#Weisshaupt Sucks

[vigilskeep]

do you have any refs for Minerva’s relationship with the other dao companions? I did not realize she and leliana was estranged 😭 also if im remembering correctly she makes loghain do the dark ritual? sorry I do like spinning her around in my head and knowing the little details she’s such a great character!!

leliana and minerva did not have a clear breakup in the alistair minerva sense but they did grow apart because of the simple reason that post dao minerva becomes politically at odds with the chantry while leliana is serving its leader. leliana is not a type of person minerva finds very easy to like or trust so while they did grow on each other over the course of dao they never had a simple friendship in the first place

alistair you probably know about bc its kind of the cornerstone of minervaposting but theres a post fully explaining it not much further down in her tag

zevran is her romance <3 i hesitate to use the word “soulmates” exactly but they definitely fit together in a way no other minerva pairing could match

morrigan she has a weird close complicated vaguely homosexual friendship with, i’m sure this is par for the course for f!wardens. they probably could have been in love if morrigan had been willing to pursue it in the start and if minerva hadn’t already gone for someone else by the end, and all that is unspoken but very present in everything about them

sten is i guess kind of the typical high approval relationship as presented in game? not much more unique. a lot of respect a lot of arguing a lot of dry humour. they could hang out in silence comfortably and they’re also both know and respect that they’re very capable of killing the other if their greater purposes ever demand it

oghren she kind of doesn’t pay much mind in origins when she doesn’t have to but he becomes part of the family in awakening. they bond over having their insane shared experiences of the blight, and also over him trying to quit drinking and her trying to quit blood magic which leads to some really wild out of context conversations for the others. and hey, eventually over first attempting to parent at similar times

wynne she has a bit of a sharp relationship with. i think this could vary a lot if i pick her up earlier, but in my main minerva playthrough i picked her up late by which time minerva had absolutely no fucking interest in getting the kind of lectures she grew up with. sorry grandma </3

uhhhh who else. shale idk man im sorry for being a fake fan but shale’s dlc truly does nothing for me it’s unfunny and i dont think abt it at all 💔 this would be written in less harsh terms if i wasnt sleepy

loghain is. well that’s a kettle of fish. minerva spares him because it happens to be a preferable move for her agenda and her way of thinking, it’s not rlly about him as a person at all. she doesn’t absolve him of anything he did, like, she still thinks he’s a bastard it’s just that she doesn’t really believe at all in the concept of justice being done if it doesn’t serve a purpose. when he’s in the party they do build up respect and a weird kind of friendship. he sucks and she’s bitter about what sparing him cost her, but that isn’t relevant, it’s not going to stop her learning from him, or fighting at his side as the best team she can quickly make them, or simply finding him entertaining to talk to. so by the end it’s as a friend that she asks him to do the dark ritual, whatever that means. post dao she agrees with weisshaupt that him being assigned outside of ferelden is wise but they continue to write to each other extremely regularly, mostly on matters of news and strategy but occasionally on the more personal

is that everyone i think thats everyone

[elinaline]

Well. Trespasser came close to in your heart shall burn in terms of emotional height ngl. I truly hope Dreadwolf does not suck because the political situation in Thedas is fucking fascinating and I'm really excited to see how they cooked and to finally fucking see Weisshaupt fortress. Also gotdamn the Saatha theme is a BANGER.

[queenofbaws]

hiiiii i'm so sorry for the vagueness but i just. i have to request hawke being away for a while (for whatever reason) and seeing varric's new look it's a must

oh no this was really just supposed to be six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

"There's someone waiting for you in your office."

It wasn't out of the ordinary for Bran to wait by the door like that, buzzing around the entryway of the Keep so he could be the first to shove a parchment into his hands or inform him of some exhausting goings-on he had to address after even an afternoon away (and those days, all of Kirkwall's goings-on exhausted him), but there was something about his tone, something about the pinched look on his face, that gave Varric pause.

"Couldn't keep them out, huh?" he asked, running the numbers in his head even as he started up the stairs. The Merchants Guild was, as ever, the most likely suspect, but that didn't rule out the possibility it was the Carta or Coterie or, Maker help him, Inquisition come calling. "Please tell me you're not going to have me walk in there blind, Seneschal," and though he chuckled as he said it, he watched Bran's face carefully - very carefully indeed - for any flicker of a tell. There was none. "Did you at least get a name?"

"They introduced themselves as an ambassador," Bran muttered, all at once engrossed in rearranging the paperwork in his hands. "From Weisshaupt."

And Varric's blood ran cold.

He searched Bran's face a moment longer before he could force himself to look up past the banisters towards the door leading to his quarters. It was shut fast, and while the writerly voice in the back of his head whispered that was a good sign, even an auspicious one, in his heart he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Doors left ajar could tantalize readers into turning a page, but he'd been alive long enough to learn that, in the real world, it was the ones someone had taken the time to shut that you needed to be wary of.

"Weisshaupt, huh?" The words felt like gravel in his throat. "Well...that doesn't bode well." An understatement if ever there was one; it had been years without word from the stronghold, years since the Inquisitor had sent Adamant's scant few Grey Wardens marching off through the arid hellscape with word of what Corypheus had done to (and with) their brethren, years since...

But he'd known this was coming. He'd never let himself imagine it for fear that he'd somehow it hasten its arrival or dampen his grief, but he'd known. How many times had he said it, himself? In a good story, a really, really good one, the hero dies in the end. They almost have to.

And he wouldn't claim theirs was a happy one, or a pretty one, but it was good. If it had only ever been one thing, it was that: good.

He forced himself to take a step, then another, then another, feeling each time like he was walking through mud. Dread sucked at his boots, weighing him down the closer he drew to the door, and below that, poking its nose out from the pit he'd buried it away in since his mother's death, despair.

Lying was what he was good at - depending on who you asked, it was the only thing he'd ever been good at. He'd told himself that the Viscount thing was only temporary, that one day the Red Lyrium would disappear from whence it'd come, that there was hope for Bartrand, that there'd come a night where he'd walk into the Hanged Man and find them all sitting there same as ever, grinning and laughing and fighting over shit that didn't matter with the same fervor and frenzy as the shit that did. And he'd told himself that Hawke would be fine, that if anyone could keep the Wardens from killing themselves before the Inquisition could wring the last drops of usefulness from them, it would be her.

Now he told himself he was ready to hear what Weisshaupt's ambassador had come all the way to Kirkwall to tell him. He told himself he didn't already know what it was.

But he did.

The antechamber was empty, which felt like an omen in and of itself. Usually it was bustling with activity, people waiting to complain to, or maybe just at, him; just then it was silent, even the grate cold with ashes, and not for the first time since taking the blighted post, he had to wonder if this was what Dumar had felt like, near the end. Tired, exasperated, hopeless, old.

For a moment, only the one, Varric stood outside the door to his office (also shut), and braced himself for what came next. He swallowed around the growing lump in his throat, took a breath, and opened the door. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting," he said by way of greeting...then froze.

"Waiting? Oh, by all accounts it's been an eternity! I'll have you know, I'm a very important person in Hightown, and if this is how you treat your constituents, then I simply don't know how y - " When she turned from his desk and caught sight of him for the first time, he watched the words catch in her throat. Saw them hitch there, clear as day.

The rest of the world seemed to catch with them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. They stood there, he at the door and she at his desk, and a lifetime spent together (even when apart) ensured in no uncertain terms that they were thinking the same thing, fearing the same thing: that breaking the silence would somehow break the illusion too, and they'd jolt awake in bed, or shake themselves from some daydream, and be left to sort through the feelings that would rise up when they remembered they were alone.

"Hawke?" Varric chanced, then again when she didn't fizzle away into the ether, "Hawke?"

"Oh, so you do remember me! Good, good!" She leaned herself back against his desk as he'd seen her do a million times before, her hands holding the edge as her shoulders rose in a demure shrug, one ankle crossing over the other, and if it hadn't been for the smattering of pale scars he couldn't remember or the way her hair had grown out, he might've been tricked into thinking no time had passed since last he'd seen her. "Now, I'm hoping you can help me, good serah...you see, I came here looking for my husband, but it seems I'm in the wrong place, because for the life of me, I don't remember him being half so handsome as you, or in possession of such a striking beard."

He meant to say something to that - he really did. Witty retorts were sort of their thing, after all, but...but the only sound that came out of him then was a breath so relieved, so thankful, that it left him dizzy. Without thinking - without being able to think - he crossed the room and took her face in his hands, wanting so badly to kiss her, but needing to reassure himself she was solid first, that she was there, and whole, and alive, and warm.

Hawke laughed, or tried to, the carefree facade he'd watched her hone to a fine point over the years crumbling to so much dust as she closed her hands over his and hiccuped her own little sob of relief. "You look so good as an old man," she kidded, her voice quavering as the first tired tears spilled over her cheeks. He felt them warm against his face as she kissed each of his scars, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his lips, felt her chest fight to decide whether it was shaking from laughter or sobs. "Maybe it's a good thing I've been away so long - I'm sure I would've made a fool of myself by now, picking fights with anyone daft enough to make eyes at you from across the market square."

"For the love of - I'm not that old!" and he didn't know when, or how, but he was laughing right along with her (crying, too), his thumbs tracing the familiar shape of her cheekbones as he pressed his forehead to hers. "Shit, Hawke, I..." But how was he supposed to finish that thought when there were million things he might say?

I missed you. I'm so glad you're home. I can't believe you're here. I was so scared. I love you, I love you, I love you. They all fit, they were all true, and he meant each of them as much as any other.

"I know," she said, making the decision that much easier. "I know," she said again, kissing him one last time before pulling back to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "But here we are! Right where we belong. So!" She made a grand show of straightening back up, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she lifted a random sheaf of parchment from his desk, pretending to read it over while all the while her other hand squeezed his, reluctant to let go. "What's on the docket for today, Viscount Tethras?"

He snatched the paper from her hand and set it back on the desk, once more pulling her down to him such that he could press his lips to her forehead. "Well," he began when he thought he had any shot at keeping his voice level, "I was thinking we should probably let some people know that the Viscountess is home."

She sniffled once, but there was no missing the mischief in her eyes or the wicked smirk slowly but surely curling at the corners of her mouth. "And after the impromptu and debauched celebrations that will no doubt ensue?"

Varric shook his head and held her close, his head much too a mess to think past the next moment, much less the coming days. "I was thinking maybe I'd strangle Bran for making me think there was bad news coming out of Weisshaupt, actually. Been giving a lot of thought to it, if I'm being honest."

"Oh, go easy on him, would you? He did get bad news today." She grinned, and Varric was helpless but to join her. "The Viscountess is home, after all!"

"And home to stay," he added.

"She doesn't really have much choice now, does she?" Hawke teased, still grinning that grin of hers, her eyes jewel-bright behind the tears welling up again. "Not now that she's seen how dignified and sophisticated her lord husband looks with a beard! No, I don't think there's any getting rid of her now." Her lower lip quivered just a touch, just enough for him to notice, and then she buried her face in his shoulder, clutching onto him as though he were the only thing keeping her afloat in that silent office. "I think you're stuck with her for good."

He decided then and there that he'd been wrong his whole life. A story didn't need a death at the end of it to stick with you. The hero didn't need to die for the tale to be a worthwhile one. In fact, fuck those stories. Happy endings were so incredibly underrated.

[ungalobrando]

Damien: Glad you didn't go with Hawke, Weisshaupt sucks

Varric: I'd be with Hawke

Normal people: Aww

Me: *splits, turns off console and goes back to bed*

[mythalsknickers]

“Go with me?” “As long as you hold my hand.” For DA DWC for any pairing you wish! :D :D

Title: In the Darkest HourPairing: Cullen x Drysi AmellRating: TWord Count: 1329Warning/Tags: Not Inquisitor Character, Blood Magic Mention, Hawke does not die, or LoghainCC: @dadrunkwriting

This was honestly very interesting to write, I thought it was going to be sweet and fluffy. But Adamant seemed to be the one that needed to be written. I could not kill off my Hawke or Loghain. I hope you enjoy this.

Adamant. She had never thought she would get to see the fortress. After all, why would she ever need to go to the Western Approach?  Drysi clenched her hands as rocks slammed into the walls of the fortress. Sucking in a breath Drysi outstretched her hands, watching them shake.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and do not falter.” She could feel it as the fade struggled under the assault. Blood Magic. Her hands tensed, she was forcing the shaking to go away. Taking a deep breath she pulled on the magic, willing it to knit this soldier’s skin together.

One by one, sometimes more then she could count the wounded were brought it. This she could handle, killing men she knew though, or knew of that was worse than facing another blight.  Her body ached, craving just a drop from the blue vials on her belt. She had her limit any more, and she ran the risk of her magic depleting too fast. Reaching up to her neck,  her hand wrapped around the amulet. Her eyes closed with worry. Cullen. He was a brilliant tactician, and he and Loghain had both gone over the strategy thousands of times. It didn’t stop the worry that clung to her.

“Commander Amell!” Her heart froze, and as her eyes snapped open, they were as hard as ice. A scout stood at the edge of the tent seeming to try and pick her out. Glancing at the other healers she quickly beckoned one to her wounded.  Grabbing her grimoire from the table she quickly fastened it to her belt, followed by her staff being slung across her back.

Her strides were long as she quickly weaved through the nurses, healers, and surgeons. Reaching the edge of the tent she looked up at the scout. It had been enough time for Drysi Amell, Healer to be replaced with the Commander of the Grey. Taking a breath she met his eyes.

“Report!” it was familiar, a habit that had developed during the blight, and then during the Darkspawn incursions in Amaranthine.

“Commander Rutherford and Inquisitor Lavellan ask for you at the front… Sir! er Ma’am…er Serah…My Lady!” The poor scout, he couldn’t decide on a title. Shaking her head she sighed.

“Sir is fine, Commander is easier. Are you to escort me?” She tilted her head, short dark waves of hair covering one icy eye rather rebelliously. Cullen was alive. Thank Andraste’s Blessed Fire and the Maker.

“No Commander, Commander Rutherford is waiting at the Fortress.” She nodded, slipping her gloves on. As she walked past the scout she patted him on the shoulder.

Each step brought her closer to the inevitable truth. The Order had gone too far.  They had kept secrets from the most senior members, allowed a single vulnerability to the order go unchecked for maker knows how many years, and now this. As Adamant loomed over her little more than smoking ruins. Drysi knew in her heart, she could no longer in good conscious call herself or her men Grey Wardens. Everything they had stood for; gone because they played themselves into this hand.

Soldiers and Scouts alike jogged in and out of the Fortress, many carrying wounded.  Stepping around the siege equipment and the remains of ancient walls.  She spotted him, hand resting on his sword, golden hair well beyond being tamed and his red mantle. Her lips pulled at a slight smile.

“Cullen!” she called walking over to him, it was informal but all of Skyhold knew they well were something more then friends. At her call, he stopped issuing orders and jogged over to her.  There was no hesitation as he pulled her into his arms. Drysi clung to him, it only lasted a moment but it was enough.

“Drysi, the Inquisitor, is asking for a Senior Warden. The surviving Grey Wardens have no one to turn to. She is also asking your recommendation on what to do with the order.” He was apologizing, she could hear it in his tone of voice and see it in his eyes.

