mouth was pulled tight and straight. He looked as if he was the Vismark Mountains staring down at the flowers of a meadow. A force greater than the bright colors of life. Amayian felt a sense of pride fill him. There was no other man as great as his father, Amayian was sured. That pride allowed himself to straightened his back and banished the tremble from his hands.

Lady Jacqueline stood as magnificent as his father appeared strong. Her long waves of the same brown that Ashania and Rhyis both had, tumbling in heavy locks, like a shuddering shroud framing her features. Hints of laughing lines strung the sides of her golden-flecked green eyes, but her lips were frowning as tight as her father’s. Mother dislikes it as well. That did not sit well in his stomach. 

The widening, colorful sea parted, leaving a road from the gatehouses to them. Then, Amayian saw the banner: two rearing, golden steads flaking a flame upon a black field stirred toward the west. The banners of House Trevelyan-Daluphin. Uncle Maxalias is here. He leaned once more on his toes, nudging out his chin to see if he could catch the sight of the black wooden wheelhouse. At the head of the approaching entourage rode Lord Maxalias, a slim man with skin as pale as snow and thick black, wavy hair cut short. His nose was long and sharp and straight. His purple eyes were as dark indigo, speared with a deep, harsh blue, but on his lips was a soft smile, never reaching his eyes. Lord Maxalias dressed in vivid colors of silk: a crimson coat and breeches, a creamy-white waistcoat lined with golden buttons. Across the coat’s shoulders, running down in floral patterns to trim at his cuffs, were golden embroidery. It seemed to practically shimmer beneath the life. Riding at a mere trot, Lord Maxalias looked as gallant on the horse as a knight from the tales. But a cold pressure covered heavily at Amayian’s shoulders at the sight of him, and he fought a shiver. 

Behind Lord Maxalias rode the wheelhouse, which trembled and shook with every bump of a scattered pebble or risen earth. It was black, like the banners that wove through the air on the curtain walls. Golden paint covered the wooden’s corners, bringing out the black than the gold. But Amayian knew what hid in the hobbling carriage. The thought brought a semblance of a smile to his lips, and he clenched his cloak tighter to his chest. 

Turning, the wheelhouse came to an abrupt stop, heaving forward a little, before settling back with a low groan by the wooden axis and wheels. The clattering before of a thousand voices silenced with the halt by the wheelhouse. Most of the Trevelyans had came by horse, embodying the ideal of their heraldry. Not even great-aunt Lucille had came with her wheelhouse, though as the woman neared her fiftieth year. Uncle Maxalias seems happy that he drew everyone’s attention, thought Amayian, glancing at his uncle and the door to the wheelhouse, unexpectedly. 

Lord Maxalias swung from his horse with swift elegance, landing with a soft bounce onto the earth. Spreading his arms wide, he turned on his heels, leaned back, and smiled brightly. His purple eyes caught the sunlight, softening the indigo to a paler blue, though they glimmered with mischievousness. “My beloved cousin, the Storm of Starkhaven.” He laughed merrily, but a chilled hand shrouded the bailey, and both feet and hooves of men and horses alike shifted.

Lord Rhyis neither shifted nor gave any indication that he was pleased at the sight of his cousin. Instead, his mouth tightened, the wind fluttering his hair back. His father’s eyes narrowed, the Lord of Vasenarg said, “Maxalias.” He did not offered his hand. 

Uncle Maxalias’ smile did not falter for a moment, but something flashed in his eyes which hurled Amayian’s stomach, a glint of sharp ice that made his paling eyes paler and colder. Turning his gaze away, they landed upon Amayian’s mother, who was as straight-backed as his father. “Jacqueline, as beautiful as ever.”

Her mother merely inclined her head for a moment or two. “Lord Maxalias.” The title on her lips was harsh and filled with disgust that even his mother could not hide. 

The door to the wheelhouse swung gently opened, pulled back by a foot soldier in silver armor and green cloths and brown leather. His shortsword hung in a scabbard plain and worn, and the silver of the guard glimmered faintly beneath the light when it caught it. But Amayian could not see his face, even when he turned to stand flat against the wheelhouse, door handle in hand. His face seemed entirely made of shifting shadows, but a pair of golden-hazel eyes burned with a calm and serenity. Kyal. A golden-hazel eye winked when it caught Amayian staring, but quickly returned to gaze off in the distance. 

A woman stepped down, garbed in a dress of emerald green satin laced with intertwining vines across the corset and sleeves which draped with translucent cloth to the ground. Her long hair was a mane of wavy locks of a rich deep brown, framing a squared-jaw, with soft cheeks and a sheen of rose across them.

[novamm66]

Red Sky in the Morning - Chapter 14 - Lantern’s Down

'Lantern's Down' - I actually got this from a song (In All My Dreams I Drown by Jessica Lowndes & Terrance Zdunich) It's basically the same idea as 'lights out'.

My dad uses to turn the lantern's down when he wanted me to stop reading and go to bed at night when we lived on the boat. To save the boat's battery power we often used oil lamps at night and he would catch me sneak reading by the lantern light. He would turn it down or out so it wasn't bright enough for me to see by and would have to sleep.

---

It was late, or early, Cullen wasn’t sure, as he sat by Kiaya’s side. They were alone except for Chancellor Roderick, who was sleeping in the only other cot in the small space. Three days had passed since Cullen had found Kiaya in the snow and he was struggling with being unable to do anything but wait and pray.

It had been almost sunrise before anyone had come out of the tent with the news. Fractured ribs, bruised lungs, broken arm and wrist, dislocated shoulder, fractured skull. The list had played over and over in Cullen’s mind ever since he had heard it. They had needed to break the bones Kiaya had magically healed to set them properly, and it had needed all the mages combined to reverse the effects of frostbite and hyperthermia. But the most concerning injury was the head wound. Anyone could get trapped in the Fade after a blow to the head, but it was more dangerous for mages, making them easy targets for demons.

There was nothing they could do but wait until she found her own way out. Cullen had wanted to shake Solas when he had said that. To find her alive in the snow only to have her possessed didn’t bear thinking about. He found himself spending all his time after his responsibilities were seen to, staying by her side, watching her himself.

“I shall not be left to wonder the drifting roads of the Fade, for there is no darkness…” He gasped, choking on the next words as weak fingers closed around his.

“Cullen?”

At the sound of his name, Cullen found his voice and wrapped both his hands around hers. “Kiaya, you're awake. How do you feel?” He knew he was babbling but he didn’t care, the relief at hearing her speak overwhelming him.

“Fuck,” Kiaya swore, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I had it that time.”

Cullen blinked in surprise, and he abruptly remembered the danger that she could be possessed, but he couldn’t bring himself to drop her hand or move away. Cullen had attended enough failed harrowings to recognize the signs. Usually, the demon was too disoriented to not give itself away in the first few moments, so his fear quickly faded to relief as he stared into the shining blue-green of her eyes.

She looked at him intently for a few moments before her gaze wandered past him and took in their surroundings. She seemed puzzled by the presence of the Chancellor nearby. Her eyes flew back to Cullen’s, questions written across her face.

“We found you in the snow. You are safe now.” Cullen tried to explain. Her brow furrowed and she blinked as his words sunk in.

“So I’m not dreaming.” She sighed, more to herself than to him as her body relaxed against the cot.

He cleared his throat and started to pull his hands away. “I should go and get Solas. He will want to know that you are awake.”

“Don’t leave! Please.” Kiaya clutched weakly at his hand, her body suddenly tense once more. “I can’t, please, don’t leave me alone.”

“Shh, alright, I won't go anywhere.” Cullen pressed her gently back down, not wanting her to aggravate her barely healed injuries. He glanced around the tent, trying to think of how to send a message without alarming the entire camp when his eyes met those of the boy who had appeared at Haven’s gates. Cullen suddenly had the feeling that he had been there all along, but couldn’t remember seeing him before. He watched as the boy slipped from the tent before settling back into his chair.

“Just stay awake until Solas gets here. I won’t leave.”

“Then tell me where we are and how we got here, to keep me awake.”

—-

Kiaya was hiding. She was ashamed of it, but that didn’t seem to be enough to make her go out and face the people of the Inquisition. It had been strange, waking up with Cullen beside her. She hadn’t really let herself hope that it was real until Solas had arrived.

But now everything was a mess. No one seemed to know what to do. The advisors spent most of their time arguing while Reverend Mother Giselle, who Kiaya had liked when they had met, had done, well, what she did. Kiaya knew how important hope was to the those who fled Haven. But it left her feeling alone and terrified that she would never live up to it.

She didn’t want to be a religious figure. She felt like a fraud as it was, and she didn’t want to be a leader. It certainly hadn’t been her idea of what to do next. It had been Solas who had the answer: giving her a direction in which to lead everyone, something she had thanked him for and then promptly yelled at him for when he wouldn’t tell the others. He had simply smiled and calmly stated it would do more good coming from her.

So Kiaya hid in her tent, avoiding the reverence on the faces of so many people. It all simply felt like a larger burden then she could bear.

She knew that they would likely be ready to depart any day now. They were simply waiting for the final word from the recovery effort in Haven and they would head north, with Kiaya as the shining beacon in the lead.

Kiaya grumbled at her dark thoughts as she gently massaged her hand. She was ignoring healer’s orders and had already started to draw, removing her right arm from the sling and clutching a lead in her shaking fingers. She couldn’t help it: it was the only thing that felt familiar, real. The drawings weren’t very good, but that wasn’t really the point. It just felt good to hold paper and pencil again. A little bit of control when everything else was spiralling out of it.

She jumped when a knock sounded on the tent post, guiltily shoving her arm back in the sling hanging around her neck before answering. “Come In.”

Kiaya was surprised when Cullen entered her tent. She hadn’t seen much of him, although that was likely her fault. She was hiding, after all. It was an awkward entrance, what with Cullen carrying a small trunk and a pack hanging off of one arm. It took Kiaya a moment before she recognized them as her few belongings she had left behind in Haven.

“Cullen? How did you get these?” Her sling forgotten, Kiaya hurried to her feet to help him set the trunk down. He seemed to be struggling with the pack, and the reason became apparent when the flap lifted to reveal a grey and white furry paw, all claws extended. Kiaya sucked in a breath, unable to find thoughts let alone words as she watched the man try to open the bag without getting scratched by the waving claws.

“The villagers that have gone back to their homes had done most of the work.” Cullen smiled at Kiaya before scowling at the squirming bag. “So once Bull and the chargers were done looking for their gear and we were simply waiting, we decided to dig out your place too.” He finally managed to loosen the strings enough to release the animal, who hopped out with a yowl. Kiaya scooped up the small cat, who was suddenly all purrs and cuddles, burying her face in the soft fur for a moment as Cullen continued.

“I, we, wanted to make sure you had your things before we move out tomorrow, and he was hiding under the bed. I thought he would be a comfort to you, and I just couldn’t leave him there,” Cullen coughed awkwardly.

Kiaya had tears in her eyes as Shi squirmed out of her arms. She hastily rubbed them away before turning to Cullen. His hand was at the back of his neck again, a gesture that was quickly becoming very endearing to Kiaya. A blush coloured his face, and without thought or hesitation, Kiaya rose on her toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck, hugging him as tightly as her weakened arm would allow.

He froze for a moment before wrapping his arms around her as well, holding her up. It would have been embarrassing for her to slide down his armour.

“No one has ever done anything—. I can’t begin to thank you enough.” She said, her voice thick and her throat tight. She could feel how warm he was where his armour didn’t cover, and he smelled of leather and oakmoss and something distinctly him.

“You are welcome.” His arms tightened around her for a fraction of a second, pressing her to him before he lowered her back down to the ground. Kiaya hadn’t even noticed that her feet had left it.

She swallowed. “Your escape from Haven... it was close. I am relieved that you, that so many, made it out. Thank you for keeping everyone safe.”

“Don’t thank me for that.” The anger in his voice was unexpected, and she looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were glued to his gloved hands, still wrapped around her forearms. He didn’t seem to be angry at her, at least.

Kiaya watched as the man grappled with his emotions, and when he spoke again his voice was softer. “You stayed behind, you could have, you should have…” His eyes returned to hers, and the intensity of the emotion she saw took her breath away. “I will not allow the events of Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

Before she could respond, a thud and splash from the table made her jump. Shi had knocked over the milk for her tea and was busy lapping it up as it spread across the table and dripped on the floor.

“Shi!” Kiaya grinned as she scolded the cat, too grateful to have him back to really be angry. Reluctantly, she let go of Cullen and moved to clean up, hoping he didn’t see the disappointment on her face.

If you want to kiss him so badly why don’t you just do it?

She glanced at him to find him frowning at the empty sling dangling from her neck. She sheepishly switched the cloth to her left hand and slipped her arm back into the sling before continuing to clean up the mess. His frown melted into the smile that always made Kiaya’s heart race. Damnit.

“I should let you rest. You still have some healing to do. We will be breaking camp tomorrow, and heading out at sunrise the day after.”

Kiaya nodded, “We should both get some rest. Thank you. I don’t think I will ever say it enough. Thank you for him, and for clothes that fit.” Kiaya swallowed, suddenly feeling stupidly nervous. “See you in the morning? For breakfast?” She winced at the hopefulness that rang through her tone.

Her question prompted a rare full smile from Cullen. It made him look younger; carefree. “I would like that. Until morning, then?”

“Until Morning,” she nodded. As she watched him leave she promised herself to get him to smile more often. Her dark thoughts had vanished. She felt giddy and lighter then she had in weeks. Kiaya sighed happily as she dug out the case that held her pencils and the sketch pad she had started after the conclave. Her kit was all there and having it back in her hands had a steadying effect. Shi wriggled into her lap the moment she sat down on the bed. Kiaya laughed at the disgruntled sound he made when she lay down and displaced him, only to have him snuggle tight to her chest. She fell asleep with a cat under one arm and her drawings under the other.

—-

It had taken them almost three weeks to make it to the castle of Skyhold and it had been a busy fortnight since making the castle habitable. It was only yesterday that quarters had become available inside and the tent city in the courtyards and on the bridge had started to come down.

Kiaya had fallen in love with the ruins instantly and had spent as much time as she had available exploring the many rooms, halls, and towers. She told herself she was helping the recovery effort, but in truth, she had been avoiding the conversation she now found herself in.

“No, absolutely not.”

“But Kiaya, you-- “

“NO!” Kiaya’s voice echoed impressively off of the vaulted ceiling of Skyhold’s main hall, interrupting Josephine’s coaxing. Kiaya frantically searched the faces surrounding her. Josephine was confused and Kiaya couldn’t look at Cullen for longer than a heartbeat, so she glared at Leliana. She at least looked amused rather than upset.

“I can’t be the Inquisitor. I want to help, but I can’t be the leader.” Kiaya winced at the pleading in her voice.

The Spymaster’s voice was amicable, as though they were discussing the dinner menu. “Look at the work you did in the Hinterlands and the Mire, and what you did in Haven. You have already been acting as our leader. We just want to make it official.”

“Officially, it’s a bad idea. You want someone else.”

“You keep saying that, but why?” Leliana’s tone never wavered “By all the evidence we have you are a perfect choice, the mark notwithstanding.

Kiaya could feel her resolve start to falter as she looked at the advisers. They looked so sure of what they were asking.

If they knew the truth?

Kiaya truly looked at Cullen for the first time. His expression was earnest, filled with a concern which she realized was for her not about her. As she met his eyes his face softened

He trusts me.

An image of Cullen’s face twisted in angry, that trust burned way and she felt it like a blow to the gut. She shook her head, dropping her eyes to her feet, fighting the welling of shame and guilt that rose up.

“I am sorry, but I cannot do what you are asking.” Kiaya turned and headed for the door, almost walking into Varric, who was leaning in the door frame.

“Well, my timing is auspicious then. Smudges, I have someone for you to meet.”

Kiaya eagerly followed the dwarf away and down the stairs.

“So Inquis…”

“Don’t. Where are we going?”

The dwarf chuckled as he led the way across the courtyard. “Follow me.”

I bloody well should have known, the way Josie and Leliana were hinting.

Kiaya was angry, although she wasn’t sure at whom or what. Leliana was right, and Kiaya could understand their reasoning: who better to lead the Inquisition than the bearer of the Fade mark.

If they knew what I have done would they feel the same way? Could they? Could he?

Kiaya’s knees and hips were protesting by the time they had reached the landing on the second set of stairs. Skyhold was lovely, but it had too many damn stairs.

“Where are you taking me, Varric?

Varric just laughed, sounding as cheerful as always. “Sorry about the location: it’s just easier this way.”

“What’s going on?” Kiaya just felt exhausted; she hadn’t been sleeping well and there was no lack of things to do. I really don’t have the patience for this.

Varric stopped just outside a tower door. They were far along the wall now, farther than repairs had gotten.

“Now, look.” Varric sounded more serious then Kiaya had ever heard him, “I know I told Seeker I didn’t know where Hawke was, and that was the truth, sort of, at the time.” Varric swallowed, looking guilty. “That’s not important right now. What’s important is that the name Corypheus reminded me of a story Hawke told me. I thought the two of you should compare notes, as it were, so I sent some letters.”

Kiaya blinked, her brain trying to follow what he was saying. “Wait, are you telling me that you heard back? You know where she is?” His face split into a grin. Kiaya’s mind suddenly clicked. “She’s here? In Skyhold? Are you serious?”

