#Varric you might like tall buildings but MAN I DO NOT

[extravagantliar]

we’re ground people I say, nearly stuck in an elevator

[shutupaboutandraste]

“Hear this now — I will always come for you” for Fenders? <3

OKAY so like. I saw this and was just immediately inspired and knew exactly what I wanted to write so I hope you like it!

It's more pre-ship, buuuuut still Fenders.

Words: 3203 Pairing: Fenris/Anders For @dadrunkwriting

ACT I

To say Fenris didn’t trust Anders would be an understatement. An abomination through and through, he would never understand Hawke’s trust in him. Perhaps, it was because of her sister-- Bethany always seemed to vouch for him, something else that made Fenris’ head spin. Never before Bethany Hawke had he seen a mage so in control of themself. Yet, there was Bethany who shined in beauty, grace, and kindness all without being possessed or resorting to blood magic. He had only known her for a short time since he was approached by Hawke’s motley crew.

Still, he stuck by them, despite it all. Hawke had become a good friend in the short time he had known her. Even if her taste in women was… questionable. Anyone with eyes could see the tall warrior had affection for the Dalish blood mage of all people. Of course, that did exclude the elf in question. Merrill seemed entirely blind, even when Hawke told her that she was free to call her Aingheal. To everyone else, that name seemed off limits and Merrill seemed content to leave it that way for herself. Strange woman…

There were days he thought about leaving. Danarius could arrive any day on the doorstep of his borrowed mansion any day. The thought of leaving, however, left the taste of ash in his mouth. Little things were what he would miss-- Hawke coming to check in on him, coming back to the mansion to find little plates of food from Merrill, Isabela’s flirting, all of it. Loyalty threaded into Hawke’s group, evident in the way they watched each other’s back in battle to those little gestures Fenris had grown fond of in the past few months. Echoes of his days with the Fog Warriors sang softly within him.

These thoughts tumbled and toppled over each other with each passing day. Fenris took each one in and compartmentalized it within. These were the people that he had thrown his lot in with, for better or worse. Yet, he never knew if Merrill would be possessed by a demon, or whether Anders would suddenly turn on them to fulfill the desires of Vengeance. So, when Anders was still glowing after an encounter with a Tal Vashoth mercenary group on the wounded coast, Fenris leaped into action.

His brands lit up as he reached for Anders. Justice’s glare flashed his way, but he did not flinch. The only thing that stopped him was Hawke’s sword in his way. His heels let him skid to a stop just in time to avoid phasing through it. There was always a chance that phasing through a weapon would just wind up with him impaled.

“What the hell, Fenris?”

Varric whistled, “Easy, Broody! That one is friendly.”

“Hardly,” he snarled, “Why is your demon still active, mage?”

“I AM NO DEMON,” boomed that voice that both was and was not Anders. Still, it didn’t argue further, seemingly releasing Anders for its thrall.

Anders snarled at him, “Justice was fine! You could have killed me!”

Fenris crossed his arms, holding his head high, acting as if he could stand down the taller man, “And you could have killed Hawke.”

Hawke scoffed, “I can fight my own battles. Thanks. Justice doesn’t scare me.”

There she went again, trusting the fool mage and his demon. Even though Fenris had warned her of all he saw in Tevinter, Hawke insisted that she knew better. One day she might live to regret it. Fenris hoped that he didn’t live to see that day. For all his terse nature, he did want Hawke to be right about Anders. So, he let the argument brewing inside him die.

Hawke was a harsh woman. When she spoke, there was no argument, one simply followed. That did not make her unkind, simply firm. It was one of the many things Fenris found himself respecting, all but in awe of. Leadership decorated Hawke like well-fitted armor. There was very little she could do now to waiver his trust in her. The group began heading out, Varric and Hawke immediately taking to counting out the loot as they walked.

Fenris came up to walk beside Anders, “You may have favor with Hawke, mage, but hear this, should you betray her--”

“Why are you so sure of my guilt long before I’ve committed a crime?”

“Should you betray her, hear this now-- I will always come for you. That is a threat.”

ACT II

Putting trust in Hawke was far from misplaced. Long after the Deep Roads, she still remained his friend, helped him when Hadriana came knocking, and trusted him in return. Fenris was a regular member of her party, trusting him even about Aveline whom she had known for far longer. Hawke was a natural, but ruthless in her efficiency. Fenris respected that, even when he wasn’t sure he agreed. Sometimes, Fenris caught Hawke with a wild, angry glint in her eye as she plowed through enemies with an almost sadistic glee. Fighting was the happiest he had seen her bar her time spent with Merrill or after she was permitted a visit with Bethany at the Circle.

Yet, still, Hawke persisted with Anders. The mage had only grown more rebellious and unstable since they had met. Fenris did not despise him, but Anders set his teeth on edge in a way Fenris had not known in some time. Yet, she had left him to deal with the wounded as healer and protector while she fought the Arishok.

Upon the kill, Fenris thought she might cut off the Qunari leader’s head and hoist it up as a trophy. If she was, she never got the chance as she was rushed upon. The word ‘Champion’ echoed about the halls of the Viscount’s Keep. Before Fenris’ very eyes, the city seemed to be turned upside down. In the chaos, he managed to stumble out of the building, attempting to follow Merrill and Varric as they both rushed after Hawke.

Bethany was outside, tailing Orsino under the watchful eye of Meredith-- Shit. Where was Anders?

Templars milled about outside, keeping watch over mages who were working on healing the wounded while Aveline’s guard began lining up the dead, human, dwarf, elf, and qunari alike. There was no mess of dirty blond hair among them. No matter what he thought, Anders did a service in Darktown. Without him, the Ferelden refugees would be worse off. Instead of following whatever parade was forming around Hawke, he ducked down a side street, attempting to search for Anders.

Smoke still filled the air, making Fenris cough as he attempted to plunge ahead. Loud wailing was still echoing in the streets, amid the cheers of victory. Loss had still struck everyone fiercely. While he searched for Anders, he also kept his eyes peeled for Isabela. Wherever she had left to go to, he had a sinking feeling that she was never coming back.

Neither deep black curls nor a dirty blond mop was what caught his eye. Instead, it was Aveline’s flash of bright ginger hair. And, safe from templars, Anders was next to her. Fenris found himself surprisingly sighing with relief. He had worried for nothing. Carefully, he approached them.

“This is your fault,” Anders snapped, teeth grit as he tried to control Justice.

Aveline snarled, “What? Saving you from templars?”

“No! The Qunari attack!” he replied, “Much as I appreciate you getting me out of there.”

“Isabela stole that tome,” muttered Aveline, crossing her arms, “That’s what started this.”

“Isabela stole that stupid book ages ago. Then you let that… that monster get away with raping a girl!” Blue crackled at the edges of Anders’ eyes, which he shut, quickly as he tried to slow his breathing. His self-control after a long day of casting and healing was reaching its limit.

Aveline rubbed her nose bridge in frustration, “Anders, honestly, I don’t know what you expect me to do--”

“Punish the guard?” offered Anders, “Or would that be too much effort because the victim was an elf? I didn’t realize we were in Tevinter.”

“That was uncalled for,” snarled Aveline, clearly close to losing her patience.

Quickly, nearly fade-stepping to get there, Fenris went forward, taking Anders by the shoulders. Justice flashed, but Anders merely looked alarmed at being touched. His eyes narrowed on Aveline, who instead just looked relieved that someone else had interrupted them. He nodded at her slowly.

“Hawke asked me to escort him back to Darktown,” he said, “Go to your guards.”

“Be safe,” she said before turning to leave.

Anders scoffed, pulling away from Fenris and trudging ahead, “I should be out there healing.”

“You can deal with the injured that make it to the clinic,” sighed Fenris.

He crossed his arms, trudging forward, “Did Hawke really ask you to come check on me? I figured she’d send someone else. Varric, maybe, or--”

“She’s too busy entertaining the masses,” admitted Fenris, “I wanted to make sure you did not get caught by the templars.”

“Me?” Anders scoffed, “Why do you care?”

Why do you care about the lives of elves? Fenris wanted to ask. Yet… He knew why. While the Spirit within Anders could ebb and flow between Justice and Vengeance, Fenris knew that the Anders had originally allowed a spirit in him. Anders had stories of Justice and their time with the Grey Wardens as separate people. Letting the guard go unpunished was unjust, no matter who the victim was, but as usual it was elves who saw the short end of the stick.

Despite every notion Fenris had of the other man, Anders continued to prove himself dedicated to the people, even if those people were usually mages. Everyone was welcome at his clinic, from refugees to the Seneschal himself. Many things Anders did annoyed Fenris, but his dedication and passion were to be admired. To see a spark of joy when healing, that was something Fenris could respect. Maybe he even wanted to, if he would just let himself.

Hawke expected his loyalty-- she had it, of course, but she still expected it. When that loyalty was questioned, she made sure you knew about it. When he had run off after killing Hadriana, she had made her position known. If Fenris wanted to do that again, he better damn well wait until they got back to Kirkwall so they weren’t romping across the Wounded Coast without help. Her anger had shamed him.

A few nights later, he had brought Anders dinner. The practice was not uncommon among the group, but it happened when Anders failed to show up at the Hanged Man. Usually, they played a round of Wicked Grace to see who took the meal. Fenris had been the first out, thus the man to take the meal. Anders had been finishing up with a patient-- a little elven girl with a scraped knee. The injury was hardly worth the time of a healer with Anders’ caliber, yet Fenris watched as he distracted her with jokes while healing her knee. Once he was done, he patted it, making her smile before he dug around for a bit, pulling out a sweet. Most of them were stale, but the refugee children hardly cared, always pleased that the healer had candy for them.

When he saw Fenris, Anders had asked him if he was okay. There was no yelling about Fenris’ comment about how magic spoiled everything--though Anders had made a snide remark when he had spoken it. No, concern lined the wrinkles of Anders’ face as he graciously took the meal, double and triple checking that Fenris didn’t need healing or something to help. Once that was over with, Anders huffed, told Fenris he was stubborn, thanked him for the meal, and reminded him to clean the up mansion before he caught something from the corpses.

“Hear this now,” he said, “I will always come for you. That is a promise.”

ACT III

Smoke had a horrible, overwhelming scent. After the Qunari attack, he didn’t have the stomach to even enjoy a good campfire anymore. But watching the rubble of the Chantry smolder before him sent a revulsion through his gut. Why did Anders always have to be such a fool? Why couldn’t he just wait for the conflict to run its inevitable course?

Hawke did not ask for their opinions. Sebastian was furious-- so was she. Merrill had her hands clasped at her heart as they watched Aingheal Hawke walk around Anders like a predatory animal. For prey, he looked remarkably calm, sad, even.

Run, you idiot. Petrify her and run for your life.

Anders didn’t move. He wanted to die. Fenris felt sick.

“I trusted you,” hissed Hawke, “I made you part of my family; I protected you. Then you LIE to me, have me help you do this.”

“The war is inevitable,” said Anders, “Justice and I have done what had to be done. Kill me if you will and be done with it.”

“You put my WIFE in danger! You put my SISTER in danger!” Hawke raised a fist, bashing it across the side of Anders’ head.

“Vhennan, no!” exclaimed Merril, “Don’t kill ‘im. He can help us protect the mages, please.”

“He doesn’t deserve to live!” bit back Sebastian.

Hawke growled, “Do not speak to her that way! Merrill, I can’t. He’s too dangerous. He’s… He’s not the Anders we knew. Not anymore.”

Fenris felt his fist clench at his side. These theatrics were ridiculous-- there was a city to save. And, to be frank, either they chose Anders to die as he pleased or they went with Merrill’s plan. Hawke had seemingly chosen the former. Tears streamed down Merrill’s cheeks as she looked away, her wife hoisting her greatsword high. Fenris felt his insides twist.

He remembered the Anders he thought he knew. Once upon a time, that man had been an abomination, just a foolish mage playing Maker. Then, things had shifted. As much as he wanted things to be simple, Anders never allowed anything to be so. With his manifesto and ranting, came the healing and the gentle touches. Even when he himself forgot to eat, he never let anyone else forget. He would risk hair and hide in battle to protect others.

One night, not long after Hawke had been dubbed the Champion, Anders had admitted to Fenris that he had not always been so selfless. Justice was what brought out the best in him-- that if Fenris hated him now, he would have loathed the Anders of the Circle or the Grey Wardens, all flirt and wit and self-serving. Somehow, Fenris doubted that was the whole story.

Each passing day over the last three years, he found he craved it more. Was Anders really so different? Or was he exaggerating in an effort to self-loathe everything about himself? One minute he was witty and charismatic the next he seemed to gain ten years from exhaustion. Yet, each day, that wit and charisma faded away. A demon-- not a traditional one, but some sort of sickness of the mind-- had taken hold of the healer. Had anyone tried to help him?

Varric, perhaps, refusing to give into such demands like taking a pillow that meant so much Anders. Yet, no one else knew what to do. None of them knew how to cope with this shell of their friend. But he was still there. After Danarius, Hawke had clapped him on the back, asked him if he was alright, and went on her way.

Anders had shown up that night, barging his way in, double-checking injuries he had already healed while Fenris pushed him away. It didn’t work, of course. The mage had always been too stubborn for that. No matter how easy it would be for Fenris to kill him, Anders had never feared him. He treated him like any other friend. Only a week ago, he had invited Anders to eat dinner together… privately.

And then Fenris, cowardly, had failed to show.

Showing up would not have changed this event. No, Anders was too far into this plan, he was sure. Yet, now, he could not find it in him to overthink. Firelight glinted on Hawke’s as it arched its way down. Far faster than he knew that he could run, Fenris found himself knelt at Anders’ side. His hands clutched the other man’s shoulders, before shoving him forward. Lyrium flickered to life.

Hawke’s sword passed through him. Phantom sensations touched him, but did not harm him. Anders looked at him from where he had fallen, gathering himself up as he stared at them all. His feet slid backward, his mouth attempting to make Fenris’ name. Behind him, Hawke seethed.

“Run!” he ordered, urging Anders, “Run! Hear this, I will always come for you! I will find you! Go!”

Anders nodded quickly, life suddenly seeming to spring forth in his eyes. Oh, how long had Fenris longed to see that glint again. He had not realized he had ached for it until he saw its gleam. The mage took off, rushing away and into the chaos of the street. Once he was out of sight, Fenris turned to face them. Sebastian had his bow cocked at his head while Hawke looked disgusted.

“You bastard,” she hissed, “What had gotten into you?”

“What has gotten into you?” he repeated, “Anders was your friend. More-so than he ever was mine.” And yet, his stupid, treacherous heart and all of its longing had found the sympathy to save him.

“You were right,” she sneered, “He was always an abomination. I was blind.”

“Your wife is a blood mage,” snapped Fenris, “Shall you put her to the sword next?” Merrill gasped, but he glanced at her, trying to show her that it was not something he wanted. Hawke looked appalled at such a suggestion, thank the Maker, and lowered her sword.

Hawke did not circle him like a prey animal as she did Anders. No, instead he raised her nose to him. Golden eyes, just a bit hazel and always piercing, cast their judgement down on him. In an instant, without thinking, she saw what he had done as throwing away her loyalty to save Anders. And Hawke always expected his loyalty.

“I loved you like a brother,” she said, shaking her head, “Get out. Get out of my sight. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you both.” Merril sobbed, Varric quickly tending to her, looking unusually surly at Hawke. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so unusual. Hawke was always funnier in his tales than she was in person. Perhaps Fenris had been blinded to something Varric had always seen.

Fenris did not say goodbye. Instead, he walked away with pride, head held high, a free man who would not be tethered to a woman who confused loyalty with ownership. Fenris owed her much, but she did not own him. And a free man was allowed to walk into whatever fate he damned well please.

Fenris chose Anders, and he knew he would keep choosing Anders every day after. All he had to do was find him.

[lesetoilesfous]

“I might never get another chance to say this.” - for Fendersssss? 🥺

AAAAAH oh this is gonna break my heart. I can just tell. Thank you so much for the prompt!!! And for the OTP request, I love my boys :D

(If you’d like me to write you a da2, da:o or da:a fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting​

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders, Varric, Marian Hawke

Tags: idiots in love, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of violence, near death experience

Rating: Mature

“I’m in love with you.” The mage is breathless, his face flecked with blood and his hair tangled and pulled free from its tie by the violence of battle. His golden eyes are dark in the shadow of the Deep Roads, and the air around him is thick with the metallic scent of magic. Fenris stares at him. Behind them, roaring red light slams into the cave walls. 

“What?”

Anders grins at him, wild and unrestrained, brave and foolish and bright. His hand tightens around his staff. His knuckles are grazed and bleeding. “I might never get another chance to say this. So. I’m in love with you. Just so you know.”

The roaring of the demonic magic behind them scrapes at Fenris’ ears. Then, suddenly, it’s gone, and Anders is turning and tumbling out from behind the pillar to throw a wave of ice at the rock wraith. For a moment Fenris is stunned still. Then he moves, hefting his sword and ignoring the burn of the muscles in his arms as he does so.

Hawke and Varric sprint out from behind their own pillar, and Fenris forces his attention from the tall, slender, stupid mage standing right in front of the blighted wraith in favour of focusing on his foe. He hefts his sword, and wonders not for the first time how in the Void they’re meant to defeat something made of magic and the mountain.

The battle is long and arduous, but they win. Hawke whoops when they do, and her shout echoes against the cavern ceiling. Fenris privately swears that if her shouting brings yet more ghouls down upon them, he will not speak to her for a week. Both she and Varric are distracted by the large, glittering pile of golden treasure in one corner of the cave. Fenris is of a mind to follow them, but he turns first to the mage.

Anders smiles at him, weakly, and Fenris wonders whether he had always been so pale. The mage is fair, yes, but now he’s white as a sheet. It makes his freckles and the blood splattered across his face stand out like spilled ink. Then Anders stumbles forward, and Fenris frowns, gaze falling to where his hand is pressed against his stomach. Anders looks down too, lifting his palm. It comes away a bright, crimson red. 

He manages a soft, “oh. That’s not good.” And then he’s swaying backwards, falling towards the unforgiving stone floor. 

Fenris lunges, barely catching the mage and lowering him gently onto the jagged rock. As he does, Anders whimpers, his body flinching around the ragged mess that has been made of his ribcage. Fenris stares and tries to stifle the panic racing through his chest. He leans forward, over Anders’ face. 

“Mage! Mage, you need to heal yourself.”

Anders looks up at him. His eyes are dark and golden and unseeing, and they skate over Fenris’ face and away, staring up at the distant stone ceiling. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I always...loved...the sky.”

His eyes flutter shut. Fenris stares, and breathes and tastes magic and blood. He sits forward and slaps the mage, briskly, once. It does nothing. Fighting a losing battle against his own panic, Fenris pulls a potion from his belt even as he shouts. “Hawke!” His voice breaks on his companion’s name and bounces against the stone walls, taunting him again and again with his weakness.

Fenris tries to ignore the way his hands are shaking, the way the lyrium in his body is burning, even as he gently slips a hand beneath Anders head and lifts it. The mage’s hair is thick and damp with sweat and blood, and it tickles against Fenris’ fingers. His head is heavy in his hand. 

Fenris uncorks the bottle with his thumb with practice ease, and presses the glass lip to Anders’ mouth. His lips are grey and pale, nothing like the pink flush with which they normally smile, and laugh, and flirt. (I’m in love with you.) 

Fenris tips the potion into Anders’ mouth, and the thick red liquid dribbles a little down his chin. The honey sweet taste of elfroot fills the air. Fenris discards the bottle, and it falls with a chink to the stone as he gently massages the mage’s throat.

“Oh, Anders.” Hawke’s voice is soft, and she crouches beside them. For once Fenris ignores her, watching Anders anxiously for any sign of response. Quietly, Varric joins them. Together they watch. 

In Fenris’ arms, Anders’ body seems even more slender than it had before. In uconsciousness, some of his years fall away, leaving him looking young and vulnerable and fair, out of place in this hive of demons and shadow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. Fenris watches for any sign of a pulse jumping in his neck and cannot see it. He cannot find the courage to check.

Behind Hawke, Varric breaks the silence with a low murmur. “Come on, Blondie. Come on. Don’t give up now.”

Fenris’ hand tightens in Anders’ hair.

He doesn’t move.

(I might never get another chance to say this. So. I’m in love with you. Just so you know.)

Distantly, there’s the shrieking wail of some awful creature. Hawke shifts, looking over her shoulder. Tentatively, she breaks the quiet. “Fenris -”

Fenris moves, bending over Anders’ body and lifting it into his arms, pressing his limp, heavy head into his shoulder. He shakes his his head, and presses his face into Anders’ hair. The man smells of elfroot and blood, sweat and magic.

He doesn’t move.

The shrieking gets closer. Hawke gets to her feet. Fenris catches the movement of her head as she and Varric exchange a look. Then she turns back to him. “Fenris. I found a key. We need to -”

Fenris shakes his head again, and presses Anders’ body closer to his chest. “No.” The word is a demand and an argument and a prayer. The shrieking gets closer.

Varric sighs. “Broody, I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Fenris shuts his eyes, and feels them burning behind his eyelids, even as tears begin to tickle down his cheeks. He cannot remember the last time he cried. 

“No.” He says again. The word falls into the heavy silence of the body in his arms, and the deep shadows of the cave around them. 

There’s a flash of blue light - flickering like lightning across Anders’ skin. Suddenly, his chest jerks, and he gasps. Fenris pulls back, and stares as racing blue sparks run across the ragged wound in Anders’ side, knitting it back together in a wave of magic. Anders chokes, and gasps again, and Fenris holds him, staring at him and not daring to hope, even as he braces to watch the man twist into some awful abomination.

But that doesn’t happen.

After a moment, Anders catchs his breath, and hangs his head. He lifts his hand to his hair, and his fingers are shaking. He stares down at where the wound in his side had been. “Thanks Justice.” The words are barely a whisper. Fenris tries to ignore the discomfort he feels at them. 

Then, at last, Anders seems to notice the position in which he finds himself. He stares up at Fenris. As he does he flushes pink, and colour returns to his freckled cheeks. Fenris grins, and Anders’ eyes fall to the tear tracks on his chin. His expression falls. Tentatively, slow enough that he would be easy to push away, Anders lifts his hand to Fenris’ face and brushes the moisture from his skin. His fingers are soft and cool. 

“How long was I out?”

Fenris hand curls into the heavy, stiff material of his ridiculous jacket at his back. “Long enough.” Understanding passes in Anders’ face then, and his features soften.

“Sorry I made you wait.”

Fenris nods, once. Anders stares at him for a moment longer, and then his mouth begins to curl into a smile. Fenris frowns at him. “What?”

Anders shrugs, and tilts his head meaningfully to Fenris’ arms around him. “Not that I don’t enjoy the lovers’ embrace, but weren’t we running for our lives half an hour ago?”

“It’s just as well someone remembers.” Hawke interrupts, then thumps Anders on the back hard enough for him to huff. Fenris glares at her, and she rolls her eyes at him before turning back to Anders. “Good to have you back. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Anders gives her a hesitant smile, and Hawke grins at him, honest and relieved, before fishing a heavy intricate veridium key out of her pack.

“We’ve found our ticket out of here. How do you feel about seeing the sky again?”

The yearning in Anders’ face then is almost painful to look at, and it’s enough to motivate Fenris to get to his feet. He carefully helps Anders stand too, ignoring the mage’s curious look as he lifts him (too easily - the mage should certainly be eating more for a man of his height and build.)

It’s at this point that Varric returns from scouting in the tunnels beyond them, stepping with disconcerting ease from the shadows. “Blondie, you’re alive! That’s great! Don’t do that again. This old dwarven heart can only take so much.” Anders chuckles, embarassed, and rubs the back of his head. Varric smiles at him warmly before turning to Hawke.

“We’re clear for now, but I wouldn’t recommend sticking around.”

Hawke laughs. “I’m inclined to agree.” She turns to Fenris and Anders. “Boys. Shall we?”

Both of them nod, moving to gather their packs. Anders bends stiffly for his, and Fenris picks it up for him and swings it over his own shoulder before the mage can protest. Anders looks like he’s going to, anyway, but he apparently sees something of the futility of that course of action in Fenris’ face, because he backs down with a rueful grin and slings his staff over his back instead.

Hawke slots the key into the great mechanism of the doors, and they grind and thunk with a teeth-jarring series of metal thuds. Slowly, screeching, the doors swing open. For the first time in over a fortnight, fresh air washes down the shadows of the tunnel and over their faces. 

Varric shuts his eyes. “Sweet Maker. Topside, I’ve missed you.” Together, he and Hawke step through the doors and into the earthen tunnel. 

Anders moves to follow them, eyes fixed on some distant point - the very faintest hint of a lightening in the dark that suggests distant sunlight. Fenris catches his hand, and Anders stops. Fenris watches him visibly resist the urge to pull away, choosing to listen to him instead of walking towards the freedom he so clearly desires. It gives him the courage to speak.

“I love you, too.”

Fenris swallows against the lump of it in his throat, and forces himself to meet Anders’ eyes. The mage is grinning at him, wide and open and boyish, and then he’s jumping forwards with far more energy than anyone has any right to when they had so recently been nearly dead, and kissing him. Fenris grunts, and catches him, and tastes elfroot on his tongue. For a moment, everything else fades away: the wraiths, and the tunnels, the stench of darkspawn and the weight of the dark.

Then there are broad hands pushing at the small of his back, and Anders is yelping, as Hawke tugs him away from Fenris by his ear whilst Varric shoves Fenris’ back. 

Hawke laughs. “Honeymoon on the surface, alright? I’m not watching you two become Darkspawn fodder so soon after you’ve finally come to your blighted senses.”

Apparently unperturbed by the hand on his ear, Anders lets himself be dragged. “So you’d be fine with us becoming Darkspawn fodder another time?”

Behind him, Varric chuckles. “You’ve got your hands full with that one, Broody.”

Together they walk into the earthen tunnel. Fenris feels the soil give a little beneath his feet. He looks at the chattering, bloodied, grinning man in front of him. “Yes. I think I do.” He makes no effort to hide his satisfaction. 