“I understand.” she gave a firm nod, so it fell to her. While Loghain held a senior rank here…she was a Commander of the Grey.  She was the only one who could say with definitive authority what to do with these wardens. “Go with me?” she tilted her head hoping he would.“As long as you hold my hand, my lady.”  He offered her hand, and she gave him no hesitation. Taking his hand, she let him lead her through the ruined keep. As they walked a quiet hush fell over the Wardens. They knew she had their fate in her hands, her uniform, her scars told them exactly who she was. The Hero of Ferelden.  Veteran of the Fifth Blight, Vanquisher of the Archdemon Urthemiel. Titles she knew by heart.Letting go of Cullen’s hand she stepped onto the dais with the Inquisitor, gesturing for her to turn away from the crowd. They spoke privately. She needed to address them. They were terrified, they believed they failed, this defeat had shattered their resolve. As they turned back towards the crowd she shook the Inquisitor’s hand with a smile.“In war victory, in peace vigilance, in death sacrifice.” She licked her lips looking over the crowd of mages and the few warriors who had survived. She barely caught Loghain’s reassuring smile. “A wise woman, once told me we are not just standing vigilant against Darkspawn, but the hubris of magic gone astray. The magic we fight against from the moment of our joining, the Blight. Today we have failed.” The crowd began to murmur and shift and she could see some of the mages beginning to reach for their own grimoires and tomes.“I am not here to cast judgment on the ritual done here,” she announced raising her hands. “I am here as your sister, to make you see reason. It was not just one failure that brought you to this defeat, this miscalculation, this terror, and this false calling you now feel!” She screamed her chest heaving. “I live with it every day, and I am here to tell you The Grey Wardens of Ferelden, have no blighted blood or calling. There is a reason a Warden King sits on Ferelden’s throne unaffected by fighting in the last blight!” The crowd fell silent, awe and curiosity replaced doubt and fear. There was no clattering of plate or jangle of scale mail.

“It was not  Weisshaupt that found this cure. It was Wiesshaupt that kept Corypheus a secret, it was Wiesshaupt who fell silent. We were failed by the very order we pledged our lives to!” She turned to the Inquisitor giving a soft smile.  “I humbly recommend Lady Inquisitor, that the Grey Wardens of Orlais be absorbed into the ranks of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Under my command to be reformed into a new order to protect against the blight with a modified joining.”The silence hung through the air, and tensions mounted. She could see it in the Wardens, they were worried, some doubted her. However, they wanted to know what the Inquisitor would allow. “I will permit this Commander Amell, however for the time being it will be with Inquisition supervision.” She smiled as the wardens all seemed relieved. 

It was one battle. She turned smiling at Cullen stepping down to him. With him at her side, she could face it all. As she wrapped her arms around Cullen’s neck, the fade tore another rift opened and behind them. A bloodied Carys Hawke stumbled out the rift.“What’d I miss?” She staggered, holding her broken staff in her hand. “Oof! Varric!” the woman cried as the dwarf barreled into. Only her cousin.

“I am never going to escape your Cousin am I?” she smiled at Cullen and shook her head. No, he wouldn’t Amells stuck together through everything.

[noire-pandora]

That's What Friends Are For

Now that the reveals happened for the Platonic Exchange, I can share the Varric & Cassandra fic I wrote for @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul​  I hope you enjoyed it.​

Varric loved Skyhold. In the bustle of activity, where dozens of voices blended into a deafening cacophony, numerous story threads awaited for him to be plucked, bent, and spun into wild tales of adventure, love,and heroism. Varric had only to listen as the energy of the people there whispered new stories and characters to him.

Every morning, after sending the most urgent letters to those who were waiting for them, he would stroll across the courtyard of Skyhold, the crunch of snow beneath his feet a pleasant background noise. As soon as he appeared there, many of those walking around with problems to solve waved at him, or even stopped to share a few words of joy, sorrow, or news spreading around Thedas like wildfire. Sometimes a delicious rumour or a sneaky gossip would reach his ears and he would make a mental note to keep it close to his heart and share it with the Spymaster, a new tool for Leliana to use like no one else.

Some days, the hustle and bustle and the gossip tickling his ears failed to inspire him. No matter how hard he tried, the little wheels of his mind refused to budge, rusty and stubborn. And today was one of those days when, although the fresh snow crunched under his shoes, encouraging him to write about the people running around him, no bright idea came to dispel the melancholy that gnawed at him.

Melancholy triggered by Hawke's trip to Weisshaupt. Even if he agreed to stay behind and help the Inquisition, he could not help but feel left behind.

"Maybe I'm just bored," he muttered under his breath, hands tucked into his pockets. Today, the cold of the mountains around Skyhold stung his eyes even more than before.

The noise of rising voices offered little comfort. Instead of awakening the joy at finding new ways to spin the words in a story for all to love, the clamour scratched at the back of his head like a nervous cat scratching the furniture.

No matter where he went, from the stables to the training grounds to the healing stations, Varric's legs refused to stay in one place, fueled by memories of his friends, all away, going about their important business, barely giving him a second thought. And he missed them all: Rivaini and her snarky replies, Daisy and her sweet giggles, heck, even Blondie with all the weird shit he was up to.

A melancholy so unfamiliar to him gripped his heart and threatened to suck all the joy out of him. No matter how fast he spun in circles in the snowy yard, dodging people and grunting to those who spotted him, the emptiness in his chest refused to be dispelled. The more time he spent thinking about the golden days running around Kirkwall with his friends, the more his breath caught in his throat.

He had to get out of the cold, out of the stifling music of people seeking his attention. Before his patience wore thin and words he would later regret fell in torrents.

He stopped in the middle of the courtyard, ignoring the cheers of the children calling to him to join them in a game of hide and seek. Where could he find a warm place, away from the children who were now shouting to get his attention?

As he scanned the courtyard, his eyes lingered on the wooden door of the tavern. Normally, the busiest place in Skyhold at night. But in the morning it stood almost empty, as the people hurriedly went about their business.

"That should do it," he muttered under his breath. The children's disappointed whimpers stirred his guilt, and he made a mental note to make up for it later in the day. For now, he needed time to process the troublesome feelings that plagued him.

READ MORE ON AO3.

[vegasvictor]

anthem characters in thedas

exactly what it says on the tin- i made these hcs like two years ago because i love anthem a LOT, but i don't have much to work with in that universe so i sent them to thedas. i know this will be relevant to exactly 3 people on this webbed site but whatever, let's gooo

owen corley - rogue - surface dwarf in kirkwall

Never leaves varric's side unless it's to cause trouble with rythe

abandonment issues from orzammar exile instead of cypher school

puppy dog eyes his way into free drinks because varric is weak :)

haluk - warrior - human in ferelden

grey warden, mentor to new recruits

hasn’t heard the calling, but is now having the dreams

cannot bring himself to even mention it but faye Knows

faye - mage - human in ferelden

was in consideration to become first enchanter at the white spire

Things Happened and now she’s an apostate blood mage w/ haluk

working with the warden to find a way to prevent the calling

rythe - rogue - human in kirkwall

her reason for being here? sexy danger

where is she from? sexy none of your business

sucks at lockpicking, so she just blows the locked thing in question up (to owen’s continued horror)

Constantly making up hairbrained schemes in an attempt to make varric write about her and owen; he refuses

matthias sumner - mage - dalish elf researching the exalted plains

basically merrill with a very short fuse; he will throw hands- real 'i don't need magic to rearrange your face but if you're gonna be a dick about it then i'll rearrange your organs too' energy

he can't stand the inquisition, but he's polite enough to the inquisitor if they run into him- they didn't ask for this, he knows

you could do the splitting him in 3 thing here too w/ an elven artifact but yeah

tassyn - rogue - human in orlais

was born into The Game, but isn’t very good at it (far too blunt)

way more interested in the spying and the stabbing parts

better at being stereotypically orlesian far away from val royeaux

dax - rogue - human in ferelden

grey warden, somehow managed to get recruited by duncan

distantly related to cassandra, and too close to the nevarran throne

if you know she’s a princess, no you don’t <3

yarrow - warrior - human in orlais

grey warden, recruiter and mentor

from the anderfels, was deeply involved in weisshaupt, but is helping the southern wardens out

number one warden hype man, a few minutes with him and you WILL think the wardens aren’t a lost cause, and he’s trying to bring that energy to as many people as he can before he hears the calling

[morganaseren]

WIP Meme (Warden Inquisitor Niamh/Warden Bethany)

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Many thanks!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @jellydishes, @w-h-4-t  As usual, I suck at telling who has or hasn’t been tagged yet.

So this WIP is from prompt #3 I made off this list. It doesn’t tie into the other Warden Niamh/Warden Bethany AU I’ve already written; this is something wholly separate. No knowledge of it is needed to read this.

Granted, this is a much rougher draft than what I’d normally post here, but given I’m already more than a month behind on updating OtSttCA, I thought you guys would appreciate the treat. :)

Things you might want to know:

As with any AU where Niamh is a Warden, she’s the one who undertakes the Dark Ritual with Morrigan in order to spare anyone from being sacrificed once the Archdemon is slain. Through magic, Kieran is born as a result of their union. While both women carry a great deal of respect for one another, they aren’t and were never in a romantic relationship although there’s gonna be a whole separate AU for that once I get around to writing it.

Niamh is the Warden-Constable for Ferelden while her sister Saoirse is the Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. Saoirse and Leliana are married sometime after the end of the Blight.

As a result of going on the Deep Roads expedition with her sister, Bethany contracts the taint and has to undergo the Joining in order to save her life. She is transferred to the Fereldan branch of the Grey Wardens by Stroud not long afterward.

Niamh and Bethany are in an established relationship by the time the events of Inquisition begins.

While Niamh would normally be off searching for the cure by then, I'm just going to headcanon that she and Morrigan weren’t able to find a suitable lead in their research until much later—enough that they start hearing about the mass disappearances of Wardens across Ferelden and Orlais.

Out of concern, Niamh and Saoirse convince the remainder of their comrades (except for Bethany obviously) to head toward Weisshaupt for help, but Niamh senses that's enough wrong about the situation that she also tells them to journey there in secret. Vigil’s Keep is pretty much closed down at this point until they can figure out what’s going on.

Niamh and Bethany head out toward the Hinterlands to follow up on reports of some Warden sightings in the area. It's when they're stopped in the Crossroads area (where you meet Mother Giselle) that Niamh has Bethany to ask the villagers for any leads while she heads up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to follow up on a tip there. The usual stuff happens, and she ends up waking up in Haven's dungeons, where she gets interrogated by Cassandra.

Honestly, this follows pretty closely to how OtSttCA unfolds as far as the major decisions being made within it goes. However, because she wasn’t in self-exile for a decade, Niamh’s a lot more laidback and confident in her ability to lead, especially with Bethany by her side.

Along that same vein, Bethany is also more self-assured in her abilities as a mage now that she no longer has to fear hiding from Templars. As such, she’s much quicker to speak about what’s on her mind rather than bottle them up as she used to in the past. She confronts Cassandra like an absolute badass several times during the beginning of the story in defense of her lover, which you can check out below the cut with the rest of the content. ;)

Like in her canon world state, Niamh isn't treated well when she’s imprisoned. The guards merely know that she's a mage, so they're operating under the assumption that she caused the explosion at the Conclave. It doesn't help that Niamh's been essentially undercover to search for the missing Wardens, so she's not wearing her usual uniform to signify her status. Cassandra does her whole intimidating interrogation as per usual when Bethany—in all her Warden regalia—bursts in with Leliana.

---

"She leaves with me," she leveled at the Seeker coldly before turning to Leliana with a deep frown. “Why did you not put a stop to this?”

“I arrived here at the same time as you. I didn’t know she was here until she was already imprisoned.”

Niamh couldn't help but chuckle under her breath, utter relief filling her. “I think you may invited utter ruination upon your heads with those two."

Cassandra frowned. "What? Why?"

“What do you mean why?” she parroted with a roll of her eyes, unimpressed with what she had seen of the woman and her colleagues thus far. "Leliana’s my sister-in-law, and the Warden next to her is my fiancée, whom—might I add—you've actually succeeded in making angry.” The corners of her lips turned up into a languid smile. “Not an easy feat, and not a fate I would normally wish upon anyone.”

“Hush,” Bethany muttered as she brushed past Cassandra—all but shoving her aside with a pointed shoulder—as she knelt at Niamh’s side to begin healing the wounds she’d received from her captors. All the soldiers began backing away uneasily, especially as Leliana walked alongside her. “I’m already upset that you sent me down to the Crossroads while you went up to the Conclave alone.”

“It was the easiest way of scoping out the area," Niamh defended even as she sheepishly shrank back beneath her lover’s glare. "If the individuals we were searching for were still down in the village, you would have seen them, and if they were up at the Temple…Well, I suppose that’s a moot point now, given what our new acquaintances have just revealed to me.”

“Do you remember seeing anything at all?” Leliana asked then in concern.

“I can’t recall much of anything before the explosion.” Niamh admitted with a frown. “I thought I remembered someone screaming, but then there’s just... nothing.”

“And...” Leliana gestured toward her hand. “That mark?”

She shrugged as much as she was able to, especially given her heavy shackles. “It certainly wasn’t there when I went to the Temple.”

“What is going on here?” Cassandra demanded then, perhaps confused as to why their supposed prisoner had proven so much more forthcoming with Leliana than anyone else thus far. 

“You’ve met my wife before, yes? This is her younger sister Niamh Cousland. She is also the Constable of the Grey here in Ferelden, Cassandra,” Leliana stated gravely. “While the Wardens may not regularly involve themselves in politics, Niamh’s high enough up their chain of command that this country’s branch would fight to the death to get her back, and that’s not even involving what Saoirse herself will do once she finds out her sister's been hurt.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. “Not to mention the Teyrn of Highever…”

---

After the demons upon the frozen lake had been defeated, Niamh felt the brush of a warm hand in the crook of her elbow gently pulling her back before all she could see was Bethany’s back as her lover marched right up toward Cassandra, heedless of the obvious height difference between them.

"Point your sword at her again, Seeker! Kindly test my patience right now, and see what happens!"

Niamh was mildly amused when Cassandra actually appeared to be a bit startled and had to move back a step so as to not accidentally stab the woman. The Seeker’s dark brows furrowed in confusion. "Are... Are you threatening me?"

"Only because you’ve threatened her repeatedly!” Bethany scowled. “Niamh's very life is in danger so long as that portal in the sky exists; she has no reason to put yours in harm's way. She’s made it more than abundantly clear she’s willing to cooperate even after the mistreatment she received from you and your colleagues." Amber eyes narrowed, and despite their bright depths, there was little mistaking the ice within them. "I haven’t, however, and I’ve no reason to if you’re going to blatantly ignore your own words to the contrary simply because she’s a mage."

Cassandra sheepishly sheathed her weapon. "I’m—"

"If you ever think of drawing a sword on her again, your friendship with Leliana or no, I swear it will be the last time you ever draw breath," Bethany spat, tilting her chin up defiantly. "I’ve lost enough. I will not lose her too." She turned then to hold out her hand for Niamh, allowing the first bit of tenderness to enter her expression as she called out to her. "My love..."

Niamh chuckled quietly even as she weaved her fingers through Bethany’s. “Still so quick to defend me?”

Her lover smiled. “Always.”

