#I gave up hard on drawing the darkspawn

[littlemissgeek8]

A little doodle in honor of Varric being the only teammate to survive encountering a deep roads revanant during a recent playthrough, and spending the whole fight kiting everything (and probably hating every minute.)

I'm glad I gave Bianca full dragon upgrades or we'd have been so dead.

[mourn-and-watch]

Some time after the Blight ends, they're invited to Redcliffe. There's going to be a statue in their honour, the letter says, made by one of the best Fereldan artists — and it needs their approval for some reason. A formal one, of course. “At least they didn't pay Orlesians. Let them stick to their fancy chateaus,” Alistair says jokingly, but he seems excited — and Keeris, well, not that much. She doesn't tell him about it anyway. He deserves to feel like a hero for once. Statues and celebrations and all.

It's nice to see Redcliffe rebuild though. It's nice to see anything rebuild — no more darkspawn and barricades, no more walking corpses and burning roofs. Former wastelands are green and full of blooming spring flowers that cover the ruins of something that cannot be restored anymore, completely destroyed houses and fallen mill wings that no one had time to take away; it's a beautiful sight. She'd better stay here instead of going to the castle. She's, frankly, sick of the castles — and they are probably sick of her.

People inside are still friendly, though. Cheerful even. Keeris sees the shade of nervousness crossing Eamon's face when he shakes her hand, but it's not unexpected, really — he couldn't be that fond of her, not after what happened at the Landsmeet, she's aware of that.

The Fereldan sculptor, on the other hand, is very proud and just can't stop talking — about the greatness of his project and how honoured he is to work on it and set the Heroes of Ferelden in stone. Before he bows his head, he gives her a brief look, a strange one for sure, almost terrified — Keeris doesn't know what to make of it nor she wants to try.

Then, he shows it. The art, the concept. It's a big, big piece of paper full of little sketches and drafts and one glorious drawing of a statue in the middle of it.

For a moment, no one says a word.

“What is that?” Alistair asks and his voice sounds genuinely baffled. There are tones of anger in it, loud and clear. Keeris slightly squeezes his hand.

She's not surprised at all.

The statue is a man and a woman in Grey Warden uniforms standing in pretentiously heroic poses. A man resembles Alistair very well, with the same features and even the way he holds his shield. It's almost like him, really, just lifelessly stony grey.

A woman is slightly shorter than him: her features are smooth and pretty, her braided hair is long and wavy, scattered by the wind, and her ears are flat. Her face is so strangely, unfamiliarly bare.

Oh, it does make her angry, furious even. Just a little. Even if she shouldn't care.

She shouldn't care, a girl with vallaslin and sharp features and sharp ears and hair too short to cover them.

“Somehow,” she says calmly, looking Eamon straight in the eyes, “I didn't expect less from your kind.”

They argue. Alistair and Eamon, mostly — she herself wouldn't waste time on it nor she thinks it would change anything, but now they can't go away and loudly shut the door.

Eamon says something about his gratitude. Something about the gratitude of his people and how they all cherish both of them here. Something about the cruelness of the world around. Something about the vile, vile people, who are obviously not there, but they will come and they will not tolerate an elf standing in the middle of their beautiful human town. They will not let it be.

Of course, they won't. She saw the alienage in Denerim. She saw what Anora did to it after she gave her a crown and was proclaimed a friend. It always ends up like this. All the promises and gratitude — they never matter. She learnt it the hard way.

“Then,” she says finally, “Don't make it. Don't place it here. If not for my people's sake — don't lie to your own at least.”

Nobody dares to object.

They leave in awkward, unpleasant silence: no farewells, no partings. They don't even stay for the night at Redcliffe. Alistair keeps repeating he's sorry, that he never wanted it to be this way, that he was sure his uncle would do better than this — Keeris laughs with just a little bitterness in her voice. He shouldn't be sorry. She was the one who took his statue away, wasn't she? He promises they will get a nice, proper one. Maybe somewhere in Amaranthine.

Another letter comes, informing them it is going to be a griffon. A beautiful creature, a symbol, a compromise, it says. None of them respond.

When they get to Redcliffe a couple of years later, there it is, standing in a square. No faces, no names and no shameless lies.

People here still recognise them. They wave their hands when they pass by and promise to buy them a beer if they happen to be around. An elven servant in the crowd blesses her path with Mythal's name. A young girl throws her a flower crown.

They do not put portraits in the archives of Weisshaupt after all.

At least there is no woman who never was.

[danaduchy]

Cousland gritted his teeth as he felt blood seeping through his armor, the pain in his side growing unbearable. The battle for Amaranthine raged around him, darkspawn swarming from every direction. There were too many of them, and the weight of fatigue pressed on him with every swing of his sword. He had faced worse, survived against impossible odds, but the pain was spreading now, sapping his strength, threatening to bring him down.

Damn it, he thought. I’ll be damned if I die like this.

He swung his sword again, felling another darkspawn, but his vision was starting to blur at the edges. There were too many, and he could feel the darkspawn blood mixing with his own, the taint mingling with his injury. In the chaos of battle, he didn't notice that the darkspawn nearest to him had suddenly frozen in place. His next swing went wide as his balance faltered, but instead of being overwhelmed, the enemies before him shattered, breaking into a hundred ice-covered pieces.

Aedan blinked, still struggling to stay on his feet, trying to process what had just happened. The blood loss was clouding his mind, and before he could register it, his knees gave out beneath him, sending him toward the ground.

But he didn’t hit the cold, hard earth.

Strong arms caught him, holding him upright before he could collapse. Aedan didn’t need to look to know who it was—he recognized the feeling immediately. There was something about the air around him, the subtle lightness that filled the space like the calm after a storm had passed. He’d felt it before. It was the magic, the presence of Daylen Amell.

He heard someone calling out, “Commander!” Their voice was distant, almost drowned by the sounds of clashing steel and monstrous roars. But Daylen barked an order, commanding the soldiers around them with an authority that cut through the noise. He was always like that in battle—decisive, commanding, never hesitating.

Aedan tried to focus, but the pain was dragging him down, making it hard to think clearly. He felt Daylen’s hand move to his side, gently but quickly moving his own hand away from the wound to assess the damage. The armor there was slick with blood, both Aedan’s and the darkspawn’s, and the edges of his vision darkened for a moment as the pain flared.

“It burns like hell,” Aedan muttered, his voice hoarse. The infection of the taint, the poison of the darkspawn, was spreading through the wound, making it worse with every passing second.

Daylen’s voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it, barely masking his concern. “Hold on, Aedan. I’ve got you.”

The familiar warmth of magic began to surround him, Daylen’s hands glowing with a soft, steady light. Traveling with mages over the years had made Aedan attuned to their magic, but Daylen’s was different. His healing felt… intense, like a wave of water that pushed through his body, drawing away the pain. It was nothing like Wynne’s gentle healing magic, which washed over him like cool water, soothing every ache. Daylen’s magic had an urgency to it, a fierceness that almost took Aedan’s breath away for a moment.

The burning in his side began to lessen as the healing magic closed the worst of the wound. Aedan felt himself breathe a little easier, the pain receding into a dull throb, but he was still weak from the blood loss.

He felt something pressed to his lips, a small bottle, and the unmistakable bitterness of a healing potion followed. Aedan grimaced as the taste hit his tongue, but Daylen’s firm but gentle hand guided him, making sure he drank every drop. The potion worked fast, speeding up the healing already done by magic, and Aedan felt the strength slowly return to his limbs, though exhaustion lingered in his bones.

“Easy,” Daylen said softly, his voice a low murmur close to Aedan’s ear. “The battle’s almost over.”

Aedan blinked, slowly coming back to himself, his vision clearing enough to see the battlefield around them. The darkspawn were retreating, or what was left of them. Backup had arrived, soldiers pouring into the field and overwhelming the remaining monsters. Daylen’s arms were still wrapped around him, holding him upright as the worst of the fighting faded. The chaos was giving way to an uneasy calm, and Aedan could hear the distant shouts of victory as the defenders of Amaranthine gained the upper hand.

Aedan took a deep breath, the sharp scent of blood and burning filling his lungs. The pain was mostly gone now, though the battle had taken its toll.

“Thought I’d lost you there for a second,” Daylen said, his voice light but carrying a seriousness underneath.

Aedan managed a weak smile, his head still spinning. “It’ll take more than a few darkspawn to bring me down,” he replied, though his voice was rougher than he intended.

Daylen’s lips quirked up in a small grin, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t entirely fade. “Don’t get cocky. I’d rather not have to pull your ass out of the fire every time.”

Aedan chuckled softly, wincing slightly at the lingering ache. “And here I thought you liked being my savior.”

Daylen huffed, but there was warmth in his eyes as he helped Aedan to his feet. “Next time, try not to get yourself killed. Makes my job a lot easier.”

As Aedan stood, still leaning on Daylen for support, he glanced around at the battlefield. The soldiers were finishing off the last of the stragglers, and the tide had clearly turned in their favor. Amaranthine was safe—for now.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of what had just happened. They had won, but it had been close—too close. And once again, Daylen had been there to pull him back from the brink.

“Thanks,” Aedan said quietly, his gaze meeting Daylen’s.

Daylen gave a small nod, his expression softening. “Always.”

The two of them stood together for a moment, the battlefield slowly quieting as the last of the darkspawn were driven away. The city was safe, but there were always more battles to come. They both knew that. But for now, Aedan was alive, and Daylen was by his side, and that was enough.

[my-dumb-obsessions]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks for the tag, @psalacanthea! My gang is in Blackmarsh, too! Switching to Carie's POV for the next chapter of As the Sun Descends. Tagging @sillyliterature , @anderstrevelyan and anyone else who's writing/drawing/painting and wants to share!

-----

“Warring darkspawn seem to be the least of this marsh’s troubles,” Cariane noted, taking in the gnarled, blackened trees and fetid, sinking ground. A chorus of wolves howled in the distance. “And there’s that to look forward to.”

“The darkspawn have been here, though. You can already smell them.” Sigrun sneered as they passed a sign warning them to turn back.

“How can you pick out the darkspawn stench over all the other…stenches?” Anders groaned. Ser Pounce traveled comfortably in a sling bag strapped across his shoulder, and Anders periodically pulled a mint-stuffed cat toy out of it, pressing it to his nose before putting it back.

“It’s not the smell, really, it's the feel,” Cariane corrected. “You’re starting to sense the darkspawn taint. The rest of it is horrible, though.” Indeed, if the midday darkness and miasma of fog weren’t deterrent enough, the smell of rot in the air would send anyone who didn’t have to be there running.

Nathaniel walked beside her, his fingers brushing her hand every few steps as if he thought to hold it, but changed his mind. She caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re quiet, Nate. What do you know about this place?”

He cast a sidelong smile at her, stroking her thumb with his before letting her go. “Not much beyond the stories, unfortunately. My father used to say that evil magic killed everyone here, a long time ago - before the rebellion. But no one knows for sure.”

“Before the rebellion? So it’s been abandoned for a hundred years?” 

“Thereabouts. If anyone’s ever tried to rebuild, it hasn’t lasted.” He held her hand to help her climb over a fence mangled by a fallen branch that blocked their path. He chuckled, silver-blue eyes a bright glimmer in the gloom, “You know, when I was a boy I used to dream of coming to the Blackmarsh and setting things right.” 

“And look at you now!” Anders laughed. Together, the men deftly hoisted a heavily armored Sigrun over the obstacle.

When Nathaniel turned back to her, Cariane couldn’t hide her amusement. “Oh, that is adorable,” she teased, grinning. “I can see that sweet, little black-haired boy playing the hero. Did you want to be Dane?”

“Every Fereldan boy wants to be Dane,” he smirked and pinched her waist, hard enough to feel it through the leather base of her armor. “Though I think Hafter is more appropriate for us, chasing the darkspawn away.” 

“Um, I hate to interrupt you two, but if it’s abandoned,” Sigrun said cautiously, and pointed up the dirt road ahead, “who’s lighting the lanterns?”

[camelliagwerm]

Prompt: "Breathe through your nose." 😏

Magni/Anora | 780-ish words | Set after Golems of Amgarrak but before Witch Hunt.

When Magni returned to Denerim after what felt like a short eternity in the Deep Roads – first leading Fereldan soldiers and warrior caste alike to reclaim a lost thaig and push back the darkspawn further, then on a secretive expedition-turned-rescue mission with Jerrik Dace to Amgarrak – Anora’s greeting had been lukewarm at best. Perhaps any affection she might have harboured for him died the moment that he gave the order to let Amaranthine burn, and the months apart in an informal exile for the order made that estrangement go further; but then, when the eyes of the court were no longer upon them, the two of them safely behind the doors of her private set of rooms, Anora knelt down to kiss him, admit against his lips that she’d missed him terribly.

“I did not realise quite how much, husband,” she murmured, running her hands through strands of his hair – Aeducan gold, it was called in Orzammar, for how many of his relations bore that rich dark blonde colour – before touching a new scar across his cheek, marring the light brown tattoo there. “I trust you took no serious injuries?”

Magni elected not to tell her about the flesh abomination within Amgarrak that had grabbed him and thrown him across the thaig’s accursed forge like he’d weighed nothing, Vigilance clattering across the floor out of reach. It had broken three of his ribs.

“Nothing I can’t come back from,” they had settled for instead – resulting in Anora pursing her lips in disapproval after she had Erlina draw him a bath and saw the bruises on his ribcage. It had been an attempt to give her a small lie by omission instead.

Now night has fallen and he has traded the blood- and Blight-soaked Deep Roads for the royal bedchamber once more. It has been months by his reckoning since they were last intimate, and any concerns Anora might have had over a lack of fidelity faded quickly.

Breathe through your nose, he reminds himself; above him, his wife’s moans are muffled – her thighs are pressed up against each ear, the gold of his earrings cold against her warm skin – and the headboard creaks as her grip tightens on it, her hips eagerly rocking against his mouth. A thick hand runs up her thigh, stroking over the soft flesh until it comes to the dip at her hip, just hidden beneath a rucked-up nightshirt. They squeeze, eliciting another soft moan from Anora.

She is still quiet during their lovemaking, all sighs and whimpers caught in her throat; it was strange at first, to not hear a lover take their pleasure loudly, but he swiftly learns what pleases her and what doesn’t. She sits more firmly against his mouth, his nose buried against the hair between her legs; and her thighs quiver around their head.

They lap her up, savouring her orgasm while ignoring how painfully hard he has become. Her breath comes fast, high-pitched, and the headboard creaks again as her fingers loosen their grasp.

Even though there is a slight rush of cool air as she dismounts his face, Magni taking that moment to breathe through his mouth again, the room still feels uncomfortably warm. The mattress shifts as Anora lies down beside him, her nightshirt high around her waist and the laces pulled open to show a swell of small, pale breasts. 

She looks over at him with a heavy-lidded gaze and a small smile on her parted lips. Her fingers tremble as they touch his chest, over the expanse of well-defined muscle and chest hair, careful to avoid Magni’s still healing ribs, signalled by angry bruises in a pattern of black and blue. Their chest rises up and down, ignoring the sharp pain there, the tenderness of the flesh. 

“I did not exert you too much did I, husband?” she asks, concern apparent in each softly-spoken word. Her hand slips up to his pectorals again, tracing over the tattoo of dwarva knotwork that outline their chest, then over the sensitive nipples and the piercings there – gold to match the ones in his ears. “You are not in too much pain?” 

They reach out to take her hand and place a kiss upon her knuckles. Their beard bristles against her. “Just… need to take things a little slower,” he admits, taking several slow, steady breaths.

“I understand.” Full lips rest against their temple for a moment as her hand returns to its trail down his chest, over a scarred abdomen. Her fingers gently wrap around the base of his cock, swollen and resting against their belly. “You have taken good care of me tonight, so allow me to repay the favour.”

[dismalzelenka]

For DADW: "Either way you choose you cannot win" for Handers. "I choose to not understand these signs" for Nanders.

Played around with some more canon divergent Journeyverse AU 😌 first @dadrunkwriting prompt I've taken in probably three years and it goes absolutely nowhere and also the prompt has been VERY loosely interpreted but here we are 🥂 bottoms up kiddos

“Either way you choose, you cannot win,” Fenris hissed.

“We are far past the point of winning,” Anders shot back.

Hawke rubbed her eyes with her palms. She was mostly concerned about the fact that they were still in the Deep Roads, and she was being completely honest, she was only half paying attention to the argument unfolding in front of her. It happened enough; she already knew how this would play out. They'd yell it out and then reluctantly slink back and apologize and everyone else would breathe a sigh of relief for some fucking peace and quiet. It was positively formulaic at this point.

She was far too preoccupied with other matters today: namely, the Grey Warden archer carefully fixing the fletching on his arrows at the edge of camp.

His name was Nathaniel. He'd served with Anders in Amaranthine.

They'd been lovers.

Quite frankly that last part bothered her less than she'd have expected, but beneath the faint prickling of jealousy that wove its way beneath her skin whenever he and Anders locked gazes, there was far more fascination on her part than anything else. The secrets were what ate away at her more than anything else, but she'd grown up being taught the importance of keeping them enough to let well enough alone.

It helped that he was easy on the eyes.

“Is something the matter, my lady?” he said quietly.

“Just — Hawke,” she croaked. “I'm not a — it's just my — Hawke is fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'm — going to go over there.” She pointed vaguely in the opposite direction and wandered that way immediately.

Alright, with a voice like that, she was pretty sure she couldn't blame Anders one bit, she decided with a huff. She kicked a stray piece of stone and watched it bounce down the edge of an overhang into the darkness below.

Sure hope that didn't awaken something.

“You alright, Sparkles?” Varric's voice floated over her as she scuffed her boot into the stone.

“I would be if you'd stop calling me Sparkles,” she shot back automatically.

He laughed, a hearty sound from the center of his chest. “Trust me, you'll like the alternatives I came up with even less.”

“Try me,” she muttered.

—

She'd been beginning to nod off against the rather large rock she'd slumped against when someone shook her awake by the shoulder. “Are you alright, love?”

Why did everyone keep asking her that?

“Just tired,” she mumbled automatically. Maybe if she convinced enough people, she'd start believing it herself.

“Have you even eaten yet?”

“Why, were you too busy picking fights to notice anything else around you?” Ouch. That wasn't fair, and she winced the second it came out of her mouth. She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I'm — I didn't mean that. This place makes me jumpy. I don't know how he stands it.” She jerked her head at Nathaniel, casually reading something by the firelight. She was babbling and she knew it, but she was too wound up to make herself stop.

“Journey. Breathe.” Hands on her shoulders, gentle touches drawing her back to reality. “I'm fairly certain the Deep Roads could make an arse out of Andraste herself.”

“Are you so smitten, that I could insult you to your face and you would still compare me to Andraste?” she teased as she tipped her head back and finally met his eyes.

“Keep looking at me like that and I'd let you get away with a lot more than insults,” he breathed before planting a kiss on her forehead and pulling her to her feet. “And you haven't eaten, have you,” he said finally with a flat stare.

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“It's a very exasperated healer who doesn't wish to see the light of his life waste away into nothing before we see daylight again.”

“You're certainly one to talk,” she grumbled, but she let him lead her back to camp anyway with minimal complaint. “Light of your life, you say?” she prodded with a grin when he thrust a bowl of beans into her hands. “What colour?”

“Hmm.” He paused thoughtfully. “D’you know the moment you open your eyes in direct sunlight after a night of drinking so much you forget your own existence?” His grin broadened. “That colour.”

She smacked him on the chest in offense. “Prat,” she snorted.

She trailed off when she looked up and saw Nathaniel watching them with an odd expression on his face. Anders cupped her face between his hands. “I'm with you,” he said firmly. “Past be damned. This is just a favour for an old friend. Nothing more.”

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she just squeezed his hand and left it alone.

—

It was impossible to mark the passage of days in the Deep Roads; Hawke awoke from a markedly troubled sleep and helped tear down the camp in exhausted silence. The entire place reeked of death and rot tinged with the sickly sweet scent of something that wanted to be enticing but managed to land well on the other side of foul. It reminded her of her first trip into the Deep Roads, and of her less than glamorous voyage to Kirkwall before all of this ever began.

“Where did you learn how to fight?” Nathaniel asked curiously after a skirmish with darkspawn left her winded and depleted enough she managed to knock back an entire lyrium potion without gagging. Sweet, metallic, and unnaturally cold as it slipped down her throat like distilled sweat. The taste still made her shudder even as she stuffed the bottle back into her pack.

“My father taught me,” she said with a grimace. She spat the last of the taste onto the ground. “Ugh. Awful stuff.”

“Was your father also an apostate?”

“Of course not. The Circle gave him permission to traipse about the countryside with a wife and three children. Sometimes they sent Templars after him, but only as a friendly little game.”

“I'm choosing to interpret that as a joke that wasn't at my expense.”

“So you're an idiot and a poor comedian.”

He snorted. “And you're remarkably short tempered for a Champion.”

“You didn't think I killed the Arishok with my winning personality, did you? I'm sorry to say you're going to be awfully disappointed.”

“You're working so hard to win me over,” he said dryly. “And here I've been told I'm quite likeable beneath the scowl.”