Varric just chuckled as he pushed open the door.

---

Find me on AO3 Here.

[dragon-age-companions-speak]

Heyo! Found this delightful little page surfing for more DA content (again; thanks trailer) and thought I'd try an ask! Could I request reactions of all the DA:I companions to an Inquisitor that has been nothing but focused and serious about the whole thing just suddenly finding the cutest random object (like an abandoned music box) and going completely fan girl/boy over it for a few moments before remembering they're not alone? Thank you much and looking forward to your work!

Sent in by @bottastic0201 !!

((Oof, I deviated a bit from the ask, hope you don't mind! Also didn't include Blackwall cause I don't know his character to well yet as I never really had him as part of my party. Not to fear, he will be added later on!))

Cassandra: After the demon fight at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Cassandra always had a certain respect for the Inquisitor, despite their poor first impressions. They took the Inquisition's cause very seriously, and were focused on closing the Breach perhaps even more so than she was. Of course, that didn’t stop the Seeker from at least chuckling at the sight of the Inquisitor fawning over a fancy little elven music box they found when exploring Skyhold, tucked away in some corner long covered in dust. They were exploring the lover levels of the grand fortress together, though Cassandra guessed they forgot she was even there whenever they spotted the little thing. It was made out of a black, sleek wood, and covered in carvings of wolves and halla with golden accents for the wolves’ eyes and the halla’s horns. Cassandra cleared her throat, arms crossed over her chest and a light smile playing at her lips. “Found something you like, Inquisitor?” The blush that crept onto their face was worth the little tease, and she had to promise them not to tell any of the others. If this little scene did manage to make it into one of Varric’s new books, she certainly wasn’t the one who told him.

Varric: Varric had to say that, in his time of both writing and following heroes, the Inquisitor was probably the most… Efficient one the dwarf had encountered. Sure, being driven to save the world from becoming ass deep in demons and corrupted with red lyrium was certainly commendable, though he did find himself missing Hawke’s snarky comebacks and sassy remarks. The Inquisitor was a serious leader, and didn’t usually humor his, well, humor. However, whenever the two stumbled across a little gold and white painted music box in a random part of the ass end of nowhere and the Inquisitor let out a little squeal at the sight, the dwarf couldn’t help but laugh. “Really, Stiffy? That’s what cracks you? A music box?” His gruff voice reminded the Inquisitor of his presence, and the blush of embarrassment that followed just made the dwarf grin. When they asked him to keep this little scene out of his book, all they got in return was a wider grin and a wink.

Solas: Before this little incident, Solas had a pretty neutral opinion of the Inquisitor. They were focused and did their assigned role well, and he couldn’t complain much about their serious demeanor. To be the Inquisitor was a hard task, and he understood what they had to carry on their shoulders and the face they had to put on for nobles and pretty courts. After all, he had the same weight on his shoulders, as well as a face of his own. Unlike a few of the more boisterous companions the Inquisitor has taken under their metaphorical wing, Solas doesn't interrupt them whenever they spot a charming little Dalish themed music box while combing through the Exalted Plains. He watches them fawn over the little wooden thing, running their fingers over the raven and bear carvings all over its surface. They pouted slightly once they realized the small box no longer played music, the handle broken and the gears inside probably long since rusted, and placed the pretty thing into their bag. “Shall we move on then, Inquisitor?”If this is after his personal quest ‘All New, Faded for Her’, and they tried to help his corrupted friend, the Inquisitor will find a new music box on the desk in their quarters. It is covered with delicate little designs of wolves and elves, obviously drawn by Solas’ hand, and when it’s golden handle is turned it plays a lovely tune that the Inquisitor is humming for days afterwards.

Sera: First impressions of the Inquisitor? A stuck up nob with too many sticks up their back-end mouth. They’re not fun to joke with, absolutely no help in pranking, and don’t appreciate a good bee nest inside of a training dummy. Sure, being serious was good and all, and being focused on what you want to do is fine, though Sera finds herself a little aggravated with them after a short time. Unlike most of the others, she was not exploring with the Inquisitor when she spotted them gushing over some slightly beat up doll in the middle of Redcliffe, though she was planning on pranking them with a good pie. However, whenever she spotted them holding the doll with the cheesiest smile on their face, cradling the small thing against their chest, Sera almost couldn’t handle it. She almost fell off of the roof she was spying on them from because of laughing so hard, which, or course, startled the Inquisitor to no end, and instead of being embarrassed they were almost terrified at the quirky elf’s barking laughter. “A doll?! You’re just putting me on, right? It’s a doll and you’re smiling at it like it’s just watered your damn crops!” Sera spoke in between laughing, and in the end, her pie ended up ruined all over the roof as she jumped down to the Inquisitor’s level. It becomes a constant thing she teases the Inquisitor about, and it’s not long before the rest of the Inner Circle knows.

Dorian: Dorian is not an unreasonable man. All he wants is a nice glass of wine in the morning, some decent fucking literature, and an Inquisitor who at least humors his jester personality just a tad more than the current one does. They dismiss any of his playful flirting and sarcastic comments, and suddenly that one glass of wine turns into two. It’s not that he minds them being extremely driven- Far from it, actually, though he wished that their devotion also came with a little sense of humor. So one can imagine how unimaginably pleased the ‘Vint was whenever they came across a pretty little mabari figurine at the Winter Palace. They were supposed to be looking for some halla statues or something to open a door in their way, and instead, found a golden painted dog in one of the guest rooms. While Dorian thought it would be more fitting to find in Ferelden, the Inquisitor was overly pleased to have found it at all. The dog had a golden chain attached to it, and it wasn’t long before it was around the Inquisitor’s neck and they were standing in front of the best mirror they could find to see how it looked. “I personally think drakestone would suit you better. Really brings out your eyes.”Dorian spoke casually as he stepped behind the Inquisitor, looking at their reflection in the mirror as they nearly screamed at his. The flushed look on their face and wide eyes were more than enough of a reward for his teasing, and he spent a lot of their time left at the Palace making similar comments.

Vivienne: Similar to Solas, Vivienne’s initial reaction to the Inquisitor was pretty neutral. They were serious in the work that they did and driven to rid the world of this nightmare, so she had a certain respect for them for taking the role as leader of the Inquisition in stride. She didn’t have a problem with their serious demeanor, and it made speaking to them much more tolerable than speaking to someone like Cole or Sera, who were either too cryptic or too aggravating to understand. Whenever they did find a little pretty trinket and the Inquisitor all but gushed over it, she found it almost charming. A powerful, grand person of power absolutely fawning over a wooden doll was almost unbelievable, yet here they were. They were shopping in Val Royeaux when the Inquisitor spotted the doll, and Vivienne felt a little pity for them. After all, the Inquisition’s money was always tight, and a doll was seemingly worthless in the grand scheme of their cause. With a gentle sigh, Vivienne stepped forwards and bought the wooden thing with her own money, which rewarded her with another smile from the Inquisitor. “No need to thank me, my dear. Do keep that out of Sera’s reach, though. I fear she may end up breaking it.”While it was nice to have a devoted leader, they still needed their reasons to smile. Vivienne was many things, and cruel wasn’t one of them. Bluntly honest? Maybe. But never cruel.

Iron Bull: Having a serious leader such as the Inquisitor was somewhat of a change for The Iron Bull. Having been with his boys for so long took away a lot of the seriousness from his own personality, so it was a bit of a difficult transition. They didn’t seem to care for his beautifully crafted puns and endearing nicknames, and was nothing but straight to the point when invited to drink with him and his boys. Bull understood that certain jobs needed to be taken with a certain amount of committedness, though it was a bit of a damper whenever they didn’t respond to a joke or laugh at his foolish nicknames. So, whenever his favorite ‘Vint and lieutenant Krem made a stuffed nug for the Inquisitor to hopefully lighten their mood, Bull was the one to volunteer to give it to them. He brought it to them right after him and the Inquisitor slayed their first dragon together as a ‘congratulations’ for the kill. They eyed the nug carefully before taking it away from Bull, giving him a curt ‘Thank you’ before closing the door to their quarters. He was a little disappointed with their reaction, as he knew Krem would be, though before he left he heard the most suspicious of noises from inside of the Inquisitor’s room. He grinned as he realized the Inquisitor was squealing over their gift, and he swore he could hear them speaking to the stuffed nug as well. “I’ll tell Krem you liked his gift!”Bull called through the door, and the sudden silence was enough to make him laugh. He brought the good news to his boys (And Varric), and they drank over a good kill and finally being able to know what makes the Inquisitor tick.

Cole: Cole didn’t know what to think of the Inquisitor at first. They were bright- Even without the mark they were bright and blinding and good. He didn’t really understand why Sera and some of the others got aggravated at them whenever they were so devoted to sealing the Breach and helping people. He knew they didn’t laugh as much as the others did, but it was only because they didn’t know when to laugh.She grins, a joke meant to be laughed at and shared, but they don’t. An odd look, then embarrassed, but it’s too late to do what they were meant to do, and the joke is ruined.It brings him joy when they find the music box Solas left for them because it makes them happy. It sings a song belonging to skulls and paints a story they don’t know, but they still love it.Winding, winding until it’s wound and sings. It’s so like him, so strange yet so harmonious, like a wolf howling to the sun. How long did it take him? Days, weeks? So pretty yet so tedious- Have to thank him later. Cole doesn’t interrupt them, and instead, watches passively as they hold the box in their lap and hum along to it, the stress of their day melting as the music plays.

[assortedcorn]

Cullen Rutherford Oneshot

This was inspired by a piece of art that moved me near to tears, by @elyhumanoid I highly suggest you check it out. Of course, I had to write an angsty, sad piece to reflect on it.

Here is her original post:

Enjoy!

——-

He could still feel the warmth of her tender, ivory skin against his. He could remember the way her satin skin traced along his chin, skimming her fingertips over his thick facial hair. The way her fingers danced down his chin, onto his throat, circling the protuding bump at the base made his body sing. He could still feel her finely shaped nails tickle his collarbones as she left a trail of delicate kisses from behind his ear and down his neck to follow her graceful hands. She had talented hands, her little knowledge of ice magic made her touch to die for. Little pricks of cold would ease the pain in his always hot, steaming skin after a long work day. Long, straight strands of raven-black hair caressed his nude skin, the setting sun shone between each strand, eliciting the most beautiful hue of dark blues and purples. Everytime she hit a certain spot in the crook of his neck, he knew she would smile to herself, her wine stained lips creating a heavenly scene. He remembered that day specifically, how his strong and calloused hands gripped her strong but supple thighs. She was flush against him, her near translucent skin would sparkle under the sunlight shining through the windows of her chambers. He didn’t want to let go of her, not then and not ever. They had shared a bed many a time but this was different. Their love for one another was clear in their countless sighs, their uttering of I love you’s, and each breathless promise of the future. He could still hear her laughter when he’d kiss that spot under her jaw that no one else knew but him, the sound he missed so much, echoed through the room. “Cullen…” She always knew how to bring him over the edge, his name sounded like pure bliss no matter how many times she called it. He’d recall when they neared their climaxes, they grew hungrier, passionate kisses through gasps of air; their skin pressed closely together, feverishly touching and grasping at one another. He misses how they’d lay in bed together, completely exhausted after hours of filling their needs. She’d sleep wrapped tightly in his arms until the early hours of the morning.

Then he remembered how painful it was to watch her leave.

The Inquisition had disbanded, her fear of putting more lives at stake controlled that decision. Her angry yelling still chilled his spine. “I never wanted this damn thing! I save Orlais and you’re angry. I fucking save Fereldan and you are all angry. Now my fucking arm is gone, have my sacrifices been enough for you people?! I am done. I’m done saving ungrateful masses.” Solas had taken everything from her. Their friendship, her arm, and her confidence, her faith was shaken to the bone. Had he known their last night together would be before she was amputated, before she fled Skyhold and left him behind, he would have tried to stop her. His heart was broken. She left no explanation for him, no letter. Leliana and Cass knew where she had gone but they were sworn to secrecy. All he could do was watch as she rode off into the early morning light on her black steed, her long cloak flying behind her. He stood on the battlements with nearly no emotions to be felt, as he could not feel everything all at once. They came in waves, usually.

Tonight, Cullen felt like he was drowning.

It had been a month since she left, since she stabbed him in the back and left his heart bleeding out. In his nightmares, he called out for her. He was used to her waking him, pressing her cold fingertips to his head and singing him to sleep. Her siren call haunted his dreams, his mind, sometimes he swore he could hear it in the distance. Cullen woke from yet another nightmare, rolling over to find nothing, as usual- a routine he did not wish was becoming normal. The pain of her absence wracked through him like an earthquakes tremors though his lyrium deficient veins, his bones quaking. He sat himself up against the headboard of his large, empty bed and leaned his head back. His sadness and heartache was becoming too much to bear on top of his regular trying work day. He could feel the emptiness in his heart, his ribs a vacant home for a heart that was barely beating. Taking a deep breath he reached to his nightstand to take a dark green vile and chugging it. He laid himself back down before his eyelids became weights and the area around him turned black.

Tonight’s drought must’ve been a bit stronger than he remembered, as he awoke in what seemed like the fade. Everything around him was slightly dark, he looked around to familiarize what was surrounding him. That’s when he heard it. Heard her. Her siren call. His chest tightened as tears welled behind his amber eyes, his heart racing as he started to run towards the song. He ran through trees, bushes, and over a small flowing creek before pushing through some brush that led into an oasis. Flowers had grown everywhere, even the trees had beautiful buds, all her favorite colors. He searched for her, nearly losing his balance when he found her sitting on a boulder over a pond. She was singing to herself, totally unaware of his presence. Cullen was stunned at the sight. She was smaller weight wise, her muscle once sharp now softer. Her black hair longer now, once it sat just below her shoulder blades now laid down her back and over her arms. She had two arms here? Was this where she was spending her time?

“Artemis..” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He stepped forward, breaking a twig under his foot. His eyes shot up to look at her and she had already been staring at him, her eyes wide, the subtle glow of her lilac eyes beaming at him. She covered her mouth with her hand, closing her eyes to let a sob escape her lips. Her chest heaved as the heartbreaking sound left her lips, as she reached for air. Had she been in just as much pain as him?

Her sorrowful expression had changed as her lips grew into a small smile through her tears. She held her arms open, waiting for Cullen to come to her, a request he would gladly grant. In a moment’s notice he had taken off across the field and taken her into his arms. Her face pressed into the crook of his neck and shoulder, her arms tightly wrapped around his neck. He had one hand pressed to the back of her head and the base of her neck while the other held her back to press her tighlty against him. His loud sobs shook his chest, causing her to hold him closer and closer. All he could muster out of his mouth was “where have you been all this time, my love?”

Artemis pulled from his embrace to hold his face in her hand, her thumb wiping the hot tears from his eye. She tried to smile but her expression was still so sad. “I have been hiding, Cullen. I am a coward.”

“Nonsense.” He protests, taking her lips with his. Their kiss already so heated, a flame barely burning had turned into a wildfire within seconds. He did not give her much time to breath through their much missed kisses. Within seconds their hands had traveled the entirety of each other’s bodies, grasping and reaching for anything to touch. They had missed one another so. Cullen felt happiness for the first time in such a long time without her and it was mixed with confusion, anger, and so many things he could not explain but the feeling of her pressed to him once more elicited such beautiful sighs and sounds from Cullen. It was like the union of two lost souls, finally together. The salt from their tears had mixed with the sweet taste of her favorite wine. Had she been drinking?

“Come home..” he begged, holding her face in his hands, his eyes pleading with her.

“What home? Skyhold? The place that insufferable monster brought us to?” She seethed, her hatred for Fen'Harel clear.

“I am your home, Artemis. Let me be your home. I want to see you.” Cullen cried as he watched her face fall with his request, pain overtaking her beautiful and fragile features.

“You do not want to see what I have become. I knew you’d find me eventually, my dear love… I did not think it would be this painful.” She half smiled, another tear dripping off her eyelashes.

“Then do not make it so, come back to me.” He continues to beg, kissing her swollen eyelids. He kissed her forehead and her nose, capturing her lips repeatedly.

“One day, Cullen.” Artemis’ voice broke as she kissed his lips softly, over and over again before disappearing once more.

Cullen shot out of his bed and slid down his ladder. He threw his door open, barely dressed for the cold weather, he leaned against the stone pillar of the battlements. He heaved out whatever contents was left in his stomach, his heart shattering into even smaller pieces than before, old wounds now ripped open. He stood back and raised his head into the sky before closing his eyes. He took a deep, strangled, breath before opening his eyes as tears slid down dried ones from his slumber.

“One day, Artemis. I will find you. ” He sighed, his chest feeling heavier again. The same, broken feeling as he felt every day.

[modernagesomniari]

Mala Suledin Nadas - “Falon’Din Enal Enaste”

Part 4 of the Mala Suledin Nadas series, which follows Eli Lavellan through my current, ongoing playthrough of her.  You can read it on AO3 here

This wasn’t actually inspired by anything in-game, but because I’d created Ghila and Yerevan to be with her at the Conclave, their loss hit me quite hard once Eli got to Haven.  She is never given a chance to say goodbye.  So I gave her one and made myself cry and probably got very self indulgent.

What we have learned from this - Varric is the Best Friend of all best friends, the ladies are good hearted to a woman, Cullen is more perceptive than he initially appears and Solas is a little scary sometimes.

