#I’ve seen the fenris call out but they didn’t have to all be accurate like damn

[dark-elf-writes]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZM6pD79Hx/

I got called out so decided you get the link to lol.

JUST BECAUSE THEY ARE ALL ACCURATE DOESNT MEAN I HAVE A TYPE

(I do have a type but like… I romance Thane and Garrus pretty equally so like it counts right? Right?)

[minato-is-trash]

I know you reblogged that drabble prompt post a while ago but uh... I would like to request? #9 for the DA2 crew, if possible? (:

Hello Rhyske!! I'm really glad you are here (especially after my blog kinda died since Tumblr isn't my most used app.) And it was no problem that I reblogged it ages ago! I realize I got this out pretty quickly but I was really excited to write something new! I hope you like it!

Words: 771 A/N: I imaged this taking place right before Act 3′s Talking to Fenris. Instead of Aveline being there when you start, I image he had that conversation before the fic starts and then the end of this fic is what takes place instead at the beginning of the fic. 

“When you’re sad, I’m sad, and then we’re all sad.” DAII

---

Hawke is good at a lot of things, but they are also bad at a lot of things. One of the things they are good at is reading their companions. They can usually tell what their friends are feeling and what they think about something. That being said, something Hawke is bad at is managing their emotions. They usually hide their feelings behind a humorous facade they built but deep down they are an empath that struggles with emotions.

This is why they immediately knew something was up the moment they got into the groups first battle on the Wounded Coast. Fenris. He wasn’t in his normal rhythm and his attacks were sloppier. Hawke pressed on hoping that maybe he was trying to get back into the groove after not being with Hawke on the last few missions. However, as they went on and took down more enemies, Fenris had not improved and it was at that moment Hawke started getting upset.

Hawke struggled dealing with emotions and often they would cover their emotions with humor. When humor wouldn’t cut, their usual response was frustration.

As the battles waged on, Hawke’s emotions got worse. They got frustrated because something was up, and they got even more frustrated because they were frustrated, and it became a spiral of negativity. They were extremely tense, their jaw tight and hands gripping their weapon so hard their knuckles turned white.

These emotions and reactions started to affect the party’s dynamic in battle. This only added to their frustration spiral.

It was only when a battle pushed them to near death that Hawke decided to turn back. They wanted to keep fighting since that helped them deal with frustration, but they saw that the tension was thick and the emotions were only acting as a dentrament in battle.

Once the group returned to Kirkwall, Hawke told everyone to head back to their respective homes. After a bit they found themself in front of the Hanged Man. They take a deep breath and enter looking for Varric. Varric was honestly their best friend.

“Hey Hawke,” a voice called out. they knew immediately that it was the dwarf they were looking for.

“Hey Varric,” they said with apprehension in her voice. Now that they were there, they had no clue what to say so they just awkwardly stood there.

“The confident champion of Kirkwall, standing here awkwardly. Don’t let the press find out you aren’t always the snarky person you show yourself to be.” They let out a small snort at the unfortunately accurate statement.

“Not the carefully crafted personality I made!” they reported back. Varric let out a small smile at the response.

“Glad to see you more like yourself. I was getting worried with how you, Blondy, and Broody were all acting earlier. The tension was so thick you could cut it.”

Hawke let out an almost painful laugh at that. They noticed Anders has also been much more strained lately. The difference with him is how they have been trying to work on Anders, which is why they took him out on the excursion in the first place.

“Sorry about that. I’ve noticed people have been getting… depressed. Especially Anders and Fenris. It didn’t really hit until I saw how Fenris was in battle today and it all came toppling down in a… sad anger.”

“You should talk to them,” Varric stated.

“I’ve tried talking to Anders but he just won’t open up.” They let out a groan remembering their failed attempts at helping the man.

“Then talk to broody," Varric replied. Hawke sighed but deep down they knew that's what they should do. Hawke rubbed their temples in slight frustration.

“I know.”

It wasn’t long until they found herself leaning against the door frame of the elf’s room, watching him as he dug his armored fingers into his scalp. They don’t think he even noticed them when got there.

“What’s wrong?” Hawke’s question seemed to snap him out of his trance and he looked up at the other person.

“Nothing,” he replied. Hawke let out an incredulous snort.

“Bull shit,” they let out. They stood up straight and crossed their arms to give him a pointed look.

“Isn't this how I always am?" He quipped back.

"Usually I would appreciate the humor, but right now is not the time," she replied flatly, "I can tell something is up and you're going to tell me now."

“Am I now?”

“Yes. When you’re sad, I’m sad, and then we’re all sad. You should have seen that today.” The elf let out a drawn out sigh.

“Atright.”

[merrybandofmurderers]

how are you so racist and ignorant while masquerading as woke??? you writing about mage rights doesnt make you an activist. and your shitty tropes and gross consumption and creepy portrayals and enjoyment of stuff from other culturs and brown paper dolls is nasty. whhy dont you actually do the work instead of pretending? cuz people of color are countin on you and your fake wokeness is gonna hurt them

first of all, i think i’ve written like one? maybe two things? about “mage rights”. like, yes i’m invested in the mage storyline due to the way bioware handles them with their awkward oppression metaphor and i’ve reblogged plenty of posts about it, but also mages aren’t like, real. i’ve definitely written more on behalf of the shitty handling of bioware’s elves and generally poor handling of their queer characters and characters of color and vivienne specifically (and i definitely reblog stuff by fans of color about bioware’s racism)

(if this is about my defense of anders, i’ve read posts by several muslim fans of late and i realized i’ve probably reblogged posts/made comments that were islamophobic or bordering on it; i will go through my blog to delete/fix the posts i can find)

second, in regards to shitty tropes, gross consumption, and creepy portrayals: is this about the fic i write? the fic/art i reblog? is this becuz of something i ship (fenders? adoribull? pavellan? varricass?)? is this because i like enemies-to-lovers and heavy angst? becuz i like age differences and exploring power dynamics? because i like grappling with the darker side of things like consent and trauma? specifics would be helpful

wrt my pavellan fic specifically, there were problems in early versions in dealing with racial issues and there was an instance of criticism i didn’t handle well, i admit; i’ve since fixed those to the best of my ability. i have been guilty of reblogging questionable art/edits of fenris and sten; i’ve gone through my blog and deleted those i could find. i avoid content that makes light of abuse or rape

third, i’m afraid i don’t know what you mean but “enjoyment of stuff from other cultures.” did i use an inappropriate pic for an edit? something culturally appropriative in a picrew? i will go back and look, but a starting point would be helpful

fourth, brown paper dolls. all right. so look. i have 60+ characters (90 something including kids). i know for most ppl in fandom, they have 1-3 characters that get the most attention, that the creators are most invested in, and in many cases are a personal representation in some way. that is not how it works for me

my characters are racially (and gender/sexually diverse) because thedas is diverse. making characters is by far my favorite part of story writing, and honestly if this were a novel with sixty ocs and they were all white, it would be weird (in fact i have seen ppl called out for making “too many” white ocs). i have characters from all over thedas with different backgrounds. pieces of myself go into my characters but none of them are a representation of me. i’ve never hidden my race or used my characters of color as a mouthpiece

i’ve also never worked under the illusion that my characters of color will ever be as authentic or deep as those made by creators of color. i put in a lot of effort to flesh them out and avoid relying on stereotypes (which is something i’ve had to improve on over time, i admit) and i like sharing them with my followers, but i know there will always be a level of authenticity i can’t provide, and i’ve always done my best to support creators of color because of that

i know there are some character designs i didnt put too much thought into and i’m presently working on fixing that. i need to work on finding more accurate faceclaims and i’ve closed that page until i’ve done so. i have a lot of ocs, and i simply cannot give them all equal attention at once. if a character seems shallow its becuz i havent found the time/spoons to talk about them or its ruminating in my mental headspace until i can focus on it

if there is something egregious i have overlooked, again, i would deeply appreciate a starting point

lastly, this is the second message to this effect i have received. i don’t know if it’s by the same person, but since i received the last one i have been trying, and it’s distressing to know that hasn’t shown. i don’t know what words to use to express how hard i am trying. i thought i was being aware, i thought i was rectifying my problems, i know i can’t catch everything but i thought i was doing everything i could

look, i know it’s not anyone’s job to educate me, but since you have taken the time to contact me about this, it would be vastly helpful if you could give me something, anything specific, as a starting point. i’ve thought so much about this, i thought i’d identified the problems, and i thought my actions showed that. but if they haven’t, then obviously i am missing something and i need help. if you could give me that, i would deeply appreciate it

EDIT: also pls no one comment on this unless you are a poc

[miss-nerd-alert]

Anders doesn’t suffer from bad writing in DA2

It’s easy to make such a claim, especially for people who liked him in Awakening, but it is inaccurate.

