#Josephine and Mercie

[quo-usque-tandem]

Josephine and Mercie by Edmund Tarbell

[thedeafprophet]

Thumbnail for a tarot concept with Josephine and @house-of-mirrors' Orsinio. discordance and doubles and all of that ~

okay noted things: background is darkness broken by the sky and stars.. Josephine is staring in ponderance at the upright cup vs O being firm and staring ahead....

[the-mercy-workers]

Be good, love the Lord, pray for those who do not know Him. What a great grace it is to know God!

St Josephine Bakhita

[writing-with-sophia]

20 Victorian-era names for girls

Adelaide: Derived from the Germanic name Adalheidis, meaning "noble" or "of noble birth."

Beatrice: Derived from the Latin name Beatrix, meaning "she who brings happiness" or "blessed."

Charlotte: Of French origin, meaning "free" or "petite."

Clara: Derived from the Latin word clarus, meaning "clear" or "bright."

Edith: Derived from the Old English name Ēadgyð, meaning "prosperous in war" or "blessed."

Eleanor: Derived from the Old French form of the name Aliénor, meaning "bright," "shining," or "light."

Florence: Derived from the Latin name Florentia, meaning "flourishing" or "prosperous."

Genevieve: Derived from the Old Germanic name Genovefa, meaning "woman of the race" or "tribe woman."

Georgiana: Feminine form of George, meaning "farmer" or "earth-worker."

Harriet: Derived from the French name Henriette, meaning "home ruler" or "ruler of the household."

Isabella: Derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba, meaning "God is my oath" or "devoted to God."

Josephine: Feminine form of Joseph, meaning "God will add" or "God increases."

Lillian: Derived from the Latin name Lilium, meaning "lily" or "pure."

Matilda: Derived from the Germanic name Mahthildis, meaning "mighty in battle" or "strength in battle."

Penelope: Of Greek origin, meaning "weaver" or "duck."

Rosalind: Derived from the Germanic elements hros, meaning "horse," and lind, meaning "soft" or "tender." But the meaning later changed to mean "lovely rose", from the Latin rosa lindaI.

Victoria: Derived from the Latin word victoria, meaning "victory" or "conqueror."

Winifred: Derived from the Old English name Winefrið, meaning "friend of peace" or "blessed peacemaking."

Prudence: Derived from the Latin word prudentia, meaning "foresight" or "wisdom."

Clementine: Derived from the Latin name Clemens, meaning "merciful" or "gentle."

More names

[dippedinmelancholy]

I’ve heard that DA:I was originally planned for the MC to only be able to be human, so idk if this is intentional or not by the devs.. .

Playing Lavellan, regardless of gender or sexuality, is just so insanely isolating and depressing, especially if you’re someone like me who latched on SUPER hard to the Dalish.

The Dalish elf gets sent to see if the humans can actually work out their problems. If they can give the mages rights, more freedom than they’ve ever known, maybe that means hope for how the Dalish are treated. But then, surprise, the Dalish tries to help a human woman being sacrificed by people who have sworn to protect the good of all, and everything goes to shit.

They’re suddenly at the head of a religion that has spent hundreds (thousands????) of years hunting them, hating them horribly, so much so that one of your first conversations with Josephine she mentions some of the rumors being Dalish making blood sacrifices. You’re “claimed” by this religion, and have no choice but to work with them. No matter what you believe, you cannot escape this. From this moment on, your entire heritage, family, and beliefs will be forgotten. You are carved in history as the history that even the “savage” Dalish can be claimed and saved by Andraste.

This could be endured. It’s horrible and icky, but on its own could be endured. No one has control over how the world perceives.

But nearly every companion either refuses to acknowledge you are Dalish and that matters to you, or they (Looking at you Sera) outright are disgusted by you, and vocalize how much they hate that part of you at every chance they can. Cassandra, though I don’t think she means to, is horrible insulting by asking if there’s not some space for one more god for you, as though they haven’t used “the Maker” to hunt and punish Dalish.

Josephine is the only one who shows softness or understanding.

But you endure. There has to be a reason, and even if there isn’t, you have to protect the world, because if not you then who will? All the while, this budding, horrible fear of what happens after. No Lavellan can be foolish enough to NOT have that fear. When the threat is dealt with, the dust settles, and the humans grow more comfortable and forget how grateful they are to you, what will happen? A Dalish will not be allowed to keep such power, wielding it over humans. Especially not if you has the misfortune of being born a mage.

And then Trespasser. Your gods aren’t gods, and even if they were, they never cared about you. You’ve spent all your life clinging to the pride that even though life as a Dalish is hard, it is worth it because you are FREE. You are not servants or slaves, you are free, and that makes the suffering worth it. But you were never free. You willingly welcomed slave markings, and the world was too shattered for any of your people to ever know the truth of their history.

And though you and your people have prayed to the gods all their lives, it’s no a single one of them that gives you the mercy of this truth. No. It’s the most feared of the gods, the unspoken, the whispered, the cursed. The Dread Wolf. The rebellion of those slave markings, in your midsts, and in my case, in your bed, in your heart.

Your world is shattered. You are dying. Everything is in tatters because you were foolish enough to try and help a human woman, when no human has ever reached a helping hand to you. Yet, the only remaining constant is that you are alone.

You are alone and you are a fool.

[shift-shaping]

another ale at noon

solas, blackwall, and varric have another boys' night. day. it's like the middle of the day. boys' brunch.

rating: t

pairing: solavellan (discussed)

warnings: alcohol

previous fics | 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"So Solas is Chuckles, I get to be Hero, which is quite nice of you, Sera is Buttercup, Bull is..."

"Tiny," Varric said with a grin.

"Very creative," Solas added dryly.

Blackwall frowned. "Who else was there?" 

"I believe I've heard you call Commander Cullen 'Curly,'" Solas offered, and Varric nodded, obviously enjoying the attention. "And Josephine, Ruffles."

"But you just call Cassandra 'Seeker.'” Blackwall recalled. “Why is that?" 

Varric laughed, a bit nervous, and looked towards the door of the tavern as if Cassandra could enter at any moment. "I'm not calling Cassandra anything she doesn't want to be called. I'm already on her shit list."

Solas hummed, and sipped from his drink. "Enaste used that term the other day --'shit list.'"

Blackwall grinned at Varric underneath his untidy beard. "So you're a bad influence, then."

"I'm sure the Dalish have their own curses." Varric waved his hand dismissively. "She's heard it all before."

"I heard she called Cassandra a 'cunt'." All three men looked up at the barmaid, who must have been eavesdropping. "Sorry. You didn't hear it from me."

That got another laugh from Blackwall. "No, that can't be true."

"Sera told us, just the other night! I guess Lady Cassandra told the Inquisitor she needed to put the Inquisition above the needs of her clan, or something."

"That would piss her off," Varric agreed.

"Are you sure Sera wasn't exaggerating?" Blackwall was thoroughly amused by all this, and admittedly Solas couldn't blame him. Enaste was nearly a religious figure to him --hearing her curse in common was probably very entertaining. "Maybe Sera just wanted an excuse to say 'cunt.'"

"Sera needs no excuse to curse," Solas added, and Blackwall laughed again in agreement.

"Well like I said, you didn't hear it from me. Did you lot want another round?"

"Sure," Varric gestured at the table. "What's another ale at noon?"

The barmaid left to get their drinks, and Blackwall shifted in his seat. "So if everyone gets nicknames except the people you're afraid of, does that mean you're scared of Lavellan?"

"No," Varric laughed, then paused. "Well, maybe. Should I be?"

"I don't know," Blackwall shrugged. "She can be harsh, but she's fair."

"It was interesting to see how she handled that magister, Alexius." Varric said. "From her description of what happened at Redcliffe, I thought she'd have his head on a spike." He shook his head, brows furrowed. "She just sent him to work with Leliana, right?"

Blackwall nodded. "Much kinder than the bastard deserved." He sighed and shrugged. "Mercy is a good thing though. Better to follow too merciful a leader than a cruel one."

The barmaid returned with their drinks, and Solas realized he'd actually finished one. He thanked her as she took the empty tankard away. "So if you aren't afraid of her, Varric, why haven't you given her a nickname?" He asked, and Varric thought for a moment before responding.

"It feels weird, I guess. She's the Inquisitor, that's her nickname."

"I think you can do better," Blackwall teased.

Varric rubbed his chin. "I'll think about it. It has to be natural, you know? You can't force these things." He sighed and leaned back, then took a long drink from his tankard. "I could ask her uncle for ideas, I guess. You know, I've never seen an elf with a beard like that." He chuckled. "It's downright dwarven."

Blackwall nodded to Solas. "Did you know he was coming?"

Solas shook his head. "No, and neither did she."

"We're a long way from the Free Marches. Dangerous route, too."

"That's family," Varric said. "I'm not surprised her clan is worried. An elf tied up with all this chantry shit? It never ends well."

"We have to make sure it does," Blackwall replied with an oddly reverent certainty. "She has a duty to the world, but we have a duty to make sure she doesn't die performing it."

Solas looked at Blackwall curiously. "Back in Haven you said you didn't care if she was actually chosen by Andraste. Do you still feel that way?"

"You were there, we all were." He gestured vaguely towards the Frostbacks. "She's insisted time and again she's not chosen by Andraste and doesn't believe in the Maker. But when it came down to it, she was willing to give her life for a bunch of people she doesn't even like." He shook his head as if in awe. "So no, I still don't care if she's chosen by Andraste. She's a woman worth following, and she’s trying to make things right."

"I think she mostly follows you," Varric joked. "I don't know how you can go running into battle headfirst like that. I'm surprised you still have most of your teeth."

"That's why I'm here," Blackwall raised his tankard, then took a long drink before slamming it down. "So you three can keep your pretty faces intact."

"Oh, speaking of pretty faces," Varric said, remembering something and turning to Solas. "Do you know how she got those scars on her face?"

Solas had spent much too long staring at those scars for her not to have told him about them. But she wasn't self-conscious of them, so he assumed it was fine for him to divulge. "A fishing accident, in her youth," Solas replied.

"A fishing accident?" Blackwall asked incredulously. "What a woman." The way Blackwall talked about Enaste was always illuminating. He seemed somewhere in-between worshipping her and being in love with her. Perhaps he had to be, to put himself in so much danger for her so often.

"I wonder if she's found a place nearby to fish," Solas said, frowning. There were streams here and there, enough to provide the keep with fresh water, but none of them that he knew of were deep or productive enough for fishing. "She used to fish from the lake near Haven. It gave her some peace from all the chaos."