Without hesitation, Fenris follows his mage into the light.

[ofgoodmenarchive]

The second in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian.

Spring Thaw

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.

No- he was definitely getting ahead of himself.

At the very least, Dorian shouldn't have discarded the Venatori's equipment so impulsively. It was possible- even likely- the Herald would be immune to his charms. If no attraction existed between them to start with, then he'd forsaken his current, sole employment for nothing.

Introducing himself was also a complex matter. His subject of fixation was more often than not swarmed by Chantry puppets- Inquisition puppets, whatever.

Either way, they'd be wary of something like him.

  Which would be perfectly sensible, if we're being honest...

For days he stalked them through the Hinterlands, camping out of sight- preferably at high vantage points. On this occasion he'd discovered a homely cave dug into a cliff, with an ideal view of the Inquisition camp. They'd organised around a half-crumbled tower, wrangling full command of the King's Road at this end.

It took time to accomplish- Dorian had spectated most of the work. The Templar-Mage conflict was their main concern- by now almost completely eliminated. Still there was plenty of trouble to be had, Dorian knew.

  Are they even aware of the Venatori yet?

Indeed for now they mostly focused on the resident lyrium-smugglers. To be fair, they were a nuisance- and had not enough sense to leave the Inquisition unmolested.

In his shadowing he concluded a few things, at least.

For one, the Herald was a mage with an affinity for ice. Admittedly Dorian felt stupid for not realising on their first encounter. That sword of light channelled the man's will, swaying him towards close combat. Odd for a mage- so Dorian didn't berate himself much for failing to notice.

Secondly, the man was Spirit-bound. To what sort of spirit and for what purpose, Dorian couldn't guess. He'd only concluded this due to a chance look at his weapon- a summoning circle was inscribed into the hilt. An insanely reckless thing to attempt- unless your will and the spirit's could work in perfect unison.

  We have something in common, at least!

Though Dorian was positive none regarded him as an Abomination.

Lastly, the Herald was unaccustomed to such close work with humans. Dorian rarely overheard conversation but frequently witnessed him seeming lost, needing elaboration on what appeared self-evident.

Overall he was somewhat peculiar, even for an elf.

  “You know...” Dorian mused while building a small fire for the night. “I'm already feeling chipper. It's probably a trick of the mind, since there's potential for a meal...but wouldn't it be funny if my desire was feeding into itself?”

An unamused grumble responded and he frowned at his shadow- slumped morosely against the cave entrance, like a wrung out towel.

  “Yes, yes, I know that's not how it works.” Dorian rebuffed, scowling. “I'm just saying I don't mind all this creeping around! Or I don't mind it yet...give it a while, I suppose...”

  The Herald of Andraste...

  …probably also does not speak to himself.

  “Well I'm not speaking to myself, am I?!” He countered, huffing. “I'm speaking to you!- And you're being especially bratty today!”

Desire slouched down the cliff-wall until it was almost flat.

Dorian spluttered with laughter.

  “You're like a cat, you know!? An ominous, perverted cat.”

The creature bubbled sadly, giving no answer.

Rolling his eyes, Dorian would have returned to working on the fire- except Desire's head emerged from it's puddle, leering down the slope.

  “Hrm...?” He followed it's gaze, squinting. “Something happening down there...?”

A tall figure wandering from camp, accompanied by a much shorter one- the Herald and his dwarf ally.

  “Where are they wandering off to on their own...?” He frowned at his shadow. “Should they really be doing that?”

Desire shrugged, shoulders casting ripples along it's spooled form.

  “For some reason...” Dorian swiped his staff from nearby. “I don't like it. Let's make sure nothing bothers them, yes?”

Maker forbid the elf get himself killed- it would be a waste of his whole week!

The pair strode upon the King's Road, moonlight leading their path and their path leading Dorian- always close behind but not too close. Eventually they paused at a road-marker, muttered between themselves and appeared to wait.

  Are they missing one of their people, or something..?

Regardless of the situation, whatever was meant to occur, didn't. Exchanging anxious stares, the duo walked further along, ignorant to Dorian's presence as he slunk from shadow to shadow.

Within minutes all heard the same thuggish shouting- accented in Ferelden, somewhere amidst an outcrop of limestone. Sprinting forward, the Herald and his companion hunched behind cover, in frantic discussion.

Wanting a full perspective, Dorian climbed ledges as stealthily as possible. Once he had an ideal view, he sat and assessed.

Lyrium-smugglers again, of course. Carta, perhaps? No one Dorian had ties with, whoever they were. More than a dozen- with enough heavies in their ranks to pose serious threat to a miniscule party.

A party of two, for example, would likely be obliterated.

Dorian could see why there was discourse between the Herald and his friend. An Inquisition scout knelt among the group, bleeding and mid-interrogation.

  So they did lose someone...

Now the Herald wished to attempt rescue and his companion reasonably disagreed. Even out of earshot, Dorian could tell who was winning- through pure stubbornness alone.

Glancing behind, he spotted that looming, bratty shadow of his.

  “I hope you're ready to actually work for your meal.”

Not a second passed after his speech before all erupted into chaos. The Herald careened through the group, carried along paves of ice. Flailing and visibly irritated, the dwarf scrambled onto a high-point, where he could launch arrows from some elaborate crossbow.

Skidding from his perch, Dorian leapt into the fray.

Blood had already touched ground- that didn't bode well for anything near him. The grinning skull of his staff raised high, he willed every drop of lost life into himself. It swirled around him in crimson ribbons- he hadn't even channelled a form before people screamed.

  “MALEFICAR!”

Earning a wild, blood-crazed laugh from him as he barrelled forth, slicing enemies with their own pain- weaponised. Anyone struck deep enough and lacking proper resistance became crazed, attacking all in their proximity.

It had been a while since he'd stretched his abilities for combat- quite invigorating, really! Not to mention all the blood- a fair snack, though not his usual preference. Licking some from his fingers, Dorian launched into another attack and found himself brushing passed blizzard.

Swivelling to face it, he bore his teeth in a personable manner.

Winter-touched eyes regarded him quizzically, then vanished into battle.

Moments later and it was done- together with the scout, their enemy was reduced to a pile of corpses.

Inhaling, Dorian glimpsed the dwarf and recruit in breathless conversation. Elsewhere stood the Herald- sheathing his weapon, sighing with relief.

  Talk-talk-talk-talk-talk-talk-talk.

  Maker, stop it! Yes, I see.

This was the closest opportunity he was chance to get.

Awkwardly, uncharacteristically- Dorian hesitated.

  TALK-TALK-TALK-T

  I SAID STOP THAT! I'M GOING!

Mustering composure, he sauntered that direction, beaming.

  “Greetings, friend!”

The Herald blinked from wiping stained hands, eyes widening a second later.

  “...Who are you?” He mumbled, automatically hunching to Dorian's level- as he'd witnessed many times.

  “Me?”  He laughed airily- had to restrain more when the elf flinched. “My name is Dorian Pavus...and you would be the Herald of Andraste, no?”

Much hesitation from this so-called Herald- the poor man's eyes darted as if seeking attendance, white complexion reddening. Effortless traits for human eyes to see- and then there were aspects only Dorian would see. A quickened pulse, hitched breath, heightened temperature...

  Well, that answers that question...

  But...I really didn't intend to give the poor fool a heart-attack.

He hadn't even exercised his will in any fashion- just introduced himself! The Herald's clan must have been terribly isolationist, if that's all it took to fluster him.

  “That...is what they say...” He managed after a long pause, brow furrowing. “...Have you been following me, Dorian Pavus?”

  Oh, I like that.

  So formal.

  “Only for your own protection, my darling Herald!” He chuckled warmly, gestured to their fallen opponents. “As you can so clearly see.”

Another drawn out silence, pale features struggling to stay that way and failing- pink had spread to his neck.

  “You are from Tevinter.” He observed clumsily.

Dorian's head tilted.

  “Nothing gets passed you, does it?”

The Herald didn't seem to know how to respond, grasping air dumbly and again searching around for aid. Deciding to provide such aid, Dorian inquired;

  “Since I gave you my name- may I have yours?”

Though fidgeting, he offered;

  “Lavellan.”

  “That would be a last name, no?”

  “I do not tend to give my first.”

  “You don't 'tend to'...” He smiled, shamelessly familiar. “So you might make an exception?”

Something about this caught the elf off guard- absolutely flushed. He merely stared as though Dorian proposed he strip to his undergarments.

  “Uhh...hey, there.” The dwarf ambled to them before Lavellan could recover.

  “Ah, hello!” Determined to make a good impression, Dorian stuck out his hand. “Dorian Pavus! Pleased to make your acquaintance!”

The Dwarf relented to a light shake, inspecting him doubtfully.

  “Varric Tethras- pleased to make yours..” He knit his brow, glanced between the two men. “...I guess.”

All the while Lavellan was statuesque, face crimson and attention flying everywhere.

  “...You okay, Lord Heraldness?”

  “I...am fine- I am fine.” He practically squeaked. “I think...Cassandra will wish us back at camp...right now...im...immediately.”

Incapable of restraining himself, Dorian roared with mirth and hoped it didn't sound unkind.

  “We'll talk soon, my dear Herald.” He bid farewell with more obvious warmth. Lavellan swiftly fled- half-marching, half-scurrying, Varric at his heels.

-–

Dirt and blood raced beneath his feet. Evallan Lavellan fought to correct the hue of his face.

  “...Are you okay?” Varric- barely audible above the sound of his heartbeat.

  “I am fine!”  He snapped, shrill. “I just...was not prepared for...for that.”

Varric's expression scrunched inwards, perplexed.

  “Prepared for what?”

Speech died on Evallan's tongue, frowning helplessly at his companion. He barely had the words in his own language, how could he explain with the vocabulary they both shared?

All the human mages he'd encountered- they were so reserved, tame.

He couldn't imagine any human to carry themselves so shamelessly- draped in blood and bone, cackling and grinning through danger. Formidable yet exercising flawless control- so at ease in his nature.

And Mythal have mercy- Those eyes- deadly flares of red and gold.

  Absolutely wild.

  He must be mad.

  “...Oh, Maker's breath, Herald...” Evallan became aware he'd been glaring into space. “Don't worry- I won't tell anyone you took one look at the weirdo-'Vint-blood-mage and turned into a tomato.”

He flushed every shade of red imaginable, snapping-

  “I said I was not prepared!”

  “I wasn't prepared either!” Varric chortled. “And I do not look like you do right now!”

Groaning, Evallan sped his pace, wishing for nothing more than to hide in his tent and scream until humiliation subsided.

[shannaraisles]

A Convenient Princess - Chapter 3

The Inquisition has been disbanded. After several years of triumph and loss, Anne Trevelyan has made her decision. If Starkhaven wants a princess, then she will be that princess. Who said anything about love?

[Read on AO3]

Chapter Three

"You still sure about this, Fletch?"

Anne tilted her head toward Varric, a fond but weary smile on her face.

"Even if I wasn't, it's a little late to be worrying about that," she told her friend, shifting her position as the barge pushed off from the bank to begin its stately progress into the city of Starkhaven. "But I am sure."

"Well, I can't complain," the dwarf admitted. "You getting married sure has dealt with my biggest headache fast."

"I intend to make sure that Starkhaven makes reparations to Kirkwall eventually," she assured him. "That might take a few years, though."

"Fletch, you just settle in and get the choir boy hopelessly in love with you," Varric suggested with a faint grin. "You'll have the whole nobility wrapped around your finger in no time."

"Your confidence is inspiring," she drawled back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

"And well-founded," Josephine pointed out from where she sat with Cullen and Leliana, further back in the barge. "You have good political sense, Anne. This should not give you much trouble."

"I would still prefer it if you would allow me to leave a bodyguard for you," Cullen added in a quiet grumble.

"I'll have Bull and the Chargers," Anne reminded him in amusement. "Somehow I don't think many people will get past them, if they want to."

"Your greatest ally is the Divine," Leliana said in an easy tone. The redhead seemed to be enjoying the slow push down the Minanter River under the sunshine. "When she arrives to perform the ceremony, it will be a very blatant sign of favor toward you. There are not many who would risk their immortal soul just to remove a political rival."

"I'm pretty sure Buttercup would be only too happy to pull a few pants down in your defense, too," Varric added.

Anne laughed.

"Don't you think Starkhaven has its own Red Jenny?" she said. "I feel sure Sera mentioned one at some point."

"And there's your in," Varric pointed out with a grin.

Anne rolled her eyes, laughing as she looked ahead once again. The sun was shining, her friends were around her. It was a good day, so far. The concentric circles of Starkhaven city loomed ahead as their barge made its slow way along the river, the sound of the crowds gathering within already audible to the river-goers. The gloved fingers of her right hand twitched at her skirt, missing the reliable feel of leather pants and weapons on her person already, but that would not have been appropriate. From now on, she was Lady Anne, soon to be Princess Anne. Weapons and armor may well be a thing of the past.

She would have to get used to dressing in the style of her rank - her new rank, which was far above the rank she had held before the Inquisition had become a force in the world. Then, she had been a mere lady, the youngest sister to the self-important Bann of Ostwick. In just a few days, she would be a princess, wife to the ruler of one of the most prosperous and powerful city states in the Free Marches, a member of the respected Vael family. She would never escape the title of Herald of Andraste, she knew; it had been one of the major bargaining chips in the beginning of this arrangement, and both Varric and Leliana had been very clear that her status as a believed chosen of the Bride of the Maker would only give her more power in her new position. As much as she hated the lie, Anne knew she would have to live it for the rest of her life.

Thankfully, neither Vivienne nor Josephine had insisted on outfitting her in anything that so much as hinted at Andraste, instead choosing gowns in the Starkhaven style. Today's choice was, thank the Maker, made of light rose silks and cloth of silver, perfect for enduring the summer sun beating down upon them as the barge made its ponderous way through the water gate and into the canals of Starkhaven itself. The people crowded the walkways that lined the canal, cheering, throwing flowers, craning to catch a glimpse of their soon to be princess. She could hear her name in the cacophony, the name of her soon to be husband, the names of Andraste and the Maker, all mingling into a wall of sound that shared only delight at her coming.

"Seems like they're happy to see you, Fletch."

She glanced at Varric, raising a gloved hand to sweep an errant blonde curl back from her face. The dwarf was grinning, but she could see the tension in him. Until just a few days ago, Starkhaven had been openly at war with Kirkwall. Varric's presence here, as the Viscount of Kirkwall, was nothing more than a personal favor to her, as a friend. She had already made it absolutely clear that he was under her personal protection. She just had to hope that would be enough to keep him safe.

The barge ahead of theirs had already drawn alongside the dock at the main square, Iron Bull and the Chargers alighting to form a protective square and hold back the crowds so that she and her companions could step onto dry land without danger. She never would have expected Bull to take these responsibilities so seriously; indeed, she had not dreamed that he would offer himself and the Chargers as her personal guard for as long as she needed them. But she was intensely grateful for their presence as she rose, taking Krem's hand to step safely onto the dock. The pushing clamor of the crowd was setting her nerves jangling. It had been a long time since she had been so close to such unrestrained celebration, much less as the central focus of it.

"Quite the crowd you've drawn here, boss," Bull commented, his low rumble somehow cutting through the clamor. "The welcoming committee looks like they're having trouble passing through."

She followed the nod of his head toward the entrance to the wide square, where a group of guarded nobles appeared to have been stopped at the base of a wide granite staircase by the sheer numbers in front of them. It was difficult to get a good look at the group, but she knew her bridegroom must be among them. However, with the focus of the crowd on her, Anne knew she was going to have to be the one to deal with his problem.

She raised her hand, looking around at the crowd expectantly. Those at the front fell silent almost immediately, a wave of stillness rippling out from them as the shouts and cries faded from eager lips.

"Very good," she heard Josephine murmur at her back. "You have their attention."

"Good people," Anne declared, projecting her voice as much as she dared. "Thank you for your generous welcome. I am very pleased to know that I will be making my home among such a friendly people. But I am afraid that if you do not make way, I may go to my wedding without ever meeting your prince!"

Another ripple followed this, of laughter and self-conscious realization, and slowly the pushing crowd started to draw back, allowing the noble party at the steps to make their way forward. Most, she noted, seemed put out by being made to wait by the common folk of the city, but two men stood out to her. One was an elf, slight in build but clearly strong enough to wield the enormous great-sword strapped to his back, a shock of white hair stark against brown skin that flowed with strange markings. He nodded to Varric as they approached, who chuckled under his breath.

"Friend of yours?" Cassandra asked the dwarf.

"Could say that," he agreed. "Didn't know he was working for the choir boy now."

But Anne's attention was drawn to the other man who stood out. A tall human man, his skin brown from the sun, his eyes piercing blue, garbed in blue, white, and gold, a thin circlet at his brow. Those stunning eyes were fixed on her, a broad smile creasing his face in welcome, and for just a moment, she felt as though she were the center of his world. He bowed low before her.

"My Lady Inquisitor," he said, the lilting tone of his voice a sweet surprise to her ears. "It is a true pleasure to see you at last."

Without conscious thought, she curtsied to him in return, feeling an oddly shy smile quirk at her own lips.

"Prince Vael. Thank you for inviting me to share your home."

"It is I who should be thanking you, my lady," he told her, one hand reaching out to offer her his palm. "I hope you will come to love Starkhaven as your home."

"With a welcome such as this, I am not without hope for the same, your highness."

She set her hand in his, and the crowd swelled with noise once again, drawing a self-conscious laugh from her as she glanced around at the cheering, waving throng. Sebastian laughed with her.

"We've been waiting a long time to have you here," he admitted a little ruefully. "Will you come to palace with me? And, of course, your entourage."

His eyes swept the gathered men and women with her, pausing for just a moment on Varric. Anne could have sworn she saw regret and guilt flicker in his gaze before the piercing blue settled on her once more with a smile.

"Unless you plan to marry me here and now, your highness, I think perhaps we should move on," she said, daring to tease just a little, rewarded with another short laugh from his lips.

"As tempting as that is, I do not doubt the Divine would have my head if I denied her the opportunity to celebrate your wedding herself," he said, turning to begin guiding her toward the wide granite steps that lead upward in a light incline, through the concentric city walls and streets, up to the palace itself.

With Bull and the Chargers spreading out around them, supporting the Starkhaven guards themselves, space was made among the clamoring crowd for the small group to make their way along the granite way, following Anne and Sebastian's progress. Behind them, Anne could hear Josephine leading the conversation with the nobles who had accompanied the prince to the square, but she found herself unable to follow that conversation. Sebastian's hand felt sure in his grasp of her false hand; she couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to have him holding her true hand, without a glove to separate them.

"Forgive me for asking, my lady," he said, careful to keep his pace measured for her comfort. "I was lead to believe that you had suffered some grievous injury in your confrontation with the Qunari. Are you well enough?"

Anne smiled faintly. Of course that would be on his mind.

"I am quite well, your highness," she began, but he interrupted her gently.

"Sebastian, please," he said. "We are to be wed in a matter of days, after all."

"Then you must call me Anne," she pointed out, glad to see a hint of shyness in his gaze as she gave him permission to drop the formalities. It was good to note that he wasn't quite as well put together about all this as he first seemed. "And yes, I was injured in our confrontation. The hand you hold - it is a facsimile, a prosthetic made for me by our arcanist, Dagna. I am missing that arm from just above the elbow."

She felt his fingers tighten on that hand, wondering if he was expecting to find it unyielding in his grasp. Sebastian seemed surprised, if anything, not to have noticed the difference.

"I was not aware that the injury was so great," he admitted. "And this ... prosthetic you wear. Is it comfortable? Does it serve your needs?"

"It does not perform as a true hand would, but for the most part, it does as I require it," she assured him. "I have another, which is better equipped for battle. Though I suppose I shall not be needing it here."

His smile was rueful once again.

"It would be best for you to stay sharp with your training, Anne," he said softly, bending his head closer to hers so she heard him well. "I am not so steady on this throne that there may not be chancers looking to harm me by harming you."

"I assure you, Sebastian, I am no easy mark," she promised him. "And I have the Chargers."

"Oh, do they intend to stay?" he asked, apparently surprised once again.

"Indeed they do," she told him. "The Iron Bull has requested that I hire him and his group to be my eyes and ears, and my shield, in Starkhaven, and I see no reason to deny him that. Do you?"

She cast him a sharp look, searching for any hint that he was displeased with this decision of hers, taken without his involvement. To her delight, he was smiling, nodding in approval.

"Not at all," he agreed. "It's a wise decision, to have those you trust guarding your back."

She glanced behind them at these words, to where the strange-looking elven man was walking alongside Varric, the two of them deep in conversation.

"And do you have people you trust to guard your back?" she asked the prince.

Sebastian followed her glance for a moment, one side of his mouth quirking into a resigned half-smile.

"I trust Fenris with my life, but he is not here at my request," he admitted. "Hawke sent him, to make sure nothing untoward happens between now and the wedding."

Anne snorted with laughter, rolling her eyes.

"That man can't keep his fingers out of multiple pies, can he?" she commented. "The last time I saw him, he was on his way to Weisshaupt, and we haven't heard a word since. I assume he has been in contact with you in recent years?"

"Not directly with me," Sebastian said, his tone matching hers for fond resignation. "But with Fenris, aye, and Isabela too, I believe. I think it likely he remains in contact with Varric, too."

"I am surprised he hasn't intervened to prevent Starkhaven's war with Kirkwall, in that case," Anne said mildly.

"I wouldn't have listened," the prince said in a low voice. "Hawke and I ... we did not part on good terms. I regret my haste in disavowing my friend, but some things cannot be changed."

"You may be surprised," she murmured. "Not everything is set in stone. Words are just words, when you get right down to it. Perhaps this is the time for a reconciliation."

"Perhaps," he agreed thoughtfully. "Though I think I will leave such words for after the wedding, my lady."

He flashed her a warm grin, and she laughed self-consciously in response, ducking her head for just a moment before looking up at their destination. Starkhaven Palace was an imposing sight, all gray stone and looming, yet effort had been made to make it a little less intimidating. Banners and pennants in white and gold flapped from balconies and flagpoles, garlands of Grace wrapping about railings and over the lintels of doors. Despite the grayness of the palace itself, these little touches made Anne smile. Yet what made her happier still was the diversity of people she saw as they approached. Not just humans, but elves and dwarves, all well-fed, well-dressed, and smiling for their prince and his bride. It seemed as though Starkhaven was a more accepting place than she had been lead to believe in her youth.

A stern-faced man awaited them at the main door to the palace itself, bowing as they approached.

"This is my steward, Granger," Sebastian introduced the man. "Granger, may I present Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan."

"My lady." The steward bowed, no hint of a smile beneath the mustache that decorated his top lip.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Granger," Anne replied, inclining her head to the man.

He merely nodded in return, straightening to flick a look at the men on the door. Hands reached out to push open the great oak doors of Starkhaven palace, revealing a warm, sunlit courtyard bright with flowers and trees, shaded from the summer sun by the towering keep in the center.

Anne paused, drawing in a slow breath. This was truly the point of no return. By taking this step, by walking through these doors, she was committing herself fully to becoming the Princess of Starkhaven; to marrying a man she barely knew; to letting go of the Inquisition for good. It was daunting, and for a moment, she wavered, feeling loneliness beginning to crash down upon her.

Then Sebastian turned to her, his smile warm and inviting, and said three words that struck her to the heart.

"Welcome home, Anne."

[cakelanguage]

Writing long fics is so intimidating, especially when you don’t receive much feedback for a while, but I pushed past my hesitation and wariness to keep on trucking! Enjoy chapter 6 of my “Dorian as a young boy” fic - he’s finally meeting the rest of the companions.

First//Previous//Next

You can also read it on AO3

--

Perhaps sneaking into the meeting had been poor judgment on his part, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when he was able to speak up for the mages and add some convincing reasons to go after Alexius and his cult.

But knowing that he wouldn't have changed his actions didn't stop the nerves that buzzed underneath his skin as they got closer to the tavern if the ruckus and clanking from inside was anything to go by. It wouldn't be terrible, he'd been scolded many times before and it'd just be another notch on his belt of… recklessness.

Except it wasn't really the same. Varric had been nothing but friendly to him and it left a sour taste in his mouth that he'd tricked the dwarf. He'd definitely apologize to him as soon as Varric started his scolding.

It was also the unknown factor of the Iron Bull. The qunari was friendly enough but he was still a qunari and that alone had warning bells echoing through his skull. He knew the Iron Bull didn't trust him and this wasn't going to build that trust. Especially since the Iron Bull was going to be watching him.

"Hey, I can hear you stewing," Aeren chuckled, "knock it off. No reason to start freaking out."

He huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. "I'm not 'freaking out,'" Dorian mumbled. "Just… hoping it isn't too bad."

Aeren hummed and gave a half-hearted shrug. "Never really seen the Iron Bull scold someone, to be honest with you, but he is a leader of mercenaries and I doubt this will be the first time he scolds someone."

"It isn't the scolding part that has me worried," he admitted softly.

Aeren came to a halt, his lips pressed into a thin line. He deftly pulled Dorian to the side of the path, bending down a little to look at Dorian. "Is it because he's a qunari?"

Dorian wanted to say 'no,' wanted to be able to brush his unease to the side but he couldn't. "N-not entirely." He fidgeted under Aeren's gaze, brushing imaginary dirt off his robes. "It's complicated."

He'd tried his best to remain neutral about qunari and the Qun, but that prejudice had wormed its way into his heart bit by bit as the war between the qunari and Tevinter dragged on. It was irrational and he felt every bit of the child he still was at the fear that seemed to seep through the folds of his mind.

It wasn't even Bull he was afraid of, just his people. Not that it made it any better.

Aeren tilted his chin up with a calloused hand. "I'm not throwing you to the wolves, Dorian."

"I know that."

"But you're still scared." Dorian's silence was telling enough and Aeren let out a sigh. "If it is any comfort I'll be right with you the entire time, and I'm sure Varric will diffuse the situation if the scolding gets heavy handed, okay?"