I’ve seen some people say that Anders’ character arc in DA2 is the result of “bigoted white writers who can’t write marginalized characters because they only demonize them” when his characterization is incredibly nuanced and actually really well executed.

When we first meet Anders in DA2, his motives are entirely justifiable. He’s an apostate using his magic to run a free medical clinic for the poor in Kirkwall’s Undercity, who came to help the mages in the Gallows escape to freedom, and he opposes the use of blood magic.

His character begins to change, however, when he gets a firsthand look at the abuses carried out by the Templars in the Gallows. Karl had been writing to Anders about how Meredith was running the Gallows, but seeing him-a hallowed mage-made Tranquil was the first time Anders had actually seen it. Justice, or more accurately Vengeance, blasts onto the scene and the Templars die. After that, all Templars are the same to him, opressors to be destroyed. It’s now that we begin to see the ruthlessness that Anders is capable of.

He’s completely on board with killing Ser Thrask, one of the only good Templars left in Kirkwall, just on the principle that he’s a Templar and thus the enemy. He begins to see people as allies or enemies, with no room for middle ground or neutrality. He’s perfectly fine with giving Fenris back to Danarius, because Fenris is vocally supportive of the Templars and hates magic. Never mind that Fenris suffered at the hands of mages for as long as he can remember (and even before he lost his memory), Anders completely disregards the suffering of another because they disagree on ONE (1) thing. Anders is also shown to idolize Tevinter for the privileges it’s mages enjoy, even knowing full well that privilege comes on the backs of non-mages, who are enslaved and abused in much the same manner the mages in the Gallows are. Anders doesn’t seem to care about the suffering of anyone but the people he’s advocating for.

Anders continues to help mages escape the Gallows for the next few years, but his stability starts to crack as things only get worse. He’s completely stunned that Meredith denied Ser Alrik’s “Tranquil Solution”, because how could the face of his enemy possibly be reasonable? By that point, you could tell him Meredith cannibalized children, and he’d believe it wholeheartedly. After he and Justice/Vengeance tear the Templars apart, they get angry when the mage girl calls them a demon, and they lash out, possibly killing her. He attacks someone he was supposed to be helping because she didn’t seem grateful.

Anders is still willing to try and find a peaceful solution at this point, though his saying Elthina “might be more reasonable” than he’d thought indicates that he had considered it rather pointless by then.

By Act 3, Anders makes it pretty clear there’s no going back. Meredith has destroyed the Mage Underground, and Anders is already putting his plan in motion.

Elthina was ineffective at best, and negligent at worst, but she was not the only one in the Chantry. We never see more than a handful of sisters or brothers, but from what we can pick up from their brief dialogue with one another, they were at least trying to help people. They talk about feeding the street urchins, upset that they run off before the sisters can do anything more than give them some food. Sebastian mentions how they take care of orphans, widows, and the sickly. Whatever they think of the mage/Templar conflict, they are powerless to do anything but clean up the mess.

When the Chantry is destroyed, the blast is HUGE. Debris is likely scattered over half of Hightown, and the destruction is so bad that years later, Cassandra mentions that it’s still ongoing, with Varric adding that repairing the damage completely “will take years”. Even if no one within the Chantry itself was innocent, civilians were still caught in the blast.

Anders was fighting for people who had been oppressed, and Meredith didn’t need to call for Annulment of the Circle when the mage responsible was right in front of her, but Anders only made things worse for mages in southern Thedas by blowing up the Chantry. It was fairly obvious that Meredith would use his actions as her excuse to use the Right of Annulment, as she’d already been looking for one. By blowing up the Chantry, Anders made every mage in southern Thedas a target, set the wolves on the mages in the Gallows, started a war that got many mages -innocent or otherwise- killed, and made many who had been sympathetic to the mages wary.

When you meet Harding, if playing as a mage, she mentions that even those within the Inquisition are nervous around mages. While his intentions may have been worthwhile, Anders’ actions only made the mages situation worse. They may be out of their Circles, but they face attacks and mistrust from all sides, eventually getting desperate enough to turn to a Tevinter magister, which would only further alienate any potential allies they might have had. In doing so, they bind themselves to CORYPHEUS, one of the thirteen magisters responsible for the Blight and caused a good deal of the mistrust modern mages face.

Anders isn’t a marginalized character being demonized by a white writer. He’s an example of how a marginalized character can still be wrong; how someone from a minority can still take good intentions too far and become just as bad as their opposition. That is writing that is both super impressive and incredibly relevant.

Long post, but I needed to get this out there.

[for-the-dales]

Chapter 5: Varric

Chapter 1 (Leliana): https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/185692342364/the-path-forward-chapter-1-leliana

          Varric never minded much just sitting and watching the world pass by, as long as the world was interesting. At the present he was sitting on a bench with his back against a wall while tuning up Bianca. He watched as the activity in Haven ebbed and flowed around him. Thedas’s second weirdest company got back from the Hinterland this morning after spending a week running all around those hills. Mother Giselle had been nice enough, didn’t want to execute the Herald on the spot. Small improvements. Even didn’t think she should be jailed for the rest of her life just for being a mage. Honestly the woman was a bit of a radical.

           The killing bad guys who hurt innocent people, hunting down supplies for refugees, and even closing rifts became a little routine while they had been in the Hinterlands. It got a bit monotonous. The fun part was watching everyone try to get along. No one knew each other really, not even the original group from Haven. Varric hadn’t met Chuckles until they both got caught up in a fight together in the aftermath of the Breach. Varric knew Cassandra of course, but they weren’t exactly the best of friends. Throw in some very weird Dalish elves and a woman accused of being the worlds last and best hope, and you’ve got yourself a party. The two new elves in their party kept muttering back and forth to each other in elvhen, which put the Seeker on edge. The Herald tried to keep the peace by insisting that the twins speak in common, but Solas almost ruined the whole thing when he agreed because, “Your pronunciation needs work.”

           The big elf reminded Varric a little of Fenris when he almost ripped the mages head off. It made him a little homesick.

           Just then Varric saw the Blessed Lady herself walking back to her cabin. She was smiling and greeting people along the way. She exuded a calm energy that was desperately needed around Haven. Having a potentially world ending catastrophe kill all of your religious leaders only two weeks ago could have that sort of effect on morale. She reminded Varric a little of Elthina. Or maybe what Elthina should have been. When she came close to him, Varric noticed the small crease between her eyes that she was trying to hide. When she got to the door of her cabin he saw her shoulders sag just a little before going inside.

           Varric set Bianca aside and stood. He supposed even holy saviors needed pep talks occasionally, and if Varric had one talent it was convincing people to do things. Sometimes it was convincing them to give him money or information, but with his friends it was usually just convincing them they weren’t in as bad a spot as they thought they were.

           Varric knocked on the door to her cabin and only had to wait a moment before the Herald was opening the door. She looked a little tired, but when she saw who it was she smiled and stepped aside so Varric could walk in. She’d managed to make the place pretty cozy. Small candles were clustered on almost every surface with a large cluster on either end of the mantle opposite the door. On the mantle were eight small wooden figurines. They had simple designs on them, but they were still beautiful. The largest one looked kind of like a dragon and had a single red candle lit in front of it. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace and Varric thought he might actually have to take off his coat to keep from passing out from the heat.

           The Herald noticed him sweating and said, “I’m not used to the cold. I don’t think I’m built for it. May I?”

           The elf held out her hand and Varric gave her his coat. She wasn’t wearing her armor so he saw her hands for the first time. The vallaslin were broken up on her fingers by several dainty gold rings, some were all woven together.

           “I didn’t think Dalish got vallaslin past their faces.” Varric commented while he sat down at the small table she had one side of the little room.

           “Most don’t.” She hung his coat on a knob next to the door and walked over to get some water and cups from her bedside table, “Only priests get more extensive ones. The more extensive the tattoos, the higher rank the priest.”

           She set the water and cups on the table and sat across from the dwarf, “Tea?”

           “Yes please.”

           She reached across the table to grab a small wooden box in the center, opened it, and grabbed two blocks of tea out of it. She put a block in each cup, poured water in after, and then took hold of the cups. After a moment Varric could see the water begin to bubble and steam rise out of it. She handed Varric his still warm cup and said, “I apologize, I don’t have any milk or sugar.”

           Varric waved her off, “That’s alright. It’s not stream water or cheap ale, so it’s an improvement to what I’ve been drinking the past few days.”

           Varric took a sip and was happy to discover he had not been falsely optimistic. It was good, tasted a little like berries. The Herald took a sip of her tea before setting it back down and looking up at Varric, “So what can I help you with Mr. Tethras?”

           Varric chuckled, “Nothing.”