"Did you notice, in Crestwood, how she looked at those crab traps on the beach?" Blackwall asked, grinning, and Solas couldn't help but smile back. Enaste had tried to be subtle, but it was impossible not to notice her casually wandering along the waterline and leaning over the traps. Sera teased her for it, and she'd been predictably defensive. It made for a surprisingly light-hearted moment amidst so much doom, and Blackwall had promised to take her to a real seafood market some day. That led to Sera calling her 'fishbutt,' which didn't make any sense but was amusing regardless.

Solas sipped from his drink, still smiling at the memory. "Yes. She said she prefers eating crab, but catching fish. Apparently her uncle is particularly skilled at preparing it."

"You two spend a lot of time together," Varric observed. The comment put Solas immediately on edge, but Varric went on before he could say anything. "Don't get all pissy, Chuckles. It's okay, really." He paused, his expression suddenly gentle, and sighed. "She likes you. That's a good thing. And maybe she's just glad to have another elf around."

"I imagine she is, yes." Solas still had no interest in pursuing this conversation with them. He enjoyed the company of Varric and Blackwall, but their attempts to pry into his relationship with Enaste were grating. It was an entirely private matter, and he owed them no explanation.

His icy response left an awkward pause, just as it had every time they’d brought it up before. After a few tense moments, Varric pushed himself from the table and stood. "I'll be right back, nature's calling."

Blackwall and Solas were fully capable of sitting in comfortable silence together, and often did in the field. Now, though, there was a weight to the silence that made it uneasy. Solas chose to ignore it, and instead stared out over the tavern blankly. It was slower now than it would surely be in a few hours, when the soldiers finished their afternoon training and came to relax. Maryden was tuning her instrument, occasionally strumming lazily, giving the tavern an atmosphere of lighthearted anticipation. 

When Blackwall finally spoke, his voice was gentler than before, and lower, too, as if he didn't want them to be heard. "I like you, Solas. You know that." Solas frowned at him, unsure where this was going, but said nothing. "I know you've seen a lot in your life, and maybe I'm in no place to give you advice. But I'm just going to say it, and you can do with it what you please," Blackwall took a deep breath. "Life is short, and hard, and then you die. I know you want to maintain a... professional relationship with the Inquisitor, and I know you don't want to hurt her reputation, but I've seen the way you look at her." He sighed heavily. "Just… take it from me: don't let your pride get in the way of something good."

There was no teasing in his voice, no playfulness, just an earnest man sharing his thoughts. Solas looked away, quiet for a while longer. It was more poignant than Blackwall could possibly know, and in a way, he was right. "Thank you," Solas said finally. "You make a fair point. I will... consider it."

Blackwall nodded gruffly, and took another long drink. Varric returned soon after, and broke out a deck of cards. Playing Wicked Grace with the two of them was a ritual Solas had become accustomed to, as even at camp Varric always had a deck of cards. Enaste joined them on occasion, and one memorable evening most of the camp played a massive game together. He preferred it like this though, and not just because Blackwall had a tendency to bet far too much. It was quieter, easier, and he didn’t have to think quite so much about how to fill the silence.

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[theboogierat]

Meriam is not a well-written mother, sorry.

It's not a surprise, either. Meriam isn't the saint of a mother constantly portrayed in Leasebound, and I argue that the narrative does her injustice several times by not letting her be a person.

Shez's backstory is far from a shounen hero arc. It's sad, and it's a prime example of Rusty not capitalising on potentially great story arcs for her characters.

To begin, Meriam's story starts when her first husband abandons her in Austalia. She gets a job as a cleaner (and takes off her hijab), as well as takes care of Shez until Chris comes along and acts super creepy until he convinces her to marry him. And then chapter 12 happens.

Chris-era Meriam I will not call a bad mother. She was a young woman stuck in a horrible situation, and had to do what she could to help her daughters and her to survive the conflict.

My biggest gripe with chapter twelve is that Rusty calls it a "shounen" arc. Her portrayal of Meriam and her situation accurately does not look like a shounen arc; it's a serious abusive relationship that they need to escape. Meriam, I'd argue, was treated as 'motivation' for Shez and her backstory at best and a figurehead for why women shouldn't partner with men at worst. Rather than treating Meriam as a character, she's often portrayed as a sobbing mess at the mercy of her husband and then later a poor victim who finally got the life she deserved after escaping.

Since the story is a recollection from Shez, you could argue that's why Meriam is portrayed this way. Shez sees her mother as someone in constant need of saving- it's why she thinks that Meriam never had a life outside her kids and her abuse.

But I doubt rusty would write that. The narrative shows Shez as a great hero who inspired her mother to take action because her mother can't defend herself without her daughter - HER FOURTEEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER- having to step in for her.

(This moment is particularly apalling; how could anyone see this as a power fantasy?!)

There are almost no healthy mother-daughter relationships in Lease Bound, which is really weird for a so-called feminist comic. Josephine and Jaden. Alexis and HER mother. And yes, Shez and Meriam.

Meriam is a deeply flawed mother. Meriam was married at a young age, had to take care of Shez alone in a foreign country, and then got abused. She will make mistakes, and she's made many, because she had no support from the outside and ultimately all she had were her daughters. That could make a strong, protective, fierce Mama bear....

...but she isn't. She's a **victim**. She's hurt, and she needs Shez to save her. She begs her ten year old daughter to help her after her daughter fights a battle for her. She needs her daughter to train to fight Chris for her. That's not something admiring, that's not a power fantasy. That is fucked up.

And that doesn't mean she needs to be rewritten! This can be good! This can be amazing, even! Meriam could be an actually interesting character, going in-depth on how her abuse didn't MAKE HER A STRONG PERSON! HER ABUSE WAS ABUSE! ABUSE DOESNT MAKE YOU STRONGER! IT TRAUMATIZES YOU! IT MAKES YOU NEED SUPPORT, AND THERAPY, AND YOU ARE HUMAN AND- GOOD GOD!

Why is she portrayed as the mother who can do no wrong because she got abused?! Why isn't she treated with a sliver of more nuance than "the victim"?! Why isn't Meriam seriously challenged, deconstructed, analysed, as anything other than "Shez's mom who got abused and made her hate men?"

That is bad writing! Framing abuse as a continuation of your political agenda instead of seriously exploring abuse and a person's psyche and how it affects someone!

And...well...that's how Meriam is written. That's how Rusty wants us to see her. And it's frustrating because sometimes- sometimes- Rusty gets it right.

This moment is poignant. It's my favourite Meriam moment because she's self- aware, and challenged by Shez. Rusty can do it- she just abandons it in favour of five hundred more pages of "trans bad men bad".

So...we explored all that. We tackled the surface of my feelings towards Meriam. What now?

I can't say more, because I feel like a broken record. In fact, go read up several other posts by incredibly talented Leasebound content creators who have made several dissertations on the story, and they will tell you that Lease Bound is, in fact, badly written, and that Rusty Hearts needs to do more with her story.

Thanks for reading! More about Meriam and Shez is coming soon, and I'll update this post when I finish writing it!

[ishallgivehimupforever]

A SHORT (NOT) MESS OF AN ESSAY ON HOW CLARKE AND BELLAMY ARE INCREDIBLY ESSENTIAL TO THEIR UNIVERSE This is a half-humorous post about the ridiculousness of the plot, but believe me it's filled to the brim with my love for it

Or, in which explaining the plot of the numbers show would get me institutionalized. I refuse to check wiki while writing this post so if I'm wrong about any of the lore and dates, just look past it. So, ~100 years before S1 we have the following happening: Becca Franco is a brilliant billionaire who is a genetic engineer, a prodigy coder, oh and a eugenics supporter who is working on a superior black-blooded race. She also creates A.L.L.I.E - an AI that does not understand that sometimes the end does not justify the means In the background, WW3 is raging, Diyoza is blowing up fascist governments, the U.S. president is a Wallace. And then there is this bombshell blonde Josephine Ada Lightbourne, with her princess haircut, who is a huge fan of Becca's. She is preparing to embark on a mission to look for inhabitable planets onboard of Eligious III. Those who are part of this mission are equipped with memory drives inside their heads for storing data about new environments. Eventually, Becca has one of those inside her head, too. Meanwhile, Diyoza and >300 other prisoners are sent on a mining mission on a bunch of rocks in space aboard Eligious I. They are put to sleep in cryopods developed by Becca's company. Meanwhile, it can be assumed that Clarke's ancestors and Bellamy's great-great-great grandpa with 4 PhDs have begun their space station jobs.

97 years later, we all know what happens, 101 people are sent to Earth on what is believed by many to be a suicidal mission. There is nothing inherently special about Clarke or Bellamy. I mean, of course they are dearly special to my heart and turn out to be incredibly special to the universe, but before I humorously describe the plot progression, I need to emphasize, they are two humans who lived all of their life on a tin can in space, and while within the context of the Ark they are special (Clarke is a "princess", of course not literally but it does not seem far fetched that she would end up becoming the Chancellor someday; Bellamy is the only big sibling on the ark which gives him personality traits unique for someone his age as far as the ark is concerned). But they are not supernatural beings, they do not have nightblood, they are not chosen ones, know what I mean? And yet:

S1: the most down-to-earth season, after that the stakes will only go up. Objective: make sure that the 102 has as many survivors as possible until the adults get down to Earth. Enemies: grounders, reapers, wildlife, elements, toxic fog (mountain men but they do not know that yet), sometimes the delinquents turn against other delinquents. Clarke uses her calculating, cunning, and caring nature as well as her medical skills to gain respect among the group. By the end of S1 she is someone that the rest of the delinquents look up to guidance. Bellamy uses his PhD in public speaking (why is he sometimes "quiet" in blarke fanfic, he is literally the yapper boyfriend) and combat prowess to initially scare people into deference, however his caring side cannot be contained for too long. By the end of S1, he is someone that the rest of the delinquents look up to for guidance. Blarke status: co-leaders who respect and inspire each other and friends who flirt at the most improper occasions

S2: the season with the finale to end all season finales trademark.