Afterward, Cassandra was left to follow behind the two women, who proceeded to lead the rest of the way up the mountain.

"I did tell you not to make her angry," Niamh quipped to Cassandra later upon reaching the first outpost, grinning when she earned a soft sound of disgruntlement.

---

Nothing had really prepared Bethany for the sight that greeted them upon reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There were so many bodies scattered across the immense crater, expressions twisted in permanent states of terror as they tried to guard themselves against a danger beyond all earthly imagining. Horrified with such evidence of the Breach’s power, it was then that she realized that if Niamh hadn’t somehow received the Mark, she likely would have—

"Bethany?"

She jerked in place, turning to see her lover’s concerned eyes watching her.

"It's nothing,” she mustered up with a weak smile. “I'm right behind you." 

Bethany saw, however, that Niamh couldn’t be convinced, as was evident in the tender way the other woman had taken hold of her hand. Niamh said nothing else, as was always her way. She never pressed her to offer anything more than she was ready for. She sighed.

"I should have been there with you," Bethany murmured at last, looking at the strange mark still glowing upon her lover’s palm. It was nothing that even with all her healing magic can hope to fix, but Niamh merely shook her head.

"No.” She brought Bethany’s hand up to her lips to press a kiss reverently across her knuckles. “Were you there with me, I fear you would have died with everyone else," she admitted solemnly. "My heart would not have survived such devastation."

---

Bethany was beside herself with worry when Niamh fell unconscious upon the first, unsuccessful attempt to seal the Breach. Niamh was brought back to Haven to recover, but Bethany refused to leave her side despite Leliana's attempts to get her to take care of herself as well.

"Bethany—"

"You know as well as I do that your colleagues would have killed her down in the dungeons if we hadn’t arrived when we did," Bethany said flatly from where she sat by Niamh’s bedside. "Everyone in the village knows she’s a mage now, and I don’t need to remind you of how well-liked we are on a regular basis..."

"I’ll have my agents watching her. What nearly happened outside the chantry will never happen again."

Bethany bristled instantly at the memory.

---

She’d still been inside the building to relay some information regarding Saoirse to Leliana when they heard the first outraged cries beyond the doors. As the uproar grew louder in volume—all demanding the death of the one who had supposedly killed the Divine—Bethany had rushed outside immediately just in time to see civilians and more than a few soldiers attempting to stone Niamh.

Infuriated by the blatant injustice, Bethany reached over her shoulder for her staff and immediately slammed its point into the ground. At the moment of impact, a wave of force magic traveled violently across the ground, taking the mob entirely off their feet. She had been mindful to curve the energy away from Niamh—and inadvertently Cassandra, who had sidled up to aid the other mage, just as she unleashed her magic—so her lover had remained unharmed and even grateful for her arrival if her relieved smile was any indication.

Still, Bethany steeled her features to utter impassivity as she coolly strode through the crowd. Those within it seemed to be in various states of bewilderment as they tried to regain their bearings, but she took note of the many widened eyes that recognized the blues and silvers of her Warden regalia.

“You will show Ferelden’s Constable of the Grey the proper respect she is due,” Bethany said lowly as she placed herself alongside her lover, her gaze searching for any signs of rebellion to her words. “Anyone who would dare accost her in spite of her title will sorely live to regret it...”

---

"Can you really make such promises?" Bethany asked dryly.

"I can certainly try. Niamh’s family. Saoirse would never forgive me if something happened to her, especially if she knew there was anything I could have done to prevent it." She sighed. "Nor would I be able to forgive myself for that matter. Niamh’s a kind woman, and much like you—and any mage—she’s so undeserving of the treatment she often receives from others.”

---

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE mages; thus, it should come as no surprise that I always go to get the mages at Redcliffe as allies.

It should also go without saying that Bethany also would have gone with Niamh to deal with Alexius and the Venatori. Per the events of In Hushed Whispers, it's canon that the companions who went with you there become prisoners in the twisted, future version of Redcliffe.

While Warden mages are more susceptible to Corypheus' influence, I headcanon that Bethany was so furious with the loss of Niamh to Alexius that she fought against the mind control even to the point of torture like Leliana. When Niamh sees her in the future, Bethany's so pained, broken, and exhausted but so very thankful to see her lover again.

There's hope again—no matter how small—and Bethany's determined to help her set the world right again.

What little happiness they have at their reunion obviously doesn't last long, especially with Alexius’ death. With the Elder One beckoning at their door, Bethany goes off with the other companions to stall the demons and Venatori outside to give Dorian time to cast his spell.

I’ve always headcanoned that mages have auras unique to the type of magic they specialize in and that they’d be able to subtly influence the world around them based on their emotions. You see evidence of that a lot in OtSttCA, especially in those moments where Niamh’s angry or upset.

In any case, per my headcanon, mages would be able to sense one another although the distance at which they could detect such magic would be dependent on the senser’s overall power or their relationship with the other mage. As close as both women are, Niamh absolutely feels the moment Bethany dies... :(

---

She felt the absence of Bethany’s magic like a dagger to the heart.

It had been there, burning as bright as the sun, and then it had stuttered—dark clouds eclipsing its light—until it simply settled inside her like a dead weight. Left bereft of that familiar, constant presence that had been her very reason for breathing for so long, it was as if water had pooled into her lungs, threatening to drown her. The sensation immediately brought her to her knees, leaving her gasping for breath.

"No..." Niamh whispered out brokenly, anguish and horror overtaking her even as Leliana tried in vain to urge her back up to her feet again. She couldn't hear the other woman's concern past the shattering of her own heart. In its place was simply an aching emptiness that slowly began to consume her whole...

---

Let’s just say that Niamh’s not happy with Alexius when she and Dorian manage to return to the present...

---

The fighting between the Inquisition and rebel mages against Alexius and his Venatori was brought to an abrupt halt by the presence of the Fade rift that appeared overhead. The force with which it easily tore space and reality asunder was enough to take everyone within the audience chamber off their feet, especially as stifling heat and wind spilled from the portal along with two figures.

“Give her back..."

Bethany blearily looked up when she heard Niamh’s familiar voice, and relief filled her when she saw that she was standing beneath the now sealed rift. Even with its disappearance, however, she realized all too soon that it had done nothing to quell the storm that had now taken residence within the room, sending banners and tapestries flying with whipping gusts of wind. At its center was her lover, who was standing so still amidst the chaos around her, regarding Alexius with such apathy in her expression.

“What?" the old magister uttered in confusion, shakily rising to his feet only to have his progress nearly undone as lightning struck the ground next to him with a deafening peal of thunder.

Bethany saw how his throat undulated as he swallowed in nervous regard of the mage slowly making her way toward him. His fingers trembled with the effort to form flames between them.

"...Who gave you the right?” Niamh asked, voice as low as the rumbling thunder, as she strode toward the dais.

The pressure within the room escalated once more as an aura of absolute fire surrounded her. Like vines, they rose from the floor up in spiraling patterns before enveloping her entirely with almost playful licks of flame. Nothing in Niamh’s expression indicated the display of power was in any way exhausting to maintain whereas Alexius was already weakened from his initial spell to destroy her along with his efforts to keep the Inquisition at bay.

But it was not a woman who sought to meet him.

It was death.

As if aware of the sudden danger he was in, Alexius threw forth several barrages of fire at Niamh, but her smooth, relentless advance couldn’t be stopped. She made no attempt to even bat away the bursts of magic. If anything, the flames just seemed to absorb themselves into her. Her aura flared higher, burning more brightly beneath each attack, and as Alexius tried to back away, he inadvertently tripped himself into the throne behind him. He flinched as another peal of thunder made itself known, and as he reflexively turned his gaze to the dark storm clouds coalescing above them, he didn't see Niamh Fade-stepping forward to close the distance between them until he was choking from the fingers around his neck. With her enhanced Warden strength, Niamh was able to lift the magister off his feet entirely, leaving him to dangle helplessly.

“Who gave you the damned right to take her from me?!” she demanded.

With her cry, the fires along the sconces and the hearth behind the throne went out entirely, gone with the sudden gale of wind. As such, the only light to be seen came from the flashes of lightning above them and the fiery aura surrounding her. In the sporadic moments the room illuminated itself, there was little mistaking the utter hatred in Niamh’s eyes.

She was going to kill Alexius.

It would have been well within her right, given the magister had attacked her first within their meeting, but Bethany’s eyes widened when she saw how the staff on Niamh’s back began to rattle violently. Against the sheer heat emanating from her body, the silverite wolf head adorning the top of the staff began to melt entirely onto the floor in thick dregs of liquid while the shaft bowed and arched until it creakily bent in the middle, angling itself with the sharpness of an arrow.

Oh, no... With dread, Bethany scrambled to her feet and darted over toward Niamh. Without her staff to act as a catalyst, if Niamh burnt too much of her magic away, she could cause irreparable damage to herself and those around her.

Upon reaching her lover’s side, she placed her hands on Niamh’s face, desperately trying to draw her attention from Alexius. For a moment, nothing could sway her from trying to squeeze the life out of the magister, and she winced when she felt Niamh’s magic already begin to fluctuate erratically against her own.

"No, no, no! Look at me!” She jerked her lover’s head toward her. “Look at me, Niamh! Please!"

And as Niamh did, she watched in confusion as the woman’s expression froze. The lips that had been pulled back in a sneer of bared teeth slowly went lax, forming an ‘o’ of awe and disbelief, as recognition began to dawn in her lover’s gaze. With it, Alexius gradually slid from her grasp to collapse at her feet with desperate gulps of air, but Bethany paid him little mind. With relief, she saw Niamh’s fiery aura dissipate along with the glow of her eyes until they returned to the pale grey she adored.

"That’s it. Come back to me,” she encouraged. “Just breathe." Bethany took one of her lover’s hands in hers, placing it over her own chest, allowing Niamh to feel her breathing. “Slow and steady. Just like that.”

As each breath fell into sync with her own, Niamh's expression gradually softened into something so reverent and sweet that it almost hurt to see—as if salvation had finally blessed her—but Bethany smiled when she saw the battle rage finally leave her.

“There we are."

Niamh used her other hand to gently cradle the side of Bethany's face. “You’re still here…” she breathed, utter relief in her voice.

“Yes.” Bethany frowned in concern at her reaction. “Always."

---

When they returned to Haven, where Niamh gave her official report to her War Council, Bethany was horrified to learn all that her lover had endured from Alexius’ spell.

Afterward, Niamh suggested they spend the evening in their cabin together rather than explore the trails out the village as per usual, and Bethany didn’t object. She understood her lover’s need to reassure herself that she was still there with her—that she wasn’t simply caught in a dream that she could never wake from.

“Is... Is this okay?” Niamh asked quietly, wanting permission to seek such comfort.

Niamh was always thoughtful in everything she did for her—in bed or otherwise—and while she never treated her like glass, Bethany could count on one hand the number of times she saw her magic unfettered like in Redcliffe. She had felt subtle traces of it occasionally with their intimacy although it was usually with purposeful design—heat, ice, and tickling traces of lightning—that were meant to tease.

But rarely was it ever so close to the surface like this—a conduit of power coiled so tightly within mortal form—waiting to burst beneath Niamh’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Bethany said, gently lacing the fingers of Niamh’s marked hand in hers.

The other woman had been reluctant to let her touch it although it hadn’t shown any notable effects toward anyone—or anything thus far—save for its ability to close rifts. Still, Niamh had been skittish all the same, fearing that it might harm her.

...Or perhaps she believed it was a damning mark of shame—of guilt—much like it had been when the people of Haven had attempted to stone her to death.

---

“There’s no denying that this mark is tied to the Breach. You saw the wreckage at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You saw how many people died, and I still can’t even remember what happened before or after that moment beyond waking up in the dungeons. What if I did do something to cause that explosion?”

“If you had, it would not have been intentional,” Bethany insisted with a frown. “The mark is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, yes, but that you bear it all does not mean you were the one who created it.”

But Niamh couldn’t be swayed as she paced back and forth before the hearth of their cabin. “How can you be so certain?” she murmured.

“Because I’ve known you for years, Niamh. You would never purposely hurt anyone without provocation. Trust in me if you can’t yet trust in yourself.”

---

With permission given, Bethany found herself gently laid out against their bed as Niamh sought to touch and bring her pleasure all throughout the night.

Over the years, she’d become remarkably acclimated to Niamh’s magic that felt so much like a forest caught beneath a winter storm of ice and lightning. It was normally as calm as it was now—crisp as the first intake of breath beneath a cool dawn—but there were times where it could be provoked. The incident in the audience chamber was proof enough of that, where it had settled over them all like the tolling bells of judgment—an inevitability inviting the nascent danger of death.

Bethany had been beyond concerned when she had seen the first bits of viridian energy springing across her lover’s eyes then. There had been an almost disturbing beauty to them—a ring of vines gathering just at the outside perimeter of silvery irises—but that they had pulsed in time with the mark upon Niamh’s hand...

Bethany had feared for her, especially when it seemed to flare all the brighter with the fury that had overtaken her.

She was glad to see no evidence of that now as Niamh laid contentedly next to her. Even though Niamh was sated at last—the burning, restless energy within the other mage having finally simmered down to faint embers—she seemed reluctant to drift off into sleep. Winter-grey eyes continued to lazily rove across her face and form, as if cataloguing every detail less she forget later.

In response, Bethany reached out to tangle her fingers through the dark mane of tousled hair, letting her nails gently rake across her lover’s scalp. Pale eyes had widened imperceptibly at the sensation, but like always, they soon became half-lidded with the soothing nature of it. She heard the quiet hum of disgruntlement, as if protesting the notion of Bethany’s attempts to lull her to sleep against her silent vigil, but she merely shushed her.

“Shh… Rest, my love. I’ll still be here in the morning when you wake.”

---

And that’s basically it.

Again, since this is still in its rough draft phase, it’s not as polished as I’d like it to be, but I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, leave me a like, comment, or send some love to my inbox! Until next time, dear readers!

[tsuraiwrites]

Fic: An Immodest Proposal

@kyogre-blue​ oh no, you left it up to my discretion and my brain decided to go even further off-script – I hope you like it!

for this prompt meme

With Kirkwall’s new Viscount under pressure from the nobles and Guilds to get hitched, Hawke decides to propose fake marriage. Varric recognizes a trope when he sees it.

Hawke’s words take a moment to seep through Varric’s focus on the letter to Brulan Sasca, only halfway through writing another rejection of the guildsman’s daughter’s hand. This is the third damn time he’s had to turn Sasca down, and there are already grumblings in the Guild about Varric needing an heir...

Varric’s quill skids across the parchment as Hawke’s question finally sinks in. He stares at the line of ink for a long moment before looking up at Hawke where the human sits across the desk. 

“Come again?” he asks, not quite believing his ears.

Hawke has never been able to fool Varric – the man’s abysmal attempts at bluffing always failed him, even during Wicked Grace –  but in the aftermath of Adamant and Weisshaupt and Kirkwall putting the Viscount’s crown on Varric’s head, something has changed.

“I said,” and Hawke’s face doesn’t change from its unreadable blankness, but the air around him feels strangely brittle, “that you should marry me. It’ll get Bran and the Merchant’s Guild off your ass–”.