           Varric wouldn’t say the Herald looked shocked; maybe mild confusion would be more accurate. He continued, “You looked stressed and I decided to swing by to see if you needed to chat. Do you?”

           The Herald leaned back in her chair and took another sip of tea. Finally she sighed and nodded.

           “Okay then, lets start with names. Mr. Tethras is my father, everyone just calls me Varric.” Varric took a sip of his tea, “And, if you can believe it, in all the hubbub I didn’t catch your name. Cassandra and Solas call you Herald, the twins call you Rajha-whatever, but I don’t think I’ve heard someone use your actual name once.”

           The Herald looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding, “I think you’re right.” She extended a hand across the table, “Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

           Varric took her hand and shook it, “Nice to meet you Ellana of Clan Lavellan, been nice fighting with you for the past week.”

           “Likewise.”

           “So, you said that the twins are part of a different priesthood from you, right?”

           “Yes.”

           “So how did you meet them? You seem to know them pretty well. Do you all serve in one place or…”

           Varric wasn’t trying to pry- no that was lie. Varric was always trying to pry. He wasn’t trying to be invasive. However, he was really curious about these Dalish that seemed very different from the ones he had met. Daisy would get a kick out of them.

           Ellana smiled and said, “No. We all live at different temples. I met them when they were much younger. I was sixteen when I first joined the priesthood, and the twins arrived a few weeks after I took my vows. They had been orphaned, and they were only nine years old. I had been having a hard time settling into temple life so the Raj’ha’haren at the time assigned me to look after them while they got settled. She thought it would be good for all of us. She was right, as usual. Helping them get settled helped me to understand my own place in the temple a little better. I wound up practically raising those two. When they were seventeen they decided that the priesthood of Mythal wasn’t for them, and they went off to join different temples. I was invited to both of their initiations. I was so proud.”

           Ellana smiled to herself and took another sip of her tea. The smile only lasted a moment before the small crinkle appeared on her forehead again.

           Varric put his now empty cup down, “They’re your kids.”

           “As a priestess of Mythal I have had a hand in raising many children who came to our temple… but yes. Those two were special.”

           “And now they’re here.”

           “And now they’re here.”

           “Well shit, that can’t be easy.”

           Throughout the conversation Varric could see Ellana relax bit by bit, but now she almost slumped forward.

           “It’s not. I was the one who volunteered to take this risk. To come to the Conclave. After everything happened, I understood that I needed to stay and help; I had accepted the dangers because I needed to. But they don’t have to be here. They can go home. Be safe.”

           “You could tell them to leave.”

           “They wouldn’t listen, and I’d probably offend them. As much as I worry, they are both extremely capable. I just wish Sahren would stop picking at Cassandra. She’s uncomfortable enough as is. And Mythal give me strength if Rasa tries to pickpocket Leliana one more time. The Nightingale might actually have them killed.”

           “Or recruit them.”

           That got a chuckle out of her. While Ellana made Varric some more tea he asked, “So, what’s the scariest thing right now? Other than the obvious possibility of death and dismemberment.”

           “Well other than that.” Ellana handed him his tea, “I suppose it’s all the walking on egg shells. I’m not ashamed to talk about my people or my beliefs, as I suppose you’ve guessed by now.”

           Varric nodded an affirmative as Ellana continued, “But I’m still so nervous constantly that if I don’t mix in the right amount of deferment, agree just enough that ‘sure, maybe your goddess sent me’ that they’d get a little too frustrated and…”

           “They’re not going to kill you.”

           Ellana sighed and her shoulders slumped, “I know, but you didn’t say it had to be a reasonable fear. I’ve seen what humans will do when elves get a little to elvhen for their tastes. It rarely ends well. I was talking to Josephine the other day and bless her she was trying to talk to me about my people and ask questions, but she had so many misconceptions drilled into her brain. Scary ones. Is it terrible that I don’t always want to have to be the perfect elf? Back home I am a leader among my people, but I’m a leader on my own terms. They know me, and I can be myself. I was the youngest priest in a very long time to be chosen as Raj’ha’haren, and that didn’t come without a lot of hard work. But does Cassandra care? Does Cullen? No. They’d rather I stayed quiet about the whole elf thing and focus only on the Breach. Afterwards they can look back on their elf friend and clap themselves on the back about how tolerantthey were with her.”

           As she had been talking her voice had gotten louder and angrier. When she finished she realizer her volume and took a deep breath to compose herself. Varric could see her walls going back up as she said, “I apologize I shouldn’t have-”

           “Bull shit you shouldn’t have. It’s okay to vent. It’s okay to be pissed about this whole situation. And I’m not gonna sit here and lie to you and say that you shouldn’t worry and that you can be completely yourself, because you’re right, you can’t. But I will say I think you may be giving our compatriots too little credit. She may not seem like it, but I think Cassandra wouldn’t mind having an honest debate with you in your down time about religion. Maybe invite Mother Giselle and Josephine; it might be good for both of them. And don’t back down when they get frustrated, push through. You should also really introduce Sahren to Cullen because once they get past the obvious differences I really think those two would get along. And let me handle Rasa, they’re a decent thief, but they could be better.”

           Ellana smiled at him. A real smile. Not one of the smiles she shot at refugees who thanked her that exuded benevolence. Not a small one while speaking to Cassandra that worked hard to present her as non-threatening. No, this smile was a little crooked and made her eyes crinkle just slightly. She finished her second cup of tea and said, “It makes sense that Rasa isn’t a decent thief, it’s not what they trained to be.”

           “And what exactly did they train to be?”

           “A master assassin, they were visiting me from Antiva when I left.”

           “Wait what?”

Chapter 6: https://for-the-dales.tumblr.com/post/187109071729/chapter-6-solas

[gaysparkler]

Of Darkness and Light Within: Chapter 3

Rating: T

Summary: “If you’re looking to start a life, you could stay. I can help you.” Life had not been easy for Frederic Hawke since his family’s hasty departure from Lothering. Losing his town, his younger sister, everything he had ever known. With the help of newfound friends, including a mysterious white-haired elf, he keeps his enemies and his own darkness at bay. A retelling of canon events.

Pairing: Male Hawke x Fenris

AO3 Link: Here

The next days were hectic. Completing task after task, collecting coin until it no longer fit in Hawke’s purse. He had to find a hiding place to make sure that Gamlen would not put his hands on it. He enchanted the bag, too, to further assure that no one but him could open it. On the streets, he lost count of how many people wanted to kill him. After he refused to kill a noble who was helping out Ferelden refugees, Meeran said he would regret it. Hawke paid that price with unexpected daggers grazing his skin and an ambush. Thankfully, he had help to defeat him. He got out of the fight with new scars on his back.

One day, after getting rid of a group of pirates, as well as discovering a government conspiracy, Hawke counted the gold coins he had in his purse and was astonished to discover he had enough for the expedition. He hid the money again, then left the house to go visit Fenris. In his arms, he brought a large basket with food and blankets. He had suggested that he would help his friend settle in the house. He would not even be surprised to know that bodies still littered the hallways. He pressed the basket against his hip to free one of his hands and knock with the other. Fenris opened the door seconds later.

“I’ve brought supplies,” Hawke said, smiling.

“You really did not have to do that,” Fenris replied.