Objective: break the 47 out of mount weather; establish a truce with the grounders and claim some territory for arkadians Enemies: Mountain Men, grounders and their commandor but in a "enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend kinda way, gorilla mutant

Clarke - kills her ex-boyfriend (and that is the merciful option), and becomes a de-facto chancellor due to incompetence of A/bby and K/ane; negotiates a deal with the grounder ruler - L/xa who in her head HAS A MIND DRVE WITH ALLIE 2.0 THE MORE ADVANCED VERSION OF THE AI WHO NUKED THE WORLD and also HAS THE MEMORIES OF BECCA FRANCO. Clarke kisses l/xa - the start of a long situationship with the chip.

Bellamy - goes on an extremely risky one-man undercover mission to infiltrate Mount Weather. Just so it resonates, Bellamy is not a trained spy or a navy seal or a special forces soldier. He pulls of this insane feat of disabling the acid fog without being caught(the fog machine apparently has been killing the grounders for 50+ years and is the reason why the grounders could not retaliate against MW all this time!!!! He!! really!! did!! all1! that!! without being caught AND was actively working on protecting the 47 simultaneously) Blarke status: bonded over the actual genocide of MW (including the Wallace lineage) after the grounders forced their hand by utterly betraying them. S3 - the season when things start to get out of hand Objective: claim safe territory for arkadians to live and hunt for food; develop an alliance with the grounders (who stabbed them in the back in S2); make sure the commander keeps her word that arkadians are part of the alliance; make sure Ice nation does not ascend and wipe out skycrew; keep their own people from being executed by their own people; stop Emerson; stop THE AI THAT ENDED THE WORLD WITH NUKES, stop the zombies controlled by said AI; obtain a nightblood in order to access Becca and stop the evil AI SAVE THE WHOLE HUMAN RACE

Enemies: grounders (heh I see a pattern); Pike (kinda), Queen Nia, Emerson, Roan (kinda), Ontario, ALLIE, Jaha (kinda), l/xa (kinda), Echolocation wew, just writing it down, they really did try to do everything in those 16 episodes, didn't they? ALLIE the AI that NUKED THE PLANET bats her eyelashes flirtatiously at BELLAMY while possessing Raven. Calls out Bellamy for being more devoted to Clarke than to his actual girlfriend. i need to emphasise that THE AI THAT IS RESPONSIBLE FOR ENDING THE CIVILATION IS INVESTED IN BELLARKE RELATIONSHIP DRAMA.

Clarke enters the chip inhabited by her lover and by Becca Franco. Has a conversation with both ALLIE and Becca. The memory of 'together" gives her strength to pull the kill switch.

ALLIE: so essentially in 6 month is the last day of humanity because of the second nuclear apocalypse incoming,

Clarke: don't worry, me and Bellamy will figure something out :))) together :))) (with Raven ofc, I mean no erasure to my girl, its just this post is focusing on bellarke) ALLIE: :O Im exhausted Ive already been writing out this post for an hour, Im glad I'm halfway through

Blarke status: reunited and it feels so good. Saved the world (but not quite yet) S4 - the calamity season

Objective: Save the human race (again)

Enemies: Primefiya, Ice Nation (kinda), Ilian (for a hot second), ALLIE 1.0 (for Raven) Uncle Jaha sets up Blarke on a day trip in order to feed them some lore that will be relevant later. Bellamy picks up a coin with the 'from the ashes we will rise" written on it, which will prompt Jaha to correlate this with the grounder prayer which will make him ask the flaimkeeper about it which will lead them to check the temple which will lead them to discovering the bunker. So I think that all the ppl who found salvation inside the bunker owe their life to Bellamy in a round about way.

Clarke once again negotiates an alliance with the grounders. Acts as de facto chancellor. Bellarke act as the leaders of the sky people as god intended. Clarke becomes a nightblood (this will be extra relevant in S6) O*tavia is credited with something that was Clarke's idea in the first place and would be impossible without Bellamy's help. So everyone say thank you Clarke and Bellamy for saving us :) Blarke status: This voice mail is currently full. S5: We are not pretanding that the apocalypse could have possibly happened around 2050 anymore considering the technology available

Objective: Save the human race and Earth. Try not to destroy the only inhabitable spot of land left on the planet challenge.

Enemies: Paxton "Graveyard" McCreary, Diyoza (kinda), rest of the miner's crew, Kara Cooper, Octonian, Miller (for a minute) Diyoza, the former navy seal corporal turned domestic anti-fascist terrorist back from 106 years ago is very invested in the Bellarke relationship status. Bellamy makes a deal with Diyoza & her army by having a galaxy brain and keeping that Best Dad in the Universe mug - truly an iconic behavior. This leads to a) saving Clarke and Madi (a.k.a his wife and daughter uwu) b) opening the bunker, which apparently the 814 left in the bunker had no prospects of opening so please say thank you Bellamy fast forward to the end - Clarke and Bellamy are off to ANOTHER FUCKING PLANET?!?! and making decision regarding the fate of the human race again as God intended. Also Marper got to be happy and grow old together <3 miss them though. Blarke status: they got sick of their world-wide fame and now are onto their galaxy-wide fame. They have 2 kids. S6 - The most romantic 10 episodes of television brought to screen I think Objective: explore Alpha; find a safe territory for their people; make alliances with Sanctum; uh oh what are those people up to???; sci-fi horror intensifies; SAVE CLARKE; and the rest of sky crew I guess; keep an eye on Jordan and Madi (objective failed); act on feelings (objective failed)

Okay, so. We have this awesome chick Josephine and she and neuroscientist Gabriel are sooooo in love. They are quite crazy about each other. Josie is very flirtatious but you can tell that what she and Gabriel have is something special. But then BUT THEN Josie is murdered by her own dad while he was having an environment-driven psychotic episode. and Gabriel is NOT READY TO LET HER GO HE LOVES HER OKAY. And her dad, Russel, obviously feels guilty as fuck and cannot live with himself. So Russel and Gabriel work on defeating death. Yea you heard that right, we are dealing with immortality now. After decades of inhumane experiments they succeed in bringing Josie back in some innocent girl';s body. How? Because Josie was backed up on a mindrive, that was developed by Becca. You know, the same Becca that caused the world to end the first time and inadvertently caused the plot of the whole show to happen. The same Becca whose AI was very invested in Bellarke relationship drama. I digress

Fast forward ~250 years later, Josie is a bubbly psychopath (she sad endearingly). And Gabriel actually noped the fuck out of this eugenics oblation camp 70 years prior. This caused Josie to become even colder and more ruthless, she doubled down after she realised that the love of her life had become disgusted by her. She does no longer remember how it feels to be loved or how did it feel TO love someone as she did Gabriel. One day, She wakes up and discovered she was put in the body of the iconic Clarke "Ferrari" Griffin herself. She thinks she will get away with the (not successful) murder of her because she has a lot to offer her friends in return, namely immortality, territory, and all the intel about the planet they had gathered. BUT BUT BUT she did not expect one Bellamy Goddamn Blake a.k.a the love of Clarke's life.

He is the first one to realize that Clarke is not Clarke. He is the first one to realize that Clarke is ALIVE. By seeing Clarke memories Josie knows that what would be likely to make Clarke stop trying is the belief that Bellamy gave up on her. BITCH YOU THOUGHT

So she experiences Bellamy DRAGGING her on forest floor and being gentle with her body at the same time because it is CLARKE's body. While they are in a cave she teases him about his relationship with Clarke, then reminisces about Gabriel and gets all sappy, and then by taunting Bellamy she hears "I wont let you die" and let me tell you SHE'S SHOOk. SHE FORGOT. SHE FORGOT YOU COULD LOVE SOMEONE SO MUCH. SHE FORGOT YOU COULD BE LOVED SO MUCH. IT PROBABLY REMINDS HER OF HOW GABRIEL ONCE WAS DEVOTED TO HER AND T SHAKES HER TO THE CORE.

Fast forward to Bellamy showing up Just In Time, undercover (as is his favorite past time) Josie says mockingly "because of course it s" BUT YOU KNOW SHE'S IMPRESSED. Then, The Tent, o man, THE TENT. Josie, probably slowly accepting that this might really be her end, admits to Bellamy in the softest voice "she was right to depend on you" And then she pleads with Gabriel and it's heartbreaking because yes she's a villain, she's a eugenist, a psycho, even simply Evil, probably BUT ONCE SHE WAS A BRILLIANT, RESOURCEFUL, CONFIDENT YOUNG WOMAN LIKE CLARKE. AND SHE JUST WANTED TO GROW OLD WITH GABRIEL. AND GABRIEL TELLS HER I LOVED YOU FOR CENTURIES AND BELLAMY'S FACE AND JOSIE GOT TO HAVE TO SPEND HER LAST MOMENTS WITH GABRIEL THANKS TO BELLAMY AND CLARKE AND IT GIVES HER STRENGTH TO KIND OF ACCEPT DEATH, PERMANENTLY "IN THIS BIG SLEEP, WHAT DREAMS MAY COME" "I HAVE TO LET YOU GO NOW" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA NA DTHEn AND THEN WE HAVE THE CPR SCENE "I NEED YOU" "YOU'RE A FIGHTER SO GET UP AND FIGHT" "I AM NOT LETTING YOU GO" MOUTH TO MOUTH, TRUE LOVE"S KISS And Clarke looks at him like he hung the stars in the sky. Bellamy looks at her like he is the only star in his sky. And they save their friends. again. And they Do Better.

Cause they are better. together. And they are SO.POWERFUL

Their relationship literally transcends centuries and planets. Wow this is long. My legs are tired from sitting in one position. Who made it till the end?

[latibvles]

also this is purely bc inez is the light of my life — and with anyone you wish with her!!! [ silence ] sender and receiver comfortably exist in silence together, both of them working or reading or focusing on something different :D thank u thank u!

silence.

listen. whenever I am given a "whoever you want!" I take that as a moment to essentially get as weird as possible. this is prime example of that but it works to me. and is also a fun way to step out of my comfort zone and write somebody new. so thanks for the prompt, friend! <3

—

Inez really did treasure her quiet nights in the front room, right by the snack bar.

She’d always been that way. Inez was more often the type to find herself hiding in the residence hall as opposed to tagging along with her roommate on an escapade back when she was in school. Now, it was often at her crew’s insistence that she follow them off base and into town, but sometimes, they could be merciful upon her dwindling social battery and allot her her rationed moment of quiet time in the front room.

It’s mostly empty, too, which is a welcome relief as Inez makes her way over. There's a couple stragglers, all preoccupied much like she was soon to be, and she gives Helen a warm smile that the woman returns.

“Coffee, Lieutenant?”

“Maybe in a little, thanks Helen,” she says and makes a beeline for one of the wicker chairs by the window, settling her newest recommendation in her lap as she fiddles with her glasses to get them back onto her face.