~1900 words

Falon’Din Enal Enaste

It had been Varric’s idea.

She’d made charms for them both, in the hours spent sat in the cold, enclosed space of the Chantry temple, waiting for the shemlen to do whatever it was they had to do.  From their hushed voices and frightened gazes, whatever they were doing was momentous.  So she had used the time to scavenge what she could and sat there near a lantern, weaving and braiding.  Her heart was very, very heavy.

The charms had been complete within a few days, before most of the recruits had been organised into the row of tents outside the gates.  She had tucked them reverently into the pouch at her belt, because she hadn’t known what to do with them and was afraid someone would see them and decide that they were not what the ‘Herald of Andraste’ should have in their possession.  She knew, if she had been brought to task on it, that she would have caused a fuss.  It would probably have involved fire.  Cassandra would not have been pleased.  It was later that day, after standing in front of that throng of people feeling monumentally out of place next to a templar, of all things, that Varric had come to her.  He had gently taken her hand, his eyes soft and kind and she had let him lead her to a small clearing just to the right of the temple.  A little track led away from the stone and ended in a small clearing within the tress, a natural mound in its centre.  At the top of the mound were too newly moved stones, their edges round and uneven, but someone had roughly carved their tops to be mostly flat.  When she had looked down at him, her breath catching in her throat, he’d looked away from her to where the stone stood and told her, in his gentle, deep voice, that he’d had a Dalish friend who’d had to bury a member of her Clan away from the usual tradition.  He only hoped that Eli wouldn’t be offended by how crude the shaping was - he was a surface dwarf, after all.

She had knelt by him in the snow and thrown her arms around his neck.  The great mass of his arms was strange around her back, but he’d held her until she could breathe again and then allowed her to pretend it hadn’t happened.  He’d just asked her what she needed and when she wanted it to be.  She’d told him and when she’d started to wonder how she was going to get everything she needed he’d held up a big hand to stop her.

“I’ll get it done, Firefly.  You concentrate on the important stuff.”

So here she was, standing on a foreign hill merely feet away from more shemlen than she’d ever been around in her life, with the first dwarf she had ever met quiet and solid beside her.  Clasping the charms within her palms, fingers grasping at her own hands, she closed her eyes and opened her heart to the forest, to their Gods, to the two people she had lost.  The tears immediately began to flow freely and she let them, taking slow and pained steps up the mound to the stones.

For Ghila she had woven leather died dark blue, found at the back of smithy, for her practicality in the hunt. Into this she had crudely carved a hare out of a piece of wood from the ruined houses, dotted the eyes with the red clay of the valley.  This was for her ferocity and her passion for protecting her people, like her beloved Andruil.  Finally, she had woven it all together with lamsbwool, for the softness in her when she allowed it and the gentle love she would have given her children had she been allowed to bear them.  Eli’s tears fell hot onto the stone, quick hot splashes of grief on the ice that covered it.

For Yerevan she had started with that same leather, cut in half to have their last remnant of this world come from the same place.  The piece of leather had been long, but it had come from the same beast.  He and Ghila would be together in death the way that had pledged to be together in life.  For the bright sun of Elgar’nan she had taken a smooth stone from the shores of the lake and carved his vengeful symbol into one side, reflected in the moon of the other.  Yerevan had been so angry for so long after he ran from the alienage.  His vallaslin ceremony had been intense and poignant - they had all wept for him and with him.  And then they had all got uproariously drunk.  The last was silk, strong and beautiful, like he had dedicated himself to his new family.  All of them.

She took a few steps away and let herself cry a little, felt a like a child and wished desperately that Bri were here.  The stones just looked so empty with just two charm bracelets on them.  At home they would be piled high with offerings.  The sight of the cold grey stone cut her heart almost deeper than their deaths.  They had been so alone here.  And now, without them…

After some time, a warm hand came down on her shoulder.

“I hope you don’t mind, Firefly, but honestly they all wanted to.”

She turned to him, frowning, then stood in her surprise.  At the place where the line of trees ended, there were three shemlen women.  Cassandra was there, as was Lady Montilyet and Lady Leliana.  For a moment she was irrationally angry with every single one of them and it must have showed, because Cassandra took a step towards her, her dark eyes open and strangely vulnerable.

“You are not the only one to have lost those you love at that Temple, Herald.  I hope you do not mind, but when Varric said that you needed time to honour them, we wanted to pay our own respects.”

“They carried you here and without you, there would be no hope.  If your clan is anything like the ones I have seen, knowing them has made you who you are.  As we honour you, so we wish to honour them.”

This came from Lady Leliana, who sounded so painfully earnest, like she held her soul tight to herself to not betray her own grief, that Eli found herself nodding mutely.  Varric’s arm around her drew her away from Ghila and Yerevan’s stones, to the edge of the mound where he held her, waiting.

Cassandra walked with purpose, setting down a heavy amulet between the stones.  Eli hadn’t had not come across the words of this prayer, but what she heard was well-wishing, respect and sorrow.  That Cassandra used her own god meant nothing in the face of that.

Leliana came with grace, her fingers trailing over the stones.  She laid small bouquets of elfroot and some flower Eli didn’t recognise on each of the stones.  The first sentence she uttered was in what Eli assumed was Orlesian, but the second made her hold her stomach to keep herself from sobbing.

“”Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

Lady Montilyet struggled a little with the snow, but once she was at the top of the mound she knelt fully, placing her dark hand on each of the stones with a firmness and reverence that Eli could have sworn she felt on her own heart.  She took in her hands a necklace of different coloured beads and a dagger with silver inlaid on the hilt and then turned to look at Eli.

“Which should I put where, my lady?”

Eli had to take a moment to speak, grief and gratitude pushing against her lips.

“Give the necklace to Yerevan.  Ghila would have loved that blade.”

There was a wetness to Lady Montilyet’s eyes as she smiled, but she brought each to her lips, kissing it before offering it to the sky, the lyrical notes of Antivan soft from her lips in her prayers.  After laying both, she stood and turned again.

“Commander Cullen also wished to be here, but he thought perhaps it would not be appropriate given the circumstances.  He hopes, however, that you might accept these small tokens for your Clan members?”

At Eli’s nod, she reached into her bag and took out two pieces of paper, rolled and tied with simple ribbon.  She placed one on each of the stones, then walked backwards, somewhat awkwardly, back to the trees.

It still wasn’t much, but both stones were more covered now and it gave her the strength to stand tall, away from Varric.

Her voice, when it came, started small and timid, but as she sang, it grew with the weightless mass of grief that lifted from her chest outwards, reaching for the stones.  She engraved the images of the rock with gifts placed upon them into her mind, let her song hit the clear sky and banish all thoughts of those charred horrors up at the temple, the clanging doubt of whether she’d inadvertently passed one of them but not been able to tell through the ruin of their bodies.  She looked up to the cloudless sky and let her grief soar up into it.  It was hard not to find it heartbreaking how alone she sounded, until she heard a voice from behind her join her own.  Lady Leliana, it sounded like.  A hand clad in cold leather joined hers and it was strangely easy to let a shemlen join her in her song.  They stood and they sang until their voices were hoarse, until the silence was loud and strange at the moment they stopped.

They didn’t speak afterwards, but each one of them laid a hand on her before they left, be it on her shoulder, the crook of her arm, even Lady Montliyet’s soft hand on her cheek.  Then she was alone and the world was very still.

Only, not quite.  Broken from her vigil over her friends’ stones, she noticed something in the woods beside her.  Solas stood within the trees, the rough brown of his clothing almost blending him in to the winter bleached trunks of the trees.  He was standing very tall and straight, his eyes fixed on the stones.  She couldn’t read his face, couldn’t find any emotion she could recognise, but there was something very cold about him.  Not cruel in any way, not even disdainful, which was what she might expect.  Just aloof and very far away.  She felt a moment of nervousness when his head turned so that he might look back at her, almost like she had forgotten he could move, that he wasn’t some sort of statue.  The cold melted away from his face as he glanced at the only graves her friends would ever have before looking back.  He bowed slightly, his eyelids fluttering closed and then he turned away and she watched his back disappear into the trees, feeling strangely ill at ease.

When she turned back, she gasped slightly, her fingers coming to her lips.  Flitting above the stones, dancing slow and calm, were small orbs of lights.  Some would morph into hawks, hares, a pulsing ebb of flame, or rays of a tiny sun that struck the silver on the hilt of the dagger or illuminate the dark of the wool.

This time, her knees hit the snow and she let the tears take her.  Tomorrow she would be what the world needed her to be.  Today, she would mourn.

[moonlightheretic]

Chapter still unknown FULL (or is it?) WIP NSFW (it gets dark ya’ll)

“Where are we?” I struggled to find my bearings in this dark tunnel. The ground seemed unstable, pebbles shifting underfoot. My hands reached out in a blind haste for something solid to guide me through the dark. The walls practically disintegrated at my touch and nearly caved inwards. I did not feel safe. This place was one wrong step away from total collapse. I stumbled, my feet slipping into the rock ridden path, his hand caught my arm.

“You do not need to know.” He answered simply, pulling me to my feet.

It was becoming his go-to reply for everything I asked. I wasn’t satisfied with it. He watched my struggle and called flame to his hand, the hollowed cave’s secrets scattered into the shadows cast by the wiggling ignition. “You have stripped me of my weapons and most of my dignity. Do you mean to strip me of basic information as well? Am I so scary to you, Dread Wolf?” I challenged. Bitterness chewing through my words.

“They elected you as Inquisitor, not for your skill in battle alone. You are formidable. In any case, there is no benefit in informing you, it will make little difference. You will activate this one, as done previously.” His voice dipped into the octaves of an order.

“Where are we?” I pressed. “I want to know what you will destroy.” I stood firm, shoulders squared, refusing to tread further. He turned to face me, the blaze in his hand distorting the shadows across the planes of his face.

“When has any truth of my plans comforted you? Or perhaps, any truth at all? You live, stuck in a halcyon that never existed and you yearn for its return.”

“And who painted that pretty picture for me? This impressive hiraeth? A lie built on lies, a tower, and then brick by brick, a rotunda, and finally, a castle! What a beautiful empire you raised. Such an artist as you perhaps, should have erected that on Skyhold’s walls.”

We dove into a thick silence, neither of us giving in. I could almost see him biting his tongue, any remark quelled by fledgling self-control. He took a breath and smiled.

“You evade blame almost as skillfully as you evaded me, ah, but then again, where are you now?” He tilted his head, his left brow raised. “I wonder, what more dances have you that I not discovered yet?”

“I believe it was you who taught me to dance, Solas. I cannot take credit for my skills, when I have the master in front of me.” I gestured to him.

A muscle in his neck twitched and the fire cradled in his fingers strengthened significantly, staining his skin red.

“There is work to be done. Enough.” Even though the fire was causing us both to sweat in this enclosed space, his words were of pure ice.

We advanced upon this hovel, a crumbling crooked crevice of rock and stalagmites, dripping with Maker knows what. His steps were full of confidence and prior knowledge, muscle attuned with memory. He maneuvered past the tight angles with experience. He had been here before, perhaps?

“Whose bright idea was to locate an artifact in this dreadful place?” I snapped, as I was compelled to duck when a bat screeched by my head. Ah, but if a bat made its home here, surely there was an additional entrance to this hollowed nightmare.

He answered me with a chuckle and then reassured, “It isn’t far. Have patience, Inquisitor.” Ah, so he was no longer angered by my words, or had he folded the displeasure up and saved it for later?

I grabbed his illuminated jaw and snapped his head towards me. “Patience? I waited for you! With each year passing no more than a decade of drought! I have been patient, Solas.”  I wasn’t expecting a simple comment to provoke such raw emotion into my words, but there I was, fingers digging into the flesh of his jaw.

Solas’s eyes crept over my face, tracing every detail with his heavy gaze. “And so you have me.” He remarked gruffly and shrugged me off. A small draft tingled against my skin, the blooming flame flickered and listed, perhaps a vein in this stone body led to freedom, after all. But, I could only see what his flaming palm afforded me.

I felt it before I saw it. The anchor reacted, fizzling, smoke-like, and churning the air around it a greenish hue. My first reaction was to recoil and hide it within my cloak. Solas’s armored arm slithered into the fold of my cloak, the fabric hissing against his metal arm guards. He held onto my throbbing hand, pulling it from its hiding place, cool fingers calming my shivering ones, he presented it to the artifact before us.  Mist entrapped light uncoiled around the artifact, as if we had woken it from a long slumber, its light stretched and billowed in flight, like a flag caught in the wind and it rippled and convulsed, as if it was rejoicing. A warm welcome, indeed. A statue loomed behind, a winged and headless figure of a woman. Mythal. She was immured in this foul place, a feeling of sorrow washed over me.

“We are within the Vimmark Mountains.” He informed, sullen and remorseful, his eyes lingering on the statue.

A mountain chain, opportunity screamed into my mind. Then we could be in the vicinity of Kirkwall or even Ostwick, or rather, it was also possible we were somewhere in between. What mattered the most was the very fact that we were under a mountain.

“Surely, this place has significance.” I argued, playing along, with my eyes following his.

“Indeed.” He whispered.

Solas closed his palm and in doing so, snuffed out his flame. We were bathed in a greenish and golden light, I stole a glance, his mouth set in a hard line, eyes devoid of emotion, and in doing so, he gave me nothing. Unreadable. He was skilled not only in magic, but also, in masking his intentions. He was undeniably powerful, but so was I.

My heart hammered in my chest, possibly my only chance at stopping the Dread Wolf lay within these simple and faulty rock walls, carved out by water. Maybe, I did not need my little dagger, for it, could not compare with a mountain.

The next set of actions were to be done without instruction, as they were no different than the times prior. But this time, everything would be different. Hesitation would no longer best me.

I neared the artifact, Solas stepped behind me and observed. I lifted my hand and waited, the artifact pulsated with green waves of light surging upwards, and revealing thousands of tiny eyes glaring back at us in this aphotic sanctuary. Fucking bats.

I felt my release and I moved closer to it, the lights brightened in response, and I wondered, could I not only activate the artifact with the anchor, but also destroy it? Hell, I could bring this entire cave down and trap him in, weaponize our very surroundings…and so I did. I had only used the anchor’s power as much as I required of it, in the past, I was too careful to abuse it. That some calamity might befall myself and others if I used it for anything but its intended purpose, but what I needed most was in fact, calamity, itself.

I opened a rift right into the very center of the artifact. In less than a blink of an eye, it exploded into a shower of glass and stone, its ancient powers reveling in the new found freedom. In an instant, the small pocket of this mountain, shuddered and began to collapse, as the rift twisted it into its own shape, pulling and knotting, then thrusting and flailing. The bats flew to an escape as dust, stalagmites and murky water rained down, then chunks of rock plummeted downwards until the very ceiling threatened to fold in like a deck of cards. I tried to avoid the falling debris as the area shook, thunderous and vengeful. I could hear the bats, screeching in terror and I made my way to follow them.

“Moon’Hwa!” Solas roared. Eyes lit, his hands invoked a barrier, though as the mountain piled high, he was struggling to hold it. He gritted his teeth and grunted under the weight, too preoccupied to stop me, for if he let go, we would surely be buried. So this was his limit. I crawled along the ground, my back was pelted with rocks and earth. I covered my head with one hand and dug through debris with the other. He fell to his knee behind me, his gaze burning a hole in my back. The consequences of my actions stopped ricocheting from my body, I peered upwards to realize that his barrier was stretching, enveloping me within its safety.

My heart clenched and I dared to look back at his face. The barrier wavered and he gasped, rocks shimmied through, bouncing off of his pauldrons. His eyes squinting, and I thought I saw the shimmer of tears catching on his lashes, the veins under the skin of his neck and face enlarged as he strained to keep the barrier solid. A stalagmite jabbed into his cheek, drawing a bloody trail down his face. I comforted myself as guilt pulled at my sleeve. I needed to be ruthless, the world depended on it. He saw me as an asset. An important one, if not for the anchor, would he not let me drown in stone and earth? I steeled myself within this resolve. Thus, I needed to get the anchor as far away from him as possible. I pushed onwards and the barrier flickered as it followed me, or rather, it kept one step ahead, an encouragement to go further. Guilt sent its timely reminder and I bit into my lip to keep from turning back. You are leaving him to die. An enormous section of rock slammed into the barrier, it blocked where the humble draft of air whistled through. That meant, the only way out was the Eluvian. I gulped hard, facing disappointment. It would have to do.  Dal’nim will lose her father.

“Be quiet!” I seethed, shaking my head in an attempt to be rid of its voice.

It was becoming hard to breathe, the same air I breathed before filtered into my lungs and I quickened to the eluvian, a beacon in this turbulent darkness. Bats dropped to the barrier, sliding around me in a freefalling current of death. I inched closer, my fingers breaching its fluid reflection, the barrier wavered and as I pulled myself in, the tiny collapsing cavern was blasted with blinding blue light. The noise was…indescribable. My ears rang and ached as I was pushed into the eluvian by the blast, flying head first into the sanctum. I was followed by pieces of rubble, stalagmites, and a multitude of dead bats. The eluvian grumbled and screeched against the green tile as it too was shoved forward, denting it in the process.