“Hawke–”

“–and I’m famous enough they can’t complain about my status–”

“Hawke, that’s not–” 

“–if you’re worried about it not being Chantry-sanctioned, you know the Inquisitor would officiate–”

“Garrett,” Varric says, and the minute widening of his eyes and the way Hawke swallows in response to the name thankfully shatters that blankness. Varric’s gut clenches when Hawke doesn’t look away. “That isn’t what you said.”

Hawke hesitates, sighs as he sinks further into the cushy chair meant for visiting dignitaries.

“Will you marry me, Varric?” A pause, before he tries to tease: “It worked in your books.” 

At long last, Varric sets down the quill that’s been slowly dripping ink on the ruined letter, rubbing his temples to stave off the oncoming headache. He can still feel divots in his skin from the damn iron crown he has to wear all day.

“This isn’t one of my novels – and you’re thinking of Isabela’s friend fictions,” he corrects.

“C’mon, you can’t tell me you didn’t mention a marriage of convenience at least once in Swords and Shields?”

“Okay, in the second– that’s not the point, Hawke.” 

In the face of his frown, Hawke sighs, running a hand through his hair without meeting Varric’s eyes. 

“Look, I heard about Bianca–” and he looks up just in time to catch the wince Varric can’t hide. “Yeah, so I know why you don’t want to marry anyone. I figured, this way it’d be someone you can stand,” Hawke says, mouth pulling into his trademark smile, as if it’s really that easy.

Varric slides his hands under the desk, the better to hide his clenching fists. He’s not in the mood to explain about him and Bianca, not after what happened in Valammar, even if he’s sure Hawke’s heard more than enough from the Inquisition’s side. 

“And what’s in it for you?” Varric grinds out, trying to get them off the topic of Bianca, watching as Hawke’s smile goes tight at the corners of his eyes. Hawke cups his hands together, exaggeratedly pleading.

“Why, my own handsome dwarf to take care of me in my retirement, of course!” 

It could be the truth – Hawke never lost his noble status, despite defending the mage who blew the Chantry to the Void, but he no longer has the deep pockets that came from years establishing himself as a nobleman mercenary in Kirkwall. It makes perfect sense in the context of Hawke looking for somewhere safe to roost after so long on the run. It would also solve many of the problems Varric’s been running into with the Guilds. 

It could be the truth, but it’s not. Varric looks back down at the stack of letters he still has to reply to and finds he doesn’t have the energy to beat around the bush.

“I appreciate the offer, Hawke, but I’ll have to pass.” He gestures at the letter on his desk that he’ll have to rewrite with a sigh. “I’m not really into the whole marriage thing without feelings involved.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of parchment to start anew, sure that’ll be the end of it when Hawke interjects:

“And if there were feelings involved?” 

Varric freezes, glad he hasn’t picked up the quill again yet. When he slowly looks up to meet them, Hawke’s eyes are blank. Suddenly, Varric hates that lack of expression almost as much as he hates red lyrium. 

But Hawke said...

“If there were feelings involved,” he starts, trying desperately to quash the hot hope blooming in his chest, “I’d ask why now.” Why now, and not anytime in the previous decade. 

“Well, you’ve never bitched so much about marriage before–” Hawke starts but throws up his hands with another strained grin when Varric frowns at him. “And you had Bianca, anyway.”

“You didn't know about her until last year.” At that, the grin drops, his mien flashing between embarrassment and discomfort as, for the first time in literal years, Varric watches red seep into Hawke’s cheeks.

“Then it was because you’re not into humans, or men. Because you’re the only one that hasn’t left, and I wasn’t going to fuck that up.” It’s stated like a fact, an inevitable truth of the universe.

Varric doesn’t know where to start with that – all of it is wrong. But he can’t say that, not without being a gigantic hypocrite. 

“I’m an idiot,” he sighs, and stands up from his desk. It’s only because he’s keeping a close eye that he sees Hawke’s aborted twitch. “Half the crew was in love with you, you know,” he says conversationally, making his way around the desk. “We had a bet going on who would actually get your attention.” 

Varric watches the we land, now close enough to watch Hawke’s eyes go wide and dark as he takes in the information. Hawke opens his mouth, closes it, then licks his lips as his gaze flickers over Varric’s face. 

Still, the man hesitates. 

“And.. who did you bet on?” 

“Not myself.” Varric laughs under his breath, and takes a step into Hawke’s space. Sitting down, he’s only a head taller than Varric – easy enough to reach up, to cup a hand to the side of Hawke’s face and drag a thumb along his cheekbone. Hawke turns his head into it, and Varric feels more than sees the testing glance of lips against his wrist. “I owe Rivaini twenty sovereigns,” Varric grumbles, and when he slides his hand behind Hawke’s head and pulls him down, he comes willingly, their lips meeting in a dry press. Hawke pulls back a bare inch to adjust the angle, then they’re kissing again, one of Hawke’s arm’s sliding around his waist, making Varric’s heart speed in his chest. 

Hawke sucks in a breath when they pull apart, their eyes meeting. 

They both break into laughter.

“I can’t believe you proposed to me instead of confessing.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bet on yourself.” Hawke sounds incredulous. “You’re an author, aren’t you supposed to be more observant? How did Isabela know when you didn’t?” 

“To be fair, she put money down on everyone but Donnic.”

“Everyone but– even Aveline?” 

By the time Varric stops laughing at the face Hawke made, Hawke is looking at him more solemnly, mouth red and wet, crooked in a smile Varric can’t quite take his eyes off. The hug that Hawke pulls him into is unexpected, but he sinks into the tight embrace with the weight of years finally sloughing off his shoulders. 

“I love you, you know,” Hawke murmurs in his ear. Varric sucks in a sharp breath, his heart clenching hard. He tightens his grip around Hawke’s shoulders.

This… this is good. Varric, for once in his life, gets to have what he wants. He turns his face into the crook of Hawke’s neck and presses his mouth just where skin meets the edge of Hawke’s beard.

“Yeah, I love you, too.”

[tessatechaitea]

Cerebus #8 (1979)

This cover doesn't help me remember what this issue is about.

Having only ever read the first half of Cerebus via the collected stories in the Cerebus phonebooks, this is the first time I'm seeing most of the early covers of Cerebus. I probably started reading the monthly issues during "Flight" but had purchased the "Melmoth" back issues. So I'll be getting a lot of new material in the covers and the Aardvark Comments section all the way up through "Jaka's Story." In Note from the Publisher, Deni explains that Cerebus is currently selling 4,000 copies a month. That's four thousand dollars a month! Of course, Dave probably has to sell at half the cover price, so maybe that's more like two thousand. And then there's the expense of paying for your own printing and shipping. I have no idea what that might cost but let's pretend it's another thousand dollars. That leaves Dave and Deni with one thousand dollars per month before taxes and art equipment! And I know I'm being way too optimistic so let's say it's more like $750. In Canadian dollars! That's probably about five hundred American dollars! But then again, this was 1979 dollars and cars were about six thousand dollars back then. You could buy a house for twenty grand. So by Issue #8, Dave was either really starting to make a lot of money or heading toward financial ruin. I'm not sure why I even began this paragraph when I have no idea what I'm talking about. Although, four thousand copies of an independent comic book by the eighth issue? That's good fucking marketing. No wonder Dave Sim became the God of Self-Publishing. In his Swords of Cerebus essay, Dave Sim continues to explain how he was growing as a writer and artist. It's the kind of thing a fan of Sim's work enjoys reading but not the kind of thing that I can make entertaining in a brief synopsis. So fuck off to the next paragraph already. We're done here. At the end of the last issue, Cerebus escaped his battle with a gigantic Black Sun spider god. But he did not escape as unscathed as I maybe led everybody to believe. He was actually bitten and poisoned by the thing and now he's wandering the desert (unless it's the tundra (which is probably a definitive desert but what am I? A reader of The Farmer's Almanac?!), hallucinating and probably dying. Some Conniptin soldiers find Cerebus and take them back to their Commander's quarters. The Commander isn't the main leader of the army; the main leader is some cocaine snorting prince who thinks he's a god. He wants Cerebus made into a bath robe which would mean Cerebus would get the last laugh. Because remember how badly Cerebus' fur smells when it gets wet? Ha ha! That joke was so funny Dave used it five or six times in the Bran Mak Mufin issue. The Captain and the Commander make plans to oust the young Lord and take over the army themselves. But they need Cerebus by morning for their plan and Cerebus isn't healthy enough. So they take him to the army's doctor for a few Star Trek jokes that seem cheesy and overly done (but maybe not so much in 1979? Or is that the whole point of the running joke here? Because it's a tired format that Sim subverts at the end?) but which ends with a pretty fantastic punchline.

To really appreciate this joke, I think you have to remember what the world was like in 1979. If you weren't born or cognizant of the world at that time, I can't explain it to you. It's like trying to explain Ringo's obsession with the hole in his pocket to somebody who has never seen The Yellow Submarine and who also doesn't know who The Beatles are and has also never heard music or seen animation. Yeah, the 70s were that fucking cool.

The Captain and the Commander take Cerebus out later and point him in the direction of a campfire. They tell them the men around the fire drugged him and they should pay. Feverish and sick, Cerebus runs up to the small camp and begins slaughtering the four men around it. He hallucinates that three of them are Elrod and one of them is Sophia. So what the reader learns this issue is that Cerebus is ready to kill all of the other characters of his comic book at a moment's notice. How The Roach and Weisshaupt and Elrod and Rick and Astoria and Cirin last as long as they do is a miracle. Or it's just part of the contrived story. I guess if it were real, it would seem like a miracle. But since this is all written by Dave Sim, it's just the way it was meant to be. I'm not sure what their eventual plan is for Cerebus as this just seemed to be a test. I guess he's their Manchurian Candidate? The four mercenaries Cerebus killed were Hsifan. The Commander and Captain are Conniptin. I have no idea what these things mean. I think Hsifans make really good ninja assassins though so killing four of them is pretty damned impressive.

Like I said. Killing twenty-five Hsifans is pretty damned impressive.

This story highlights one of Cerebus' bigger life problems: he's constantly being pulled into other people's stories. If he's not trying to steal some treasure to get more gold crowns so he can drink more ale, he's slaughtering other mercenaries to get more gold to drink more ale. And when he's not doing either of those things, it's usually because he's gotten caught up in somebody else's story. I suppose that's what you need to expect when you're some kind of prophetic Messiah. Your story has already been told and you're just time's puppet. But — and I think this is the most important part — something about being an aardvark allows Cerebus to tell destiny and fate to fuck off. So quite often, Cerebus just walks away from the story he got sucked in without a care to its resolution. It has something to do with aardvarks being soulless and less with aardvarks being hermaphrodites. Because I think maybe that's just Cerebus. The Commander and Captain want to make Cerebus their new leader because they can't stand the selfish, greedy fops who rule. The Conniptin motto is "Might makes right! Fight, fight, fight!" Which you really can't argue with unless you're a talented fighter. So Cerebus is offered the job which he can refuse if he doesn't mind having his guts spilled on the floor.

Seems like Cerebus' future is pretty cut and dry. If you forget that he's an aardvark.

Cerebus decides he'd rather escape than be a puppet of the Commander. But after knocking out the guard and trudging some way across the snow, he thinks twice. He decides having a warm place to sleep and free food are a better deal than running for his life from vengeful Conniptins. He also likes the idea of leading an army. If you're not into Cerebus as a mercenary captain, don't worry. It won't last more than one issue!

Damn, I'd forgotten about this line. It used to be one of my favorites to quote whenever being offered some payment or reward of some kind. "What's better than X? Mayhap two Xes!"

Fred Hembeck writes in to Aardvark Comment this month as well as, if not as famous as, David R. Wooten. Pretty sure I've seen David's name in quite a few letters pages of DC comics. The Singles Page is a strip by John Barclay called "Small Potatoes!" It's twelve panels of a couple of guys singing "Dude Looks Like a Lady" on, I guess, a street corner. They sing, over and over again, "DooDuckGlackaLayda!" It's social commentary of some sort. I think. Maybe he's just making fun of the repetitive nature of the song, or any song you're forced to hear out in public by buskers and bucket drummers. Who can tell?! Humor was different in 1988 (the Singles Page is only from the Bi-Weekly! That's why the date is different from the comic). Cerebus #8 Rating: A. There's something happening here. What it is ain't a standard comic book. But it's not what a lot of people thought of as an underground comic book. For one, not once has Cerebus walked around with an erect penis. What was this nonsense not being published by DC or Marvel but also not being weird animal porn that is also personal confessional?! I wish I hadn't been so ashamed of purchasing adult material that my mom might raise an eyebrow at but then say nothing at all. One time she cleaned my bathroom where I had a playboy under the sink. Instead of saying anything, she just straightened it up and left it. I couldn't look at her for weeks. Although I was pretty relieved because at least a week before that, I had about twenty Playboys in there! I can't remember why I moved them but at least she didn't know the extent of my wanking! She probably thought, "Oh how cute. One magazine! And the centerfold is an African-American lady. My boy ain't no jerk off racist!" instead of thinking, "How many fucking porn mags does he need? Does he do anything but jerk off? Oh God! I'm not touching anything of his ever again! Plus isn't this copy of Penthouse the one with an underage Traci Lords?! I wonder how much that will be worth in thirty years?" Of course she thought that last thought not realizing that thirty years later, it would be considered child porn. No, I don't own it anymore, you pervs. I threw out all of those porn mags when I went to college because I didn't know where to hide them! Also I was underage when looking at the Traci Lords' Penthouse so it wasn't weird. She was older than me in those pictures!

[bornpariah-a]

if this is dragon age, the giant tree that’s infected with red lyrium is probably in nevarra because of the skulls on top what i can only assume to be urns, i’ve no idea where the red lyrium infected deep mushroom is maybe kirkwall or orzammar but probably kirkwall so that sucks, no idea what fortress that could be, could be weisshaupt i guess

[dalishious]

random question! assuming that the Hero of Ferelden made the ultimate sacrifice and ignoring any headcanons, where are they "canonically" buried? is it at Weisshaupt? i read The Last Flight and Garahel's gauntlets are mentioned - are all the Grey Wardens who die killing the Archdemon buried there? thanks in advance!

So a quick correction, first: Garahel is not buried at Weisshaupt; he was cremated as typical in Andrastian society, except of course for him it was a very big and largely attended event.

But there is a sarcophagus on display with his armour in place of a burial, in the centre of the library.

In the centre of the room was a glass sarcophagus raised up on a dais of gilt white marble. At its head, a pair of enormous black horns spiralled up almost to the ceiling, their tips lost in shadow. The sarcophagus was obviously very old; although slightly tinted, the panes of glass set into its walls and lid had been painstakingly cut to avoid bull’s-eyes, ripples, or other flaws common in older glass. The panes in the coffin were no bigger than Valya’s palm, but each one was flawless.Feeling as though she’d fallen into some kind of trance, the young elven mage stepped through the archway and approached the sarcophagus. Through the lattice of glass and lead, she could see a suit of silverite plate mail gleaming faintly in the wan grey sunlight. It didn’t look like ceremonial armour. The Wardens’ griffon was etched upon the breastplate, and there was some simple chase work on the helm and pauldrons, but it had the look of hard-used service mail. Old sweat stained the leather straps, and whoever had last polished the armour hadn’t quite been able to get all the dents out.The armour’s empty gauntlets were folded over two weapons: a long knife in a plain leather scabbard, and a graceful, swooping longbow with a pair of grey-and-white feathers tied to its top end like a tassel. It was the sight of those mottled feathers, brittle with age, that made Valya suck in a sudden breath of recognition.Those are Garahel’s....Behind them, Caronel smiled. “We keep relics from all the blights here. This isn’t just a library. It is a monument to honour the fallen.”--Last Flight

So do I think that there would be a display for the HoF at Weisshaupt? Definitely. But no, I don’t think they were buried there. Unless their ashes are kept there somewhere. I don’t actually know what they do with the ashes afterwards; those might be somewhere in Weisshaupt, yeah.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Good Intentions

Chapter 31 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

The crew heads to frosty Emprise du Lion this week, and I asked my darling @lethendralis-paints do a BEAUTIFUL little painting of FenRynne staying warm, so I simply had to post the art and the chapter together!