There were many reasons to be thankful for Josephine Alden: her listening ear, her natural pension for diffusing things, her willingness to wrangle the curious village children and answer their questions. And of course, the massive set of books that she’d dragged with her across the ocean like priceless artifacts. Which, in a way, they kind of were: each book well-loved, annotations in their creased pages, some of their spines cracked. If Inez is completely honest, she’s terrified to touch the battered copy of Little Women that Jo never seemed to put down when she had the time for it.

This copy of The Hobbit is fine though — and Jo sounded nearly scandalized by the fact that Inez never read it until now.

She’s really only a few pages in when she notices a figure in her peripheral vision, standing in front of her, and she looks up again.

“You’re upright,” Inez greets, “Did I take your seat? I can mo—”

“No, no, s’fine,” Hambone waves a hand dismissively.

She heard about the stomach flu that was creeping around base, taking out crewmen like a silent killer, Howard Hamilton being one of them. But he looks pretty okay right now, looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Not that she’d be able to read it in any meaningful way, she didn’t know him all that well to begin with. Just that he knew all the right buttons to push to make June mad (which wasn’t hard) and that he was from Kansas.

He takes a seat in the other wicker chair, the two of them separated by the small coffee table between them. She’s used to him being loud, so this, too, is unexpected. Maybe it’s because he’s shaking off that stomach flu, and the absence of Murphy or Douglass here to spur him into causing some type of trouble has him quiet. She can’t really tell if he’s subdued by the last remnants of the flu or if this is how he always is when not surrounded by those he’s wholly comfortable with.

“You always wear those?” He’s still holding her stare, but in a way that’s… boyishly curious, and Inez has to remind herself that he’s really not that much older than Carrie. They’re so different though: the round face and big green eyes of her friend are the direct opposite of Hambone’s gangly limbs and the sharp angles of his face, making him look older than he really is. Never mind the slivers of gold in his teeth that seem to glint everytime he talks. Inez comes to the quick and tentative conclusion that maybe there’s just a few things about Hambone that didn’t make sense — at least, not to her.

But his question has her immediately far more aware of the barely-there weight on the bridge of her nose, and presses her lips into a line, bracing herself in a way for the inevitable teasing at her expense as she shakes her head.

“Only when I need ‘em. For uh… small text,” she offers, feeling small.

People could be cruel over the tiniest of things. An accent that didn’t “sound smart” or thin-wire frames; the most miniscule of things could lead to doubting her intelligence, her abilities, and she hated that. Yeah, yeah, a navigator who can’t see her maps, laugh it up.

The jeering doesn’t come: instead he smiles a little, and she’s not really used to this expression on his face. It’s softer, with a little bit of a nod and a small shrug from him. She’s used to his dastardly grin, his pointed canines, sharp-edged humor travelling over the din of a busy pub.

“Would take that over the airsickness.” Hambone points out and Inez can’t help the small laugh that escapes, hiding it a bit behind the pages.

“You might have a point,” Inez assents, and they hold each other’s stare for a moment longer before Hambone’s slumping a little more in the chair, and Inez’s attention is reverted back to her book.

The silence there is significantly less awkward than she’d initially anticipated. Every now and again she’ll see him look over at her from the corner of her eye — eventually Helen comes with two coffee mugs. Inez pretends not to notice the face he pulls on the first sip, but she can draw her conclusions on how often he actually drinks the stuff. But it’s… comfortable, in its own way. Unexpectedly so. There’s not much said between them, Inez resigned to her own quiet and Hambone, seemingly, content to sit in it between sips of coffee. She didn’t peg him as much of a people watcher, but that seems to be what he’s doing while his idle hands mess with what looks to be a piece of string.

She finds herself getting lost in the pages and understanding why Jo was so scandalized at the fact that she hadn’t read this one yet. She isn’t really sure just how much time actually passes. When Inez looks up once more, Hambone has effectively dozed off — long legs outstretched in front of him, arms folded over his chest. Sleep relaxes his features further and now he starts looking his age. Inez smiles to herself, endeared a bit at the sight.

Unexpected. It’s a fair way to describe Howard Hamilton and the space he is at present taking up. But somehow the silence, and him, both just... fit, with the way she planned to spent her evening. So even when he wakes after fifteen, twenty minutes, Inez doesn’t rush off, more than happy to keep him in her company if that’s what he seems content to do.

[a-driftamongopenstars]

in the after hour; inquisitor x blackwall ficlet

needed to write my beloved Sylani Lavellan and Blackwall together again, so here's a little ficlet after the events of the Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts :) a lot of guilt, some romance, some tension. the good stuff! also on ao3

It is strange that the night goes on after history has been made. Just some hours ago, Blackwall watched the Inquisitor prevent a coup and end a civil war in Orlais. She stood there, facing down the nobility, terrifying and bold. With her resolve and quiet fury, the night should have stopped in its tracks. The moons should have shone high and bright for as long as she wished for it. If she could order about an Empress, surely she could command nature itself. 

Yet, the clocks are ticking and the stars are gleaming and the moons hurry away behind the clouds. 

In the quarters assigned to the Inquisition, servants move around near invisible. There is weariness in the air, the smell of rich sweet wine. Cullen has long left for his room. Leliana is upholding Josephine by her arm. Poor Lady Ambassador is in no state at all, sputtering between amazement and frustration at all the work that is to be done tomorrow, and the day after, and more. The Inquisition has yet again meddled in all things political, exercising its will. 

“You don't need to do anything right now, Josie,” Leliana reassures her, guiding her away.

Dorian is quietly sipping a small mug of hot wine by one of the fireplaces, Vivienne beside him, joined in a quiet conversation. 

Inquisitor sits alone by another fireplace, her chin resting in her hands. Warm light flickers over her, highlighting the tiredness that set into her bones and skin. Her black hair is flowing down her shoulders, an elaborate updo undone, tiny red gems still flickering, woven in. 

“My Lady?” he asks, approaching, and she moves to make space on a cushioned bench. The folds and skirts of her dress whisper softly against the plush of the seat. Her lips turn into a warm smile of welcome, all for him, a rare sight for any other. 

“I can't decide if going to sleep is worth it anymore. It's almost sunrise.”

“You've done the impossible today. I think it has earned you a sleep in, at the very least.”

Sylani smiles and lets out a small sigh. 

“The impossible, huh.”

She gives the room a quick glance before leaning closer. Blackwall cannot help but admire the shine of her big eyes as she looks at him. His heart fills with quiet joy and yearning. If only the Winter Palace did not have eyes in every wall and corner, if only those walls did not listen. He would have kissed her. He would have made a beautiful mess of her red lips. Some part of him still wants to do it, caring little for those eyes in the walls.

“Speaking of the impossible… You've never told me. About the Silverite Wings of Valor.”

Blackwall feels a whiplash of warmth against his cheeks and coldness creeping up his spine. A sensation all too familiar. 

“I can only imagine the story behind that,” she adds. Staring up at him, admiration and awe in perfect mixture. She wants to know, she wants to drop the walls he built around himself, to get to the core of him. She wants to share in his bravery, to be proud of him.

If only she knew how close she was to making it happen. But sometimes even the most appetising fruit has a rotten core.

Blackwall takes her hands in his, her delicate calloused fingers looking so beautiful against his crude scarred palm. 

“A tale for another time, my Lady. It is not prudent to celebrate my victories when yours take precedent.”

He brings her hand to his lips, hating himself with every fibre of his being. Another lie. Another stone upon his consciousness, threatening to cause a landslide should it all come to light. When. 

Sylani’s free palm rests against his cheek. It's warm, divine and holy. He kisses it where the anchor rests, judging him by Andraste’s mercy. 

“Will you join me?” she whispers, her lips barely moving. “In my rooms?”

Oh the sweet tantalising dream. To have her in the heart of the Empire he used to kill for. To have her, loving and making love to her. To protect her from anything that would disturb her sleep. To be the man she deserves. 

To simply be with her. 

“Are we to become the talk of the Winter Palace, my Lady? That is one certain way to make it happen,” he chuckles.

Sylani returns a soft laugh. 

“I think they have enough to discuss after tonight. But very well. Come watch the sunrise with me, at least?”

She is not letting go of his hand, curling hers over his fingers. There is strength in her and resolve. The steel he has in his sword, but not in his spine.

“That I can do, my Lady.”

He presses his lips to her hand once again, eyes closed.

[daitranscripts]

Skyhold Quest: Sit in Judgment

Mayor Gregory Dedrick

Skyhold Masterpost Related Location: Crestwood

Josephine: Mayor Gregory Dedrick of Crestwood is present for betraying his own constituents. He confesses that ten years ago, he flooded Old Crestwood to kill refugees and villagers touched by the blight. The mayor claims it was to spare the rest of Crestwood, but we only have his word.

Dialogue options:

General: He has a chance to prove it. PC: If the mayor has anything to say in his defense, let him speak. ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: Well, that muddles things. PC: He’s pleading guilty while claiming he’s not. Which is it? ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: A severe crime either way. PC: What he did can’t be overlooked, no matter the motive. Dedrick: There’s no cure for the blight, but I couldn’t convince anyone to leave a sick child or husband behind.

Josephine: So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood? Were no innocents caught in the waters?

Dedrick: Nearly everyone in the village had the blight, I swear it! Have mercy. I couldn’t tell the survivors I’d drowned their own families to save them. I—I couldn’t.

Dialogue options:

Special (Wardens allied): Give him to the Grey Wardens. [1] +Slightly approves - Sera, Iron Bull, Blackwall, Cole -Slightly disapproves - Vivienne, Solas ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: The best I can do is exile. [2] +Approves - Solas +Slightly approves - Cole -Slightly disapproves - Iron Bull, Sera ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: Ferelden can lock him up. [3] +Slightly approves - Vivienne, Varric, Iron Bull -Slightly disapproves - Cole ㅤㅤ ㅤ

General: I’ll give him a clean death. [4] +Approves - Iron Bull, Sera, Cole -Disapproves - Solas

1 - Special: Give him to the Grey Wardens. PC: The blight was your undoing. Let it also be your means of redemption. I give you to our allies in the Grey Wardens, to fight darkspawn until the Calling takes you. Dedrick: I don’t deserve the honor, Your Worship. But I’ll do my best. Scene ends.