I scrambled to stand, collecting my wobbly legs and propelling them to move, I clutched onto the eluvian, and with all my strength I heaved my weight into it, I screamed as the heavy golden oculus resisted my nefarious machinations. With one last heave, I pushed it into the bat littered floor and it shattered as if it were glass. The pieces flung everywhere, slicing my face and hands, the twinkling shards then seemed to dissolve, pooling into a clear and shimmering liquid at my feet. I did not wait around to discover what would happen next. My feet pummeled against the same elaborate green tile, I did not know where I was going, and I only knew that in this matter, distance was a friend. It was blur of gold and green, this place, I threw myself into eluvian after eluvian, until I could find something with the semblance of familiarity. I needed to find Dal’nim. She and I could be free of this place. I could contact Iron Bull, we could go to Rivain. The anchor will kill you. A sobering reminder. All hope gained, was lost in an instant. I…could cut it off, but, my eyes glow with its power, its infection could be septic? Oh, what was I going to do? There was so little I knew. My left fizzled and sparked emerald, free of Solas’s control.

I picked eluvians randomly, changing directions at will, his agents stopped and stared, I charged into them, not caring who I knocked over. It seemed that they simply did not know what to do with me. Perhaps, I had even been veiled as a secret from them. In any case their reaction time was cut short, because once I was within eyesight, I was already gone. I stopped to catch my breath, my chest heaving. This labyrinth was endless, eternal even. My palms stuck to my knees as sweat dripped from my face, not only sweat, no, but tears. They poured from my eyes, a deep mournful cry belted from my stomach. My fists clenched into the fabric of my trousers. I had more than likely killed him. No! I couldn’t stop to grieve. I had to leave! I needed to find Dal’nim! Priority reminded me.  I stood straight and stepped forward, I nearly tripped as my foot caught the edge of sunken tile.

The tile beneath my feet waned, breaking off and splintering into the damp soil. A large gust nearly wiped me from my feet and howled in my ears, I held on to the fragment of a statue to my right for dear life and my hands slipped against its wet surface. Cool droplets coated my face and hair and I turned to see what commanded such a force. A siege of water surfed upon the wind, upwards, over the edge of the cliff side before me, like a waterfall in reverse. A perpetual haze clung to the air, broken pillars and archways framed this place, half shrouded by the mist. This area felt wrong, like I wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone know of it. Old Oaks careened off the cliff, hanging by their roots, as if they, themselves, wished to be elsewhere. Otherwise, this space was devoid of life, but it did not feel empty. This island in the sky, a mere token of a once larger chain, wasn’t particularly large, its counterparts were scattered elsewhere, dipping into the horizon as black dots. Perhaps it was meant to be forgotten? My eyes completed a wide sweep of the island. There was no other eluvian than the one I emerged from. Was this a dead end? My only hope was in the distance, an area still mysterious, as it was outstanding in comparison to everything else this place offered.

A crypt nearly swallowed by erosion and mist, dwelled behind archways and pillars. My steps were chosen carefully, and I swapped from pillar to pillar leading into it, hanging on with all my might when the windy tsunami blew into me. Perhaps there was an eluvian lurking inside? I looked behind me before entering into this forbidden dwelling of the dead, a chill slithered into my bones, every muscle screaming I turn around, flee from this miserable place. But my desire to escape compelled me to ignore those sensations. Torches blazed upon my entry and I nearly jumped out of my skin, bravery almost forgotten. The braziers illuminated the stairway that descended into the depths of the unknown. My only companions were the buoyant echoes that bounced from my steps. My palms sliding flat along the golden walls, a steady reminder of what surrounded me, solid and strong, I could lean my weight into them without worry.

The braziers ignited as I passed by, this place was slowly drawn back to life. With each step taken, a noise loudened just a bit more, a wailing. Though, it did not originate as the result of the wind that labored against the crypt’s exterior. Odd. The landing of the stairs opened into a single room, it was unremarkable, except for the eluvian placed in the center and an exquisite golden recurve bow and full quiver leaning against it. But this reflection, this swirling picture it painted was not of me, nor was it of the room that sheltered it. I approached it, curiosity luring me in no different than a moth to flame. My fingers brushed its liquid like appearance, causing it to ripple, its image stayed the same. A thrashing figure, whom appeared to be female was tied to a massive tree, yet her head was…distorted. As if she wore some type of gargantuan crown that all but consumed her head. Her screams reached me and a gasp erupted from my throat when realization slammed into me.

Those were arrows. Countless arrows driven into her skull. She seemed to be trapped in unfathomable agony. I could not even see her face, for there were so many. How she managed to still live was …disturbing more than it was remarkable. She was a living pin cushion. She squirmed, her legs twisting in the grass, her head rolled from side to side, searching for a release from the pain and she wailed into the void, a haunting noise that echoed throughout the room. She should die. She deserves to die. It was like watching my mother all over again. I felt sick, what was this horrifying depiction? I was entranced, empathy surging like a rapid. I pulled my dagger from my boot and stepped in, gooseflesh punctuated my skin and my hair stood tall. Wait—

Blue light engulfed the humble room, and the taste of blood pricked at my tongue. I was thrown, a force splitting me from the suffering sight before me and I landed in a heap, limbs locked in place, I was physically held to the floor by an unseen force. The air knocked from my lungs, I found it challenging to breathe, and I stained against the invisible chokehold. The anchor’s light vanished as it was sealed.  

“S-Solas!” I winced, air pushing out of my lips with a wheeze.

“Inquisitor, I must thank you.” His voice rang overly cheerful, pulsing with falsehood, his expression read differently. Eyes alit, sharp and unashamedly bright, the blue light trailed him as he turned to face me.

“You were most forthcoming with your intentions for me. I gave you the floor and your performance was…inspiring.” He shook his head, his face embellished with drying blood and dirt. “If my hands weren’t preoccupied with saving you, I would have clapped. A pity that your plan ultimately failed.” His words ending with the cold tone of finality.

I faced my defeat with a retort and growled despite my predicament, “How did it feel to have a mountain fall on you, Solas?” My emotions swirling in an unending whirlpool of despair for my failure and…relief, shameful relief.

“How did it feel? Ask the mountain. Although, you would face a difficult time finding it. I believe as of now, it stands below sea level.” He smirked and faced the eluvian.

He picked up the ostentatious bow and a single arrow from the quiver ruled in shadow, there was a slight shake to his hands, besides his haggard dirt/blood stained face and rock pelted armor, it was the only evidence that hinted at the event that befell him earlier.

“You left me to die when Corypheus besieged Haven! I was YOUR scapegoat! You are nothing but a coward.” The memory, along with rage found me, my mind fumbling with excuses.

“You’ve sacrificed more for the greater good of your cause, have you not? Your rage is misplaced, Vhenan. At one time, you were gladly complicit!" Solas argued, "As I am sure you are starting to remember." "Yes, at one time, I was gladly stupid." I retorted. "I thrived off of your praise alone, the Inquisition taught me I didn't need it."

“Yes, the same Inquisition that now terrorizes Ferelden and the Free Marches, searching for you. How wonderful of a teacher.”

“As were you, if my memory serves me right.” I seethed. “Though, I cannot claim to know what is real anymore.”

His left arm held the bow aloft and he seemed to ignore me, the light from his eyes illuminating its exquisite carvings and jeweled features, I had honestly never seen a bow so beautiful. It looked like it didn’t belong here, like it didn’t belong to this time. Solas nocked an arrow onto it, then to my horror, he took aim at the tortured woman, his right eye closing as he concentrated. He pulled back, deliberate and graceful. The arrow took flight, into the eluvian. I gasped when I heard the impact, I wished I could have covered my ears when her cries of agony hit me. I couldn’t understand how the poor female had any available space left on her head.

“Inquisitor, I must warn you not to wander in this place, for there are areas you may not return from, much like these arrows." He instructed.

“Who is she? What did she do?” I asked panicking, dismissing his warning.

“She numbers among they who killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.” He reached for another arrow. “They? Have you more prisoners? Why not kill them?” I reasoned.

“The first of my people do not die so easily, as you can see.” Another arrow flew coupled with another cry of agony. He navigated around my question, I knew not to ask more on the subject. This man had more walls than a gated palace.

“I assume that applies to you as well.” I pried, agitation digging in.

His smirk returned for the briefest of moments, before a deep melancholy was ushered in by his dipped brows and frown. He observed the bow in his hand, his fingers gripping it until his knuckles nearly turned white. “Andruil killed her with this bow. A fine gift, bestowed upon her by Mythal, herself. Yet, it ended in an act of greed, further sullied by lust for blood and power.” His head shook gently and he set the bow down, leaning it against the eluvian.

“When the veil is torn down…wont the Old Gods be freed?” Panic rose in my throat like bile.

“I have plans.” He pulled his hands behind his back and watched the suffering Andruil before him, eyes glassy and reflecting the writhing figure in his view.

“I-I didn’t think you were…I never thought you were capable of-“ I stuttered, the weight of his words plunging me into a deep ocean of fear. Did he imprison the other Old Gods in their own chambers of agony? Just who was Fen’Harel?

Andruils anguished cries bled through the eluvian, and staring into it was a God in the figure of a man whose eyes were gleaming with pride.

Last line credit goes to my friend AYSIA

Yeah I realize its not done. Like there needs to be a flashback for the opening yada yada. 

[pikapeppa]

oooh a fenquisition prompt: how about fenris interacting with sera?

Your wish is my command! Here is Sera’s recruitment mission, led by Fenris and accompanied by the rest of the Inquisition crew. 

A late-night entry for @dadrunkwriting Friday!

Read on AO3 instead; ~3200 words.

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

Cassandra carefully wiped the blood from her blade and glared at Fenris. “Remind me again whose idea it was to pursue this so-called scavenger hunt?”

“Hawke,” Fenris and Varric said in unison.

“Hey,” Hawke protested. “I wouldn’t have insisted on this if you all really didn’t want to come.” She racked her staff on her back, then rested her elbow on Varric’s shoulder with a winning little smile. “Come on though, you have to admit this has been an entertaining little treasure hunt so far.”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “Has it?”

“Yes!” she insisted. “Come on, this has been intriguing.”

“We were just ambushed,” Cassandra snapped. “And we have no idea why!”

“But we didn’t die!” Hawke retorted. “That’s a win!”

Cassandra scowled at her, and she finally winced and lifted her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Guilty as charged,” she said. “Sorry, Cass. This is just the kind of thing that tends to happen around me.”

Fenris smirked as he stored his greatsword on his back. Hawke was playing apologetic, but he could tell how much she was enjoying this. The odd notes, the clues, the random inept ambush… Hawke’s eyes were lit up in a way they hadn’t been in months - maybe even years - and Fenris knew why: this was like being back in Kirkwall again, running around Darktown at night and beating up the ragtag gangs of thieves and criminals that preyed upon the unwary.

Cassandra grunted. “You’d better hope we finish this task with our lives intact. Then I might accept your apology.”

“Ooh, extra incentive,” Hawke chirped. “Best get on with it, then.” She sashayed toward a set of elaborately carved double doors that seemed to lead into an inner courtyard, then pushed them open.

And immediately threw up a hasty barrier to deflect a fireball.

Cassandra gasped and drew her sword, and Fenris grabbed Hawke’s arm to pull her back. “Hawke,” he hissed. “What in the blasted Void-”

“Herald of Andraste!” A loud Orlesian voice hailed him from within the inner courtyard. “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably.”

Fenris peered over Hawke’s head to see who was speaking. It was a man in a ridiculous mask and doublet, holding a flask filled with fire in his hand. He flung the flask of fire at them, and Cassandra swiftly threw up her shield and deflected it.

“Kaffas,” Fenris snarled. He pushed past Cassandra and glared at their masked assailant. “Drop your cursed fire and explain the meaning of this.”

The masked man laughed loudly. “I won’t be tricked, Herald of Andraste! You think to shake my resolve by pretending you don’t know my plans?”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. What was this blasted fool going on about?

“What plans? Who the fuck are you?” Hawke asked incredulously. “Aside from some pantaloon-wearing Orlesian idiot?”

The masked idiot gasped dramatically. “How dare you! I’m too important for this to be an accident. My efforts-”

He broke off as a gurgling cry of pain rang out from behind him. He whipped around to look, and Fenris looked up as well to see a slim silhouette moving through the shadows.

Alarmed, he swiftly drew his greatsword, but the shadowy silhouette drew a bow and pointed it at the masked man. “Say ‘what,’” the shadow said.

The masked man puffed up indignantly. “What is the-”

An arrow sprouted in his throat. He stumbled back and fell heavily to the ground. Fenris stared at him in surprise for a moment as he writhed and choked on his own blood. Then he frowned in the direction of their mysterious helper. “Show yourself,” he ordered.

The bow-wielding newcomer skipped out of the shadows. She was an elf with a messy mop of straw-coloured hair, and she pranced carelessly over to their dying opponent without even looking at Fenris. “Ugh!” she exclaimed. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right? Just say ‘what’. Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.” She bent down beside the now-dead body and reached for her arrow, and Fenris watched with growing bemusement as she attempted to pull the arrow back through the messy wound she’d dealt.

“‘Blah blah blah,’” she said mockingly. “‘Obey me! Arrow in my face!’” She hummed tunelessly to herself as she tried in vain to pull her arrow from the dead man’s throat.

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke said. She wandered over to Fenris’s side with a grin. “This girl is the outcome of the scavenger hunt?”

“It… seems that way,” Fenris said blankly.  

Hawke snorted a laugh. “This is amazing. This is the best thing that’s happened since we got to Val Royeaux.”

“Yeah, it’s been a gas,” Varric drawled. “Minus the ambush.”

“And the flask of fire that almost singed you,” Solas said.  

“And this seemingly unprovoked murder,” Cassandra added, with a disapproving look at the blonde elf.

Hawke wilted and gave Fenris a pleading look. “They’re ganging up on me. Make them stop.”

He shrugged unconcernedly. “You made your bed. I’m afraid you have to sleep in it.”

Hawke fanned herself playfully. “My my, Fenris. Talking about going to bed in front of all these people? If you insist…” She sidled closer to him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

Solas lifted his eyes to the sky as if to search for patience, and Cassandra self-consciously cleared her throat. Fenris shot Hawke a chiding look, then looked down at the little blonde archer. “Who are you, exactly?” he asked.

“I’m trying to get me arrow from… this… hah!” She finally pulled her arrow from the dead man’s throat, then sat on the ground and looked at it triumphantly. “Gotcha,” she said, then tucked the blood-caked arrow into her quiver and finally looked Fenris full in the face.

She frowned. “And you’re an elf.”

Fenris frowned at her. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “So are you.”

She pouted, then shrugged and perked up. “Well, it’s all good, innit? The important thing is, you glow!” She pointed at his left hand. “You’re the Herald thingy!” Her eyes widened as she focused on his palm. Then her gaze travelled up his arm and over his exposed biceps, and Fenris scowled as her uninhibited stare landed on his tattooed neck and chin.

“What’s with the lines?” she asked. “You look like a map. Can’t tell your arsehole from your ear, can you?”

He grunted, then jerked his chin at the dead man. “Who was he? What did he want with us?”

The blonde elf shrugged and pushed herself to her feet. “No idea. I don’t know this idiot from manners. My people just said the Inquisition should look at him.”

“What?” Cassandra exclaimed. “You mean to say this man you killed was a complete stranger to you?”

Fenris held up a hand. “Wait. Who are your people?” he demanded. Why couldn’t this woman give him a clear answer?

She shrugged. “You know. People-people!” She jerked a thumb at herself. “Name’s Sera.” She pointed at a large abandoned crate. “This is cover. Get ‘round it!”

Fenris stared at her in total confusion. Sera widened her eyes comically at him. “For the reinforcements,” she said loudly, as though he was a total dunce. Then she snorted and ducked behind a nearby pillar. “Don’t worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed. They’ve got no breeches!”

“Breeches?” Fenris repeated faintly. He was starting to feel as stupid as Sera seemed to think he was. Then he whipped around as the sounds of shouting and clanging steel flooded into the courtyard from a gate just off to the northeast.

A handful of sword-bearing soldiers surged toward them. Fenris pulled his greatsword from his back with a snarl, then stopped to stare.

The soldiers were all missing their breeches. Fenris only had a split second to marvel at the complete and utter idiocy of the moment before launching himself into the fight.

In truth, it was hardly a fight and more of a massacre. There were only eight Orlesian soldiers against Fenris and his five companions, and the soldiers seemed so distracted by their lack of trousers that killing them was no more difficult than taking food from a baby nug. By the time the soldiers were dead, Sera was positively cackling with glee.

She slid her bow onto her back and planted her hands on her hips. “Friends really came through with that tip. No breeches!” she crowed.

Hawke snickered. “Just when I thought this couldn’t get any better, we get a handful of idiot soldiers with their cocks out.” She sighed happily and slung her arm around Sera’s neck. “You might be a little bit insane, but I like your style.”

Sera’s ears went a bit pink, and she elbowed Hawke. “Phwoar, you’re not so bad yourself.”

Fenris scowled at Sera. “If you had access to their equipment shed, why would you not take their swords instead?” he demanded.

She gave him that look again: a look that indicated that she thought he was missing the point entirely. “Because no breeches,” she said slowly. She waved at the dead soldiers. “Dangly bits all hanging out? Way better than no swords hanging out!”

Varric snorted. “I guess it is kind of strategic.”

“True. It makes a certain kind of sense,” Solas said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “These men were quite distracted during the battle.”

“Right?” Sera said brightly. Then she wrinkled her nose at Solas. “Pffft. You’re way too elfy. Next.”