“Please,” Hawke walked in the mansion. “I know you must be freezing in there.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, tried to hide the small smile he could not repress and let Hawke set the basket down in his room, which was definitely the cleanest space in the house. Hawke pulled his hair back and tied it with a thin leather strap to keep it away from his face. He rolled his sleeves up, put his hands on his hips and glanced at Fenris.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?”

~~~

They spent the next hours scouting every room of the vast mansion, scrubbing floors and walls, Hawke intentionally avoiding using magic to help. Fenris was grateful, although he did not voice it. He hoped the small smiles were enough. Sometimes however, magic was necessary. When they stumbled upon a dead body, which happened a lot more often then Hawke wanted, Hawke would levitate the body off the floor and put it outside, where it could be safely…disposed of. Room after room, they cleaned, moved bodies away, threw out broken furniture, put books back on the shelves, swept the floors and straightened paintings and portraits until their stomachs rumbled with hunger. They took a small break, eating bread, cheese and apples on the floor of the room they were currently working on.

Fenris was dusting off a dresser when he froze. His eyes had wandered up the wall, to the portrait hung above the wooden piece of furniture. A likeness of Danarius, and it was so accurate and realistic that it was like standing in front of him once again. Hawke’s humming stopped. Fenris heard footsteps behind him, felt a new warmth at his side. His eyes would not leave the painting.

“Danarius?” Hawke asked. Fenris nodded. Hawke moved, reaching up to grab both sides of the frame and Fenris almost stopped him by force of habit, a twitch in his arms, his fingers curling over nothing, backing away when he realized what his body was doing without his head controlling his limbs. Hawke plucked the picture off the wall and walked outside, Fenris on his heels. He set the painting down on the gravel.

“Do you want me to do it?” Hawke asked, a small flame in his palm. Fenris shook his head. He ran back in, found his sword and brought it outside, where Hawke was waiting. With a nod, Hawke lifted the painting off the ground and held it in the air with magic. Fenris slashed though it with a scream. He felt his markings light up, the pain worsening. The two broken pieces floated still, so Fenris kept going. He cut again and again and again until the painting appeared to be more like dust than a frame, wood, and a canvas.

“Stand back,” Hawke warned. Fenris listened and Hawke snapped his fingers. Whatever was left of that likeness was burned away in seconds. They walked back in the mansion side by side. Fenris did not look back at the pile of ashes.

Night had fallen when all the rooms had finally been ordered. Fenris could finally breathe and smell clean air instead of decaying bodies and dried blood. He made a mental note to thank Hawke later for helping. Without him, he doubted he would have done much in the house. They retreated back to Fenris’ room, although now he could use any he wanted, and sat at the table by the fireplace. Fenris brought a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Would you like some?” he asked Hawke.

“Please,” Hawke courteously agreed. “I never had the chance to drink Tevinter wine.”

“I hate to bring your hopes up, but it tastes like despair and tears of slaves,” Fenris deadpanned. He could not hide the smile on his lips when Hawke laughed.

“You actually made a joke! I can’t believe it!”

They drank together, glass after glass, but not so much to get themselves completely drunk. The tips of Fenris’ ears felt warmer than usual.

“Your magic…It doesn’t feel like the one the Magisters use,” Fenris said, softly. Hawke smiled at him.

“I was always better at healing. Besides, my father did not want me and Bethany to use flashy fire spells, or anything dangerous. I used my magic to make scraped knees disappear, help out on the farm, or solve little issues in the village,” Hawke replied.

“Were you not scared of the Templars?”

“Of course I was. We used to move around a lot to avoid them. But, in Lothering, we didn’t want to leave. We had a lot of friends there, and me and Bethany were older. My parents were not as afraid that there would be accidents. So, we stayed. Until, well.” Hawke’s eyes left Fenris’ and stared at the floor instead. Hawke never pried when Fenris did not want to talk about something, so he dropped it.

“Why—how does your magic feel so gentle?” Fenris asked, changing the subject. Hawke immediately lightened up.

“I’m a healer,” he simply replied.

“I’ve seen your eyes glow sometimes. Are you like that abomination?”

“No! No, not exactly. I do call on the help of spirits, but I’m not possessed, not permanently anyway.” Fenris flinched ever so slightly, just enough for Hawke to notice. “When we came to Kirkwall, we came across a hoard of darkspawn. There was an ogre among them. Bethany ran forward—I still don’t understand why she did that, she never really used close-combat magic… She ran forward, and the ogre caught her in its hand,” Hawke’s voice was barely a whisper. He closed his eyes. Fenris’ hand twitched, so close to Hawke’s.

“It crushed her,” he continued. “Carver killed the beast when I went to her side. I tried to do something, but I wasn’t powerful enough. I felt—something, through the Fade. Calling to me, offering help. I accepted. My magic had never been so strong before. We worked together, but…it was too late. The spirit told me to let her go, and I had to. It left me, but it’s always close, ready to help if ever I need it.”

“I’m—” Fenris did not quite know how to reply to Hawke’s confession. “I am sorry for your loss, Hawke.”

“Thank you.” Hawke’s smile was sincere. “I hope I didn’t scare you off, with that spirit business.”

“Hardly,” Fenris replied, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re not like the other mages I’ve met.”

“Much more good looking, right?” Hawke asked with a humorous tone.

“Don’t push your luck.”

[loquaciousquark]

19th Cloudreach. Merrill called the clouds “grey and scuddy” today and she wasn’t wrong

Got a letter from Hubert today that the Bone Pit’s up unusually high for the quarterly profit report. Took the letter immediately to Varric, since I could hardly understand a word, but apparently they found a vein of silverite so large they had to hire a dozen extra miners to work it properly. Realized I hadn’t been out in ages, so V & Fenris & Merrill and I all trekked out to the wilderness.

Varric gets along so much better with Hubert than I do. I mean, he understands topics like quarterly profit margin reports, so I suppose it’s a business thing, but Hubert kept asking what I thought about overhead expense accrual and per diem provisions for the hired workers and it was all I could do to nod and make “hm” noises at appropriate intervals. Thank goodness Varric is kind enough to manage all this, because otherwise I’d have squandered it just as quickly as Gamlen did. Probably a little less whoring. Too bad he hadn’t a Varric all those years ago.

(Reminder: ask Varric what his percentage is. Whatever he’s taking, it should probably be higher.)

Something funny happened near the end of the visit, though. I commented that there didn’t seem to be any signs of nesting spiders or anything--they do love the deep crevices of the Pit--and Fenris said “thank goodness” in a way that made me think he was genuinely glad not to fight today. He said he was all right, but I saw him rolling his shoulders more than once on the way out, like there was an ache between them he couldn’t shake.

He said he was all right. Hm.

12th Bloomingtide. It’s been raining for days and there’s a puddle two inches deep in front of my house. Toby thinks it’s brilliant and hasn’t been clean since

He lost his grip on his sword today and almost got himself skewered by a woman with a pair of daggers. Got the assassin, thank goodness, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes after.

I think the markings are bothering him, but who in flames do I ask?

30th Bloomingtide, either very late or stupidly early; all I know is it’s dark and I can’t sleep

I’ve been thinking about Bethany all night. She would be--let me think. Twenty-three this year? Twenty-four. How old is Carver? Twenty-four.

Twenty-too-damn-young, anyway.

I wonder if Carver got my last package. It has ginger crisps in it that Orana made especially for him, though I did the icing. For as shabby as I am at that sort of thing, I thought they turned out well.

8th Justinian. Beautiful day today, sunny and breezy and full of chipper birds that have decided to roost directly outside my window at 5th damned bell

Fenris came by today, and I haven’t the faintest idea why. He asked how much I knew of magical healing, which is a foolish question considering how many years I’ve spent now healing him, and then he started a sentence four times, gave up, and left in a huff.

Sandal said “trapped,” after he left. Don’t I know it, friend.

In other news, that little bracelet I found a few months ago belongs to a very nice shopkeeper in Lowtown. She’d had it stolen by a gang of thieves one night and hadn’t ever thought to see it again. I’m just glad she happened to mention it as I was buying cedar oil, or it’d have lived in the bottom of my lost & found hoard forever.

22th Justinian. Hot, still sunny. Saw a ship with white sails and blue trim in the docks today and almost managed not to feel sad

Something’s definitely off with Fenris’s tattoos. We were clearing out a group of rogue Coterie just outside Anders’s clinic, and when Fenris went to reach into a man’s chest, he-- I don’t know how to explain it. It was as if he went too far. His whole body went clear as glass and he passed right through the man like a ghost. Took far too long to come back after, too, and when he finally did his hands were shaking so badly he ripped the lung and heart together. It was a bad death, and Fenris could hardly stand for it.

I went to see him a few hours after, and he was still in his bloody armor & wouldn’t let me in. He said this has happened before, that it passes soon enough and I shouldn’t worry. He said it’s like a strained muscle that must be given time to recover.

Of course, he was glowing while he said it, so it might not be the most accurate analogy I’ve ever heard.

24th Justinian