Dorian nodded his head and took a steadying breath. "Alright, let's get this over with."

Aeren grinned and clapped his hands together. "That's the attitude I was looking for!"

Aeren was much too happy at Dorian's begrudging courage than Dorian thought he had any right to be, but he followed Aeren into the tavern nonetheless.

The place was full of people, but not as loud as he expected it'd be. The only place that was really making noise was those that were part of the Herald's party, if Bull's looming figure was anything to go by.

The two of them received a few stares but they were mainly directed at Aeren who seemed almost oblivious to them as he weaved through the room towards the back table. Dorian was glad that the attention was on the Herald and not him.

The group spotted Aeren before they reached the table with Bull's voice booming through the tavern. "Was wondering when they'd let you go from that briefing."

Aeren gave a dramatic sigh, plopping into the spare seat beside the Iron Bull. "Thank the gods for that," he groaned, grabbing a hunk of bread from the center of the table, "always feels like they're gonna keep me there for days."

"Come on now, your Heraldness - those advisors of yours can't have been that bad," Varric ribs, and Dorian shuffles nervously from a few feet away.

Aeren raises his brows, unimpressed. "You've got Cullen who is pushing for the Templars and Leliana who's pushing for the mages and then Josephine and Cassandra keep playing devil's advocate while I'm stuck trying to get one word in." He takes a bite of his roll and points at Dorian. "Maybe it was a good thing that I had an eavesdropper willing to give his two cents."

Dorian felt his stomach drop and cursed Aeren under his breath. So much for not tossing him to the wolves.

Varric turned around in his chair and gave a huff. "Really should've expected that to be honest." He patted the seat beside him. "Might as well join the table, kiddo."

Dorian hesitated for a moment before joining everyone at the table. "In my defense, I at least waited until it seemed like they were leaning towards siding with the Templars," he said, avoiding everyone's searching gaze.

A woman across the table snorted unattractively. "The big-wigs always think they got the big ideas," she said, leaning forward in her seat. "Not a fan of the sparkly mages but I can get behind a bit of rule breaking to say your piece."

Dorian didn't fully understand what the woman was saying but it was nice to have someone on his side.

Aeren groaned. "Don't encourage him, Sera," he whined, "The advisors were already upset that I let him join the meeting."

"O' course not, those advisors of yours got poles up their arses. They think the know best and the fact that they had to listen to a kid must've ruffled their feathers."

Dorian felt like the more the woman talked, the less he understood.

"What I want to know," A man with a full beard said, raising his tankard towards Dorian, "is how he gave Varric the slip."

Varric shrugged. "The kid said he needed to relieve himself," Varric said.

The elf woman cackled. "Whelp good to know that pissing is enough to let you scurry off to crash a meeting."

Honestly, the group seemed more amused than anything else about Dorian's little escapade. This wasn't at all like the scolding he was expecting.

"Oi, don't encourage him," Aeren whined, "I told him he was going to get scolded by at least Varric and Bull - where's the scolding?" Dorian shot Aeren a look. "What? I'm just saying I figured they'd be a little upset."

The Iron Bull took a swig from his tankard. "Doubt he didn't look suspicious listening in on that meeting," Bull commented. "That room has no windows and the walls are thick, he had to have been listening through the door. If anything, Dorian proved those soldiers need to pay more attention to their surroundings." The Iron Bull turned his gaze to Dorian and gave him a long blink.

Dorian couldn't hold back a snort. "Did you just wink at me?" He asked.

The Iron Bull tipped his head back and laughed. "Ha, I told Krem people would get it."

Dorian felt his muscles relax. This was going surprisingly well. He grabbed a roll from the pile and took a bite. A little dry, but it tasted fine. "I just needed to make sure you all weren't going to pass over the mages just because the Templars might be the easier option," Dorian explained.

"So we're recruiting the mages?" The burly man asked.

Aeren nodded. "It makes sense in the long run," he said, "the last thing we want is a Tevinter cult laying their dirty paws all over the mages."

The elf woman groaned. "That means we're gonna have to deal with magic shit."

The Iron Bull hummed. "Means demon shit isn't far behind," he muttered.

“Hey, I’m not a huge fan of all that Fade nonsense either,” Aeren said, “But the Templars would have their own brand of issues too.”

“Lyrium,” Varric said, nodding his head, “We’d need plenty of that.”

Aeren clapped his hands and pointed at Varric. “Exactly, thank you Varric. Now, that we’ve apparently decided to skip over reprimanding Dorian, I feel like introductions are in order.”

Dorian straightened up in his seat. “I’m Dorian of House Pavus, fully certified mage and on my way to becoming an Enchanter,” he said, “how do you do?”

“You’s one of them fancy-britches then?” The elf woman asked, wrinkling her nose.

He shrugged. “I suppose you could say that, but I think most of those people are-”

“Fogeies?”

“I was going to say out-dated but fogey probably works better.”

“Maybe you aren’t so bad little fancy.” She stretched her arm across the table. “The name’s Sera, a Friend of Red Jenny. Always ready to put those big’uns in their place.”

Friend of Red Jenny? Dorian feels like he’s heard of them before, but he can’t quite place it.

The bearded man cleared his throat. “Blackwall,” he said, “A Grey Warden.”

Dorian fought down the desire to question Blackwall on what made a person eligible to join the Grey Wardens since Alexius said the Grey Wardens had refused his plea to allow Felix to join them.

He didn’t know if being happy that Felix wasn’t allowed to join made him a bad person.

“You might’ve met her in the church, but there’s a tall woman who looks like she could squash you like a bug with this prim smile on her face,” Aeren said, “That’s Viviene, she’s an Enchanter.”

“And don’t get her started on the Circle of Magi,” Varric warned, “Or advertise you’re from Tevinter.”

Aeren let out a little hiss. “Oh, yeah best to avoid that whole debacle.”

“Why is she an zealous mage rights activist?” Dorian asked.

“Oh no, quite the opposite,” Aeren said with a wry grin, “She thinks the rebel mages are blinded by their own oppression and don’t consider anyone outside the circle. And then something about people’s fear of magic growing and it being justified.”

“Oh.”

Aeren laughed. “Yeah, she’s intense, but a good mage and she knows the Game or whatever really well.”

Well, Dorian supposed it was good to know what to avoid saying just in case.

“Don’t forget about Chuckles,” Varric chimed in.

“Chuckles?” Dorian asked.

“You’ll know him from the glare,” Sera said with a snigger.

“He’s another elf,” Aeren supplied, “Really smart man, a mage like you. Will tell you all kinds of tales from his journeys in the Fade.”

“And he’s bald,” Sera said.

“And he’s bald,” Aeren agreed. “Solas tends to keep to himself, but he is always willing to share his knowledge.”

“Is that everyone?” Dorian asked.

“Well, that’s the active party, but you briefly met the advisors.” Aeren held up three fingers and started naming them off. “There’s Cullen, a former Templar - he’s the blond one, and while he seems serious it’s pretty easy to break through that tough exterior. Lady Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador and chief diplomat of the Inquisition -  she’s an absolute sweetheart and tends to be the middle-ground in our discussions.” He waggled his last finger. “And then there’s Leliana, our spymaster. She finds out everything so it’s best not to try and hide something from her.”

“Right, any more I should know about?”

Aeren looked up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answer to his question. “There’s plenty of people around, but that should be everyone you’ll be dealing with for the most part. If there is anyone else they’ll introduce themselves.” He gestured to the table. “For now, let’s eat before we’re being dragged away again to do something else. I’ve no doubt we’ll be heading back to Redcliffe by tomorrow.”

Dorian nodded his head and let the group’s conversations wash over him. Tomorrow they’d be on their way to confront Alexius. Tomorrow they’d confront Alexius and this Venatori and come out as the victor.

They had to.

[johaerys-writes]

Fictober: The Most Troublesome Man In Thedas

Prompt #3: Now? Now you listen to me? Fandom: Dragon Age Rating: Mature Pairing: Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

Summary: Tristan Trevelyan is the Herald of Andraste and the leader of the Inquisition. He is also the biggest, most infuriating oaf in all of Thedas and a nightmare to travel with, since he always finds a way to get them all into trouble. As if running around the muddy Hinterlands and being chased by bandits wasn't nightmarish enough. Dorian may very well kill him one of these days, and he'll make sure Cassandra is too far away to stop him.

The fact that Dorian is certainly, undoubtedly, most definitely besotted with the man is only a minor inconvenience.

Read here or on AO3!

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"This place is crawling with bandits," Cassandra said with distaste. The lifeless bodies of several shoddily clad men were strewn at their feet, the expressions of dread still on their faces.

“I wonder what they’re all doing here. We really are in the ass-end of nowhere.”

Dorian glanced at Varric, who was looking up at the tall hills all around them. Dorian couldn’t really blame him for the expression of disapproval and faint disgust on his face; if anyone asked him what he would rather be doing about now, being chased by bandits in a muddy valley in the southern reach of the Hinterlands, several hours away from any sign of civilization, would certainly be the last thing on his list. Having his teeth pulled out and listening to Sera rant about magic for hours were at least two places higher on said list.

Trevelyan was a little way away, wiping his blade on the threadbare tunic of a man by his feet. His brows were knit in a thoughtful frown as he straightened up and glanced at the bright sun overhead, which was slowly moving towards the top of the hills to the west.

"We should find a safe place to camp soon. I don't want to be here come sunset."

"I second that," Cassandra said, sheathing her sword. A thin layer of sweat shone on her forehead. Briskly, she took off her gauntlet and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. It was an unusually warm and sunny day. Even Dorian, who was the least likely to ever get warm in the frigid wasteland that was called Ferelden, was feeling a little flushed under his woollen cloak. He shook it about to get the leaves and dirt off it as soon as he had secured his staff on his back. He couldn't do much about the blood, not without his trusty concoction of soap and oak ash, but it would at least be somewhat presentable for now.

The afternoon rolled in slowly and languidly, and with significant amount of perspiration from all parties as they searched for a suitable place to set up camp. In between the rolling hills, the bandit raids and the entire families of bears that seemed to reside in that area, they managed to find a somewhat safe and tucked away little hill overlooking a small meadow below them.

Trevelyan’s frown had gotten deeper and deeper as the day wore on, and by the time he returned to their humble camp bringing an armful of logs for the fire, the frown had turned into a scowl. Dorian was very much feeling like scowling too, what with all the creatures they had had to kill that day and the humidity that stuck on his skin and dampened his clothes. He knew well that Trevelyan had one more reason to dislike the Hinterlands- those potions he always had to carry with him so that he wouldn't cough and sneeze all over the place.

Sure as clockwork, Trevelyan searched in his pocket as soon as he had plopped down on an log beside him. He produced an innocent looking vial with a bright red liquid inside it. He downed it in one go, much to Cassandra's disapproval. He returned her glare with a questioning look, raising his eyebrows.

"Adan said you shouldn't take so many."

Trevelyan rolled his eyes and frowned at her. "If I’m ever in need of a wetnurse, Cassandra, I'll let you know."

She shot him a disgruntled look and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. It was no secret that their precious Herald Inquisitor infuriated her to end and that she would much rather hit him on the head with the pommel of her sword than listen to his rude comebacks. She resolved to turn her back to him and talk little as she chewed on a piece of dried goat jerky.

Dorian watched as Trevelyan turned around to place the bottle in his satchel and flashed him a tiny mischievous smile, no doubt for having successfully annoyed the Seeker. Dorian could never understand how he took so much satisfaction making people scowl and glare at him, but he found himself smiling back. He could not well do otherwise.

Trevelyan’s gaze drifted from him towards the hills behind them, following their ragged lines. It stopped somewhere in the south, and his eyes widened a little.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding towards a building at the top of a hill.

They all turned around to look. "It's an abandoned villa," Varric said. "I heard about it from the people in the village we passed."

Cassandra eyed him warily. "When did you speak to them? We only stayed for a few moments to get some supplies."

Varric grinned at her. "No such thing as too little time for some small talk, Seeker. You never know what you might learn."

"Ah, yes. I forgot that you have a hard time keeping your tongue behind your teeth."

"I wonder what's in there," Trevelyan said absently, interrupting Varric’s no doubt witty comeback.

"Bandits, most probably," Cassandra said. “There's not a place in this part of the Hinterlands that they haven’t occupied."

Trevelyan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What if there's some sort of treasure? Or at least decent beds? Any place to sleep would be better than this," he said, gesturing towards their hastily set up tents.

Cassandra looked at him wide eyed. "You must be joking."

Instead of a response, Trevelyan stood up, checking his belt for his blades. A quick stop by the potion's table, and off he went.

"Where do you think you're going?" Cassandra demanded after him, but he seemed not to have heard.

Dorian stood up briskly, following in his wake. "I'll keep an eye on him, Seeker. We’ll be back in no time,” he managed to say over his shoulder.

Trevelyan turned to look at him, a glint of mischief in his dark blue eyes.

"Just so you know," Dorian said, catching up with him, " I do find myself agreeing with Cassandra. That is no place to walk in blindly.”

"What harm could there be in taking a quick peek? At worst, we'll see some bandits. At best, we'll find a nice, comfortable bed to sleep in."

"Not to mention dying a horrible death at the hands of murderous strangers. Forgive me, but I'd rather pass."

"You'd pass on a night sleeping by my side?” Trevelyan said, hurt evident on his features. “You wound me."

Dorian gaped at him, flustered. "I... No, that's not what I..." he mumbled awkwardly, before noticing Trevelyan’s mirthful smile. He huffed in mock exasperation and smacked him playfully on the shoulder. "Oh, you handsome devil, you."

Trevelyan’s smile got wider and that tiny little dimple at the edge of his mouth deepened, and it was suddenly as if the world had turned that little bit brighter. "I'll take that as a compliment."

They walked for a while in companionable silence. Dorian relished in the sound of his breath and the fall of his boots on the soft earth, and he found his hand straying more than once to touch his, or thread gently through his arm. It felt more as if they were taking an innocent stroll in nature rather than being on their way to storm a fort, inside of which no one knew what sort of dangers lurked.

The tall gates of the villa soon came into view. It was a large building, one of the few Fereldan buildings that Dorian had found quite impressive. There was a wide balcony, overlooking the wide valley below, and its towers looked sturdy and well made. Whoever once owned it would have surely been a noble, perhaps even an Arl. It smelled of old money.

It also smelt of smoke and animal grease, cooking slowly on a spit. A trail of smoke from a campfire was rising languidly towards a cloudless sky, thick and dark. If there was a better sign not to approach, Dorian couldn’t think of it.

"Alright. We saw what we came here to see. Let's go back now. I can feel my dinner calling me."

Dorian turned to leave, but Trevelyan simply stood there, gazing at the villa with narrow eyes, squinting against the light. "How many do you think are in there?"

Annoyance slithered in Dorian’s voice, but he tried to keep it level. "It hardly matters, as far as I'm concerned. It’s just the two of us, and probably a lot more of them. Come, let's go back. The Seeker will be expecting us."

Trevelyan continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. "If it's a small group, you and I can most definitely take them. And then we'll have a villa to sleep in instead of those soggy tents."

"Oh for the love of the Maker," Dorian exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "You're not seriously suggesting we storm a keep possibly littered with bandits just because you hate camping, are you?"

But Trevelyan didn't even bother to answer before he took off, crouching like a panther as he climbed the small slope towards the villa's entrance. He seemed as if he was melting into the shadows, his pale blonde hair the only thing standing out amongst the tall grass.

Dorian grumbled in annoyance as he followed in his footsteps, crouching low behind him. A small part of him hoped Trevelyan was right and that the fort wasn't as well manned. He couldn't stand another night sleeping in those shoddy tents either, with the cold slithering in from every crevasse and all sorts of bugs crawling all over him. However, another part of him wanted nothing more than to drag Trevelyan away by his ear, and manners be damned.

Muffled talk and laughter drifted from the inside of the villa. Dorian thought he could hear at least five different voices, and they all sounded cheery and well humoured. They probably had made a big kill that day, and were about to celebrate with a lot of food and ale.

Dorian was about to whisper in Trevelyan's ear that engaging five or more strong men was not worth a good bed, but he held up a finger to his lips to stop him. He motioned for him to stay where he was and cover his flank while he stormed on from the shadows.

Dorian pursed his lips and shook his head furiously, but Trevelyan was already gone.

"Vishante kaffas!" Dorian muttered under his breath as he watched him move silently through the shadows and up the steep stairs to the main courtyard.

He followed soon after, unhinging his staff from his back. Dorian was not near as good at stealth as Trevelyan was, so a tiny spell to muffle the sound of his boots on the stone floor would have to do the job.

The sound of Trevelyan's throwing knives slicing through the air and finding their target with a sharp thud and muffled grunts came much, much sooner than Dorian expected. It was in a surge of panic that he climbed the rest of the stairs, already preparing a barrier to place over them both. He arrived at the stair landing, only to find a small bandit camp in complete disarray. A thick cloud of smoke from Trevelyan's smoke bombs covered everything, and men were scrambling in a panic for swords, bows and arrows.

Dorian didn't even have to cast a terror spell on them, so in shock were they all already. Instead, he cast one fireball after the next, their deafening cries echoing in the yard as they burned. Trevelyan was leaping in between them, agile like a fox, slashing at elbows, knees, throats, anything exposed by their armour. One by one, they collapsed, clutching their useless limbs as they bled out on the stone floor of the courtyard. With some fascination, Dorian noted that Heir's training had yielded results after all.

When all the bandits were motionless on the ground, Trevelyan glanced around them with some satisfaction. Dorian also gingerly surveyed the scene. The mutton on the spit sizzled over the fire, its skin shiny and golden brown. If he wasn't feeling a little queasy from all the death he had seen that day, he would seriously consider digging in.

"See?” Trevelyan said and placed his daggers back in their scabbards. “I knew we would manage."

"That was one gamble I would much rather not take again," Dorian said with some irritation as he slung his staff behind his back.

Trevelyan was no doubt ready to retort with a witty quip of his own when they heard a vicious roar coming from the tower above them.

“Uh-oh,” he said softly. His hands instantly flew to the daggers hanging by his belt. “I think we pissed someone off up there.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly inviting, no,” Dorian agreed.

Before they knew it, a beast of a man ran down the stairs, the largest war hammer Dorian had seen held fast in his grip. Dark eyes were peering at them from below a sturdy helmet, and his freshly shined pauldrons glinted the sun.

He looked at the corpses around them, his eyes wide with fury. “You killed my men,” he growled.

“That we did, yes.” Trevelyan slid his knives out of their scabbards. “Leave now, and we might consider sparing your life.”

The man’s face twisted in fury. His grip on his hammer tightened. “Not a fucking chance.”

He took a step forward, swinging his monster of a hammer towards Trevelyan’s head. He avoided it easily, hopping to the side. The bandit swung again, this time targeting his middle. Trevelyan leapt and rolled to the side, landing on his feet a little way away. The hammer cut through the air with a whoosh, only to land on a wall, sputtering broken stones and debris everywhere.

Dorian took advantage of the man’s surprise to cast lightning on him, zapping him where he stood. Trevelyan’s brows were knitted in concentration as he took out a small vial out of his belt and coated his blades with its contents. Then, before the bandit had recovered from his shock, he plunged his daggers several times into the gaps in the man’s armour. He growled in pain, stepping back and clutching his middle. Blood flowed through his fingertips and he stared at it, eyes impossibly wide.

“You bastard-“ he started, his bloody hands tightening around the shaft of his hammer. He took a step forward, his armoured bootsteps ringing, before he suddenly wobbled and dropped to his knees. Trevelyan’s face was expressionless as he watched him convulse violently and foam at the mouth.

Dorian’s fingers tapped against the wood of his staff where he stood, unsure whether he should wait for the man to rise. “That’s it? He fell so easily? I swear, his underlings put up more of a fight.”

“That’s because I didn’t use any poison on them,” he said, sliding his daggers back in their scabbards.

“Poison,” Dorian breathed, nodding slowly. Of course. Trevelyan always carried potent poisons with him, their recipes taught to him by Heir, but he had only rarely seen him use them. He watched with keen fascination as the man slowly bled to death, coughing and wheezing all the while. It was grizzly, surely, but he couldn’t deny his interest at seeing assassin tools at work.

“Well, that was that, I guess,” Trevelyan said casually. “Ready to do some exploring now?”

Dorian’s eyes snapped from the dead man on the floor to Trevelyan’s face. It was pale, as it always was, but his cheeks were slightly flushed, and a few drops of sweat arced slowly down his neck, pooling at the dip of his collarbone. The sight made a wave of yearning rise inside him. Dorian swallowed thickly as he tore his gaze away from it and glanced at the sun, already beginning to dive behind the tops of the hills. “I think we should go back. Seeker Cassandra will be looking for us.”

Trevelyan scoffed. “Don’t tell me we came all the way here and did so much work just so we could return to that miserable camp.”

Dorian looked at him, unimpressed. “That’s your idea of work?” he asked, gesturing around him.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that,” Trevelyan said, his brows furrowed and a hint of hurt in his voice. He ran a hand through his hair, then glanced at the men lying around them, and took a step back. “I’ll just go have a quick look. You can wait for me here. I won’t be very long.” And with that, he turned around and marched towards one of the tall towers.

“Oh, for the love of-“

Dorian’s eyes rolled so far up in his head, that he thought he would see the back of his skull. Trevelyan could make a saint curse, and Dorian was certainly no saint, but even so, he couldn’t bring himself to wait there while that fool of a man strolled about on his own in an unfamiliar fortress. With a sharp huff of irritation he walked briskly after him.

Trevelyan was already climbing the dingy wooden ladder leading up to the top of the tower when Dorian caught up with him. It looked fragile, and Dorian seriously doubted that it was leading to anything worthwhile, but he had to admit that the view from where he was standing was quite nice.

Trevelyan hopped up on the first level, quick and lithe as a cat. A moment later, a blonde head peeked through the opening to peer at him. “Are you coming, or were you just staring at my arse?”

Dorian jolted slightly at the question, then gave him a wide, teasing smile. “You can’t blame me for looking. It was right in front of me. Besides, there has to be some kind of reward for me after all the trouble you put me through, wouldn’t you agree? Beggars can’t be choosers in this case.”

An idea of a smile curled Trevelyan’s lips before he disappeared again, and Dorian heard the creak of the no doubt century old ladders as they protested under Trevelyan’s weight. Hurriedly he climbed up after him, cursing every time his cloak got tangled in his feet.

He arrived at the second level only to find Trevelyan staring up at the last ladder, a dilapidated thing that had seen better days. Dorian wiped the dust off his hands as he joined him.

“What’s wrong? Sizing up that ladder, are you? It is a most formidable foe.”

Trevelyan snorted a laugh. “No." He looked back up, his expression thoughtful. "I think there’s something up there.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. I can feel it in my head.”

Dorian looked at him curiously, then up at the next level. “Well, it doesn’t seem like a very good idea. I don’t think this ladder will bear both our weights.”

Trevelyan stood for a moment longer, as if considering. Then, he hopped on the ladder, climbing it as swiftly as if he were a monkey.

“And off he goes,” Dorian muttered through tight lips. “Of course. Why would he listen. Why would anyone ever listen. By all means, let’s disregard Dorian’s advice, who has read more books than all the Fereldans put together, and follow an utter fool because ‘he can feel something in his head’! Oh, if only I had something to smack some sense into that head of his-”

“Did you say something?” Trevelyan asked from atop the tower.

Dorian bit back many of the curses he was about to utter before climbing up the ladder. He emerged on the tower, grumbling under his breath, but all his protests died in his mouth when he glanced around him. Past the tower’s sturdy rock railing lay a view equal to which Dorian couldn’t remember seeing in a long while. The verdant valley stretched endlessly below them, the tops of oak trees and the tall grass stirring languidly in the wind. A stream flowed into a small lake, its waters glistening silver and gold as they moved. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in glorious reds and golds and pinks.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Trevelyan whispered beside him, his fingers threading softly through his.

Affection bloomed in Dorian’s chest, warm and soothing. He turned to look at him, at his face that was painted golden by the setting sun, at his dark blue eyes, almost violet in the warm light, at the mischievous smile that still lingered on his lips.

“You’re a fool,” Dorian said softly, threading his hand through his hair and pulling him closer, “but you’re my fool.”

Trevelyan smiled as his lips parted, soft and pliant under Dorian’s. His hands curled around Dorian’s sides as he leaned towards him, fingers digging gently into his skin through his clothes. They kissed slowly, tenderly, without worrying about who was to see. It was just them there, after all. Two people standing at the top of the world.

Dorian pulled back slightly, running his knuckles down Trevelyan’s neck. Trevelyan’s expression was soft and dreamy as he looked at him, the warmth in his gaze drawing Dorian in like a magnet. He was about to lean in and kiss him again, when Trevelyan froze and glanced around him.

“What happened?” Dorian asked.

“I can feel it again. That thing in my head.”

Dorian watched him with increasing curiosity as he turned around, looking about him on the ground. Then, without a word, he stepped towards a corner of the tower, crouching beside some old casks and sacks of grain. He rummaged through them for a while before he pulled out a bottle, caked with dust, a look of utter glee on his face.

“See? I told you I could feel something!”

He hopped back to Dorian, holding up the bottle. Dorian edged back, his nose wrinkling in disgust, swatting him away.

“First of all, what is that grimy thing; and second of all, can you keep it at least five inches away from my face? I’d hate to get what seems like two decades worth of dust on my clothes.”

Trevelyan wasn’t even paying attention to him as he brushed the dust off the bottle and squinted at the label. “Rowan’s Rose…” he muttered thoughtfully. “Isn’t that from Tevinter? From the Vol Dorma vineyards?”

Dorian’s eyes widened so much, he thought they would pop right out of their sockets. He took the bottle out of Trevelyan’s hands and stared at it. “I cannot believe this,” he gasped. “How on earth did wine like that find its way here? Even in Tevinter, it costs a pretty penny!” He eyed Trevelyan warily. “And you say you could feel it in your head that it was here? Is that a new skill of yours? Your affinity for liquor has reached an entire new level, I have to say.”