Read on AO3 instead; ~9000 words.

Hawke shivered and rubbed her arms. “You know, I think I’ve been spoiled by Skyhold. It’s all lovely and warm there with the elven magic and all. It’s made me go soft.”

Fenris glanced at her as they picked their way through the destroyed village on the way to Suledin Keep. She did look exceptionally cold. 

“Would you care for my cloak?” he said.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “So chivalrous, you are,” she purred. “But no. I’ll just keep complaining. This way I’ll distract everyone else from how cold they are.” 

Varric chuckled. “Thanks, Hawke. That’s really helpful.”

“That’s me,” she chirped. “Always being as useful as possible.” She elbowed Dorian, who was trudging through the snow beside her. “How are you holding up, northern boy? Maybe you need Fenris’s cloak.”

“I would, if his cloak wasn’t such a marvelously mundane shade of murky green,” Dorian said. He shot Fenris a mocking pout. “What happened to your black one? It suited you far better. It would have suited me far better.”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “This one is warmer. I prefer to choose my clothes for—” 

 “— function over form and so on, I know. More’s the pity.” Dorian shot him a sly look. “You know, if you had something tailored, it could be both attractive and functional…”

Fenris shot him a flat look. “Dorian. I don’t need tailoring. In fact, nobody needs tailoring.” 

Dorian laughed. “Tell that to Josephine the next time you have to go to an Orlesian function.”

Fenris gave Hawke a long-suffering look. “I thought this conversation about clothing and tailors would end with the wedding.”

“Apparently not,” she said cheerfully. “For what it’s worth, I think you look handsome in everything.”

Her smile was wide and wicked, and Fenris shot her a forbidding look. He knew exactly what she was about to say next. “Don’t,” he warned.

Heedless of his warning, she sidled up to him leaned in close to his ear. “I also think you look even more handsome in nothing at all,” she murmured.

He huffed and shook his head. “You are shameless.” 

“Of course I am,” she said. She twined her fingers with his. “Lucky for me that skin-to-skin contact is the best way to stay warm.”

Fenris shot her a chiding look. Her voice was quiet, but to her left, Dorian was smirking. “Later, Hawke,” he muttered.  

She chuckled. “I hope that’s a promise,” she whispered. She released him and strolled over to Blackwall instead. “Blackwall, are you all right? You’ve been terribly quiet since we raided the quarry.” 

He gave her a small smile. “I’m just fine.”

She looped her hand through his elbow. “Come now, I don’t buy that. You look like someone stole your favourite puppy.” 

He sighed. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking—”

“You? Thinking?” Dorian said archly. “Quick, someone send a raven to Skyhold so Maryden can write a ballad in honour of the occasion.”

Blackwall shot Dorian a venomous look, and Fenris and Varric exchanged a quick glance. Blackwall and Dorian had been sniping at each other on and off the whole time they’d been in Emprise du Lion. Fenris was growing rather weary of it, but he was biting his tongue, especially after Varric had pointed out — to Fenris’s chagrin — that he and Anders had carried on far worse during their seven years in Kirkwall. 

Hawke, on the other hand, had spent the trip trying to smooth things over with flirting and jokes. She seemed to have reached the end of her rope today, however. “All right, all right, you’re both manly men with giant weapons and beautiful facial hair,” she snapped. “Now please shut up.” She turned pointedly to Blackwall again. “Thinking about what?”  

“About the Templars, I suppose,” he said. “And the Grey Wardens. They were all just trying to do the right thing, and Corypheus used their morals against them.”

She grimaced. “I know. It’s a rather shit deal, isn’t it?” She patted his arm comfortingly. “We’ll stop Coryfish, though. He’ll get his comeuppance sooner than later.”

He shook his head sadly. “You make it sound easy. But how many more people will die before Corypheus does? How many more good people will be corrupted before we stop him?” He sighed. “It’s not right. To want to do good, to be good, and have that turned against you.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Then Varric chuckled. “Damn, hero. You’ve been having a real existential crisis over there, haven’t you?”

Hawke shot him a quick grin, then turned back to Blackwall. “You’re right. It sucks to try and do the right thing and have it blow up in your face. But what else can you do?” She shrugged. “You’ve got to trust your gut, right? Keep on moving forward. What other choice is there?”

“But how do you know you can trust your gut?” Blackwall asked. “Warden-Commander Clarel’s intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great it led her astray. How do you know if your intentions are guiding you down the right path?” He looked askance at Fenris. “You’ve brought us this far. Everything you’ve done has led us to victory. How did you know that everything would go well?”

Fenris wearily rubbed his hair through his hood. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him that people thought he actually had a plan for taking Corypheus down, or that he was always in control of everything that happened. This was the way of so-called ‘heroes’, after all; most people never saw the uncertainty and the terrible choices and the sheer dumb fortune — or lack thereof — that conspired to result in any given outcome. It had been the same with Hawke back in Kirkwall; she won one duel with the Arishok, a terrible duel in which she’d almost died, and suddenly she had the reputation of being the only person who could keep the entire city safe.

A reputation that had nearly gotten her killed.

He looked at Blackwall. “I didn’t know that everything would go well,” he said bluntly. In his opinion, everything hadn’t gone well since the Inquisition had begun; they’d lost people at Haven, and they had lost many soldiers at Adamant, and he had left Carver behind in the Fade. “No one can know for certain that their course of action is right. It is as Hawke said; you must trust your instincts. And the instincts of the people you trust,” he added, with a glance at Hawke. “And you must move forward.” 

A memory of Carver’s determined face flashed across his mind. He breathed through the guilt, then looked at Blackwall again. “There is no point sitting stagnant in the regrets of what might have been if you’d made another choice. There is only forward,” he said. 

Blackwall’s expression was attentive but melancholy, and Fenris felt another little writhing of guilt in his gut. He’d ultimately told Stroud and the Wardens to remain at Weisshaupt until Corypheus was eliminated, and he knew Blackwall wasn’t pleased about the decision. Fenris had initially considered telling only the Warden mages to remain at Weisshaupt, but Hawke had immediately argued the idea, saying it was barely a step away from imprisoning them in a Circle and that it would send a terrible message about mages in general to the rest of Thedas. So Fenris had reluctantly agreed to isolate all the Wardens to Weisshaupt until further notice. 

It was a decision that Fenris was still not entirely comfortable with, particularly given the darkspawn presence that Harding had reported in the Storm Coast. But Fenris didn’t feel informed enough about the Warden’s secretive ways to be entirely comfortable with their joining the Inquisition, so this seemed the more prudent option for now. 

Hawke squeezed Blackwall’s arm. “Come on, Blackwall, you don’t need to worry. You’re one of the good ones. If you weren’t, Fenris would kick you out of Skyhold in a heartbeat.”

Blackwall heaved a heavy sigh, then nodded. “I hope so, my lady.” He winced and pulled a copper out his pocket, then handed it to her. “Sorry, Hawke.”

She smiled and pocketed the coin. “No harm done.”

Fenris looked at them in surprise. “What was that for?”

“Blackwall is giving me a copper every time he calls me ‘my lady’,” she said.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Dare I ask why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m not a fucking lady, obviously.” She smiled cheekily at Blackwall. “We’re breaking a bad habit one copper at a time.”

“I dunno, Hawke,” Varric said. “You did get the Amell name restored, so I think technically—” 

She groaned. “That was in Kirkwall. We’re not in Kirkwall anymore.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “That’s true.”

She shot him a guilty look, then slung an arm around his neck. “Don’t you get mopey on me now. When Corytits is dead, maybe we can all go back to Kirkwall for a bit.”

He looked at her and Fenris in surprise. “You’d come back to Kirkwall? Seriously?”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a nonplussed look. They’d somehow never discussed settling in Kirkwall when this war was over. In truth, Fenris had a hard time imagining them returning to a life in Kirkwall after everything that had happened there. 

“I… don’t know. Maybe?” Hawke said. She pulled a face at Fenris. 

He shrugged. “Perhaps. For a visit, at least.” 

“Mm. Yeah, a visit would be nice,” Varric said. He rubbed his nose. 

Hawke’s face crumpled, and she hugged Varric more tightly around the neck. “Oh, Varric, stop it,” she begged. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He cleared his throat and patted her arm. “Ah, come on, Hawke, don’t do that. Your tears will freeze on your face.”

She gave a shaky little laugh and kissed the top of his head, and Fenris watched them with an ache behind his sternum. He felt rather stupid now for not realizing that Varric had probably missed them — especially Hawke — during their two years in hiding. Hawke wasn’t the only one who considered their Kirkwall group to be family, after all. 

Varric looked up and met his eye, and Fenris grimaced and shrugged helplessly, uncertain what to say. They continued their trek toward Suledin Keep in an increasingly awkward silence. 

Thankfully — or perhaps not so thankfully — Dorian broke the silence. “I’m sorry, but is no one going to protest the fact that Hawke is essentially robbing Blackwall of his coin?” 

Blackwall raised his eyebrows. “Since when do you care about me getting robbed?”

“Since it means you have less coin for personal hygiene products, of course,” Dorian said disdainfully. He shot Hawke a pleading look. “At least use some of that coin to buy him some soap. Consider this a heartfelt plea.”

Blackwall grunted. “You know, some of us have better things to do than spend hours preening in front of the mirror like pompous prats.”

“That’s true,” Dorian said. “Like rolling around in the stables with the other hairy beasts. That is what you’ve been doing, yes? That’s certainly what it smells like.”

Blackwall scowled, but Hawke turned to Dorian before Blackwall could reply. “I didn’t hear you complaining about bodily smells when you were talking to Bull the other day.”

For a split second, Dorian’s eyes went wide — tellingly wide. Then he flicked some snow from his collar. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Hawke cackled and skipped over to him. “You know exactly what I mean. And if you didn’t want anyone to know about you and Bull, maybe you shouldn’t have been talking about it so loudly right in the middle of the courtyard.” 

“Wait,” Blackwall said. He stared at Dorian. “You and Bull are canoodling?”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Canoodling? Oh, my. I didn’t realize you were a prissy octogenarian. Shall we buy you a cane during the next trip to Val Royeaux?” 

Blackwall grunted, but Varric grinned. “I don’t hear a denial there, Sparkler.”  

Hawke snickered and elbowed Dorian. “Me neither.”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian muttered. He shot them a resentful look. “For such a large castle, there’s certainly no privacy to be had at Skyhold.”

Hawke tutted and linked her arm with Dorian’s. “Oh come now, Dorian, we gossip about everyone. Why should you be exempt?”

“My dear Hawke, we gossip in private,” Dorian retorted. “If we’re talking publicly about everyone’s sex lives, let’s talk about yours and Fenris’s.”

“No,” Fenris said loudly. 

Hawke tutted again. “Fine, fine. You’ll dish in private, then? Later?” She gazed imploringly at Dorian. 

He rolled his eyes. “You really are an intractable pervert. I don’t know how Fenris copes with you.” He gave her a mocking look. “Should I draw diagrams for you? Would that be sufficiently entertaining?”

“Ooh, yes,” she said with relish. “I’ve been looking for some good reading material. I’ve run out of Randy Dowagers to read.”

“If you’re looking for something smutty, you can always ask Cassandra,” Varric said. “Maybe she’ll lend you the chapters I wrote her if you ask her really nicely.”

Hawke whipped around to look at him with wide eyes. “You wrote smut? Already? Aren’t you only about three chapters in?”

“Five, actually,” Varric said. “I found some time before we left Skyhold.” 

Hawke whistled and released Dorian’s arm. “Good on you. All right, you’ve got my attention. Tell me more.”

Varric and Hawke sank into a discussion of Varric’s writing, and Dorian breathed a soft sigh of relief. He and Fenris walked side-by-side in silence for some time.

“Is it serious?” Fenris said quietly.

Dorian groaned. “Oh, not you too. You’re as bad as your wife.”

Fenris shrugged. “Fair enough.” He said nothing more.

A minute later, Dorian spoke again, very quietly. “I don’t know what it is. It’s only happened twice.” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “All right, fine, three times.”

Fenris nodded an acknowledgment. “Are you happy when you’re together?”

Dorian shot Fenris an odd look, almost as though Fenris was trying to trick him. Then he scoffed. “I can just imagine the stories everyone will tell. The evil Vint magister and the big boorish qunari taking over Thedas one sordid sexcapade at a time. The rumours will be worse than the ones they were making up about you and me.”

It didn’t escape Fenris’s notice that Dorian hadn’t answered his question. “They don’t know you. Ignorant tongues speak nothing of value,” he told Dorian. “You know that.” He thought of Hawke and the way she’d always defiantly faced down anyone who disdained her for mating with a knife-ear. 

“Ah, Fenris. So innocent about the weight of a good rumour,” Dorian said playfully. “Or a bad rumour, I should say. I do enjoy your naiveté in this, it’s one of your most endearing traits.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Do not mistake my words for naiveté. I know whose opinion matters and whose doesn’t. Do you?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, then looked away. They walked in silence for another minute. Then Dorian shrugged and smirked. “Maybe I am happy. Or maybe I’m entirely mad. Happiness and madness can be so difficult to distinguish, can’t they? They’re both accompanied by such a lovely little state of euphoria.”

He was deflecting, exactly as Hawke did when she was disturbed by something. Fenris glanced at him, then reluctantly switched to Tevene. “It is difficult,” he said. “Liking someone that you thought you should hate on principle.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows at the language change, then chuckled. “Charming though these overtures may be, you don’t have to butter me up. We’re already friends.”

Fenris gave him a serious look. Finally, at long last, Dorian’s shit-eating smile slowly faded. 

“You don’t think this is just a foolish lark, then?” he said. “Dorian Pavus going off and pulling another shameless act of debauchery?”

Fenris gazed at him in exasperation. “When have I ever accused you of debauchery? Arrogance, perhaps. Being smug, perhaps. Having overly coiffed hair—”

“I knew you liked something about me,” Dorian quipped.

Fenris ignored him. “Do you think it’s a foolish lark?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian snapped. He took a deep breath and started twisting one of his gold rings around his finger. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a lark. I haven’t… been with anyone since leaving home.”

Fenris shrugged. “For that reason alone, perhaps it is a good thing. A way to break from the chains that Tevinter society placed on you.”

They walked quietly for another minute. Then Fenris spoke again, this time in the common tongue. “I hope you can trust him. He is still a qunari spy.”

“Fasta vass. I knew you didn’t approve,” Dorian complained. 

Fenris frowned. “That is not what I said. And why do you care if I approve?”