2 - General: The best I can do is exile. PC: You lied for ten years about your crime, then fled after confessing your guilt. For avoiding justice, you are exiled from Ferelden. I doubt the crown will disagree. Dedrick: I knew your coming meant the end, one way or another. Scene ends.

3 - General: Ferelden can lock him up. PC: You committed murder on Ferelden’s soil. Let them deal with your punishment. Send him to Denerim. He can live the rest of his life behind their bars. Dedrick: In prison? Maker. I should have drowned with them. Scene ends.

4 - General: I’ll give him a clean death. PC: War forces terrible choices on us, but justice demands its due. Gregory Dedrick, I sentence you to a swift death. Dedrick: The day has come at last. Maker forgive my sins. He is dragged off and executed by the PC. Scene ends.

[antiquatedsimmer]

With each growth spurt, the family had turned their children’s ever-changing heights into a joyful ritual. Whenever one of them felt taller, they’d line up outside by the backdoor of the house, eager to have their new height marked on the wall. What began as a simple measure of inches quickly became a competition among the children, each vying for the next growth spurt.

But while the children earned their inches, Josephine and Lucile couldn’t ignore the changes happening to themselves. A few more silver strands crept into Josephine’s hair, which she took with the grace of someone rocketing toward middle age without a care. Lucile, however, felt the weight of those silver threads far more acutely. She was still so young, or so she told herself, and yet her own silver strands seemed far more noticeable. The years had etched themselves into her without mercy, leaving her with a quiet sense of resignation. Perhaps the farm, the children, and the endless social expectations had all conspired to weave those strands of silver into her hair—a reward, of sorts, for the hardships she shouldered without complaint.

The constant demands of life on the ridge left little time for the Doyles to enjoy the holidays in the ways they once had. Gone were the grand feasts, the music and sweets, the merry gatherings that Lucile remembered from her childhood.

In those days, the new year had been a time of celebration, filled with laughter, friends, and family. Now, the world had grown too busy, too urgent. They hardly noticed as the 1900s slipped away and they world entered the 1910s

[mumms-the-word]

Love and Loss

Characters: Josephine Montilyet x Male Trevelyan (Everett), also Cassandra, Dorian, Varric, Cullen, Leliana, Vivienne, and Cole Summary: TRESPASSER SPOILERS AHEAD - Everett has caught up with Solas and Solas has granted him one last mercy by stopping the mark on his hand from spreading. But the mark is still killing Everett. His friends drag him back to the Winter Palace to try and save his life. If they can't stabilize the mark, then they will have to get rid of the arm instead - even if that means an emergency amputation. A/N: This is probably my favorite DA fic I've ever written but I know it probably isn't to everyone's tastes. See tags for CWs. I didn't want to put them here because they kind of spoiler the ending reveal haha. Read it on AO3!

Everett stumbled out of the eluvian, blind with pain, gritting his teeth so hard to stop from screaming that they nearly cracked. Sharp crackling stabs of pain shot up along his left arm, constricting his lungs and fueling a deepening, burning ache in his chest. Whatever Solas had done to the Anchor, it had stopped it spreading—but it hadn’t stopped the pain. He could barely stand. He couldn’t find his feet and his legs held no strength. His arms were draped around the necks and shoulders of Dorian and Cassandra, with Varric hot on their heels.

“Clear the way!” Cassandra barked. She had one of Everett’s arms around her shoulders, and Dorian had the other, still flaring wildly with green rift magic. Everett tried to find his footing and failed. His legs had gone numb. Dark fog began to crowd the corners of his vision as he struggled to draw in shallow gasps between waves of pain.

The soldiers that stood guard on either side of the mirror jumped back as they burst through. “What in the Maker’s—”

“There’s no time!” Cassandra snapped. “Send for some healers!”

Cullen appeared in the doorway, his face pale but his expression fierce, sword drawn and ready. “What’s going on here?”

“My arm,” Everett growled, the words barely intelligible through his clenched teeth. He cried out in pain as another wave drilled into his chest and stole his breath, his legs giving out beneath him. Dorian and Cassandra grunted under the dead weight, but they managed to hold him up. “I can’t—”

Cullen looked at Everett’s arm, crackling and sparking with magical energy, and took an involuntary step back. “Are we in danger?”

“No.” Everett squeezed his eyes shut, panting, trying to focus, to think through the pain. It was getting more and more difficult. “S-Solas contained it. It won’t—it won’t explode. It won’t spread.” He ground out another groan between clenched teeth as the pain stabbed once more through him, harder, incessant.

Cassandra flinched when a flicker of energy from his arm brushed her cheek. “But it’s still killing you!”

“Solas said it wouldn’t—”

“I do not care what Solas said!”

“We must remove it,” Dorian said, adjusting his hold on Everett. “If this keeps up, he’ll die from shock, if the pain doesn’t drive him mad first.”

Everett barely registered the words. Another spasm, sharp and hot, seized his arm, and this time he fell to his knees, nearly taking Dorian and Cassandra with him. They let him drop to the floor and he curled around his arm, digging his fingers into his forearm as though he wanted to rip the entire thing from his body.

“What in—Everett!”

Panting, he looked up at the voice. Josephine. She had her hands over her mouth, staring horrified at him, at his sweaty face, his shaking frame, his crackling arm.

“Get her out of here,” he growled. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He’d spent most of their time at the Winter Palace avoiding her every time his hand acted up, just to keep her from worrying. Saving her from those worries meant nothing now, if she saw him at his near-fatal worst. “Varric, please, I—”

Before Varric could so much as move, Leliana appeared at Josephine’s shoulder, the robes of the Divine looking sickly green in the light of the eluvian and bright, surging light of Everett’s mark. She took in the scene in seconds and grabbed Josephine’s arm, tugging her back.

“Josie.”

But Josephine didn’t move. Her normally amber skin looked gray in this light. Everett groaned again in pain, curling around his arms to try and contain the sight.

“Give me your arm,” Dorian said, crouching by Everett. Without waiting for him, Dorian wrested his arm free and got to work tugging off his gloves. It had become a mangled mess of burned and melted leather and bits of metal, barely even recognizable. While Dorian tried to remove all the mess, Cassandra started on the buckles of Everett’s armor, trying to get it off, to give them both access to his arm without hindrances. Everett tried to help but the pain was so fierce in his arm he couldn’t move it, not even to bend at the elbow.

Dorian swore colorfully in Tevene. “Where are those damned healers?”

“There’s no time!” Cassandra yelled. The Anchor surged again and Everett curled in on himself again, nearly touching his forehead to the floor.

“Move aside.”

Vivienne’s commanding voice shot through the air like a cannon, and the small crowd, Josephine, Leliana, and Varric included, parted from the door to let her enter. Behind her, Cole hovered just outside, pale eyes wide. Vivienne swept through the tiny room to take a knee by Everett and place one cold hand on his cheek. “Tell me what you need, my dear.”

“I need—the pain—to stop,” he ground out.

“Healing magic won’t stop it,” Dorian said. He and Cassandra tugged Everett’s mail off, tossing it with the rest of the armor they’d torn from him. Everett had only his sweat-soaked shirt left, messily untucked from his trousers in Dorian and Cassandra’s hasty work to remove his armor. “Trust me, I tried. There’s nothing more to be done. If we don’t remove it now—”

Magic surged once more in his arm, and Everett yelled out, unable to stop himself. He collapsed on the floor, his body seizing and twitching as the pain stabbed into his chest, causing his heart to jitter erratically and his lungs to constrict all at once. Distantly he heard Josephine call his name.

“Hold him down!” Cullen yelled, all but throwing soldiers toward Everett. “Cassandra—”

“I know, Cullen!” She unsheathed her blade, her knuckles white on the hilt.

Soldiers wrestled Everett onto his back, sitting and laying on his legs, his torso, his right arm. Everett gasped for air as the pain subsided just enough to for his lungs to release. He could do nothing to resist. Cullen seized his marked hand and pulled the arm out taut, holding it to the ground with his knee as he pushed Everett’s sleeve up nearly to his shoulder. He ripped off his belt and cinched it tight around Everett’s arm, just above the elbow. The pain from the belt was lost entirely in all the rest of the chaos.

Vivienne and Dorian exchanged a quick look, and soon fire was in Dorian’s hands, pale green healing magic in Vivienne’s. Cassandra thrust her blade toward Dorian, and he heated the metal until it was white. Everett gritted his teeth, panicked noises escaping his throat unbidden. There were too many people. Too many bodies on top of his. The pain was unbearable. Maker, Andraste, he wanted it to end, he just wanted everything to stop. His eyes rolled, blind to everything but searching out that one face anyway, the one he kept close to his mind and his heart in his worst hours, yet hoping at the same she was gone, that she hadn’t stayed to witness this torture.

But she had stayed.

Leliana had her pinned in a corner, trying to shield her view with her body, while Varric tried to usher them both out the door. Josephine had one hand clutched on Leliana’s Divine robes, the other clamped tight over her mouth. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, his wide with panic, hers flowing with tears. He couldn’t be strong for her. Maker curse him, he couldn’t do it.

A pulse of pain slammed through his arm, and Everett arched, seizing up and yelling, squeezing his eyes shut. There was nothing else for him—nothing but pain, shooting from his hand deep into his chest, threatening to stop his heart, to collapse his lungs, to suffocate him and kill him with its strength. Behind his closed eyelids he saw nothing but white—white stars, white pain, white fire.

Was this the end?

“Now!” Cullen yelled.

Cassandra gave something like a war cry and a sudden, new, white-hot pain seared at his elbow. The crackling and singeing of the Anchor fell away, replaced by a blazing, scorching pain—and then nothing.

Nothing.

Ringing filled his ears, blocking out every sound, even the sound of his own gasping breaths. Though his eyes were open, he saw nothing but darkness and ghostly stars. He sensed as if through a dream, people all around him, nearly suffocating him. Hands holding him down, the entire weight of several men on him, but vaguely, as if he were distanced from his own body. He could no longer feel Cullen’s knee pressing into his left wrist. Had he blacked out?

Slowly, sensation came to him. He lay there, panting, his entire body heaving with the effort to breathe. Several soldiers moved off. Vivienne was on his left, illuminated by pale green healing magic as she focused on his arm. She glanced up at him, dark eyes unreadable, and placed one of her hands on his forehead, cooling it with ice magic.

“How are you, my dear?”