“Is that so?” She squared her stance in front of him and planted her hands firmly on her hips with a smirk. “What happened to the last person who tried to win you over?”

His gaze flickered ahead of them to Anders as his expression darkened. “I watched him die,” he muttered. He took a deep breath. “We're falling behind. We shouldn't linger.”

[mydrug-is-dragonage]

Dar Atishan, A Talk with Cole

“Wind and whispers, dreams and demons, ‘why don’t they ever want me enough to want me?’” My ears perked up and I saw Cole walking towards me on the battlements. I glanced at him and returned, hunched over and brooding, watching the snow blow of the tops of mountains. “You’re hurt and hurting, all three of you wounded, worried, ‘was it the right decision?’”

I turn around and face him, smirking. “Do they have love in the Fade?”

“‘Hahren Morriel warned me, the shemlen are fickle, but the elf too?’ Wanting, wondering, ‘what else could I do?’” I sighed and patted the battlements. I pushed myself up with my hands and he joined me, legs dangling over the edge. “You’re sad.”

“I am.”

“They think it was the right decision.”

“I know.”

“But they’re sad, too. Brooding, breaking, ‘Bull said it’d help me with the ladies, but it’d break her.’” He looked towards the barn. I sighed and looked up towards the sky, clear and full of stars. “Dust, danger, delightful, distraction, ‘if she’s real, what if they’re all real, too?’”

I shake my head. “Cole, stop.”

“I want to help,” he says. He looks up, his shaggy hair nearly hiding his big eyes. I put a hand on his knee.

“I don’t think you get to help,” I said.

“Why?” He asks, his voice full of genuine curiosity.

“Can I tell you a story?”

“Sixteen, sweating, ‘Will we make it?’”

“Yes, that story. Stay out of my head, let me tell you, not show you.” He nods and puts his hand in his lap. “When I was sixteen, my vallaslin fresh, my sword sharpened, I went on a hunt with a boy.”

“Tallen.”

“Yes, Tallen. Tallen was a few years older than me, an accomplished hunter. We’d been out in the forest for a few days. He was certain he’d found some clues that would lead to some ancient artifact, something Keeper Istimaethoriel could make use of. Remind of us of the old ways.” I looked towards Cole, his gaze stuck on the lines arching across my face. “So we looked. We looked and looked and looked. Days passed, and we couldn’t seem to find whatever his sources had led him to.”

“Boredom, bothered, ‘This is worse than when the aravel breaks,’” he said. “Sorry. I’ll try to stay outside.”

“Thank you, Cole. Yes, I was bored and angry. I’d only agreed to come along because of Tallen. None of the other hunters thought it was worth our time. The Keeper wasn’t especially keen. But Tallen,” I said. I trailed off, taken back to the forest, a girl with fresh ink, so sure of what I’d chosen, Elgarnan’s markings across my face.

“But Tallen?”

“Right, but Tallen wanted to go, and I wanted to help, and I wanted to spend time with him, alone,” I said. I looked at Cole and raised an eyebrow. His face stayed as placid as ever. “So we wandered. We looked. We found nothing. One night, deep in the forest, we found a cave to sleep in. We’d build a small fire, roasted a bird we’d killed. We sat, quietly listening to the forest.” I looked up at the sky again, constellations dancing around. I heard the Hahren speaking about the legends, the Elven gods, the Dread Wolf.

“As we finished dinner, I heard stirring from the back of the cave. I didn’t have time to fully put on my armor, but I grabbed my chest plate and my blade, I got Tallen’s attention and pointed towards the darkness beyond us. He grabbed his bow, and started to draw an arrow. Before he could get a good shot lined up, darkspawn came running towards us,” I said. Cole closed his eyes. “I’d never seen one up close. I’d heard stories growing up, of course. We’d avoided the Blight, but everyone knew of them, their corruption. I got a few good swings, killed one right away. Tallen had time to back up, start taking shots at different ones as they approached me.”

“You were afraid,” he said.

“I was. I was so young, this was my first real mission.”

“You lived.”

“Or maybe I’m a spirit, too, drawn to the dying elf.”

“Jokes and jaunting, ‘laughter makes it easier,’” he said.

“Does it bother you?”

“No, you still like me. You see me all the time,” he said.

“I thought that was your decision.”

“I did, too. Go on. I like the way your voice carries the past,” he said.

“The darkspawn kept coming and coming. Soon enough I realized they were too many to fight, the two of us. Tallen called out to me,  I gave him a clear shot and we ran from the cave. We ran and ran and ran until our legs were going to give out. The darkspawn never let up.. We reached a cliff. The darkspawn were maybe four hundred feet away, running towards us as they had, corrupting everything in their path. Tallen looked over the edge, then back at me. He grabbed my face and kissed me.”

“First, frolicking, filthy, ‘I’d hoped I’d be clean.’ You’d wanted to kiss him?”

I laughed. “For a long time. Tallen was so handsome, so strong and brave. He’d be a good partner, he was a good man. I’d only come along so he’d be forced to see me as a woman instead of the child I’d been.”

“Did it work?”

“You don’t kiss children like that,” I said. “When we pulled apart, he said, ‘trust me’ and put out a hand. I put mine in his, and we jumped over the edge.”

“Maybe you are a spirit,” he said.

“I was lucky,” I laughed. “We landed in a lake, deep enough that we didn’t break any bones. The water helped wash away the darkspawn blood. When I came up for air, I looked around, gasping. I saw Tallen, swam over towards him, put my arms around him, and kissed him again, how I’d wanted to.”

“He tasted like fire and lake water,” he said.

I nodded. “We stood in the water for a time, embracing. Then we found our way to the shore. The darkspawn didn’t follow, so we made another small fire and slept for the night. The next morning, when I woke up he was gone. I panicked, put on my chest plate and went searching for him. I saw him on a far hill, picking flowers. Cole, in that moment I could have died.”

“But you wanted the flowers?”

“Good die, not bad die.”

“There’s different kinds of dying?” Cole asked.

“I settled back into camp, and he returned. Together we made our way back to the clan. When we arrived, Keeper Istimaethoriel came up and gave us a hug. The Keeper’s daughter, Asharell came up too and put her arms around Tallen. He reached in his pack and gave her the flowers.”

“You wanted to die then, too. Good die?”

“Bad die,” I said. “My heart broke into a thousand little pieces. We’d kissed, we’d survived darkspawn, and he picked flowers for the pretty girl back home instead of me.” I stopped and swallowed. The night air on the battlements had begun to chill, and goose bumps rose on my arms. “After we’d had a proper bath and a proper meal, I wandered near the halla. Tallen came up to me.”

“Kissing, killing, crying, chilling ‘No hard feelings?’ Oh. He was an ass.” I laughed and patted him on the back.

“Yes, he was. Apparently he’d long been sweet on Asharell and wanted to go on this expedition to impress the Keeper so he could marry his daughter. Our daring tale and the flowers had certainly done their part,” I said. “He came up to me and said, ‘I hope we can keep it a secret. It was the moment, fear of death and all that.’ I nodded, said it was fine. He was afraid he’d die. I was there. People have made worse choices under fear.”

“You carry this hurt like a scar,” he said. “But now, it cracks upon, and it’s hurting all the same.”

“When Solas and I kissed in the Fade, I was so excited. I hadn’t done anything like that in a long time,” I said. “But when we woke up, he said it was a bad decision, a mistake. So I let him go.” I put my hands on my knees and took a deep breath. “Then Blackwall and I, traveling, laughing. It came so suddenly, I thought the Creators had given me a second chance. We went and found his badge, we sat by the fire light.”            “But he also said it was wrong,” Cole said.

“After Tallen and Asharell married,  I spoke to the Hahren. I needed some advice. He told me, his years of wisdom, ‘You cannot beg anyone to love you.’”

“So when they said no, you believed them.”

“I’m not going to convince them otherwise. If they don’t want me enough to want me honestly, I won’t fight for it,” I said. My eyes welled up and Cole put his hand on mine.

“They could have been convinced,” he said, “but that wouldn’t have been right. It would have hurt you more than losing them.”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “I think maybe love just isn’t for me. Before I wasn’t anyone, now I’m so much more than myself.”

“Willfull, wanting, given, gotten, ‘I’ve given up so much, maybe she could be for me, maybe this woman I could keep,’” he said.

“That’s not how I feel.”

“That isn’t you,” he said. I sat up straighter and looked at him. His eyes glanced down, Cullen leaning over the battlements, his own late night stroll.

“Josephine?” I asked. He shook his head. “Cassandra?” He shook his head again.

“Lost and longing, lyrium-sick, ‘She’s so powerful, so strong, how could she ever want anyone like me?’” Cole looked back at me.

I swallow and look at him, his hands running through his hair. “I never thought, I mean, I’d flirted, but he seemed so closed off. I assumed,” I trailed off.

“‘What if the lyrium takes me? What if I’m not strong enough? She deserves someone strong enough to carry her burdens. She deserves someone without the weight I carry.’”

“Thank you, Cole. This helped.” We hopped off the edge and I gave him another pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m happy I helped.”

[ilovehallas]

Can it not just wait til morning

Relationships: Anders & Justice, Anders & Varric Tethras

Summary:

Anders wanders the streets of Lowtown at night to try and recover from a disturbing nightmare, but the implications of what he dreamed won't let him go and Justice only makes matters worse. When things reach a fever pitch, Anders rushes to the Hanged Man in need for friendship and reprieve.

Tags: Night Terrors, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Dragon Age II - Act 3, Friendship saves the day

Warning for graphic violence

[One of my favorite relationships in Dragon Age 2 is the friendship between Anders and Varric and the change in tone in their banter between Act 2 and Act 3 always gets to me. So I wrote a self-indulgent piece about it that completely went out of hand! There's a lot of other stuff I still wanted to get in there, but I did actually try to keep it brief. This oneshot takes place a short time after the Legacy DLC, between Acts 2 and 3. Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!]

Read on AO3

Acrid fumes hung heavy in the air of the tunnels. The stench almost had its own physical presence in the way it crept into his air ways and made it hard to draw breath. It had made them all quiet as they tried to avoid stepping on the strange fleshy growths covering parts of the ground and the walls; if Anders looked too long he could swear they were pulsing slightly, feeling every pulse like the beat of his own heart.

Something lived here that Anders didn’t want to see. He tried to keep his eyes fixed to the back of the Warden-Commander, on the familiar griffon heraldry emblazoning her shield. Nothing in the way she moved betrayed whether she could sense it too. Her hand rested easy on the hilt of her sword.

The winding tunnels got progressively more difficult to traverse, forcing them to walk on the growths as the ground became uneven. They would give ever so slightly under Anders’ weight with a sickening, squelching sound. Everything was damp and warm, and Anders hoped that it was sweat that ran along his brow as his breathing grew more and more shallow.

Soon they were in place that Anders recognized well. They were in one of the many tunnels sleeping deep beneath Vigil’s keep, walking past long abandoned dark spawn barricades. How long had it been since they had walked these halls together? Sigrun smiled at him with understanding when she glanced over. When they reached a fork in the road, Anders found a weight finally lifted off his chest. Two massive holes were gaping in the stone, the one on the right side leading down another cramped path, and the other opening up to the inside of a large structure illuminated by an odd blue glow. The walls there were of solid stone adorned with careful geometric designs of lyrium, reaching up so impossibly high that Anders couldn’t even make out a ceiling when he entered. From far away, the soft echo of running water called out to him.  

A flicker of hope lit him up like a spark in dry kindling. This was it! The place they had been looking for! The exhaustion of their grueling eternal march fell off him like opened shackles as he turned and ran back to the others, cursing the way his robes would slow him down. When the canal spat him out, he was back in the deep roads. This time there was not an inch that was not covered in organic matter. The walls were infested with empty egg sacks sprouting from the flesh and Anders’ blood rushed in his ears, whispering to him in clicking and chittering sounds that whatever had nested there was watching him. His body and chest seized up around nothing in anticipation of a threat he couldn’t see, his limbs stiff and useless as the paralyzing poison of panic set in. But no, he could see it. When he looked down, through the grate of the drain under his feet, the thick tentacle of a broodmother emerged from the dark in greeting. When he lifted his head, he looked right into the bulging humanoid face of one of her Children, perched on its grotesque legs.

“We need you, Grey Warden” it spoke with a calm voice. Its claw-like appendages poised, it jumped at him baring its needle teeth and buried them deep into his neck. He didn’t even get to scream, his blood pooling in his mouth as his skin tore. He could feel the way the creature sucked the rest of it right out of his veins. His legs gave in, crushed by the weight of the childer now feasting on him.

“Why can’t I help you?” Justice wailed mournfully from Kristoff’s body, half swallowed by the wall. “I’m stuck here. Anders, what can I do? This isn’t right!”

“I don’t know!“ Anders forced out, his hands pushing fruitlessly at the darkspawn burrowing itself in his body. The fade was silent and sliding away further and further the deeper the teeth went. “Get off of me!”

“I apologize for what I must do to you” the childer said. “But the Father says we need your blood.”

His arms were getting weaker, he still tried to dig his fingers into the creature’s eyes.

“It’ll make us free. Wouldn’t that be just?”

Anders sought Justice’s eye, his own despair reflected back at him. Justice opened his mouth as he struggled, his words coming out as a death rattle. “Why can’t I change this? Why aren’t you letting me?”

“But it’ll hurt us too. It’ll be sad.”

Everything was becoming blurry, colors and sensations mixing together in agony. He couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. There was only the sound of this voice.

“We’ll miss the song. Oh, the beautiful song! How we’ll miss it!”

“I can hear it too, Anders” a woman whispered. The Warden Commander! She had to do something! He had watched her cut down dragons, why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wasn’t she helping? Nothing had ever stopped her before, not archdemons, not self-preservation, not reason.  “It’s heart-wrenching. There is a part of me that understands the darkspawn now. Why they long to hear it so much…”

She began to hum an unfathomable melody that was alien and familiar at once, like the impression of a song he’d forgotten in his childhood. Blindly he tried to reach her so he could make her stop, somehow, whatever it took, but there was nothing, only a great expanse of nothing where her voice became a drop in the ocean of the song.

It thrummed in his chest like it came from inside his bones—

“They call to us! They need us! Please! Grey Warden! Oh, Grey Warden!”

The whole world shaken by the song calling—                

  Anders awoke drenched in sweat with a sob. Eyes unfocused and mentally still entangled in the images of his nightmare, his hands shot up to touch his neck to convince himself that there was no darkspawn there. Relief when he felt that his skin was intact but it was running hot, crawling with something that weren’t there.  He was trembling all over, couldn’t stop gasping, his stomach was rolling, there was a flash of blue. Quick, quick where—

Scrambling to get up, Anders managed to take a few steps before he had to lean against the wall for support and retched once, twice. The nausea was still there, but it receded just as much as Anders needed it to so that he could reach for a cloth and wipe the saliva and vomit from his mouth.

He looked around frantically, taking a moment to recognize he was in his own clinic. It was pitch dark in the room save for a little lantern and it slowly dawned on him that he must’ve fallen asleep in the evening, only to wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare. And how lucky that he did wake.

A nightmare… Anders always kept a bowl or two of clean water around when treating patients. Knowing this place better than the back of his hand, he found one of them even in the relative darkness and splashed his face with the water. For good measure he rubbed his hands over his face, hoping that if he convinced himself enough that he was awake, the sick sense of dread looming over him would disappear. The scratch of his stubble was oddly grounding, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

It had been so visceral. Even now he felt little aftershocks of the “song”. And if there were not the usual noise of a night in Darktown, he was certain that he would be able to hear a faint melody from deep underground.

Maker’s breath, he had to get out of here.

As Anders headed for one of the exits to Lowtown he passed the faces of people he’d seen too many times. There were children that were growing up before his eyes in the dirt. He hastened his pace.

To wander the maze of Lowtown alone at night as a mage was among the most stupid things one could do in Kirkwall. Anders could not find it in himself to care, feeling himself embraced by the night’s chill when he reached the surface. It soothed his burning skin much like ointment did to a wound. A sigh came over his lips as he tipped his head back to gaze upon the stars. See? he thought triumphantly to himself. No ceiling, no stone. Only sky. Just a regular night in Kirkwall, whatever that meant these days.

He drifted in and out of alleyways he’d never seen in the years he’d lived here to stay out of the templars’ sight, along streets he’d last walked before he’d met Hawke. There was no one place he really wanted to be in right now, he was simply grateful for the quiet in his skull that the movement and the cold afforded him. Hadn’t really had much of that lately, or ever, since he’d let Justice in. He looked down from a ledge of a dead end to the docks, his gaze sweeping across to where the few lights of the Gallows gleamed. It was a bit strange, if he thought about it. Justice made it hard to remember dreams usually. Somehow Anders had assumed that if he were to experience a nightmare again, it would involve a templar. It would have been kinder.

The wind tugged at Anders as he stared transfixed at the circle, strands of hair falling into his eyes. The longer he looked, the louder his heart thumped in his chest, the muscle squeezing like a clenched fist as images flashed before his eyes. He tried to push them away, but Justice would not relent. When Bethany’s face entered his mind, Anders pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

“I was just going for a walk” he muttered, bracing himself against Justice’s reproach. “You know, I thought it was you who said that there’s beauty in this world and now you won’t even let me appreciate the moonshine. That’s more than just a little unfair.”

He raised his head again to the one moon shining bright tonight, hands trembling once more. Something in him stirred at the sight so that even Anders had to smile a little. The serenity of night. The gratitude of a mage holding up pieces of their broken phylactery. The relief when the fever of a patient finally broke against the odds. Finally storming the baroness’ estate. The amulet Hawke had given him that he kept under his shirt, just out of sight but he always knew it was there. Darkspawn blood gleaming on the Warden Commander’s blade. A cat purring on his lap. The granite fortifications of the keep. A ring, a ring made of lyrium, she’d given him a ring. The people of this plane couldn’t hear it, but he could. Like the fade woven into sound, a beautiful song that calls…

Ander’s stomach lurched unexpectedly and he managed to clasp his hand over his mouth before he threw up this time. With great effort and his insides still twisting he swallowed it back down, coughing and gagging as he stumbled away from the ledge.

A spike of irritation. It’s not that kind of song, Anders thought. He retraced his steps to an intersection, taking a path that lead left through a narrow alley as his restlessness returned with a vengeance. And it wasn’t his memory for sure. A rat squeaked in panic when he nearly stepped on it and he cursed as the critter hurried past him. He darted out of the alley, then down a flight of stairs hewn directly into the stone, starting to feel as though something was lurking right behind him.

Why was he angry? The Warden Commander had never wronged them. Because it wasn’t about her or about wrongs. Anders’ coat nearly caught on one of the iron spikes jutting out from the ground. The problem was that he had never wanted to go back there, but Hawke had taken him anyway. And what did he do? What did he hear?

He’s not Vengeance. Or wasn’t he? He’s not a demon. But we’re an abomination. Anders gritted his teeth. Fenris was right on that account at least. He had become an abomination long ago, even if the process wasn’t as sudden as the Chantry would think. Justice wouldn’t like to be reminded, but if it weren’t for Hawke and the others, they would have slain that poor girl they’d meant to protect. And underneath the Vimmark Mountains they’d turned his magic even against his friends. All because—

Anders’ throat was beginning to hurt even though he wasn’t even running. Feverishly he touched his neck to prove to himself once again that there were no teeth. A piece of himself had never left the Deep Roads. And what remained of Justice now? Some memories and a rage that seared him to the bone. Behind him he heard footsteps and the rattle of armor.

What if it was a templar?

Yes, what then?

Somehow the question didn’t come with enough fear. Or any. The truth was that right now Anders almost hoped a templar would come and find him. He didn’t need a staff anymore to defend himself, thanks to Justice magic would pour all too readily through the veil. One dead templar, one dead mage, Anders feared that at this point it didn’t even make a difference anymore. Anders peered over his shoulder. A guardswoman stopped in her tracks when she noticed him, narrowed her eyes, and then continued to walk her round without a second glance.  Likewise Anders picked up his pace again as well.

He wasn’t an abomination. Vengeance was angry now. He was spewing Chantry propaganda at himself because it was difficult to care about this world, beautiful and broken as it was. He couldn’t give up now just because it was difficult. There was too much here that had gone unpunished and not a day would pass without more suffering heaped onto the pile unless this whole damn system crumbled. He wasn’t an abomination.

Anders recognized the area they were in now, the streets broader to accommodate the crowds that usually mingled here. There were people shrouded in darkness in the corners of the market, but none of them looked his way. His nails were digging into his arm and he wondered if maybe he could...

It was a trap; every mage lived in a trap. Push a little to pull your head from the noose and the rope around your neck only tightens, every single time. Vengeance prodded, reminding him of Karl until Anders had to bite the inside of his cheek. Thousands of voices in Thedas were crying out for Justice! Somebody had to answer the call, even if it was a losing battle, even if he was going to try to hold back a tidal wave by himself! He wasn’t an abomination!

He was a liability! Anders took two stairs at a time, his blood boiling despite himself. Chill had turned to cold in the time he’d wasted running around, but he was pretty certain there was a passage back to Darktown nearby. If he was lucky he could get another hour or two of sleep before the daily grind picked back up.

Was he running away again?