Dorian stared at him in exasperation. “Do you even listen to a word out of your own perfectly pouty mouth?” He put on a mocking baritone voice. “‘Rely on the instincts of the people you trust. Know whose opinion matters.’ And then you go and ask why I care what you think.” He snorted and continued to fight his way through the knee-deep snow.

Fenris doggedly strode through the snow beside him. “You want my opinion.”

“And finally the Inquisitor catches on,” Dorian said waspishly. 

Fenris bit back his irritation. “My opinion is this. You should trust your own instincts. I am not your father,” he said severely. “I am not going to place judgement on whom you lie with. Just be careful.” 

Dorian pressed his lips together and didn’t speak. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed. “Thank you. I… I appreciate your concern. Truly.”

Fenris shrugged and didn’t look at him. “Thank me by not drawing diagrams for Hawke. I do not want to see them tacked on the wall of our bedroom.”

Dorian grinned at him. “And why would she tack them on the wall of your bedroom, pray tell? Inspiration, perhaps?” He gasped playfully. “Are we about to gossip about your sex life after all?”

Fenris snorted in disgust. “I regret saying anything.” He turned on his heel and started to return to Hawke and Varric. 

“We’ll pick up this discussion later, then!” Dorian called after him. “Perhaps over tea and those little frilly cakes that Solas is so partial to.” 

Fenris ignored him. A moment later, however, the distinctive sounds of clashing swords reached his ears, followed by the distinctive roar of a rage demon. 

He whipped around to look. Suledin Keep was less than a hundred paces away, and a lone blond figure was valiantly fighting two red Templars and a handful of demons. 

 “Shit,” Hawke said. 

“That’s the chevalier guy,” Varric said. “Michel.”

“Let’s move,” Fenris snapped, and they bolted toward the entry to the Keep. 

A few minutes later, the red Templars were dead and the demons were scattered to the wind, and Fenris and their party were catching their breath along with the lone chevalier. 

“Herald,” he said. He bowed quickly to Fenris. “Your efforts at the quarry have not gone unnoticed. The demon Imshael sent a pack of shades to Sahrnia. I must go back and defend the villagers. Please, destroy Imshael before he escapes.” Without waiting for a response, Michel sheathed his sword and bolted away – but not before doing a quizzical double-take at Blackwall. 

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Michel’s departing back, then turned to Blackwall. “That was odd. Do you know him?” 

“No,” Blackwall said brusquely. He nodded toward the Keep. “Let’s stop this demon.” 

Fenris nodded agreement, and they began to make their way carefully through Suledin Keep. The fortress was enormous and the potential threat of enemy numbers was great, so they moved as silently as they could through the snow and stuck to corners and shadows to retain the element of surprise.  

The steady trickle of Templars they encountered were easy enough to ambush. But when they reached the cages containing the red lyrium-infested corpses of giants, they all took pause. 

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke breathed. She peered into the cage. “Poor bastards.”

“Poor them?” Dorian said archly. “Poor us, I say, if these mad Templars managed to tweak their red lyrium recipe properly.” He grimaced as he studied the grisly corpses.

Varric, meanwhile, was standing some distance away from the cages. “Careful, Hawke,” he said tensely. “Don’t get too close to that stuff.”

“It’s all right, Varric,” she said soothingly. “We all have our charms from Dagna. We’re safe.” 

“Not entirely safe,” Fenris reminded her. “It is still as toxic as regular lyrium.” He walked over to her and gently took her arm. “Come. Varric is right. We should move on.” 

They moved away from the cages and through another snow-encrusted arch, and Dorian wilted in dismay. “Kaffas. Of course.” 

Thirty paces away, a giant was stomping around and blocking the path ahead. Red crystals were sprouting from its shoulders and back, and there were three red Templars standing guard around it. 

They crowded back against the wall out of sight. “Fuck,” Hawke muttered. “How did they tame it? I thought giants were really wild.” 

“It’s a good question,” Dorian whispered. “You would think the red lyrium would render it wilder than usual.” 

Fenris shook his head. “Red lyrium sickens them. That’s what all the notes we found have said. Sicken them slightly to make them more compliant, while also making them stronger…”

Blackwall furrowed his brow. “That makes no sense.”

“Since when does any of this shit make sense?” Varric muttered. 

Fenris huffed in agreement. He could only hope the Inquisition’s mages would have more information on lyrium when they next returned to Skyhold. “In any case, we must move on.” He looked around at their little group. “We all know what to do.” 

They murmured assent, and Fenris quickly squeezed Hawke’s hand before leading her quietly toward the giant by skirting the sides of the castle walls. Once they were all in position, Fenris nodded to Hawke and Dorian. 

Two rings of flame erupted around the Templars and the giant, and the frozen air was rent with the sounds of anguished screams and angered roaring. The warm tingle of Hawke’s barrier settled over Fenris’s shoulders, and he bolted toward the Templars while Blackwall ran at the giant with a battle cry. 

The red Templars were dispatched without too much fuss; their combat style was relatively predictable, especially after studying their strategies while decimating their operations in the quarry, and it was a simple enough matter for Fenris and Varric to kill the Templars without further magical help. 

The giant, however, was another matter. After several long, gruelling minutes of combat, its flesh was crackling with burns and wet with blood from Fenris and Blackwall’s strikes, but it was still roaring and flailing its long arms as though it had hardly been harmed. 

“Damn, it’s strong,” Varric panted. He loaded three more bolts into his crossbow and scowled up at the enormous creature. “What are we supposed to do?” 

“Let’s hamstring it,” Blackwall shouted. “Get it on its knees, then bash its sorry head.”

“Try it,” Fenris yelled. It was as good a plan as any; sheer brute force was clearly not working. 

Unfortunately, before they could enact the plan, the giant grabbed an enormous boulder and lifted it overhead, then turned toward Hawke and Blackwall with a roar. 

Fenris’s stomach lurched in horror, and he bolted toward them. But just before the boulder came smashing down, Hawke thrust her hand toward the giant and clenched her fist. 

The giant froze, entrapped in a cage of blazing white light. “Got you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Dorian, hamstring the fucking thing.”

Dorian swung his staff in a lashing motion, and a bladelike projectile of ice slashed through the backs of the giant’s thighs straight to the bone. 

Hawke lowered her hand, breaking the cage of light, and the giant fell to its knees with a shriek of agony. With a roar of battle rage, Fenris slammed his blade into the beast’s skull.

He and Blackwall hacked at the giant’s head and neck until it finally fell facefirst into the snow with a thundering crash. For a moment, they stood in shocked silence catching their breath and staring at the giant’s bleeding body.

Fenris trudged over to Hawke’s side, then unstrapped a bottle of lyrium solution from her belt and removed the cap. He silently handed her the bottle, and she took it with a nod and drank it down. 

She wiped her mouth and placed the empty bottle back on her belt, then smiled at him. “That was fun. Let’s never do that again, shall we?”

He managed a half-smile as he studied her face. Her lips were turning blue and her normally-golden skin was bleached from the cold, but she looked strong enough despite using her most mana-sapping spell. 

He forced himself to breathe normally. “And you said we never go anywhere fun,” he drawled. 

“I believe that was me,” Dorian put in. “And it’s true. You never bring me anywhere fun.” He adopted a mocking voice. “‘Oh, the coldest place in all of Thedas, where red lyrium crystals compete for territory with human-sized pillars of ice. You know who would adore such a place? Dorian.’” He disdainfully rearranged his dishevelled hair.

Fenris cast him an exasperated look as he helped Hawke to step over the giant’s body. “Do you want to come on these trips or not? It would not be difficult to leave you behind.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” Blackwall said acidly.

Dorian shot them an affronted look. “What, and deprive you of my scintillating insights and intelligent badinage? Perish the thought.” 

Varric chuckled weakly and patted Fenris’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get this party moving. This fortress doesn’t seem like it’s gonna clear itself, unfortunately.”

And so it was a weary party that continued the foray through the keep. They moved more cautiously than before, wary of conserving their energy and mana; Fenris was quite sure the showdown with the demon would be a significant trial, based on what Michel had told them back at Sahrnia when they’d first arrived in Emprise du Lion a few days ago. 

Unfortunately, the path through the enormous keep only became more populated with enemies, including one more giant and a number of large demons. By the time they had nearly reached the top of the tower, all of them were bloodied — albeit healed thanks to Hawke — and Hawke was down to her last lyrium potion. 

She blew out an angry breath and glared at the faintly steaming piles of ichor that had been a rage demon just a few minutes ago. “All right, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s kill this fucking Imshael thing already so I can find a hot bath.” 

She was shivering, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or exhaustion. He unclipped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. 

She shook her head and tried to brush him off. “No, I don’t need it—” 

“It hinders my movement,” Fenris said. It was only a small lie; it did hinder him a bit, but that hardly mattered when he was able to skate along the edge of the Fade with his lyrium tattoos. “Keep it for me.” 

She frowned at him, then blew out a sharp breath. “All right. Fine. Let’s go, shall we?”

Fenris quashed a jolt of worry in his gut. If she was giving in so quickly, she must be more tired than she looked. 

They moved toward the door, and Fenris surreptitiously took her hand. “Stay far back,” he murmured to her. “Be cautious, Hawke.” 

“I know, I know,” she said. She squeezed his hand in turn. “No running in headfirst, I promise. I’ve got your back.”

He nodded and bit his tongue to stop himself from nagging her any further. Then Dorian appeared at her other side. 

“My gift to you,” he said, and he offered her a bottle of lyrium.

She frowned and pushed it back at him. “Dorian, come off of it. You need that.”

“You’ve been doing all the healing, if you didn’t notice,” Dorian said. “Take the bottle, please. It’s not very tasty, I know, but I can guarantee the next one I give you will be full of brandy.”

She rolled her eyes and took the small bottle from him. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Fenris met Dorian’s eyes and nodded his thanks, and Dorian smiled faintly at him before stepping forward and pushing open the enormous double doors to the tower. 

The moment they stepped through the doors, a smug, smooth voice addressed them. “Ah, the hero arrives. Wearing the marks of the ancient warriors, no less. But is it hero, or murderer? It’s so hard to tell.”

The speaker was a man: a rather nondescript, middle-aged man wearing a fine black coat and fine black shoes with tidy silver buckles. 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Imshael may have taken the form of a man, but his taunts reminded Fenris all too clearly of the Nightmare. 

“Demon,” he spat.

Imshael’s pleasant smile hardened. “Choice spirit,” he corrected. 

Hawke snorted. “Spirit, demon… either way, you’re a complete asshole.” She pulled her staff from her back. 

Imshael held up a finger. “Wait, wait!” he said. He looked at Fenris. “These are your friends? They’re very violent. It’s worrying.” He folded his hands behind his back. “True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn’t always have to end in blood.”

“Not always, no,” Fenris said. “In this case, yes.” He unsheathed his greatsword.

Imshael’s smile twisted into a snarl. “Fine,” he said. “If you won’t be smart, be afraid.” He suddenly burst into a huge and hideous rage demon. 

Hawke’s barrier fell over Fenris’s shoulders, and it was more comforting than any cloak. Three of Varric’s bolts struck the demon’s face in quick succession, and then Fenris and Blackwall were hacking at the demon’s body with all their strength. 

As promised, Hawke stood back and maintained a steady barrier over all of them while they attacked the demon. Dorian coated the creature with ice, rendering it brittle for their sword and arrow strikes, and the poison from Varric’s arrows withered the demon’s lava-liked flesh. 

Just when Fenris was sure that Imshael was beaten, he let out an unpleasant cackle of a laugh, then transformed into the largest demon of pride that they’d ever seen.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall swore. Then he and Fenris dodged away from the lashing of Imshael’s lightning-laced whips. 

The fight continued for an improbably long time. Imshael continued taunting them and changing forms, and each form he took seemed to lose some portion of the damage they’d inflicted. 

The demon backhanded Blackwall across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then laughed again. “Where’s that Michel, hmm? Afraid of another disastrous blunder, so he sends you to do his dirty work? A clever choice, that. Maybe I underestimated him… hah. I do amuse myself sometimes.” Imshael chuckled unpleasantly, then snarled as Fenris cleaved straight through his left leg.

“Vishante kaffas,” Fenris spat. “I’ll paint these stones with your vile blood, demon.”

“Choice. Spirit,” Imshael hissed. “Allow me offer you another one.” He phased across the ichor-and-ice-spattered ground, then grabbed Hawke by the throat and hauled her off her feet.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted.  

“Release her!” Fenris roared. Hawke was gripping Imshael’s scaly arm for support, and Fenris’s heart was beating a panicked staccato in his ears. 

“Gladly,” Imshael said. “If you give me the anchor on your hand.”

Imshael knew how to remove the mark? For an instant, the shock rendered Fenris breathless.

He took a step toward Hawke, then stopped when Imshael squeezed Hawke’s throat more tightly. “Ah-ah-ah. You have to make a choice. Either you give me the anchor, or she dies.”

Hawke was staring at him with wide eyes. Her face was going red, and her kicking was growing weaker. 

“Fine,” Fenris blurted. “The anchor is yours. It is a curse. I never wanted it.” 

Dorian and Blackwall exclaimed in surprise, and Imshael’s monstrous face twisted into a grin. “And the hero throws aside his purpose!” he crowed. “How disappointing. For your friends there, I mean.” He held out one grotesquely clawed hand. “Now let’s have a look at that pretty palm of yours.”

Fenris approached the demon, his eyes fixed on Hawke’s reddening face. 

“Wait a minute,” Dorian protested. “Imshael, let’s — let’s talk about this. What other options—”

“Too late, Tevinter princeling,” Imshael said. “The grand Inquisitor has made his choice.” 

Fenris ignored them. When he was within reach of the demon, he held out his crackling left hand.

Imshael chuckled — an evil, guttural sound. Just as Imshael was about to touch his hand, Fenris nodded surreptitiously to Hawke. 

She twisted her fist in a wrenching motion. A blazing cage of white light appeared around the demon, making him scream with rage, and Hawke fell to a heap on the ground.

Her right hand was outstretched to maintain the cage. She looked up at Fenris with bloodshot eyes. “Do it,” she rasped. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, Fenris flung his snapping left palm at the cage of light, and an enormous burst of pure rift magic exploded from his palm and bloomed violently inside of the cage, encapsulating the demon completely. 

A horrendous, furious scream of pain and fury emanated from the cage. Fenris gritted his teeth and held the cloud of magic in place until the screaming died away, then clenched his fist shut and released his breath.

The demon was destroyed, nothing more than a breath of ash that was swiftly dissipating into the frigid wind. Fenris fell to his knees beside Hawke, who was hunched on the icy ground. 

Blackwall, Dorian and Varric ran over to join them, but Fenris ignored them. “Hawke,” he said. He rubbed her arms, then cupped her cold cheek in his trembling palm. “Rynne, look at me.” 

She lifted her face and smiled at him. She looked absolutely exhausted. “Hey, handsome. Are you a choice spirit? Because you take my breath away.” She laughed feebly, then broke into a hacking cough. 

Fenris pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her ear. “You are an idiot,” he whispered. 

She took a slow, rasping breath. “Only for you, Fenris,” she said. “Only for you.” 

He swallowed hard and tucked his cloak more securely around her body. Varric patted his shoulder. “That was some fast thinking, you guys. Nice work.”