He was trying to ask me to help with his markings. I’m such an idiot.

29th Justinian. Hot, a bit muggy today with salt winds carrying in off the coast, but not as bad as last year

Took me another day to build up the courage to ask, but Fenris (finally!) has admitted his lyrium is bothering him. Also took half a bottle of wine and a great deal of coaxing but He says it’s happened before, that they suddenly start itching and aching and become terribly tender, that even his clothes are almost too much to deal with if they chafe. (It turns out that’s why he wears things cut so tight. All this time and I always thought he just had an aesthetic appreciation for chiseled thighs.) He says it often happens after a large magical battle, but not always.

He let me look at his arm, just to see. The skin is irritated all along the edges of the tattoos--I could help with that at least, a little--and I could tell there was something--something off, I suppose, about the lyrium itself, but I haven’t worked enough with it raw to know what exactly needs fixing. All my potion is made with refined lyrium that’s already been treated and processed for safe handling, and Fenris looked just disappointed enough when I told him so that it lit a fire under my motivation.

I’m still not sure where to look. Neither Anders nor Merrill know much about either the lyrium’s wrongness or the blood magic that bound it. Not that I really expected Fenris to allow them to prod, even if they did. He keeps insisting it always gets better and says it’s already a little improved from last week.

Then again, I watched him sit unnaturally still for almost fifteen minutes in the most awkward position just to keep the lyrium from creasing around his knees, so I remain unconvinced.

2nd August. Steamy hot--I swear I lost three pounds just walking down the stairs from Hightown

I’m either brilliant or insane. Or both, depending on Varric’s mood. I went to the Black Emporium today on a blind hunch, and when I told Xenon what I needed he gave a half-dozen thoughtful groans and sighs and then told his urchin to go fetch some book from the back stores.

It was written in a mixture of Tevene and the trade tongue (thank Andraste) but from what I could tell, it was an old manual on the process of refining lyrium, how to prepare it to hold magic. Then Xenon got very stern and told me he was a tradesman, not a library, and if I intended to continue propping up the wall while I finished reading an unpaid-for book he could think of much more permanent ways to make that happen.

He only charged me a handful of silver, though. Every time I think he’s giving me a good deal, I leave with a terrible sense of uneasiness. Still, I’m certain this is the key to whatever’s wrong with Fenris’s lyrium.

I did trim my hair a bit in that mirror while I was waiting. It was getting a bit unruly.

7th August. Rainshowers all day. Air’s so thick it’s like breathing bricks

Sandal said “trapped.” I need to start listening to him more. No wonder the healing didn’t help.

It makes sense they’d get more agitated after a magical fight, too, if they’re absorbing as much residual energy as this book implies. I wonder if a templar’s Silence would have the same effect on the tattoos as it does on me. Not that I have many friendly templars to ask. Cullen would probably do it, but I don’t want Meredith knowing anything more about Fenris than she does already.

I bet this will work. I’m almost sure of it. And if it doesn’t, no harm done--he’ll just still exist in an unending pain, that’s all. I’ve already sent a runner with a message for him to come over this evening, and Orana’s bringing up an old set of Carver’s sleeping clothes that are loose enough for what I need. Poor Fenris. Not bad enough he’s hurting already, now I’m putting him in pants four sizes too large and telling him to stay put while I feel him up, down, and sideways.

Ah, I hear him downstairs. Andraste, give me strength and patience and actually, composure now that I think about it

Later, almost midnight

It worked. It worked! I’ve snuck away and am writing this by the barest wisp of magelight because I’ve got to note it all down now, while it’s fresh, but Maker’s blood and bone it worked.

It’s not healing, it’s a cleanse. Almost--almost a dispelling, really. It has to be general, not specific--Kirkwall’s got so much sundry magic just floating around everywhere that to try to clean it out piece by piece and spell by spell would take a thousand years, which means my father’s interminable lessons on magical foundations have at last proved themselves useful.

We started at his hands. I’ve never seen anything like it. I had my eyes closed to begin with, since I didn’t know quite what I was looking for, but once I found the lyrium’s...heart? is that the right word? I could feel the crusty--scales, almost, layered over it. Any healer can do it, I think, if you’ve got enough sense to know what’s healthy and what’s sick. It’s a similar principle to mending bruises. Just go in from the healthy side, the deep place beneath where it’s hurt, and slide a little knife’s edge of magic between that and the scale over it, and just--just peel it off. Like a scab, but made of light.

I could see the glowing through my closed eyes. I opened them in time to see a faint...oh, I can’t find the words tonight. Almost like a skeleton of blue-edged white light hovering an inch or two above his actual lyrium tattoos, in the same shape as his fingers and the backs of his hands. And then I let it all go because I was startled, and the skeleton--shattered, like two fistfuls of silver glitter.

I will say Fenris looked ready to jump right out the window (you’d think he’d know by now everything I touch becomes unnecessarily dramatic), until he clenched his hands reflexively and noticed they didn’t hurt. Well. “Hardly at all,” is what he said, but knowing him that could mean anything from a splinter to being run through with a tree trunk.

So we kept going. We did both his hands and then went all the way up his right arm to his shoulder and halfway up his left before he had to take a break. He said it didn’t hurt, the process, but it was uncomfortable and made his skin buzz.

We broke for dinner, then, and I noticed he kept looking at his hands as we ate. (He said later it was because it didn’t hurt to hold the fork. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he ate without even a twinge, and I had to blink very hard at my potatoes to keep from welling over. Thank the Maker’s grace for lumpy tubers.)

It’s not a quick process. It took over an hour all told to cleanse his arms, and another hour for his back and chest each. I will say he handled my pawing at his bare skin extremely well and didn’t even blink when I told him he had to take off his shirt. I will say I did not and my throat is still flushed because at the core of me is a little girl who refuses to grow up, even when I desperately wish she would.

There was something beautiful in it, though, seeing each little curve and dot lifting out of his skin like that into the air, shining there for a moment in the dark, and then...scattering into nothing. Lovely and achingly sad.

He stopped me once we were done with his chest. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he also looked terribly exhausted and he said the buzzing was getting to him (I paraphrase), so when I suggested he stay and sleep here, he only nodded and curled down right into my pillow instead of going downstairs like I’d thought. The only reason I’ve got as much written down as I have is that he’s sleeping like the dead and I have to keep checking that he’s still breathing.

I would very much like to comment on how nice it is to be sleeping next to him tonight, but that seems only to invite heartsickness right in with open arms. I will say, instead, that his hands smell like cheap soap, and when he is very tired he snores.

8th August. Still muggy, though not raining nearly as much as yesterday

He wanted to tell me that Danarius had been thorough when he designed the tattoos, in case I hadn’t remembered. I wasn’t a fool this time.

I wasn’t a child, either. I should so very much like to tear out that beast’s heart, only Fenris has first rights.

We got down to both his knees before lunch. I should like to imagine his pain shattering away along with the scales, but I’m not so naive to think it’s all quite so easy to reach.

How much must it have cost Fenris to let me this far behind his guard?

Late evening. I've cracked a window; breeze is moist but cool

Oddly enough, his feet have been the most intimate part of this whole affair. There was a moment this afternoon... he was sitting on the side of the bed, and I was cross-legged on the ground with his foot in my lap, and I happened to glance up, and there was a single moment...

I can’t describe his face properly. Gentle in a way I’ve never seen from him. A good sort of tired longing. And bitter, and so angry, but an old anger that’s burned away all the heat and just sits iron-cold in the pit of your stomach. All of that in one fleeting instant, and then he folded it away layer by layer like someone putting bedlinens back on a shelf. He smiled at me after as if to chase away the image, but it wasn’t a fraction as real.

Anyway, his feet have calluses a quarter-inch thick on the heel, and he made the most peculiar sounds when I was working on the markings alongside them. He said the buzzing--well, he didn’t say tickled, but he surely flinched like it. Should I ever find myself in a position to mercilessly abuse this information, I plan to do so to the fullest extent. Isabela would be proud.

He stood up when I was finished with his feet and nearly knocked me over. He didn’t mean to, he just--walked around my room, slow and then fast and then slow again, and picked things up and put them down, and rolled his shoulders back and forth and bent down and touched his toes. It was all easy, effortless, not a hitch in a single motion.

He said nothing hurt. He said it was one of the best night’s sleeps he’d had in years, and that was even before I’d done the rest of the tattoos. He couldn’t remember the last time he could sit down or cross his arms without needing to brace himself first.

He was so eager to simply move. He didn’t notice, thank goodness, but I had to wipe my eye a bit from all the inconvenient emotions.