He wasn’t running. Wasn’t he? The Warden Commander smiling at him, one of her rare smiles. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Anders or Justice remembered her reciting the motto to herself in a light-hearted tune before leaving for Amaranthine to defend it. This was his chance to remedy his cowardice. 

Anders didn’t have the energy left tonight to argue. He knew, yes, he knew there was no turning back and that he had chosen this. There was no escape from the Wardens, no escape from the Calling, from Justice, from himself, from the path he’d chosen, from the path the templars were forcing. But wasn’t he allowed to be angry to know this for a little while? Wasn’t he allowed to mourn that for all the freedom he fought for, Anders had forsaken his own? He hadn’t wanted to be an abomination.

Vengeance didn’t understand anymore. It would be the most beautiful thing of all to see the circles fall, no matter what it took. No more Ser Rylocks, no more Ser Alriks, no more Merediths.

Anders frantically looked around—

It’d be beautiful but it wasn’t all that Anders wanted. He’d wanted to be free, and now he’d never be. He had made a demon out of Justice, he couldn’t trust himself to make the right decisions. All of this had been a mistake. And even if he succeeded, one day the taint would come for him. 

Don’t think like that! It wasn’t his fault that the world had made him like this! This was worth every price! He knew that!

There had to be something to get him out of this, change of course—

He couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be relied on! He didn’t know what to do!

He would find a way, he had to! The circles had to go! They had never cared about the suffering they inflicted on mages, generation after generation! Whatever he could do it would be justified! They had sealed their fate centuries ago!

They had to go, but—

IT WOULD ONLY BE JUST!

Anders winced, the words booming in his skull with terrible finality. Something in his mind was burgeoning against his defenses, the veil around him straining and warping under its stress. Anders hissed, stemming against the tide of righteous fury and frustration that incensed Vengeance. The pressure abated not long after, but the damage was done. His heart and head were pounding, everything in him was reeling as it had when he’d woken, but suddenly he remembered: he knew where he was. Down this street past the merchant’s stand, one more set of stairs, then turn right. He was nauseous with resentment, though he couldn’t say if it was his own or who it was aimed at. He almost stumbled his way up. It was embarrassing that it felt as though he would be okay if he just made it there, maybe, but he’d lost all of his dignity already running through Kirkwall like a madman. Might as well act like a child and pretend the bad things can’t get him so long as the candle was burning. He rounded the corner, his heart skipping a beat. When he saw it, relief washed over him warmly and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Somehow he’d made it to the Hanged Man just in time.

Not giving himself the time for second thoughts he pushed past a drunken patron through the entrance door, praying that they weren’t closed yet. With a creak the door swung open for him, allowing him to step inside, the tavern reeking of desperation and hundreds of beers and ales spilled over the decades. Barely anyone was still here. The old man who was always muttering to himself was sitting at one of the tables by himself, apparently only half-awake, and a man was leaning on the counter where the tired bartender Corff was already eyeing Anders. No Isabela, no Varric. Shit.

“We’re about to close.”

Anders paused and dug through the pocket of his coat for coins. “Enough time left for me to get a drink, right?” He gave the man a strained smile and slid the silver he’d found across the counter, hating the way he couldn’t keep his hands still. The man caved.

With his freshly-purchased drink in hand and a view to the door Anders plopped down on one of the benches in the back of the room, sinking in on himself a little. He hadn’t planned to actually drink anything, but the longer he sat the more he became aware of how drained he really was. A dull ache spread through his whole body from exhaustion and his throat and mouth were parched while hair stuck uncomfortably to his forehead with sweat. His mind was suspiciously quiet when he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The sense of doom and the heat of anger however still formed a tight knot in his chest that kept him tense, so he knew it wasn’t over yet. Static buzzed in his ears.

When the entrance door creaked once more, Anders perked up.

Sheer dumb luck, Anders couldn’t believe it, it was sheer dumb luck that the person who entered really was Varric. When he spotted Anders he raised his hand in greeting and made a beeline to his table.

“Varric, we’re closing!” Corff yelled in dismay, but the dwarf only waved him off.

“You know, you should probably consider listening to him” Anders commented as Varric took a seat across from him against the bartender’s protests. “One day he’ll stab you in your sleep.”

“Oh he’s harmless” Varric said. He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but something in his expression changed when he looked at Anders. Then after some apparent deliberation with a bit too much sincerity: “…You look like shit.”

The corners of Anders’ lips twitched up reflexively, unsure yet if he wanted the concern. “And here I was thinking I only felt like it!”

Anders didn’t feel like joking, he hadn’t felt like it in weeks but there was something soothing about when they both broke out into nervous chuckles over his quip. A bit like a reassurance that oh right, so he could still talk like a person.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

Anders made it a point to yawn. “I just fell asleep in the clinic. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Varric didn’t inquire further even though Anders could see that he knew it was a bit more than that. There was a twinge of disappointment and unease. Usually Varric would fill moments like this with empty talk but for some reason he was holding off on it. So they sat suspended in unnatural silence until Anders had drunk the last drop from his bottle. He licked his lip, waiting for Varric to strike but nothing came. The only quiet sounds came from the bar and the fire crackling nearby, the static in Anders’ head grew louder. He was getting ready to abandon ship if this was how it was going to go, when it occurred to him what Varric was doing.

Anders studied his companion’s face, who was pretending to read a letter he’d pulled from one of his pockets. It would be terrifyingly easy to tell him about everything that was troubling him; really, a part of Anders yearned to let it all spill out of him in the hope that maybe once it was out this pressure in his head would be gone. That used to work. But there was too much to put to words by now, steeped in too much shame, and too much that Varric for all his kindness simply wouldn’t understand. Or shouldn’t have to hear. Once he said it, he would never be able to take any of it back. But, Anders didn’t want to leave. He desperately didn’t want to leave and be alone with himself. And there was something that he knew would be safest with Varric. It would be a compromise.  

“I should come back in the evening when the others are here” Anders ventured.

Varric didn’t even look up. “Oh come on. You don’t come by the Hanged Man much anymore, would be a shame if you left so soon. You must’ve missed the filth.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Don’t be so serious, of course you have! It goes great with your look right now. So, are you staying?”

Corff was glowering at them now. “Sure.”

Varric stuffed the letter back to where it came from with less care than one would a handkerchief and got up. Anders hesitated one last moment before he followed suit, swallowing his reluctance as he took the familiar path up to Varric’s room. In all the years he’d known Varric, somehow the room had stayed mostly the same. Much of that was probably to blame on the tavern itself, but it still struck Anders now that it had been some time since he’d last been in there. The biggest difference he could make out was that there were now chairs to accommodate a human or an elf; there were little traces that friends had left. It was weirdly cute.   

Anders sank on the chair closest to Varric’s favorite little throne, stretching out his legs. For a room at the Hanged Man it was really quite nice, even if the lack of windows was depressing. He felt a bit out of place.

Varric took his seat and wrung his hands. “So what are you in the mood for? Need an editor for your manifesto, or do you want to brainstorm—“

“No” Anders cut him off sharply. “Not tonight.”

“Somebody’s touchy” Varric scoffed. “But alright. What is it then?”

Anders tried to collect his thoughts, frustrated with himself that he was so out of practice that he couldn’t be like Varric and talk about things without mentioning them. His gaze lingered on the vase with wilted flowers Varric kept on his desk next to an unopened bottle of a Tevinter vintage. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ve gone into the Deep Roads twice now since leaving the Grey Wardens.”

“Oh? You’re not getting nostalgic now, are you? I know I said you should reconsider your career but…”     

“No. No, not at all. I absolutely despise the Deep Roads. I’m still angry at Hawke for asking me to come along at all. I thought he knew better than that” Anders admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. Acrid fumes, the unnerving feeling of another creature in his blood. “But it’s hard to say no to him, so guess I’m the idiot.”

At that Varric’s expression briefly turned serious again. “It’s just our luck that whenever the Deep Roads are involved, we either get screwed over or somebody’s got it out for Hawke. But I could also live without ever having to go down there again.”

“That isn’t the point. But it’s actually a bit funny. Hawke reminds me at times of the Warden Commander.”

“How so?”

“Charismatic bastards that attract a special kind of trouble and surround themselves with the worst kinds of people” Anders deadpanned, relieved when Varric relaxed again.

“We’re just a bit rough around the edges” Varric replied. “But go on, I’m interested in hearing this.”

“How much have I told you before?”

“Aside from the story of how you were recruited and how mad the templar was that the Hero of Ferelden and the King were both telling her off? A story here and there. If I didn’t already know the Order is fishy, I’d have guessed as much from how you talk about them.”

Anders clicked his tongue. “Well then. Care to hear about my dark past?”

“Sure” Varric said with a wink. “It’ll come in handy if I ever need inspiration for unrealistic Grey Warden characters.”

Anders grinned. “So have you heard this one before: the Hero of Ferelden, a drunk dwarf, an apostate and his cat, a member of the legion of the dead, the son of the disgraced Howe family, a slightly homicidal Dalish mage and a rotting corpse walk into the Deep Roads…”

“A corpse?!”

“And yet somehow the dwarf smelled worst” Anders joked. “Oghren was a complete pig. At first I didn’t really understand why we were bothering with him, but apparently he’d traveled with the Warden Commander during the Blight. Turned out he really had a hand for cutting down darkspawn. So much so that he left his wife and unborn child to go kill more of them. …Thinking about it, I’m sure he would have loved the Hanged Man. Filthy, barely any sunlight during the day, cheap alcohol…”

“Ouch, that was unnecessary” Varric grumbled. “But I’ve heard that name before. Maybe he should’ve just stayed in Orzammar, Maker knows they’re always trying to get their hands on lunatics like that. A corpse though—”

“The strange thing is that they were all like this” Anders insisted. “And if they weren’t from the start, they would be by the end of it. Nathaniel made the classic mistake of trying to assassinate the Warden Commander in revenge for daddy dearest and got recruited as thanks. He was a terrible grump about it too and said he'd rather be hanged. But give it a little time and before you knew it he was fully indoctrinated. So maybe what Orzammar really needs is better recruiters.”

“I’ll let them know somehow” Varric snorted and rose from his seat. Anders watched him grab a bottle and pour its content into a glass. He was beginning to feel as though a string that was cutting into his flesh was threatening to loosen, only a little bit. Varric placed the glass in front of him and settled back into his own chair, keeping an expectant eye on him. “Go on.”

Anders nodded to Varric in silent thanks and eagerly drank the watered down ale. “She’d recruited really anyone who seemed half-way capable and was unlucky enough to cross our path. So that’s how we ended up with Velanna and Sigrun. I think Velanna only listened to us because the Warden Commander was Dalish herself. When we found her she was having a grand time burning down trade caravans because she was convinced her sister had been abducted by humans, when it was really darkspawn. Sigrun got recruited after we fought our way through a thaig together. She was an awfully cheerful lady for someone who was supposed to be dead. Pick-pocketed me at least six times for sport though.”

“And it kept working?”

“She was really good.”

“I’m sure she was. And…?”

“And then there was Ser Pounce-a-lot, the best kitten anyone could ask for. There isn’t much to say about the corpse, Varric.”

Varric put his hands up defensively. “Excuse me, but you can’t drop that in there and expect me to not be curious!”

“That was Justice’s old host” Anders explained, overcome with a shiver that wasn’t his own.  “He doesn’t want me to talk about it. Just know that he was there.”

“Oh.”

Anders’ vision zeroed in momentarily on the wine bottle. Another bottle just like this always stood in Hawke’s study where he needed it most. “But I think that gives you a pretty good idea of what we were like.”

Varric hummed and scratched his chin. “Should I be worried that you’re comparing us to that little cult you’re describing?”

“In our defense, we were a pretty fun cult sometimes.”

Anders set his glass down softly before he crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling in thought. He’d always kept to the stories that didn’t require context or detail beyond the way the hurlock had tripped over his staff and off a cliff. He hadn’t thought before about how to convey personalities or meaning while leaving the important things unspoken. The Warden Commander wiping blood from her cheek, bent over the dead body of the ogre she’d killed. Hawke breathing hard, checking to see if he had killed the Arishok for good.    

“Think about it: If it weren’t for Hawke, none of us would given the other a second glance” Anders began. “That’s what it was like with the Warden Commander as well. They’re the kind of people that draw others to them and make you want to stick around just to see what they get up to next.”

“That… puts it well actually.”

“How many times has Hawke asked you to join him to do something that is obviously a bad idea? And you went along anyway? That happens practically every other week.”

“Like all the times he decided he’d pick a fight with every gang in Hightown? Or maybe when he took us to the Wounded Coast and got involved with hunting down an extremely dangerous criminal? Everything involving the Qunari? My personal favorite is the time he went to kill some dragons with us in the Bone Pit.”

“Exactly—“ Anders had to swallow, “but you always expect things to go well just because he seems so convinced that it will.”

“And it usually does.”

“It does. Every time we go into a fight I can’t help but trust him.”

He stopped himself there. Why had he agreed to come with to the Deep Roads? Because so long as Hawke was there, it was as though there was a lifeline. The inevitability of this world seemed to hold less power over him and it was eating Anders up with envy and admiration. He had no choice but to want to stay near.  Varric waited patiently. Perhaps he understood what Anders couldn’t think.

Eventually he asked: “So what did the Hero of Ferelden do that gained your trust?”

“Oh, I saw her do a vertical leap and ram a sword straight through an ogre’s skull.”

“…You’re shitting me.”

Anders shifted for comfort, glad to direct the conversation into a different direction. “I’m serious. And she made it look easy, too. It was equal parts disgusting and impressive.”

“What did that look like, exactly?” Varric asked, sounding casual but Anders recognized that curious glint in his eyes.

Anders felt another grin pulling at his mouth. “We were harmlessly traipsing around the Wending Woods killing darkspawn, when suddenly that big stupid beast charged at us. All the Warden Commander did was to jump straight up and angle her sword right and the ogre practically impaled itself. She braces herself against the ogre that is still barreling forward, yanks her blade out and blood explodes everywhere. We’re all hit by the spray while she manages a perfect landing as the ogre collapses behind her.”

“Do you have more details by any chance?”

“She had her sword enchanted with a rune that imbued it with electricity, so it smelled of smoked darkspawn in the whole clearing. Is that graphic enough? If not, I can go on all day. Grey Wardens kill a lot of darkspawn.”

Apparently delighted by what he was hearing Varric sat straighter, his hand hovering near a quill but not grabbing it. Anders took it as an invitation anyway, blowing the spider webs off memories he’d kept stowed away. He started off with the easy things, stories like the ones with the ogre. Violence was mindlessly entertaining after all. Gesticulating dramatically he told of encounters with sylvans, of blighted wolves, of the ghosts of dwarves conjured by stone hacking at impressions of darkspawn, reenacting their deaths until the end of time. He regaled Varric with all the darkspawn heads that had exploded from shield bashes, arrows and magic blasts.    Whatever bound him was unraveling. His heart beat fast in excitement whenever Varric interjected and needled him, when they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Nathaniel once shot a genlock with its own arrow. One hurlock was so confused to see its fellow darkspawn beheaded in one swing of Oghren’s axe that it suffered the same fate. Velanna’s fireballs had singed Ander’s robes on more than one occasion. Soon Varric began to share his own tales, giving Anders the space to remember the little things quietly by himself. Taking a week to learn that the Warden Commander’s name was Serket because nobody ever used it. Sigrun proudly showing off the brass telescope she’d been given. How he smuggled Ser Pounce-a-lot along on missions and had to chase after the cat through half of Amaranthine.  He was feeling more like a person, more like himself than he had in months.

Vengeance’s ache continued to sit with him through it all but it was different now. What had split his head in half hours ago with every heart beat was just the occasional throb behind his eye. The separation between then and now may only be paper-thin but it was there. No, so maybe he wouldn’t tell Varric of the Architect with his intelligent darkspawn and that Hawke and Serket thus had more in common than immunizing against common sense. He wouldn’t talk about the children or how he was being eaten alive by his choices. But with Varric he didn’t have to for the pressure to ease.

By the end of it Anders was curled up in his chair, his coat hung over the backrest for cushoning. The conversation had trickled away somewhere along the way. The stasis wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tinged with the melancholy of knowing that morning had come. There was a sliver of light coming from under the door. Varric had gotten up and laid down out of sight from him some time ago. Anders scratched his neck in anticipation, static back in his head as he bated his breath. This silence wasn’t empty yet, the way it was when people decide to go to sleep. This was the twilight hour in between. The backrest dug into his cheek.

“Why did you leave the Wardens then?”

And exhaled. “That’s complicated.”

“So?”

“I was a different person back then.”

“Well yeah, people change. That’s what being a person is like.”

Feeling the fade touch his mind when he agreed to take Justice into him, believing with all his being that this would be the key. A queasy mixture of joy and bitterness accompanied the memory as he and Justice couldn’t agree. The water had only continued to rise around him. What did he have to show for the person he was now?

He could hear Varric turn over. “Listen, Blondie. So maybe you weren’t a good Grey Warden. But you’ve picked another battle that’s about as insane and that unfortunately seems to be working for you.”

Anders stared into the darkness of the room wordlessly, blinking as though stunned. He waited until he was certain that Varric was asleep, listening close for his breathing. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Of course he’d say that. If he were to mention it to Varric later anyway he’d brush it off and find a way to paint it as the most incidental thing in the world. Anders curled in more on himself even though would become painful soon, finally closing his eyes. A deep calm crept into the space the tension had left behind.

Varric’s friendship was so often understated like that. It made it so easy to want to confide in him, simply because he didn’t ask too much. Nothing had to be serious. He cared in a way that Anders hadn’t had enough mind to appreciate lately. Maybe you couldn’t trust him to keep all your secrets, but you could always trust him to remind you that you were only a person. Varric was a good friend. He’d have to find something to give to Varric, something that would leave a trace of him, something to express… He’d find something… something…

Hours after Anders had left, Varric noticed a single tawny feather on the ground under one of his chairs. He picked it up, held it between his fingers briefly before he placed it gently among his other keepsakes. 

[noire-pandora]

The Night Shift.

Another prompt from this prompt list. Also on my AO3

Soldiers Adrian and Madris meet with the Inquisitor Lavellan at night.

Words:  2682

Warnings: None.Adrian shivered in the chill of the night as he waited in the courtyard for his instructor to appear. Ferelden might be his birthplace, but the cold of Skyhold shocked him. He'd felt the cruel bite of the winters, but never this far and never this deep, but he chose to be here, in the heart of winter. For the first time, he decided what to do with his life, and it looked like the right choice. He had a roof under his head, three hot meals a day and a considerable payment. The payment amazed him. At first, he thought the rumours of the Inquisitor's generosity were just rumours. He never expected it when he signed the papers to join the Inquisition. And to top it all, his superiors seemed friendly enough, and no one yelled at him until now.   

"Here you are, soldier," a voice boomed behind him, and he almost yelped. He turned around and saw a tall, well-built elf, smiling at him with a spotless armour. Blue eyes shined in the dark, studying him, and Adrian straightened his back, eager to impress the man. 

"My name is Madris, and I am here to instruct you on how to be a proper soldier for the Inquisition," he said, holding out his hand to shake Adrian's. As they shook hands, Adrian felt the calluses built upon the man's skin over the years of hard work. Instantly, he understood why the Inquisitor trusted the elf with the new soldiers. 

"I am Adrian," he answered. "Thank you for letting me work here. I am grateful." 

"I'm not the one to thank, kid. The Inquisitor is the one who accepts the new soldiers. She read your papers and found you fit for the army. I'm here to teach you. Let's take a walk around, and I'll show you the main buildings. You might already know some of them." 

They strolled around Skyhold, and Madris told Adrian everything to know about every location and who frequented them. Adrian struggled to remember all the facts.  He had no idea who Iron Bull and Leliana are. At least, not yet.

 "Things are calmer for the night watch," Madris continued, as they made their way to the battlements. People sleep, and guests don't come at night. That being said, it doesn't mean the nights are boring. Sometimes, the Inquisitor and her party arrive late at night after a mission. You have to pay attention to that and call the healers, in case the party needs one."

The Inquisitor! Adrian heard many rumours about her and her adventures. He wondered if one day he'd get the chance to see her from afar. 

"Your job is to pay attention. After the attack on Haven, the Inquisitor and the Commander have been adamant about this. They need watchful eyes everywhere, eyes that can see and assess any danger in a few seconds. Do you think you can do that, kid?"

"Yes, ser!"

Adrian's confidence grew as he heard those words. He had worked as a fisherman since the age of fourteen. He spent hours and hours staring at the water, his mind in total concentration. He doubted, looking over a yard could be worse than fishing.

"If you see anything suspicious, no matter how small it may look, you have to report it to your shift supervisor even if you might be wrong. Better to apologize than die by the hand of the enemy. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!"

Madris abruptly stopped and looked again at Adrian. "You know, kid, you can say something else, I'm not going to eat you."

"I-I'm sorry, ser," Adrian stuttered. "I'm still getting the hang of things."