“You knew they were going to do that?” Blackwall asked Varric in surprise. 

Varric shrugged. “Ah, I saw them staring at each other. They’ve got that sappy married couple’s mind-reading thing going on.” 

Fenris didn’t respond. Varric wasn’t completely wrong; Hawke’s gaze had darted to the snapping magic building in his left hand, so he’d figured out what she was thinking. But in that split second, that terrifying instant when Imshael had tightened his monstrous fingers around her throat…

Fenris would have given Imshael the anchor to free Hawke from his grasp. He would have done it. 

He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled her sandalwood scent. Then Varric patted his shoulder again. “Come on, we should get her somewhere warm. A tent and a few blankets at least.” 

Fenris nodded. “We’ll set up camp here,” he said. He glanced around at the blood-and-ichor-stained paving stones. “Not right here,” he corrected, “but somewhere close by. I don’t want to move her too far.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Hawke said. She tried to push herself out of Fenris’s embrace. “I can walk. We can go back to the nearest Inquisition camp.”

Her voice was hoarse and weak. Fenris tightened his arms around her. “No,” he said. “We remain here until the morning.” He looked at Blackwall, who had a livid bruise swelling across his right cheek. “Find an Inquisition runner; let them know that Suledin Keep is ours. Have them send a healer.”

Hawke tutted. “Come on, Fenris, I don’t need a healer—” 

“Right away,” Blackwall said, and he marched away in the direction of the keep’s entrance. Varric and Dorian, meanwhile, had gone off to find a spot to set up for the night, leaving Fenris and Hawke alone. 

He carefully arranged the fur-lined hood of his cloak over her hair, and she gave him an exasperated look. “You don’t need to coddle me. Just give me some elfroot and I’ll be grand.”

“You are close to being overextended,” Fenris scolded. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know the signs by now. I will not take any chances with your life.” He pulled a bottle of lyrium potion from her pouch belt and handed it to her, then brushed her spiky bangs out of her eyes.

She reached up and took his hand. “Hey,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ve rubbed elbows with death way more closely than this—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t talk like that.”

She raised her eyebrows, then feebly shifted in his arms so she was sitting up in his lap. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

He took two deep, slow breaths before answering her. “I… I was ready to give the mark to the demon,” he admitted. “I was ready to trade the mark for your life.” 

She gazed at him in silence for a moment. Then she stroked his neck with her cold fingers. “You didn’t, though. It didn’t come to that.”

“But I would have,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I — the Inquisition — Hawke, I did not even consider it. It was the last thing on my mind—” 

She cupped his cheek in her palm. “You think I would have done differently?” she said. “Fenris, I… Maker fucking knows I would do the same for you.”

He swallowed hard. “What does that say about us?”

“What do you mean?” she said. Then she grinned. “Wait. Don’t tell me Blackwall’s existential crisis is rubbing off on you.”

He scoffed and rubbed his hair again. “Perhaps. He… they… there is no plan,” he said very quietly. “Even Varric thought that was planned. How we defeated Imshael. That was not planned.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “But it was a little bit awesome, right? I mean, come on. We tricked a really powerful demon. Sorry, ‘choice spirit’.” She snickered mockingly, then shrugged. “Maybe we really can read each other’s minds.” 

Fenris gave her a chiding look. “I am being serious. They think… I am not what they think,” he said. “The Inquisitor should be someone who is committed to the Inquisition. Someone like Cassandra.”

Hawke shrugged. “I disagree,” she said. “It should be someone like you who has a life outside of the Inquisition. Someone who knows what it’s like to not be in the Inquisition and remembers what we’re even doing all this shitty fighting for.” She made a little face. “Can you imagine having no life beyond the Inquisition? It would be pretty fucking sad, I think.”

He idly ran his thumb over her knuckles. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was just trying to find an excuse to shunt this responsibility off on someone else. 

Perhaps he just needed some rest. 

He sighed. “Come on, Hawke, let’s get you into a bedroll.” He carefully scooped her up and rose to his feet. 

She tutted, but draped her arms around his neck nevertheless. “You know, I really can walk, but you’re so dreamy that I’m not going to complain.”

He huffed. “That would make it a first for this trip.” 

She chuckled hoarsely. Then Varric called out to them. “Hey, you guys probably want to come over here.”

Fenris frowned slightly, then carried Hawke over to the most north-facing balcony of the keep where Varric and Dorian were standing over a half-dead red Templar.

Fenris raised his eyebrows and gently set Hawke on her feet. “Why have we not put him out of his misery?” he asked. 

Varric jerked his head at the Templar. “Just listen.”

The red Templar was muttering to himself. “A garden needs a gardener. Nurturing, gentle hands, directing the change,” he said hazily. “Not too fast, not too slow. Just right. Has to be just right.”

Hawke frowned. “He sounds like that note we found in the cellar here.” 

“A red lyrium gardener: how very macabre.” Dorian’s face was serious despite his flippant words. He looked at Fenris with a frown. “It makes sense, however. The red Templars we encountered here were far more cognizant than the first ones we encountered in Haven. Whatever the demon was doing here to slow the mental decay, it was working.” He eyed the dying red Templar with a mixture of pity and distaste. “Fortunate we stopped that Imshael fellow before they refined their technique any further.” 

Varric grunted. “Yeah. Every bit of red lyrium we get rid of is a good thing.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hawke said. She gestured at the red Templar, who was still muttering to himself. “Are we going to end this poor sod’s suffering, then?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. He removed a short knife from his belt, then knelt and quickly slashed the Templar’s throat. A moment later, the man released a sigh of relief as he died. 

They stood silently for a moment. Then Fenris placed a hand at the centre of Hawke’s back. “Come. Let’s rest. We should be set out for Skyhold in the morning.” 

They returned to the spot that Dorian had magically cleared for their tents, and Dorian lit a fire with a wave of his hand while Varric and Fenris set up their tents. Hawke sat by the fire and began unpacking some simple camping rations. 

“So let me get this straight,” she said as she handed Dorian a piece of oat bread. “Dwarves mine regular lyrium from the deep roads, but red lyrium just… grows bloody everywhere on everyone and everything?”

“Red lyrium came from the Deep Roads too, though,” Varric said. “I mean, who knows who made the idol, but we got it from the Deep Roads.” He sighed.

Hawke frowned sympathetically at him. “The idol can’t have been the only piece of red lyrium,” she reasoned. “It’s not where Corypheus got his stock from, because the idol’s still in Kirkwall with creepy statue Meredith, right? He must have gotten his red lyrium from somewhere else. Before he started farming it, at least.” 

Fenris knew why she was saying this to Varric: Varric felt guilty about the role that red lyrium was playing in their current troubles, even though Bartrand had been the one to spearhead their journey to the Deep Roads all those years ago, not to mention who had brought the idol into Kirkwall in the first place.

Varric wryly raised one eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comforting. To think there’s a vein of red lyrium somewhere that Corypheus is mining?”

Dorian stroked his mustache slowly. “Why grow it if they can mine it, though?”

“Growing is way more efficient,” Varric said darkly. “I mean, think about it. Who’d want to go mining in the Deep Roads when you can just harvest it from people’s bodies?”

Hawke and Dorian grimaced. “Such a charming thought,” Dorian said. “I may vomit.” 

Fenris and Varric joined them at the fire, and Fenris handed Hawke a vial of elfroot potion. “It puzzles me that red lyrium can grow in the first place,” he said. “It’s a mineral that must be mined. How is it possible that it grows?”

Hawke sipped her elfroot. “That’s true,” she said slowly. “Minerals crystallize. So maybe it’s just a form of… exaggerated crystallization?” She grimaced doubtfully. 

Varric and Fenris shrugged. Then Dorian spoke up. “Well, we keep saying people are infected with red lyrium. Maybe that’s really what it is: an infection. A parasite.”

“A parasitic mineral?” Hawke said. 

Varric sighed. “As if shit wasn’t weird enough already.” 

Fenris twisted his lips ruefully. He had to agree with Varric. It was hard enough trying to fathom the nature of regular lyrium without the red kind making matters more complicated.

He stared moodily at the white lines on his palm. For years he’d thought himself cursed by the tattoos that twisted and twined around his limbs. He’d become a bit more comfortable with the lyrium marks over the past few years, but with all these disturbing new questions, combined with what Solas had said about his erstwhile magic being held captive in the lyrium lines that marred his skin… 

He glared at the livid white lines on his palm. Then Hawke gently placed a piece of oat bread in his open hand. 

He looked up at her, and she smiled. “Eat,” she said softly. “I’m not the only one who’s tired after all that fighting.” 

He closed his fingers over the bread and nodded. She handed some bread to Varric too, then took a bite of her own bread. “I don’t know about you fellows, but I could eat an entire pot of stew right about now.” 

“Mm,” Varric agreed through a mouthful of bread. “Don’t remind me. I’d even eat the stew they made at the Hanged Man as long as it was hot.” 

Fenris snorted. “You’re fooling no one with that remark. We know you enjoyed the Hanged Man’s mystery stew.” He took a small bite of his bread.

“‘Tolerating until your taste buds go numb’ isn’t the same as ‘enjoying’,” Varric drawled. “Either way, I’d eat it.” 

“I have to agree,” Dorian said. “Anything as long as it was hot. Kaffas, I would even drink mulled wine right now.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like mulled wine? I thought you Tevinters loved your wine.”

“Oh, do we ever,” Dorian said with relish. “Hence why those with discerning tastes—” 

“Privileged tastes,” Fenris put in.

“–don’t drink mulled wine,” Dorian finished while blithely ignoring him. “I can’t quite fathom the logic behind mulled wine. ‘Ah yes, let’s take every bottle of wine in a ten-metre radius and dump it in a pot with a box of random spices. How delicious!’” He shuddered dramatically. “It’s truly one of the most ghastly discoveries I’ve made in the south.”

Fenris scoffed and took another bite of bread. Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t even try and pretend you enjoy mulled wine.”

Fenris swallowed his bread. “No,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean–”

Dorian laughed loudly. “Ah, be careful, my friend. Your true colours are showing.” 

Fenris huffed. “I don’t like it, but I would still drink it.”

“So would I,” Dorian said archly. “That’s the point. Desperate times, desperate drinks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, did none of us bring any alcohol? How terribly remiss.”

Hawke pointed accusingly at him. “You promised me a bottle of brandy. I intend to collect on that promise.” 

“Yes, all right,” Dorian said patiently. “The moment we return to Skyhold, I will positively drown you in brandy.”

Hawke grinned, and Fenris shook his head in dismay. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m tempted to encourage her just to watch her run you ragged,” Dorian teased.

Hawke and Varric chuckled, and Fenris ruefully shook his head, and for a time they sat by the fire simply chatting and eating their bread. Hawke leaned companionably into Fenris’s arm, then eventually rested her cheek against his shoulder. When she fell quiet, listening and laughing instead of making her usual cheeky remarks, Fenris patted her knee. 

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.” 

She nodded, and they bade Varric and Dorian a good night and walked over to their tent. 

Hawke crouched and peered into the tent, then grimaced. “Ugh, it’s so fucking cold. Hang on out here for a moment.” She crawled into the tent and tucked the flap shut. A second later, a dim orange glow filtered through the cracks in the tent flap. 

Fenris waited patiently as she shuffled around in the tent. A few minutes later, she called out in a muffled voice. “All right, come in. Quickly!”

He knelt and crawled into the tent. The inside of the tent was tangibly warmer than outside thanks to a tiny glowing fireball hovering near the top of the tent. Hawke was already bundled in their bedding, tucked in so securely he could barely see her face. 

A burst of fondness filled his chest. He began pulling off his armour. “You’re certain this flame doesn’t draw too much energy?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll put it out once you get in here with me.”

Her tone was playful, and Fenris noted with relief that her voice only sounded mildly raspy now — thanks to the elfroot, no doubt. He stripped down to his fur-lined leggings and thermal shirt, then slipped under the covers. 

Predictably, she was naked aside from her smallclothes, and she pressed herself against his chest the moment he slid beneath the bedding. “Hey,” she complained. “You promised me skin-to-skin.”

“I didn’t, in fact,” he replied. “You were the one–” He broke off and grabbed her hands as she tried to slip them beneath his shirt, then relaxed when he realized he hands weren’t freezing.

She laughed softly and curled her arm around his waist. “I wouldn’t stick my cold hands inside your shirt. I’m not that much of a bitch.”

“You stuck your frozen fingers inside my collar the first day we got here,” he reminded her.

She laughed again. “Shit. I guess I am a bitch then.” She snuggled as close to him as possible and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Please get naked with me. I’m still cold.”

He scoffed as she tucked one knee between his legs. “You never stop, do you?”

She shook her head. “Never,” she said. “There’s no such thing as being too close to you.” 

A thread of tenderness squeezed his heart. Carefully so as not to disturb her too much, he pulled his shirt off, then shuffled his leggings off with some difficulty. 

Hawke helped him with the leggings, then chivvied him into lying on his back and draped herself across his body. “Better,” she whispered. 

He smiled and idly ran his hand along her arm. “Yes, it is.”

She hummed happily in response. Less than a minute later, her breathing evened out into the slow and easy cadence of sleep, and the tiny fireball at the top of the tent winked out of existence.

Fenris let out a long sigh. The inside of the tent was dark aside from the dim glow of the fire where Varric, Dorian, and a returned Blackwall were sitting, and the indistinct murmuring of their voices was oddly soothing. Despite the intensity of their activity today, however, Fenris didn’t really feel tired. 

He ran his palm in a careful path from Hawke’s bare shoulder to her wrist and back, and he thought about Blackwall’s words from earlier today: how the intention to protect had led Clarel astray. It was easy enough to judge Clarel after seeing the horrific blood magic rituals she’d perpetrated, but what Fenris had almost done today… 

To save Hawke’s life, he’d nearly made a deal with a demon. It was something he would never have imagined himself doing, but seeing Hawke so terribly threatened had driven everything else from his mind. 

Being willing to deal with demons in order to save Hawke’s life… what did that say about him? Hawke seemed to think it didn’t matter, since he hadn’t made a deal in the end. But intentions were important. Consequences were important, of course, but intentions were important too. Perhaps this meant he was no better than Merrill, with her pride demon and her cursed eluvian. 

Perhaps this meant he was no better than Anders.

He mentally recoiled from the thought the moment it crossed his mind. It is not the same, he thought. He wasn’t seeking knowledge or power like Merrill or Anders.  

But his motivation — to save one person at the expense of everything else — was still ultimately selfish.

Hawke shifted on his body. “This arm rubbing is nice and all, but you’re keeping me awake,” she mumbled.

“Ah,” he said. He relaxed his fingers. He hadn’t realized he was rubbing her arm quite that firmly. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled away from him slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m well,” he murmured. He forced his hands to stay still on her body.

After a quiet moment, she spoke again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He nibbled the inside of his cheek. “Later, perhaps,” he said. “Get some rest.”

“All right, if you’re sure.” She nestled her cheek against his chest once more, then yawned. “I love you.”

He swallowed hard. Hawke frequently told him she loved him, but tonight it brought a lump to his throat. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

She hummed contentedly, and a minute later she was asleep again. 

Fenris closed his eyes and began to practice the same meditative breathing that he’d reminded Cullen to try. But even as he felt the muscles in his shoulders and his jaw loosening and relaxing, he continued to worry about intentions and consequences, and about himself and Hawke.