“I don’t—I don’t feel anything,” he rasped. No pain, but nothing else either. He glanced around. Cassandra knelt beside him, her bloodied, still-hot blade loose in her grip, her face covered by her hand. Dorian stood behind her, watching Vivienne’s work with a grim expression. Cullen sat on the floor, leaning back on his hands, his face pale and sweaty. And between his feet…

Everett looked away, quickly. It was one thing to know he would lose his arm, to wish for it to be gone. It was another entirely to see it, lifeless on the floor beside him. Panic started to grip him, tightening his throat. None of this seemed real. He was struck with an absurd desire to laugh. That was his arm. Just lying there. Completely separated from his body.

He was going mad.

He resisted the urge to try and move his left hand, swallowing both laughter and panic as much as he could.

“I can’t feel anything,” he whispered again.

“A blessing, all things considered,” Dorian said. “That blade should have been hot enough to deaden your nerves immediately.”

“And my magic is keeping you from further pain.” Vivienne focused once more on his arm. Everett didn’t dare look. His heart thundered in his chest. If he thought too long about the dead limb at his side, he was certain he’d lose his mind. Vivienne’s eyes flickered back to his face again, as if she sensed his heart beating erratically. “Calm yourself, my dear. The worst is over.”

He managed a nod. He had to believe that.

“Maybe we should move the Inquisitor’s uh…arm out of the room?” Varric said. Even he sounded shaken, though he hid it well. “I think we’d all be a little less queasy with it gone.”

Cassandra sighed and lowered her hand from her face. “Varric.”

“What? I’m just saying…”

Cullen stood and gestured to a soldier along the wall. “You there—wrap this up. Use your shirt if you have to. Take it outside and burn it.”

“Y-yes sir.”

“Perhaps a magical fire would be best to dispose of it, yes?” Dorian said. “I’ll go prepare one.” He shot Everett one last, concerned glance and left.

Everett tried to swallow again. His throat was sore and inflamed from his screams and he was desperate for water. He kept his eyes trained on the ceiling as the soldier wrapped up his—the severed limb beside him. “Where…where is Josephine?”

“I am here, Everett.” Her voice, quiet and shaky, came from the corner where he’d last seen her. He briefly closed his eyes, a dull ache in his chest that had nothing to do with the Anchor.

“You should have left.”

She didn’t respond. The soldier stood up and hurried away, the cloth-wrapped bundle in his arms. Everett tried again to ignore the urge to flex his left fingers. He focused instead on the numbing magic Vivienne was washing over him, through her hand on his forehead. Gradually, his heart slowed. He began to breathe easier.

In the back of his mind, he wondered how badly he would be panicking without her magic to calm him. Maker, if Josephine had to witness that…

Vivienne pulled off the belt that was still cinched tight just above his elbow and rolled his sleeve back down over what was left of his arm. She deftly tied it off, making a neat knot. “There. That’s all that can be done for now.” She stood and glanced around the room. “I suggest you find yourself a bed and rest for the day, Inquisitor. Your health is in a delicate state. I will have a few select potions and teas sent to your room shortly.”

“Thank you, Vivienne,” Everett whispered. She glanced back down at him and he thought he saw her eyes soften.

“Anything for you, my dear.”

“How did you get here so quickly?” Cassandra asked, finally standing. “We’d only just sent people from the room when you stepped in.”

“The demon alerted me.” She slid her gaze to the door, where Cole stood, worrying at his hands. He remained quiet, watching.

“He’s human, Vivienne,” Everett said, exhaustion settling over him. He was still reluctant to move his left arm. Or move at all. “He’s been fully human for over two years now.”

Vivienne’s lip curled ever so slightly, her icy mask back in place. Any softness in her gaze hardened once more to crystal. “Semantics, darling. But…I suppose Thedas owes him its thanks. You’d be dead otherwise. Get some rest, Inquisitor.”

She brushed past Cole and left the room. Cole stared after her, his face hidden by his hat. Silence hovered in the air for a few seconds until Cullen blew out a breath.

“Some things never change,” he muttered. He pointed to a group of soldiers standing near the door. “Carry the Inquisitor to the nearest bed—I don’t care whose it is.”

“No,” Cole said softly, turning back around. He took a few quiet steps into the room. “He doesn’t need that.”

Everett suppressed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure if he could stand, let alone walk anywhere. He certainly didn’t want to be carried. He didn’t want to do anything other than lay there on the stone floor until he could gather the strength and courage to move again.

The others stared at Cole. Undisturbed, he walked to where Josephine, Leliana, and Varric stood in the corner. Gently, he took Josephine’s hand, tugging her toward Everett.

“He needs you,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. Josephine looked to Cole, then to Everett, eyes wide. Cole tilted his head to one side, as if listening, then let go of her hand. “You should tell him. I think will help.”

Tell him? Tell him what? Whatever it was, Josephine understood immediately. Her eyes widened again and she glanced at Everett, uncertain. 

Cole looked over his shoulder at the others, then left the room as silently as he entered. Josephine hesitated, as if keenly aware of all the eyes on her. She turned an uncertain, pleading look on Leliana, but it was Varric who crossed his arms and nodded toward the door.

“You heard the kid,” he said. “Let’s go.” He met Everett’s gaze. “If you need us, send Ruffles.”

Quietly, everyone filed out of the room, sending Everett sympathetic glances. Leliana squeezed Josephine’s arm as she passed by her. Before he left, Cullen murmured something in Josephine’s ear. She nodded once, sending him a grateful look, and he too left the room. Soon it was only the two of them.

Taking a shuddering breath, Josephine walked around to where Everett’s head rested against the ground. She lowered herself to the stone floor, sitting on her knees, and gently lifted his head to lie against her legs. With trembling fingers, she swept his sweat-soaked hair away from his face. Everett’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Your hands are cold,” he murmured. Suddenly, without everyone in the room, he felt tired and worn. The panic had faded. Now he was simply drained. Exhausted.

“I was afraid.” Her voice still held a trace of tears. Everett opened his eyes to look up at her. There were tear tracks on her face, but her eyes seemed dry now, though filled with worry.

“You should have left.”

She shook her head and leaned forward, lifting his head gently to kiss his forehead. “I will never leave you, Everett. Not when you need me. Not if I can help it.”

Everett closed his eyes again, a pang of guilt throbbing in his chest. He was the one who was supposed to be strong for her. The one who was supposed to protect her. The one who was supposed to shoulder all the burdens so she could live as worry-free as possible. All of that had shattered now.

“Josephine, I…I’m so sorry.”

Her fingers continued to comb lightly through his hair, brushing it away from his face. “Sorry? For what?”

“Everything.” He couldn’t put it into words. He was sorry for the whole Exalted Council. He was sorry for leaving her to deal with it all without helping her in the slightest, for worrying her, for scaring her, for avoiding her. He was sorry she had to witness him break down. He was sorry she had to witness him losing his arm. He was sorry she was married to a broken, disabled man. “I should have…I should have done more. I don’t know.”

“Stop talking like that,” she said. She placed her hand on his cheek, her cool fingers a relief on his fevered skin. “All that matters is that you are still here. You are not dying.”

“For the moment. There’s still the Exalted Council.”

“A trivial matter, after all you’ve been through.” She paused. Everett let the silence settle over them, sinking into it, losing himself to her gentle touch. Her fingers paused against his cheek. “Do…do you want me to retrieve your wedding band? From the…the ashes?” She seemed to almost choke on the words.

Everett grimaced and opened his eyes. “No. It…somewhere in the midst of battle, between the Anchor flaring up and dispelling magic, the ring was destroyed.” It had melted from his hand, dripping in molten metal drops as he raised his hand to try and release the pent-up magic before it killed him.

“…Oh.”

He craned his neck slightly to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” she murmured, shaking her head.

He searched her face, his eyebrows drawn. “But you spent so much time picking it out, just for me. You were so intent on keeping it a secret before the wedding. It meant a lot to you.”

And to me.

“Everett, it is just a ring. We can always get another one. There is not another one of you.”

“But—”

“You do not need a ring to know I am yours, Everett.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, this time on the lips. “Rings are replaceable. They get lost or bent. The diamonds fall out. They tarnish. They stop fitting. Ten or twenty years from now, you might have worn a different ring anyway. But we would still be together. Any ring, or lack thereof, would never change that. And I would much rather lose the ring than lose you.”

He stared up at her, a little amazed. What had he done to deserve such a woman? What had he done to gain her love, love that showed in her eyes and her face, in the little smile of her lips? Love for him, for all that was left of him, love that looked beyond his imperfections, both old and new.

And, Maker preserve him, he loved her back. Fiercely and loyally. After two years of marriage and the chaos of this Exalted Council, he still loved her as much as when he first proposed back in the Arbor Wilds. Perhaps even more so. Definitely more so.

“I love you, Josephine,” he whispered. “With all my heart.”

She smiled faintly. It was a refrain he added often when he told her that he loved her. I love you, with all my heart. It never failed to make her smile.

“I love you, too,” she said quietly. “Although…you may need to begin thinking about sharing a part of your heart soon, my love.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Sharing? With who?”

Her voice became a whisper. “Our child.”

It took three heartbeats for Everett to register what she said. His eyes widened, and his heart started to pound again. Was she saying…?

He stared up at her, scarcely daring to believe it. “Are you…?”

She nodded, her smile widening and her eyes filling with tears. He sat up, using his remaining hand to help him, and twisted to face her. A quick scan revealed nothing—no signs that she was telling the truth, aside from a slight pallor to her skin, which could still be left over from the trauma before.

“Truly?” he breathed.

“Truly.” Even with the tears, there was a hint of laughter in her eyes, a brightness he hadn’t seen since before they reached the Winter Palace. Joy. It was almost foreign to him, after all that had happened lately.

“You’re certain?” A smile began to spread across his lips, the first genuine smile in…Maker, days. All his melancholy started to lift off his shoulders. A child. His child. Their child. “You’re absolutely certain?”

Josephine let out a light laugh. “Yes, Everett. I made certain with healers before we left.” She paused, searching his face. He was frozen in place. “Are…are you happy?”

“Happy?” The shock abating, Everett cupped her face with his hand and pulled her into a kiss, letting her know exactly how he felt about the news. She made a surprised noise in the back of her throat. “Josephine, I—I couldn’t be happier. A child…”

“Our child,” she correctly softly, brushing the hair out of his eyes and caressing his cheek.

Everett captured her lips with his once more, and she melted into his embrace, awkward and one-sided as it was. She held him steady, compensating for his lack of balance. If the feel of his newly severed arm disturbed her, she didn’t say anything, and she didn’t show it in the way she held him or kissed him back. He wrapped his good arm tightly around her, holding her close even after their kiss ended.