Trevelyan flashed him a wide, unabashed grin, the tiny dimple by his mouth more pronounced than ever. Dorian didn’t remember ever seeing him so damned exuberant. “Our trip here was worth it, then?”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on his face, too. “It will be once we’ve established that it’s drinkable. We cannot know how long it’s been sitting here. For all we know, it might have turned to vinegar about a decade ago. In any case,” he said, giving him back the bottle and walking towards the ladder, “now that we’ve found what we were looking for we can go back, don’t you think?”

He had only taken one step down the ladder, when it creaked and moaned in a manner that sounded entirely ominous. Trevelyan ran to his side and helped him up. It was mere seconds after Dorian had scrambled up to the tower that the ladder crumbled and fell, its pieces crashing against the floor of the lower levels. They both stared for a long while in silence as their only means of getting off that tower lay in rotten pieces below them.

Trevelyan cleared his throat. “You don’t think we could jump down without breaking anything, do you?”

Dorian glared at him, already feeling his blood rising to his cheeks. “No. I do not.”

“Oh.” He glanced down again, considering. Then, he shrugged and took a step back. “You’re probably right.”

Dorian could only watch Trevelyan walked over to the dusty sacks on the tower corner and lay down on the floor with one arm tucked under his head, as if there was nothing else to do other than go to blasted sleep.

Dorian threw his arms up in the air in a plea towards the heavens. “Oh, for- now? Now you listen to me? After all the times that I’ve told you not to do something and you went ahead and did it anyway, this is the time that you decided that I’m probably right?”

Trevelyan shot him a look of honest confusion, as if he had not a clue why Dorian was upset. “Well, there’s not much we can do, is there? There’s no point trying to get down now. I’m sure Cassandra will come after us if we’re gone for too long. I’m sure she wouldn’t let the leader of the Inquisition die of starvation on a random tower. Besides,” he added, “it’s not that bad. The weather is still quite warm, and we have a bottle of exquisite wine. I say we just sit back and enjoy it.”

Dorian stared at him incredulously for a long moment. Then, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m starting to think this was all an elaborate ploy to get me alone.”

“Perhaps.” Trevelyan shrugged casually as he sat up and started working at uncorking the bottle. He gestured at the space beside him with his head. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

Dorian had a mind to really tell him what he thought of this whole debacle, but all his annoyance melted into grudging affection at the half smile that crept up Trevelyan’s lips, and the mischievous look that shone in his eyes. He huffed in irritation as he walked towards him and sat on the floor beside him. “You’re the most annoying, most troublesome man in all of Thedas, you know that?”

“I do,” he said softly, snaking his arm around Dorian’s waist and pulling him close. “And you’re the most beautiful, most fascinating man in all of Thedas.”

“Oh, no. No, no.” Dorian looked pointedly at him as he leaned back. “You won’t sweet-talk your way out of this. Don’t even try.”

“Sweet-talk? I was only telling the truth.” Trevelyan’s wounded look swiftly melted into a teasing smile. “Want to know what the most beautiful thing about you is right now?”

Dorian almost rolled his eyes, but couldn’t resist playing along. “Oh? And what, pray, is that? Don’t tell me my hair, or I might believe you.”

Trevelyan huffed a laugh. “No, although I do love your hair. It’s your eyebrow. The way you arch it like that. Just when you’re about to tell me off.” He drew Dorian towards him, and this time Dorian brought no resistance. Trevelyan lowered his voice to a soft whisper, his lips only a breath away from his. “Do it again.”

Dorian felt his hair standing on end as Trevelyan’s breath tickled his skin. He looked up into his eyes, trying as best he could to look annoyed. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of that eyebrow if you keep acting like that, let me tell you.”

Trevelyan chuckled breathily as he leaned closer, burying his face in Dorian’s neck and trailing soft kisses down the length of his throat, the wine bottle entirely forgotten beside them. Dorian could feel the smile on Trevelyan’s lips as a soft murmur ran over his skin. “I should make sure to annoy you more often, then.”

Dorian was sure he had a witty comeback to that. He really was. But when Trevelyan's lips touched his, and his warm hand slithered under his shirt, he entirely forgot what he had been about to say.

[patricianandclerk]

Penance

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Dragon Age Discord | Requests always welcome!

1.

The first time Dorian kissed him, it was a traditional Tevene apology, one that Solas had not ever witnessed except in the Fade. He caught Solas by surprise on the stair, catching at his hand before he could walk higher, and fell to his knees a few steps down from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in the common tongue, staring up at him, and Solas froze in surprise, his lips parting, too surprised to tug his hand away. Dorian’s gaze was concentrated and earnest, his eyes wide, even as he grabbed for Solas’ other hand, clutching at them both and holding them together. Solas knew what he was sorry for. Solas had scarcely spoken a word to him in the field, after he had made his comment about finding common ground. “About my comments before, Solas, I only—"

“Get up,” Solas said, remembering a time when people too often prostrated themselves on their knees before him, feeling indignant, discomfited heat rise in his cheeks. There was a Solas, long ago, arrogant and tall and biting, who might have delighted at having an earnest noble supplicating on his knees, begging forgiveness.

That was a Solas long dead.

“Me poenitet,” Dorian said. “I’m sorry.” Dorian pressed his mouth to the place where the backs of Solas’ hands met, kissing the two knuckles of his index fingers, and Solas swore, dragging back his hands. Dorian kept a grip on him only for a second before he released him.

“You embarrass yourself,” Solas said.

“I already did that,” Dorian murmured. “Can’t this be my penance?”

Solas turned away from him, and made his way up the stairs.

2.

 The second time was over research.

They had been settled together in the library for some time, doing their best to work through the translation of a complicated mathematical cipher. It kept referencing other equations, ones that Dorian recognised at a glance, as carefully studied as they were by Tevinter mages, but he kept handing the actual mathematical work back to Solas.

“Felix is a supremely gifted mathematician,” he said, almost absently. “He could never do magic, but he made a magic all of his own with numbers. I never had the head for it.”

“You were close with him, then?” Solas asked, glancing up from his work, and Dorian nodded his head. He was sitting very close to Solas, the two of them at one end of the desk, a half-dozen books open in front of him. Solas could smell his sultry, sandalwood cologne.

“He was always so kind to me,” Dorian murmured. “By all rights, perhaps he ought have been angry or jealous, the usurper taking up the education he would have had himself, had he only had magic… He never seemed to resent sharing his father with me.”

“You saw him as a father figure, then?” Solas asked, unable to resist his own curiosity.

Dorian met his gaze. “No,” he said.

The silence was thick with tension, building between the two of them as though it were stoked on by the magic either of them had, and when Dorian leaned forward, Solas did not pull away, did not lean back. He stood his ground, and when Dorian closed the gap between them and kissed him on the mouth, he felt his eyes shut.

Dorian’s mouth was warm, soft. Solas tasted the wine they were sharing on his lips.

“Do you think me so awful?” Dorian asked.

“I don’t believe I have ever called you awful,” Solas replied.

3.

 The third time Dorian pulled him into the alcove of one of the downstairs corridors, shoved Solas up against the wall and pressed kisses to his face: Solas’ nose, his brow, his cheeks, his chin. Solas couldn’t help the ticklish laughter that erupted from his throat, catching Dorian by the shoulders, his thumbs against the base of his throat, pinning him to the other wall.

“What are you doing?” Solas asked, through a hurried exhale. His skin felt hot, and he fought the desire to press his body to Dorian’s.

“It’s rather difficult to explain,” Dorian purred, smiling. He had such white teeth. “Mind if I show you, instead?”

“I have work to do.”

“So do I!”

“This is work?”

“My hard day’s toil, Solas!” Dorian entreated, smiling as though he had starlight in his eyes, and when Solas released him, more kisses were bestowed on him, upon his forehead, the sides of his jaw, his ears, his shoulders—

“Stop,” Solas said, when Dorian kissed the flat rectangle of his sternum through his shirt. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s called affection,” Dorian said. “Haven’t you heard of it?”

“Distantly, spoken of in hushed tones,” Solas said, and Dorian laughed softly. He was handsome when he laughed. Handsome – distinctly human. Solas stared at him, and knew that he ought prevent this from going any further, that he ought stop Dorian before he became attached, more attached… “I do have work to do.”

“Fine,” Dorian said, pulling him from the alcove by his wrist: he kissed Solas’ palm, and Solas had to suppress a sigh as Dorian dropped his arm, stepping away from him. Solas watched after him as he walked away, and felt the ghost of Dorian’s lips on his skin.

4

The fourth time, Dorian pinned him to the ground as soon as they were alone in their tent together, scrambling for the fastening on Solas’ tunic as he pressed greedy, desperate kisses to the column of Solas’ neck. They were open-mouthed and wanting, as though he were desperate to taste Solas’ skin, and Solas could not resist winding his hands in Dorian’s hair, pulling him closer.

“I want to kiss you from head to toe,” Dorian said breathlessly.

“Do you hear me objecting?” Solas asked, and Dorian laughed, surging up to kiss him on the mouth.

5

The fifth time…

Dorian was watching him. They were playing Wicked Grace in the cellar with Varric, Blackwall, Cullen, and Josephine, and Dorian kept glancing at him. Things were different, in Tevinter. One did not kiss one’s male partner before an audience. One did not admit to the transgression of wanting another man, of lying with him, of desiring him.

This was not so, in Skyhold.

Men kissed one another; women kissed one another. Two men or two women might even be bound in matrimony.

Was this what Dorian was thinking, when he watched Solas, with that look in his eyes, as though he scarcely wanted to admit to himself who he was watching? These furtive glances, what did they represent? An ache, a want, for Solas to touch him? To reach out, perhaps, and touch Solas?

Solas oughtn’t encourage it.

It was one thing, to enjoy the warmth of Dorian in his bed, to take from him what pleasure he might find: he oughtn’t let himself think of what Dorian would feel, later, what he would think. He oughtn’t. He oughtn’t.

“I will retrieve more wine,” Solas said, getting to his feet.

“How many bottles?” Dorian asked.

Solas leaned, feeling the uncertainty in his chest, the knowledge that all would change, but when? How soon? He leaned in, brushed his lips against Dorian’s cheek, heard Dorian gasp. “One,” he said, patting the other cheek, and he pulled away to move to the cellar.

Behind him, he heard Varric say, “What was that, Sparkler?”

“Do be quiet, Varric,” Dorian replied.

Solas lost count of the kisses that came after that night.

+1

Dorian was breathing heavily.

He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were watering at their edges, and he was shaking as he looked at Solas. Solas stepped closer, slowly, and Dorian, to his credit, did not flinch away. He stood his ground, shaking visibly, until Solas stood directly before him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Solas murmured.

“Any further, you mean?” Dorian asked, his voice cracking with a sharp note to it. “You— You bastard. You awful bastard.”

Dorian’s hands twitched at his sides, as though he were going to lift them up, to touch him – Solas remembered Dorian pinning him against a wall, laying kisses all over him… Solas reached up, touching Dorian’s cheek.

“What now?” Dorian demanded, doing his best to look defiant as he looked Solas in the eyes, but his own were watering. One tear was threatening to break free and streak down his cheek.

“Now,” Solas said softly, “you go back.”

“That’s it?” Dorian demanded, breathing heavily, his hands clenched at his sides. “Is that it?”

Solas curled his hand more tightly against Dorian’s cheek and pulled him closer, pressed his lips to Dorian’s and heard Dorian’s sob against his mouth, but he didn’t pull away. Dorian threw his arms around Solas’ neck and kissed him back, kissed him hard, desperately, hungrily, as if he knew what Solas was going to do to him.

The magic surged as he pushed Dorian back from him, and he felt Dorian’s fingers grasp at his tunic—

And then he fell through the tear in the rift behind him, dropping him back in Orlais, his fingers still grasping. The tear closed. Solas touched his own lips, tasting the lingering phantom of peppermint on his tongue.

“Me poenitet,” Solas murmured, to the empty air, to the fingers still touched against his lower lip. He wondered what it would have been like, to kiss the back of Dorian’s folded hands.

[enby-hawke]

Summary: Hawke loves dragons and this is his very first dragon fight. I made up some magic that doesn’t exist. 

Word Count: 7815

Pairing: Lots of flirting mostly between oblivious Merrill, oblivious Hawke, and super annoyed Carver.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bethany was still not talking to Hawke and neither was Mother. That didn’t change the fact that rent needed to be paid and Hawke had only gathered half the coin needed for the expedition. With Carver in tow, Hawke circled through his usual contacts, trying to drum up some work. After one no turned into 8, and the morning slipped to noon, Hawke decided it was time to get a drink and ask Varric for ideas before his temper made him do something stupid.

“I have the usual escort and delivery jobs, but if you’re looking for something bigger, I’ve heard of another opportunity...but the patron is….”

Varric trailed off, and Hawke sighed into his glass, the growing headache an unwelcome guest. “What, he a templar or something?”

“Orlesian.”

Even Carver joined in the groan. “Maker, we’re desperate aren’t we?”

“When are we not?” Hawke chuckled back. “What’s the job?”

“Just to check on his mine. Apparently, none of his workers have clocked out of work since Saturday, but also none of them have reported home. He won’t say what the reward is only that it will “exponentially paid,” whatever that means. Eh, maybe count me out today.” Varric knitted his eyebrows as he pressed his pen to his tablet, but with two words written, he’d erase three. There were at least three drained mugs of spiked coffee that Edwina still hadn’t bussed, but whether they were from last night or this morning Hawke couldn’t tell.

“Why not? You always come along,” Hawke grinned. If anyone could use a break from his room, it was Varric.

Hawke continued to feed scraps of his sausage and eggs to Boof under the table. The mabari had his head on Hawke’s lap, begging for more with his big brown eyes.

Varric set down his pen, rubbing his temple as he adjusted his reading glasses. “Maybe cause “The Bone Pit” is haunted with ghost slaves and spiders and Maker knows what else. You want to get cursed? Be my guest. I’m good.” Varric grabbed a not drained glass of spiked coffee and took a swig.

“Already cursed. It’s not such a big deal,” Hawke shrugged nonchalantly, but mischief crept into his eyes. “C’mon, Varric, where’s your authorial pride? Think of it as a research trip. A haunted mine could be the perfect setting for your next book.”

“I write action thrillers with a dash of political intrigue,” Varric argued. He pushed Boof away when the dog tried to push his head in his lap.

“Y’know I’m kind of with the dwarf on this one,” Carver said, picking at his stew before pushing it aside.

“Hey eat, you’ll need your strength,” Hawke pushed the bowl back in front of Carver. His brother grunted but resigned himself to shoveling the stew into his mouth. Hawke turned back to Varric. “Besides we don’t have a car. It’ll take forever to walk,” Hawke gave his biggest puppy eyes and even left his chair to kneel on the sticky floor, both hands clasped pleading. “Pleeeeeeeeeease.”

“Maker,” Varric caved. He always did. “Fine, but only because writer’s block is kicking my ass.”

Hawke jumped up, a spring suddenly in his step. “Great! But I should drive. You’ve been drinking.”

Varric barked a laugh. “So have you, genius. We’ll put Donna on autopilot.”

They picked up Isabela since they were already at the Hanged Man and Merrill just happened to already be in her room. Isabela didn’t like the idea of traipsing through a boneyard but when Merrill wanted to go, she resigned to tagging along. It was kind of like that ever since Hawke introduced the two, and that worked out since it was fun to watch Carver attempts to talk to Merrill. Though he was rooting for them, he couldn’t help but join Isabela teasing them.

Varric introduced Hawke to Hubert Bartiere in the Hightown Market where he had a store that sold everything from high-end fabric, perfumes, and of course his featured item, polished gems and jewelry mined and crafted “locally”. The man knew Hawke was Ferelden as soon as Hawke introduced his dog. He was less than impressed. Both Carver and Hawke managed not to punch him.

“You’re a mercenary, right?” Hubert glared at the odd party of humans, a dwarf, a Dalish elf and a mabari.

“I do a bit of everything,” Hawke shrugged.

“Well you’re good at killing and that’s what I need. I sent a group from the Wicked Dawn’s to take a look and they haven’t returned. I’m starting to think they made off with my coin. You, I won’t pay until the job’s done.” He continued to primp the mannequin displays, trying to end the conversation.

Hawke wasn’t satisfied with that and tapped Hubert on the shoulder. “But what is the reward? The listing isn’t clear.”

The man looked repulsed at the fact that he had been touched and took out a handkerchief, patting himself down. “I don’t know the extent of the problem so it depends on what you find there. Rest assured you will be fairly compensated. I am a reputable and fair merchant.”

Varric snorted at that, which told Hawke what he needed to know. The mage crossed his arms, planting himself in front of the mannequin in a peacock dress. “Not taking one step out of Kirkwall unless we each get 50 silvers each and then we can discuss a potential bonus-depending on what I find.”

The man looked outraged, his temple vein popping. “Where does a dog-barbarian get off making demands like that?”

“I can vouch for him,” Varric offered. “Whatever’s going on in your mine, Hawke can solve it. He comes with the Tethras guarantee.”

Hawke grinned cockily, imagining his fist was knocking out one of the Orlesian’s teeth.

The man sniffed sharply. “If it turns out my workers are just being lazy I will want my money back.”

‘And you won’t get it,’ Hawke thought, but he nodded offering the man the peace of mind he needed.

The man reached into his pocket going for plastic coin chits, but Hawke held up his hand in refusal. “I prefer coin.”

“I will need to go to the bank to convert it over. That may take some time as I can’t leave my stall. Perhaps you should go and check on my mine while you wait.”

Hawke grabbed the chits angrily. “Taking these for collateral. You can exchange them after I come back.”

The Bone Pit was only about 15 minutes away flying on Donna. You had to pass it when you left the city to get anywhere else. “Oh don’t look so grumpy, Varric,” Hawke nudged the dwarf, Donna’s wheel automatically adjusting course. “Didn’t you say hanging out with me is always an adventure?”

“Don’t butter me up, Hawke. You’re just using me for my wings.”

When they piled out of the car, Boof galloped out, dashing wildly in a wide circle causing Merrill to giggle.

“Boof!” Hawke called out. The dog bounced off a boulder and bounded back towards Hawke, and sat at attention, his feathery tail quivering as it swayed from side to side. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the fresh air, bud, but we have a job to do. Lead us to trouble.”

Boof nodded instead of barking, his puppy demeanor shifting instantly to wardog. Then he dashed away, before dashing back, then dashed away again, impatient at the humanoids much slower stride. The mine itself was strangely abandoned, pickaxes and tools and even luggage and blood were strewn about but no people. They kept their hands on their weapons as they explored, sometimes jumping at the sound of some birds scattering as they approached. The wind whistled through the mountains carrying cries of creatures that they could not place. The air was cold, the veil felt thin. You could feel the Fade weighing down from the midst of haze that hovered overhead.

Boof led them to the foot of a cave, where they saw a miner still dressed in ratty clothes. He was lying face down, several spider punctures tore through his shirt, where the man had been drained of blood. Strangely, his back was also burned, his skin had bubbled and stinking the air with singed flesh. The corpse had been scavenged, huge chunks of his torso that had been chomped out, most of his organs missing, but all the days-old blood was dry and flaking. “Poor man,” Merrill said. “It might have been a rage demon.”

“Or a dragon,” Hawke whispered, his heart suddenly in his throat. The heat that had done this was intense, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Suddenly Boof crouched, growling menacingly. They all turned to hear several high-pitched screeches. Hawke recognized the cry and dashed after his dog, casting a haste spell to keep up.

“Hawke!” he heard several voices shout behind him, but he wouldn’t slow down. The bright lantern lights danced with the shadows in the cave, echoing with the pounding of his gait. He kept running until he saw a clearing where about 20 drakes of all at varying sizes huddled. At the head of the pack stood the broodfather, fully mature at about 10 feet tall, and he breathed out a territorial fire at the sight of the intrusion in his nest.

“Aaaaaww, Boof,” he groaned. “It’s not a dragon.”

The drake screeched charging, the other younger drakes following in tow. Hawke sighed, it was still a fight and he still had to take it seriously. Deciding to save bullets, he grabbed the staff from his back, unfolding the blades with a click of a button.

The mabari was eager to charge but Hawke put his hand up. “Not yet, Boof,” he said and the dog sat down, waiting.

He channeled his magic into his staff, building up energy. When he collected enough, he waved his hand, imagining where he wanted ice to form. All beneath the charging drakes, sigils of ice mines formed exploding some smaller drakes into the air. Crystal crept and spread across the dirt and stone covering the drakes path with slippery ice. The smaller drakes began to lose traction, sliding and falling, but the largest drake dug his claws into the ground, steadying himself, digging claw after claw as it pushed its way out of the ice field.

The others were just beginning to catch up when they gazed out towards the damage already done. “Boof and I got the big one if you guys want to take the smaller ones,” Hawke grinned, causing Carver to roll his eyes. Hawke then pointed at the broodfather. “Boof! Tear out his throat!”

The mabari yipped in confirmation and bolted from his seat charging for the enormous drake. It bellowed, breathing fire but the dog bounded and bounced out of the way. Hawke aimed at Boof, and cast a haste spell, speeding up the dog’s gait so the drake could not aim properly.

Bullets and magic and Bianca’s laser bolts shot past the broodfather picking off the still slipping lesser drakes. Carver had decided to opt-out of this fight. He was now turned away, the tip of his greatsword buried in some dirt. Boof was in front of the drake now, and it swiped at the mabari with its meaty claw. Boof yipped, bouncing off its arm and then back to the ground. The dog jumped back up, raking his claws into the drake’s skin and pushed himself upwards. Boof barked triumphantly, clamping down on the drake’s throat and started to shred. Blood spurted out of the wound and the dog wriggled, tearing open it’s tough leather hide.

Hawke nervously watched his dog swinging through the air, his staff following as he aimed a barrier at him. The drake was moving erratically, turning and twisting and slipping and Hawke could not get a clean shot. The drake kept swiping at its neck, and it was only a matter of time before Boof would get hit.

“Boof, return!” he ordered and the dog released his chomp and pushed off the drake. Hawke managed to cast a barrier as he landed just in time for the drake to swipe. The claw sparked against the barrier, sending the dog flying backward towards Hawke. Boof scrambled to his feet and shook his head all the way down to his feathery tail. That was close.

The drake was dying now, all the other lesser drakes almost picked off by the others. Carver was sulking. Sure Hawke was disappointed it wasn’t dragons, too, but at least they were in the same family. “You want to finish it off, little bro?”

“Go ahead,” Carver muttered, not turning towards Hawke.

Hawke shrugged. He didn’t know what he did wrong this time, but he didn’t feel like playing into Carver’s mood. The drake was approaching now, trying to breathe fire, but it could not manage it any longer and the flames only went a few inches past its mouth. Hawke chose an ice spike, aiming carefully. He shot it, the air whistling as the large chunk of crystal shot from Hawke’s hand and into the wound Boof had opened. The spike pushed through its spine and through the back of the dragon’s neck. The drake gurgled, swayed and fell with a thud.

“Is that all of them?” Merrill asked, breaking the sudden silence.

Hawke sheathed his staff onto his back. “There may be more. We should clear out the cave just in case.”

They had found the rest of the miners and the mercenaries Hubert had sent earlier. The corpses were dragged behind a knocked-down wall only days open strewn about the nest in a shallow pile. The bloody bones were in the process of being stripped clean with gnaw marks chewed in. Armor was scattered in shallow piles with a single torso still trapped stuck into its chest plate-dented from where the drakes had tried to peel it off.

Hawke and Isabela, of course, halted the group to check to see if they could find any coin or other valuables amongst the scattered body parts. Both of them dug through pockets and bags throwing whatever didn’t interest them over their shoulder which could either be a rock, a button, a shovel, or a foot. Isabela pried off a gold ring off a mercenary’s gloved finger inspecting it closely. Hawke collectively found 126 silver and split amongst the group. Isabela, like always, kept all the coin she found and the ring, but still was still happy to receive her share.

“Nice!” Hawke grinned as he divided up the piles. “It’s even.”

“I still don’t know why Boof needs money,” Isabela eyed the pile before Boof, who was busy cleaning himself.

“Oh c’mon. Boof deserves a king’s meal after taking out that drake.” He collected Boof’s share and put it on the money pouch on his armor harness. “I’m treating him to a special dinner after this,” Hawke grinned at his pup who looked up at him with his tongue still out. “Your pick.”

Isabela groaned as Hawke suddenly started baby-talking his dog showering him with kisses over his snout as Boof’s tongue would stretch trying to reach Hawke’s face. She didn’t bring up that Hawke was always treating his dog to “special dinners.” Boof’s happy booming bark bounced against the cave wall, as he rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs.

“Quiet, Boof, we don’t want to wake the nest.” Hawke said sternly.

Boof then boofed, his throaty bark muffled in his throat as he begged still belly-up.

After a short-ish belly rub session in which Merrill joined, they spent the next few hours exploring each nook and cranny. Hawke kept hoping for a dragon. There was a whole nest here, but he knew Mothers didn’t usually stay near the brood. She might be nearby, or anywhere in the mountains, if she was there at all. They kept going when they heard the sound of a cry. It was a man’s voice, and he was terrified.

“We’ve got a survivor,” Hawke told Boof. “Find him.”

Boof nodded, dashing forward and the party followed to find a man who had climbed on top of a rock. He was surrounded by 5 lesser drakes about as big as Boof. They clicked and growled trying to climb up the rock, but the red-haired miner kept kicking them back down with his lone spare boot, his other dirty pink foot bare.

He spotted the group and shot an arm out towards them. “Help me! Please!”

Boof corralled the drakes, herding them away from the miner. Hawke was about to shoot a fireball when he remembered he didn’t know this man and waved at an overly eager Merrill to put down her staff. Carver and Isabela understood and they charged alongside Hawke with Merrill lagging behind, her staff at the ready. Varric picked off drake after drake with throat and eye shots. There were only 2 left by the time Isabela, Carver, and Hawke arrived. Isabela grabbed one biting head and shoved her dagger in its eye. The drake squealed before keeling over. Carver chopped off the other one’s head and it rolled away, it’s tongue flopping. Hawke having nothing to do started helping the man down from the rock that he was trapped on.