Solas frowned, and Fenris sighed loudly and folded his arms. “All right. You dragged us into this harebrained fight. Now what do you want?”

“I want to help your Inquisition-thingy,” she announced.

Cassandra scowled. “You want to join the Inquisition?” she said scathingly. “Why?”

Sera folded her arms and shifted her weight jauntily to one hip. “It’s like this. I sent you a note to look for hidden stuff from my friends? The friends of Red Jenny. That’s me.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows. “You are Red Jenny?”

“Well, I’m one,” Sera corrected. “So is a guy in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall… there were three in Starkhaven. Brothers or something.” She shrugged impatiently. “It’s just a name, yeah? It lets little people, friends, be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face: I’m Sera. The friends of Red Jenny are sort of out there.” She waved vaguely toward the gate. “I use them to help you. Plus arrows.”

Fenris studied her carefully. Beneath the rambling and the crass jokes, he was finally starting to see what she was about.

“You and your friends are people of low status,” he said. “Invisible people who are ignored by those in power. Servants and pageboys and the like?”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “That’s it,” she said brightly. “Them’s the ones. Someone little always hates someone big. And unless you don’t eat, sleep, or piss, you’re never far from someone little.”

Fenris nodded, then jerked his head at the dead man that she’d shot through the throat. “And this man? What were his crimes against those who served him?”

Sera shrugged. “Dunno. But a lot of people hated this guy. Someone got a laugh, someone got even, someone got paid.” She shot a pointed look at Cassandra. “And someone has to have it explained to them that free help is good.”

Cassandra folded her arms obstinately. “You killed a man without knowing his crimes. You cannot be certain he was guilty,” she argued.

“Aw come on, Seeker,” Varric said soothingly. “How good could he be? He tried to kill us without thinking twice.”

“But - that is not - Varric, it is the principle of it,” Cassandra said sharply. “It sets a terrible precedent. Killing people without being certain of their guilt?”

Solas folded his hands behind his back. “Some might argue that that is the life of a common foot soldier,” he said mildly. “A soldier must trust what their commander tells them. Perhaps Sera and her Red Jennies are soldiers for a different type of cause.”

Sera snorted loudly. “We aren’t no soldiers. We’re just friends helping friends.” She gave Fenris a pointed look. “Look, d’you need people or not? I want things to go back to normal, just like you.”

Fenris studied her appraisingly, then shrugged. “All right. Yes. You can join us.”

Cassandra tutted loudly, but Sera didn’t seem to hear; she punched the air with her fist. “Yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be! Plus extra breeches, because I have all these…” She trailed off, then gave Fenris a bright and slightly maniacal smile. “You have merchants who buy that pish, yeh? Got to be worth something.”

“Er, yes,” Fenris said. Sera was practically hopping with energy, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, and Fenris was starting to feel slightly overwhelmed by her constant activity.

“Bring the extra breeches to Haven. We will give them to the refugees,” Cassandra said. She looked distinctly disgruntled.

Varric patted her elbow. “That’s the spirit, Seeker. Join in with the madness. You’ll get used to it.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and folded her arms. Meanwhile, Sera was chatting cheerfully with Hawke, who seemed to be giving her directions of some kind.

Fenris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What are you two talking about?”

Hawke blinked innocently at him. “Nothing,” she said.

Sera elbowed her and snickered. “I’ll find it, yeh? Sounds like good reading for the road.” She darted over to Fenris and punched him affably in the arm. “Haven, right? See you there, Herald! This will be grand!” She ran off toward the gate, and a minute later, she was gone.

“Weird,” Varric said. He looked up at Fenris. “She didn’t even ask your name, did she?”

Fenris folded his arms and gave Hawke a severe look. “What did you tell her?”

Hawke tucked her hands in her pockets and batted her eyelashes. “I might have told her where to find that issue of the Randy Dowager at the docks.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “You still don’t know if that belonged to someone.”

Varric snorted. “I don’t know, elf. I think there might’ve been a reason it was left behind a barrel of smelly fish guts by the docks.”

Hawke grinned at him. “Varric, are you jealous? Just because Swords and Shields was a complete flop-”

Cassandra burst into a violent coughing fit, and Fenris and the others turned to look at her.

“Are you all right?” Solas asked.

Fenris stared at her in alarm. Her cheeks were flaming red. He tugged the canteen of water from his belt and handed it to her. “Drink this,” he advised.

She snatched the canteen and gulped a few mouthfuls of water, then delicately covered her mouth as she handed the canteen back. She took a deep breath through her nose, then frowned at Fenris. “I am not so sure about this Sera person,” she said. “The type of ‘help’ she is offering sounds like little more than petty criminality.”

Fenris lifted his chin. “You come from a long line of nobles,” he told her. “You do not understand her way of life. Being an elf of low birth…” He pursed his lips. “City elves who live in poverty can be one of two things. They can be targets for abuse, or they can be invisible. Often, they are both. They receive little more attention or respect than rats.” He shifted his weight to one hip. “Now imagine that the rats could stage a rebellion of sorts. Working silently to hamstring their predators without being seen…” He sighed and gazed idly at his lyrium-lined palms for a moment.

Then Hawke’s fingers slid across his palm. He raised his chin and met her warm amber eyes.

Hawke squeezed his fingers, and he looked at Cassandra once more. “Your Inquisition is not unlike Sera’s Red Jennies,” he said. “You are small, and the Templars and the nobles and the people who look down on you: they think you’re insignificant. That could be for the best, for now. You can work quietly and save your strength. They will underestimate you, and you will be able to catch them by surprise.”

Cassandra didn’t reply, and the others were oddly quiet as well.

Solas eventually broke the silence. “Well spoken,” he murmured.

Fenris glanced at him curiously. The elven mage’s expression was oddly complex: both proud and melancholy at once.

Then Cassandra sighed. “I am sorry, Fenris. Once again, I…” She trailed off and rubbed her hands together nervously, then sighed and dropped her hands to her sides. “You see things I cannot. You truly are well-suited for this,” she said.

He frowned slightly and didn’t reply. From the way Cassandra was speaking, one would almost believe Fenris hadn’t been essentially forced into this recruitment role.

Cassandra waved toward the gates that would take them back to the city. “Shall we go?”

He nodded, and their little party moved off toward the gates. Fenris walked hand-in-hand with Hawke as they followed the quiet road back to Val Royeaux.

She bumped her arm gently against his. “If you’d ever had the chance to stage a slave rebellion in Tevinter, you would have,” she told him quietly. “You were just… too isolated.”

Fenris shrugged. “Is that all it was?” he said. “I can say I didn’t know rebellion was possible when I was under Danarius’s thumb. But… perhaps I simply lacked the strength to act.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hawke said fiercely. She squeezed his hand. “You’re the strongest person I know. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

He twisted his lips doubtfully. “In any case, Sera’s network could be useful. They may be able to supplement Leliana’s spies, at the very least.”

Hawke smiled to herself and didn’t speak. Fenris tilted his head. “What? Why are you smiling?”

She shrugged and continued to smile. “Nothing,” she said. Then she looked up at him. “I love you, you know.”

He blinked in surprise at her non-sequitur. “I know,” he said. “I love you, as well.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand once more, and they continued along the road to Val Royeaux. While Cassandra, Varric, and Solas quietly chatted, Hawke hummed quietly to herself, and Fenris thought of Sera.

He knew that Sera wasn’t what Cassandra had in mind for an Inquisition recruit. But help could take many forms, and in Fenris’s opinion, the Inquisition could do worse than a defiant street urchin with wicked bow arm and a vendetta against power-hungry nobles.

Besides, Hawke would be pleased to have a new and apparently lewd-minded friend.

Fenris smirked to himself and shook his head. I hope I won’t regret this, he thought. But he was fairly sure that bringing Sera on board would work in their favour. Her odd and nebulous band of Red Jennies might offer them a pleasant surprise someday.

That was what little people tended to do, after all.

[zolanhras]

Countless Reasons

This is a small Solavellan short, drawn from my WIP fic right now. Bigs thanks to @batdarkladyvampir for taking a look at this and getting out the wrinkles. 

Words: 819

Pairing: Solas/Ellana Lavellan

Warnings: None applicable

Tonight they were in the gardens, just having begun to bloom as he’d left them, dashes of color dotting the walls and ground. A cool breeze from the mountains brought her the fragrance of the moon lilies and she felt a twinge of longing in her chest.

A pulse reverberated through her, flooding her mind with faint images, dashing her previous thoughts.

“Emma lath,” she said.

He did not answer. He rarely did. She turned and saw him sitting on one of the benches. He wore his elven form today, and he held a new bud of crystal grace between his fingers. He did not look at her.

“I passed a child on the street today. A little girl, daughter of a elven Laetan that had managed to claw his way into the Magisterium.” she said, not moving from her place, but creating a Fade image of the little girl skip between them. An abundance of curly hair, warm brown eyes, a slight blush on her dark skin. She was too small yet to hold her dad’s hand properly, so she grasped one finger. The girl swung their joined hands up and down, laughing with an unbridled joy that only a little one could know.

“She will burn, Solas,” she said, letting the wisp disappear. “Another one you will burn.”

He said nothing, just gripped the flower tighter, letting the silence grow long between them.

That was her one for the night. There would be another tomorrow. She would have to look for a decent example, but that meant going out on the streets, and she didn’t know if it was safe yet. She would have to think of something.

She walked over to another of the benches, gravel crunching deafeningly, and sat, making a cup of elfroot milk appear beside her. She took it and wrapped her hands around the metal to warm them. She took a sip, and found the taste as comforting as she remembered it to be. Exactly so. She let the warmth spread through her.

“Your skill is increasing,” Solas said, picking the flower and twirling it between his fingers.

She stopped, looking up at where he was, but he hadn’t moved.

“Elfroot milk. The hahrens would always bluster over the preparation, but my papae would always make a secret pot for us da’len.” She said, looking back into the mug.

“I was not speaking of the drink,” he said and appeared beside her in an eye blink, the bench long enough to give distance.

Oh.

“I had a diligent teacher,” she said, taking a last whiff of the milk and then making it return to nothing. “There are uncountable reasons, Solas. I will convince you.”

He shifted and rested elbows on his knees as he brushed the flower’s petals with his thumb.

“I know you are trying.”

They sat in silence. It scraped at her insides, and she gazed at the vines climbing the stone, remembering days where she would come out here to find a sense of peace.

“Ellana,” he said gently.

She turned and found him giving the flower to her. She took it, their fingertips touching clumsily as she grabbed the stem. She pretended not to notice, and inspected it, skimming the petals where he had and found letters there. It spelled her name.

“I do not believe I ever told you,” he said, watching her as she took in his gift. “Your name. It means, the spirited one, the Great Oak.”

She looked up at him and noticed how his shoulders slumped. She smiled brokenly, tears stinging her eyes. She kept them back.

She reached out a hand, gently holding his face, and he reached up to keep her hand there. She slid her hand back towards his neck and they leaned close, foreheads touching.

“Vhenan,” she said, straining her throat. “It is only a matter of time.”

“I know,” he said.

She took a few moments, taking in the feel of his skin against hers, bracing herself for her next words.

“Come back to me.”

He tilted into her, shut his eyes hard, pressing a kiss against the bridge of her nose. She pressed back—

She sat up, heart beating quickly, as she gathered her bearings. She was in her room in Superius. It was dark, the only light being the moonlight that trickled faintly from the window.

She clutched her sheets, getting a hold of herself. She still felt the whisper of his lips on her face. They no longer sung on her skin, like they once did. They burnt, hurting, as she remembered why.

She calmed herself, banishing any thoughts of the Fade and those who walked there. She sunk deep into her mushy pillows, burying herself deep into covers, breaths coming easier now. She turned her head to check the time, it was still late.

All that was left was to wait for the light.

[kaoruyogi]

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 17)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content! 

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 17: War is Hell (And It’s Not Just a Fucking Cliché)

Forced marches could suck a fucking dick. Better yet, they could suck two dicks and a left nut.

Belle’s entire body ached from tip to tail. Her head ached more the further south they marched because, apparently, there were still allergens in Thedas to compress her sinuses. Her neck, back, ass, crotch, and thighs ached from riding in the carriage and riding on horseback. She walked when she could, but she almost snapped her ankle on the third day and had to stop trying.

It was a small mercy that Eudora had decided to come along with the other healers. She patched up Belle’s little cuts and bruises, though they were less numerous or frequent than Belle thought they might have been. The healer’s best balm for Belle was to be a much-needed lifter of spirits. The woman was, after all, a noisy and unashamed rabble-rouser. “Maker, this cart is rattling my bones from arse to tits,” or, “I never could master that twirly-whirly, spinning nonsense with my staff when I was in the Circle,” she would say. The latter made Sera laugh, too. Eudora was also Sera’s favorite healer, surprising no one. The two women had a lot in common, including boundless snark.

Dorian would ride alongside the women, putting in his two cents about Eudora and Sera’s colorful commentary on “the modern mage.” The phrase made Belle chuckle each time she heard it. The modern mage. She envisioned magazine covers with too-thin models draped in Chanel or Alexander McQueen robes, arms wrapped like boney serpents around Tiffany staves. Maybe it would be more like a family magazine, and the cover would bear images of happy little mage families or couples decked out it matching polo shirts and playing catch with fireballs. The articles inside would range from “How to Find the Best Necromancy Preschool for Your Tot,” to “Fifteen Ways to Thaw Your Ice Mage in the Sack.” Belle nearly toppled from her horse, she laughed so hard.

Max had gifted Bull a battlenug because the Qunari was just this side of snapping a horse’s back, even the drafts. The battlenug was somehow both hulking and snuggly with a face like a squishy rhinoceros and horns like an ancient mountain goat. Bull named him Mertam—an exercise in irony, according to Bull—and the two were perfect for each other. Bull spoiled the giant thing rotten the whole march, sneaking him vegetables and the odd fruit every time they stopped.

“You treat that drooling animal better than you treat me,” said Dorian one evening at their campfire.

“I treat you just as sweetly when I’ve turned you into a drooling animal, kadan,” said Bull. Dorian shut up after that.

Varric wrote everything down, even while he rode. When Belle asked him why, he said with all seriousness and conviction, “Counselor, someone’s got to tell this story to everyone who wasn’t here. Some of the things that happen along this march will be legendary one day. Incidentally, what do you think would be a good title for the book? I’m thinking, ‘All This Shit is Weird,’ by Varric Tethras. Or maybe, ‘No One Listens to the Dwarf’ with the subtitle, ‘The Story of How Thedas Almost Burned to a Crisp Six Thousand Times.’” Belle picked the second option.

Vivienne, Leliana, and Josephine spent most of their time in one of the carriages. When Empress Celene surprised an entire army by joining the march with her forces, the four women were all but inseparable. Belle spent what time she had to with the empress, kissing ass and licking boots, but preferred to be away from the onslaught of noble horseshit the woman spewed on a never ending basis. Belle was not Vivienne, who seemed unable or unwilling to stop appearing unreadable and superior. Belle liked to shut her superiority off after a few hours of use. It was too exhausting to spend the whole day looking down her nose, and her glasses weren’t suitable for accommodating the adjustment.

Morrigan likewise lingered near Celene, though she could also be found arguing with Solas about something related to magic or elves or just about anything. On rare occasions, she rode with Max, though he seemed to tire of her company after fifteen minutes. He didn’t care for her. Her presence was a means to an end, he’d told Belle. The witch, he’d said, knew something.

When Solas was not arguing with Morrigan, he could often be seen riding in silence, a pensive stare glued to his face. Belle liked the elf well enough, though he may not always have liked her. The way he’d spoken about her unceremonious arrival in Thedas sometimes sounded like chastisement. Other times it had sounded like he felt a personal attachment to the incident. He had become less apt to ask her about it in recent months, but everyone had become less apt to ask her about it in recent months.

Cole lingered near everyone at one time or another. He had become more…corporeal lately. Belle noticed him more, and he surprised her less. His personality had not changed—he still said odd and invasive things—but he seemed happier, in a way. It was in his tone and on his face in tiny increments. She might even have heard him laugh once, though the sound was so short and came as such a surprise no one could be certain.

Blackwall, as everyone agreed to continue calling him, marched with the soldiers. He was no more fit to ride than any one of them, he’d said before they set out. The soldiers began to accept him again as they marched. It was a slow process, but Spencer helped, choosing to sit next to Blackwall at meals and march with him for several days. Spencer chastised some of his fellow soldiers for their judgments and accusations, reminding them how many of their own lives Blackwall had saved. Belle could not have been prouder of her brother for championing the beleaguered man. Spencer was one of the good ones.

Cassandra alternated between riding and marching, always near the front of the forces. She was a galvanizing and powerful presence for the soldiers, never showing weakness and always understanding of their struggles. She made sure boots were kept dry and shields were kept high. She and Cullen often rode side by side, locked in intense conversation or in complete silence. Casualness between the two warriors was a rarity.

Cullen had withdrawn from Belle in degrees too small to cause her to worry until midway through the march. It started the day Max told everyone they would soon be marching to the Arbor Wilds. Cullen spent that night with Belle, but he had refused to leave his office for dinner. He started refusing to leave his tower for lunch. He started refusing to leave his tower for any meals. He stopped spending the night in her tower.