He and Hawke refused to be apart, and they had never hidden their willingness to protect each other at all cost. But for the first time, Fenris couldn’t help but worry how high that cost might be.

[darlingrutherford]

From the kisses prompts, #30 with alistair, please

AHHHH thank you for the prompt, lovely Anon! ❤️❤️ Sorry this took me all day to post. I had a weird work shift, and I’ve been packing for a trip we’re going on tomorrow, BUT, here we go! (Also, I’m blaming the weird Alistair dream I had last night on this prompt. So, double thank you.)

Mmmmaahhaahahahah.... I'm putting this under a cut, because I'm incapable of writing a sweaty kiss scene with Alistair without it becoming more, apparently. 18+ bits under the cut. Enjoy~

30. Weak, sweaty kisses because it’s unbearably hot.

It was hot. More than hot. Baking, practically.

“I told you, we should have camped in that shade we found and continued during the night.”

Maker, but she had been right. As usual. Blistering sun beat down on Alistair as he followed Lana through the desert, boots sinking into sand as they slowly made their way up a steep dune. They were traveling through the Anderfels, making their way towards Weisshaupt on foot. Back in the day, Alistair assumed, the Wardens must have used Griffons to get themselves through the bleak deserts quickly. What he wouldn’t have given at that moment for one, if only to create a breeze with their enormous wings. Alistair looked ahead as Lana’s mabari let out a loud bark before taking off ahead of them.

“Looks like we’ll get a second chance at taking your advice,” he said. The mabari, Bryn, had bounded down the other side of the dune, where the land began to flatten out and great cliffs rose above them to one side, creating sweet, wonderful shadows on the dusty ground. The two of them followed the mabari all the way to one of the cliff walls, dropping their packs on the ground the moment they arrived.

“I know, I know,” Lana sighed as she unhooked her water skin from the side of her belt. She pulled a small bowl out of her pack, setting it on the ground before filling it halfway with water. The mabari leapt at it, eagerly lapping up the water. “Easy! You’re splashing it. Don’t waste it.”

As if understanding her, Bryn slowed down, pushing his face into the bowl as he drank. Alistair slid against the cool sandstone wall, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Let’s build Weisshaupt in the middle of a desert. It’ll be fun! Everyone loves sand blown up in all your bits,” he was grumbling as he pulled a boot off to shake out the sand.

“I don’t think they did it out of need for a nice location, love,” Lana laughed. He turned his head to watch her as she pulled a tarp out of her pack before opening Alistair’s for the poles. “Come on. If we set this up right, it’ll give us a bit more relief. We can rest and then continue when it’s cooler.”

The tent was set up loosely, not quite fully tied down to allow more air flow when a faint breeze would grace them with its presence. Alistair had removed most of his clothing almost immediately, stripping down to his smalls before plopping onto the bedroll in an attempt to cool down. Lana lay on her stomach next to him in her smalls and cotton tunic, her finger trailing over her map as she followed their path.

“I'm too hot. I can't do anything for the rest of the day,” Alistair was whining. He was on his back, his arm draped over his face rather dramatically.

“Is that why you're in your smalls? So you can show me how hot you are,” Lana teased. Her eyes looked over him as he laughed with his eyes shut, trailing everywhere from his toned legs to his ever so slightly glistening abs.

“There should be a small oasis just over that ridge.” She turned her attention back to the map, pointing to a spot on the map not far from them. “We can probably get to it tonight. We can rest there for a couple days, fill up on water, then head back on our path.”

“You always know just what to do,” Alistair sighed. He rolled onto his stomach to bump shoulders with her. His eyes trailed to her forehead, watching a bead of sweat slowly drip down her temple. His gaze trailed down to her mouth, watching the corners of them perk up as he nudged her again with his shoulder. He dipped his head down, extracting a hum from her as he kissed her neck. Even in the shade it was still hot, and Alistair found himself slowly sinking back down onto the bedroll with a groan - but not without taking her down with him.

“No, that's fine. We don't need to plan out our path in daylight,” she teased as he pulled his arm loosely around her waist to keep her close.

“You're a mage,” he scoffed before rolling to his side. “You can make light.”

“That's true.” She smiled as he pulled her to her side and towards him. He lazily kissed her, too tired from the heat to do much more. He could taste the salt on her from her sweat, mixing with the sweetness of her mouth. His hands stuck to her skin as he slipped them beneath her tunic, lazily grasping at her breasts. So, maybe he wasn't that tired.

“I thought you said you were too hot to do anything?” She said, grinning as he tugged at her smalls.

“A good work out may just make us cooler,” Alistair suggested. “Besides, you are a dirty, sweaty woman, and you need a bath.”

“Yes, well, that's what the oasis is f- for!” She stuttered as he dipped his head under her tunic. His tongue had quickly found a breast, licking at it as teeth gently bit here and there. He took his time, his movements more lazy than usual. He trailed his tongue along her chest, from one spot to the next, then down her stomach. She squirmed with laughter as he sucked on her side, strong arms holding her in place as he marked and tickled her at the same time. He pulled her smalls down as he slid, the fabric not yet past her feet before his tongue plunged into her. 

She sighed loudly, hands gripping into his hair as he rolled his tongue on her. His tongue was slow, almost agonizingly so. But he knew how to get her to her peak, the right way to roll and flick at her, how to not prolong it too much for lack of needing torture with the heat they were already in. His hands gripped her hips, holding her to him as she writhed beneath him, sighs and moans and his name carrying on the light wind that blew through their tent for a brief moment. 

He had to practically peel her legs from his face when he was done, skin sticking to skin as he placed kisses along her thigh. He took her by the hands, pulling her to sit up. If he hadn't already been at full attention then, the glazed look then on her face, with cheeks redder than before, that would have made him ready for anything she could ask of him. He pulled his legs beneath himself, balancing on his knees as he pulled her onto his lap and wasted no time guiding her onto him. He didn't need a breeze to make him shiver - the sound that left her upon his filling her was enough on its own: a keening mewl, one she only made when she was already tired but oh so ready for him and wanting more. He gripped her backside, helping her to bounce along him as he brought his hips up to meet hers each time. Their movements were slow, sloppy even - the act of two people so worn from the heat, but unable to say no to one another. They could feel the slight stretch of their thighs each time they pulled apart after pressing together. Sweat dripped from her chest to his while he kissed at her neck. 

He fell to his back as she shoved him at his chest, small hands gripping him for purchase as she rocked on him and rode him like the goddess she was. He kept his eyes on her, hairs out of place from her usually perfect braid as her brow tried to come together in the middle to form a perfect crease above tightly shut eyes. She was moving more sporadically now, obviously harboring more energy than him as she rocked her hips against his. His eyes fluttered shut, back arching and breath quickening, her name on the tip of his tongue before he burst, fingertips digging into her backside as he groaned and gasped with his release. She remained sitting tall on him, only slightly hunched over, still gripping his chest as he pulsed inside of her with each aftershock. When she could feel he was done she slid down, lying half on him and half on the bedroll as they clung to one another to catch their breath. Alistair barely opened his eyes, glancing to see hers fully shut as Lana buried her face against his neck.

“Soooo… About reading the map,” he said slowly, closing his eyes with a sigh. “Magic light, later?”

“Magic light.” She mumbled with a nod as she drifted off.

[thenugking]

Name: Magdela Ainsley. Usually known as Mags.

Gender/Pronouns: Cis woman, she/her.

Class/Specialisation/Skills: Dual-wielding rogue. Technically a ranger but in actuality she just owns a pet bear. Mags’ main Thing is being good at trap-making.

Race: Human

Nationality/Hometown: Fereldan, from a farm in the northwest of the Hinterlands.

Age/Birthday: Born August 9:06 Dragon, and 23 during Origins

Religion: Grew up Andrastian, without really thinking about it. Still Andrastian, but more aware of other religions now and trying to learn more about the Creators so she can teach her daughter about them.

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Love Interests: Zevran. They get together half way through Origins after an awkward conversation about thinking they’re not good enough for each other, and are married just after Awakening. She’s also had a Celebrity Crush on Anora since she was a teenager, and gets very awkward when she actually meets her.

Family: The family from Kajana’s Human Commoner Origin mod. Parents Torrence and Nansie, older sister Mairi and younger brother Bhradan. Mags is very close to her siblings, who’ve spent a lot of time reassuring her through insecurities and anxiety attacks. During Awakening, Mags and Zevran’s daughter Issella is born.

Friends:  Mags is friends with all of her companions in both Origins and Awakening, except for Sten, whose opinion of her is that she is, impressively, not quite as useless as he first imagined. Other than Zevran and her sister Mairi, Mags’ closest friends are Alistair, Leliana and Oghren.

Enemies: Mags doesn’t really have any personal enemies in Origins (she dislikes Loghain, but he’s more Alistair’s enemy), mostly because she’s worried that maybe she’s wrong about everything, and everyone else is right?? In Awakening, she quickly makes a lot of enemies because a lot of people want to kill or kidnap her daughter. With all the individuals who wanted to hurt Issella either dead or having apologised, Mags’ enemies are now just the Chantry, the Wardens and the Crows as a whole.

Pets: Her bear Moira, and the mabari, who Mags named Calenhad. She’s incredibly proud to have a mabari imprint on her.

Backstory (Out of Universe): I created Mags because I needed to see a hero was like me - someone who’d be pushed into an adventure and then immediately have an anxiety attack. Someone who, sure, might develop a little bit more confidence over the course of their story, but would remain anxious and fairly dependent and very much Not a leader, but who was allowed to be a hero anyway.

Backstory (In Universe): Mags had a fairly mundane life before the Blight, working on her family’s farm and regularly visiting friends in the local village. The most interesting thing that happened was when one of her traps killed a black bear. Mags discovered the bear had a cub, and adopted her due to guilt over killing her mother.

Biography/Game Decisions: Mags generally tried to help people, but also deferred to other people whenever she could. She dealt with Connor by going to the Circle, at Alistair’s suggestion, where she at first agreed to help Greagoir clean the tower of demons, since he said there was no way anyone could have survived. After meeting Wynne and discovering this wasn’t true, she tried to save as many mages as she could. 

When Sten attacked at Haven, Mags didn’t fight back and told him he was welcome to take control if he wanted. Sten declared the party were going to Orzammar, to find the Archdemon in the Deep Roads, but other than Shale, the party refused to follow because they wanted to find the Ashes, liked Mags more than Sten, or just thought the whole idea was silly. Sten and Shale left the party to travel to Orzammar, where they were refused entrance because the king was dead and they didn’t have any Grey Warden treaties.

Shale helped find Sten’s sword while Mags found the Ashes, killing the cultists because destroying the Ashes would be blasphemy. They reunited outside Orzammar, were Shale and Sten rejoined the party. Mags tried to stay neutral to Orzammar’s political issues, but as it became clear that she needed to help choose a king, she sided with Harrowmont, since at least he didn’t want her to do something illegal, and Alistair agreed that he seemed nicer. She sided with Caridin over Branka, because seriously Branka, what the fuck. In the Brecilian Forest, she cured the werewolfs and brokered peace between them and the Dalish, on the advice of her party.

Mags never hardened Alistair, and they were both very happy to let Anora be queen. While Mags wouldn’t have objected to making Loghain a Warden, and wanted him to live for Anora’s sake, she left the decision to Alistair, who killed him.

Mags didn’t want to pressure Alistair to do Morrigan’s ritual, but was also unwilling to let him die fighting the Archdemon, and was able to throw grease traps at his feet if it looked like he was about to make the final blow. Which, since I didn’t want the story to end with Mags’ death, meant that soon after her miraculous survival killing the Archdemon, she discovered she was pregnant.

Between Origins and Awakening, she went back to her parents’ farm with Zevran and wrote to the Wardens asking if they had any advice about having a baby with the soul of an Old God, and whether the darkspawn would be after her kid?? The Wardens responded by sending Orlesian Warden-Constable Palorn Kader to help Mags manage Amaranthine, with orders to get the baby off her, bring it to Weisshaupt for study and kill it if deemed necessary.

With Mags being heavily pregnant, Palorn handled Awakening’s main questline. Meanwhile, Mags held court for the arling and tried to deal with Bann Esmerelle’s conspiracy. Esmerelle was assisted by a Crow named Veni Arainai, sent to Ferelden to kill Zevran, who suggested waiting for the baby to be born, then kidnapping her and holding her hostage to make Zevran and Mags surrender. Eventually, Palorn and Veni both decided that kidnapping babies is maybe bad actually and also their organisations suck, so they apologised and long story short, they all become friends. Mags’ daughter Issella was born a couple of weeks before the Darkspawn attacks on Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep.

At the end of Awakening, Mags defended the Keep after Palorn and most of the other Wardens left for Amaranthine. They met up in the Dragonbone Wastes and came to a group decision to spare the Architect, provided he stayed away from Mags’ child and made reparations to the Dalish for killing Velanna’s clan.

Worried that it wouldn’t be long before they and their daughter were threatened by other groups of Wardens, Crows or Darkspawn, Mags and Zevran left Ferelden with Issella soon after the end of Awakening, only staying around to get married, and for Mags’ family to meet Issella. Wanting to know about Issella’s abilities and unable to contact Morrigan, they went to the Tellari Swamps to seek out the witch of the wilds rumoured to live there. They were accompanied by Anders and Veni, who wanted to join the running away plan to escape from templars and Crows. 

Mags, Zevran, Issella and Calenhad are currently living in the Tellari Swamp, where Yavanna is teaching Issella magic, and how cool dragons are. Mags and Zevran occasionally leave the Swamps to visit towns outside, and they’re sometimes visited by Veni and several other former Crows, but they so far remain hidden from the many people who might harm Issella.

Personality: Mags’ biggest trait is her insecurity, but as time goes on she becomes more willing to stand up for her beliefs and tries her best to do what she believes is fair and right. As Arlessa of Amaranthine, she puts a lot of effort into protecting farmlands and villages, relating a lot to the difficulties faced by Freemen outside of cities. She also does her best to learn about different cultures and beliefs, beyond the homogeneous Andrastian society she grew up in, particularly after discovering she’s going to have a half-elven child. While she’s socially awkward, she will chatter on endlessly once she’s comfortable with someone. Mags is a proud Fereldan, with a great respect for Ferelden folktails, the Theirin bloodline, and most importantly dogs.

Appearance: Mags is tall, skinny and gangly. She’s covered in freckles.

[squibblins]

god i can’t get over how much i LOVE blackwall

i love a good redemption arc and of course i love grey wardens... and i know he’s not really a warden but he’s got the story of one. he would make SUCH a great warden

that said, i’m not sure about giving him to the wardens b/c not only does the life of a warden suck, but the order is kind of in a shitty state in inquisition. lots of weird bureaucracy going on? and all the rumors abt weird shit at weisshaupt? unless i knew rainier was going to go work for mahariel, i wouldn’t want him near any of that shit lol

but ugh grey warden life would suit him so WELL!!!! how many wardens have we met with a similar story? he’s got a hell of a past to atone for, and that grim fatalistic air about him... if he ever met my boy mahariel, he would be adopted in a heartbeat (even though rainier could probably be his father lol)

tl;dr HE’S A CHANGED MAN, A MAN WITH SOMETHING TO PROVE and i’m a fucking SUCKER for it