“Oh thank the Maker. I thought I was gonna die.”

“Yeah you got pretty lucky,” Hawke nodded, steadying the man. “How are you? Need food? Water?”

“I’m thirstier than a son of a bitch. I’ve been trapped in these caves for days now,” the man replied causing Hawke to dig through his bag and bring out a thermos and some jerky. The man took it and greedily downed the whole thermos leaving Hawke with just the backwash and then inhaled the jerky.

“Thank Mythal you’re ok,” Merrill said, leaning against her staff. “How did you survive?”

“By hiding mostly,” he replied, coughing on the meat. “I spent most of my time in a crate, with the quarry, but my thirst got the better of me. I tried to make my way to the entrance but those dragons sniffed me out.”

“Actually, those were drakes,” Hawke corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“Drakes are primarily male with few exceptions, have no wings, and only grow a quarter of the size of-,”

The man held up his hand. “Sorry I asked. I just really want to get out of there.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke felt embarrassed that he had gone into lecture mode about drakonis. “Sure, the way back should be clear.”

Hawke started to move forward but the man grabbed him by the shoulder his murky brown eyes manic with fear. “You can’t go through there. There’s a huge dragon.”

“We can handle it,” Hawke shrugged. He probably meant another drake.

“No, you don’t understand it’s much bigger than the others- with the horns and huge wings. You don’t want to go out there.”

Hawke suddenly lit up. One with wings? Could he be telling the truth? “Let’s go, Boof,” Hawke dashed off, his wagging dog yipping in agreement.

He could hear the others only barely turning the corner, their footsteps echoing against the cave walls. “Will you slow down?” Carver shouted.

“She might not be there if we wait too long,” Hawke called back over his shoulder.

Hawke’s ears were pounding with the thud of his heartbeat. His breathing was erratic and only Boof seemed to be able to keep up with his hastened gait. He dashed out of the cave and onto a rocky plateau where she lay, curled up like a cat, her head tucked into her hefty claws.

He was paralyzed, his heart galloping in his chest and for a few moments, he could only stare. “Holy fuck it’s really a dragon,” Hawke whispered just as the group caught up with him.

Hawke was visibly trembling. He thought he would disintegrate at this moment. She was young, only a few heads taller than a full-grown drake and her scales were a sandy color. She had two sets of outstretched horns that ended in sharp, bony points. Her claws were like obsidian and about half the size of his mabari and they twitched as the dragon slumbered, unaware of the intrusion. For a few moments, all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat and he breathed alongside the beast.

“This is the best day of my life!” Hawke’s voice was not quiet and there was a chorus of shushes.

The dragon stretched and moved and Carver pulled Hawke back into the cave before his brother could go charging. The Abyssal snorted, but settled back into its dream. “Elgar’nan, she’s big,” Merrill whispered, peeking around the corner.

“Don’t worry I’ll protect you,” Carver told Merrill. Then he turned to Hawke, strapping his greatsword to his back. His voice was still low and wary. “This might get messy. Mind if I borrow Dad’s gun?”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “The Armorwing?” He was too loud again and was shushed.

“Yeah, we never had a real chance to try it out,” Carver grinned back.

Hawke waved his hand excitedly, opening a portal, and reached into the white void. He called to his mind the image of the gun, trying to ignore the sudden ache as a soft memory of daily shooting practice bubbled into his thoughts. Suddenly, he could remember the first time he held the Armorwing and quickly squashed down the flood of memories that threatened to come crashing in. A few moments later, he felt it wrapped around his fingers and he pulled out a silverite assault cannon with a barrel about 2 inches wide. 6 different colored runes were into 3 buttons on each side.

Carver slipped the strap into place adjusting it to his size and as he fiddled with some of the settings while Hawke hovered over. The rest of the party was dumbfounded.

“Now remember we’re going to want to stick to ice settings for most of the fight. She’s fire-aspected.” Hawke pointed at the snowflake rune which made Carver snort, and he pressed it before Hawke could.

“I know how to use it. Just don’t get us killed,” Carver muttered. He clicked off the safety and stared down the sight.

“How in the Maker’s name did two broke Fereldens get their hands on an Armorwing?” Varric asked.

“Didn’t I tell you? My dad helped invent them,” Hawke shrugged.

“Oh, I guess that explains everything then,” Varric replied, his tone stating the opposite.

“Don’t worry, it's got nothing on Bianca,” Hawke grinned.

Isabela followed, exchanging her knives for her handguns. “Great we found the dragon- Let’s kill it while it’s sleeping,” she began to aim but Hawke shoved his way forward bounding like the mabari that trailed his feet- in front of Isabela’s aim.

“Oh sweet Maker,” Carver groaned.

Hawke didn’t even notice his party but was addressing his dog rather seriously, his arms crossed looking into the mabari mutt’s deep brown eyes. The mabari’s long feathered tail was wagging wildly somehow understanding. “Now this is our first real dragon fight, Boof. She’s young but it’s the real deal so keep up, okay. She looks maybe 50 summers at most, but don’t underestimate her. Her flame sac is fully mature. She will be able to create a gaseous flame that burns at about 1600 degrees Celsius. Boof! That’s hotter than lava!”

“Lucky,” Carver cleared his throat. He seemed more annoyed than horrified.

“Right, right,” Hawke nodded and then nodded to his dog. “Got that? No catch. Stay behind me if it gets rough-”

The dragon was starting to awaken because Hawke wasn’t exactly being quiet. The party fidgeted, with varying degrees of anger to fear, except for Carver who was just sighing and looking up to the sky for help.

“Uh, Hawke what the fuck are you doing?” Varric whispered not that it mattered if he was quiet any longer. The dragon slowly opened one scaly red-eye, it’s gaze fixating on the bubbly mage who was enthusiastically stretching his arms and lunging.

“Looks like it’s time.” Hawke clapped his hands in glee then placed them on the ground. Pebbles trembled and sudden spikes of boulders shot up from the ground, startling the dragon. A circle of spaced jagged rocks juts out one by one making makeshift barriers on the platform, while one boulder raised right before Hawke’s feet. The dragon crouched defensively, dodging the spikes as she took to the air with several wind-inducing wing beats.

The dragon bellowed the air grew stiff and dry and flames shot down at Hawke, who pressed himself behind the center boulder. Everyone dove undercover as the flames flooded the platform melting some of the rock. “Whoooooooooooooooo!” Hawke whooped as the flames split against the boulders shooting past him and blackening the rocks in front of him. He only had a small pocket where he and Boof huddled as the flames licked past them, the heat sweltering the air, making it thin.

The dragon finally stopped inhaling and swooping far into the air beyond the reach of bullets and laser bolts.

“Maker she’s so beautiful.” Hawke was shouting now. “Alright everyone barriers will last only about 4 seconds at best under direct fire so best stay undercover and stay light on your feet.”

Merrill chirped from where she was ducked under a rock near the mouth of the cave. Carver was guarding her with his body, the Armorwing clenched in his hands. He swore under his breath as Merrill drew her staff, her eyes wide and trembling but she just said, “Let’s try not to get cooked, everyone. It’ll smell awful.” Somehow she was just able to accept that this was happening.

“She’s magnificent,” Hawke laughed maniacally. “Aw man, does anyone want to record this?”

Isabela and Varric just glanced at each other from their cover, not sure if they should gang up to kill Hawke.

“You’re mad, you know that?” Isabela cried. She fired several shots at the dragon, as it circled around them trying to make runs in the safety of the skies, but the bullets just sparked against her underbelly. Varric shot a laser from Bianca but it only scorched the scale. Carver shot one hole in the center of it’s right wing. The dragon screeched, echoing through the mountains. It breathed flames again, and everyone dove back under cover of the boulders. But though its hide was blackened it didn’t seem to do much damage.

“Her underbelly’s harder than steel,” Hawke cried. “Aim for the fleshy part of her wings to bring her down.”

Hawke aimed an ice spike at the dragon’s eye but she tilted, veering left and the spike shot past her. Isabela shot up with her handgun, the dragon flinching each time a bullet bounced off the wing but one bullet went clean through, blood spurted from the wound. Merrill flung spells and bolts up at the dragon in support but the dragon seemed to be absorbing the magic.

The dragon gurgled, it’s mouth lighting up as it swooped down for another pass. “Cover,” Hawke called out. Boof barked and they both dove behind the boulder again everyone ducking for safety. The rocks were steaming still red with flame that slowly died into embers. Their cover would melt away if they took much longer. The dragon honed in on the dog, following it with its flame. Boof galloped towards the edge of the arena bouncing against the rocks to lift him just beyond her reach. Hawke shot at the dragon's head, another ice spike grazed her eye, scraping it and it’s turned its head, the fiery stream blasting away from the plateau.

“Boof, you alright?” Hawke called out, his voice high and panicked.

The dog barked from behind a boulder.

The dragon bellowed zoning in on Hawke, circling back around. Varric was following the dragon with Bianca, Carver with the Armorwing, Isabela with her handguns. They both took turns shooting holes in her wings whenever they had an opening. Some of Varric’s laser bolts bounced off the bone and impaled themselves into the rock with glowing red spikes. Isabela aimed for parts already bleeding, but Carver’s ice absorbed into the dragon causing it to shriek every time he managed a hit. The dragon hovered above, steadily losing traction, when a huge rock flew from what seemed like nowhere and smacked the dragon on it’s nose.

“Nice one, Kitten!” Isabela grinned in approval.

“Watch out!” Merrill shouted back.

Blood spurted from it’s nostrils as the boulder continued undeterred into the sky. The dragon tumbled down, crashing into the rocks which slid away clearing half the platform.

She shook her head, her red eyes a little glazed but quickly spotted Hawke and started slinking into range.She gurgled, her teeth glowing orange as she inhaled.

“Lucky!” Carver cried out as Hawke fleeing behind the lone center boulder still steaming from being hit from all sides. He could not get too close to the melting rock and he could feel the heat on his back.

The flames wrapped around the boulder scooping out and filling the space. The dragon continued breathing fire approaching the boulder, the flames curling around the side singing Hawke as it became a hot bowl of flames. Hawke cast a barrier absorbing most of the indirect heat but the dragon was determined to burn Hawke out of existence and kept breathing out.

His barrier was cracking, the protective glow quickly fading. The heat was getting through and his skin began to blister. He called healing magic to run through him, trying to keep up with the damage.

“Hold on Hawke!” Merrill cried. A sigil formed around Hawke and lighting him up with a soft blue glow underneath before another barrier encased his body.

The dragon held out for a few more seconds before she could breathe no more, and it took a long ragged gasp. “Carver, now!” Hawke cried, but the dragon once again began to inhale.

The dragon swiped away the melting boulder, leaving Hawke completely in the open. Carver cried out dashing from the dragon’s flank and buried his greatsword deep between two scales in the dragon’s neck where it snapped off. Blood squirted from the wound and the dragon breathed out short premature flames that Hawke was able to dodge. Carver then grabbed the Armorwing, aimed it at the wound, and shot several rapid ice bullets. The ice burst through the other side of the dragon’s neck, the bullet’s sizzling against the stone as they bounced off. The dragon bellowed, stomping all across the ground, causing an earthquake and Carver struggled to maintain his footing as he dodged the dragon’s swipes.

Boof barked, charging at the dragon his hackles raised and chomped down on the wound Carver just made. The dragon flailed, trying to shake the dog off as he shredded the wound. The ground shook, knocking Carver off his feet. Hawke dove forward while the dragon was distracted and rolled under her head where the soft underside of her mouth was exposed. He drew his staff from his back, and with mana-enhanced force he jabbed the blade upwards through the soft scales into the roof of the dragon’s mouth snapping it’s maw shut and snuffing out the flames. Hawke cried out, channeling all his energy into one large lightning bolt that amplified through Hawke’s staff and sizzled the dragon, frying its brain. The dragon’s head swerved and began to fall and Hawke rolled and kept rolling until her seventy-pound head shook the ground with a thud.

The dragon twitched, flapping its wings erratically as it tried to take flight again. She attempted to open her mouth, but the slick black staff held firmly in place. Flames shot through its teeth and nostrils as it rattled its last breath. It’s great red eye slit focused on Hawke, his reflection staring back as the life seeped out of the creature until the dust settled and all was silent.

Varric stepped out from behind his melted boulder, Bianca still raised at the creature. “Andraste’s flaming tits. You idiots did it.”

Hawke threw up his arms whooping as loudly as he could. Flames shot from Hawke’s mouth, a stream of triumphant fire blasting over the dead dragon as he mimicked her breath. Carver tackled him screaming excitedly, snuffing out the flame. Both of their cries bounced off the mountains of the Bone Pit. Soon Boof was shaking himself off and joined in howling on top of a boulder, safe from the heat of the hot stone. Hawke grappled Carver, trying to corral his head into a noogie, “Fuck yeah, little bro. First fucking dragon! Who’s kick-ass now!”

“Get off me,” Carver laughed twisting out of Hawke’s grasp quite easily since he was about a whole a head taller and twice as broad. “You idiot! You almost got us all killed.”

Merrill giggled, as the brothers wrestled for dominance. The mabari stayed barking at the brother’s, demanding one of them pay attention. The brothers twisted and squirmed, until Carver slammed Hawke into the ground, forgetting the stone still glowed with heat.

“FUCK!” Hawke’s scream echoed and he jumped to his feet, the back of his arms were singed and stinging. He had already been nursing burns and this just reopened them. Embers flaked off his leather armor and faded as they fell.

“FUCK!” Carver’s hands were sweltering where he had caught himself on the hot stone. His fingers trembled in the pain, parts of his palms bubbling.

“What kind of idiot gets more hurt after the dragon battle?” Varric chuckled. He was writing something in his travel notebook.

“The kind of idiocy that’s genetic,” Isabela rolled her eyes as the brothers nursed their wounds.

“You guys should be thanking me,” Hawke called back. “That was awesome!” He was already running his hands over Carver’s so they weren’t as much of an angry brown-red. Then he ran a spell through his whole body, the stinging easing just a bit. When he was done, he finally noticed that Boof was licking his paws, also bloody with burns. “Oh Boof, I forgot your shoes.”

“Are you all alright?” Merrill called out. Speaking of shoes, Merrill’s had no soles in spite of Hawke’s and Isabela’s insistence she get a sturdy pair of boots. Even if she did, everyone’s shoes were melting into the stone. She was still at the edge of the platform, safe, but trapped.

Hawke ran up to the boulder that Boof had taken refuge on. He was laying on his side panting, but with happy eyes. Lucky dug into his blood to fuel one more regeneration spell, his hands closing the burns on Boof’s back paws. Boof licked his dark gold snout, closing his eyes as Lucky worked.

The skin was growing, but it still looked tender.

Still need to visit Anders.

“You did great, bud,” he rubbed the dog’s floppy ear affectionately then hoisted the pup up over his shoulders so he wouldn’t have to walk on the scorched ground. The dog turned his head, licking Hawke’s cheek.

Then Hawke walked over to the dragon head and put one hand on its snout, the scales still warm. The Abyssal’s head was as half as big as Hawke’s body and he felt this great sense of peace as he gazed into the dragon’s eyes. “I’ve been dreaming of getting close enough for forever and...” he couldn’t finish his thoughts and turned to Varric, odd eyes gleaming with excitement. “You think we can bring the head with us?”

“Why in the Maker’s name would you want to?” Varric snorted.

“I don’t know. It’s cool.”

“Where in Gamlen’s hovel where would we store it?” Carver said.

“Fine, then I’m at least taking a tooth or else no one at the Hanged Man will believe me. Wait! Someone take a picture!”

“I got a selfie stick,” Isabela cried out digging through her bag.

“Um, you guys go ahead,” Merrill called out at the gathering group, still stuck at the edge of the platform. “I think I might just wait until the ground cools down.”

The group exchanged glances before Hawke nudged Carver. His brother looked annoyed that he was shoved. Boof licked Carver’s head as Hawke leaned in close. “Go be a gentleman,” he whispered, winking.

Carver blushed deeply, Isabela and Varric snickering. Carver undid the strap of the Armorwing, handing it back to Hawke to put away. “Uh…Merrill?” he started out awkwardly taking only a single step forward.

“Yes, Carver?” she called back.

“If you’d like I could…carry you?” Carver looked like he might keel over.

Her green eyes lit up in relief, but her pointy ears twitched slightly. “Oh, I wouldn’t wish to be a bother.”

“Ridiculous!” Hawke cried, shoving Carver forward with his free hand,“Carver’s great a picking up beautiful girls.” Immediately Merrill went beet red all the way to the tips of her ears. Boof barked as Hawke’s grip slipped putting the Armorwing back into the portal. Quickly, he hoisted the dog back up onto his shoulders.

“Lucky,” Carver said warningly, looking nervous as he gazed back at him.

“Go get her,” Hawke whispered.

The three of them unashamedly ogled as Carver, red-eared, walked up to Merrill his feet slightly dragging. He rubbed the back of his neck avoiding her gaze. She had a habit of staring intensely and Carver couldn’t seem to stand the scrutiny. “Would you like a piggyback or would you prefer bridal style?”

“Bridal style!” Hawke hooted, causing Carver to glare at him murderously.

“Oooh, swoop her up in those big strong arms!” Isabela teased.

“That’s my vote!” piped Varric.

“It’s not a vote!” Carver bristled, his brown freckled skin deepening all the way down to his neck.

Merrill seemed to look confused, not quite understanding what Hawke, Varric, and Isabela saw as so amusing. “Um…I don’t know what either of those mean so just…whatever makes you most comfortable.” She held out her arms straight out towards Carver, unsure what was going to happen.

Carver awkwardly leaned down since he was a head and a half taller, and placed her hands on his shoulder. “Kind of link your hands so you don’t fall-”

She removed her hands from his shoulders and clasped her hands together, waiting for her next instructions. Carver, not wanting to correct her, tried to push his head through the hole in her arms but his head was so big he just pushed her arms up, confusing Merrill.

“You’re brother’s real smooth, Hawke,” Varric chuckled.

“It’s like watching a drunk monkey pet a cat,” Isabela cringed.

“Yup,” Hawke replied. This was painful.

Finally, he thought to grab her hands, unlink them, throw them around his neck and then press them back together before he finally scooped her up by the knees causing her to yelp in surprise.

He steadied himself as she flailed squeezing onto him and then carried her back to the dragon where Isabela was fixing her phone onto the stick. “Finally, lovebirds,” she teased.

Carver glared at her in an effort to shut her up but she just waggled her eyebrows as she extended the stick and then held it up in the air. They huddled around the dragon head with Hawke sitting on top, gripping each horn. His dog still draped around his shoulders licking his lips and panting heavily. Carver was carrying Merrill to his right, Merrill smiling sweetly, but Carver’s face looked uncomfortably serious. Varric and Isabela were to Hawke’s left, both linked arm in arm and grinning. Isabela was making a peace sign.

“Say “dragon!” Hawke yelled out.

“Dragon!” only Merrill and Hawke called out as they snapped the picture.

They took several more photos since Isabela didn’t like how she looked in the first one. She held up the group for 5 minutes adjusting her hair and make-up in the camera on her phone. When they finally got a picture Isabela didn’t hate, Hawke insisted he has one with his head inside the dragon’s mouth. It took a bit to pry out his staff and he also got a lot of drool in his hair for that idea. Then Hawke picked the biggest, sharpest tooth he could find took 15 minutes of digging it out with his dagger. Boof scrambled off of Hawke’s shoulders and settled himself on the dragon’s neck, watching his packleader work. Finally, when Hawke successfully pulled out the tooth and put it in his pocket, the party turned to leave. But Hawke, instead of following, turned the dragon’s head on its side started sawing at the dragon’s throat.

“Lucky,” Carver said warningly. “We’re not taking the head with us.”

“I’m not,” Hawke grunted, tearing the dragon’s throat-wound open gingerly, his hands slick with blood.

“Uh…Hawke gets a little crazy around dragons.” Varric stared at Hawke like he was completely unhinged.

“You have no idea,” Carver muttered.

“Just a sec.” Hawke couldn’t focus on talking. He set the bloody dagger down on the dragon’s head and used his hands to peel down the top of the muscles gingerly. Then when he had a big enough opening, he dug his hands into the dragon's throat. He didn’t have to go very far to find what he was looking for, the Abyssal’s flame sac. Carefully, he felt around until he could see in his mind exactly what the gland looked like. Then pulling out his right bloody forearm, he picked up the dagger again and slid it inside, carefully shearing away the tendons that held the firm sac in place.

The party watched in horror as the blood gushed onto Hawke, who seemed to not mind it one bit. The sounds of squelching and ripping filled the air and Isabela looked queasy. “Anybody bring a bucket?” she covered her mouth.

When it was free, he tucked the blood-drenched dagger back into his sheath on his belt and pulled out a small red fleshy ball that’s center glowed orange. Its thick skin was veiny, almost see-through and it beat like a heart.

“Isn’t it amazing? It’s her flame sac.” Hawke breathed excitedly. “Look her magic lives, but it’s not as warm as I thought it would be.”

“Uh…that’s great Hawke,” Varric replied. He was eyeing his friend, who was drenched with slick, steaming dragon blood from his face all the way down to his melted boots.

Isabela whistled, “Good call. An extinct dragon gland can probably fetch at least 100 sovereigns. Maybe more in the right circles.” She dared a peek just in time for it to beat. She gagged and turned away. “Glad I didn’t have to do it.”

“We can probably fund the expedition with this!” Carver said.

“I was thinking of giving it to Merrill, actually,” Hawke replied, causing the Dalish elf’s eyes to widen in surprise in Carver’s arms. “I mean we’re not too far off from funding the expedition and Abyssal flame sacs are especially potent at cleansing magics. Perhaps it will help purify your eluvian shard?”

Merrill’s green eyes were so wide Hawke thought he might fall in. “Oh, n-no, Hawke, I couldn’t. You need it more,” her face was red as she stammered.

“We can find coin anywhere,” Hawke shrugged, “but restoring an eluvian? That’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. Besides that barrier probably saved my life. I owe you,” He smiled at Merrill who was beaming back until he met Carver’s gaze. Somehow he had pissed him off.

“Um,” Hawke said awkwardly, “I’ll just put it away until we can store it properly.” He was suddenly feeling self-conscious. He waved his hand opening up an interdimensional portal and stuck the sac in the reflective portal before closing it, his brother still glaring coldly.

“Great, great,” Varric muttered. “Now can we go home. My pants are singed and I think all the rubber’s melted off my shoes.”

Hawke leaned on Varric, slicking blood onto him. “Buy me a drink, Varric. I’m a dragon-slayer now.” He waved his hand into a fist dramatically.

“It’s your turn, dragon-kook,” Varric groaned as he looked at his clothes, an impression of blood slick where Hawke had made contact.

They bantered and teased Carver all the way back to Varric’s car. At one point Isabela had to flee from one of Hawke’s blood-drenched hugs. Merrill had not noticed she was being carried the whole time until they arrived at the car which caused Isabela to hone in on Carver’s reddening face. “You didn’t realize? Really, Carver? Why don’t you just ask her out?”

“Ask me out to what? That sounds fun!” Merrill cried.

Carver looked like he would crumble under the laughter.

On the way home, Hawke had been forced to strip down to his small clothes and hose down with magic before Varric would let him into his car.

“You’re easy to get naked, Hawke. I just have to ask.”

Carver refused to look at him. Merrill was red, fidgeting with her seat belt refused to even glance at him the whole time. When Hawke tried to make conversation she would squeak and refuse to say anymore. Isabela stared in approval. “You do keep fit.”

Hawke refused to part with the dragon tooth and he refused to clean it. He wanted to remember this moment exactly as it was. Varric did made him put it in a plastic grocery bag so it wouldn’t drip and he clutched it happily. He rode home with one towel beneath him so he wouldn’t wet the seats and one towel draped over his shoulders. His curly hair was frizzing and messy. Boof’s head laid on Hawke’s lap as he sprawled across his brother and Merrill, his feathery healing paws now wrapped, and twitching in his sleep.

“You know, Hawke, I had a thought,” Merrill’s eyes were purposely averted from him, her voice high and uncomfortable.

“Yeah, Merrill,” he looked over to her and she dared a peek. His one brown eye, one blue met hers, and she gasped. Hawke’s unbridled joy was spread in the biggest grin, his brown freckled skin warm and bright, and he was of course completely nude except the tight superhero boxers that clung to his drying skin.

Her eyes went wide and stayed wide as she slowly looked away, her whole body rigid and stiff with some expression Hawke could not decipher. “Uh,” she said and gulped. “Why didn’t you just put the dragon in your portal?”

Everyone’s expressions fell dark as Hawke’s mouth fell open. For a moment he just gawked at her brilliance. “I could kiss you!” he shouted, startling the slumbering pup who barked in protest. Carver clenched his fist, ready to punch him as Merrill suddenly fell and bonked her head on the car window. Hawke obliviously shot forward, placing one hand on the dwarf’s sagging shoulders. “Varric, we need to turn back!”

[ofravensandgenesis]

Get To Know Meme/20 Questions, plus Playlist Game

Questions and answers under the cut!

Tagged by: @amistrio, @englass, and @chyrstis!! Thank you for the tags, pardon the delay!! Playlist game tagged by @undead-gearhead​, thank you for the tag as well!! :D I’m combining these two so as to not spam the dash. x’D Playlist game is at the bottom of the 20 Questions. Rules: Answer 20 questions, then tag 20 bloggers you want to get to know better.

Name: Jake

Nicknames: Jakey/Jakie and whatever else people come up with at a given time xD

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

Height: idk man I don’t check my height ever until I need to. OTL I’m tall enough to reach things on the high shelves with some tippy-toe stretching, that’s what counts!

Languages: English, with a very slight garnish of a few words in other languages like Latin and such, but nothing fluent.

Nationality: American

Favorite Season: Ah winter I love thee so, but winter—she does not love me quite so fondly D:

Favorite Flower: Daisies or marigolds I suspect, though I’m likely to forget bc I don’t think on flowers much. x’D They’re cheery lil blossoms though! Rosemary too, smells quite nice.