"It's all right. I don't blame you. Being a part of the Inquisition's army might be a bit overwhelming, but things aren't that scary. Relax, take a deep breath in. No one is going to judge or hurt you. You aren't working for a mad noble who might slap you at any moment. The Inquisitor threatened us not to use any punishment methods with our recruits. A pity, if you ask me, a good beating always helped. But then again, what she doesn't know……"

Adrian's eyes widened with fear, and Madris laughed. "You should have seen your face, kid, hilarious. I'd never do that. I don't want to infuriate the Herald. She can be scary when she gets mad. As long as you do your work diligently, no one will bother you." 

Adrian gave an awkward smile and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. He almost believed the elf, and he felt like a fool for falling for it. But his worries faded away as he saw the view from the battlements. Everywhere he looked, snow blanketed the magnificent mountains. The light shining from the stars and the moon covered the surroundings into a gentle, mysterious light, and he gasped, his soul moved by the infinity of the mountains which seemed to be touching the sky. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Madris whispered. "I've been here for six months, but I'll never get tired of the view."

They stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the starry night and the mountains. Adrian slowly turned around to take in every corner of nature, afraid he might miss a part of its beauty. Suddenly, a creaking broke the silence, and a faint light caught his attention. A door opened in the courtyard and he leaned on the battlements railing to take a better look at the mysterious night guest: a person crossed the yard, wandering with unhurried steps and stopped from time to time.

"Who's that?" he inquired.

"That's the Inquisitor," Madris answered, following him to glance at the person below them. 

"The Inquisitor? At this late hour? Why?" 

"I don't know," Madris shrugged. "She does that from time to time. Popping around at odd times, talking aloud and practising speeches. Sometimes she sits on a rock and draws."

Adrian hummed as he continued to watch the Inquisitor. He could see her perfectly as the full moon shone its light above Skyhold. With a pouch on her shoulder, she looked around, as if searching for something. When her eyes reached their location, she smiled and waved at them. Adrian crouched down behind the stone wall, terrified by the sudden attention.

"It's polite to answer back when someone is waving at you, kid. Especially the Inquisitor," Madris said, his smile never wavering. 

In the few seconds it took Adrian to get back on his feet, the Inquisitor disappeared. He looked around, but he could not spot her. He sighed. He made a fool of himself in front of his instructor and the Inquisitor. 

Madris patted him on the back and grinned. "It's all right, kid. She won't mind it. She's a kind lady."

"How's she like?" Adrian whispered, disappointment in his voice. 

"Hmmm, how's she like?" Madris repeated, a frown knitting his eyebrows. He rubbed his chin, clearly deep in thought. "I don't even know how to begin. She's something else. You have to meet her to understand her but--" he stopped, his hand leaving his face, and he turned to look at someone behind Adrian. His posture hardened from a relaxed stance to a soldier like stance: back straight, hands behind his back, chin up, chest out, shoulders back. 

Adrian turned to see the Inquisitor approaching them, a smile on her lips, the satchel hitting her hip as she stepped. He panicked, unsure if he should mimic his instructor. Before he could react, the Inquisitor stopped next to them. Her smile turned into a smirk. 

"Really, Madris? Still doing that after six months? I told you already; you don't have to do...that," she said, waving a hand at him. "Just relax, I'm not going to order you around." 

Madris relaxed, his shoulders dropped, and he rubbed the back of his neck, a small blush staining his cheeks. "Sorry, old habits die hard. My old commander kicked me in the shins every time I forgot to adopt the correct position." 

Elluin rolled her eyes and sighed. "Well, I'm not a power-thirsty old man. Or you're still unsure of that?" 

Madris smirked at her remark. "I'm a bit unsure about the old man part, Inquisitor." 

Adrian's eyes widened at his comment, fearing for the well being of the man, but the Inquisitor just laughed, lightly slapping the elf's shoulder. He blinked a few times, unsure if he should say something.  

"And who might you be?" the Inquisitor asked Adrian. "New soldier?"

Before Adrian could answer, Madris jumped in, his hand grabbing his shoulders and pushing him in front of the Inquisitor. "Yes, this is Adrian. Smart lad, you're going to like him. Adrian, say hello to your boss." 

"N-nice to meet you," he stammered, his mind still working to catch up with the events.  

"You joined three days ago, right?" Elluin asked Adrian.

"Yes, ser."

"Ah, I wish I've been there to greet you, but the meeting with the nobles dragged on, and I couldn't leave. I hope Cullen -the Commander- explained everything to you." 

"Yes, sir." 

Elluin's eyebrows rose. "I know my title sounds daunting, but I'm not that different from you and Madris here. I'm not going to yell at you and order you around." She turned to face Madris. "I can't believe I have to say this to every recruit. I should wear a placard on my back with  `I won't bite you, I promise` written of it." 

A snort escaped Adrian's lips, and he saw the Inquisitor's smile growing wider at his reaction. Still, being in the company of the Inquisitor left him speechless. 

"How old are you, Adrian?" Elluin spoke again, facing him again. "You look quite young." 

"I'm twenty years old, ser." 

"Twenty?" she exclaimed. "Do your parents know you are here, working for us?" 

"No, sir" he whispered.

"I understand running away from home to join a military organization and save the world might sound exciting, but you should let them know. I am sure they are terrified and miss you,", she said in a harsh, scolding tone.

"They are dead, ser." 

A brief pause followed before Elluin spoke again, the harshness completely disappearing from her voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. What happened?"

"It's all right, ser, no harm done. They died ten years ago, in the Blight. The Darkspawns attacked us. My father died, fighting the monsters, and my mother died slowly, infected by their bad blood. I escaped with grandma. She passed a month ago, of old age. I am all alone and decided to join you, make a fair coin, maybe help around a bit." 

Adrian had no idea why he poured his heart out to a stranger, but something in the Inquisitor's eyes made him feel safe enough to tell her everything. He waited as the woman in front of him examined him, her forest green like eyes scanned him as if to read his soul. His eyes avoided her stare, his fingers playing with the material of his sleeve. 

"I lost someone in the Bligh too," she finally said. "My adoptive father. He taught me everything there is to know about the world. The Darkspawns got to him."

"I am sorry, ser." He finally dared to look in her eyes. There he saw sorrow, the same pain he saw in his eyes when his reflection in the mirror stared back at him. "It never gets easier, "he found himself speaking. "They say it gets easier as time passes, that the pain fades, but it never does. Isn't, ser?"

The Inquisitors nodded. "It never does."

Adrian awkwardly smiled at her, and she answered back with a deep sigh. Silence shrouded them as the Inquisitor stared at the sky, and he wondered what her Elven eyes saw there. 

"Can I sketch you?" she abruptly asked, looking back at him. 

"S-sketch me?" he asked, baffled by the sudden change in subject.

"Yes! I went out tonight to sketch, but I didn't find anything interesting. You don't have to say yes if you don't want to. I won't mind it at all." 

"No one ever asked to sketch me until now. Sure, Inquisitor." 

"Thanks!"

Adrian watched her as she rummaged in her satchel, struggling to reach for something in there. A few items rattled loudly, and he wondered what she hid in there. With an "aha" she took out a sketchbook and a few pieces of charcoal. She sat on the cold ground, her legs tucked under her, and opened the small sketchbook. He watched her alarmed, once again, not knowing what he should do. 

His confusion must have been evident, for the Inquisitor nodded and gestured towards him. "You don't have to do anything special. I'll sketch you quickly; it won't take long."

Andrian nodded and awkwardly waited, uncertain what to do with himself or with his hands. He decided to put them behind his back. He looked around, careful not to stare at the Inquisitor, but the sound of the charcoal rubbing on the page grabbed his attention. Her nimble fingers moved with an elegance and a speed he never saw until now. He watched, fascinated how his face, albeit upside down, took form: his oval face first, his small neck, then eyes, nose, lips and his hair. It took her only five minutes to capture his features on paper. 

"I'm done for now. This is just the basic stuff I can do fast, don't want to keep you. But I can work on it today, use a bit of colour too. And I can make two of them, one for you too if you want," she explained, as she removed a strand of hair from her eyes, her fingers leaving a trace of charcoal on her forehead and Adrian had to suppress a giggle. 

"Thank you, Inquisitor. I'd like a copy of it." 

"Hey, that's not fair!" Madris spoke again. Adrian almost jumped; his sudden intervention startling him. He almost forgot about the instructor. 

"You never did my portrait! Don't I deserve one?" 

Elluin chuckled, and she flipped the page of her sketchbook. "You never asked for one. Stay put; I'll make one for you right now."

Adrian watched again, fascinated by how a few lines and circles can transform into the face of a man. He never had the chance to watch an artist at work until now, and he found the process mesmerizing. He wondered if he could learn how to do that.

"Here," the Inquisitor said after another five minutes. 

Madrid got closer to her to look at the sketch, and he smirked. "Oh, you made me handsome." 

"I only draw what I see." 

Madris snorted, and he held out his hand to help her get up. Elluin put her sketchbook back in her bag before reaching for his hand. Her back popped a few times, but she ignored it. 

"Thanks for letting me sketch you, both of you. I'll come back tomorrow night and give you the complete drawing. I should go now before I get scolded for not sleeping. Again. See you tomorrow." 

She waved again and left in a hurry, her hair fluttering in the wind.  Adrian wondered who dared to scold the Inquisitor. 

"Well, she's something, huh?" Madris asked Adrian. "Meeting her is always a new experience. Told you she isn't that scary."

"She's strange," Adrian replied before thinking. "I mean, not in a bad way! Just….I never expected that from the Inquisitor. I've heard tales of her fighting a dragon and a god." 

"Those tales are true, kid. I saw that with my own two eyes. But just because someone can fight a dragon, it doesn't mean they have to be assholes."

"I suppose so." 

"So, are you going to come back tomorrow night, recruit Adrian?" Madris asked him, examining him thoughtfully. 

Adrian nodded and smiled nervously at him. "Yes, ser. I will."

Finally, he found a purpose in life, a good cause to fight for: a new home and a leader who deserves respect.

[braincoins]

WIP Wednesday

There’s a NSFW WIP Wednesday up on Ye Olde Blog o’ Smut, but to go back to Dragon Age: Schism and my warden for a moment, we have this totally SFW WIP :D Oh, sure, there’s a Not-So-Subtle Implication at the end there, but that’s the end of scene; we won’t be... following along, as it were. And the rest of this is totally A-OK!

Cut for the sake of your dash. You’re welcome.

           The party was in full swing, elves and humans and the few dwarves chatting and laughing, some of them even dancing as people brought out instruments and began to play. And Kivral just sat draped on her chair, back to one armrest and legs kicked over the other, and watched it happen around her.

           She couldn’t pin down how she was feeling. Her emotions were like startled birds just taking wing, and even though most of them were joyful ones, she was still a-flutter.

           Happiness to see her old clan again.

           Relief that there was nothing wrong.

           An aravel of her own, to pass down to Warden-Commanders in the future.

           The acknowledgement of that, of the Grey Wardens as her clan now.

           The sudden realization that they could and perhaps should be traveling Ferelden. Darkspawn were unlikely to come to them, after all. At least, not anymore.

           The weight of the upcoming Arlathven, for that matter. She’d told Keeper Marethari that she and Velanna would be delighted to attend as representatives of the Wardens, to take the opportunity to thank the other clans for the fighters they’d sent to defeat the Blight, and to remember those who had fallen in that service.

           But she’d never been someone at an Arlathven before. The last time, she’d barely been a whelp of a girl, still learning the ways of bow, arrow, and forest. She chuckled to herself at the memory of how sick she’d made herself on honey-cakes.

           “Enjoying yourself, I see?” Alistair draped an arm over the back of her chair and looked out at the party.

           “I am,” she agreed.

           “Would it be pressing it to ask for a dance?”

           “Pressing it? Why would it be?”

           He cleared his throat. “Well, I noticed you didn’t really… um…”

           Ah, yes, one of those less-joyful emotions fluttering within her: the fact of who and what Alistair was to her, which she had continued to hide. It was cruel to him, but she wasn’t sure standing up and announcing it now would be much better.

           Instead, she kicked her legs up and off as she got to her feet. “Come with me, ma vhenan,” she said, feeling the impulse seize her.

           He followed her, of course: out of the room, down the stairs, away and away until the noise and the song dimmed. She went straight to where the halla were penned. “I want to introduce you.”

           He barked a laugh. “If the halla like me, does that mean your old clan will, too?”

           “It bodes better for it,” she agreed, “but I want them to get used to you. To humans in general, but especially to you.”

           She introduced him to Falon, told Alistair all about the halla (well, as much as Maren had relayed to her), and taught him how to make proper introductions. “They’re so much more than mere horses,” she reminded him. “You have to treat him like a… well, like a halla-shaped person.”

           It was odd for her human lover, she could tell, but for all he protested that he “wasn’t a dog person,” she’d seen how good he was with Sekh. Some of that could be put down to the mabari’s intelligence, but halla were fairly smart as well. So she wasn’t surprised at all that a halla so friendly as to be named ‘Friend’ would get on well with Alistair. They didn’t do much more than say hello to Enasal, but it was enough for now.

           “Joy in triumph over loss, hm?” he asked as she headed for the aravel.

           She nodded. “Appropriate.”

           “I agree. Uh, where are we…?” He broke off the question when its answer became apparent: she hopped in and pulled the leather doorflap back for him. He laughed. “You’re really happy about this aravel, aren’t you?”

           “YES! It’s… I don’t even know what to compare it to for you. Maybe like getting an arling, or at least a bannorn.”

           He whistled in surprise as he stepped in. “That would be something.”

           “But without the politics,” she added on. “There is a responsibility to an aravel,” as she lit a couple of lanterns, “but it isn’t about leadership.”

           “But the leaders have them.”

           “So do some others.” She moved to seat the wooden planks into place on this side of the door, the better to keep someone from coming in after them. “They take ages to make, you see. And that’s the responsibility.” She looked around at the gleam of candlelight on polished wood. “To take care of it, to pass it down to the future.” She sat on a padded bench and began work on unbuckling her boots.

           “An aravel is a gift from the clan, and they usually stay within the clan, while we’re at it. This one was made specially for me, for the Wardens, and made in a special way that is both stronger and lighter than normal aravels. It took them the better part of two years to make this, and they just… they just gave it away. There are probably clan members who are envious that I have such a privilege as this.”

           He sat next to her. “But no one will try to take it from you, right?”

           “No one. It is the wish of the elders of the clan that I have it, and that alone is… it overwhelms me, Alistair. Just that thought alone, let alone that they went through with this and gave it to me, knowing and intending that it stay with the Wardens… This is unprecedented.”

           “So is defeating a Blight so quickly. What are you doing?” he asked at long last.

           Freed of her boots, she rose, turned to him, and looped her arms behind his neck as she straddled his lap. She saw a brief flare of color in his cheeks in the dim light, but his hands went to her waist instinctively.

           “We have an aravel, ma vhenan. I was hoping we could make use of it.” She knew her grin would help make her intention clear.

           “Now?” he asked in surprise.

           “Right now,” she purred, leaning in to kiss him.

           And if he had any further protests, it was hard to tell because he was sliding his arms around her more fully, drawing her in tight against his broad chest.

           In the distance, the rest of the keep continued to celebrate.

[erandir]

Fic: The Morning After Saving the World

Hey look what I found in the bowels of my writing folder.

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins Pairing: Male Tabris/Zevran Rating: T Summary: Critically injured in the fight against the Archdemon, Rowan Tabris at last wakes up to face the world he’s saved.

Just some dumb happy ending fluff.

-----

Rowan woke up to pain. An all over encompassing ache that suffused his entire body. There was not a single inch of him that was not sore. But he was also warm, and comfortable, and that was a striking difference from the last thing he could remember.

The last thing he could remember was staring down the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon. Everything after that was like a dream, slipping away when he tried to grasp it.

Groaning at the effort it took, Rowan tried to pry his eyes open to find out where he was. Only to be blinded almost immediately. But that was a good sign, right? Sunlight. Darkspawn hated sunlight.

When his eyes managed to adjust to the light, he took in his surroundings. He was lying in a bed, a solid four poster in the middle of a large room with high stone walls and narrow windows that nevertheless let in plenty of afternoon sun. Beside the bed sat an armchair, and in that chair, chin down and fast asleep, was a familiar figure. Zevran had slumped down in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him and arms crossed over his chest.

A large furry head appeared over the edge of the bed. Griffin, sitting up from the floor, took one look at his master’s face and then his tail began wagging so hard that his whole body shook with the effort. A loud happy bark startled Zevran awake so suddenly he very nearly fell out of his chair, but he steadied himself with a hand on each armrest and blinked slowly as he came fully awake. His gaze settled first on the dog, who had his front paws up on the mattress and was now snuffling and licking at Rowan’s face. 

With arms that protested every movement, Rowan reached up to pat the god on the head and attempt to calm his excitement somewhat. “Hello to you, too,” he said, voice coming out in a rasp. 

“You’re awake.” Zevran’s familiar accept pulled Rowan’s attention away from the dog licking his face. Then he was pulling the dog away, “Give him a moment to breathe, will you.”

Griffin whined, but dropped his paws back to the floor, instead resting his chin on the edge of the mattress to look up at both of them with big, sad eyes. Rowan gave him an affectionate pat on the head. “I take it we won?” the Warden croaked.

“We did indeed,” Zevran confirmed. He smiled, though he looked haggard. Tired. Like someone who’d been sleeping in a chair for a few days. “And you’re the hero of the hour, of course. How are you feeling?”

“Hurts,” Rowan managed. 

Zevran winced sympathetically. “Well next time you kill an archdemon maybe you won’t let it fall on you at the end.” Is that what happened? Rowan couldn’t remember, and that was rather disappointing. He wanted to remember doing something that impressive. “Can you sit up?” Zevran asked, drawing him out of his thoughts, “I’ll get you some water.”

“Think so,” Rowan muttered. He was sore, like a healing bruise or an overworked muscle, but he didn’t think he was seriously injured. He struggled up onto his elbows, and as he pulled himself fully upright he felt the first indication of a serious wound. The skin and muscle of his left side and back protested far more than the rest of him, pulling painfully. As the blankets fell away, he realized his chest was wrapped in bandages. He had a sudden flash of memory, a massive taloned foot coming toward him, faster than he could dodge, and screaming pain before the star metal sword sunk deep into blighted flesh. 

“Here you are,” Zevran returned to the bedside with a mug of water that Rowan took gratefully. He sat down on the edge of the bed, displacing Griffin who instead hopped up onto the mattress to curl at Rowan’s feet. 

As soon as the water touched Rowan’s tongue he was gulping it down greedily, realizing how parched he had been. “How long have I been out?” he asked when he finished drinking. Already his voice felt and sounded better.

“Two days only,” Zevran said. “Not so long in the grand scheme of things.”

Rowan nodded thoughtfully as he placed the now-empty mug down on the bedside table. It really wasn’t very long, and judging by the way his body ached he’d been quite badly injured. “And how long do I have to wait for you to kiss me?” he asked.

Zevran laughed good-naturedly, then he leaned forward and captured Rowan’s lips in a kiss. It was unusually chaste for him, gentle and almost sweet. 

“I’m not going to break at a touch, you know,” Rowan teased lightly when they parted. 

Zevran laughed again, sheepish this time. “Ah, but you did not see what you looked like before our dear Wynne patched you up,” he said.

Rowan followed his gaze down to the bandages and traced a hand tentatively over them as though he might be able to tell what was underneath by touch. Two days out even with Wynne’s magic to aid his healing. “How bad was it?”

“Quite bad,” Zevran said, and though he tried to keep his tone light, there was something there. That same tightness in his voice any time their conversations grew a little too emotional. The fight against a lifetime of conditioning. “Turned your armor to ribbons. We feared you might not make it.”

Wouldn’t that be ironic. After swallowing all his pride and revulsion for Morrigan’s ritual, that he might die fighting the Archdemon anyway. But he still hadn’t told Zevran about that, maybe he never would. “My dragon scale armor?” he asked instead of confronting his own mortality for the second time in as many weeks. “That was practically new.”

“Yes,” Zevran replied, clearly just as happy to have the serious conversation skipped over. “And you looked marvelous in it, it’s a very tragic loss.”

Rowan sighed and let himself sink back into the pillows. He had the feeling he’d be confronted with significantly more tragic losses in the near future. He hoped his family was alright, and then felt a surge of guilt at that thought. There would be dozens, hundreds, of people hoping the same thing, or perhaps already mourning the lost. 

"I should perhaps go find Wynne now that you are awake," Zevran said. He found Rowan's hand and gave it a quick squeeze before rising to his feet. "I suspect your fellow Warden will want to speak with you as well."

"They can wait," Rowan said, catching Zevran's hand before he could move too far away and halting his progress. "How are you?"

Zevran paused, looking down at him, and his expression softened in a rare show of vulnerability. "Better now," he replied. "You gave us quite the fright."

"I'm sorry," Rowan said.

"Think nothing of it," Zevran tried to offer him that trademark flippant smile, but it was too soft. "You are alive and well now, no? That is what matters."

That was probably true. Rowan gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go, and watching Zevran leave the room.  