She tried to be understanding. He was under immense pressure to plan a successful march, a successful attack, and a thousand successful contingencies. The Inquisition’s cause and his cause had to be one and the same. She understood. She was a workaholic before being sucked into Thedas, even a bit of one thereafter. She tried not to mind the dark circles under his eyes or the way he would ignore food when it was brought to him. She tried not to pay attention to the way he snapped at people more than usual or pinched the bridge of his nose. She tried not to feel hurt at his continued absence from her bed or his constant answer of, “There is too much work to be done,” when she asked him to join her. She tried, but it wasn’t working.

As the troops marched on, Cullen grew ever more distant. Belle had hoped that they would share a tent, and they did. She would creep in after dinner to find him already hunched over some document or another, writing or reading by dim candlelight as he held his forehead in his left hand. The muscles of his neck and shoulders were stiff and knotted, as if a pack of overeager boy scouts had gone to work on him in pursuit of a merit badge. Belle would dig her hitchhiker’s thumbs into those knots, squeezing and massaging them until she thought her fingers would snap at the first knuckle. She was nearly brought to relieved tears when he finally dropped his head and groaned at her ministrations, but that only happened once.

She was brought to tears after the first week. She began massaging his shoulders, and he reached back to lift her hand away. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said.

“I’m not troubling myself. I want to he—”

“I will join you in bed shortly.” He didn’t look at her when he said it.

“Fine.” It came out exactly as harsh as she meant. Still, he did not turn to look at her.

He was just under stress, she told herself. He had not intended his words to be cruel. He was Atlas with the world on his shoulders, and he was Achilles with an arrow in his heel. His withdrawal symptoms were flaring up under the pressure of thousands of lives resting on his judgment. Constant headaches, flop sweats, she may have heard him vomiting once.

Belle laid down, tearful, angry, and terrified. It took almost an hour for her to fall asleep to the sounds of Cullen’s scribbling. She drifted off with her back to him, her arms crossed over her chest, and her hands balled into fists.

She woke up alone.

She had her own tent set up the next night. It wasn’t because she was angry at him. It wasn’t because she needed distance from him. It wasn’t because she thought he needed to be alone. It was because she could not watch him do this to himself again. She could not watch him kill himself under the yoke of his workload a second time, and she could not intervene. It was not her place to tell him not to plan or not to work. The strain on him, his tension, was justifiable. The fate of an entire fucking continent depended on his strategy. The weight of that would have broken a lesser man. She only hoped it would not break him.

She had barely seen Cullen during the last leg of their journey. He walked alongside soldiers and he rode at the head of the army as he had done, and he slept or didn’t sleep alone in his tent. His skin went sallow and his eyes seemed to sink into his head to be surrounded by yellowish, blueish, purplish circles. He was worn down and ragged, yet he managed to appear composed in front of his men. He looked almost regal with his tired head held high and his tired gaze held firm. Even at his worst, he was a fucking sight to behold.

When they finally reached the Arbor Wilds, Corypheus’s forces had already entrenched themselves in the network of groves nestled in the vast woods. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Red Templars and Tevinter mages calling themselves “Venatori” sat between the Inquisition and some magic mirror in a temple. Belle would have been lying if she claimed to have full comprehension of the importance of this magic mirror, but it was important to Max and it was important to Cullen and it was important to Josephine, so it was important to Belle.

Cullen approached Belle after dinner that night. The attack was to happen at dawn, he had told everyone upon their arrival. They all had one more night to rest, he’d said. The irony was not lost on her.

She had been forced to join Celene’s party for some eve-of-battle pow-wow that didn’t include anyone actually involved in the battle or its planning. It was an excuse for the empress to gather those she considered kindred close to her while she was afraid. If the battle was lost, there was a very good chance that Celene would no longer be empress by the time she returned to Orlais, if she returned to Orlais at all.

A gloved hand came to rest on Belle’s shoulder. The touch was gentle, like a nervous little boy trying to get the attention of the teacher he thought was beautiful so he could hand her an apple. When Belle turned, Cullen’s weary face looked back at her with a kind of doleful affection. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

She nodded, turning back to her esteemed company to bow her head. “I beg your pardon, your majesty, but I must excuse myself for a few moments.” Celene cast an appraising glance at Cullen before issuing a silent decree with a flippant wave. Belle clenched her jaw to keep herself from sighing as she stood. She bowed her head again before following Cullen to a quiet spot among the trees.

“I apologize for interrupting your meal,” said Cullen. His voice was soft and sad. The same doleful affection still rested on his features.

“It’s okay. It was begging to be interrupted. I hate having to sit up straight and pretend to be interested for that long.” She really did. “I don’t mind you stealing me away from the pompous bullshit.” She really didn’t.

“I—Uh…” His hand found the back of his neck, his sore neck he wouldn’t let her massage. His enervated eyes wandered to where the stars would have been had the trees not been so lush and so numerous.

His other hand lifted from his side. In it was a simple black leather scabbard with an equally simple black leather belt beneath it. The hilt of the dagger in the scabbard was also simple in its way. There were no gems or shining adornments, only deep azure leather embossed with a Celtic or Norse-looking design. It was Fereldan, without a shadow of a doubt.

“I want you to have this. I want you to wear it tomorrow—until the battle is done.” Cullen held it out in the too-substantial space between them.

Belle seized the opportunity to close the distance. She stepped forward, taking the dagger in one hand and locking his fingers in the other. “Okay.”

His gaze was uneven. The little lines on his forehead contorted into an upside down horseshoe with his apparent worry, spilling his imaginary luck down the bridge of his nose. His nose that was bent ever so slightly in the middle. His nose that had probably been broken at least once. His nose that she would gamble would be passed on to his children. “I know you’ll stay in the camps, and I know you’ll be protected, but I need you to wear it. I need you to stay safe.”

“Okay.”

“I need to know you’ll stay safe, stay alive.”

“Okay.” Belle’s hand unclasped from Cullen’s, and she moved her palm to his jaw. Her thumb traced a tiny blue vein down from his cheekbone until it met with her other fingers. His eyes that had seemed nearly as pale as his skin were once again warm as honey whiskey. They roved over her face, scanning every mole and freckle as if to memorize them.

His lips crashed into hers without warning. It could not have been called anything but a crash. It was a reckless collision of flesh, a desperate meeting not to be averted by any force in any universe. His arms flew around her waist to press her to him, though his breastplate forbade the closeness they sought. His mouth opened once to close around her lower lip, and again to close around her upper lip. His tongue tasted her, teased at her skin, but did not beg entry at first. When it did, there was a kind of glory to it. It was brilliant and bright, his every movement a subtle devotion. He paid his penance, tucking it away in the corners of her mouth for safekeeping. Her hand squeezed at the back of his neck, and his hands squeezed at her waist. It was the kind of kiss meant to end all kisses. That, she would not allow.

Difficult as it was, it was Belle’s turn to withdraw. She watched his lips, pinker from the press of her own, then followed his scar up toward his eyes. “I need to know you’ll stay safe too, you know. You’re not allowed to just kiss me and run off in the morning to die. You have to take care of yourself.”

“I will do what I must to ensure the Inquisition is victorious,” said Cullen. His fingertips still burrowed into her in the spaces between her corset’s bones. Their lips were nearly touching.

“Man, fuck that,” said Belle. She dropped the dagger onto the weedy and leafy ground so that she could surround his face with her hands. “Fuck that noise, Cullen. You think the Inquisition’s going to be any good without you? You think someone else can just pick up your sword and go, ‘Oh, hey, yo, woah, I’m your Commander now,’ and that’ll just be all sunshine and rainbows? No. You live. You do what you must to ensure you live. I’m not hanging around in fucking Thedas if you’re not here. I’m not. So you better goddamn well live.”

There was a ferocity in his stare, a determination. “I do not plan to die.”

“Yeah, well, don’t just not plan to die. Plan to live, okay? And for the love of God, will you please stay hydrated?” Belle ran her thumbs along his cheekbones. “It’s really obvious you haven’t been drinking water. You’re not taking care of yourself.”

Cullen’s intensity turned to mild amusement. His mild amusement turned to adoration. “Alright. I will try to take care of myself, and I will do everything in my power to return to you.”

“That’s better.”

He kissed her again. There was less hopelessness in it, less fear. It wasn’t a kiss to end all kisses. It was a kiss to show his love. There didn’t need to be anything else to it. He would take care of himself. He would survive the fight. He would come back to her. That was all.

Belle told herself it would be alright, despite the pit in her stomach and the reminders screaming and clawing at the back of her mind that nothing was ever alright. But it had to be. It would be.

*****

Two days. For two days, the fighting dragged on. Belle did not see Cullen at all, though she heard from returning scouts and incoming wounded that he was fighting with everything he had. She heard that he saved one soldier’s life, then another, then another. She heard that he was pushing the Inquisition’s troops forward. She heard that he was pushing the Red Templars back. A tentative kind of pride swelled in her at the thought of his courage and compassion, and she would rest her hand on the dagger she wore beneath her light surcoat or the coin she kept in her deepest pocket.

Max had gone out with the first wave, but had been drawn back for his protection several times. Cassandra, Blackwall, and Iron Bull were helping Cullen with the push on the front lines. Cole and Sera ventured out past the front from time to time to set fires whose smoke could be seen from the rear camps, and Varric followed to lay traps for anyone who should not have been behind them. Dorian, Morrigan, and Vivienne fought among the warriors while Solas acted as a protector and healer, leading out whatever the mage versions of battle medics were to aid the injured.

Of course, Belle received all of this information second and third-hand. She was stuck at the rear camps with Celene and Josie. Leliana and a line of archers and mages stood at the edge of camp, decimating anyone foolish enough to approach.

Belle split her time between sipping tea with Empress Celene and helping Eudora with the arriving wounded. Belle had learned enough in all her time in doctor’s offices and emergency rooms to know how to triage. Crush wounds, stab wounds, blunt force trauma wounds, fatal wounds. Most were easy to discern. There was blood, or there wasn’t. There was bruising, or there wasn’t. The soldier was conscious, or they weren’t. The soldier was alive, or they weren’t.

While Belle sat with the Empress, she penned triage signs in secret. She wrote large numbers—one through four—on pieces of parchment as if writing short updates to the nobility. One was meant for those whose injuries were mild and non-life-threatening. Two was meant for those whose injuries were severe and bore non-imminent threats of death. Three was meant for those who needed immediate attention if they were to survive. Four was meant for those who could not be saved. Belle hated fucking four. She wanted to stop writing four for the rest of her life by the first evening. There had been too many fours. One would have been too many.

In the early afternoon on the second day of fighting, someone approached her. She was all but breaking her fingers, tightening a tourniquet around the arm of a hard-faced woman with a deep gash in one arm and a piece of parchment with a two in the other. Belle thought she heard her name, at first, but couldn’t be sure with the choir of the wounded crying out around her.

“Lady Dolan,” an Orlesian voice said again. She glanced up to see a man she may have recognized as one of Celene’s servants. The ubiquitous masks they wore made it difficult to be certain who was who in the zoo.

Belle grunted out a “Yes?” as she pulled the fabric a final time. The wounded woman beside her whimpered for the first time.

“Empress Celene has requested your presence, at once.”

Belle looked up at the man. His arms were crossed over his chest and his foot tapped the ground in a dramatic show of impatience. “I’m a little busy, in case you hadn’t noticed. And, you know, I just left her.”

She stood to move to the next cot. A man in his forties sat up, an eerie red shard sticking out of his lower abdomen. She looked over the wound, putting her hand near the shard as she did. The air around it felt hot. Something about it made nauseated her. She’d seen a great many shards like these since the battle began. Red lyrium. Varric told her not to touch it before he left, so she didn’t. She handed the man a three.

“That may be so, but she has requested your presence again. The Empress is not to be ignored in favor of these…common soldiers.” The Orlesian’s accent made his words sound even more laden with disgust than they might otherwise have been.

Belle wanted to tell the man to shove it up his ass, to shove himself up the empress’s ass so she wouldn’t feel ignored. “There aren’t enough healers here. I just relieved some of them. Somebody could die if I leave.”

As if on cue, one of the healers she relieved, a young Qunari man, trotted back into the tent. “I took the liberty of retrieving him,” said the Orlesian. The Qunari touched Belle on the shoulder and gave her a small smile. He nodded toward the exit of the tent.

Belle sighed through her nose, trying not to look too petulant as she stood. “Fine. Let’s go.”

As they walked through the camp, she swore she heard an explosion and felt the ground quake beneath her feet. No one else seemed to notice, as everyone kept about their business of mixing potions, making arrows, and cleaning and repairing blades. She thought about the one on her hip, concealed from the world like her worry for Cullen was concealed from the world. She hoped he was drinking water.

“We just passed Empress Celene’s tent,” said Belle as she watched it fall further and further behind her. Calling it a tent was doing it a disservice. It was more of a portable multi-room structure, like a rambler made of canvas. It sat among the other tents, cream colored where they were maroon, massive where they were tiny, and stately where they were shabby. It was a feckless display of wealth amidst those fighting for the welfare of the world.

“She wishes to speak to you where there are fewer eyes and ears.”

Belle was not about to sleep with Celene. Fuck diplomacy. Maybe that was what it was called when people did that. “Fuck Diplomacy” sounded like an archaic negotiation tactic. “Okay,” said Belle, knowing full well that she might lose her job if this little tete-a-tete took a swerve. She might lose her head while she was at it. No pressure.

The man held up the flap of a far flung tent and gestured for Belle to enter. The tent was tiny, likely erected to keep sensitive supplies dry. That would explain the smell of salted meat and the large crates. What it would not explain was the absence of anyone else in the tent. “Where’s Empress Celene?” asked Belle as she turned to look at the Orlesian.

No sooner than she had closed her mouth had he rushed her. She gasped and flinched, as was her way when she was startled. She felt cold metal against her throat and wood against her back. The foulness of the man’s breath had no room to dissipate before crawling up her nose. Every detail of his mask was visible to her, each dent and ding immediately suspicious. His ice-blue eyes bore a smugness that made her angrier than the thought of the blade meant to take her life. There was nowhere to escape, nowhere to run but through him. She leaned her head back as far as she could without causing him to take notice.

“This is what happens to cunts who tear down noble families for sport.” The man spat as he spoke, peppering Belle’s lips and chin with his rank spittle.

Belle’s right hand crept up her thigh. Her dagger was tucked away. He didn’t know she had it. Even if he did, he didn’t know she’d learned to use it. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling the smooth bottom of the scabbard. “I have no idea who the fuck you’re talking about.”

The man hissed a wet breath through gritted teeth, pushing into her and knocking her head against the crate behind her. “Perhaps you know my name then? Does Asselin sound familiar to you, you foreign bitch? Neville Asselin? Mallory’s brother? The man whose future you fucked when you ruined her marriage?” He spat again.

Belle’s fingers found the hilt of the dagger. Her fingertips grazed the design stamped into the leather before closing around it to withdraw the blade from its sheath. She took it out slowly as she said, “I didn’t fuck your future. You should blame your sister for that. If she could’ve just moved on and not stabbed me in the middle of a crowded room—the same crowded room as the empress was in—maybe your family wouldn’t have lost everything.” The tip of the blade swayed in the air when it came loose. She turned it upright as he spoke again.

“My sister is not at fault in any of this! You ruined her life! You ruined all of our—” Neville stopped short when Belle jammed the blade into his chest. Between the third and fourth rib and up to pierce the heart. That was the way she’d practiced with Cullen. They had practiced it for days. Her wooden practice blade had never entered his body, never pierced his flesh or his organs, never killed him. Every blood vessel in her body felt as though it was flowing with ice. Every muscle was tense. Every breath was shaky as it came in or out. Her thighs ached. This was fight or flight. She had the urge to do both.

Neville’s eyes went wide. He let out a thick cough as his blade dropped away from Belle’s throat. She jerked the hilt of the dagger to make sure she hit something vital, and he coughed again. When he finally went limp and heavy against her, she let him fall to the dirt in a heap.

Her hands trembled even after she balled them into fists. Her breaths were noisy, in and out of her nose. Cold in, cold out. He was dead. She had to be sure he was dead. She reached down, seeing her bloodied hand for the first time and not minding, and ripped the blade from the body. She stabbed him in the heart again, down instead of up. Neville didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. She checked for a pulse to find none, not even the faintest thump against her index and middle fingers.

Belle was overwhelmed by the compulsion to get away from the corpse she’d made. She’d always thought that if she had to kill someone to stay alive, she would say something afterward. “Fuck you,” or something. Maybe something quippier, she was never really sure. Instead, she took her dagger from the body and left the tent in silence. She thought about sheathing the blade, but decided she didn’t want to get any more blood on her clothes or ruin the scabbard. Banal practicality in the face of crisis was ingrained in her bones. She almost laughed at the way her mind worked, but she’d just killed a man and she thought better of it.

She wandered over to Celene’s obscene tent, aware that her surcoat and pants were splashed with blood. Celene’s servants balked when Belle entered. “Josephine? Are you in here?”

“Belle?” said Josephine’s voice from behind a wall of cream colored fabric. “I thought you were aiding the healers fo—” She rounded the wall and stopped in a stiff motion. “What in the Maker’s name?” She walked a couple of hasty steps to meet Belle in the center of what passed for a foyer. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess? Neville Asselin just tried to cut my throat.” Belle gestured with her bloody knife in the direction of the tent containing the salted meat and the corpse. “I killed him first.” Her matter-of-factness made her a little dizzy. It seemed dumb.