Favorite Scent: Trees like pine or timber scents. Also books. Chinese herbal shops. Tiger balm.

Favorite Color: Green! Darker, more natural tones in particular.

Favorite Animal: Dragons of varying sorts if mythical creatures count. Birds, cats, dogs or hamsters if not. (look they’re cute and so are fish, lizards and snakes, it’s hard to pick. Then we have dinosaurs! Dinosaurs are fucking awesome. Specific species are not given bc it’s hard to pick just one. I’m terrible at picking just one favorite of anything usually, as you might have noticed. x’D Expect lists if I don’t have a known answer.)

Favorite Fictional Character: [thinks on that for a good twenty minutes] This is a hard question, if we’re talking recently, then that’d be one of either John Seed, Varric Tethras, or Damien Bloodmarch. I like the passionate and/or dramatic ones with their own personal, colorful sense of style, I admit. All time’s more difficult to think of, ngl.

Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate: If we’re talking drinking frequency, herbal tea for sure. I think all three options taste nice though!

Average Sleep Hours: 6-8, depending on what counts as asleep. If we mean unconscious, 6. Resting but conscious and still tired, 8.

Dog or Cat person: Cats bc I’m low energy x’D They’re both lovely though!!

Number of Blankets Slept With: three to five depending on the weather (it’s cold out here rn.) Dream Trip: Japan seems lovely, though there are many places to pick from, both nationally and internationally. There’s a lot to be said for the national parks and forests, and the local woods and wildlife reserves are lovely too in their own fashion. No I am not a nature person, I just like to visit the peripherals of it and take a walk sometimes.

Blog Established: December 2019 apparently, I just got here. I might’ve made the blog a month or so earlier tbh, or at least I think I did.

Followers: 15, hot diggity! And hello! :D ♥

Random Fact: I think roasted nori is fucking delicious as a snack, though the brand I get needs an extra roast in the pan until it gets that nice translucent green-almost-brown color. Tastes too fishy otherwise, instead of that nice rich roasted faintly-oceany flavor.

Bonus: I’m allergic to bananas. They make my face itch, which is a shame, they’re tasty. If these last two facts seem suspiciously food related, it’s because I’m hungry and munching on dinner. xD We’re snooping on your playlist. Put your music library on shuffle and tell us the first ten songs that pop up. Then tag your victims.

1. “Do It Better,” by JAXSON GAMBLE

2. “Jenny of Oldstones (Game of Thrones,)” by Florence + The Machine

3. “Walk Me Home,” by P!nk

4. “Build Me Up Buttercup,” by The Foundations

5. “Soldier,” by Fleurie

6. “Kamikaze Love,” by Poets of the Fall

7. “On Fire,” by Melano

8. “Colors,” by Kulick

9. “Take Me to Church,” by Hozier

10. “Renegades,” by X Ambassadors

Ngl I’m surprised there wasn’t Fallout Boy on that list. Also lmao, two of those songs are from @undead-gearhead’s songlists for some of her OCs, specifically Melanie for the first one (no. 2) and Kirsten with Sharky iirc for the second (no. 3,) which amuses me greatly that they both ended up there. xDD

Tagging: I’m late to the party, so anyone who wants in who hasn’t been tagged yet!! Please consider yourselves tagged! :D ♥ And happy Chinese new year of the rat to you all!!

[dergonageloser]

okay I know there’s already a few Inquisitor!Fenris fics out there but I’m just gonna slide my own in somewhere. this is a quick draft of the first chapter/snippet/whatever, i doubt i’ll actually be able to write a whole story but w/e

Hawke’s heart pounded in her chest, echoing the rumbling blast that shook the earth below her feet. The trees around her shuddered, cracked, some limbs and leaves crumbled and fell about her. Snow slid of their banks and branches and stones, powdered by the disturbance.

She stared in the direction of the Conclave, eyes wide and stinging, mouth ajar, body strung tight like a bow ready to fire. A single breath passed her lips in a faint cloud, her grip on her staff white, tight, and both frozen and burning at the same time. A step forward, a tremble through her knee. Another step forward, then another more quickly, and then she was running, running towards the black pillar of fire and death where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had stood.

Branches struck her face and body as Hawke plowed through the forest, kicking up snow and stones, disregarding her earlier stealth for the urgent need to find her husband.

Fenris. He’d been there, observing (spying), taking note of anyone interested in the Champion’s whereabouts. He’d also been there to get a feel for the situation at hand, of how the tentative talk between the warring mages and templars would go. The life and wellbeing of his wife, a mage, kind of depended on it.

Something warm trickled down her cheeks, chilling instantly and irritating the skin. Hawke scrubbed at her eyes, irritably, frustration and fear building in her chest, warring cold and heat pooling there like a vicious maelstrom. She skirted around a cluster of trees, jumping down a small cliff jutting off the side of the sloping mountain.

Hawke had told him not to go. He was too recognizable, and his safety was worth more than hers. But he wouldn’t be dissuaded, as he was at least as stubborn as she was, if not more.

I won’t be there long, he’d assured her.

It doesn’t take long at all to be shredded apart in devastating explosion, as her personal experience told her.

My fault, my fault my fault my fault—

There was nothing to be done for the familiar mantra chanting in her head, beating against her chest with icy claws. She pressed on, ignoring the aching chill in her feet and her hands. Her face was wet with tears, sweat, and the condensation from her quick, hot breath.

Not soon enough, she caught sight of a village. Haven. Varric should be there, if his recent notes were any indication. The notes were few, now that he was in the custody of one of the Seekers, but he was a clever man and he found a way.

There were screams drifting from the village, wails of fear and horror as a chaos of movement bustled through the village. The shockwaves from the blast had rattled the wooden cottages and huts, bits of debris floated in the air, ash drifted down like snow. The gates drew closer with each grating breath, each shaky step, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Hawke rushed past the scrambled guards, through the gate and into the village. It was a mess. A guard or two tried to grab her, an obvious intruder, but she easily shook them off—perhaps punched one, she wasn’t really paying attention— and lost them in the mayhem. She frantically scanned the crowd for a crossbow, a hairy chest, anything to indicate her best friend.

There, arguing fiercely with a tall, armored woman. His cheeks were pink with cold, but under that he was pale with fear and stress and worry, his brow pinched in frustration. The woman, the Seeker, was arguing back, her face a painting of shock and grief and rage it was a wonder she didn’t combust.

“Varric!” Hawke cried, sprinting towards him.

He looked up, eyes widening at the sight of her. He pushed past the Seeker, who whirled around in fury but froze when she saw who Varric was turning to.

“Hawke!” Varric responded, pushing through the crowd. “What in Andraste’s flaming knickers—!”

“Fenris was at the Temple!” Hawke all but screamed. She stopped short of him, her chest heaving—nearly sobbing—and it was all she could do not to fall to her knees. “He was there—he was—Varric—”

Varric paled, sucked in a harsh breath. He reached out and gripped her elbows, holding her shaking body still—as still as it could be anyway. His eyes bored into hers, searching for something, a lie perhaps, a chance that she wasn’t in the right of mind.

When he found nothing but desperate fear, he opened his mouth—

“Champion!” a woman’s voice interrupted.

Hawke whipped her head up to see the Seeker marching towards her, a righteous fury blazing in her eyes and bleeding from her pinched brow and the tight-lipped grimace of her lips. A burst of defiant anger bubbled in Hawke’s chest, but now wasn’t the time, there wasn’t time.

When the Seeker was close, she hissed, “Varric, you lying scheming bastard of a—!”

“Yes, we covered that bit,” Varric replied, impatiently waving his hand at her. “There are at least a couple more pressing things right now, Seeker.”

The Seeker turned her fury to Hawke. “Did you have a hand in this?” she demanded, hand gripping the hilt of her sword.

Hawke could have laughed at the hilarity of the statement. After all, it wasn’t the first time she was involved in the destruction of a holy establishment, and it seemed to be something of a recurring theme. But all she could feel was anger, stemming from the multitudes of emotions that whirled inside her at that moment.

“Contrary to popular belief, I actually don’t enjoy blowing up churches,” Hawke snapped. Her hand still held her staff, fingers tightening around it in response to the Seeker’s implied threat. “Particularly if my husband was inside one.”

That gave the Seeker pause, but it was a small thing.

“Why, then, was he there?” she asked, her tone biting.

“Oh for bloody—this really isn’t the time for that!” Hawke slashed her free hand in the air. “I’m going to find him, and I’m taking Varric with me, thank you very much.”

Heat flared in the Seeker’s cheeks, but from anger. She jutted her chin out and lifted her head in a commanding fashion.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she spoke, with the tone of an officer. “I cannot allow you two outside of Haven.”

“The fuck you will—!”

“Enough, you two!” Varric stepped in between them, looking from one to the other. “We’re losing daylight and we won’t find Fenris by fighting!”

Hawke bit her lip and breathed heavily through her nose, turning away. With a glance around, she realized her rather loud conversation with the Seeker had attracted onlookers, with varied expressions of confusion and horror. Villagers and soldiers alike, murmuring to each other in worried voices. The air was thick with tension, tasted and smelled like nauseating fear.

A voice rose above the crowd, firm and solid, “Troops! Rally to me!”

Cullen. Of course, of course he was here.

The Seeker nodded in his direction as soldiers rushed past them and gathered where Cullen likely was. “The Commander will organize the troops to rally the defenses. Leliana will assist by sending out search parties for survivors. Everything is being handled, and you are not leaving my sight.”

Hawke, in that moment, had an internal debate. She’d sparred with Aveline before, and while she couldn’t match for strength, she could with speed and magic. This Seeker, intimidating as she was, had nothing on Aveline’s sheer force of existence. The question, however, was whether or not it was a good idea to strike down the person holding Varric in custody and likely commanding a troop or two.

No, it wouldn’t be a good idea, but since when has that stopped her?

Varric, as though sensing her aura of bad life decisions, turned to her and took her hand.

“Hawke, I know you’re scared—,” he paused, blinked, then shook his head. “Damn, you’d think a writer could come up with better. Look, everything’s on fire up there.” He gestured to the Temple, where pillars of billowing smoke stood out against the snowy peaks like a fly in milk, or, rather, a hundred flies in milk. “If you go up there, there’s a hell of a chance you’ll get hurt too. Besides, by the time we even got there, the search parties will have already done their thing.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “So I’m just supposed to sit here while Fenris might be—no, I need to find him.”

“We’ll just get in the way,” Varric reasoned. “All of this sucks and it goes against everything you are, I know, but the best we can do right now is deal with what’s happening here.”

“Oh? And what’s happening here?”

The Seeker pointed to the sky. “That.”

Hawke looked up, and her jaw dropped.

A great, gaping chasm, ripping through the sky, as though a giant claw tore through blue fabric. It glowed with a sickly green light, unnatural, unreal. Then, as she stared, it pulsed with energy, spreading in a wave across the sky and over the mountains. The pulse, the energy, hummed with a sort of magic that she’d never felt before. It was sick, nauseating, like smoke sticking to her lungs.

“We think there may be more, smaller ones scattered across the countryside,” the Seeker continued. “Demons are appearing around the village already, and we do not know why.” She turned her gaze to Hawke, harsh and firm. “That is why we need you here.”

“I’m not your soldier,” Hawke retorted stubbornly.

“No, but you’re a Champion of the people, and these people need you.”

“Fenris needs me.”

The Seeker’s gaze softened, just a little, but she gritted her teeth. “He may already be dead.”

“Don’t you even—”

A hand on her arm. “Hawke,” Varric spoke. “We don’t have time. If Fenris is alive then he’s being brought here as we speak, and this place needs to be clear of demons before he gets here. Let’s do what we can, alright?”

Hawke glowered, her grip on her staff tightening and loosening and tightening again. Then, she deflated.

“Fine,” she gritted out, then turned away without another word.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [142]

“Pets aren’t allowed in this building,” Bull says as Ellana struggles to hold three - four - squirming kittens in her arms. Bull then turns and yells down the hall, “Cool it, Rutherford, I’m no snitch. I can hear you about to have a panic attack an entire hallway off. No one actually cares enough to tell the landlord and the landlord doesn’t care enough to do shit about it. You and your ten dogs are fine.”

“But Bull, they’re babies,” Ellana whines. “Look at them. Babies.”

Ellana holds her arms up without dropping any kittens and Bull looks at them, nodding.

“Yup, baby cats,” Bull says, holding a hand out and catching one that slips out of her grip. The kitten meows very loudly at him, as if baffled and slightly upset at being caught. Bull puts the kitten on his shoulder. “Were you just going to hide four kittens in our apartment and hope I don’t notice?”

“Maybe,” Ellana mumbles. “I mean, you hide people and I pretend not to notice.”

“Ellana, that’s not hiding people, that’s sheltering criminals from the feds and entirely different,” Bull sighs fondly.

Ellana pouts up at him. It’s a powerful expression. The only one who can really say no to it is Cullen and that’s because he’s a very, very tired person with ten dogs.

“Do they have names?” Bull asks. Ellana beams at him and then quickly looks down at the kittens in her arms.

“That means you get to stay and I’m going to love you and play with your little toes and feed you and keep you clean and warm and safe and play with you and spoil you absolutely rotten unless he starts in on it first,” Ellana says to them. “And no, I do not have names for them yet. We’re going to need to get them checked out.”

Ellana yells down the hallway, “Cullen, what’s the name of your vet?”

“Do you just always yell down the hallway,” Bull glances towards the open doorway on the other side of the hall and about three apartments down.

Isabela is leaning against the doorframe, looking only slightly disheveled and hung over as she yawns trying to arrange the large mass of curly dark hair on her head into something not in her face.

“Do you all just treat the entire building like one open common room and yell about like this? Because I’m going to have to move to a different complex immediately if that’s the case and that’s a shame because I just finished getting comfortable here.”

“I can’t believe Varric didn’t warn you about us,” Bull says as Ellana goes down the hall to Cullen’s apartment to pound on the door, demanding for the contact information for Cullen’s vet.

“He probably did, but I most likely wasn’t listening,” Isabela says and then waves a hand at them, “I think the most I remember hearing was that all of you are nerds.”

“Says the woman who LARPS during her free time,” Bull retorts.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Isabela shrugs and then grins at him, “I figured out a new way to make extremely realistic fake body parts for mock battles. You want to see some of my tests?”

“Are they dicks?”

“Of course.”

“Cool, she’s going to be at Rutherford’s for a while. She’s got to say hi to every dog. I’ve got about half an hour. Show me the fake dicks.”

-

“Someone new moved in across the hall,” Dorian says to Ellana as she navigates their living room towards the kitchen without once looking up from her phone. Ellana is madly tapping at the phone with her thumbs, tilting her body this way and that.

“Uh huh,” She says and Dorian quickly reaches a leg out and snags a chair out of her way before she runs into it. She meanders, like a very drunk bee, to the kitchen and leans against the counter.

“Were you here for something?”

“Water me,” She says and then opens her mouth.

Dorian rolls his eyes and carefully sets down the plastic robot parts he was assembling onto the black towel he’s laid out on the kitchen counter so he can see them better.

“I’m not going to stick a water bottle into your mouth and hold it for you,” Dorian says. He does go get her a glass of water though.

“Bummer,” Ellana sighs. “Also, I just failed this level. Again. Do you think I could get Malika to do it for me?”

“Malika as in Edric’s niece who visits him on weekends?”

“Yeah, she’s really good at mobile phone games,” Ellana says.

“You could get her to do it by offering to grind her mage to max cap,” Dorian guesses, “I still don’t know why she picked mage.”

“She just needs to figure out a good mage build that isn’t a glass canon, Dorian. It’s not that hard. I do it all the time.”

“Not everyone can successfully pull of a hybrid build, Ellana. And are you listening to me? Someone moved in across the hall.”

“They took Maxwell’s apartment?” Ellana blinks, putting her phone down as she goes to rummage for snacks in the pantry. “I still think it’s weird that Maxwell has a house now.”

“He’s got all of one chair in it, it’s not that impressive,” Dorian rolls his eyes. “And yes, Maxwell’s apartment now has a person in it. I think you’ll like him.”

“How so?”

“Well. He looks interesting.”

Ellana squints her eyes at him. It’s only partially because she’s been staring at a screen for most of the morning.

“That sounds more like a reason for you to like him.”

“Not my type of interesting. Well - alright, a little my type of interesting. But mostly mysterious type of interesting, which is your favorite,” Dorian says. “And I saw some of the stuff he was moving in with.”

“Snoop.” Ellana shakes her head fondly as she rips open a bag of almonds, raising it and inhaling a good mouthful straight from the bag. Dorian can hear her crunching from the other side of the kitchen.

“Well informed,” Dorian corrects once he’s pretty sure she can hear him over the sound of her own teeth. “I saw one of his boxes. Computer parts. I think he makes his own rig.”

Ellana stops chewing, eyes widening.

Dorian immediately dashes for the door at the same time Ellana does. Dorian crashes against the door and holds it closed even as Ellana tries to pull it open.

“You cannot,” Dorian says, “I repeat, you cannot go and accost our new neighbor by asking him to help you build a custom rig. He hasn’t even been in the building for three hours.”

“You can’t just tell me he’s building a rig and not expect me to go over there and look,” Ellana says after she gets through her mouthful of almonds. “Dorian that’s like telling Cullen that there’s a stray dog outside and it has no chip or collar. He’s going to adopt it.”

“Please, at least wait twenty four hours,” Dorian says. “Bring a welcome present. Like a civilized adult. Maker, I should have just told you he looked like a jock.”

“Maxwell’s kind of jock?”

“You know how Cullen tangentially knows this really terrifying woman he used to work with and went to boarding school with? And how that woman will occasionally stop by because she also knows Leliana on the fourth floor? And how that woman will very, very rarely be accompanied by a very imposing and tall sour faced man?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to imagine that sour faced man being cloned. And then this guy across the hall eats both those clones and each clone is one bicep.”

Ellana’s mouth drops open.

“He’s jacked is what I’m saying,” Dorian says, “Yoked. Cut. Ripped. However the kids these days say it. His head is disproportionate compared to his muscle mass.”

“That is definitely your type of interesting and if you had lead with that I would have had approximately twenty percent less interest than I have right now,” Ellana concedes. “But instead you chose to lead with the fact that he might have a custom gaming rig and you really can’t take that knowledge back, Dorian. You just can’t.”

[flighty37-blog]

We’ll Never Survive

Summary: Thanks to the vortex that has followed them from the Manchester flat, and to their newest flat, complete with a universe inside, their female characters, and their scripts and rejected ideas, along with props thrown into it, Dan and Phil discover Dragon Age. What? No Internet? How will they survive? How far does a raven fly? It’d better not be illegal to use so many ravens to carry a lot of scrolls....

Summary 2: This is dedicated to my best friend across the pond, England. Suze....She loves Dragon Age, REALLY LOVES Dragon Age. I love Dan And Phil. Decided to mash fandoms.

Warnings: Swearing.

Rating PG-R

Deaths: None.

Incomplete Fic. Just testing the waters.

Somewhere In London (maybe more central, maybe not) Present Day:

Two nerds, one with dyed black hair and very pale skin, and the other with dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes were synchronised browsing on the sofa.

Each sipping their mugs of coffees respectively, and not even giving a damn about the outside world. As the sun went across their windows, and whittled down the time, they both looked up and over at each other. 

“I’m hungry,” Dan said.

“I’ll go make dinner,” Phil answered.

“I’ll help. God knows what can happen in there. Besides I’ve procrastinated enough for one day,” Dan said.

Phil reached over and felt his friend’s forehead. Dan gave him a look, and pushed his hand off.

“I was just seeing if you were ill; you said you ˜procrastinated enough for one day’. Are you alright? Do I need to ring a physician?” Phil asked.

“The Doctor?,” Dan was slightly hopeful.

“Well, ‘a doctor’....” Phil got up from the sofa, put aside his laptop, remembering to close the lid, and went into the kitchen.  

Glad for the fact they didn’t have a glass door to hit their faces, or heads, on.  Dan came inside and started pawing through the fridge.  

“No they wouldn’t be as fun. I need someone with a TARDIS. You know, because it’s ‘bigger on the inside’™?” Dan said, as he gathered the ingredients together, and started lubricating various pans, and a metal cookie sheet.

They were going to have spaghetti, and Dan liked making the garlic bread.

“That’s what 'she’said,” Phil joked.

“That’s a dead meme,” Dan corrected him.

“I am allowed to say what I want to say,” Phil sniffed.

“Ok,” Dan shrugged and Phil set the water to boil.

Just then a blue shimmering light cascaded from the wormhole that had taken up residence between their fridge and the doorway.

“Uhhh, Phil?” Dan started.

“Yeah?” Phil was browning the meat.

“We’re being summoned,” Dan walked over and tapped Phil’s shoulder, and he turned to face the glowing blue light, as it reached out and sucked them inside its depths.

“This Is Not How I Wanted To Travel Through Time And SPAAAACCCCEEEEE!!!!” Dan’s cries were swallowed in the thin air.

“How Are We Eeeevveennnn Stillll Breeeaattthhhiiinnnnggggggg?” Phil’s voice floated beside him, as their bodies twisted and turned in the swirling vortex of blue, green, gold, brown, red....*THUMP!* they landed. One on top of the other, face down.

“OUCH!” Phil grimaced.

“Get off of me you arse!” Dan reacted, casually pushing Phil off of him.

“Where the hell are we?” Dan asked, as they looked at the barren landscape, that had paper thin snow falling from the sky.

“I dunno. But I’m co-cold,” Phil’s teeth chattered.  

“It was 30C in England!” Dan put his arms around himself, to seal in some warmth.

“Halt! Are you friend or foe!” A new voice rang out, stilling their conversation.

“Hello, we’re....” Dan started.

“I asked if you were friend or foe,” the intimidating voice said, the silhouette cleared, and it was a man coming out of the shadows, brandishing a sword and wearing a fur cloak of some kind. He had blond hair, and very impressive cheekbones.

“WHOA!!” Both guys breathed out.

“He’s so pretty,” Phil whispered.

“SHHH!!!! Don’t let him hear you. He might not like that statement,” Dan hissed at Phil.

“Well he is,” Phil said.

“Maybe you should say handsome? Good looking? Any one of those terms?” Dan asked.

“But we’re all inclusive, non-gender, pro activists,” Phil said.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling that being politically correct will be frowned on,” Dan answered.

“Okay,” Phil said.

“Ahem, we’re friends.” Dan put out a hand, as the tall, broad shouldered man, well he was about their same height, but he was quite intimidating.

The cloak or what have you, made him look taller, and, was he muscular? Dan’s throat caught, and he gulped.

“He’s definitely not Evan Peters,” Phil whispered. 

“Who?” The blond asked, just as a pretty red haired woman in a skin tight shirt, and matching skin tight trousers, greenish grey eyes and a slight willowy, tall build came into view.

The blond man’s face softened.

“Trevelyn, these strangers have just dropped in,” The blond looked confused.

“Have they now? From the Breach? I thought we fixed that?” She mused.

“Uh I’m Dan, and this is Phil,” Dan interrupted, he still had his hand out to shake hands should anyone desire to do so.

“Right, yes, where are our manners?” The redhead answered, shaking Dan’s hand, and Phil’s as well, respectively.

“I’m Inquisitor Trevelyn, and this is Commander Cullen Rutherford, we’re scouting out new fissures, and well it seems we’ve come across one,” She scrutinised them closely.

“Your clothes are odd,” The Commander spoke up.

“Commander Rutherford!” Trevelyn gave him a shake of her head.

“My apologies,” Cullen looked anything but apologetic. If anything, he still looked quite intimidating.

“I wonder how buff he is under that armour and cloak?” Phil wondered.

“Pretty muscular,” Dan concurred.

“They are odd,” the Commander said.

“Not as odd as you are, my love,” Trevelyn tried to whisper, but apparently the Commander’s statement was heard.

“Not as odd as you are dressing like you’re in medieval times, Dan said.

“Dan!” Phil gave him a sharp look of rebuke.

“What are you on about?” Cullen was on the defencive making the two jump back.

“N-Nothing,” Dan managed.

“We’ll bring you back to camp,” Trevelyn decided.

“Is that wise Inquisitor?” Cullen asked.

“We’re not leaving them to freeze Commander,” Trevelyn answered.

“I guess we’re going to camp?” Phil shrugged.

“Do you have internet?” Dan asked.

“What is this ‘internet’ that you speak of? Is it a new way to spy?” Cullen asked, his brows furrowing, and he looked even more intimidating.

“Uhhh some people spy with it,” Dan managed.

Phil looked quite scared, and had put his hands over his mouth.

“Whatever this ‘internet’ is, we do not have it,” Commander Cullen said quite fiercely.

“Oh god, I’m gonna faint,” Dan said, as he started shivering.

“No internet? No Twitter? No Tumblr?” Phil whispered, panicking a bit.

“Catch me!” Dan said.

“What about our phones?” Phil asked.

The two pulled out their phones, checking for a signal.

“What are those? Are those miniature swords?” Cullen plucked the phones out of their hands.

“Dammit! Now I feel naked,” Dan said.

"He-He too-took our ph-phones," Phil said.

“What are phones? Trevelyn was curious.

“They.... Well we talk to other people with them; if you please?” Dan held out his hand, and Trevelyn got them from Commander Cullen, and gave them back to Dan.

“Here, like this,” Dan put the phone up to his ear. Phil mimed dialing, and put his up to his own ear, “Then you talk....” The two mimed talking into a phone with lots of hand gestures.

“Useless,” Cullen scoffed.

“If they worked, which they don’t.... They wouldn’t be useless,” Dan huffed. 

“Come along,” Trevelyn said, as they walked back with the two, and came upon some horses.

“Oh no!” Phil said.

“Not horses,” Dan said.

“What is wrong with horses? They are quite useful in the snow, and getting us back to camp,” Cullen spoke up, as he assessed the two young men before him.

He assumed they were male, as they had strange haircuts and even stranger clothing. They reminded him, a bit, of Cole. Cole was odd, but he was harmless. Let him just hope that these two were harmless as well. They could be demons in disguise. Cole would know. He was a spirit.  