At his feet, Griffin whined. "Oh, come here you big baby," Rowan sighed, patting the mattress at his side. Immediately, the Mabari was up and padding awkwardly up to lay beside him and lick his face once more. Rowan scratched behind his ears and submitted himself to slobbery torment until the dog seemed satisfied. "You're a good boy," he said, pressing his own kiss to the top of the dog's head, "Did you kill lots of darkspawn?" Griffin wuffed an affirmation and was rewarded by more ear scratching. "And you guarded me while I was sleeping?" Another affirmative wuff. "Thank you, Griffin," Rowan repeated, and wrapped his arms around the dog's bulky shoulders. "And thanks for looking out for Zevran, too," he added. Griffin barked and wagged his stubby tail so hard that for a moment the whole bed rocked from the force of it.

Wynne arrived not much later. She also looked haggard and tired, even moreso than usual. Everyone in the city probably looked that way. "It's good to see you finally awake," she commented as she entered the room. "I sent your bodyguard," she paused with a glance at Griffin, who was lying with his head across Rowan's legs, "Well one of them, to fetch you something to eat."

"Thanks, I'm starving."

"I'm not surprised," Wynne said. "How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Sore," Rowan answered easily.  

"That's to be expected." Wynne seated herself in the chair Zevran had so recently vacated and pulled it closer to the side of the bed. "Let's get these bandages off you and have a look."

It took a good few minutes to get all the bandages off. Rowan had tried to be of assistance, until he realized that twisting or leaning the wrong way pulled painfully on the still-healing wounds. "Well," Wynne said, setting the soiled bandages aside, "You're healing up quite nicely, all things considered."

Looking down at his left side, Rowan could see the very end of the a line of stitches and the raw, red flesh around them. "Is it going to scar?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly," Wynne confirmed. Her hands traced over the stitches and prodded at the skin around them, and Rowan could feel some of his aches eased in their wake. "There are some things even magic cannot heal completely, and this is one of them."

"Is the scar going to look impressive, at least?" Rowan asked hopefully.

Wynne made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "I should have known you'd care more about that than the scar itself."

Rowan hissed as she pressed on a particularly tender spot, then sighed as the pain was immediately replaced by the cool wash of magic. "I've got to have something to show off after all this."

"Oh, I doubt you'll need to do much showing off in the near future. Have you heard what they're calling you? The Hero of Ferelden."

"Oh," Rowan murmured, "I like that sound of that."

"I expected you would," Wynne said dryly. "Well, I think we can get those stitches out. It's all closed up, but you'll still need to be gentle with it for the next few days."

"So long as no more darkspawn show up I think I can manage that," Rowan assured her. "I can get up and walk around, though, right?"

“Yes. Just nothing too strenuous, and no heavy lifting. Your muscles will take time to regain their strength and you could risk re-injuring them.”

She was halfway through removing the stitches when Zevran returned, bearing a tray of food and trailing Alistair behind him. “Look who I found rummaging about in the kitchens,” he announced. “Our future king!”

“Don’t remind me,” Alistair groaned. 

Rowan was not facing the door, but he craned his head as best he was able to watch the pair come in. "Alistair, tell me the truth,” he said, “How cool are the scars. I can’t see them.”

“You have very strange priorities,” Alistair informed him. “How are you feeling, though?”

“Like a dragon fell on me. Did it really fall on me?”

“It did,” Alistair said. Rowan groaned and turned away from him again, embarrassed. “Not all of you, though,” he continued, “Mostly just your legs. It did take Shale and Sten to get you out.”

“No, that’s so embarrassing,” Rowan bemoaned.

[tabikato]

If you had asked Hue what his thoughts were on Lothering he would give the response that it was very...brown. The further they moved towards the village, the more open the fields were but what surprised him more was that there was a serious lack of green. Sure there was the occasional bushes and some grass, maybe a tree or two, but everything was so...open. Open and not much excitement save for the occasional darkspawn to kill and raider to chase off. Speaking of which...

“I do not see why you did not just do away with them”, Morrigan frowns, crossing her arms as Hue descended the stairs, the raiders from early chased off easily enough. Though it was rather amusing to see a bunch of grown men run in fear from an elf of such short stature, there was no way Hue could know they wouldn’t come back with reinforcements. Especially with the peculiar information the raiders spouted out, something about these two killing the King. As if Alistair had any sense to accomplish that kind of feat, Hue on the other hand, probably not either but he was much more unpredictable to say the least.

“You suppose I should have killed them?”,he questioned, crinkling his nose at the thought, “Driving them off solved the same problem, what’s the point of killing just because you can?” Well, point taken, though she didn’t have to agree with it. Better to be cautious than to be merciful but then again, she wasn’t one of the mighty Gray Wardens here. Speaking of useless Gray Wardens…

“Well, there it is. Lothering. Pretty as a painting.” Alistair extended his arms out, presenting the hodge-podge village with more flair than needed. Hue leaned on the stone banister, looking over the village in a mixture of awe and disappointment. After Ostagar, the village seems a little lackluster in comparison. Houses made of wood and thatching, patchwork fixes to keep the weather at bay. Dirt roads flattened by the consistent to and fro of workers to their daily tasks. The large stone structure was pretty interesting, so large you could fit a few families in it with a high wall and open arch. So many sounds and smells wafted with the breeze, all so unfamiliar that he fought the urge to jump down and begin exploring. And the people, he’d never seen so many gathered about in different clothes and conversations other than Ostagar! Clothes in various shades of brown, gray, and white greeted his eyes from a distance. It wasn’t “pretty” in his mind but it definitely was fascinating.

“Ah. So you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?” Oh no. He had forgotten for a moment that these two, for whatever reason, really, really did not get along. Maybe Alistair would ignore her, act the bigger man and they could continue to the tavern...

“Is my being upset so hard to understand?!”, Or fight back, “Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?!”

“Before or after I stopped laughing?”

“Right. Creepy. Forget I asked.” Ruffles whined and he pet the Mabari behind the ears before turning his attention to the two squabbling hens.

“Are you sure you two aren’t related?” They both gagged, turning away from each other to yell at Hue but he had other plans, “What did you want to talk about, Alistair?”

“His navel, I suspect. He certainly has been contemplating it for long enough.”

“It is a nice navel.”

“Are you honest--what?”, anger rose and fell within seconds, scowling eyes turned from Morrigan to narrow ones at Hue, “No. No, nevermind, I don’t even want to know where that trail of thought is going.” Hue just shrugged, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Down to your navel it seems.” Okay, Alistair decided to ignore wherever that was going.

“So, I get it. This is the part where we’re shocked to discover how you’ve never had a friend your entire life”, his mocking tone earned a scoff from Morrigan, gaining some satisfaction out of her offended look.

“I can be friendly when I desire to! Alas, desiring to be more intelligent does not make it so.”

“Wait...you think friends make you stupid?” Morrigan blinked at the chuckling elf, eyes narrowing.

“I’m beginning to suspect, yes.”

“Anyway...I thought we should talk about where we intend to go, first.” Alistair interrupted, saving them all from yet another looping conversation they were prone to have. The only saving grace of those was that it made the trip seem shorter.

“Got any ideas?”

“This should be good” Ignoring Morrigan’s sneer, Alistair turned to his fellow Gray Warden.

“I think what Flemeth suggested is the best idea. These treaties...have you looked at them?” Hue’s large blinking eyes told him all he needed to know and he sighed, knowing the question about to spill forth, “The treaties, Hue, the ones we got from Flemeth. With these we will be able to ask for assistance, maybe even raise an army.”

“Oh! Those things!”

“There are three main groups we have treaties for: the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar, and the Circle of Magi. I also think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first.”

“My clan’s already moved north…”, Hue cocked his head, eyes turned to the sky, “but there’s another that’s usually in Brecilian forest. Wait...why are you leaving this up to me?” With a furrow brow, he turned his gaze back to the human. Shouldn’t he be the one making the decisions here?

“Well, I don’t know where we should go! I’ll do whatever you decide!” Alistair’s voice cracked a bit, shoulders tight as he deflected back onto the other. “Arl Eamon is a good man, but I don’t know for sure he’s where we should go. I’m not going to fight about it!” That was...weird. Aside from the moping, which would be normal for such heavy losses, Alistair had been more on edge. He'd assumed the added tension and constant bickering with Morrigan was it but now he had his doubts. Was Alistair...lost?

“O...kay. Well, I am a hunter so...I guess that’s fine?” What more could he say? Aside from some hunts, Hue’s never led anything his whole life and now Alistair was just expecting him to do just that. “Still, I’d like to know what you guys think too. The group should be in agreement. What about you Morrigan?”

“Go after your enemy directly. Find this man, Loghain, and kill him. The rest of this business with the treaties can then be done in safety.” Okay, she has a point, it’s a great point but also just a very bad idea in general. One, they have no idea where Loghain was, second…

“Yeees, he certainly wouldn’t see that coming! And it’s not like he has the advantage of an army and experience and-”

“I was asked for my opinion and gave it! If your wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done, we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us!”

“Guys!” His voice cut through, stopping them both, “Morrigan’s right, we can’t fight about this.”

“But we-”

“And you’re right too, going after Loghain now is too risky. There’s no way he hasn’t buried himself in his den, we’d walk right into a trap. For now, let’s get some food and figure things out as we look around.” A heavy sigh left his lips, both humans looked at least a bit guilty. They were all tired and probably just hungry, some food and rest would clear their heads and then they could make all those important decisions.

“There is a tavern not far from the entrance, come.”

All he had wanted was some damn food, maybe a drink, and be off his feet for a moment. Just to relax next to a fire and pretend for just one moment the world wasn't ending. What he hadn’t wanted was to be pulled into a fight right as they walked in the door. The tavern had been full of patrons, chattering and gossiping in a way that filled the whole room with noise. On the upper part he could hear a lute being strummed to some unfamiliar tune. And the smells! He had been eager to try food cooked in a tavern, it always made him curious when the other elves told him about it after their ventures into the villages. His eyes on the prize he hadn't expected to be stopped by some guards, guards that definitely looked like they wanted trouble.

“By order of Loghain, we are to kill the traitorous Gray Wardens.” Again? So this was Loghain’s doing, huh? Not enough to be a coward and let people die in Ostagar but now he was trying to hunt them down? To do what, eradicate the Gray Wardens? Did he hate them that much? A woman with red hair and a soft voice interrupted, dressed in a robe that he had seen people around the Chantry nearby wear. A “sister” Alistair had called them. Sister to whom he had no idea.

“Please, there is no need for violence here.” Had to give her credit, it was worth a shot but the guards were having none of it. Then they drew their weapons and it was chaos. Drawing his bow, he had to be much more precise in such an enclosed space. One miss and he might hit an innocent, the idea that these so-called “guards” didn’t even care about the people screaming in fear around them just made him angrier. Between the five of them, sister included, they had managed to take care of this mess...non-fatally of course. Wow, he’s on a roll today.

“Tell Loghain we know what he did and we’re coming for him” Teeth bared, his red eyes lit up from the fireplace glow, feral as one of the beasts he hunted. With a tight nod they scrambled, pride turned to fear, tripping over themselves right out the tavern. Well, that takes care of that.

“I apologise for interfering, but I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” Anger melted from his face as he turned to the woman...sister. She was pretty and her hair gave off a warm glow in the firelight, as if the flames themselves coloured the strands. The style cupped her face, a braid on the side, with a few strands falling gently on a pale face. Her eyes, blue and clear, were steadfast, holding his gaze before he realised he had yet answered her.

“I appreciate that.” The accent was different though, was she not from Ferelden? It didn’t sound like Marcher.

“I am glad you found it in your heart to offer those men mercy.” A tilt of her head, smile tight, “Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was.”

“I”m Hue.”

“They said you were a Gray Warden. I’m surprised you’re an elf, but elves must want the Blight defeated as much as humans, no?” Her voice held genuine such curiosity, he didn’t have the heart to interrupt her, “I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get. That’s why I’m coming along.” He blinked. Once, twice, letting the words sink in and when they finally hit him, he let out a confused sound.

“Wait, what? Why?”

“The Maker told me to.” Again...what? The Maker told her to follow him? His confusion must have been plain on his face because her confidence suddenly deteriorated, “I-I know that sounds...absolutely insane. But it’s true! I had a dream, a vision!”

“More crazy? I thought we were full up” Alistair whispered, scoffing at the idea. Considering he was the more religious of the three of them, if even he didn’t believe her…

“Look at the people here. They are lost in despair, and this darkness, this chaos will spread! The Maker doesn’t want this.”, her voice shook, so desperate in her plea that he actually started to feel for her, “What you do...what you are meant to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!” Aside from the fact that he was very much not Andrastian, he found he couldn't argue with her. She so passionately wanted to help, to stop this Blight and save people and whether it was the will of the Creators or Maker or what have you, he wasn’t going to turn that away.

“Well then, welcome to the party Leliana!” Arms spread wide, he welcomed her with a smile, warm gesture causing a smile on her face. The other two humans seemed to look a bit incredulous that they suddenly had a new...traveling partner.

“Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought.” All that followed Morrigan's statement was more laughter as Hue walked over to order food. Finally!

After the meal he set about exploring Lothering, drawing exasperation from Morrigan and curiosity from Leliana when he flitted about like a hummingbird. Both women were assured that yes, this is normal, he does it all the time, please don't question it from a defeated Alistair. There was so much to see, so many sounds and smells and people to talk to. What he hadn’t expected was how many people needed help and despite Morrigan’s complaining he solved a few problems around the village, earning thanks and even some rewards. It was nice to be able to do things and it not turn into a giant mess for once.

Giving the elder some of the extra potions he had stored away, he caught a glint of metal. Curiosity moved his body faster than anyone could utter a word, forced to follow after the elf as he made his way to a large cage just outside the village arch. He heard before he saw; a deep voice reciting something in an unfamiliar language. Inside was a man, a giant of a man! Grayish skin stretched over large muscles and tight features, a strong jaw, sharp brow, and large nose made up his face. Large white braids were fastened tight to his skull, drawing to the back. One of this man's arms was at least equal to both the elf's legs! Red eyes widened in pure awe as Hue took in the giant who stood so still, he almost seemed like a statue. That is until eyes opened up and stared him down.

“You aren’t one of my captors.” Short, deep, to the point. Hue wasn’t sure why but that voice had him standing up straighter. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you, elf. Leave me in peace.”

“What are you?” Words, innocent as they were, left his mouth without filter.

“I am Qunari, is that not obvious?” Head shook no but it was only answered with a deep sigh.

“You’re a prisoner? Who put you in there?”

“I’m in a cage, am I not? I’ve been placed here by the Chantry.”

“The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family...even the children”, Leliana’s voice reminded him that his friends had followed him, all standing behind the elf. Wide eyes froze, turning back to the strange man with that new knowledge.

“It is as she says.” Admittance; plain and simple. Something about that seemed...off to Hue though, what kind of murderer just admits their guilt and with such a tone? “I am Sten of the Beresaad--the vanguard--of the qunari peoples.”

“Ah, I’m Hue. Gray Warden. Nice to meet you.”

“You mock me.”, eyes narrowed but then replaced with confusion, “Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands.”

“Well, I mean...you introduced yourself so politely…”, finger scratched his cheek, was he not supposed to do that? The way this Qunari?...was staring at him was a little nerve-wracking, it was like the taller man was reading him like a book.

“It matters little, I will die soon enough.” Suddenly it dawned on him that Sten was actually locked in that cage, probably meant to starve to death or worse.

“This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for the darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?”, Alistair snorted in surprise, “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“I would also suggest that Alistair take his place in the cage.”

“Yes, that’s what I would have expected.” Morrigan’s words made Hue pause, ignoring their bantering as brow creased in thought. A use for him? It seemed leaving anyone to the fate of darkspawn was much too cruel, that he knew. If Sten had done what he said then yes, he did indeed deserve punishment but Hue just couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to this. It felt...odd and whenever he felt something was odd, he knew it wasn’t what it actually was. Was it?

“Are you guilty?” Sten was silent for a moment, furrowed brow regarding the elf.

“Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed?” A pause and then his expression was stone once more, “However I feel, whatever I’ve done, my life is forfeit now. My regret will not bring back the dead.” And there it was, his decision made, he was going to get Sten to join them and that was that.

As much as he wanted to run and explore the Chantry and all it's nooks and crannies he was on a mission. Soldiers were standing around in various spots, Templars, as Alistair pointed out to him,. So that symbol was did mark them as Templars, that information would be useful for later. Who knows who might become their enemy and if the shem want to run around with large symbols emblazoned on their shields and armor to alert everyone who they were well...that seemed a them problem. Before any of that he marched his group right into the study in the back, determination set on his face.

Despite knowing the crime Leliana had actually helped him convince the Revered Mother to let them release Sten, as long as it was in Hue’s custody. She had caught on to his plan pretty quickly, offering assurances where he could not. Impressed, he smiled at her as they headed back into the main part of the Chantry.

“You’re really smart Leliana!”

“Oh? Thank you...I’m not sure what I did though.”

“You helped me get Sten out”, his smile was bright, genuine and she couldn’t help her own growing, “like redemption right? If he did do it, then stopping a Blight is better than him rotting away right?” Yes, she had guessed that was what he was thinking but it felt good hearing the words spill from his mouth. The Maker had truly chosen a merciful one. She watched as Hue approached the head templar, hands moving in animated fashion to his speech and the templar nodded. Seems he was quite pleased to hear that Hue had taken care of some bandits outside of the village. Her eyes followed the rest of her new companions; Alistair was busy talking to a knight nearby and Morrigan was near the door, eyeing every templar as if they’d attack on spot.

“Let’s go get Sten!” Hue’s cheerful voice popped up, his business done as he looked towards his friend, “Hey Alistair, let’s go!”

“Go ahead, I’ll join you.” With a nod, Hue walked right out the chantry with the two women, heading back to the cage.

“You wish something more of me?”

“Yea, I’m getting you out.” Sten’s eyes widened as the small elf started to unlock the cage, key in hand.

“I confess, I did not think the priestess would part with it.”

“She only agreed as long as you came with me.” The door swung open, Hue looked him right in the eye and Sten could only meet them in kind.

“Fine then, I will follow you against the Blight. In doing so I shall find my atonement.” Stepping out, he stretched out the limbs that had been cramped in that damn cage for too long. A warm smile greeted him, almost child-like in its happiness.

“Thanks Sten! Glad to have you with us!” These thanks and platitudes were undeserving to him, even if he was fighting a Blight he was still doing it for selfish reasons.

“May we proceed? I am eager to be elsewhere.” With a laugh, Hue led his new friends back to go pick up Alistair as well as some equipment for Sten and be on their way. To where? Creators knew but with two new friends, he felt like it was going to be interesting. They decided to take the back way from Lothering, marching up the stairs when they heard a commotion. On the bridge were two dwarven merchants, cart trashed and boxes strewn about, screaming at their attackers. Only the attackers weren't raiders, the unholy growl of darkspawn was turned upon them as soon as they came into view. Foul creatures wasted no time at all running at them, swords meeting swords as they engaged. Luckily with Leliana and Sten now in their ranks it took no time at all for these damnable things to be slain, pulling an arrow embedded into one's chest. Maybe they could do this after all...

"Mighty timely arrival there, my friend. I'm much obliged." The thankful voice had him turn, looking upon the dwarves who no seemed afraid. He smiled back at the one with the beard, nodding his head.

"You're welcome, uh..."

"The name's Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur", that last word seemed important but Bodahn continued on, patting the other dwarf on the shoulder, "This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy."

"Hello."

"Road's been mighty dangerous these days. Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we're going the same way." Hue shrugged a shoulder.

"You can but I don't know if you want to travel with Gray Wardens."

"Gray Wardens, hm? My, that does rather explain a lot", Bodhan stroked his beard, not even thinking on the prospect, "No offense, but I suspect there's more excitement on your path than my boy and I can handle. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune, though."

"Goodbye."

"Same to you." With that, Hue waved at them before joining up with his friends. Those two seem nice enough, hopefully they don't find anymore trouble. He could hear Bodhan's voice distantly as their feet carried them further on.

"Now, then. Let's get this mess cleaned up, shall we?"

[trvelyans-archive]

tentative

a commission for my king @sexysideoftheforce of his oc evangeline and her Bae zevran <3 thank you so much for commissioning me andy ! i hope you enjoy <3

-

“Can I confess something, Zevran?”

He shifted his head to glance over at her. “A fine question,” he said with a smile. It was a warm smile – it always was at this time of night, especially once she had stripped her shirt off and he had been tempted to remove his pants and gone through with it – but it seemed warmer in the soft orange glow of their shared tent, and her heart lurched a little. “Is there something stopping you?”

Evangeline pushed herself up from her bedroll and bit her lip, looking down at him. “I don’t want you to think any differently of me,” she responded, a half sigh of her own frustration. “Or… well… us.”

“My dear Warden…”

“Shh.” She held her hand up, closing her eyes tight as she considered what she was going to say. “I just… I need to be honest with you.”

“Then do so.”

How did he sound so calm? If someone told her that, she would be losing her mind. It did make her feel slightly better, though… maybe he wouldn’t be as mad or as upset as she had been telling herself all day that he would be. (She was just trying to prepare herself, in the event he did react poorly, but it definitely made things a lot scarier.)

“I just… I… I really like you, Zevran.” She swallowed hard, and even then she still felt like she was choking on the quickly growing lump in her throat. “I do, and I really… I enjoy being with you, of course.”

“Of course.”