I made him sit again for the last part, which was his throat and the lines up over his chin. I’m much better at this now--next time it’ll take half as long--and in the afternoon sun we could hardly see the little ghost-lights until they disappeared in their starbursts at the end.

He

this is so

He kissed me when we were through. I was bent very close and my hands were on his face, and then the last of the light vanished and he reached up and held my chin with his thumb, right where his own markings would be, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t an accident, and I didn’t pull back until he did. He apologized for his impulsiveness and I waved it off, but I know... I’m certain he meant it, even after.

He looked me right in my eyes when he thanked me. There was no bitterness in his face then, only gladness and a frank relief, and when he left his steps were lighter than I’ve seen them in ages. He carried the sword like it weighed nothing at all. I hadn’t realized how stiffly he’s been moving these last few months.

I told him to let me know the instant the lyrium started hurting again and he said he would. Shit. Was I worried about inviting in heartsickness earlier? At this point it’s a better bedfellow than Toby. I ought to have recognized it sooner.

And yet...he left happy. Not hurting, for the first time in a very long time.

I’d give a year of my life if it meant he could feel this way for the rest of his.

16th August. Fair, sunny

He left me a gift. It was by my plate when I came down for breakfast: a neat little penknife in black oak and brass, and he’d tied a pair of feathers to the ring. Hawk feathers, both of them a deep red.

He left a note as well. “In gratitude, Fenris.” He wrote it himself.

For someone who repeatedly professes no knowledge of the softer things in life, this man is extraordinarily proficient at stamping my heart into little pieces. I draw comfort only from the blatantly unfair judgement of his terrible penmanship.

Damn him! Next time I’m telling him if he puts more than an ounce of thought into a thank-you gift I’m chucking him headfirst into the Waking Sea.

[i-dropped-the-chief]

Good Day

A little chapter posted on “It Was A Long Story” 

“So?” Varric quietly murmured to Hawke. They stood next to each other near the entrance of the Champion’s gardens, regarding the small figure quietly sitting on a bench and reading a book. She donned a large, floppy hat that shielded her from the heat of the Kirkwall sun, even though she never once burned. “What kind of day is she having?”

“A better one,” Hawke quietly answered. “She ate today and wasn’t sick. Cracked a few jokes. Only had one coughing fit, and even that was short.”

Varric smiled, but it was more bittersweet than happy. “That’s good.” A heavy pause. “What was Blondie’s verdict?” It was a struggle to make sure his voice didn’t crack.

Hawke’s voice didn’t crack, either, but it got a few octaves lower to hide the pain. “Between the seizures and the breathing fits…Varric, she’s not going to be here much longer.”

The statement merely vocalized what they had all known for some time. It didn’t make Varric feel any better. But he put on a brave face and walked forward, up to Alaran. She turned her head to him when he put his hand on her bony, narrow shoulder and smiled.

“Hey, Al,” Varric easily greeted. “How’s it going?”

She set her sketchpad and charcoal aside and smirked. Al’s face alone gave away her visible illness. Her cheekbones were sallow and dark circles rimmed her violet eyes. “It’s going well, Varric. And you?”

Varric took a seat beside her, ignoring how frail she was compared to him. “Not bad. I had a good breakfast, listened to Aveline and Anders bicker for a while, got some work done for the Merchant’s Guild.”

Alaran softly snorted. “That sounds pretty boring, if you ask me.”

“The good days usually are the boring ones, Al.”

She gently laid her hand over his and gave it a light squeeze. Varric’s throat started to burn for some odd reason. “You look sad, today,” Alaran noted. Violet eyes searched his face in worry. Worry. Maker, how could she worry about him when she was the one dy—

Varric had to look away. Shame was sharp in his chest. “Oh, Varric.” Alaran took off her hat so she could rest her weary head on his shoulders. He moved his arm so he could draw her close to him while he held back unwanted tears. Shit. Shit. Since when did Varric care so much about her?

Since when had he grown to love her like his own?

“Look,” Alaran said, drawing his attention to her sketchpad. “What do you think of it?”

His chuckle scraped against a raw throat. “I think it’s one of the best drawings I’ve ever seen.”

“Liar,” Al smirked. “Though, I do have to admit I’m pretty funny. Fenris would make a very good lantern in the dark, if need be. You know, because of his tattoos?” She flipped a page and Varric laughed at its contents again. “And here’s what Hawke would look like if he was a Mabari. I think I got the proportions accurate.”

“Yeah, his legs would be stumpy.”

Al continued to show Varric sketches she had done, both funny and beautiful. How was it possible for someone to have such talent?

He read to her when she started feeling tired. They sat together under a warm spring day, enjoying the sunlight and the smell of fresh grass in the garden. Isabela and Merrill came to visit later on, followed by Fenris, Aveline and Donnic. Al sat there listening to them talk. She liked doing that; a small smile flickered on her face as their inane and pointless conversations filled the air.

Choir Boy came with a bouquet of flowers for her in the evening. He liked Al, in the beginning, always blushing and stammering whenever she spoke to him. Now he treated her like an old friend, hiding the sadness behind blue eyes.

Al could still see their pain. She was too smart not to. But she hardly said anything about it. Al had accepted her situation, and only hoped that they would too after she passed.

Hawke came with Anders when the light started to dwindle. Blondie checked her breathing, checked her eyes, checked everything. It wasn’t to see if there had been any improvement; it was just the routine. Al let him do his work with ease, used to the poking and prodding more than she should have been.

Isabela braided Al’s hair and Merrill placed flowers in between white strands. Hawke dramatically reenacted a fight scene with an equally undramatic Fenris, and Alaran clapped at the end of it. When dinner was brought out, she picked at the food on her plate while everyone pretended not to notice.

Aveline eventually rounded everyone up and chased them out of the estate. Al got a kiss on her bony cheek by each of them before they left. The stars were out, by then, faint and distant compared to the full moon shining down on the gardens.

Shining down on Al. And for a moment, with her hair glowing with moonlight and stars captured in violet eyes, Varric swore she transcended mortality.

“Goodnight, Varric,” Al whispered as she hugged him. Her words were lucid, were her.

“Night, kiddo,” he said back. Al left him, supported by Garrett for the initial walk across the parlor floor before being picked up by him when they reached the staircase. He carried her with gentleness, with love. Those shoulders weren’t usually that upright, but when they held Alaran they were.

Varric left the estate, scents of lavender hanging on his shoulders.

-

Alaran was found in the garden the next day, as still as the gray morning light. She had put her floppy hat on and rested at the bench. An unopened sketchbook sat at her side, and charcoal dropped at her feet clad in too-big socks.

When Varric was awoken by a knock on his door, he knew Al had left them.

They buried her on the Wounded Coast. There was a hillside Al loved that was thoroughly picked clean of elfroot, no thanks to her. It had soil instead of sand, so she could be laid to rest without disturbance.

Merrill crowned her with lavender. Isabela dressed her in white. Aveline lined the casket with dark blue linen. Anders constructed a small stack of stones to mark her grave. Fenris placed a pouch of dried apples in her hand and Sebastian conducted the service.

There were more people that came, too. Bodahn and his boy rightfully attended, as did Gamlen. Carver’s eyes were red-rimmed the whole time, and Cullen Rutherford couldn’t stop his throat from bobbing up and down. Lirene the Fereldan shop owner handed out handkerchiefs, and even a couple of workers from the Blooming Rose were there, clinging to each other while they softly sobbed. Members from the Carta risked being around Aveline and Donnic to pay their respects. Dockworkers, elves, Tal-Vashoth—people from all walks of life had come to see Alaran one last time.

The sun was bright and gulls cried over ocean waves as dirt covered a casket that would never be opened again.

Hawke left his socks on her feet.

Varric kept the sketchbook. He figured Al wouldn’t mind if he held onto it. And with the next few weeks—the next few years—Varric knew he’d need something to give him a good laugh.

-

“This Birdie,” Solas said as they walked through the Hinterlands, “who was she?”

“Elusive,” Cassandra called a bit sourly from ahead. “Some wonder if she was real at all.”

“Oh, she was real, Seeker,” Varric chuckled. After all this time, the thought of that white-haired elf still tugged at his heart. “Real, and amazing.”

“The book stopped mentioning her,” Solas continued. “I was just wondering what happened. And I can’t believe I’m the only one.”

Varric sighed. “She died, Chuckles. Got real sick one day and didn’t get better. Nothing could be done.”

Cassandra glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp with curiosity. “What was her name, if I may ask?” Solas inquired.

“Al,” Varric replied. The nickname felt heavy on his tongue. “Alaran, I mean. Her name was Alaran.”

Solas slowed to a stop. When Varric looked back to the apostate, he was surprised to see a look of utter sadness. He gripped his staff for support as too-old eyes gazed upon something Varric couldn’t see.

“You knew her, Chuckles?” Varric asked, unsure if he wanted to hear an answer.

After a moment, Solas straightened and began walking again. “Once,” he replied. “A long time ago.”

[auridesion]

Dear tumblr, I hate you.

I come here for a daily dose of Dragon Age because Fenris is my one true love.  But not all of you are purists like me

Some of you are into this game called “Mystic Messenger” — and for too long I’ve been forced to see your posts about it amid the Dragon Age posts I want on my specially curated feed.