“One behind the Inquisitor, one behind me, hold on tight,” Commander Cullen said, as the two got situated on the backs of the steeds.

“How tightly do I need to hold?” Phil asked, as he gently put his arms around the man’s waist to stay on.

“Tight, but not too tight. Enough to hold yourself to the equine steed. I will let you know if you start to slip off,” Cullen answered, and glanced over at the Inquisitor.

She was gently guiding Dan’s hands to her waist, and wrapped them just so. He knew there wasn’t anything romantic in what she did. She saved her romance for him, only for him, and he returned the favour. They were just ensconcing these two into the camp, where they would be closely watched. And should danger arise, he knew that Cole, or Varric, or even Iron Bull would alert him to the trouble.

Firstly thus they must be outfitted in armour and overlying layers of cloth. Not his coat. For his coat was what made him a commander. No, perhaps they could be runners? He needed some more. His runners were becoming short of supply.

This damned War. He shook his head, as they trotted off. But his passenger started making gurgling sounds.

“I’m not very good with motion,” the person, Phil? What an odd name; spoke up as a disgusting sound filled the Commander’s ears.

“Maker’s Breath! Please tell me that, that was a figment of my imagination?” Cullen asked, as he turned his head sideways and found a green faced man, with a hand over his mouth. Surely his stomach could not be that weak.

“I’ve got trouble with motion sickness,˜Phil’ said. Just as the Inquisitor cantered alongside him and gave Cullen a quizzical look.

‘Dan’ spoke, “Phil are you okay?”

“No! Motion sick, and I didn’t even bring my pillow, and I.... chunks,” Phil finished lamely.

“We’ll be at camp soon. You can have a lie down,” Dan said.

“I-I hope I can survive the ride,” Phil chuckled nervously.  

Both the Inquisitor and Commander shook their heads at each other. They, all four, arrived at the camp in more or less one piece. Someone took their horses, the Inquisitor went off to do something, and it was up to Cullen to outfit the two in something more proper

“You will want to dress,” Cullen said in what was his ’offhanded manner’.

“What’s wrong with my black jeans and black shirt?” Dan asked.

“For one it’s unnatural, for two, you are shivering,” Cullen looked in askance.

“But black makes him feel safe,” the other spoke up.

“Shhh Phil. If we’re here we might as well blend in,” Dan suggested.

“Ah yes, and you will be free to walk about. Do Not touch anything, or it will be upon your heads,” Cullen advised.

They mutely nodded, and Cullen walked them to the outfitters’ station.

“We need two runners’ uniforms,” Cullen ordered.

“Where did you find these two?” The outfitter was trying not to snicker.

“They were lost, the Inquisitor and I thought it best that they be brought here. However, they need other clothes,” Cullen answered.

“Of course,” The outfitter nodded, and left the three to themselves.

Things were awkward to say the least.

“What do ‘runners’ look like?” Phil wondered.

How should I know? I hope that whatever they’re putting us in, is aesthetically pleasing,” Dan answered.

“Me too. I like to match,” Phil replied as they waited.

“What about my jeans? They’d better not burn them!” Dan was suddenly in panic mode.

“Our jeans!” Phil put a hand over his mouth in shock.

“Maybe we can hide them? Or wear them underneath our new clothes?” Dan was now in planning mode. 

The person came back with flappy looking robes and some armour.

“Oh....No!” Dan said, and shook his head vigorously.

“It can’t be that bad,” Phil said.

“Can’t....be... That...BAD?! Why the hell do you have to be so optimistic?” Dan held the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“I suggest you put the metal shoulder on first, and then fold the robe a bit, and fit it over....You’re the tallest runners we’ve ever had. I do hope you’re fast,” the outfitter said.

“Running?” Phil gulped.

“I am not running....Exercise, is evil!” Dan stated.

“How are we going to run anyway?” Phil asked.

“The best way we know how. Without falling over and dying,” Dan replied.

“How?” Phil asked.

“I don’t know!” Dan sighed. This was not something he was looking forward to at all.

Meantime in the Inquisitor’s tent:

Everyone was milling about. The Inquisitor and Cullen were shooting meaningful glances at each other, and though the whole of them; Josephine, Cassandra, Varric, and Iron Bull knew about them, they were very anxious to know what had happened during their scouting.

“Well?” Cassandra asked, and folded her arms across her chest.

“More fissures have opened,” Trevelyn answered.

“I thought the problem was taken care of?” Cassandra said, and looked between both Cullen and Trevelyn.

“As did I. But apparently not, and two strangers fell through. Though I believe, they are from a different time,” Cullen started pacing.

“Strangers?” Iron Bull was on the alert now, he and Varric exchanged glances.

“Harmless to be sure, but just in case, we’ll have Cole befriend them,” Cullen answered.

“Cole would be excellent. He has a nose for these things. He can read their minds,” Cassandra nodded.  

“Where is he? Cassandra asked.

“He was sniffing about the food carts,” Varric said.

“I am here, though you do not notice me, I still watch. I still observe,” Cole stepped out from the shadows.

“Right. Uh, Cole, we have an important assignment for you. If you will take it,” Trevelyn kindly said.

“Of course, Inquisitor. I have seen those two men you are thinking about . They are odd. Like me. I am glad they are odd,” Cole said unexpectedly, making the Inquisitor smile.

“Just make friends with them,” Cullen said, a bit impatiently.

“I would very much like to be their friend,” Cole answered, and disappeared.

“Well that’s them sorted. I would like to see them,” Iron Bull said, his muscles rippling.

“They assessed my handsomeness,” Cullen sniffed, and looked quite disapproving.

“Well Commander, they are not wrong. You are a fine specimen. It’s a shame I can not hold your affections, nor the Inquisitor’s. Though I have tried,” Iron Bull smirked.

“I am sorry, Bull I prefer...” Trevelyn smiled ever so slightly at Cullen, who returned it with an imperceptible nod, and continued pacing.

“Yes, your preferences have been duly noted,” Bull grinned and was silent. He continued to smirk however.

“You will find them in....” The Inquisitor stilled her voice, as Cole had disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“Are they to be given free rein?” Josephine asked.

“Only so far. Like with Cole. We’ll have to keep an eye on them at all times. We need some new runners,” the Inquisitor spoke up.

“Ahh yes, runners, we’ve been going through a lot of them lately.

“Seems the opposition does not like our meddling,” Cassandra smirked a bit.

“They are efficient,” Trevelyn put in.

“Of course they’re efficient, and they bring and send messages. But can these two be trained in the right way? Will they prove their salt?” Josephine mused.

“If they are trained by the correct people. Varric, The Iron Bull, and I, will train them,” Cullen said.

“But you have got so many under your command, Cullen; is that wise of you?” Varric asked.

“I am the best at my chosen profession,” Cullen answered without preamble.  

“Nobody doubts your proficiency Cullen. Just do not take on more than you can handle,” Trevelyn said, as she began pacing as well.

In the Runner’s Station:

Cole reappeared, but he didn’t let the clothier see him. He sneaked behind some boxes, until he came upon the two out of timers. He looked up at them from under his wide brimmed hat with a metal overlay. He was quiet, he wouldn’t let them see him for a while. He needed to read their thoughts, he needed to say the thoughts out loud.

He was looking forward to helping them. They did need help. This was not their time. Their minds were racing with, ‘computers’, and ˜laptops’, and ‘web cameras’, and something called ‘The Internet’. Whatever ‘phones’ were, and ‘Audience’, ˜Phans’, and ‘Community’.

He was curious. His interest was piqued. He was trying to formulate how to work out the words, and draw their interest, then make them forget.

He smiled at himself, emitting a low chuckle. He made it so that they could see him.

“The fuck?!” Dan jumped, and placed a hand over his heart.

Phil covered his face with his hands and his eyes widened.

“Oh God! Your hat! It’s...” Dan tried to think of something nice to say.

“Your hat is wide brimmed and cloth and metal, and fabulous,” Phil helped.

“Yeah, thanks Phil,” Dan said.

“You’re welcome,” Phil said, and circled Cole.

“Why are you going in circles? Shouldn’t you stand still? Won’t you fall?” Cole asked.

“I don’t feel dizzy,” Phil answered.

“You are an odd one, like me. You’ve got a way with words, making them spiral up and down like a delightful snowfall,” Cole’s eyes sparkled.

“I make poems on accident,” Phil confirmed.  

Cole turned to Dan furrowing his brows,

“And, you, you feel as if you’ve not got a soul. But your soul flickers like a torch; and you are very kind. But you think you are an awful human, but you are not. If you were awful, he would not be your friend. He would have thrown you out of the....What is a ‘flat’? Is it truly flat? Do you stand in a corner? Are you not cold?” Cole started doing his thinking/reading minds thing.

It was what he did.

“May I ask you more questions?” Cole asked almost without preamble, as the two side glanced at each other.

“Of course,” Phil said, a bit too brightly.

“I reckon," Dan was much more cautious, but they had both ‘agreed’ through one of their ‘eye conversations’ that he was allowed. Cole seemed safe.  

“What is the ‘Inter-net’?” Cole made the word into two syllables. ”Also, what are phones? What are Phans? What...” He stopped as they started chuckling.

“Are they jokes?” Cole was thoroughly confused.

“It all depends on how full you think the glass is. Some are jokes, some are serious,” Dan tried to explain.

“But you see the internet....” Phil put a finger to his chin in a thinking pose.

“I see waves of something that will give you a right shock,  and black and white snow,” Cole, suddenly, announced.

“You see waves?” Dan was intrigued.

“The black and white snow is called static,” Phil put in.

“Static? I like that,” Cole nodded, and he smiled a little.

“We have a question,” Dan started.

“Yes?” Cole furrowed his brows.  

“What are runners?” Phil asked.

“And why are they important?” Dan asked right after. 

“Runners carry secret messages back and forth,” Cole said. “And they use ravens,” Cole added.

“Ravens?” Dan asked.

“Probably like Twitter,” Phil answered.

“Twitter?” Cole looked confused again.

“Part of the waves and the black and white snow,” Phil answered, as he and Cole seemed to be on equal, lateral thinking ground.

“Ahhh,” Cole still looked quite confused, but he was trying to understand.

“See we use a thing called ‘Twitter’ that gives you small messages back and forth,” Dan started.

“And it’s got a blue square with a white bird as a mascot,” Phil replied.

“Ahhh, and the bird...One moment..” Cole closed his eyes and nodded. “Ahhh yes, it looks a bit like a raven,” Cole picked up his sentence and looked deep into Dan and Phil’s eyes.

“But these are going to be real live birds that we have to handle, and I don’t think they have latex gloves here Phil!” Dan started getting panicky again.

“Calm down, if I can tame the pigeons at our flat, then I can handle a raven,” Phil said, looking absolutely delighted at the prospect of using a raven.

Dan breathed in and out of his nose, his heart was racing and he felt the flight or fight instinct start kicking in. “I am not going near medieval disease ridden birds!” Dan spluttered out.

“Abidda badda....Shhhhhh....Calm Down!” Phil put a hand towards Dan’s mouth to silence his friend. Dan went cross eyed, and glared at Phil. His eyebrows giving his face a dark look

“Don’t you pout at me. I’m saying if we’re ever separated, and I’m sure we will be, we will be able to still communicate. Using a quill and ink will be horrible. But it’ll be fun! Think of it like an adventure!” Phil looked absolutely giddy.

“You’re so full of fucking joy I could hurl chunks right now!” But even Dan was sort of starting to warm up to the idea.

Cole looked back and forth between the two friends, the arguing was almost, if not, quite as entertaining as when the Commander and the Inquisitor argued. He could tell that though these two were arguing, they were so close that they were not really angry with each other.

“The birds are quite tame,” Cole offered.

“Seeeeee!” Phil gestured.

“Seeeeeeee....What?!” Dan bit out.

“The birds are tame, and we won’t have any trouble tying on the messages to their legs,” Phil answered.

“Oh no, our ravens carry the messages between their beaks,” Cole spoke again.

“I’ll get bit, but I’ll learn,” Phil nodded.

“I’m not getting bit by diseased medieval birds!” Dan yelped out again.

“They are gentled, they will not bite,” Cole tried to assuage the youngling’s fear, and patted Dan’s shoulder, a bit roughly, for Dan lurched forward.

[dragonagethistle]

Holt Shit - Have some more

(I’m pretty sure I’m just gonna name this fic Holy Shit cause I am not creative).

(Reposting the first bit but I promise there is new stuff now!)

I let out a groan in response to the loud knocking on my front door. I literally just sat down. My chamomile tea is still steaming in my hands. It’s not even cooled off enough for me to drink. And some asshole is knocking on my door at 1930 on a work night. Fuck. I swear to god, if this is that creep Kent, I’m bashing his face in.

    I glance at the baseball bat leaning up against the boxes still littering my new living room. Do I even want to open the door? If any of my coworkers found my address somehow, they better be understanding that I’m still unpacking. I’ve only been in this state for a week. Another knock interrupts my internal ranting. One single,quiet knock. Almost as if the owner of the offending hand doubted their decision the moment before the knuckles connected with the door.

    “I’m coming,” I groan as I lift myself off my couch. I place my tea on the worn coffee table before me and grumble, much quieter: “Whoever this is better not fucking mind that I’m in pajamas. Fuck this.”

    I open the door and find myself facing a large chest covered in maroon fabric. Wool, maybe? I look up and for a second my brain stops working. Curly blond hair, a strong jawline, brown eyes so light they’re almost gold and… I know that scar.

    I know I’m staring at this poor man’s confused face and being completely unhelpful, but this can’t be real. I’m trying to rationalize this. Sure, I had a shot of whisky after work. Maybe 2. Or was it 3? Fuck, I always was such a lightweight, I really only needed one. But you can’t hallucinate just by being drunk, right? So then.

    How the fuck is Cullen Rutherford standing in my doorway looking at me like a lost puppy?

---

    Cullen stares at the woman before him perplexed. He tries to keep the frown off his face as he feels his hair dripping down onto his forehead. She isn’t familiar to him, but he thinks he recognizes the faintest glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

    They stare at each other in a tense silence as Cullen tries to make sense of how he’s ended up here, on the doorstep of a strange woman in an even stranger land. He had woken up in the woods and that in and of itself was normal enough. What was alarming was that he had not woken in his own clothes. Instead he had been covered by a deep, maroon, wool sweater with a softer material cushioning his skin from the itchy wool.

    The sweater wasn’t too strange, but the fabric covering his legs was completely foreign to him. Dark blue with white threads weaving through it, slightly sturdy and stiff, like new leather. The trousers may have been strange, but they at least had deep pockets. He had found a set of boots laying beside him underneath a plain canvas. As sleep left him, he realized the canvas was the only thing keeping him relatively safe from the steady rain above. Or rather, the canvas kept his front dry. His back, which he had been laying on, had been thoroughly soaked by the wet ground, despite what felt like a fairly thick bedroll.

    Great, Cullen had grumbled internally. Why in Andraste’s name am I camped on the Storm Coast? He didn’t feel hungover, but he had no memory of how he came to be laying on the forest ground, seemingly alone in strange clothing. He sat up slowly reaching for the unfamiliar boots and with a jolt realized he was also missing his armor and sword.

    Cullen’s fingers worked slowly at the cord lacing his boots as his mind raced. Perhaps he was still in the Fade and this was all a dream. But it would do him no good to remain on the damp ground pondering his situation, and so he rolled the slightly damp bedroll and took down the canvas, grimacing at the steady mist falling around him. A large pack had also been under the canvas, with straps hanging from it that conveniently tied around the girth of his bedroll. He opened the pack to find no answers - only two apples and some clothes similar to the ones he already wore.

    Just as Cullen finished fastening the canvas onto his pack and settled it across his shoulders, a roaring noise from above had alerted him. He dropped into a crouch and looked up searching for the source of the noise and spotted a strange shape floating through the clouds through the tree. At first he had thought it was a bird, but his confusion grew when he saw that the wings were not moving. The thing simply glided through the air, albeit quite loudly as it passed over his head.

    He shook his head and began to walk. He didn’t know what drove him, but he felt as if he were being pulled along an unseen path. As he observed his surroundings however, he became steadily less sure that he was on the Storm Coast. The trees surrounding him were pines, and the ground certainly was far from flat, but none of the large grey stones that littered the coast appeared here and he never came close to falling off a perilously high cliff. Everything was just vibrant and green.

    Cullen wasn’t sure how long he had walked before he became aware of the sounds of the forest giving way to something… else. The trees thinned and gave way to what looked like a large path, but black. And hard. He was beginning to feel tired though, and had already finished one of the apples laying in his pack. And the invisible urge pulling him along was persistent. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should be shocked by all of the alien sights assaulting him as he walked on.

    He walked past buildings larger than castles, made of glass and reaching up into the skies as if they wished to touch the Maker himself. He walked past rapidly moving metal boxes. He walked past the lights and the people and past each enticing smell coming from brightly lit and oddly shaped buildings.

    Until he found her.

    At first he worried that whatever persistent urging was guiding him had misled him when no one answered his knock. Just as he had thought to turn back - but where do I go - the door had opened and there she stood, as unfamiliar as the rest of this strange place.

    Cullen found himself taking her in as her expression changed from frustration to that gleam of recognition and overall confusion. She was shorter than him, but tall for most women. She wore loose fitting garments - black trousers with a strange blue text on one leg - what is a “Ravenclaw?” - and an obviously well worn and faded gray shirt hanging slightly off one shoulder. There might have been text on it at one point but it was too faded to make out now.

    The sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and Cullen noted with alarm the mark she bore on her left wrist. A tattoo, perhaps? But not the traditional tattoos of the Dalish, the dwarves, or even some human nobles. No, this was a small paw print, perhaps belonging to a cat, with swirling colors inside. Her pale skin made for a stark contrast of the mark, and her hair. It couldn’t be natural, the way it glowed red. A deep red that reminded Cullen of fading embers. Finally he settled on her eyes - large and deep set and an appealing shade of gray-green. He let out an awkward cough at the eye contact and she blinked, as if waking from a trance.

    She spoke first.

    “Can I help you?”

    “Ah… I am not sure, miss…?”

    “Farrada,” she gave her name without a hint of hesitation.  He felt a smile crawl across his features, tugging his scar slightly.

    “I am Cullen, and I’m afraid I don’t know why I’m here,” he surprised himself with his plain honesty and blushed.

    “Well, I did just make some tea,” Farrada said quietly. She stepped aside and opened the door a bit more. “And the way you look, you might just be seeking the nearest source of warmth.”

    Farrada smiled at him warmly and he took a step back in surprise. “You would let a stranger in your home?”

    She shrugged. “I know your name, you know mine. We are not strangers,” her smile grew wider as she stepped back, allowing him space to enter without invading hers. “And I can tell from here that you are soaking wet, Curly. You could use a towel and a hot cuppa.”

    Cullen’s eyes widen at her use of Varric’s nickname for him before he remembers that he has been hiking in the rain all day. Of course his hair would be curly. It must be coincidence.

    “If you are sure I wouldn’t be imposing…” And he steps past the threshold and into the warmth of Farrada’s home.

[griffinsanddragons]

Unexpected Developments [Part Two]

Hawke recruits Isabela to help her tie a few ‘loose ends.’  

Read: Part One on Tumblr!

Also on AO3!

I finally came through and wrote the thing. We’re following Isabela and we love her so happy readings!

Something was different; Isabela knew the moment Hawke entered the room.   She hadn’t seen much of her since the expedition. Aveline delivered the bad news about Bethany and Hawke needed space to grieve. Merrill, Varric, Anders, and everyone else who’d seen her, spoke about Hawke anxiously. She’d been quiet, they said, distant, angry–though she wouldn’t admit it–and there was a sad, faraway look in her eye that made her seem small. But today, her presence resounded off the Hanged Man’s drafty walls, amassing the attention of every crook, con, bandit, low-life, mercenary and thief she passed by. Hawke–who made a name for herself working for Athenril in the criminal underground, survived the Deep Roads, and got rich–was back. And it would have been normal, Isabela thought, had she had something to come back for. 

[Read More]

“Isabela!”  Hawke greeted her with a wide, excited grin and ordered a drink, the Hanged Man’s finest–though it really wasn’t much. She seemed to be in good spirits today–or rather good enough–nodding and listening to her prattle on about the Rivani Merchant Council Ship she saw at the harbor that morning, (“I’d bet my ass the poor thing’s heading back to Dairsmuid to escort some Merchant Prince selling tea or something–what a waste,”) listening with varying degrees of interest, her eye’s a little wider than they needed to be. “You’re looking perky today. What’s got you better? Have you found someone who’ll…curl your toes in Hightown?” Isabela leaned forward, her movements slow and languid as she slouched into a comfortable position in her seat, “Is it someone I know?” “No!” Hawke asserted, now stiff as well as upright in her chair, “I’m not–I’m not looking for a partner, Isabela!” “Who said anything about a partner?” A large, mischievous grin pulled at the tops of her sparsely freckled cheeks, “I’m talking about a good old-fashioned rub down. That’s what you need. I know a girl, and a fellow if you’d prefer-” “I do not.” She cut her off. Hawke spoke in a stern, affronted voice reminiscent of a Noble in a crooked wig; Between the smuggling, fighting, sarcasm, killing and mercenary work they’ve done together, Isabela nearly forgot that she’d been raised by a parent of righteous, noble birth–the type of Mother who’d encouraged the children to shy away from such ‘improper matters in polite company,’ use the right forks and never threaten the houseguests (unless it was necessary.) Her reaction reminded her of Bethany.

Though that was a topic Isabela couldn’t breach. Even now, as she watched Hawke swirl and nurse her drink, she could see the toll of her grief; The days have not been kind.

She should probably say something. Everyone had said something, everyone but her.

But it wasn’t for a lack of trying. She did, on more than one occasion, try to find a way to tell Hawke she was sorry for what happened to her sister, but her efforts only got as far as the door. She considered climbing in through the window and shouting ‘surprise!’  but whatever ill-conceived speech she came up with could never compare to the real support Hawke already received. She couldn’t be that type of friend–but that didn’t seem to matter, not to Hawke; they picked right up where they left off: giggling over drinks at the Hanged Man as the drunkards sang and tried to play a broken lute. “Alright, alright, no need to twist your knickers. What’s really got you so excited?” “Aveline–” Hawke spoke as though she suddenly remembered what had been on her mind, “I saw her today and she reminded me of something I have to do.” Isabela rolled her eyes and took the last of her drink, desperately hoping she wouldn’t regret the end of the story. “What’s our ‘Captain’ got you doing for her now? Let me guess, disrupting more fine business practices?” “Not exactly. She told me I needed to find a way to take my mind off…well, you know.” she took a letter from the pocket of her leggings and slid it Isabela’s way.

It didn’t say much, there wasn’t even a sender, but there was a list of names–of Templars who were responsible for taking Bethany away.

She recognized one of them–Cullen–but the others were a mystery. “After she accused me of murder, I figured I’d do some investigating of my own.” “What’re the slashes for?” Those were recent additions–fat black lines unevenly smudged as though a left-handed person dragged their hand across the page as they made them. There were only so many left-handed people in the world and there was ink smudged against the knuckle of Hawke’s little finger. “Oh that mean’s they’re dead,” she shrugged. “The guards found them at the docks.” “Well, there are worse places to go.” Isabela peered into her empty cup, watching the last of the droplets race like rain against the window. “They could have been found in Hightown–now that would cause a stir.” “My thoughts exactly.” Hawke smiled at Isabela, her eyes growing larger and even more disquieting. “And as much as I appreciate it, I don’t know who sent me this–or why. But if they’re murdering people to get my attention, I should see what they want.” “It could be a trap.” Or any number of things. Hawke was a well-known woman with both friends and enemies–and this ‘friend’ could be either one with ease. “It could be. I asked Varric to investigate but the trail went cold, he’s been pouring all he has into searching for Bartrand.” She passed Isabela her unfinished drink. “But he was able to tell me one thing: one of these men, the dead one, was a patron at the  Blooming Rose. And if I’m lucky, my ‘friend’ might have paid them a visit as well.” “And if he has?” Isabela leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her interest piquing at the meat of the story. “I can tie up a few…loose ends.” Hawke had a way of masking her intent with words that were only slightly threatening and Isabela liked that type of honesty. “Will you help me?” “Well, “ She pretended to think, “you did promise to keep that last relic mishap to yourself, so…” She agreed.