She smiled, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear before he caught her wrist and pulled it towards his face, pressing a kiss on the heel of her palm. It was kind of hard to gather her thoughts when he did – well, that. She had had the whole speech planned out that morning when they were walking through the forest, but she felt it slipping away from her faster than she’d thought it would. Maker, help me, she thought as a furious blush rose on her cheeks.

“Apologies, dear Warden. I did not mean to distract you.” Even though he let go of her hand, she decided to leave it pressed against his face, cupping his cheek gently while she inched closer across the bedroll.

“Sure you didn’t,” she retorted, smiling.

“Alright, perhaps I did.” Zevran smiled back. “However, you still have something important to tell me, hm?”

“Yes, I do.” Evangeline cleared her throat, looking skyward – even though it was obscured by thick canvas walls and a thick canvas roof – and letting out a long, slow breath to try and calm herself (to no avail). “I enjoy being with you,” she continued uncertainly, finally drawing her hand away to wring them both together, “and I appreciate that you… supposedly… enjoy being with me, as well.”

Zevran laughed. It was low and rumbling in his chest, and she felt the cracks in her heart threatening to break it open even further. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath in, ignoring the urge to get up and run out of the tent as fast as she could and as far as her feet would take her.

“But I… I think that I have feelings for Alistair.”

There was a long, long moment of silence. Evangeline cracked an eye open to see Zevran looking up at the roof with a thoughtful expression on his face, eyebrows gathered together in the middle of his forehead, bottom lip stuck out in a slight pout.

“I see,” he said slowly.

“But… I still have feelings for you, too!” she exclaimed, which drew his eyes back to her before she realized that that was exactly what she did not want. “Strong ones! I like being with you, like I said, and I like – um – well, I like most things – every thing – about you.”

He gave her a small smile, but his eyebrows were still furrowed. “But you like Alistair.”

“…Yes.”

“I see,” Zevran repeated.

Evangeline’s chin fell to her chest, and she bit her lip so her eyes didn’t fill with tears. She felt horrible, like she had led this poor man on when she actually had feelings for her friend. Even though she had feelings for Zevran, too, of course, she still felt… horrible. Rotten. Evil.

“Do you want me to go?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he sat up, reaching over to place his hands against her waist and tug her closer to him. “No, my dear, that is precisely what I do not want,” he said softly, pulling her towards his chest. “I admit, I thought perhaps there was something between you two… I have been thinking about asking for a while. It’s something that has kept me up many nights.” Despite the tension in the air, he winked at her. “Besides other things, of course.”

Evangeline was scared to lean her head towards him. Her cheeks were burning so hot that she thought the tent would catch fire if she touched anything.

“But it is something I have also… considered… in a different light,” he continued, rubbing small, soothing circles against her back with his thumb.

“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head and peering at him curiously.

Zevran huffed, leaning his head back so she could see the lump in his neck bob as he swallowed. “I have had feelings for Alistair as well,” he answered under his breath. “Against my better judgement, of course, but…”

“You have?”

He nodded, removing a hand from her waist to run it through his own hair. “I did not see them coming, if you were wondering,” he told her. “But… it is not fair for his arms to look like that when he chops wood, hm?”

She giggled, ducking her face to look at their legs, lazily tangled up with each other’s.

“And it is not secret that he has feelings for you, as well,” Zevran said, “and that he finds me attractive. Perhaps we should consider offering him a… proposition of sorts.”

“Like what?”

He smiled at her. “I do not see why you should have to give one of us up for the other,” he said, “and vice versa. Considering that have reason to believe he is interested in the both of us, perhaps… perhaps that is an arrangement that would work for all of us.”

Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “What, like… all of us? Together?”

He nodded. At first, she was a little taken aback, but the more she thought about it, the more the idea grew on her. She had to admit that the thought of being with both men at the same time made her stomach flutter like it had never done before, and she’d feel much safer if she knew she did not have to fight her feelings for one or the other – that they were both aware of them and maybe even delighted by them, too.

That is, of course, if Alistair would say yes. Evangeline couldn’t help but think that he might not.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, “should we ask him?”

“Yes, amor,” Zevran replied, “I think we should.”

-

Alistair was the last one awake in camp the next night.

Evangeline and Zevran had disappeared into her tent a while before, and Alistair had watched them go wistfully. Wistfully for which one, he wasn’t sure. That was the big question, wasn’t it? The one weighing on his mind? Of course a man his age wasn’t concerned about the Blight or the Darkspawn or his dead mentor or potentially dead father figure – no, it was which one of his friends he had feelings for, and what he was supposed to do about them considering the two friends were already involved with each other and didn’t seem to want to change that anytime soon.

Sometimes it felt like the Darkspawn were easier to deal with. At least he understood them and what they wanted (which was to kill him). At least he knew how to deal with them.

He didn’t know how to deal with these feelings.

He was willing, at first, to ignore the feelings he had for Zevran and just focus on how he felt about Evangeline. He had this whole thing planned, a speech and a gift and everything, and the day he was planning on telling her he saw them sneaking off together to her tent, just like he had done tonight. It was… disappointing, to say the least. To say more than that, he was heartbroken, and on more than one front, too, just to make it worse. He would have been fine if Evangeline wanted to be with some other man or woman - at least Alistair still could’ve considered eventually telling Zevran how he felt. Instead they decided to get involved with each other, and… well, that was about as much as he wanted to think about that night. He went into his own tent, which was cold and dark and smelt of sweaty socks and roses, and sat there on his bedroll, knees pulled up to his chest, breathing heavily, trying not to cry.

And then, of course, he cried. But only a little!

He tried to paste on a smile around them the rest of the time, but at night he let himself feel it. The disappointment, the sadness, and how stupid he was. There was a time he thought Evangeline was interested in him – that they were both interested in him, how laughable – but it was just another thing that he got his hopes up about only for them to be dashed on the ground like… like… Darkspawn shit.

He felt himself starting to cry that night, too, but he told Wynne he was taking first watch, so he couldn’t. And then he wondered why he did that in the first place when he knew he’d just have to watch them retire to bed together.

Probably just to rub it in his own face, a reminder that nothing was easy and he shouldn’t expect anything good in the world anymore. Probably a failed attempt to get himself to focus all his energy on stopping the Blight and killing the Archdemon since there was nothing else to focus on, right?

He was so focused on not focusing about it and wallowing in his own Maker-damned pity that he didn’t hear them leave Evangeline’s tent and approach the campfire where he sat, looking down at him with eerily friendly smiles.

Alistair blinked a couple of times, convinced he had fallen asleep and they were some sort of trick of the Fade, but after a couple of awkward seconds he realized that they were definitely real and waiting for him to smile back.

So he did, but it felt a little more like gutting open a fish than actually smiling.

“I thought you two had gone to bed for the night,” he commented as they sat down beside him, Evangeline on the other end of the log with Zevran in the middle.

“We did not,” Zevran replied, smiling. “There was something we wished to speak to you about. We have an, ah, proposition of sorts.” He turned to Evangeline. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” Evangeline breathed, looking tense.

Alistair breathed out softly. “Okay,” he said. “What sort of, uh, ‘proposition’? Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off asking Wynne or Morrigan?”

Zevran laughed. Evangeline giggled. “No, no, we only need you, Alistair,” Zevran said.

Alistair’s breath caught in the back of his throat, and he let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, well… What is it?”

It had to be about their whole Warden business, right? He probably wanted to undergo the Joining or something to officially become a Warden. Alistair wouldn’t be surprised, nor would he turn him down. They needed as much manpower as they could get, after all, and having him join the Wardens officially would definitely help.

And then he remembered that he’d have to spend even more of his life with them, together, and he couldn’t help but prepare him for the backlash he’d get when he told Zevran ‘no’. If he’d be stuck alone in the Ferelden Wardens with just the two of them, he might as well offer himself up to the Darkspawn on a silver platter right now. At least he’d be doing something more useful than moping, which is what would happen if he had to be around the two of them together for a second longer.

Zevran pursed his lips. “Evangeline and I had a discussion about you last night,” he began slowly. “About our… ah… feelings for you.”

Evangeline winced. Alistair could see her do it. He furrowed his eyebrows, leaning back in his seat.

“O… kay?” he said, blinking. “What ‘feelings’ are these? Hatred, annoyance…?”

“Alistair, no!” Evangeline leaned forward in her seat, reaching across Zevran to place her hand on Alistair’s knee which just about made him dissolve into a puddle. “Feelings like… you know…”

“We are both interested in you,” Zevran finished. “In a more… intimate way.”

Alistair’s heart was thundering so loud in his ears he could barely believe what he had heard. “Sorry, what?”

“We were wondering if you wanted to be with the both of us,” Zevran clarified. “Together.”

None of them said anything for a long, long moment. Alistair’s mind was spiraling very deep into a gutter so quickly that he was scared his mouth would open and sewage would fall out. “At the same time?” he asked.

Zevran laughed. “Yes, if you would like,” he said. “Perhaps at different times, if that would make you more comfortable. We do not wish to overstep…”

Alistair looked over Zevran’s head at Evangeline, who hadn’t said anything. “Evangeline…?”

“I really like you, Alistair,” she murmured, smiling softly. “If you’re interested… I’m interested.”

“Of course I’m interested,” Alistair replied, “I’d be a fool not to be. But… I’ve never…”

He bit the inside of his cheek, frowning at himself. He would have felt embarrassed enough about being a virgin with one person, but with two…?

“That does not matter, my dear Warden,” Zevran offered quietly. “Evangeline was inexperienced, as well. But you couldn’t find a better teacher than me, hm?”

Alistair felt his cheeks reddening. “No way,” he confirmed.

“That’s what I thought.” Zevran looked over at Evangeline and tilted his head. He must have given her some sort of comforting look because her rigid shoulders quickly relaxed and, when her eyes met Alistair’s, he felt his heart melt in his chest, dripping heat into the bottom of his stomach as Zevran placed his hand on Alistair’s leg and gave him a gentle squeeze. “If you’d care to join us, tonight, in Evangeline’s tent, you can. If not…”

“I can,” Alistair breathed, mind spinning. “Absolutely.”

If this was a trick of the Fade, he never wanted to leave.

-

Zevran was the last of them to fall asleep.

Alistair had pulled the elf against him and tucked him underneath his chin. Evangeline, on the other hand, rested her head on Zevran’s chest and fell asleep with her face buried against Alistair’s stomach, where he had pulled her, too, with the hand that was still splayed against her cheek. Zevran smiled, looking down at it, pulling his own hand free from where his arm was wrapped around Evangeline’s shoulder and beginning to smooth gentle circles over the skin of Alistair’s knuckles.

There was no better way to fall asleep than this, he thought, closing his eyes and brushing a kiss against Alistair’s collarbone. None at all.

[fandomn00blr]

Who's knocking at the door?

Ohhhhh...I have just the thing! Hang on...*rummages around in WIP folders I haven’t touched in like a year*

Ah ha! Here it is...this is, um, unpublished (unpolished) Hawke family drama, post-Inquisition by 10 years or so? lulz...

Anders’ eyes flew open as he cast a barrier around himself large enough to enclose the two people sleeping on either side of him within the sphere of his protective magic. His mind then immediately went to their children -- Malcolm and Leandera were still off hunting with Clan Lavellan for another couple of days. 

Good.

He sat up as his mind raced to catch up with his instincts. The wards outside had been activated by someone or something coming down the dead-end street that led to their estate.

Fenris had felt it, too -- his lyrium markings first reacting to the faint magical energy that had been activated by the intruder, then, of course, the sudden intense wave of Anders’ magic, which could sometimes feel like a soothing balm, but when it greeted him by surprise in the middle of the night, he’d learned to associate it with the mage’s keen awareness of impending danger.

Fenris squinted up at him, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the barrier. “Someone is approaching.”

“Yes. Still in the alley. One person and a horse.” Anders closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Not a mage.”

Hawke was still dozing in the pale light of the barrier, seemingly blissfully unaware. She may have been the sneakiest of the three of them, but she was capable of sleeping through almost anything. Fenris glanced over at her, but Anders whispered, “Leave her for now. It’s probably nothing...probably just someone who got lost on their way home from the tavern. Nothing the two of us can’t handle, anyway.”

They both slipped out of bed. Hawke mumbled and stretched to take up the other half of the bed that her two husbands had vacated, but seemed determined not to wake up. Anders grabbed a robe and some pants and tossed Fenris his leggings and a tunic. They dressed quickly, then headed down into the foyer to see who, or what, had decided to wander by in the middle of the night.

They heard the distinct sound of a horse’s hooves crunching along the gravel path outside, and then someone dismounting. From the thuddy clinks and scraping of metal on metal, it seemed their visitor was wearing lots of heavy armor. None of their friends immediately came to mind, at least none of the ones who would be likely to pay them a surprise midnight visit like this. Whoever it was walked with a sense of urgency, practically trotting up the short path that led straight to their front door. If this were a thief or assassin coming to rob or attack them in the middle of the night, they were doing a terrible job of surprising their intended targets.

Could it be one of the few remaining Templars who had managed to survive the war or the Inquisition, or not yet gone completely mad from red lyrium, seeking out Anders, the infamous terrorist apostate after all these years? Surely, the majority of the Order had been dissolved or decimated by one or all three of these things.

Or maybe it was a Venatori loyalist, sent to dispatch them for their role in the slave rebellions? The Inquisitor and her armies had destroyed most of their ranks outside of the Imperium, as well, but they were still relatively close to Tevinter here in the Free Marches.

It was also possible that someone who’d been close to Danarius sought to finally reclaim his missing property or to take up his “research” where he had left off with Fenris’ lyrium brands.

Truth be told, there were a number of people still who may have intended them some kind of harm or retribution, and it wasn’t the first time Fenris cursed Varric for drawing him and Hawke out of hiding nearly a decade ago. But if he hadn’t, he supposed, then they might have never gotten Anders back.

Fenris grabbed his sword and Anders’ staff from their place behind the cabinet next to the door, as Anders cast another barrier around the two of them. Fenris tossed his staff to him and they readied themselves to greet this nighttime visitor together, whoever it was, just as all three of them approached the door from either side.

Three hurried, hard knocks. Not as ominous or foreboding as they had both expected. The visitor clearly wished to wake them up, at least. Fenris reached toward the handle, looking at Anders, who was holding his staff ready in front of him. He nodded silently at him to open it. He could sense no demon, no magic...no Darkspawn taint, either, he realized with a hint of relief, checking another possibility off the list of people who might have had some unfinished business with him.

Fenris turned the handle and flung the door wide open, just as the mystery visitor raised a gauntleted fist to bang on the door again, nearly punching the elf right in the face, which would have been a tragic mistake, as his sword was ready. Luckily, they managed to stop themselves just in time, staggering back a few steps in surprise at the hostile greeting.

“Who are you and what do you want?!” Anders demanded, sounding and looking almost formidable, his staff pointed threateningly at the would-be intruder. If Fenris wasn’t busy trying to assess the situation in front of them, he might have appreciated the way his husband looked just then, flashes of a younger, more recklessly emboldened version of himself who had been foolish and idealistic enough to merge with a spirit of Justice in order to take up a fight he hadn’t any business believing he could win. Fenris hadn’t fully agreed with or understood the cause back then, but he’d certainly admired their ferocious commitment to it.

Focus.

The figure was wearing a hooded cloak over some impressive armor. The cloak somehow did a terrible job of hiding the heavy, unmarked chestplate and the weird face on the oversized buckle. It didn’t seem that subtlety was high on this person’s list of priorities, though, which gave Fenris a bit of relief, his muscles and his lyrium beginning to relax slightly as the visitor hastily pushed back his hood, revealing his face. It was twisted by distress and impatience and a hint of fear at the two of them bristling at him with their weapons ready, but the familiar vertical scar over lips that were just recently chewed raw again over long-forgotten worries, and the curly blonde hair, disheveled as it was and going gray, gave him away. He attempted to speak, but the rush of words got stuck somewhere on the way out, and he swallowed them back down, trying to catch his breath and start again.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 11/26(?) Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Dragon Age: Awakening Ensemble Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

She didn’t ask, Loriel would tell herself, after. She never asked.

But that was later, much later. For a long time, everything was fine.

After the bloody clearing, Loriel fell into her work the way one might fall down the stairs—not all at once, but once the process had begun, it became almost impossible to stop.

It was almost like being back in Kinloch. She spent all day surrounded by stone, studying magic. Only now it was on her own terms, something she was doing because she wanted to. Her freedom looked an awful lot like her prison, but it didn’t matter what it looked like. What mattered was what it was.

And of course she still had Yvanne.

Most days she woke later than she liked, with the whole morning having slipped away from her. The guilt of having done that was enough to rattle her out of any desire for breakfast, so she would go without. She would spend the day at her work, following one idea and then another. It went intolerably slow. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if an experiment had failed because her idea was bad, or because she’d done something wrong. It was just so hard to do this alone. But asking Yvanne to help was unthinkable (though she had promised, hadn’t she? She had promised to help.)

And when she could no longer stand going back and forth with herself about whether her ideas or her methods were bad, she would go back to her bedchambers. Yvanne would be there, along with a dinner in any possible condition between ‘slightly cooled’ and ‘stone cold and beginning to curdle.’ They would talk, or rather, Yvanne would talk. Loriel would nod along and eat her congealing meal, hardly tasting it. Her mind would be on the project she’d abandoned downstairs, churning with ideas for new ways to try it, if maybe she should return to an earlier form, if maybe she was struggling fruitlessly and Avernus had figured it out decades ago and it would have been faster simply to ask him.

Yvanne would finish telling her about her day, and ask her about hers, and Loriel would shrug and report that it had been pretty uneventful, really. Just work. And they’d maybe break out an aged bottle of red, and go to bed, and have sex, and afterwards Loriel would lie awake and think of blight and blood and spirit, and eventually, often when the dawn rays were already beginning to break over the horizon, she would sleep.

And then it would begin again. And again. And again.

—

Her library grew, as she requisitioned books from distant libraries, or else copied treatises herself. Her quantity of notes multiplied precipitously, until she could no longer easily keep track of them herself—and it wasn’t as though she could hire an assistant. Nobody else could understand her shorthand, anyway.

Letters from Avernus weren’t frequent, but always illuminating. Rarest of all were cryptic scrawls coming from the Architect. These generally raised more questions than they answered. She wondered if he wrote them himself, or if Utha or Seranni scribed for him. Perhaps Velanna would recognize her sister’s handwriting if she saw it—but Loriel never showed her. The thought of going out and talking to people, of being seen by them, turned her stomach.

She still had the opaque black crystal the Architect had delivered to her with Velanna. It had seemed so exciting at first, like it was surely the answer to everything. But the longer she tried to puzzle out its secrets the less she understood it. The rare times she had contact with the Architect, he was less than helpful. He kept assuming that she knew all sorts of things that she didn’t. When she asked in writing, his response WOULD explain the parts she already thought were obvious. Useless. Avernus, being nearly two centuries old, was bad enough, but the Architect was not old but ancient, and his humanity was further behind him.

She left the crystal on her desk, until looking at it made her sick with anger at herself. Then she shoved it in a drawer where she couldn’t see it anymore.

Probably she would have made more progress if she kept things better organized, but she’d never needed to be particularly organized before, and now she had no idea how to do it. Nobody had ever taught it to her. Every time it occurred to her that today would be the day she put things in order, it only took a minute of looking around at the mess for her to despair and give up.

It was pathetic. It wasn’t as though she’d never done original magical research before, but the Calling was another beast altogether. There were so many moving parts, and the more she learned the more confused she got. She needed a break, but a break simply wasn’t possible.

Because the clock was ticking. Every day she didn’t understand the Calling was another day that the unthinkable might happen. That one of them might begin to hear the song.

Alistair had said thirty years, but that had been at most thirty years. And even if the average was twenty, twenty-five, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be as few as five, for some people. Was it written down somewhere, how long each Warden lasted before the Calling claimed them? Where would she find such a document, if it was?

Yvanne still had awful darkspawn dreams. Did that mean she was more vulnerable to the Blight than other Wardens? Did that mean the Calling would come to her sooner? Did sooner mean twenty years rather than thirty—or as few as five? How much time did they have?

What made one person vulnerable to the Blight, and another one hardy to it? What made one person survive the Joining, and another one perish? What made one person’s blood different from another’s?

Or was it in the blood at all? Maybe it was something else. Some quality of the spirit, the same thing that made some children mages and spared others, perhaps. What made spirits different? Maybe Justice would have known, but Justice was gone. Justice was gone because of her. She and Yvanne pretended like it was because of Anders, but really it was because of her. Anders was gone because of her, too. What a farce. What a ridiculous, ugly farce. It was a wonder Yvanne didn’t hate her. It was all such a wonder, the fact that they still loved each other, such a wonder. It made her exhausted.

But what else was she going to do, with the time left to her? This was all she was good at.

Death’s child could do this one thing. She couldn’t do everything that was asked of her, not even most things. But maybe she could do this. Just this one thing. Just this one.

—

The thing about their arguments was that they really weren’t all that frequent. Most of the time they got along fine. Most of the time they lay down together, and rose up together, and kissed each other fondly. And it was not the most exciting of all possible lives, but wasn’t that what they’d fought for? Most days, when she was with Yvanne, Loriel could half-believe herself happy.

The problem was that it was always the same argument.