More and more, with exponentially growing frequency, I’ve seen fan-art and fan posts about “Jumin” and “Saeran” and “V” and all those other Mystic Messenger characters.  

And dammit!  You win!  >_<

I finally gave into curiosity and played the damn thing, fully expecting that it would be some super cheesy dime-a-dozen otome game.

I didn’t expect a wonderful story that draws on my every favorite K-drama trope with voiced characters!  And I NEVER EXPECTED TO FALL IN LOVE...!!!

This is all your fault, tumblr —

Seven by Auridesion

Please note:  Because the source material is anime/manga-style art, many of the characters seem racially ambiguous.  I know he's Korean, but he really shouldn't have naturally red hair and amber eyes if he's Korean; I couldn't wrap my head around how he's supposed to look in reality because the illustrations in the game are so unrealistic with facial features.  So, I apologize if this comes across as white-washing our beloved Saeyoung — that was definitely not my intention.  Because I doubt I'll have him out of my system anytime soon, I'll probably paint him again looking more accurately Korean next time.  xD

707 / Luciel / Saeyoung and Mystic Messenger are property of Cheritz. Painted with Adobe Photoshop CC 2014 and Wacom Intous Pen and Tablet.

[sparemyocs]

Listening

"There's something I... should ask you about Tevinter." Dorian's eyes rose to the other man from the book he'd been reading. "Oh. Should ask me, hm? Says who?" "...The Imperium is the center of the slave trade, isn't it?" Ah yes, this topic was bound to come up eventually. Admittedly it was foolhardy of the other man to have left it for after they'd started... whatever it was they'd started. This was going to be a very fun conversation. "Ah, that is true," Dorian confirmed, the usual mirth gone from his voice. He set the book aside, slowly standing up from his comfortable chair. "And...? Did you own any slaves?" The Herald folded his arms, eyes a bit wide and searching the human's face. "No... but my family did. So far as I was aware they were treated quite well." Dorian made sure never to look away, as badly as he wanted to. There was no way this conversation would go well but... After so many kind words, he didn't want to seem a coward to his amatus. Still, for a moment his fingers slotted together before he could force his arms back to his sides. "So far as you were aware?" "It... never seemed like my business. Truthfully, I never even thought about it until I saw how different things were in the South. Back home... Well, it's just how it is. I'm not even sure most slaves really thought about it." "I think you're underestimating them," the elf snapped. Already hitting sour notes it seemed. "All of them? In the South you have Alienages. Slums both human and elven, and the desperate have no way out! Back home a poor man can sell himself. As a slave he can have a position of respect, com-" "Respect!? Excuse me!? What 'respect' is there exactly in being a slave? Where, pray tell, does this magical 'respect' come from?" Hanhari's arms straightened out to his sides, teeth gritted and bared. Dorian felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle and his face pinch in displeasure at the display. "If you wanted to know my thoughts on the matter, you could at least let me finish." "I wasn't being rhetorical." The human huffed, sour expression holding, "Status, from his family. The comfort of knowing his children would never go hungry." "Unless they were sold away of course. I've heard tales to the contrary." "Well perhaps you shouldn't believe every tale of Tevinter excess you hear." "I do at least believe what I've seen Dorian. Scars speak louder than any of your deflections." "Whose scars?" Certainly not his own. The only scar Dorian could actively think of on the man was the one on his back from escaping Haven. Whatever others there were weren't that noteworthy. "We can talk about that later. If the mighty Scion of House Pavus can get over his apparent disregard for the dragon that's been lounging at the foot of the bed!" Hanhari looked away, grimacing and waving his hand off at the other. Dorian sneered at the haughty movements, "You seemed fine with that so-called 'dragon' last night, amatus." The proceeding slap nearly sent Dorian into the nearest bookcase. By the time he recovered, his amatus was gone.

"Whew, it looks like you opened a Fade rift in here Glowy." The elf at the far balcony scoffed softly, not turning around. He had his arms braced wide against the top of the stone railing as he looked over his domain. Probably trying to calm himself down. "Look, I never thought I'd say this, but try not to be too hard on the guy. He spent his whole life swimming through shit. Some of it was bound to stick. Not to mention, Sparkler's a good guy. I bet if you talk instead of yell, he'll listen. Especially to you." "...That's easier said than done Varric." The dwarf shrugged and threw out his hands in exasperation, even if he knew the gesture would go unseen. "Fine. Do you want to talk about it? The rest of Skyhold already is." Varric almost felt bad when he saw the elf flinch. "...I still love him. He's still incredible. But 'I haven't thought about it' is not an acceptable answer." "Then make him think about it." He had to admit, for how tumultuous their relationship could be, Hawke and Fenris had always done a pretty good job conducting themselves in public. Even with Broody having basically no experience with healthy relationships. "And if he doesn't.... Change his mind? If he can't see it for what it is?" The Inquisitor whined softly, "It'd ruin everything." "Your 'dragon' metaphor was pretty accurate you know. You can't ignore a deal breaker. If you never talk to him again then it's already over." "I don't know if I can be reasonable about it." "And I don't blame you, but if you want this to work you'll need to try. And don't expect him to magically 'get it' with just one conversation." Varric sighed, rubbing the back of his head and looking to the ground. "...Nobody would blame you for walking away Inquisitor." "...Thank you Varric. I... need to think about this more." "Sure thing Inquisitor."

Dorian was not nearly as drunk as he wanted to be. Blackout drunk would be good, but ignoring the glares in the tavern was impossible. All through Skyhold, someone had something to hiss at him. Nastier things than usual, anyway. As if losing his amatus wasn't bad enough. He'd spent most of the last three days away from the library, instead he was hiding out in his room trying to make his limited supply of books and alcohol last. So far he'd only been leaving to do things like eat or bathe, so he was surprised to find a book on his bed after one of these such trips. It even had a little note.

'It's time to start thinking about it – Varric'

Dorian tried not to turn up his nose at the intrusion and looked at the book instead.

'Tevinter: A Country of Denial by Potitia Tertia'

Well that title was extremely on the nose, wasn't it? But it wasn't like he had anything to lose, and at a glance the author seemed to be Tevene so it hopefully wouldn't be completely preachy, uninsightful garbage. Maybe. Perhaps Varric had chosen it for just that reason. The man was painfully good when it came to knowing how other people worked. He felt his lip twitch up when the dedication was 'To the country that likely banned this book.'

Dorian barely looked up when Hanhari let himself in, buried in his book and lounging on his bed. He'd need to do more research on his of course but... "It's... all a bit more twisted than I would have liked to think." "A bit?" Hanhari pressed. The black haired man sighed, setting the tome aside. "Fine, fine... It's a great deal worse. Why can't my countrymen not live up to their stereotypical reputations even once? Just once might be nice." "You really didn't know?" "Propaganda and pride are both very powerful things when you never see anything to suggest something different. ...Or perhaps I did and simply didn't take it for what it really was, so I can't remember. I heard stories of course, but stories are easy to dismiss. 'Oh it's an exception to the rule, oh they blew it out of proportion, pay no mind.' It's never been my fight, my business. It scarcely seems to be yours either, frankly." The other mage sat down beside him on the bed, "What do you see when you look at me Dorian?" "I see... my amatus, the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, a mage, a man... Short red hair, beautiful skin, kind eyes..." He sighed softly, delaying no longer as he noticed Hanhari's scowl deepening, "and an elf." "You can't pretend that last one isn't important Dorian." "Can't I? I'd adore you no more if you were human." "It's a part of my identity Dorian. A vital one I might add." "Wouldn't it be easier if it wasn't?" Hanhari sneered, lip curling up to expose one of his canines, "I don't know. Would your life be any easier if your sexuality was less vital to you?" Low blow, but it made his point. ...Was that really what it was like? Maybe not exactly but as a thought... "Ah... Point taken I suppose... I'm sorry. I must sound like an ignorant fool." The Dalish man deflated, "For what it counts... You are a very eloquent ignorant fool, 'ma'lath." The elf smiled at the other softly then. "I... I'm glad you're at least willing to listen. Most... people aren't so willing." Dorian smiled sadly back, "Ah, but is just listening enough?" "No, but it's a start. ...I'm sorry as well. I... made our fight very public. That was cruel of me." "As long as you don't hate me amatus, I don't care what anyone else thinks. I'm sure once they see we've made up they'll cull their contemptuous behavior for a while anyway. ...Are you sure about this however?" The Dalish man laid down next to him, turning onto his side to face the human. "More sure than I should be, considering. ...But I trust you, ar lath ma Dorian." Dorian felt his brow raise slightly, "Hold on, now, don't get me wrong, I'm completely flattered but... You said that in the wrong order." "Huh?" The elf sat up on his elbow. "I said what in the wrong order?" "Well alright, maybe it's not 'wrong', but it was different that time. It's usually 'ma lath', not 'lath ma'." "Oh... I did." "Now I'm curious, what are you saying?" "...My love." "...Oh. ...So just now, you were saying..." "I love you." Dorian had to swallow a few times before speaking again. "...I... Maker's breath- You choose to say such a thing now? Right after our first serious fight?" He blinked a few times, looking away from the human and down at his own knees. "I've... We'll I've never had a particularly fortunate sense of timing honestly. To be fair, I wasn't counting on your pressing." "...You are ridiculous." "Can I stay in your room tonight? With you?" Dorian bit down any expletives that wanted to come up at the sudden question. "With me? In my own room? Never, you will stay here without me while I go and use yours." The smile flashed across the elf's face and his soft laugh soothed the Tevinter's nerves. "Well, if you insist. At least it will smell like you," Hanhari looked up at him and settled back down against the bed, "that will make it easier to sleep while I miss you." "You play so dirty amatus, now I can't go." "Good."