They followed the infamous maze of twisting streets to the long turning stairs that lead to Hightown. By the time they reached their destination, her muscles were wound and taut from exertion. She cursed. “Damn.” Isabela never cared much for Hightown; The buildings there were different than anywhere else in Kirkwall: bigger, cleaner, more pristine–each clamoring for the attention of wealthy nobles and foreign merchants; and utterly lacking in character. Girls dressed in fine silk and patterned lace greeted them outside. It was the sweet smells and the lulling song of a Harp, however, that drew the crowds inside. “Ah, the blooming rose.” Isabela sighed, perking at the sight of half naked courtesans lounging on the couches and chairs. The air inside was sticky with the scent of sweat, sex, and contrasting perfumes, but no one seemed to care or even notice the overbearing menagerie. “Where people come…and then go.” Hawke chuckled at her innuendo. “Make yourself scarce,” she whispered as she approached the counter to Distract Madam Lusine who, judging by the look of recognition in her eye, was torn between the knowledge of Hawke’s rise to nobility (and the coin she undoubtedly had,) and sour thoughts of their last meeting. “Ah, Serah Hawke.” Lusine greeted, brushing her graying curls behind her back. “Lovely to see you again.” While her back was turned, Isabela leaped behind the counter with little more than a low thud to mark her presence and slid the hefty book into her arms. The dark skin of her thighs flushed red against the cold, grainy stone as she sat and skimmed the book for names, dates, payments and appointments. “Have you come to buy, or are you merely wasting time?” She could hear the conversation going south ( as Hawke’s charms could only take her so far.) Quickly, Isabela flipped the next two pages and finally the found the man listed in the letter. He’d been seeing a woman called ‘Sunny’–and quite frequently, it seemed. Isabela slid the book back in its place and popped to Hawke’s side in an instant, slipping her arm around her friend with a wink. “We’re here to see Sunny,” Isabela purred, the woman’s name rolling off her tongue like a wave on the open sea. “Oh. Mistress Isabela. I wasn’t aware the two of you were…together.” Lusine threw the pair a sideways glance. “Either way, Sunny isn’t here–haven’t seen the girl in days.” “And you wouldnt happen to know where she is, would you?” Hawke asked. “I don’t make a habit of telling a client’s my worker’s personal lives, for obvious reasons. So if you need to see Sunny, I suggest you come back another day.” She spoke with the hard conviction of a woman determined to take the final word. “Now I do have other customers, so will that be all?” “That’ll be all.” Isabela nodded, cutting in before Hawke could speak and pulled her toward the exit. “I can make her talk,” Hawke affirmed, glaring back at Lusine with narrowed eyes. “Everyone has a price.” “I know you can, Sweetness, but I like this place. We’ll find Sunny…somehow.” She knew for a fact that Lusine didn’t respond well to bribery, and Hawke’s insistence would only get her banned. But as the two approached the door to leave, a young woman called out. “Wait!” She was tall, carved like the figurehead of a merchant ship, and smelt like a field of Lavender. “Hello,” Isabela greeted, her voice low and sultry. “I heard you asking about Sunny. Do you know her?” “We’re investigating something,” Hawke began, “–for the guard.” “You don’t look like guardsmen.” “That’s because we’re not. We do the real work.” Isabela boasted, turning toward Hawke who returned the look with a simple nod. “Really?” She seemed impressed, “But you do work for the guard? I’ve seen you with the Captain before.” “She’s the reason we’re here.” Hawke didn’t lie, or at least not usually, but she did have a habit of stretching the truth to suit her fancies. Despite that, the Lavender Woman’s face brightened. “Good.” “So what’s this about Sunny? Do you know her?” “She’s my friend.” The Lavender Woman began, “I’ve been worried about her. Ever since she learned one of her clients was…murdered.” She whispered the word like a dirty phrase in the middle of the night. “The…Templar?” Hawke shifted her weight to the side. “That’s the one. She hasn’t been the same.” “Why?” Isabela cut in, “He’s just a client–or did she know him well?” “I don’t know about that–but…someone else came around asking questions about him. Someone they call ‘Dirty Fingers,’ and she gave him his name and then a few weeks later…he was dead. I told her not to blame herself, but she thinks it’s her fault.” “They call him ‘Dirty Fingers?’” Isabela stifled a tittering laugh. “And this man this…um, ’Dirty Fingers,’ do you know who he is? Where he might be?” “…If I tell you, will you try to find something that proves Sunny is innocent?” The Lavender Woman spoke quietly, taking a step forward as though to solidify their deal. “I’m sure we can make that arrangement.” “I hear he operates out of Lowtown, in the big foundry at night. Sunny’s client was found nearby.” And that’s where they found the other one too. They were on the right track.

Isabela took off to visit Fenris but agreed to meet Hawke in Lowtown that night, and when she did, she was greeted by a familiar sight. “Do you really need all that?” She asked, taking in the sight of Hawke in her shiny metal armor–just like old times. When they met, Hawke’s hair had been shorter, and straighter in a way that suggested the pulling of curls but little else about her changed; Isabela thought she’d be too busy, too wealthy, too different to get her hands dirty or join the thick of a fight. But despite her social standing, Hawke remained the same. “Only if Dirty Fingers wants to fight.” She spoke with easy amusement, carefree as though this was little more than a game and lead the way to the dock, her eyes trained forward, focused on her their target. The silhouette of the Lowtown Foundry stood high above the other buildings, it’s burnt, pungent, nauseating smell striking all who dared to wander nearby. No one but the desperate or workers ‘too good’ for the mines were bold enough to venture there. And if the smell wasn’t enough to deter curiosity, the rats surely were: large, feral creatures with sharp curling claws and yellow teeth–the worst kind, in Isabela’s seafaring opinion. She sighed and tilted her head back to gaze at the high stone tower of what used to be a mighty fortress in the Tevinter days. “So this is where your ‘secret admirer’ lives?” She squinted. “No worse than Darktown I suppose. At least there’s a view of the sky.” The wind picked up, hoisting the waves and lavishing her cheeks with salt spray. She should have grabbed a warmer tunic. The Foundry was mostly empty and surprisingly clean. Four cheaply dressed henchmen staggered around inside, laughing and drinking. It wasn’t until Hawke cleared her throat that they noticed them and hastily scrambled to take arms but Isabela was prepared.  Her daggers found her palms as easy as the bones in her fingers and she passed through the world like a ghost, the presence of her blades more felt than seen as she sunk back into the shadows and struck the Henchman down. Hawke had a more direct approach when dealing with hostile enemies–hack, slash, shield bash–but both proved to be sufficient. The henchmen fell to the ground, grunting and groaning in what could easily pass as an old Orlesian symphony. “Well, that was lovely.” Hawke flung the blood from her blade as she stepped around a writhing body. “I didn’t expect there to be guards. Where do you think they get these guys?” “I haven’t a clue.” They followed a path that twisted between four large vats, leading to a propped open door. The room was small and smelt like rum and unwashed bodies. Four henchmen, each less sober than the last, fell over themselves to defend their station but to no avail.  Isabela merely shut the door in front of them. “Kill the intruders!” Someone yelled from the stairwell and more henchman appeared, some stumbling but other coherent as they fought. Victory came easy but Isabela was injured in the fight, grazed by a dagger on her arm and across the leg–but the other guy had it worse. Still, she hissed at the hot sting of pain and scowled at the blood flowing like streams across her skin. That wouldn’t look pretty in the morning. “Catch,” Hawke tossed her a potion to drink, the last one in her pouch. “Save it. It’s just a few scratches–nothing a trip to Darktown can’t fix.” If she even needed that. She’d been in far worse duels with far fewer resources in the past, she’d survive. “I’m wearing armor,” Hawke gestured at herself and the heavy metal plates that covered her tall frame. “And you know there are more of them up there…somewhere.” She almost sighed at the thought of more drunken henchmen hiding in the dark but headed toward the stairs regardless, calling back to Isabela to follow or risk being left behind. Still, she hesitated. Gazing up at Hawke before looking at the potion she tossed her way. She sighed, exhaling a warm, tired breath that showed her exhaustion. She took a quick sip of the potion and dried her mouth against her glove before following, the pain from her injuries began to numb so she’d save the rest for something important. A few more henchman straggled behind and others pretended to be dead. Isabela picked the lock of the room they should have been guarding and a man stood in the center to greet them. He jumped but managed to steel himself quickly,  even as Hawke lined the tip of her sword to his neck. “You might want to consider hiring new help. That whole ‘kill the intruders’ thing didn’t exactly work out. I mean…we’re here,” she said in a sweet sounding voice, though the danger behind her lighthearted words was clear. “You’re ‘Dirty Fingers,’ I presume?” He didn’t look like a hardened criminal, though the best never did; he was paler than he should be, shaking, and his arms were just a bit too long for his body. “You seem unwell.” “What do you want?” He hissed. “We aren’t here for the ambiance if that’s what you think.” She let out a humorless laugh. “We’re only here for Information. That’s what you do right? You trade in information?” 

“I do many things–none of them for free.” “Clever man.” Isabela could appreciate that business model though Hawke didn’t seem to agree. “I’m not paying you.” She said starkly. “Then I’m not talking!” “Oh, I think you’ll want to make an exception for us.” “And why is that?” “Because you seem like a smart man, and smart men usually understand what it means when someone holds a sword to their throat–or maybe I misjudged you,” Hawke spoke to him in the tone of a disappointed mother. “It wouldn’t be the first time I made a mistake; sometimes I need to take off an ear, or a few fingers before they really get the message.” Isabela didn’t need to look to see the deceitful smile spread across Hawke’s face to know what she wanted to do. “You threatening me? You don’t got it in y-” He was caught off guard by an unexpected stabbing. Blood dribbled out from the front of his shirt in a perfectly cut line. Hawke’s actions were smooth and precise, like dealing hands in a card game or–considering Hawke was a somewhat clumsy dealer–carving a Wintersend Turkey.

Dirty Fingers heaved and yelled and shouted, failing to bite back the pain. “Well, what do you know? It looks like I did have it in me! Though I’m more interested in seeing what you’ve got inside you.” Dirty Fingers looked up at Hawke as though he was seeing her for the first time. “Do you want to find out too?” “There’s something not right with you.” He accused, his voice rough and angry as he crouched down to his knees. “And you’re a rude, pathetic man determined to die for a secret that isn’t really his to keep–but keep talking, I’m sure insulting me is the way to get out of this.” “To the void with you!” “Well that wasn’t nice,” Isabela put in, and Hawke agreed. “Would you mind guarding the door while I talk to our friend? I’d hate to be interrupted.” “You get to have all the fun.” She crossed her arms but ultimately agreed, turning around to guard the door in case the henchmen sobered up or stopped playing dead. “Don’t worry, It’ll only take a moment.” Isabela shook her head, looking up in amusement at Hawke’s antics. That poor man. She heard him yelling, but preferred not to get in the way of Hawke’s interrogation. It wasn’t until his blood ran down the cracks in the stone flooring that Hawke called her back inside. “He said he’ll talk to us!” When she returned, DirtyFingers was laying on the ground on his side, reaching out his hand in a plead for mercy. Isabela couldn’t see his face, but she knew she didn’t want to. “He really isn’t well, but ‘Dirty Fingers’ finally has something to say. Isn’t that right?” “What do you want to know?” His words were a groan that slurred together, but it was easy to infer what it was he was saying. “You received information from a girl named ‘Sunny.’ A name. What did you do with it?” “Sold it.” “To?” A long silence drew between them, and Hawke glared down at the man bleeding out on the floor before aiming her sword and yelling. “To who!?” “Don’t know” Dirty Fingers confessed, heaving heavily as he breathed. “I don’t like being trifled with.” Her voice lowered, darkening as she spoke. “I thought you’d learned that by now– You sent someone to my home and I don’t like that. So if you don’t tell me who, I’ll make it so you’ll never speak again–Do you understand me?” Isabela’s eye’s widened in surprise at her tone, one she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard her take. 

Something in the room had shifted, a subtle feeling Isabela learned while sailing the stormy seas: Fear, despair, and the abandonment of hope–the dreaded realization her crew, or in this case Dirty Fingers, felt when they knew they wouldn’t survive until morning. “Don’t know his name! But I know his face.” “What does he look like?” “He was tall, good-looking, reclusive…he had, uh,  the look of a mage. Ferelden …I’d guess.” “ ‘The look of a mage?’ ” “The robes.” She seemed conflicted, as though she needed a moment to think. A tall, handsome, reclusive mage–she let the thought marinate. “….what color was his hair?” “What?” “His hair!” She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and flipped him to his back, exposing every bruise and cut for Isabela to see. “I won’t ask you again.” He bit his lip, tears ran down his narrow face and he might have even wet himself so the words came out rough and shaky. “It was dark!  Black as night. Eye’s too! He had a mark, like a, like a birthmark on his cheek!” Hawke took a moment to breathe, shutting her eyes and exhaling as she stood upright. “And what did he need it for? What’s his plan?” “Don’t know. Don’t ask. Please.” He sputtered. Hawke glared at him once more. “I really don’t think he knows.” Isabela folded her arms. Hawke had beaten every last piece of information from him and more. Dirty Fingers had no reason to lie. Hawke looked at Isabela, then back to the man laying on the ground and seemed to resign to something. ‘Alright,’ she thought she heard Hawke whisper as she looked down at her sword. “…well,”  she wiped the long blade clean with a handkerchief she kept in her potions pouch and dropped it on his face. “It was a pleasure doing business, Dirty Fingers. Let’s not cross paths again.” If he were lucky, he’d pick up whatever pride he had, drag himself to the docks and make his way to a city far from Kirkwall to make a living serving drinks at a tavern if he didn’t bleed out his injuries before the end of the night–but Isabela doubted he’d be lucky. Dirty Fingers was a loose end, and Hawke liked those tied.

Outside was cold and dark, the stench of the Foundry still permeated through the air but the scent of the salt in the sea felt fresh and clean near the harbor. “So…where are we going now? How do we find our Elusive Mage?” “…Anders told me he’s been working with- well, that he knows a lot of mages here. It’s a stretch, but maybe he knows our mystery man.” She spoke in a low, pensive tone, her luminous brown skin glowing in the silver moonlight. Whatever happened to her back there, she seemed to be calm and over it already. “Hawke?” She should say something. What would Aveline say? Something… something… responsibility? “Hmm?” “I…nevermind. And then what?” “We find out what business he has with me.” And tie up those loose ends. As they walked, a man staggered toward them. Large, stauch and seemingly down on his luck, he turned into an alley and stayed there, his presence ignored by those around him. “Right. So, to Darktown then?” “To Darktown.”

[patricianandclerk]

Insomnia

No matter how late the hour, there are those at Skyhold still awake.

Night after night, Vivienne is one of the last awake.

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1.

The Iron Bull was silhouetted against the silvery grey sky, which was streaked with meandering cloud, only a handful of stars peeking through. He was leaning on one of the crenulations of the tower, a great big shadow, and Vivienne could see the tell-tale streak of tobacco smoke rising over his head, twining about his horns. Here, in the dead of night, she was rather comforted to know she wasn’t the only of their more important people awake.

“The Iron Bull?” Vivienne asked.

Bull leapt a foot into the air, turning to face her, the cigar dropping to hide behind his thigh.

“Ma’am,” Bull said, his gaze flickering past her. “Er—”

“At ease, darling,” Vivienne murmured. “I was under the impression that young Cremisius had put a stop to the cigars.”

“Er, yeah,” Bull said as Vivienne stepped forwards, her lips quirking into a small smile. She put out her hand, and with a sheepish smile Bull handed out the cigar, looking at her with wonder in his eye as she brought it to her mouth and took a delicate draw. It was spectacularly spiced, and she exhaled slowly, savouring it. “I’m only meant to have ‘em after a good victory.”

“Then why, pray, are you smoking alone on the ramparts?”

Bull’s expression was affectionate as he took the cigar back, and he sighed, glancing at the orange glow of the cigar’s end. Vivienne watched the way he inhaled, moving to stand beside him against the wall, looking out over Skyhold. Only a few candles were still lit all about the fortress, and she could see the little orange glows of tents and bedrooms, scarcely half a dozen of them. Even as she watched, one was blown out.

“Can’t sleep,” Bull said, shrugging his mighty shoulders.

“No,” Vivienne murmured. “Nor can I.”

Bull offered her the cigar again, but she politely shook her head.

“Is there a reason you can’t sleep?” Vivienne asked. “Missing our pride of Tevinter?”

“Yeah,” Bull said. “I guess. Normally, I’d be in a tent with one of the Chargers all the time, but I’m up in that room over the tavern. It’s too quiet. I can hear the tavern downstairs, but nothing in the room with me, you know? Always slept better with someone else on the bed next to me. S’not like we sleep together every night, when he’s not out in the field, just… I don’t know. If he’s here, I know he’s okay.”

“Yes,” Vivienne said softly. There was a tired ache in her chest, and at her eyes she felt the dry heaviness of fatigue, the want to go to bed, but knowing that if she laid herself down, she would only be forced to lie there in the darkness, not able to tip into the Fade. “I’m the same, darling, you’re hardly alone.”

“Can I do anything for you, Ma’am?”

“No,” Vivienne said. “Let’s just sit here for a moment. And then you might walk me back to my quarters.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the Bull said obediently, but not without feeling. “Can do. What’s it like? Dreaming, like you guys do?”

“I wouldn’t begin to know how to explain,” Vivienne said.

“Nah,” Bull murmured. “Guess not.”

2.

It was some time past two.

Vivienne gracefully descended the stairs from the upstairs quarters, making her way down to the main hall, and at a sound in the corridor, she turned her head.

“Madame de Fer!” said Solas, stepping toward her. “Might I ask your assistance for a moment?”

Vivienne arched an eyebrow. Solas seemed exerted, his cheeks slightly flushed, and he saw the haughty amusement in her face.

“Very well,” he said sharply, irritated. “I will—”

“I didn’t say no, darling,” Vivienne said, not bothering to keep the condescension from his voice. “If you’re truly so desperate for my assistance, I am happy to lend a hand.”

Solas hesitated, scowling, but then he led the way down the corridor, and Vivienne saw one of the serving girls, young Shani, laid out on the chaise long, a cold sweat plain on her face, hunched over slightly. She was clutching at her ankle, which was bent at a wrong angle, and Vivienne let out a low sound of disapproval, glancing to the doorway of the servants’ stair, where she’d plainly slipped on the stone.

“Madame de Fer is going to hold your hand,” Solas said gently.

“Really?” Vivienne demanded. “Is that truly what you—”

“Unless you wish to set her bone in place,” Solas said, and Vivienne swept past him, moving to sit beside Shani. She was a clever girl, Vivienne knew, intelligent in a way a lot of the servants weren’t, but with that curious quiet a lot of elves had. Shani never made eye contact with humans, Vivienne included, and she voiced no irritation when Shani lowered her gaze, staring at her own knees instead of Vivienne herself. A silly little phobia, really, one that she ought get over, but…

Shani’s hand was warm in Vivienne’s, and Vivienne could feel her shaking.

“This won’t hurt,” Solas said delicately, lifting her skirt only to the knee and folding it delicately over, not baring any more of her skin than he had to, than was proper. It was strange – a lot of the servants rather loved Solas, the elves, anyway. Vivienne had no doubt several of them had tried to charm their way into his bed before, but Solas, by all accounts, was content to remain alone.

Vivienne watched the blue-green glow of his palms as he drew magic into them, and no matter his chaos on the battlefield, Vivienne knew that he excelled at restoration magic, was always happy to watch a master at work, no matter how badly dressed and ridiculous he might be.

Shani squeezed Vivienne’s hand very tightly, gasping as the glow settled into her leg, but then she relaxed, and Solas reached up, gently touching the girl’s forehead, drawing a little of her fringe back. He was almost paternal with her – with a great many of the elves.

“There,” Solas said gently. “All fixed. Go straight to your bed, lethallan. You need to rest.”

“Thank you,” Shani said. “Lethallin. Madame de Fer.”

She moved on shaking feet, and Vivienne watched Solas as he rubbed his fingers against one another, soothing them of the excess magic that crackled on the skin.

“What is it, Solas, that that means? Lethallin? Isn’t that what you call the Inquisitor?”

“Friend.”

“The servants call you friend?”

Solas’ expression was so dark as to wither, his lip almost curling, and then his expression was schooled into one of cold neutrality, and he turned his face away.

“My thanks for your assistance,” he said without emotion.

“Curious that you should ask me,” Vivienne murmured. “When you have so little respect for me. To trust me to hold your friend’s hand.”

“I do not lack respect for you,” Solas said. “I loathe much of that which you say, Madame de Fer, and disagree with you on a variety of points, but that is not to say I do not respect you. You are strong, you stand by that which you believe in, and in your own way, you care for those beneath your charge. You are not so selfish as you might appear, at first glance. This is something to be admired.”

Vivienne was, to her frustration, rather caught off guard.

“You do surprise me, Solas,” Vivienne murmured, and Solas shrugged his shoulders, moving past her. He smelled faintly of samphire, and she wondered if it was a real scent, or merely a Fade-ghost clinging to his clothes.

3.

“Madame de Fer,” said the ambassador softly, reaching up and rubbing sleepily at her eye, and Vivienne couldn’t help but find it rather sweet, how plainly sleepy she was, how tired. She had a mug of cocoa in her lap, held loosely in the other hand. “You cannot sleep?”

“It’s of no consequence,” Vivienne said mildly, passing the ambassador by and moving further into the great hall, where Dorian was silhouetted against the open doors. He was leaning on the frame, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, and she moved slowly toward him.

“My dear Vivienne,” he said softly, turning to meet her gaze. “You’re still dressed – have you not yet laid yourself down to bed?”

“It’s been a long night, my darling man,” Vivienne said, delicately shrugging her shoulders. “I’m hardly the only one in this castle to have weathered a sleepless night. What is it that keeps you awake?”

“Oh, you know,” Dorian said, waving a handsome, well-manicured hand. “Homesickness, that’s all. You’ve never been to Tevinter, have you?”

“No,” Vivienne murmured. “Won’t you tell me?”

“In Minrathous…” Dorian sighed, his eyes fluttering closed, and Vivienne looked at the kohl he painted on his eyes every morning, all the better to bat his eyelashes at any strapping man he saw. “The buildings are so incredibly tall that you feel you are looking up to the sky itself when you walk amidst them, their spires shining gold on moonlit nights. The stone shimmers, and that stone is so ancient, but so too are the cobbles under your feet, laid brick by brick a thousand years before your most distant forefather even drew in a breath. And the magic in the air, oh, Vivienne, it paints every colour of the Fade upon the sky itself, so that sometimes you can hardly tell if you’re waking or dreaming.”

Dorian opened his eyes, staring down the steps at the grass before the hall, his lips twisted in a small frown. “But there are the slaves, of course. Sometimes, blood flows in the gutters. The screams—” He inhales. “I want to go home. And yet, now I’ve left, I know I will never see it the way I once did. The home I knew is gone from me now – the scales have been lifted from my eyes.”

Vivienne was silent, and Dorian shook his head.

“My apologies. The long night has left me maudlin. Good night, Madame de Fer.”

“You’re going to your bed?”

“My bed?” Dorian repeated, and he laughed. “Maker, no. I’ll work myself to exhaustion in somebody else’s.”

She watched him walk across the yard, with purpose, toward the Herald’s Rest.

She wondered if it had occurred to him that she might miss home too, and then dismissed the thought as idle nonsense.

4.

“Hey, Iron Lady,” Varric said quietly, looking up from his writing desk. “Do you ever sleep? Servants say you’re pacing around at all hours.”

“When the mood takes me,” Vivienne said, smiling coquettishly. She was far too old to be a coquette now, of course, but that didn’t matter with Varric – he smiled right back, and she saw the fatigue in his eyes, just like hers. “Do you miss your darling, Varric, when you’re with us at Skyhold?”

It was the sort of question one could never ask, if one was playing the Game. It was too revealing, too obvious, too plain, but Varric did not needle at the point, because he did not play the Game himself. He merely narrated from the sidelines, and found himself content in that – but she knew already, from the soft-voiced tales of Kirkwall he told by the fireside, that he did not write everything down.

“You mean Bianca,” Varric said, “or Hawke?”

How kind of him, to respond to a question painfully revealing, earnestly asked, in precisely the same vein.

The two of them stood in the silence, looking at one another, and Vivienne wondered at the narrative charm he no doubt found it, that the two of them should be kindred spirits, a powerful mage, an important player of the Great Game, and a charming dwarf, a writer of tales, a charmer of all he meets.

"You want me to walk you back to your room?" Varric asked. “I’ll tell you a bedtime story, if you want. Funny, dirty, sad – I got all kinds to put you to sleep.”

Vivienne felt herself laugh. It was a quiet noise, but it sounded loud in the room.

“Thank you, darling, but I think I’ll be alright. You keep your tales for your readers.”

“G’night, Viv,” Varric murmured. “My door’s open, if you need me.”

Vivienne turned on her heels to make her way down the corridor.

5.

She’d been tossing and turning for hours now. The bed felt too light and too empty, too cold to lie alone in, and she sighed hard, staring up at the ceiling.

“Still remember the sound of his breathing,” said the quiet voice next to her, and she looked at Cole on the corner of her bed, cross-legged in its bare feet, wearing its hat and looking rather like a very sad, unlit lamp. “It used to be so strong, so even, and the feeling of his body in the bed, strong, safe, not about sex, but about love.”

“And what would you know about love, demon?” Vivienne asked, archly.

“We’re going to Val Royeaux, tomorrow,” Cole said quietly. “You could come. No one would mind if you went… a week. Two weeks. You need to sleep, Ma’am. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Vivienne stared at it, the abomination folded neatly on the end of her bed, looking at her with its watery blue eyes, sunken in as though it were still starving in that hole its corpse had died in. Vivienne didn’t like the pull in her chest.

“Bull put you up to this, did he?”

“No,” Cole said, shaking its head. “I can’t heal your hurt. He can. For a while.”

“Get out, demon,” Vivienne said, turning on her side. “Go bother Solas.”

She felt his, no, its weight disappear from the corner of the bed. Stupid boy, she almost thought, but it wasn’t a boy, it was a demon.

+1

Vivienne laid awake for the longest time, her hand spread on Bastien’s chest. His breathing was laboured in a way it never had been, before, but he was still warm, still a peaceful presence beside her, and she closed her eyes, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against his arm.

How long, now?

How long until his body gave out, and she came home to the estates to find Bastien dead in his bed? Worse, would he die in her arms? Would she have to watch it, calm him through it, soothe Nicoline, Laurent, Calienne?

“Darling,” Bastien said in a whisper, his voice hoarse and low, a struggle to speak with his parched throat, as tired as he was all the time. “Stop worrying. You’re home, with me. Let yourself sleep. I have you.”

“For how long?” Vivienne asked, knowing it wasn’t fair, not letting the tears brim in her eyes because she wasn’t a little girl anymore, crying at the unfairness of the world, wailing.

“Oh, my heart,” Bastien whispered, and he wrapped his arm about her back, even though she knew it must have been so hard for him to lift it, so exhausting, and she felt his trembling fingers on her lower back, heard the breath rattle in his lungs as he breathed in, breathed out. “So strong. You always glittered… The first time I saw you, it was like my heart leapt from my chest to meet you.”

“Shut up,” Vivienne said. “You need to sleep.”

“As you command, Madame,” Bastien murmured, and his dry lips brushed her forehead.

She slept on his chest, tried not to think of the cushion it had been before, not hard and bony and rattling quietly; she listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat, tried not to recall how strong it had been before, not thready and weak; she listened to his breathing…

And oh, how soundly she slept.