Yvanne would drink too much, and Loriel wouldn’t say anything, because it wasn’t her place. Yvanne would always do exactly what Yvanne wanted, and all attempts to prevent her would be ultimately fruitless. It still put Loriel on edge. So every time Yvanne brought it up—she only did it when she was drunk—Loriel was already on edge, so who could fault her for reacting the way she did?

“We could leave all this behind,” Yvanne would say. It was what she always said, as though wheedling would do it, as though she could wear her down. And usually Loriel would demure and conciliate. She’d always been so good at it.

But today she lost her temper. “That is not an option,” she snapped. “I’m not like you. I don’t give up on things.”

As soon as she said it she held her breath, waiting to see Yvanne draw back in hurt and offense. But instead she just rolled her eyes.

“That’s not even true,” Yvanne said. “You’ve given up on lots of things. You’ve given up on almost everything.”

Loriel stiffened. “Just what, exactly, have I given up on?”

Yvanne made a broad, flicking gesture around the room. “What haven’t you given up on?” She started counting off on her fingers. “The rest of the world. This Keep. Everyone we ever knew.”

Her mind went instantly to Anders. You gave up on him, too,  she thought poisonously. Faster than I did. But Yvanne wasn’t done.

“You know you keep accusing me of running away,” she said sardonically. “But notice how I’m still here. I stayed. I never ran, I always stayed with you. It was always, only, ever, you.”

You wanted to run, though, Loriel thought. You wanted to.

“All I ever wanted was a home in the world, with you,” Yvanne said. She’d said it before. Many times. “But you’re not with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Loriel said, exasperated. It was a lie. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“You have, though.”

No more than you have, she thought. It was almost as though Yvanne didn’t see her at all, when she looked at her. What did she see?

“All I ever wanted was to be with you,” Yvanne repeated distantly. “There wasn’t room for anything else.”

But I am with you! She had to say it out loud, but her throat was so tight. She had to say it. She had to. If she could just— “But I am with you,” she echoed. “I’m here. I’m not gone.”

“Not yet.” Yvanne put her hands over her face. “Maker, I’m so afraid. All the time I’m afraid.”

A cold pit of ice dropped into Loriel’s stomach. This was not a standard part of The Argument. “Afraid. You’re afraid of me.” Was it so shocking? Everyone else was afraid of her. She had made herself frightening. She had done it on purpose.

Yvanne’s head snapped up. “ Of you? You bloody idiot—I’m afraid for you! I’m afraid I’m going to walk in on you in a pool of your own blood and won’t be able to bring you back. I’ve researched so many advanced healing spells, just in case, but it might not end up mattering. You can’t bring back the dead.”

“I’m not going to die,” Loriel scoffed. “Not any time soon, anyway.”

“You can’t know that.”

As many as thirty? As few as five?

“I know it as much as anyone can know anything,” she retorted. “I know what I’m doing. I’m not taking any undue risks.”

“Now that’s rich!” Yvanne said scornfully. “That might be the boldest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Now that got under Loriel’s skin. What right did she have to say that? And to say it as though it was self-evident. As though Loriel were simply being obstinate in not acknowledging it. As though it were anyone’s business but her own what she did with her own life and her own body.

“You don’t own me,” she said, too harshly. “I own me.”

“Wasn’t saying I did,” Yvanne muttered.

“No, I rather think you were,” Loriel said icily. “It isn’t what you said, but it is what you meant.”

Yvanne huffed, threw her hands up slightly. “Excuse me for suggesting that people with lives as tangled up together as ours might owe each other something!”

Then maybe they shouldn’t have gotten so tangled.

“And I owe you what, exactly?” she said instead. “To do with myself as you will, simply because you don’t trust me?”

Yvanne took a long time to respond. Then, quietly, “I don’t often ask you for things. But I’m asking you for this. Please.”

Loriel wanted to ask her what in the Maker-forsaken void she was talking about. Did Yvanne think Loriel would be any different outside the comfortable confines of Vigil’s Keep? Did she think the poison was in the flagstones?

For a brief moment she considered it. Abandoning her work, come what may. The Calling would take them some day, and she would never know which day—only that when it took one of them, it would take them both.

She thought about the great wide worlds, its endless sky, its infinite varieties. It choked her with its vastness. Who would she be out there?

“No,” she said eventually. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Right,” Yvanne muttered, in the tone that meant the argument was over. It was the answer she’d been expecting. “Course you can’t.”

Loriel shrugged helplessly. She couldn’t. She was sorry, she was. But she really, really couldn’t.

—

Her newest idea was to test everything on rats. Surely it would have better results than trying to recreate the Blight in a glass vial. The Wardens had a vial of Archdemon blood, which had to be added dropwise to darkspawn blood, along with a dozen other things, to function in the Joining. She could infect the rats, and study them, try to cure them. She would regret their deaths, but it would all be worth it in the end.

A part of her knew she didn’t understand the Blight well enough to even bother with the rats. But she was so tired of failing. After all, Avernus had most of his success with live subjects.

Catching the rats was the hard part, requiring an elaborate series of paralysis glyphs and sense crystals. Then there was the matter of keeping them contained, fed, and watered. She spent weeks figuring out some way to manage the rats, all the time her mind wandering, such that the work of a few hours stretched into a full week.

In the end it didn’t matter. All the rats she infected with Blight died right away, and she didn’t know why. Had she miscalculated the dose? Were rats fundamentally different from people, in some way? But animals could be blighted, so that couldn’t be the case. Could one of the lower animals be made into a broodmother? Could rat-darkspawn be created?

The thought of trying to get more rats to try and find out was more than she could bear. She sat splayed in her chair, wondering if perhaps she could find a breeding pair and have them produce offspring for her, but in order to make that work she would need to figure out some kind of accelerated growth spell. It was surely doable, in theory, but it would involve creation magic, a field she knew nearly nothing about.

(Yvanne knew about creation magic. Yvanne had promised to help her with this, once. She had promised.)

So she abandoned the idea entirely, and returned to glass vials. Months of effort, wasted.

She sat back in her chair, closed her eyes. Tired. So tired.

You don’t have to do this, Yvanne had said. I’m doing this for you, Loriel had said. So many times she had said that.

And it was true. It was! She was doing this for her, for the both of them. For all the Wardens. For all the people of Thedas. Because she was the Hero of Ferelden, and a piss-poor one at that, and she owed this to them. And to her Wardens. And to Yvanne, and to herself.

It was true. Wasn’t it? It was. It was! She was doing this for her. For everyone, but really just for the two of them. Who gave a damn about anyone else? The world had turned its back on them, over and over. Loriel had struggled so hard to save them, and were they grateful? They weren’t. Was it so wrong to want to do something for the one she loved?

(If Yvanne really loved her she would have been grateful. If she really loved her she would have supported her. If she really loved her she would have been able to see—)

—

That year had been a late winter followed by an early summer, and Loriel nearly missed the whole spring.

Months later (who knew how many). The same argument.

Yvanne had said: How do you think I feel?

How you feel, Loriel thought scornfully. “How you feel!” she said, not nearly as scornfully. “It’s always about you, somehow. Always about Yvanne and what Yvanne wants and how I can give it to her, that’s always been the story. Maybe if you really loved me—”

She broke off. That wasn’t fair. It wasn't fair and it wasn't true. Yvanne loved her. Loriel loved her back. That much was true. That was the one eternal constant of the universe.

It wasn’t fair and it wasn't true, and when Loriel could think straight she remembered it. But she was so tired, so exhausted that the world bent and twisted before her eyes and she couldn't tell truth from darkspawn blood.

She pinched the bridge of her nose . “I’m...I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight. I didn’t mean that.”

Yvanne seemed to soften. More than anything Loriel ached for comfort. Not even magic. A touch would do. She was reminded of the time at Redcliffe, when she had first done blood magic, and all she had wanted was reassurance that everything could be alright. Yvanne hadn’t given it then.

“You’re right. You aren’t thinking straight,” she said, not giving it now. “So let me know when you are.”

Usually at this point Loriel would storm off in a huff to go work, and in a few hours she would come back and everything would be forgiven. Because that was what love was about, wasn’t it? It was about pain. It was about forgiveness despite the pain. It was about the choice to love and forgive and forget the pain. But this time it was Yvanne who managed to storm away first, except she didn’t storm. She walked calmly and closed the door quietly, not in anger, but resignation. Loriel was left alone in their chambers, the last place where they still shared a life.

(Maybe if you really loved me—)

No, that wasn’t true, Yvanne loved her. ( But she couldn’t see her anymore .)

Loriel needed to sit down, but there were so many articles of clothing on the nearest chair that she sat on the bed (their well-used bed, that had so delighted her when this had all begun) instead. And even sitting took too much energy, so she lay back. Maybe she could sleep for a while. Just a little while, so she could think straight.

But sleep didn’t come. Her racing thoughts were wide awake, and hungry, and had no pity for her.

She had always been afraid that she wasn’t good enough for beautiful, vivacious, lovely Yvanne. That one of these days Yvanne was going to figure it out and leave her. For a long time she’d been holding her breath, waiting for the blow.

But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe it wasn’t that she wasn’t good enough for Yvanne. Maybe it was that she was just all wrong for her ( wrong wrong wrong, it slithered through her mind like crawling worms in the dirt), maybe they only fit together at all because they’d grown together like the intertwining roots of trees. She thought of vines twisted together so tightly they had fused ( parasites, living off each other, sucking the life out of each other, unable to survive any other way)

Now they’d traded the Circle for the Wardens. And love born of terror, perpetuated in bondage, what was that worth?

What did they have in common, anyway? Their whole lives. Their magic. What else?

She stared into the darkness, wishing she knew some spell to end all thought.

(What else? What else? What else?)

—

It wasn’t about the blood. It was about the sacrifice.

In that sense, to call it blood magic was a misnomer.

You can’t get something for nothing. This was the oldest rule in the book, from back before there were books, before writing, before language. It was as simple as anything, and it was as true of entropy magic as of blood magic.

Loriel knew all about entropy. The rule of entropy was this: you can’t get something for nothing.

That was why it was impossible to draw her own blood, store it, restore herself, and use it later. Blood stored in a vial, divorced from the pain and loss it had caused, had no power. The blood itself was inert. It was the pain that mattered.

She had to suffer. It had to be this way. It could never have been any other way.

Life was pain. It wasn’t all pain. But it was pain, sure enough. And pain was life, for only living things could suffer. For every sting of the blade, she knew herself to be alive. Here she was in the depths of the underground, nearer to the deep roads (the darkspawn) than to the sunlight, but while she hurt she lived.

Yvanne didn’t understand that. Yvanne was a healer. She didn’t understand the necessity of pain. She never had.

But you can’t get something for nothing. That was the rule. (Loriel knew all about rules. She had always been so good at following the rules. So, so good, and what had it gotten her?)

Her current project involved attempts to refine blight from blood—her own, a darkspawn’s, and an archdemon’s. Each Warden-Commander was entrusted with a vial of Archdemon blood, a single drop of which was used in the Joining cup. Loriel had it here, a measly quantity of it. It ought to have been refilled when Urthemiel had fallen, but nobody had been there to tell her to take its blood. She hadn’t known she was supposed to do that, and now here she was wasting the small quantity she had away on her useless experiments. (But that could be a good thing, that could mean that when she used it all up there would be no more Wardens and if there were no Wardens that meant there was no Warden-Commander and if there was no need for a Warden-Commander then Loriel could—go where? Do what?)

She wanted to understand what made Warden’s blood different from darkspawn blood, and what made both of them different from archdemon’s blood. She had for days now been heating, distilling, refluxing, heating again, countless hours spent staring at glassware full of the murky stuff, ( half-wondering what it would feel like to take the vials and smash them on the table and feel the shards of glass in her skin ), because surely it couldn’t be a matter of mere concentration. Darkspawn were not Wardens with more Blight inside them. And Archdemons were something different entirely.

Why were all the archdemons dragons? What did dragons have to do with Blight? But no, not dragons—old gods. But why were the old gods in the form of dragons? The Chantry would say that they were false gods of no significance, but even if that were true, why would beings clearly much more powerful than mere animals take those forms? Urthemiel had been the god of beauty; the Architect had been his high priest. Loriel had slain Urthemiel. She had driven a sword—

( she barely knew how to use it, it should have been Yvanne, it should have been her, none of this was meant for her, that was why she was down here in the dark, because she had taken what rightfully ought to have been somebody else’s, because she had transgressed, and now she was being rightfully punished )

—through its skull. She remembered how its bones had cracked. It had already been most of the way to dead by the time she finished it off. She’d hardly contributed to its killing at all.

(she’d picked up the sword, nearly as long as she was tall, because she happened to be nearby, it had just happened, she hadn’t meant to—)

Did the Architect know that? Did he know she had slain his god? Did he still regard the archdemon to be his god? It was no more corrupted than he was. (Would that be Loriel’s fate? Was that the fate of every Warden, to someday become the monsters they fought? What was the difference between them and the monsters, anyway? That wasn’t so bad. She’d been a monster all her life, what would be the difference?)

The bright blade bit into her scarred skin. The veins there were weakening. She would have to pick a new place to cut, soon. Her blood ran hot and warm down her skin. Loriel incanted. Nothing happened.

(What was the Architect’s name? What had he looked like? Who had he been when he had been a man?)

She changed the words of the incantation, then the pronunciation. She changed how she held her fingers. She cast again and again. Nothing happened.

(He deserved it though, that’s what he got, for breaking the rules. Rule-breakers had to be punished, that was the rule. That’s what he, what she deserved. That’s what she deserved, for expecting something for nothing.)

Her blood clotted and the flow stopped. It still hurt, but was that enough? No, it wasn’t, she could tell. The pain was necessary but not sufficient. She needed to bleed to cast spells like this, or else they’d always fail, and she’d have no one but herself to blame.

The knife bit into her flesh again.

(Yvanne didn’t understand, of course she didn’t, how could she?)

She didn’t feel the knife slip from her numb fingers, and though she felt herself slipping, felt herself fall, by the time she hit the floor she had already slipped into something like sleep—but not peace.

She dreamt herself in the Black City, wandering its winding streets and high towers. She knew only that she was desperately searching for something—someone?—that she couldn’t find. When she looked down at her hands they were claws, the bulging veins there black with the same Blight that ran through the gutters and oozed down the walls. It flooded the streets and rose higher and higher, up to her hips and shoulders, in her mouth and her eyes and over her head, and all was black.

—

Loriel woke slowly. First she became aware of her body and the bed it was lying in. At first she didn’t notice anything unusual, and then she did—the absence of pain. Nothing ached or throbbed or stung. She felt better than she’d felt in many months. She was suffused with the vague sense that whatever dreadful thing had been happening, it was over now, if it had ever even happened. Perhaps it had only been a terrible dream.

For a while she let herself float peacefully in the dim twilight of half-sleep, aware enough to relish the glorious lack-of-pain. But finally she had no choice but to open her eyes, and remember everything.

Yvanne sat sleeping in the wooden chair besides the bed. Her cheek pressed against her shoulder, her chin on her chest. It looked singularly uncomfortable.  Loriel wondered why she’d sat there instead of getting into bed with her. She reached out and touched her gently on the elbow.

Yvanne started, her eyes flying open, then relaxing. There were dark circles under her eyes, and they were red-rimmed; she’d been crying, but had stopped some hours ago, presumably when she’d fallen asleep.

“You’re awake,” she managed, “That’s good.”

Loriel coughed hoarsely. Her throat was dry. “How long was I…?”

Yvanne glanced out the window. It was dark, with no trace of either daybreak or sunset. The candles were all extinguished, and all that illuminated the room was a trio of Fade-wisps fluttering around Yvanne’s head like a halo, casting her in an eerie greenish light. “I don’t know. Most of a full day, I think.”

A glass of water stood on the bedside table. Loriel drained it, leaning on her elbow. She opened her mouth to ask what happened, and then closed it. Some of her memory was trickling back, as though after a hard night of drinking. You bloody idiot, I’m afraid for you! I’m afraid I’m going to walk in on you in a pool of your own blood and won’t be able—

Instead she lay back. She knew better than to insult her by apologizing. The fact that she was even thinking of apologizing annoyed her. I’m the one that almost died, and somehow I need to comfort her ?

Eventually Yvanne said, “How do you feel?”

Loriel thought about it. “Good, actually,” she said. “Better than I’ve been. Much better.” Whatever exact combination of healing spells and potions Yvanne had administered, it had really done the trick. She felt like she could think clearly for the first time in...she didn’t even know how long. She was herself again.

She had the sudden traitorous thought—all along Yvanne could have helped her like this, and for whatever reason, she hadn’t.

“That’s good.”

What a funny path life took. Only a handful of years ago their positions had been reversed, and it had been Loriel sitting and fretting at the bedside, feeling helpless and afraid. She didn’t feel helpless or afraid now. She just felt tired—clear-eyed, but so tired.

“Thank you.”

At that Yvanne couldn’t take it anymore. She drew a rattled half-sob of a breath, and suppressed a hiccup. “‘ Thank you’? What was I supposed to do, leave you there?”

It occurred to Loriel how exhausted Yvanne looked. Not just tired, but...older. It could have been only the flickering Fade-light, but—some of the lines on her face looked new. Were they really new, or had Loriel just not been paying attention? Would she have turned to her, years down the road, and been surprised to see an aged face looking back at her?

All at once the guilt crashed over her, so intense it made her nauseous.

It would have been easier if she’d loved her any less.

Did you love me for me , she thought, or because there was no one else? And that thought hurt.

Then she thought, did I love you for you? And that thought hurt much worse.

“Loriel, I…” Yvanne swallowed, staring at her laced fingers between her knees. “Loriel, I can’t do this anymore. Something has to change.”

You’re right, Loriel thought, deciding. It does.

She struggled into a sitting position, and then realized it wasn’t much of a struggle. She was only stiff from sleeping so long. She scooted out of bed and found herself shivering in only a billowing nightgown. She didn’t have to look long for her robe; Yvanne had put it in the top drawer of the northmost chest of drawers. Her feet were cold on the stone floor, but she could live with that.

She went to her desk, rummaged for parchment and ink and quill. It was really more Yvanne’s desk these days, and she kept it in order. She stood as she wrote; the document would not need to be long. It only required her signature, and her seal.

“Do you know where my signet ring is?” Loriel asked.

“Upper right drawer,” Yvanne said automatically. She hadn’t spoken or moved, had only watched Loriel move about the room with uncertain eyes.

She found the ring. “Thank you.” Sealing wax lay in the same container, dark burgundy stuff; blue was more fitting for the Warden-Commander, but red would do. She dripped the wax onto the bottom of the document and pressed her ring into it, leaving an impression of the double-headed griffon symbol of the Wardens. The ink had had time to dry while she’d fumbled with the wax.

She read over what she wrote, once, twice, thrice, just to make sure. But her mind was clear, and short of letting it sit overnight—not an option—she was sure she’d covered all her legal bases.

Yvanne finally rose. “Loriel?” she said hesitantly. “What is that?”

Loriel rolled up the parchment and handed it to her before she had a chance to lose her nerve.

“It is a legal document, signed and sealed by the lawfully appointed Warden-Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Lady of Soldier’s Peak,” said Loriel. “It states that Warden-Lieutenant Yvanne Amell is abroad on official Grey Warden business of highest priority, and that any attempts to impede her free movements will be met with swift reprisal by the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and the Ferelden Crown. And there’s some more legal jargon at the bottom if you want to review that.” She raised her chin. “I can’t promise it will keep you safe from anything out there, far from it, but it should make public life as a mage on her own a much easier prospect.”

I can’t do this anymore, Yvanne had said. It was her favorite gambit. It meant— I’m doing as I’ve decided. Do whatever you want, but my course is set. Most times in their life it had been a bluff—until Amaranthine.

Well, no more.

“I don’t...what?” Yvanne looked at the parchment, then at her. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” Loriel said tiredly. “You don’t understand. And you never will.”

She knew it for the truth as she said it. For the nearly twenty years that they had known each other, for all the things they shared, for all that they had walked within each other's very souls, Yvanne would never understand. What did Yvanne know about darkness, about decay? Yvanne grew gardens and built castles in the sky, content to pretend that the world ( their bodies (them)) weren’t falling apart. Yvanne would never understand Loriel, and Loriel—it had become now blindingly obvious—would never understand Yvanne.

Loriel would never understand Yvanne, and she was tired of trying.

For an endless, awful moment they stood suspended in time. Yvanne stared at the parchment, the wheels in her head turning and creaking as it dawned on her, the full significance of what Loriel meant. In that long moment, it dawned on Loriel, too, the magnitude of it. She was standing on a shore, beholding a massive wave rising up to swallow all that she knew, and it had not crashed down on her head yet, but it would, any second now, it would.

“Are you telling me to go?” Yvanne said. Just to make sure. Just in case she’d misunderstood.

Ask me to come with you, Loriel thought then, desperately, as though that was going to save them. If she only asked, Loriel’s resolve would break, and she would have said yes. She would have followed her to the ends of the earth, if only because the prospect of living without her had now become terrifyingly real.

But Yvanne didn’t ask.

She didn’t ask, Loriel would tell herself later. She never asked.