Celene’s voice rang out in shrill tones from where Josephine had been. “Is everything alright, Lady Montilyet?”

“All is well, Your Majesty. I shall return in a moment.” Josephine lifted Belle’s chin to examine her neck. “We must get you to the healers to have your wound tended.”

Belle shook her head. “He didn’t get me, though.”

Josephine’s dark brows knotted together, her blue-hazel eyes quizzical. “Belle, you have a two-inch cut along your throat.”

“I do?” Belle started to reach up to feel her neck, stopping once she remembered the upward-facing dagger in her hand. “He cut me?”

“Yes, and you are still bleeding. Come with me.” Josephine ushered Belle out of Celene’s quarters and toward the healers’ tents.

“Goddamn. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing.” Belle started to feel the sting of the wound when they reached the halfway point. “Ow. Now I know it’s there. Shit.” She reached up with her left hand to touch the tender skin around the cut. She was, in fact, still bleeding.

“Are you alright?” Josephine asked again as they entered the dingy red tent.

Exhaustion began to wash over Belle the moment she sat on an empty cot. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. “I dunno. My neck hurts now. But someone should really go get that dead guy. Like, secure the scene for investigation or something. I dunno how you guys do shit here. I dunno.”

The same young Qunari man she had relieved and had relieved her in return approached. “What happened?” There was a distinct measure of consternation in his voice.

“I know, right? I just left here all not bloody and here I come a few minutes later all…bloody. That guy tried to slit my throat. I guess he did a little. Did he say anything to you?” Belle pointed at the young man with the hand she’d forgotten was still clutching a dagger.

He was gentle with her when he moved her bedaggered hand away. “About killing you? No. You can put down the knife, though. You’re safe now.”

Belle’s fingers would not loosen. Her nails dug into the bloodstained blue leather. “Um.” She willed herself to let go of the knife, but her fingers were not to be moved. “I can’t.” She tried again. “Nope. I can’t.”

Josephine’s hand came to rest over Belle’s, and the muscles began to relax. When Belle’s fingers loosened enough, Josephine slipped the dagger away. She laid it down on a small table next to the cot. Belle’s jaw was set tight while she watched. Her nails had left little crescent indentations in the blue leather, and she could see the spot where her hand had been—the only part of the grip that wasn’t coated in rapidly coagulating blood.

“I do not wish to leave you just yet, but Celene—”

“No, yeah, dude. Go ahead. Handle it. We got this.” Belle gave Josephine a weak smile as she pointed back and forth between herself and the young man. Josephine gave her one last baleful look before leaving the healers’ tent. Belle sighed an unsteady sigh. “Yeah. We got this.”

Some kind of horn sounded outside while the man, whose name Belle learned was Ash, twinkled his magical fingers around her bleeding knife wound. The feeling of tissue knitting itself back together was eerie, and a bit squishy. “Battle’s over,” said Ash absently, looking down at Belle’s still-healing neck with an appraising eye.

“Is that what that horn thing meant?”

“Yes. Have you never been to battle before this?”

“No. This is my fir—” She gasped as the last jagged bits of her cut reconnected. “First battle.”

“Well, well,” said Ash. “First battle and you didn’t even have to leave camp to kill a man. Well done.”

“Doesn’t feel well done. Feels shitty.”

“I know, but it happened. Stay here for a moment, I’m going to get you some water. You look a little pale.”

Belle couldn’t stop the little puff of laughter that left her nose. “I always look pale. But I guess this is the ‘no blood in my body’ kind of pale, huh?”

“The very same.”

Ash came back with a small cup of cool water a moment later. Belle drained it, and he went to fetch more. They went through this two more times before her thirst was slaked. “You should have brought me a bigger cup.” They both laughed a bit. She felt nauseous.

He told her to lie still for a while before she tried to get up. She knew that her body need time to make more blood, and she complied. She couldn’t keep from looking at the ruined dagger. Could daggers get ruined? They were intended to spill blood. That was their raison d’etre. How was she meant to clean the dried blood from the leather so she could use the thing again? Was she supposed to use it again? Would she have to use it again?

Hullabaloo and ruckus outside pulled Belle from the whirl of her thoughts, and she blinked her dry eyes. She was still conscious. She reckoned she would still be conscious if she stood to see the cause of the fuss. Testing her theory, she rose inch by inch from her cot, inhaling the whole time. Dizziness when standing was, after all, most frequently caused by lack of oxygen flowing to the brain.

Belle stepped out of the tent and glanced around. Entering from the edge of the camp where Leliana had been holding the line, Belle made out Spencer and his friend, Aldridge, dragging something on a makeshift half-stretcher. On closer inspection, the thing they were dragging appeared to be an unconscious man. Dark, greasy hair lay in a messy mop around his head and face, and some of his veins seemed to glow red. Bits and pieces of silvery armor clung to the fabric of his gambeson, but they looked as if they had been shattered.

Following close behind the stretcher, to Belle’s shuddering relief, was Cullen. She stepped toward him, though she was a good distance from the entrance to the camp. He was all in one piece. He looked tired and irritated, and someone had opened up his eyebrow with a well-placed punch, but he seemed alright. His posture was straight as ever, his head held as high as ever. She could have cried at the sight of him. She did cry at the sight of him.

Then he saw her. The fatigue and irritation on his face melted away into joy before dissolving into apprehension. His pace quickened until he was jogging toward her. She imagined she looked rather stupid the way she was holding her arms out long before he reached her, though it was worth every ounce of embarrassment the moment that he did. She wept into his neck when he embraced her, not caring for what seemed like the hundredth time that his armor pinched and pushed at her. Every bit of everything she was feeling rushed out of her eyes in globulous tears and out of her mouth in muffled sobs. He lifted her feet from the ground and carried her somewhere. She didn’t care to look where.

Cullen laid her down in the cot from which she’d risen. She supposed she had not gotten very far from the tent. When Belle allowed him to pull away enough to see her, he asked, “Whose blood is that?”

“Some of it’s mine. This guy—the chick who tried to kill me at the Winter Palace, y’know—her brother. He tried to kill me.” Before she could finish, Cullen lurched away.

“Where is he?” His voice was dark and robust when he spoke, filled with rage and something like desire.

“The rest of it’s his blood. He’s dead. In a supply tent somewhere that way.” She pointed, making aimless shapes in the air with her uncertain hand. “Or maybe not in the tent anymore. I told Josie. Maybe they took him out already. I don’t know. Did we win?”

Cullen’s face had become a battlefield. Worry and happiness and fury and weariness warred within his features. “In a way, yes.”

“Was that Samson that Spencer was dragging in?”

“It was. Though, Corypheus has not been defeated. Not yet.”

“That sucks, I guess. But yay, you got Samson. That’s good right?”

Cullen removed his glove to run his knuckles across her cheek. She reveled in the sensation of him. “It is. Are you alright?”

“I don’t know. I’m alive and Ash was kind enough to put my skin back together, so…I guess in that sense, I’m fine. But…I don’t know.” There were too many thoughts vying for top billing in her mind for anything to coalesce into something clear. “I should thank you for the dagger. And for all the training. I would be much less okay without those.”

“Maker’s breath, Belle.” Cullen enveloped her in his arms again. It was the first time she’d felt safe since the battle began. “Thank the Maker you’re alive, my darling. I could not bear it if you—If—”

“Shh, no. No, no, no. None of that bullshit. We’re both alive, and we’re both together. That’s enough right this second. Okay?” She felt him nod into her neck and shoulder. “Is Max okay?”

“He is alive, but he went through the eluvian with Morrigan and a few others. He is likely back at Skyhold. A few of us must leave as soon as we can to get home ahead of the march.”

Belle let out a heavy breath into his skin. She swam in the scent of him for a moment, spiced herbs and soft powder and the little something that was just him. She could take the time to cope with everything later. In that moment, she wanted to remain where and as they were. “Can we sleep first? We’ve both had a rough couple of days, one of us more than the other. I’ll let you pick which one.”

Cullen chuckled, letting his warm breath splash across her neck and through her hair. “Yes. We can leave in the morning. I would like to stay in your tent tonight, if that would be agreeable?”

“Pfft. Agreeable. Of course I want you to stay with me. I’ve missed you so fucking much I can’t stand it.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [158]

“Unnerving,” Ellana says, examining her nails as she leans against Mahanon’s scales.

Mahanon scoffs, the rasp of his tail slowly dragging over packed dirt is a violent and physical sound on the ears, a promise.

“Better than being a predictable dullard,” Mahanon replies. “You march on Corypheus in two days. Where else would I be? I have been waiting for you for almost two weeks as your slow and loud and cumbersome army plodded on like sleepy eyed pack mules without a single original thought shared between them.”

“You’re very hard on them.”

“I’m saying what you refuse to say out of enforced politeness,” Mahanon sneers, “Peculiar how they only now are starting to respect and defer to you, isn’t it? Now that they know I can snap their necks in half, rather than be crushed in that little shell you wore around your neck. How attitudes do change with the appearance of teeth.”

“It helps that I’ve done a few things,” Ellana says, “Here and there, you know. The odd bit of kindness and the occasional turn of phrase that sounds pretty.”

“Are you meant to be the butter to my salt?” Mahanon muses, “Is that what you want them to think?”

“Better than them thinking we are salt and vinegar, the saying is you catch the flies with honey,” Ellana says, turning her eyes towards the Anchor. “Does it seem different to you?”

Mahanon shifts his weight slowly as he turns his massive head to look at it, “Different how?”

“More - green?”

“More green?”

“More in general, I think,” Ellana says, staring into the white depths of the light in her palm. “Just more. It feels - that’s the odd thing, actually, it doesn’t feel. It used to hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“You became accustomed to the pain.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to many pains, Mahanon. But just because we’re used to it doesn’t mean it goes away entirely. It’s still there if you look to think on it. This isn’t. This is gone.”

She flexes her fingers, slowly opening and closing them, running the pads of her fingers over the mark and watching the green light bleed through her skin, illuminating from within.

“It’s changing,” Ellana says.

“We are all changing,” Mahanon replies.

“Do you feel a difference?”

Mahanon doesn’t answer her. For a moment she thinks he’s ignoring her, gone back to sunning himself.

But then he says, very softly, “My scales feel tight, as though there is something within me that wants to emerge. Something different.”

She turns to look him in the eye, eyes quickly scanning over his body for any sign of injury. There’s the faint green sheen to his scales that she can catch at certain angles of light as she tilts her head to examine him. But nothing else.

Mahanon lowers his voice, “Ellana, I feel as though we are children again. And I could be a pup to lick your wounds or a crow to peck the eyes of the ones who tease you. I feel as though I could be a snake curled up by your neck when you sleep, and then just as easily a cat to knead your skin. I feel - malleable.”

Ellana’s mouth runs dry and she feels their uncertainty like twin strings on a lute, plucked together and vibrating in synch.

“We are all changing,” Mahanon repeats, voice wavering slightly. “And Ellana, I do not know who is the one making the changes.”

-

“I’m leaving,” Kata-kost says and Bull nods at her as her powerful wings spread. He doesn’t watch her go. She calls down, “Do your best to follow.”

The distance they can manage apart is fairly impressive, but it’s nothing like Ellana’s and Mahanons.

“I need something, anything,” Bull says and the quartermaster gives him a hard look but then nods at him and directs him to take one of Ellana’s dracoliscs that she had brought along with her hart.

The lizard eyes him warily but lets him mount easily enough, and even though the lizards aren’t really bred for running through forests they’re agile and mean looking enough that most things would avoid one charging.

They go and it took them almost two weeks to get up here but Bull cuts that down to one. He stops at two Inquisition outposts and Cullen must have sent a message ahead of him because each time he gets to one there’s a new mount waiting with fresh supplies.

By the time Bull makes it to Skyhold, news of the Inquisition’s victory and Corypheus’ escape has already broken to the masses and the castle is in a flurry of activity.

For once, the guests and gawkers are scarce. Maybe they know the end is near and they don’t want to be around for the possibility of loss.

Or maybe he’s just that lucky.

“Garden,” Kata-kost says, dropping down low enough for him to hear before rising up again and flying to the upper courtyards and to the garden itself.

Bull is tired and dusty and covered in sweat and travel.

His knees and hands ache, his back hurts, and his mouth is dry.

His heart is a heavy beat in his chest against his bones.

Somehow, this entire journey was nothing compared to the steps he climbs to get to her. It’s nothing compared to what feels like a completely unnecessarily heavy door that he pushes open.

Kata-kost shuffles in after him, her wingspan can’t clear the door. Her feathers and talons rasp and whisper against the stone.

There are a few candles lit, but it is mostly dark.

Ellana sits on the floor, seemingly alone. Bull doesn’t doubt Mahanon’s strange ability - despite his size - to melt and blend completely into shadow.

“How much of it was a lie, do you think?” Ellana asks. “They lived, and they hated us. Are we so quick that we are no longer worthy of being called elves?”

“Don’t,” Bull starts but it looks like she’s been waiting for this because she keeps going.

“But did you see them, Bull? Did you see them? Surely you did - surely you went looking for me in that place afterwards. Did you see them? Their armor? Their weapons? The remnants of their magic? Their - their daemons?”

Ellana turns and her eyes are bright with envy and hate and spite and longing and so many things Bull wants to take away and hold until she’s ready to sort them all calmly and with the distance of some time.

Kata-kost presents herself before Ellana and wordlessly allows Ellana to pull her into her arms and run her fingers through her feathers. It feels like long, warm, sweeping rushes of water on Bull’s sweat-slick back and he breathes out a long, shaking, sigh from the bottom of his lungs.

“Varghests. Wyverns. Skelks. Foxes. Wolves. Bears. Halla,” Ellana says, “They were like me.”

“They are nothing like you,” Kata-kost says.

“They hid,” Bull says, “They chose ignorance and fake neutrality. They are not you.”

“I want what they have,” Ellana says, “I want it and they said I was not worthy. Everyone said, I was not worthy.”

“Did you listen to them?” Bull asks. He does not know the details. He didn’t stop for an update.

“When in your time of knowing,” Mahanon’s voice says quietly from directly behind him, and Bull feels the warm and whispering brush of scales over a muscled shoulder press against the back of his thighs as the varghest slides around him, their bodies brushing as Mahanon raises his face to Bull’s, “Have you seen us listen to being told something is forbidden to us?”

Ellana’s eyes glimmer with something new and other and magic.

“They tried to tell me it was not mine to have,” Ellana says, “Never again will someone take what is mine from me, Bull. Not Corypheus or Samson, not Morrigan or Solas, no one. The Well is mine. Not some shem’s or some non-beleiver’s. I prayed, I worshipped, I am the one who sought favor. If there is one thing that the Sentinels spoke true to, it is that I am the one who earned the right.”

Kata-kost preens, golden eyes glinting with pleasure.

Bull’s hand finds the back of Mahanon’s crest as he slowly runs his fingers along the undersides of spines and scales.

“I know you did,” Bull says. Because it isn’t about him believing her or not. Ellana has always gotten by fine without belief.

It’s the acknowledging and knowing part that gets her.

[roguelioness]

A Rogue’s Finesse

Chapter 1: Before The Inquisition

The first time the would-be Herald of Andraste slipped on the ice-covered lake, Cassandra chalked it up to nerves.

After all, the woman had just woken up from a state closer to death than life, had a strange, painful mark on her hand, and had been interrogated by Sister Nightingale. And Daniella had agreed; after all, she’d been bombarded with a flood of new information, had been accused of the murder of thousands of innocent people, and was in peril of having an angry mob stone her to death.

So slipping on the ice was just a minor blip in the day. Insignificant, really. No harm, no foul. Nothing damaged but her pride.

If only it had remained that way.

She’d made her way up the snow-covered slopes to where a bald elf and a stocky dwarf were furiously battling the shades and wraiths that fell out of the rift. Daggers in hand, stealth activated, it had been simple enough to dispatch the few remaining stragglers, and though it had absolutely confounded her when the elf had directed the mark on her hand to close the rift, she was silently proud of herself for being so lethal and efficient. Solas, she learned the man was an apostate, a hedge mage well-versed in lesser-known magics, and the dwarf - who’d immediately captivated her fancy with the wide, friendly smirk and the gorgeous crossbow on his back - was Varric Tethras. The Varric Tethras, whose books she’d read over and over; she’d wished that she’d been part of the Champion’s group as they battled evil in Kirkwall. And now, he was here, in front of her, and all she could do was gape at him.

“You’re Varric Tethras? The Varric Tethras? Author of Tales of the Champion?”

“Heard of me, then?” he laughed.

“I… uhhh… yes,” she replied hurriedly. “I’m a huge fan. I’m Dani. Dani Trevelyan.”

The stocky man winked at her. “Good to know. Autographs after we sort this shit out though.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

And then the four of them had pressed on, making their way to the forward camp where Leliana - the terrifying woman with the red hair and the ice-cold gaze - was waiting for them, when Solas yelled out a warning. “Demons ahead!”

Well. This was a chance to show off her skills to her favorite author.

“I’ll flank the bigger one,” she said, pulling out her daggers in a fluid motion. As she moved into stealth, a coat of strange magic fell over her - from the elven mage, no doubt - and she moved across the ice lake to where the massive shade was lurking, jaws dripping with a foul green-black liquid.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her blades and readied herself for the attack, when her foot slipped.