He was to be a father. It was something he’d only vaguely dreamed of, a conversation he’d had with Josephine only occasionally since their wedding. One day, they’d often said. It had been their answer for so long. One day, when the world was a little calmer, when the Inquisition was not quite so busy, when there would be time to consider children and where they would live and what kind of world they would grow up in. One day.

But now that day was here. In a world that had never been so uncertain, though it was calm enough…for now.

If he was reeling from the news, he could only imagine how she felt. To have braved the Exalted Council in her condition—

“Maker’s breath,” he said, pulling away to look at her again, amazed. “The fright I must have given you. The hell I put you through. And you, with child. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?”

She gave a shrug of her shoulders that was, if anything, surprisingly mild given the circumstances. “Everything happened all at once. I had planned to tell you early on, during a slower evening, but there was never enough time. And to tell you in the midst of the Qunari plot—I couldn’t. I did not want to distract you.”

A sudden thought struck him. “I left you alone to fend for yourself,” he murmured, horrified. “With child.”

Josephine smiled wryly. “See? You would not have left my side, if I had told you.  And this world still needed you to act.” Her smile faded. “You…you would have died, had you not gone to find Solas. I did worry, Everett. I wondered if perhaps this child would grow up without his father. But he is—you are here. You are safe.  And I want never to part from you again.”

“Josephine…”

She took his hand and kissed it. “My love, the fate of the Inquisition and its future lies with you. It is enough knowing that you are alive, and no matter what happens, know that I will support you in anything. But if there is some way we can create a future where we can raise a family in peace and prosperity, together…”

“I swear it,” Everett said. He gripped her hand tightly, capturing her gaze with his so she would know how seriously he meant his oath. “I swear I’ll forge that future for you. For us. Even if it means disbanding this Inquisition, I swear that you will never have cause to worry for me or the safety of our family ever again. And Maker willing, I swear that we will never be apart again. Not if I can help it.”

She accepted his oaths with a small smile. “Those are weighty promises, Everett,” she murmured. “I do not know that you can keep all of them.”

“On my oath, I intend to try.” He took her wedding band and engagement ring between his thumb and first finger, rubbing his thumb over them. “It’s nothing short of what I swore to you when we married. I only want to see you happy, safe, and loved, Josephine. I may not have the ring anymore to remind myself of my vows, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop striving to keep them. I love you. And nothing in this world is going to change that.”

She smiled then, the brightest smile he’d seen in days, and hugged him close. “I love you, too.”

Soon he would have to face the Exalted Council. Soon he would have to give them an answer to the question they were all wondering—an answer that determined the future of the Inquisition. And one day, perhaps soon, perhaps years away, he would have to face Solas again, to clash against his old friend for the fate of the entire world.

He’d already sworn to stop him, if necessary. It was a decision he hadn’t made lightly. But now, with Josephine in his embrace, carrying the fluttering little life of their firstborn child, his resolve sharpened like steel tempered by flame. He would not let Solas destroy the world. He would not let his wife and child become collateral damage as the world burned away to be reshaped by Solas’s hand.

If that meant killing Solas to stop him…then so be it.

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 70: Chasing Shadows

Summary: Rose continues to uncover the chaos behind the scenes at the Winter Palace and alerts her advisors to her discoveries.

Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Excerpt below the cut 👇

“We found more evidence of foul play— a lot more. Which may or may not be related to the Tevinters.”

“Then perhaps we should warn the empress now,” he says, leaning to peer through the door back into the ballroom.

“Aside from Josephine skinning us alive for being too obvious, Celene’s advisor Morrigan said she’d be by her side,” I explain.

“Did her advisor even make it that far?” he asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“We should check,” he insists and moves to stride back inside. 

I catch Cullen by his hand before he draws too much attention looking eagle eyed and overly alert at someone else’s party.

“Not like that,” I scold him. “Here— give me your arm. We have to act casual.”

“Andraste have mercy,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. “What does that even mean?” 

Apparently he used up all his patience for playing it cool earlier. He holds out his elbow stiffly. I tuck my hand into it.

“Smile,” I instruct. I pretend to delight in my surroundings before glancing at him. “Act like you’re having a good time.”

Cullen stares at me blankly, addled by how far outside his skill my directive falls.

“Well— just, try not to look so antsy,” I say. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Explain to me— the finer points of our latest siege capabilities.”

Cullen’s gold embroidered epaulets fall an inch. “The ballistas or the mangonels?”

I grumble softly, waffling my head around in frustration. “Take your pick.”

We move back into the ballroom and Cullen begins explaining the rationale behind our array of mangonels and the benefits of single projectiles versus scattershot. I nod and smile, and snatch us two glasses of punch from a passing tray, offering one to Cullen.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” he argues, baffled once again.

My eyes do a somersault. “It’s for show. Just— pretend to take a sip.”

Apparently incapable of pretending to drink, Cullen dribbles a splotch of punch on his uniform. He curses under his breath and I stifle an unruly laugh.

“At least it’s red,” I note in a whisper. “I see part of Celene’s dress around that corner. Keep going. Mangonels.”

Cullen continues, discussing a few options for setting payloads ablaze and which are the most cost effective. Celene comes fully into view, clearly in discussion with someone I can’t yet see.

“She’s talking to someone— don’t look.”

“I’m not,” he protests. Cullen cranes his head and looks.

I poke him sharply. “Tell me about the tar.”

He scowls at me momentarily before continuing. “The tar pits of Edgehall are rather close, fortunately. Geologists believe—”

Morrigan’s raven black and wine-colored form appears from around the corner as she emerges to sweep her eyes over the room. A young heavily armored man stands vigilant beyond Celene. Morrigan nods to me subtly.

“She’s there. Along with Celene’s champion I believe,” I remark, allowing the breath I’d been partially holding to leave me fully.

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[blessyourhondahurley]

Suptober day 13 - Do I Dare?

Jo pushes Dean to approach an attractive stranger.

Suptober prompt: Flirt Flufftober prompt: Wrong (…) Fictober prompt: “Come with me, hurry.” Inktober prompt: Rise

(Read on AO3)

“Josephine, come on, please do not make me do this.” He turns his best puppy-dog eyes on for her, but his sister from another mister is unmoved.

“A dare's a dare, Deanie weenie,” she replies loftily, sloshing her beer at him. “And you, my chickenshit friend, have been dared. Rise to the challenge! You've been staring at that guy all freakin' night but you don't have the balls to go talk to him on your own, so now I'm taking charge. Make sure you do it exactly like I told you to.”

Grabbing his shoulders, she forces him to turn and face the bar. Then she slaps him on the back hard enough to propel him forward a couple steps without his permission. Dean looks back over his shoulder and gives her a glare hot enough to peel the skin right off her face if she had any sense of shame or self-preservation. Unfortunately, Jo Harvelle's always been in very short supply on those two characteristics, as well as the quality of mercy. He grits his teeth and marches the remaining few feet from their table to the bar where his unsuspecting (and incandescently attractive) target sits.

He takes a deep breath, blows it out, then takes hold of the man's firm bicep and hisses, “Come with me, hurry,” in his ear, precisely as he'd been instructed.

Shocked by the intrusion, the man turns a pair of brilliant blue eyes on him. “I'm sorry, do I know you?” he asks in a gruff voice that makes Dean's knees tremble a little.

Having completed the dare, Dean is now free to attempt damage control. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he says, blushing. “Wrong person. Thought you were my, umm...” His mind goes blank. “...Brother...?” he finishes, voice trailing off halfway through the word. It's a performance that wouldn't convince a goldfish, and the man he's talking to is having none of it.

“Really?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.

Dean rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “Uh, no. It was a dare... To get me over here, 'cause I didn't have the guts to come talk to you on my own.”

The man takes a long pull off his beer bottle and looks Dean all the way over, a slow journey of those striking eyes from his dusty boots up to his gel-spiked hair. He must like what he sees because he gives a flirty, quirked grin and leans in. “Well, now that you're here,” he whispers in Dean's ear, “what are you going to do next?”

“Can I start by buying you a drink?” he asks, taking a seat on the next bar stool. At the man's nod, Dean lifts his hand to get the bartender's attention. A chorus of whoops and bangs starts up from Jo's table, and he reaches the other hand around behind his new friend's back and flips her the bird. She's never going to let him live this down, but maybe, if he plays his cards right, this guy's gonna make the aggravation worth his while.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the Ladies get lewd.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,244. Rating: most audiences. Warnings: innuendo, sex references, and general bawdiness.)

Chapter 43: Afterparty

The ball had come to its end—and yet, for the Ladies, the party had just begun.

They’d all piled into Trevelyan’s room (on its last night of being so) to gossip and giggle amongst themselves. Every available cushion and blanket had been thrown into a plush heap upon the floor. A platter of food—and multiple drinks—had been stolen from the hall. The night wore on, but the gossip was good. They feasted, and drank, and talked, and were merry.

“Listen to this, listen to this!” said Lady Erridge, plumping onto a cushion, having fetched a letter from her room. “I received a reply from my parents about the engagement between Lady Orroat and I, and you shan’t believe what they said!”

She held the letter up, and read aloud:

‘Dearest daughter,

We are, of course, elated and overjoyed, for the news of your betrothal. Lady Orroat is a fine woman, and one whom we should naturally be proud to see you marry.

However, we must admit our confusion. It was our belief that you and Lady Orroat had been engaged for some years now. In fact, it was the last wish of Great Aunt Orroat that, should Lady Orroat refuse the task, you would wear her wedding gown on the day of your own union.

We look forward to seeing you both again and—’

“So on and so forth,” Erridge finished. She looked desperately to the other Ladies, who bit their tongues. “Am I truly that oblivious? That even my own mother and father knew!?”

“Well, at least they approve,” commented the Baroness.

Lady Erridge huffed, and fell upon Trevelyan’s arm—as well as her mercy.

“Oh, please tell me—it was not so obvious, was it?”

Trevelyan put on her best show of diplomacy. “No, no!” she lied. “Of course not! Not at all!”

It wasn’t as if she’d noticed within mere days of knowing her Ladyship and within mere seconds of knowing Lady Orroat.

Erridge grunted, and turned instead to Samient. “I know you shall tell me the truth, Lady Samient. Am I a fool?”

“Lady Erridge”—Samient took her hands, and looked her in the eye—“you are a beautiful, kind, and caring woman. Perfection itself! However… you are also quite the fool.”