Loriel would remember for the rest of her life the sight of Yvanne clutching the parchment and tearing out of the room. Loriel didn’t know why she would go after this—only that it would be far away, and that she was unlikely to ever see her again. Because she understood as well as Loriel did, what this meant for them—that the farce was finally over, the soap-bubble of their shared dreams well and truly popped. As it had always been destined to be.

For Loriel’s basic nature was that of entropy, and that meant she understood the nature of all things was to, eventually, cease. Every mechanism must someday wind down, and every life must eventually extinguish, and every love must eventually fizzle. You could run and run and run, but entropy would always get you in the end. Loriel had tried denying it, had tried cheating it, but it was no good.

Because you couldn’t get something for nothing. That was what Yvanne couldn’t seem to understand.

And that was why it had to be this way. That was why it had to end.

[lostinfantasies38]

Sun Touched Ch 4 Revelations

Alistair/Sirra Brosca

Rating: Explicit for language, violence, and eventual smut

Lights. Flickering in the dark. Torches – thousands of them. The light gradually fanned out to illuminate the surrounding area. Darkspawn. The Deep Roads crawled with them, the air filled with the sounds of their hisses and growls. Strangely, the sounds weren’t angry. They were excited, full of anticipation, and the feeling thrummed through her blood, too. What could possibly have them tittering so?

A roar filled the space, echoing through passages lost to the dwarves ages ago. Darkspawn all along the Deep raised their arms and cheered. The ground shook as it landed on the precipice above them and bellowed again. The horde waved their torches and banged their swords against their shields rhythmically. Sirra couldn’t make out the words, but when the Archdemon leveled its gaze to her, the dark, deep chuckle danced through her mind like a gentle caress.

Everything behind her faded away and she realized she was standing in front of it. All she could see was the strange beauty of the Archdemon. Drawing back its lips in what might have been a smile, its hot breath stirred her long hair with every heavy puff through its nostrils. Sirra wanted to reach out and touch it: to see if the scales were as slick and smooth as the polished amethyst she once lifted off a mark for Beraht. Would they feel cool under her fingers like those stones or would they be warm?

It angled its head - a large dark eye, the same size as she, stared directly at her. Her reflection stared back against the ebony backdrop. Mahogany hair falling in a sheet down her back, brands well suited to highlight her cheekbones, skin pale enough to catch any nobleman’s attention, while her Carta jewelry glittered in the dark.

"Come home, Stone-daughter. Join us. We are your family.” A warm rumble filled her mind. The dragon’s lips hadn’t moved, but there was nothing else that could have spoken.

Family. Sirra always wanted a true family. One without a mother who was more in love with drink than her daughters, throwing them callously to the Carta, allowing Rica to sell her body and her fertility. Giving her to Beraht, so he could shape her into a dangerous weapon to manipulate and control because he owned both sisters. If she screwed up, it would be pretty Rica who suffered.

But she still had one, didn’t she? Beraht was dead and Rica was free – she was still alive in Orzammar. She couldn’t give in. Besides, she had a new family now with the Grey Wardens.

Remembering who she was broke the illusion and shifted her image in the Archdemon’s eye. Sirra’s true reflection froze her blood. Gaunt, gray skin crisscrossed with black tendrils under the surface, brown eyes milky, lank hair hanging in wisps barely concealing the missing chunks exposing her scalp. This is what she would become if she gave in and joined their tainted family.

“No.”

A single word, a powerful word, barely whispered yet carrying a millennia of dwarven conviction. The Archdemon roared in anger, tossing her over the precipice they were perched on. She fell without a sound, wearing a contented smile knowing oblivion awaited her on the ground.

Sirra jerked awake, almost leaping off her pallet by the fireside, sucking in a desperate lungful of air. Hanging her head between her knees, she tried to calm her racing heart, and blink away the images branded in her retinas.

“Bad dreams?” Sirra startled with a small cry of shock. Alistair looked abashed on the opposite side of the fire. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I heard you thrashing around and thought you might want to talk about it.”

Holding up a hand, Sirra scrambled for her water skin from her nearby pack, taking a deep pull from the clean water before she could reply. “Those are dreams, huh?” Alistair gave her an odd look and she explained. “Dwarves don’t dream. At least, non-Grey Warden dwarves. Apparently, those who join the ranks do,” Sirra stately dryly.

“Well, damn. I’m sorry. I had no idea. Here you are and you’re first experience with dreams are nightmares from the Archdemon.” Alistair grimaced and rubbed his hands nervously across his thighs.

“Please tell me these won’t happen a lot. I can’t take the Archdemon asking me to join its family every time I go to sleep,” she implored.

He cocked his head curiously. “Is that what you dreamed?” She nodded and his eyes widened. “Creepy. Mine are usually full of the world burning and the Archdemon trying to eat me.”

Sirra laughed. “I prefer yours, honestly.”

Nodding in agreement, Alistair replied with a small smile. “To answer your question: you can block the dreams out, but it takes a little bit of time. Although, I have heard that it’s harder for those who join during a Blight.” He winced and Sirra dropped her head in defeat.

“Why am I not surprised? Any other surprises I don’t know about,” Sirra murmured unhappily.

Alistair rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as a slow smirk bloomed on his face. “Hmmm, let me think, let me think. Duncan said something about your appetite increasing, but I haven’t noticed anything like that with you.”

“Hey!” Sirra tossed a stick at him while he chortled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She crossed her arms, tilting her chin haughtily, but her lips quirked at his teasing.

“Are you sure? Because the way you wolfed down your food the other night. I don’t know…seemed a little unladylike to me.” He smirked mischievously and warmth flooded through her that could not be attributed to the proximity of the fire.

“Don’t make me come over there and punch you!” Sirra mockingly shook her fist and he raised his hands in surrender.

“No, don’t hit me! I bruise easily,” Alistair whined.

They sat in the pre-dawn gloom in silence a little longer, enjoying the companionship and the knowledge that no matter how hard the road ahead of them was likely to be, they wouldn’t have to walk it alone. The past week as they traversed the wilds together only brought them closer. Some of it was due to their shared suspicion of Morrigan and the rest simply because they were scared and needed a friend. Of all the things she never expected when she left Orzammar, becoming friends with a giant human was at the top of the list.

“No other Grey Warden secrets, I should know then?” Sirra intended the comment to be teasing, but Alistair’s sudden inability to make eye contact sent goosebumps along her fire warmed flesh. Clenching her jaw, Sirra glared daggers at the man across from her until he met her gaze with a heavy sigh.

“Wardens…don’t live long. The taint – it’s a death sentence. Eventually it catches up to us and once a Warden starts to hear the song of the Archdemon in their mind, they go to the Deep Roads to die fighting. It’s tradition,” Alistair mumbled.

It was Sirra’s turn to avoid his concerned glance. “How long do most Wardens have after joining?”

Alistair coughed. “Thirty years – give or take.”

Sirra inhaled sharply and processed the information. Honestly, she couldn’t say that she was surprised. They did drink darkspawn blood for their Joining and Duncan hadn’t lied. He told them doing so would change them. She was able to sense darkspawn in her mind – how could that not be killing her slowly? Did she like it? Fuck, no. Did she understand the necessity of it? As a dwarf who grew up on stories of darkspawn and witnessed their cruelty with her own eyes – fuck, yes. If recruits were aware of the price to be paid beforehand, there wouldn’t be any Grey Wardens and darkspawn would be left unchecked.

She was former Carta, used to doing what needed to be done, no questions asked. The chances of her living another thirty years weren’t high in Orzammar, either. Starvation and disease lurked around the corner. Any job working for Beraht could have killed her; hell, the last one nearly did. Yet, without being conscripted, Sirra would never have considered leaving for the surface.

Alistair cleared his throat and whispered, “When Duncan told me I was angry. But he told me that it isn’t how you die, but how you live that matters.”

Gazing at him fully, she inclined her head in acknowledgement of their Warden-Commander’s wisdom, murmuring softly, “I get it. I do. I’m just –“

“Disappointed?”

Sirra observed him from the corner of her eye, noting the small frown he wore and how he was shredding a clump of green stuff...what was it called again? She closed her eyes and heard Duncan’s baritone give her the word – grass. Reopening them, she found Alistair’s hazel orbs studying her. They both blushed, but Sirra held his gaze for a few more heartbeats before lowering hers. He cleared his throat again and she hid her smile behind her hand.

“We…we should pull up camp now that you’re up, right?” Alistair hopped up in the cresting glow of dawn, rolling up his bedroll and attaching it to his pack with trembling fingers. Sirra sighed and followed his lead, then she grabbed the cooking pot and meandered to the nearby stream to fill it. Once back in camp she discovered Morrigan was also awake and dousing her separate fire as she set the water to boil.

Sirra set about making a bowl of porridge from their rations, thankful they were close to a settlement, as their supplies were running low. Alistair attempted to help, but she smacked his hand away. He chuckled choosing to plop on the ground instead, fiddling with the stick she tossed at him earlier.

He was banned from cooking after his ‘stew’ a few nights ago left the women vomiting his vile concoction throughout the night. Morrigan later determined their illness was caused by the mushrooms Alistair added to the pot that evening. He still felt guilty Sirra knew, but that wasn’t enough reason for her to take a chance on his help in making their meals again. Besides, porridge was similar enough to the grits that most dusters ate on a daily basis; she could make this stuff in her sleep. She just wished they could get something, anything, to add some flavor to the mush.

Morrigan stared at her bowl dispassionately when Sirra doled out breakfast. “Warden, we should get some cooking supplies – herbs and such. Nothing fancy, but even some butter would help.” Alistair hummed in agreement as he happily devoured his morning meal and Sirra almost wished she could eat slop with such zeal.

“Butter? What’s that?” The humans stared at her – jaws completely unhinged. Sirra snorted and then burst out laughing, turning their shock into humor and minor irritation on the witch’s part. “Dwarves get their butter and milk from brontos, but only the higher castes like nobles and warriors can actually get their hands on it. So, while I may know what it is, I can say I’ve never tasted it.” Sirra waved her spoon with a flourish.

Alistair stared at her in horror. “That’s a crime, you know. We have to fix this immediately! Butter is now our first priority when we reach Lothering.” Morrigan snorted at him, but she appraised Sirra with interest.

“You may be a fool, Alistair…but you are right. We must fetch butter for the Warden.” Morrigan refused to look at either of them, pointedly ignoring Alistair’s broad grin.

“Yeah, just for Sirra. Not for you, at all. Nope.”

“Oh, shut up, you idiot and eat your porridge before I dump it over your head!” Morrigan snatched her bowl and moved some distance away to eat as Alistair laughed uproariously.

Jerking his thumb at the mage he winked to Sirra. “That’s more like it.” She rolled her eyes, refusing to encourage his teasing with a verbal response and tried to hide her smirk, but he noticed and smiled even wider.

Breakfast finished saw Alistair banished to wash the dishes by Morrigan. Sirra dug in her pack while he was gone to brush out the tangles and clods of dirt from her hair. Rica gifted her the comb as a parting gift – a beautiful bauble of surfacer ivory, carved with dwarven motifs and inlaid with three golden citrines. Sirra knew it had been a gift from one of Rica’s potential patrons that didn’t pan out. With practiced motions borne from careful study and repetition, Sirra twisted her thick tresses into a chignon and pinned it firmly in place. The witch observed her with a ghost of a smile.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that,” Sirra asked around a mouth full of leftover pins.

“I’m just surprised that a casteless dwarf knows how to fashion such an elegant hairstyle, ‘tis all. You fight like you used to be Carta, yet I see little body jewelry denoting your affiliation.” Morrigan flicked her nose in reference to Sirra’s golden ring. “Were you perhaps a noble hunter instead? Afraid that your fellow Warden will be displeased with your former lifestyle, hmm?”

Narrowing her eyes, she shoved her items in her pack without answering. Morrigan shrugged with affected boredom. “Suit yourself, Warden. You may keep your secrets. Just remember that we must return to Orzammar at some point and all will come to light anyway.”

“Why do you even care? What does my past matter to you? I left it behind and now I’m just an exiled surface dwarf. Before I came topside, I was a good-for-nothing duster scraping by in Dust Town with the other casteless, stealing food and pickpocketing nobles when I was younger.” Morrigan only lifted her lips in a condescending smirk. Sirra snarled, leaping to her feet, wound tight for a fight after days of nothing to unleash her pent-up frustration on.

“I did what I had to – to survive! My sister is the noble hunter; she taught me how to do my hair like this. We practiced hair and makeup, proper greetings, curtsies, dancing, everything that Beraht’s paid lessons taught her so she can land a noble and get knocked up. She sold what was between her legs so I wouldn’t have to, but by the Stone, I had to do the boss’s bidding to keep him from punishing Rica because she hadn’t found a patron yet!”

Sirra paced back and forth, working out her anger as she raised her voice as loud as her raspy cords would allow. “Rica – with hair the color of fire and curves that men pawed as she passed. She is the pretty one. I was expendable, but I surprised everyone by being good at my job. It was my money, the money I earned in the Carta, that kept us from starving! I blackmailed, I threatened, I killed men just because Beraht – the holder of our leash – told me to!” Pounding her fist against her leathers for emphasis, Sirra squared her shoulders, glaring balefully at the witch.

“I’m nothing but Carta trash; no matter how much I try to tell myself differently up here. But I learned a thing or two from Rica, even if I never had an opportunity to use them, because I was worthless then and I’m worthless now!”

A strangled noise came from behind her. Sirra closed her eyes, the fight leeched in an instant from her stout frame. Opening them again, she hissed at Morrigan, “You are such a bitch.” The witch smiled wickedly and sauntered off to leave the Wardens to talk. Sirra didn’t turn around to face him; she couldn’t stand the look of disgust that would be plastered across his face.

“How much did you hear?” Her gravelly voice barely carried in the early morning stillness, but Alistair wasn’t wearing his plate yet and he snuck closer on quiet feet, catching her words.

“All of it.”

Silence descended and Sirra nodded sadly, afraid now that her secret was out, he would feel sullied in her presence. She tried to move away and create more space between them, but he stopped her with a light touch of his fingers on her wrist. So, light they felt like air, except for the heat that radiated from them, practically scalding her skin. She sucked in a breath and held it anxiously.

“You’re not worthless,” Alistair whispered. The breath she’d been holding passed her lips with a tiny mewl of surprise. Still unable to look at one other, Alistair kept his hand on her wrist and she resisted the urge to scoot further away.

Sirra murmured, “You don’t know me, Alistair. You can’t say that.”

“I can,” he insisted firmly, his fingers pressing just a bit harder on her flesh. “It doesn’t matter who you were. When you join the Grey Wardens, all that matters is who you are. I may not know who you used to be in Orzammar, but I have a pretty good idea who you are in the sun.”

Tears pricked her eyes and her throat constricted oddly. They didn’t speak for a few heartbeats as she controlled her emotions. Surely Alistair could feel her trembling, but he didn’t move a muscle which both pleased and disappointed her. Pleased because if he hugged her, she was afraid of embarrassing herself further by breaking down, but disappointed he didn’t even try because it felt like rejection.

 “We should go. We’re losing daylight,” she mumbled.

Sirra turned to leave, but his hand encircled her wrist and pulled her back. She stared at the ground still too ashamed to meet his gaze. Alistair didn’t say anything as he slowly kneeled on the ground, almost eye to eye with her at this height, and wrapped his arms around her in a hug. Sirra buried her face in his rough spun tunic with a shuddering breath.

“Is this okay,” Alistair whispered in her ear. Sirra nodded vigorously, twisting her hands in the front of his shirt, anchoring herself in the face of such kindness and understanding. She didn’t know how he could give it so freely. So easily. To her – it was the most precious gift ever given and she cherished it. Eventually he would have to let go, aware she that would feel hollow when he did.

“I-I’m sorry,” she rasped, desperately trying to rein in her tears. “I don’t know what to say. No one, except my sister, has ever been nice to me…but this is…I don’t know.”

“I get it. I do,” he breathed and she noted the thickness in his voice as he repeated her words. “I-I just want to say…that I am here for you. You can talk to me about anything. And I mean that. Don’t…shut yourself off from me, please.”

Sirra nodded again, not trusting herself to speak until she forced down the lump in her throat. “Same goes for you, Alistair.” It was his turn to nod against her shoulder. Untangling her hands from his tunic, she pulled out of the embrace and he reluctantly followed suit. “We should go. I’m sure that Morrigan was trying to drive a wedge between us. Now that her plan has been foiled, she may kill us instead.”

The warrior snorted. “I’d like to see her try. She’s going to have work a lot harder to break us.”

Sirra laughed lightly, finally meeting his eyes. There was no rejection or disgust in them or on any plane of his face. His signature smile was in place with openness and warmth gracing his features. Her body relaxed at last with a smile. He put a hand on the ground to push himself to a standing position again, but she cupped his cheek instantly stilling his movements. Slowly, she pulled Alistair’s head close, resting their foreheads together. Sliding her hand to the nape of his neck, she pressed three fingers gently against his skin in a quiet salute, whispering into their shared oxygen.

“Thank you, salroka.”

Alistair’s wide eyes bored into hers, his breathing slightly irregular, as he mimicked the salute on her own neck. His mouth dried as she shivered involuntarily at the action and the intensity of their gaze. “You’re welcome,” he rasped. He swallowed hard and then asked shyly, “What does ‘salroka’ mean?”

Sirra smiled. “Directly translated, it means ‘one at my side.’ It’s a casteless’ way of saying ‘friend.’”

He grinned broadly. “Salroka.”

Slowly, the duo separated, careful to keep their hands from touching anywhere else as they dropped them. When Alistair made to stand, Sirra didn’t stop him a second time. He quickly repacked the cookware in his larger pack, a faint flush decorating his cheeks. With deft fingers, he fastened his splintmail over his cloth breeches and tunic before sliding his weapons in place. Sirra had the fire doused by the time he was ready and without a word she waved at Morrigan to signal they were leaving.

Alistair took up the front following the path that Morrigan kept them on since leaving Flemeth’s. The witch sidled up to the dwarven woman with a haughty sniff. “T’would seem your talk was…enlightening?”

Sirra couldn’t resist smirking. “I wanted to throttle you at first, but now I think I should thank you.”

Morrigan jerked her head in surprise. “Truly? Well, that was obviously a grave error in judgement on my part then,” she muttered. Sighing in exasperation the woman stomped off ahead of Alistair who chuckled at the witch’s ire.

He shortened his stride and waited for Sirra to catch up smiling down at her. She returned it with her own raspy chuckle. “She is just so fun to irritate, isn’t she?”

Alistair laughed outright at that. “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“I can still hear you!”

Alistair and Sirra shared a quick glance before dissolving into peals of laughter as they walked through the outskirts of the wilds.

*~*

Alistair couldn’t get the vision of Sirra’s face out of his mind on the journey to Lothering. She had no idea how pretty she was or how entranced he became staring into her eyes. Orbs so dark they bordered on black with her pupils blown wide. He’d been so close to closing the gap between them and brushing his mouth against her slightly parted lips; the urge to capture her full mouth only furthered by the intimacy of the strange dwarven gesture.

He wondered curiously what it would be like to kiss her. Were her lips as soft as they looked? Would the nose ring get in the way? He’d never met a woman with piercings besides their earlobes and hers fascinated him. Maker’s breath, he was glad his hand had been touching her neck though, to prevent his twitchy thumb from going rogue and grazing her tattoo again.  

Brand. Ugh! Alistair sneered to himself at the very idea of calling her markings such a thing. It sounded so…dispassionate and callous. He hated that she thought of herself that way – that her own people could think that of an entire class of their own kin like that. Sirra was more than that and anyone who talked to her for five minutes would be able to see it.

Alistair didn’t care about her past. Frankly, when he thought about it, it wasn’t shocking that she was former Carta. Most surface dwarves were either Carta members or former players. He may not understand her culture entirely, but he wasn’t so naïve to pretend that those less fortunate in the world didn’t have to do unsavory things to survive. He heard stories of the alienages, even in the monastery and especially since joining the Wardens – they surely didn’t paint a complete picture of elven life, either. Alistair realized now, that though his childhood had been less than idyllic, it had been better than most poor, unwanted children.

Most telling about who Sirra was as a person, revealed itself as he fought beside her, which was strangely intimate, actually. They kept tabs on each other when they were on the field watching each other’s backs to boost strengths and assist in weak areas so they became a single unit. They lived and breathed for the other during a fight – to do any less invited death. But she didn’t have to. Alistair grew up fighting and training alongside many warriors, templars and Wardens both, of varying skill. Few would willingly risk their necks for a fellow on the field. Yet, Sirra often did and she didn’t have a warrior’s strength or a shield to protect her. But she was tenacious, scrappy, and tough – never backing down from a fight or intimidated by a foe. Alistair would happily take Sirra at his side any day.

No, Sirra was so much more than a pretty casteless exile. More than a ‘brand.’ Alistair didn’t have a word for what she was, but he was aware that the idea of losing her left him feeling lost. Not because it would leave him alone in the world – he was used to that. No, losing her would take something from him: her light, her laughter, her.

Alistair glanced at Morrigan and Sirra while they discussed the village ahead and her wry smile suffused him with warmth.

It was simple. If he lost her, he would lose everything worth saving.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970717/chapters/52890505#workskin