Surprised and startled, she gave a yelp that pulled her out of stealth, and limbs flailing as she desperately tried to regain her balance, she hurtled towards the shade, ramming head-first into its torso.

Lucky for her, her little mishap had stunned the demon into stillness, and even though she was sprawled out ungainly on top of the beast, it was easy enough to plunge her daggers into its neck. The shade exploded into a geyser of rotting blood and ichor - which then landed right on top of her.

When she pulled herself up, Varric was bent over double laughing. Even the stoic Cassandra and the composed elven mage had smiles on their faces, though the Seeker tried to cover hers up by letting out a huff of disgust. She ignored them, desperately trying to clean off her coat as best as she could.

“You’ve got some tricks there, Kitty,” Varric chortled, and Dani flushed beet red.

“Yes, well,” she muttered. “Didn’t quite plan on that, but I got the job done.”

“You keep doing that, and you might just surprise the Breach into closing itself,” the dwarf teased.

“Ugh,” Cassandra huffed. “We need to keep moving.”

She spent the rest of the time wondering about her sudden lack of grace. Where had that come from? Whatever it was, she hoped it was over and done with. The last thing she needed on top of everything else was to become accident-prone.

No one had ever heard of a clumsy rogue, and she wasn’t going to be the first.

Meeting Chancellor Roderick pushed her straight into a headache. The man’s loud rants, combined with the throbbing, painful pulsing of that stupid green mark, made Dani feel absolutely queasy - which resulted in her throwing up all over the Chancellor’s table, vomit and bile landing on his [surprisingly clean, given the chaos] robes.

If looks could kill, she’d have been dead twice over.

Unable to bear the agony of the Anchor, she opted for the direct route; given the amount of pain she was in, and factoring trecherous mountain passes and sheer drops, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it through them in one piece.

Thanks to the Maker, she made it past the rift and into the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes without any mishaps - which was a good thing, because she’d looked competent and skillful in front of the Commander - the broad-shouldered, leonine man with eyes of bright amber that burned with fiery passion - and it had also given her some confidence.

Because now, as she stood under the giant rift that shuddered and rippled and trembled, she needed all the confidence she could get.

“The fuck is this,” she mumbled to herself. “What the shit. What. The. Shit. How did I get involved in this fuck up?” Dani cleared her throat. “Are you sure that I’m the only one who can deal with this? I mean, just look at it. It’s massive. And it was opened with magic. Do I look like a motherfreaking mage to you?”

The elven apostate sighed disapprovingly. “This is the first rift, the biggest. We have to close it. And, as you have demonstrated before, the mark on your hand is the only thing that can do so.”

“Right, right,” she nodded, “but can’t I just, you know, give you the mark so you can do it? Seeing as how you’re a mage and all?”

“Believe me,” Solas’ voice was filled with annoyance, “if it had been possible to do so, it would have been done.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s get this over and done with. I better get a fucking medal if I’m still breathing by the end of this.”

“You close that, Kitty, they’ll make a statue in your honor,” Varric grinned.

“That’s the least they can do,” she breathed out a forced laugh.

“The Breach is closed, but not properly. We must open it and seal it properly. It might attract attention from the other side,” Solas warned.

“That means demons!” Cassandra pulled out her sword, thumping the blade against her shield. “Everyone, stand ready!”

“I really hope it’s a teeny tiny demon,” Dani whispered hopefully as she connected her mark to the rift. “A small one. One that I can squish without any trouble. Andraste, if you’re listening, could you please arrange that for me? Please?”

The rift glowed brighter, and expanded, and seconds later a ball of Fade-flame thundered out of the tear, booming, menacing laughter echoing around the stone debris, and… a Pride demon unfurled itself, whips that crackled with sinister electricity clenched in its hands.

Well, fuck me. She joined Cassandra unenthusiastically as the Seeker charged towards the demon, leaping out of the way of the whip’s slice - only to land awkwardly on a rock and twist her ankle.

“Fucking fuck fuck fuckity fuck!” she swore loudly as pain exploded in the joint. She moved to stand, but her leg gave way and she fell to the ground again.

“Kitty, this is no time to be taking a break!” Varric called out, Bianca rapidly spitting bolts.

“It’s not like I want to!” she retorted.

“Solas!” Cassandra yelled over the din of the battle. “Can you help her?”

The elf was already by her side, fingers on her ankle glowing with a soft green light as he healed the swollen muscles. She rolled her foot, testing it. “Watch out!” Solas shouted, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the way of the demon’s whip. “You are a rogue, are you not?” he chided. “You should be more aware of your surroundings!”

“Thank you for that,” she replied, half-sarcastically.

He ignored her. “Come,” he urged. “We must seal the Breach!”

Charge the demon, slice, strike, retreat, attack the rift, weaken the demon, charge again, repeat. It was an easy enough formula, but the execution was difficult. The ground was too uneven. The demon’s hide was too thick. The rift was too unpredictable. Dani was bruised and bleeding, and her hands trembled with the effort of attacking the Breach and the demons.

But she pushed through. They pushed through. They systematically wore the demon down, and finally Cassandra was able to make the killing blow, ramming her sword into the demon’s back, and it disintergrated into a puddle of demon guts with a deafening roar.

“Now!” Solas commanded. “Use the Anchor! Seal the Breach!”

“Right,” she nodded tiredly, and moved towards the green haze that surrounded the tear in the Veil… and promptly tripped. Again. And this time, sprawled out on the hard, rocky, blood-covered stones, she was half-tempted to just remain as she was.

“Maker, Kitty,” Varric muttered. “How are you still alive?”

She climbed to her feet as elegantly as she could, dusting herself off in a dignified fashion, and pointedly ignored the dwarf. Taking a deep breath, she let the mark connect with the rift, gritting her teeth against the agony of it, and willed it to close with all her might.

Her vision grew blurry, then the edges started to darken, and when the triumphant cries were raised she was already halfway to the ground, consciousness having fled.

[irlaimsaaralath]

@zanidragon  Thanks for the prompt, and I’m sorry it took so long!  I had to think about it. 

This is based off of Zani’s two prompts ( 2. “I swear it won’t happen again.” and/or 4. “You can’t keep doing this.” from the writing prompts ask) and inspired by a fluffy Inquisition comic with kittens I can no longer find.

Cheers.

Josephine sighed heavily as she leaned back in her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose, “Tell me again how much is missing?”  With the line of her brow drawn low, the cook held up her hand and began ticking items off on her fingers, “Two quarts of milk, a wedge of our best cheese, an almost full spool of butcher’s twine, an apple crate,” and she paused there as she tilted her head thoughtfully, “but the apples were left, and two of my aprons are missing.”  With that, she nodded once and planted her hands on her hips.  “Ambassador, really.  I can’t run a kitchen like this!  Things just go missing and I ne-,” the woman trailed off when Josephine raised a hand and offered an appeasing smile.  “I assure you that I will look into it.”  The cook offered a haughty hrmph and nodded before turning on her heel and departing.  The Antivan puffed out a big sigh as she sat up straighter and pulled a sheaf of parchment from one of the many piles on her desk.  Missing apple crates weren’t exactly at the top of her list of important matters to which she needed to attend.

*

Though the intrusion of sunlight had woken her an hour ago, Niyera was still snugly tucked in bed with Solas, though she was unable to find her way back to sleep.  There was so much to do today, and she wasn’t especially thrilled for any of it.  First thing, of course, there was the war room, then, afterwards, Josephine had arranged for a meeting with some noble patriarch from Orlais that was visiting Skyhold.  Once that was finished, she owed Cassandra some time to discuss the Seeker disappearances, and she had also sworn to Scout Harding that she would inspect some new recruits with her.  None of this taking into account the pile of paperwork languishing on her desk.  With a grumbling sigh, she pulled the covers up over her head and scooched back against Solas, who responded by draping an arm around her waist.  She had just begun to settle in when she felt an odd pressure shift the pillow near her head.  The surprise of it made her jerk, and a misplaced elbow into Solas’s stomach roused him from sleep with a mumble of accusation.  

She shushed him with a quiet shhhh, and suddenly the pressure moved, became four tiny points on her cheek.  A tiny mew found her ear, and in her unreasonable excitement to pull down the covers, she accidentally elbowed Solas again.  “Vhenan...what is so important tha-,” and his words were drowned out by the sudden cooing noises Niyera was making.  The elf abandoned any hope of more sleep and opened his eyes to find the Inquisitor cradling a small grey kitten in her hands.  “Solas,” she whispered with delight, “Look.”  She turned the creature to look at him, and one brow lifted when it mewed at him.  “I see.  Where did it come from?”  Depositing the creature on her chest, it sat for a moment as if confused, then toddled on wobbly feet over to Niyera’s face and head-butted her chin.  The smile that broke out onto her face told Solas all he needed to know; it didn’t matter where it came from.  It was staying where it was.  He shook his head and tried to suppress an indulgent smirk as he rested his head in one hand.  “Does it have a name?”  Around its neck was a small loop of twine with a torn corner of parchment attached to it.  Niyera read it, then tilted her face to Solas with a grin, “Fade.”

*

Cassandra slumped down onto the edge of her bed, dressed all but for her boots, and propped her elbows on her knees to rest her face in her hands.  She couldn’t make sense of the Seekers’ disappearance.  She couldn’t bear the thought that she might have failed them.  If she had stayed, would it have made a difference?  Could she have intervened in what has happened to them?  “Ugh,” she muttered into her hands before lifting her face.  Perhaps the Inquisitor would be willing to help her see this through.  She had to know.  

The Seeker was still deep in her thoughts as she reached for one of her boots, but stopped short when she saw the thing wiggle.  Just a bit.  Maker’s Grace, if that was a rat…  Cassandra sucked in a breath as she reached for the dagger on her hip.  She was just beginning to pull it free as she tugged on the mouth of the boot, when she heard a soft mewl.  She blinked, hard, and snatched up the boot.  Reaching down into the bottom, she snagged something small and warm and fuzzy, then tugged it out of the boot.  In her grasp, she held a small black and white kitten by the nape of its neck.  Four tiny paws patted the air, and it gave a tiny mew.  Every edge and line of the Seeker’s features softened, and she smiled as she pulled it to her chest.  There was a thin bit of twine about its neck with a scrap of parchment attached that read, “Donnen.”

*

It was late afternoon when Bull retired to the tavern for a bit of a refresher, and his bench gave a plaintive creak beneath his weight as he settled.  Always ready with a tankard for her favorite customer, the red-haired barmaid was quick to bring him a drink, and he accepted it with the same grace he always did, which is to say none at all as he winked and casually licked his lips at her.  Well-satisfied with himself as she walked away giggling, he kicked his feet up on a stool and relaxed.  Or, tried to relax, rather.  It was still weighing on his mind, this being Tal-Vashoth business.  Looking at Krem as he sat across from him now and Dalish as she was on her way back from the bar, he couldn’t imagine having made any other choice.  But, at the same time, he felt adrift, unsure, and those were two things The Iron Bull was not accustomed to feeling.  

All in one breath, he drained his tankard and waggled it in the air to catch the barmaid’s attention, before he rested his arm across his chest and thoughtfully stared into the empty mug.  The scuff of a chair across the floor broke his inspection, however, and he looked up reflexively.  Just a drunk standing to leave.  When Krem cleared his throat and said, “Uhm, chief?” Bull looked back to his companion.  The younger man jerked his chin toward the Qunari’s empty tankard, and Bull turned his eyes downward.  A small, fuzzy white face stared back at him, large blue eyes blinking unassumingly.  One corner of Bull’s mouth twitched upward as the kitten lost its grip on the edge of the tankard and fell into it.  When it mewed insistently, Bull plucked it out and sat it in one hand.  The kitten gave a fearsome hiss, and Bull smirked harder.  Around its neck was a bit of twine and a parchment scrap that read, “Charger.”

*

As the Inquisitor went about her day, Solas finished up a few things he was working on and eventually made his way over to the tavern.  In passing, Niyera had mentioned that Josephine had another complaint from the cook about missing supplies and food, and with the sudden introduction of kitten Fade this morning, he thought he had a decent idea who was to blame.  Solas was even more certain when he passed Cassandra in the courtyard with another of the furry creatures, then saw Bull teasing one with a bit of string as he walked up to the second level of the tavern.  With his hands clasped behind his back, he made his way over to Cole, who was sitting bent over the top of an apple crate.  As he neared, he could see two more kittens, a dish of milk, and a few cheese crumbles in the bottom of the crate atop what looked like a crumpled apron.  “You can’t keep doing this, Cole,” Solas began, but the spirit-boy interrupted as he peeked up from beneath the brim of his hat.  “I found them.  Water like ice, rolled and tumbled in a burlap trap.  Sinking, sinking, so very scared.”  Cole looked back into the crate and prodded a tabby kitten gently with a fingertip.  The ball of fuzz flopped over and attacked the finger with all four feet.  

“But, they’re happy now.  And, the others are happy, too.  Everyone was so tired and sad and unsure.  They made each other better.”  It was always hard to argue these points with Cole.  He was so well-meaning.  Solas leaned down and rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder, “Just stop by Josephine’s office and tell her that it won’t happen again.”  The spirit-boy tilted his head and began to protest, “But, I wi-,” and Solas cut him off with a gesture.  “I know, but it will make Josephine feel better,” he assured Cole, who responded with, “I...swear it won’t happen again,” then looked to the elf for approval.  Solas nodded as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back again.  “Exactly thus.  And take her a kitten.  The tabby one.  That’ll help, too.”  Before he could turn to leave, Cole was gone, and he could practically hear the Ambassador’s excited squeals from here.

[katalyna-rose]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU GLORIOUS AND GORGEOUS BABE!!!!!! 🎉❤🎉❤🎉❤🎉❤🎉❤🎉❤🎉❤🎉 How about this prompt; Solas prepares a suprise birthday date for lavellan🌹

“I’ve said it before,” Solas said into the silence of Lyna’s shock. “For all the Dalish got wrong, they did one thing right. They made you. And you are my love, my heart, my wife, ma sa’lath. It seemed only fitting to celebrate your existence, your birth.”

“Solas…” she whispered, rendered almost speechless. Her hand was pressed to her chest, over her pounding heart, and she could feel her eyes prickling with tears. No one had ever done something like this for her, not for any reason.

Their bedroom was decorated with magic, a rainbow of light diffusing the sun’s rays near the ceiling. Spirits of Joy filled the room with laughter and the wonderful emotion they embodied. Even Love had migrated up from the bath to twine around the bedposts and suffuse the area with warmth and light. But that wasn’t even the best part.

There was a long table set up in front of their desks and it was completely covered in her favorite foods and treats, all magically kept at the peak of deliciousness. Her favorite tea steamed gently next to chilled creme brulee. Apple pie with crisp crust and glazed sugar sat next to them. There was mulled wine, vanilla bean tea cookies, even a small bowl of chocolate mousse in the corner. Fruit tarts of many flavors took up a whole corner, Orlesian frilly cakes took another. In the middle was her favorite dinner, though it was considerably plainer than the rest of the spread; grid or oin, rabbit stew, and aval’bradh, a sweet and rich flatbread. Two simple wooden bowls and spoons sat beside the kettle, her favorite way to eat it. The meal would always remind her of her favorite childhood memories, when she and her father would hunt and prepare the rabbits that her mother would cook. It would take all day to make enough for the whole clan, but it was something they did as a family. And while the stew bubbled over the fire, she would be tasked with smoothing the balls of dough onto the stone that was heated in the hearth to cook the aval’bradh. The meal would always be her favorite.

“It’s amazing, Solas!” she cried, spinning to him, when she finally found her voice. He was smiling, love in his eyes, enjoying her happiness. “No one has ever done something so wonderful for me before.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. His warmth surrounded her as he returned the embrace, his lips soft and sweet on her neck.

“You deserve whatever luxuries I can give you,” he murmured, making her toes curl with the sound of his voice. She pulled back and grinned at him.

“I have you,” she reminded him and adored the way he all but melted in her arms. “That’s always been enough.”

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, lingering at the tip of it until she giggled and ducked away from the touch. He grinned. “I would shower you in comfort and wealth, if you asked it,” he vowed in a low tone. “I would surround you with silk and sweets and diamonds. I would give to you anything that you desire.”

She put her hand on his cheek. “Oh, Solas. Don’t you get it yet?” She put her other hand on his face and held him while she gently kissed his lips. His face was tinged pink when she pulled away, even from so small a touch. “You are all I want. All this,” she said gesturing around them to the room and its decorations, “is amazing and beautiful and wonderful and I thank you. But I don’t want diamonds and silk. Having you in my arms is the greatest wealth. Having our son grow up safe and happy and unafraid and loved is the greatest comfort. I adore this, but I adore you more.”

His mouth descended on hers, tongue slipping between her lips. He made little noises in the back of his throat, little moans and groans of ecstasy as he tasted her, devoured her.

“I suppose I could have it all carted away, then, if you prefer,” he teased in a husky murmur when he finally released her mouth. It took a few moments for her to regain her bearings enough to understand, and then she smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

“I will take full advantage of my generous and silly husband, thank you,” she declared, nose in the air, then turned and walked to the table. She surveyed the many sweets laid out as she ladled stew into a bowl, deciding which she would taste first. All of them, she decided as she dunked her aval’bradh into the stew.

Solas kissed her shoulder as he reached past her to grab his own bowl. “You do like it, then?” he asked her seriously. She grinned.

“I love it,” she told him, then buried herself in her bowl.