Lady Erridge squealed in dismay, and flopped, back-first, onto the pile of pillows behind her, ruffles flying into the air on impact.

The other Ladies laughed, as was only good and proper—though they could not tease their friend for long. Trevelyan latched onto Erridge’s arm, and hauled her back to sitting; the Baroness took to the duty of reassuring her:

“Do not be so harsh upon yourself, Lady Erridge. After all, you shall leave Skyhold betrothed—which is far more than I have accomplished.”

“Excuse you!” Trevelyan piped up. “I am not engaged either. And there are far greater achievements to be had.”

Touledy gave her a wicked grin. “I said when we leave Skyhold, your Ladyship. And if that day should come, upon which you finally leave Skyhold, dear Trevelyan… you may well be engaged.”

It was Erridge’s turn to laugh, for she and Lady Samient burst into giggles. Trevelyan feigned great indignance. “Then we ought return to lamenting your misery, dear Baroness, instead of speculating upon mine.”

“Oh, I don’t think the Baroness has had as much a miserable time as she claims,” Lady Samient purred, popping a chocolate into her mouth. “In fact, I hear that our dear Baroness has tested half the beds around Skyhold.”

Trevelyan gasped; Lady Erridge squeaked! The Baroness remained nonchalant.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” she complained. “I wasn’t going to get any from the Commander.”

Screams went up. Maker, the scandal!

“Who!?” pleaded Erridge.

“Rumour says twenty,” Samient answered.

The Baroness laughed. “Five.”

“Far more reasonable than twenty,” Trevelyan remarked. “Who has the time?”

“Exactly.”

“One per week.”

“Not quite”—Touledy reached for her drink—“two were at once.”

Screaming, once more! Thank the Maker the only other person inhabiting the corridor at the time was Lady Orroat, for anyone else would think they were under attack.

“Well, then!” said Samient, as their screeches died down. “It seems we’re left to pity only you, Lady Trevelyan. You have no betrothal, and no such visitors to your bed—that we know of.”

Trevelyan snorted. “You needn’t add the caveat.”

“Really!” said Erridge. “Did I not, during the ball, happen to see yourself and the Commander whispering upon the balcony? I wonder what secrets would cause you to whisper so!”

“What secrets, indeed! There is nothing to tell.”

“Well! Then if you have no claim on the Commander, I suppose you would not mind if the Baroness were to leave betrothed after all.”

Touledy gagged. “I would not have him if he begged!”

Lady Erridge giggled, and met Trevelyan’s eye: “What about you, your Ladyship? Would you have him if he begged?”

Trevelyan’s jaw dropped, much to the others’ amusement. They clapped and cheered at Lady Erridge’s impertinence, and teased her for the answer.

“Please!” said Trevelyan, taking to her feet and marching for her bed. “I will not say a word about my feelings towards the Commander!”

The Ladies booed; Trevelyan laughed. She swung around a bedpost, and collapsed upon the covers.

“Even if I do want him to butter me like warm bread and lick it all off.”

They shrieked.

Trevelyan barely heard it. Her mind was quite elsewhere, absented within the same fantasy it had occupied the past few nights, laid in this bed, thinking of the Commander…

But movement upon the mattress roused her from such reverie. Lady Erridge scrambled up beside her.

“Scandal!” she cried. “Lady Trevelyan, I dub thee a flirt!”

“As well you may!” Trevelyan rose up. “But one can hardly be called a flirt when one’s flirtation goes unrewarded!”

The Baroness found this uproarious. “Lady Trevelyan, if you instructed him so, the Commander would get on his knees, prostrate himself before you, and beg for you to look in his direction.”

Lady Samient cackled. “That is not how I thought that sentence would end.”

“Well, that too, of course!”

They squealed and laughed once more. The room was warm, so full of mirth it could have burst. It was a silliness Trevelyan had not had the benefit of since adolescence. All it was missing was a Templar banging on the door and telling them to go to sleep—

Someone banged on the door. The Ladies startled into silence, and then tittered at their own skittishness.

“It’s probably one of my ladies’ maids,” Trevelyan reassured them, as she tiptoed across their impromptu picnic, “so hush yourselves!”

An enormous request to make at such a time. Especially given that, when she opened the door, it was decidedly not one of her ladies’ maids.

“Arcanist?”

“Commander!” Trevelyan gasped, to the sound of excited whispers and dampened squeals behind her.

Out of his doublet and now in his mantle—no armour beneath, just a shirt—the Commander stood in her doorway, shuffling awkwardly on the spot.

“Ah, forgive me. I was… you hadn’t come to the battlements. I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

Trevelyan’s insides melted. He’d come to find her. Oh, Maker.

“I am... quite all right, yes. The Ladies and I are having one last night together.”

“I see,” he said, with an apologetic bow. “Forgive me for intruding.”

Oh, no intrusion. Not at all. Really, one could call it perfect timing, if only he knew what debauchery she had spoken of mere moments ago. She wondered if such thoughts had ever crossed his mind, as well.

“Well, I should… ah—I will see you tomorrow.”

Trevelyan bit her lip. “Another time, Commander.”

Though he attempted a second bow, he lost faith halfway through, and—with a stuttered farewell—simply made his exit. Trevelyan watched him stride away, quite enjoying the view.

Besides, she did not wish to return to her chamber too soon. She knew what was to happen upon re-entry.

It was not immediate. The Ladies had all settled themselves upon their proper seats, sitting quietly. They observed with interest, as Trevelyan sauntered in. Mouths quite shut.

“It was the Commander?” asked Lady Erridge.

“It was the Commander,” Trevelyan said.

“You didn’t wish to invite him in?” Lady Samient wondered.

“No, I have guests,” Trevelyan told her.

“And if you didn’t have guests?” suggested the Baroness.

“If I didn’t have guests—” Trevelyan pursed her lips, and let her mind contemplate the answer. Long and hard. “Then perhaps...”

Their giddiness erupted once more. Teasing and laughing, each of them in turn. Neither Maker nor Void could spoil their mood tonight.

“What a shame we disrupted your stargazing so!” chirped the Baroness.

Trevelyan scoffed. “The stars will still be there tomorrow.”

“And so will the Commander,” Lady Samient muttered.

“But I shan’t be!” Erridge interjected, suddenly upright. “And I haven’t been!”

“Well, if you’d like to”—Trevelyan glanced at the other Ladies, who gave their affirmation—“then at least we know the Commander shan’t interrupt us again!”

They laughed once more, and set about gathering themselves. Food and drink were set aside, the blankets and pillows thrown over the chairs. It was almost like cleaning. Whatever. One last job for Missy and Cara.

Bedcoats were found and dragged over shoulders, and one-by-one, the Ladies assembled in the corridor. To adventure!

What a sight they must have been, traipsing through the hall on their merry way. Still giggling, still gossiping. Laughing, as the Baroness salaciously winked to a guard beside the garden door.

They ventured out into the night, dancing over the garden path. Lady Erridge twirled without a care. Lady Samient caught her before she collided with a column.

“Come along,” Trevelyan called, “it’ll be dawn before we make it!”

She saw the Ladies each up the stairs, and then climbed them herself. The rowdy bunch spilled out onto the battlement—and quieted in an instant.

The sky unfolded before them. The night was clear, the radiance of the cosmos entirely undisturbed. Every star was out, as if just for them.

They came together at the parapet, huddled up to stave off the cold. The Baroness draped her shawl over Samient’s shoulders; Lady Erridge nestled her head beside Trevelyan’s.

Homage was paid in whispers, as if in attendance at a Chantry. The stars, sanctified. A taste of the divine. Perhaps this was how worshippers felt, whenst kneeling before Andraste.

“When I am in the Marches,” said Lady Samient, to Trevelyan, “I shall look at the stars, and think of you.”

“So shall I, in Val Misrenne,” the Baroness added.

“And I in Coldon,” said Erridge.

Trevelyan spread her arms across their backs, and squeezed them all tight.

“Don’t make me cry again,” she begged. “I feel that’s all I’ve done this month.”

Samient shook her head. “I can’t believe it’s been a month.”

“Feels as if a year,” said Touledy.

Lady Erridge sighed. “I wish it were.”

Trevelyan smiled. At least she knew, if it ever went tits-up with Skyhold, there were several options for her next venture. A nice little cottage in Coldon might be nice. Travelling with the Dalish. Working alongside the mages of Val Misrenne.

She needed Ostwick no more. There was so much else to the world.

So much...

She could not help but glance in the direction of the mage tower. Perhaps he’d take a second walk tonight. She really would send them away, this time.

Instead, she saw not the Commander, but another familiar sight. A lone night watchman, watching anything but they.

The Ladies, so packed together, felt Trevelyan’s shift to stare in his direction. Lady Samient squinted and stretched, to pick him out of the darkness. She asked:

“Who’s that?”

“The watchman who guards this area,” Trevelyan explained. “Don’t worry, I quite believe he knows the definition of confidentiality.”

“What’s his name?” asked Erridge.

“I’m not too sure.”

The Baroness leant back. “Excuse me!” she called, drawing the man’s attention. “What is your name, Ser?”

“Tenbry, ma’am,” he answered, in the wavering voice of a soldier who’d never seen battle—or four such merry noblewomen.

“Well, Ser Tenbry, our Lady Trevelyan here wishes to thank you for your secrecy!”

Trevelyan laughed, but still did as prompted: “Thank you, Ser Tenbry!”

He stood to attention. “Of course, your Ladyship! I’m only supposed to report danger, your Ladyship. I don’t see none when you’re here, so I don’t report, your Ladyship.”

Trevelyan smiled; with it, an idea sprang to mind.

“And what is your favourite colour, Ser Tenbry?”

“Green,” he said, albeit confused.

Trevelyan parted from the Ladies, and ushered them back a step. Rubbing her hands together, she called forth a warmth, generated from the motes of the Fade which clung to her presence. It grew and grew, beyond the capacity of the natural. And once it burned—

She threw her hands forward, a jet of green flame lancing out over the parapet. For a moment, all was doused in its aberrant light—and then it was gone, the night reset.

“There!” she told him. “A little danger, for you!”

“Thank you!” he said, a smile appearing beneath his helm.

The Ladies, too, seemed quite amused; Lady Erridge applauded particularly enthusiastically.

“That was beautiful!” she breathed. “Do you think you could do pink!?”

Trevelyan revealed her palm, a rose-coloured flame already flickering within.

“Easily,” she said.