[ponticle]

Day 8: Seminar, Day 4, Afternoon [9-Day Anderstair Challenge]

[masterpost - a linked order for this entire series is available on the main story summary page]

[read it on ao3]

Chapter Summary:  Alistair and Anders recover from the revelations of their morning and Alistair gives his lecture. Anders can't decide if the group text is helping or hurting. Rated T/M: nothing racy, but the whole tone is still sort of adulty. :)

We spend the rest of the morning curled against each other in bed, whispering about anatomy and physiology���it's innocuous and it helps get my head back into a safe place.

Eventually, though, we have to go to a session. If I don’t do enough of these, I’m going to be in trouble when I get back to school. Alistair lets me choose which one. We slide into seats in the back of ‘Concussion impact on the cervical spine in adolescents.’ It’s interesting objectively, but not something either of us really encounters.

Alistair takes out his notebook and writes to me:

Alistair: Be honest; have I been damaging you all week?

I squint. I understand what he means, but it couldn’t be further from accurate.

Anders: No. I have been so happy, actually.

Alistair doesn’t look convinced. He pulls the notebook back in front of him and writes something longer. It’s at an angle where I can’t read it as he’s writing.

When he passes it back, I grab it too obviously. The teacher probably knows we’re not paying attention—I feel like a jerk.

Alistair: Andy… I just want to make sure you’re okay. And the more I think about this, the more terrible I feel. You’re so important to me… and I just… if there’s anything you need, I want you to tell me. Okay?

It’s a strange thing for him to say. I have a list of demands at the ready, but I will never tell him those. They go something like: ‘get divorced,’ ‘move back in with me,’ ‘help me study for exams—preferably naked,’ and, ‘marry me?’

Yeah. I can’t say any of that.

Anders: Thank you for saying that. But I’m okay—I promise. Let’s just try to enjoy the time we have left together, okay?

I watch him read that last part. His eyes track from left to right. When he reaches the end of the sentence, he squints like he doesn’t understand what I mean. Then he looks up at me with the strangest expression on his face—something between misery and outrage. I have no idea what it means.

The presenter starts to pick people at random from the audience to answer questions and we look up, the notebook forgotten and questions hanging in the air between us.

At the end of the class, we have lunch together, but Alistair doesn’t each much. He’s just pushing food around on his plate, I notice.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He shrugs, “I know I should be freaking out about my presentation, but… I can’t think about anything but you, to be honest.”

My cheeks feel warm.

“You’re going to do great, I think,” I offer.

He smiles, “I’m going to try… maybe I’ll do better without being so focused on it, actually… I sometimes get inside my head when I have to give grand rounds presentations and fumble the words—talk too fast…”

“I can’t wait to see you up there…” I smile.

He laughs, “Don’t get too excited—it’s a pretty boring lecture.”

I reach across to grab a fry off his plate. I don’t even ask; it feels so natural. “I’m sure that isn’t true.”

“Okay, you caught me,” he smirks, “I happen to think it’s super interesting and informative… but as you said this morning, I’m a huge nerd…”

An hour later, Alistair looks so nervous behind the podium. It doesn’t help that we’re all looming over him—stadium-style lecture halls must feel so imposing from that angle.

I find a seat three rows from the front and smile down at him. Other people file in. We still have seven or eight minutes until the whole thing is supposed to start.

A woman with long dark down hair sits down next to me. The seating is very close. I feel like we're in the same bubble of air.

“Hi,” she smiles and pushes a piece of hair out of her face. “I'm Alice.”

“Hello,” I shake her hand and smile. I'm not used to people being so friendly.

“Have you seen him speak before?” she gestures with her eyes toward Alistair and blushes slightly.

I can't suppress a smile, “Not in this setting.”

She looks at me quizzically. “Are you one of his students?”

“No… just a friend,” I mumble. Friend seems highly insufficient, but he has a wife, and this stranger might know it. With my luck, she's Icis’ cousin or childhood friend.

“Lucky you,” she laughs.

While I mull that over, she opens her notebook and organizes her lecture notes.

“So where do you practice?” I ask.

“Nowhere yet,” she smiles. “I'm a resident at Columbia. Dr. Theirin is one of our attendings, but he's not mine—I just see him at grand rounds for presentations. His research is amazing.”

I realize I'm beaming. His successes feel like my successes, even though I have no claim to him.

“What about you? Where is your practice?”

“I'm still in school, actually,” I blush. “At BU.”

“Oh. That’s where he went, right?”

I nod. I’m slightly scared by how much she knows about him.

“Well, it's great that you're getting a chance to see him so early in your career—he's amazing.” Her pupils dilate when she looks at him. It's ridiculous. I know the feeling of an intellectual crush, but this seems extreme.

Suddenly, the lights dim. I realize the whole lecture hall has filled while we were talking.

“All right, everyone” says Alistair. “Thank you for being here. We are going to be tackling lumbar spine instability today, which is one of the most common things you'll see in practice.”

Alice winks. “Isn't he charming?”

I guess he is. The most charming person I've ever known, actually. The only person to ever make me feel like this—the only one I've ever been in love with.

I smile and nod, then let my eyes drop back to my papers. He's provided all of us with a PowerPoint printout. He's so accommodating.

“Anders?” calls Alistair. He clears his throat, “Anders?”

I laugh and blush. I didn't hear him in the midst of all this mental chatter. “Yes, Doctor?”

He smiles, “Can I have you come up here?”

Alice prods me encouragingly.

I don't have a choice, really. When a professor asks you to come up for demonstration, you do it. I manage to traverse seven strangely-deep stairs and stand next to him awkwardly.

“Fantastic,” he says. It's loud enough to be for the crowd, but he only looks at me. “I picked Anders to help me here today because I know he has excellent core stability…” the crowd laughs politely.

“What are you doing?” I mouth.

He smiles.

“Okay, Anders, let me have you demonstrate some things…”

Two hours later, the lecture is over. I’m actually sort of exhausted from all the planks and dead-bugs and stability testing he made me do on top of the six-ish miles we ran earlier.

Alistair is approached by a variety of students and doctors—each one with unique questions. I'm amazed by his thoughtfulness and candor in answering. He's my hero. Dorian comes up to heckle him, but eventually tells him he did a great job. Dorian also makes some sort of snide comment about my ‘fitness’ that I try to ignore.

My deskmate, Alice, also has a variety of things to say to him. I try to wait it out, but I don’t see the end in sight.

Eventually, I head for the exit, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey?” he smiles. “Can I buy you dinner?”

How could I say no?

“Yeah, okay,” I laugh, “where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere—you pick,” he whispers.

I'm blushing, but I can't reject him. I want to soak up as much of this as possible.

“Okay… I have to attend one more lecture to fulfill my requirements today, though—can I meet you in your room later?” I ask.

He nods and hands me a key to his room. “Just don't take too long.”

Anders: hey guys… what’s up?

Hawke: holy shit, Andy… where have you been?

I’ve been avoiding the group text because I don’t want to deal with anything judgmental. But at this point, I’ve had it. I need a reality check.

Anders: I’ve been fucking Alistair all week.

No one says anything for a while.

Anders: and we've been going to lectures together… and eating meals together… and hanging out with his friends together… and sleeping in bed together…

Hawke: Oh god, Andy…

Anders: I know…

Merrill: well, have you had ‘the talk’?

Anders: No. I’m too scared.

Merrill: what are you scared of?

Anders: Listen… I already know what he’s going to say… his wedding was in August—I know that… I remember when Renee got the invitation last year.

Fenris: if you know then why are you still doing this? Furthermore, why is he?  

Fenris is right, of course. It’s a really shitty thing to do to Icis, but I’m selfish when it comes to him.

Fenris: I mean... Is this really the kind of person he is?

Anders: No! I mean... I don’t know… anything, really.

I remember thinking that he’d never be the type to cheat before… but we saw how that worked out… I don’t like the feeling of being on the other side of it—it makes my skin crawl.

Anders: I just want him so much… not just for right now—I want him forever.

Hawke: Andy, I’m getting a little concerned about you…

I wish he hadn’t said that exact thing. Once, in college, I got a little obsessed with something… it almost ended really badly. Hawke was the one to pull be back from the brink. He said ‘concerned’ like that then too. In this scenario, I know he’d think nothing of flying the whole gang out here to stage an intervention. I have to reassure him that I’m still sane—even if I’m not sure that’s true.

Anders: I’m okay, Garrett. I’m just going to go to the next lecture and try to cool off. Thanks, though.

Hawke: Okay… well, we’ll see you back in Boston tomorrow.

Oh god. Tomorrow? I’m not ready.